Sunday, December 28, 2008
This shit had dog death written all over it...literally
The other day, my dog-hating friend J-Sexy asked if I planned to go see Marley and Me. Specifically, she asked, "Are you going to see that movie? It has one of those disgosting dogs you like in it." She was making fun of me, because recently I had been telling her about the plot to the world's most upsetting cartoon, The Plague Dogs, and started choking up about it. A few tears even leaked out. J-Sexy laughed at me, because she's evil like that.
Mark my words: I will never, EVER see this movie. TRUST.
"Hell to the no!" I responded. "That dog is obviously going to die and I cannot deal." Apart from the fact that Jennifer Aniston and Owen Wilson's very existence offends me and I wouldn't see a "dramedy" (AKA shitshow by definition) about these two fucktards enduring the trials and tribulations of domestic life, dog death is a movie theme that I simply cannot cope with. I still have bad dreams about Where the Red Fern Grows. I start to sniffle if anyone brings up White Fang, and don't even MENTION Old Yeller around me. I cried during I Am Legend when the dog died. Hell, I cried during the remake of The Hills Have Eyes when one of the dogs died!
A while later, LL Cool Jew and I were Gchatting about how much Will Smith's new stinkbomb Seven Pounds is going to suck because that's all Will Smith does, and the topic came up again:
LL Cool Jew: that 7 pounds thing just looks so sure-to-be-shiteous
LL Cool Jew: i wonder which is worse, that or marley and me?
LL Cool Jew: although the latter might be worse because i sense it involves dog death
LL Cool Jew: which is obviously unacceptable
LL Cool Jew: the dog will inevitably die
Razzy: i KNOW that it involves dog death
LL Cool Jew: there is a part in the trailer where owen wilson is sitting in a field with a very graybearded marley
Razzy: i don't like that one bit
LL Cool Jew: and says to himself, "dogs don't care if you're rich or poor..."
LL Cool Jew: which indicates - dog death.
Razzy: "immortal marley without those two d-bags" sounds like a much better movie
Razzy: dude, dogs always die in movies
Razzy: i don't know why i think otherwise
LL Cool Jew: no, no way will i subject myself to that
LL Cool Jew: crying at a jennifer aniston movie
LL Cool Jew: NO THANKS
Razzy: hell to the FUCKING NO!
LL Cool Jew: too humiliating
LL Cool Jew: almost as embarrassing as it was crying at a will smith movie (i am legend)
Razzy: dude i cried at that shit too!
Razzy: jerseygirl leaned over to her boyfriend and was like, "dude, check it out...RAZZY'S CRYING!!"
Razzy: then they laughed at me!
Razzy: i was like "that dog is so sweet and caesary!"
LL Cool Jew: um yes
LL Cool Jew: graphic scenes of doggie violence!!!!
LL Cool Jew: marley and me would be worse
LL Cool Jew: because it would be more along the lines of how our dogs are going to go
Razzy: i know, at least the dog in "i am legend" died in the line of duty
LL Cool Jew: old and infrim
LL Cool Jew: buh
Razzy: can. not. deal.
LL Cool Jew:i can't even think about it
Needless to say, I have not gone to see Marley and Me and I likely never will given the high probability of canine mortality. However, thanks to some intrepid soul who selflessly braved this cinematic disaster so as to save the rest of us, I now know that this was a wise decision based on an accurate hypothesis:
Labels: doggity style, LL Cool Jew, movies, oh the horror, tragedy
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Nerd alert
I know I've been MIA lately, but that's because I've literally been up to my tits in lab work that needed to get done six months ago. Also, I took a break for a hot second to guest on my mentor's podcast, This Week in Virology. I think it's a testament to how lab-intensive my life has been of late that the only time I take a break is to talk virology.
So if you want to hear my sexy voice talking with a bunch of other sexy-voiced science nerds about viruses, give it a listen. The podcast is geared toward a lay audience, so you don't have to be a big nerd yourself to understand what we're talking about. In fact, you'll probably enjoy my blaming bird flu for the soaring prices of chicken wings at my usual football bar. You can either subscribe through iTunes using this feed, or just go to the TWiV website.
I'll be back with some non-virological Razzification next week, I promise.
Labels: epidemic geekery, excuses, grad school bullshit, science, viruses rule
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
No longer a pretty Face
The other day I was looking at some sort of "where are they now" montage of actors from my childhood on the gossip internets. When I saw this guy, my first reaction was, "Who the fuck is that? He looks beat, whoever he is."
When I read the caption identifying this man, I was completely shocked. Not only do I know who this guy is, he was on one of my favorite shows growing up. If you were one of the many red-blooded, explosion-loving Americans who were interested in the adventures of a crack commando unit sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit, who promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground, and where, though still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. That's right, this dude is none other than Dirk Benedict, AKA Lieutenant Templeton "Face" Peck from the motherfucking "A-Team"!
Indeed, Face, the A-Team's smooth-talking procurer of cars and other useful pieces of stylish equipment (he was so adept that his colleague "Howlin' Mad" Murdoch once credited him with somehow acquiring a mint-condition '56 Cadillac which was inexplicably needed for some military mission in the jungles of Vietnam), isn't looking so good. Somehow I think if "The A-Team" were still up and running, Face would be spending a lot more time doing his actual mercenary duties than picking up women. I don't know if he's had some work done, but there's something that's different about his once-eponymous countenance. He certainly looks far removed from the days when he was gracing the cover of Playgirl magazine.
Indeed, Face, the A-Team's smooth-talking procurer of cars and other useful pieces of stylish equipment (he was so adept that his colleague "Howlin' Mad" Murdoch once credited him with somehow acquiring a mint-condition '56 Cadillac which was inexplicably needed for some military mission in the jungles of Vietnam), isn't looking so good. Somehow I think if "The A-Team" were still up and running, Face would be spending a lot more time doing his actual mercenary duties than picking up women. I don't know if he's had some work done, but there's something that's different about his once-eponymous countenance. He certainly looks far removed from the days when he was gracing the cover of Playgirl magazine.
The thing about Face that was most memorable was he was the type of guy who looked the same age. He could have been anywhere from 25 to 55 during the A-Team's heyday, and I wouldn't have known the difference. Actually, everyone on the A-Team was like that except for the timelessly old George Peppard, who played Captain John "Hannibal" Smith. Years later, I was in high school and one of my classes was showing us some made-for-TV movie from the mid-90s about the Montgomery bus boycott and the civil rights movement. Dwight Schultz came on screen and HotLawyer, who was in my class, blurted out, "Hey, it's Murdoch from the A-Team!" The entire class started laughing and Mr. Eckert had to threaten JUG ("Justice Under God," the Jesuit equivalent of detention) to shut us up. Murdoch was easy to spot, because in spite of the fact that he was playing an uptight Alabaman bigot instead of a lunatic helicopter pilot residing in an insane asylum when not needed for A-team ops, he looked exactly the same as he did 10 years before. Now, even as a failed conservative radio personality almost twenty years after the A-Team's glory days, he still looks like the same guy. And certainly even children who weren't born when "The A-Team" was on could probably recognize Mr. T. I don't know what the hell happened to Face, because he looks beat down.
The only possible explanation I can come up with is that age finally caught up with him (Wikipedia tells me he's 62) and he's resorted to desperate measures to maintain what was once his boyish charm and attached recognition. Since his last attempt at staying relevant (apart from working the autograph table at numerous "Battlestar Galactica" conventions in the midwest) was to appear on "Big Brother" in the UK. If he's gotten into reality famewhoring, I would not be surprised to learn that he's also wound up on the business end of a needle full of cut-rate nail salon Botox. It's a pity, because Dirk Benedict used to be a hot piece. I'm currently trying to figure out how to get a copy of that Playgirl he was in 25 years ago. In the meantime, I guess I'll have to content myself with this awesomeness, and reminisce fondly about days long since past, where men were men, bullets were completely harmless, and mercenaries dressed up in zany costumes instead of killing innocent Iraqi citizens a la Blackwater:
Man, "The A-Team" ruled so hard.
Labels: aging, oh the horror, TV, you're ugly
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The greatest "youth mentor" ever
I got bored with the Eagles' wholesale massacre of the Cleveland Browns last night, so I flipped over to "Keyshia Cole: The Way it Is" on BET. In this episode, Keyshia was getting the key to the city of Oakland, California. In the course of this, she stopped by some non-profit dedicated to job training or something, before donating ten grand to their cause. I was surprised and delighted by the appearance of Oakland's most famous rapper, a certain Todd "Too $hort" Shaw. 
While seeing $hort Dog loitering around Oak-town would not in itself seem shocking, as that is the subject of most of his songs, he certainly has cultivated a novel persona for the sake of good PR. The show listed his occupation as "Rapper/Youth Mentor."
"Youth mentor?!" I thought. "Since when has $horty the Pimp been a youth mentor?" If Too $hort's entire lyrical catalog is any indication, the only thing he is qualified to mentor youth about is how aspiring pimps might break hoes. I guess he can also probably give them excellent tips on how to get blown on an extremely regular basis (as much of his music features a recurring "nuts-on-tonsils" theme), and how to evade the criminal justice system should his misadventures in fellatio result in the accidental death of the tragic woman allowing Too $hort and a host of other men to run a train on her face. Asking Too $hort to give Oakland's youth any sort of non-pimping advice besides "get a good lawyer, like Johnny Cochrane, swear to tell the truth: hell, no, I didn't pop him" might be a stretch. I suppose that Too $hort indirectly mentored some youth from a demographic he didn't expect (loud white girls at expensive New England women's colleges) in that he was one of my go-to guys for music that would piss off the uptight womynists I loved to offend for my own entertainment. However, since East Oakland is a long way from Smith College and I doubt that Youth UpRising is frequently disturbed by rallies or candlelight vigils protesting the patriarchal oppression of women, I can't imagine this is the kind of mentoring that Too $hort provides.
While seeing $hort Dog loitering around Oak-town would not in itself seem shocking, as that is the subject of most of his songs, he certainly has cultivated a novel persona for the sake of good PR. The show listed his occupation as "Rapper/Youth Mentor."
"Youth mentor?!" I thought. "Since when has $horty the Pimp been a youth mentor?" If Too $hort's entire lyrical catalog is any indication, the only thing he is qualified to mentor youth about is how aspiring pimps might break hoes. I guess he can also probably give them excellent tips on how to get blown on an extremely regular basis (as much of his music features a recurring "nuts-on-tonsils" theme), and how to evade the criminal justice system should his misadventures in fellatio result in the accidental death of the tragic woman allowing Too $hort and a host of other men to run a train on her face. Asking Too $hort to give Oakland's youth any sort of non-pimping advice besides "get a good lawyer, like Johnny Cochrane, swear to tell the truth: hell, no, I didn't pop him" might be a stretch. I suppose that Too $hort indirectly mentored some youth from a demographic he didn't expect (loud white girls at expensive New England women's colleges) in that he was one of my go-to guys for music that would piss off the uptight womynists I loved to offend for my own entertainment. However, since East Oakland is a long way from Smith College and I doubt that Youth UpRising is frequently disturbed by rallies or candlelight vigils protesting the patriarchal oppression of women, I can't imagine this is the kind of mentoring that Too $hort provides.
After watching a little longer, I was disappointed to gather that Too $hort isn't even giving pimping lessons of any sort. I didn't hear him say anything along the lines of "she looked kind of young but my dick can't tell" or "I just want to fuck you and cut, treat you like a trampy slut." In fact, the only instructional activities he mentioned were the beat-making and lyrics-writing workshops he leads. However, in spite of $hort Dog's failure to instruct aspiring youth in "puttin' fine-ass bitches on the streets in the hood, every year trade for a new Fleetwood," he does at least seem to be teaching the youth of Oakland how to have nothing but game coming out their mouths. I suppose this is more constructive than learning how to actually manage a flock of top notches, as Too $hort himself has ultimately selected a career as a musician rather than an actual pimp engaged in brokering prostitution services. Probably being a multi-platinum-selling rapper is a more sensible occupation than street pimp in terms of maintaining that California lifestyle that Too $hort lives.
I would just like to take a moment to recognize one of the finest pieces of mentoring Too $hort has engaged in. Okay, well, it's not so much "mentoring" as running down a laundry list of all the conquests who "throw that P" his way in his classic song "Cocktales." Sadly, because Sir Too $hort's language is so salty, classic lines like "Tina, Tina, the sperm cleaner" and "I go diggin' in them guts like a gardener, and if she scream, I'm-a fuck the bitch harder." At least the part with the girl named Angie in the song isn't edited, only because she shows up at Too $hort's house and simply states, "Do me, player." I can't recall ever banging Too $hort, but that nonetheless sounds about right. I see great things in store for Oakland's disadvantaged youth with a mentor like this.
Labels: hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Too $hort, TV
Friday, December 12, 2008
This is why I don't eat fast food
I guess some chicks were fired from a KFC in California because one night when they were closing up, they thought it would be nice to unwind after a hard day at the fryer with a relaxing bubble bath. So like any resourceful pieces of trailer trash, they filled up the industrial dishwashing sink, stripped down to their Wal-Mart unmentionables, and hopped in. And just to make their friends all jelly, they took pictures of their spa day and posted them on MySpace. 
Not only did they impress their friends, they impressed the local media, who promptly featured the girls prominently on the nightly news. KFC fired them and claims it's going to retrain all their employees about how to properly sanitize equipment, but the damage is done. Granted, I haven't eaten KFC since I was in grade school because–with the notable exception of the divine ambrosia known as Taco Time–I think most fast food is shitty food prepared in a shitty way by shitty people. Now I am validated in my beliefs, as KFC is apparently staffed by flabby-armed teenagers who for some inexplicable reason would WANT to bathe in a dishwashing sink at a fast food place. I know a bath just doesn't feel as relaxing if there isn't random chicken bones, mashed potato smegma, and other Original Recipe detritus floating around in it, but somehow I manage to get by in the tub with just some bath salts and a beer (to drink, not bathe in, which would be a waste of beer and thus a mortal sin). Maybe my skin would be softer if I emerged from my ablutions with a thin sheen of rancid trans-fat from the Popcorn Chicken fryer, but I'm willing to stick with my Palmer's if only because smelling like lotion is considerably better than smelling like something off a dollar menu. In any event, I suspect my abstinence from KFC will continue for another several decades to come.
Labels: fat fucks, gross, oh the horror
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Confessions of a Teen Idol Domestic Abuser
CorporateCard e-mailed me today this blurb about a new Vh1 reality series entitled "Confessions of a Teen Idol" with the subject heading "super pathetic-watchability debatable." For CorporateCard, who is probably one of the few people who can appreciate the subtle genius of shows like "Real Chance of Love" and the upcoming "Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels," to suggest that this show might be "super pathetic" and to question its "watchability" bodes ill indeed. What could be this horrible show? I read her e-mail:
VH1 will premiere its new eight-episode reality series Confessions of a Teen Idol January 4 at 8p. The series takes a group of former teen idols from the 80s and 90s and under the tutelage of Scott Baio, former child star now producer Jason Hervey and celebrity psychologist Cooper Lawrence, each are given the tools and confidence to make a career comeback. The heartthrobs include Christopher Atkins, David Chokachi, Billy Hufsey, Jeremy Jackson, Eric Nies, Jamie Walters and Adrian Zmed. The series is co-produced by Bischoff Hervey Entertainment and 3 Ball Productions.
I would wager that this show's potentially pathetic unwatchability is inherent in the fact that I don't know who most of these alleged "teen idols" are. I mean, who the fuck is Billy Hufsey? Isn't Christopher Atkins that guy who hates God? Oh wait, that's Christopher HITCHENS...Christopher Atkins is that guy from The Blue Lagoon. Needless to say, Vh1 is scraping the bottom of the barrel even harder than they have for "Celebrity Rehab 2," and considering that show managed to drag Rodney King out of the woodwork, it was really stretching the definition of "celebrity" to begin with. This "Confessions of a Teen Idol" show looks grim indeed, with one notable exception. This name jumped out at me, not only because I recognized it immediately, but because I was unaware that a moody, abusive proto-John Mayer/construction worker qualified as a "teen idol," but Jamie Walters AKA RAY PRUIT from the greatest show in the history of television "Beverly Hills, 90210" is trying to prove otherwise.
In case you're a little rusty on your college-era Bev Niner, Ray Pruit was Donna Martin's boyfriend for entirely too long. Ray was this annoying singer/songwriter who was overall a terrible guy to date. He hated all of Donna's friends, he slept with (totally hot slut) Valerie Malone, he constantly stormed off, and when he got really pissed, he'd verbally abuse Donna with awesome lines like "so typical...you don't get what you want so you turn on the faucets.". During one episode where the gang went to Palm Springs for a KEG House convention, Ray even pushed Donna down a flight of stairs.
In addition to tormenting Donna, Ray also tormented the patrons of the Peach Pit After Dark with a string of atrocious musical performances involving an excessively brooding Ray strumming his acoustic guitar and wailing about his feelings. His onstage skills were entertaining only when they lured his mother LuAnn, a chain-smoking alcoholic who inexplicably speaks with a bad Texas accent despite hailing from Reseda, California, to the After Dark to get wasted on screwdrivers and dance inappropriately with David Silver before tripping over her own hideous rayon floral-print pantsuit.
Unfortunately, his portrayal of Ray Pruit was so defining a role that his next acting job, as the male lead in Aaron Spelling's short-lived show/band "The Heights," promptly tanked despite the show's theme song "How Do You Talk to an Angel?" hitting number one on the Billboard charts. Presumably nobody imagined that conversations with a so-called "angel" involves what Todd "Too $hort" Shaw once called a "five-finger hand plant straight across your face to make sure all you bitches understand it." I have to say, I probably wouldn't be having teen fantasies about a guy after this great moment in televised domestic violence was burned into my memory:
That all said, I'm glad Jamie Walters is still gainfully employed. I look forward to listening to him whine about being typecast as a wife-beater to Scott Baio and the older brother from "The Wonder Years."
Labels: Bev Niner, CorporateCard, TV, Vh1
Calling in gay
Today is this "Day Without A Gay" protest, and I suppose that as an openly bisexual woman I should be calling in gay right now.
I guess this whole thing was dreamed up after a couple of homos read Lysistrata and noticed that the Day Without Immigrants got a lot of press attention. Specifically the "H8" that this jam is protesting is proposition 8, the California voter initiative banning gay marriage, and all the douchebag losers who support it under the pretense that civilization will crumble if gays are allowed to get married. I mean, if gays can get married then they will be TEACHING IN SCHOOLS that gays are equal citizens entitled to the same rights as everyone else! Furthermore, if perverts like the hommasekshuls can get hitched, so can anyone! People will start marrying their siblings! Or pets! As Dr. Peter Venkman once said, "Dogs and cats, living together...MASS HYSTERIA!" At least these are the dire consequences that the pro-prop 8 people are suggesting necessitate their attempts to strip the gays of their basic human rights. Anyone with half a brain can tell that proposition 8 is not about "protecting marriage" so much as providing homophobes with legal justification for discriminating against us.
I'm all for saying a great big "fuck you" to the intolerant dickbags that want to spend so much time trying to keep us queers from having the same basic civil rights as everybody else, but I'm just not sure "calling in gay" is the way to do so. For one thing, if I "call in gay," the only thing I'm interfering with is my own progress through graduate school. I have no idea if my PI (boss) knows that I'm bisexual, as I've never formally sat him down and said, "Oh, by the way, I like snatch sometimes." He certainly wouldn't care one way or the other, but he'd also probably be confused about why I was taking the day off even if I explained it. He knows how much work I have to do before I graduate, and since I'm not planning on marrying anyone of either gender anytime soon, the only thing I should be doing is a fuckload of mouse experiments. Although I'm pretty sure that here in fag-friendly New York I'm not in a state where I can be fired (or, more accurately, expelled) for my sexual orientation, I still can't really take the day off from lab to go volunteer somewhere. Also, I can't alternatively refuse to spend any money today. I spend as little money as possible anyway because I'm ridiculously poor, but I have to get coffee. That isn't an option.
I'd be happy to educate people about the Employment Non-Discrimination Act or contact Rep. Charles Rangel or Senators Schumer and Clinton (and Caroline Kennedy, if necessary) to voice my support for said bill, as the Day Without A Gay website suggests I should do in lieu of playing hooky for gay marriage. In spite of my selfish desire to go work today, and my generally cynical attitude about life, I do feel very strongly about gay rights and equality. Gays seem to be the one group that it's still legally and socially acceptable to withhold civil rights from, primarily because a bunch of religious types want to impose their beliefs on everyone else. Granted, these same religious types like to claim that gays are doing exactly that by fighting for marriage rights, although I would argue that according to the U.S. Constitution and judicial precedent, this fight is about rights that we already have on paper. In 1967, the Supreme Court invalidated laws against racial intermarriage in Loving v. Virginia, noting that marriage to the partner of a person's choosing is "one of the vital personal rights essential to the orderly pursuit of happiness." The last time I checked the Constitution, the "pursuit of happiness" was described as an "inalienable right." I interpret this as meaning that marriage to anybody–including someone of the same sex–is protected by the Constitution and any state laws prohibiting it should be invalid. Of course, I assume that until the Supreme Court throws down on this issue, that's all up for debate.
Although I'm not calling in gay today, I'd like to do something that for me is equally rare: encourage activism. Normally I think social activism is for hippies and annoying Smith girls, but I don't think these religious cocksuckers should get to decide which of my civil rights should be imposed upon because they don't want their children to learn tolerance in schools, or because they are somehow threatened by gays being afforded basic human rights. I resent being told that "protecting marriage" is somehow different and more admirable than "God Hates Fags," or that being gay is somehow undeserving of equal treatment under the law. My lazy ass is even going to write a letter to my elected representatives about it (although I will try to avoid using terms such as "cocksucker", "douchenozzle", or "dickbag" in my correspondence). If you can't call in gay, I strongly recommend you do the same.
Labels: assholes, lezbollah, politics, vulgar display of faggotry
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Making it rain Simpsons
I guess Adam née Pac Man Jones is really going out of his way to show that he has changed from his boozing, brawling, rainmaking, stripper-head-crushing, bouncer-paralyzing days. The other day he showed up at the (hateful, despicable) Cowboys' practice wearing a cozy, cute pair of Homer Simpson PJs under his practice shorts.
How could a guy with such cute jammies be capable of doing things like spitting in random women's faces, beating up valets and bouncers, smashing a stripper's head on the stage for having the audacity to pick up money he threw at her, and encouraging members of his entourage to exercise their trigger fingers? I guess that's what Pac Man–oh, I'm sorry, I meant ADAM–wants us all to think fresh on the heels of his most recent suspension for drunken violence (which, according to Commissioner Goodell, is really, seriously, no kidding his last chance to behave like a decent human being and keep his job for America's Most Loathsome Team). While this may have the unfortunate side effect of reducing the amount of intimidation he can project at opposing receivers, perhaps that is part of a clever strategy to lull them into a false sense of complacency.
I'm not fooled. In spite of Pac Man's adorable sleepwear/practice gear, I haven't forgotten that people have been paralyzed as a consequence of Pac Man not getting his way, and he primarily likes to direct his violent fits of rage at women who happen to be around. Back in Springfield, Homer Simpson is saying a colossal "d'oh!" that a dickbag like Pac Man Jones is sullying his eminent name and image.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, NFL football
CHONGingway
The other day, I looked over on the bed and caught my arrogant, obstinate, grotesquely fat Pug Chingy! actually doing something to better himself. My copy of The Sun Also Rises, my favorite book of all time, had fallen out of my bag onto my bed. Since I carry that book around the way some people carry Bibles, it's thoroughly broken-in and fell open to whatever page I'd stopped on most recently. Astonishingly, Chingy! actually pulled himself from his basal state of contemptuous torpor to see what all the fuss was about.
As Hemingway never writes "CHONGAY CHONG" once in the entire novel, Chingy! apparently didn't see anything of interest. He decided he had better things to do than reading about bullfighting aficionados or the tragic wound of Jake Barnes, and promptly passed out on the book.
CHONGAY CHONG, Ernest Hemingway!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, librophilia
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Not what fantasies are made of
On Saturday, my BFF LL Cool Jew took a quick break from her in-laws to have dumplings and drinks with me. While we were sitting at P.D. O'Hurley's slugging down Irish coffees, we heard some of the local fellas at the bar talking about how Plaxico Burress "shot himself in the foot."
"Did Plaxico Burress fucking shoot himself?" LL Cool Jew asked, alarmed, as much of her domestic peace hinges upon the Giants' fortunes.
"That can't be!" I said, myself alarmed not because of concerns about disrupting my marital bliss, but because Plaxico Burress has been stinking up my Fantasy roster all season. I immediately scanned the many televisions tuned into College Game Day on ESPN and assumed there would be something on the ticker about it. I did not see anything about Plaxico shooting himself, so I said, "Nah, dude, it would be all over ESPN if he had. They must mean figuratively, because of his attitude problems all year."
"I hope so," said LL Cool Jew, looking nervous about the prospect of attending the circus later that day with her husband BigBagel, brother-in-law, and father-in-law, all of whom are rabid Giants fans.
"Me too. That motherfucker is on my Fantasy team and I was hoping to trade him for a draft pick next year to someone who actually made the playoffs," I said. Unfortunately, despite my Fantasy team being the defending league champions and looking super hot on paper at the beginning of the season, most of my marquis players failed to do jack shit all season. The only silver lining is that, though Tha Razzies paralleled the exceptionally disappointing Seattle Seahawks, at least we won more than two fucking games all season. Therefore, I planned to trade Plax and all these underperforming douchebags for draft picks or better keepers and hope Tha Razzies have a bright season next year.
LL Cool Jew and I didn't see or hear anything further about Plax at the bar, so I forgot about it until I got home and noticed that she had texted me: "dewd, he DID shoot himself!" I immediately went to the trusty internets and realized that the moron was at some shitty club carrying the gun in his waistband with the fucking safety off, and, while his foot escaped unscathed, he shot himself through the thigh. I should add that Plax was not hanging out at some thugged-out shithole in Bed-Stuy or the South Bronx. He was at the Latin Quarter, located in the utterly non-dangerous Radisson Lexington Hotel in East Midtown, where the salsa band that played LL Cool Jew's wedding performs on Wednesday nights and guests enjoy Chef Ralph Mercado's tasty "LatAsian" creations with their bottle service. This is the kind of establishment where you are more likely to dodge spray-tanned bridge-and-tunnel types in pastel Kangol hats taking kamikaze shots than bullets. There is absolutely NO REASON WHATSOEVER, except for validating what an idiotic asshole you actually are, to pack heat at a place like this.
Furthermore, Plaxico told the lamest lie in the history of prevarication when he said he was actually shot at an Applebee's where he ate before he hit the club. I guess that sounds slightly better than "I accidentally shot myself because my gun WITH THE FUCKING SAFETY OFF started to fall out of my pants while I was holding a drink," but not by much.
LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's crew are not the only ones as outraged as myself at Plaxico's idiotic firearm skills. Thanks to the greatest newspaper in the history of print journalism, the New York Post, and its fellow tabloid the New York Daily News, I have spent the last three days being reminded of Tha Razzies' grim Fantasy reality every time I walk past a bodega or get on the subway (my favorite is the "GIANT IDIOT!" Post cover):
Now the Giants have suspended and banned Burress for the rest of the season, and are rumored to be getting out of the remainder of his $35 million dollar contract. It's bad enough that Plaxico might wind up booted from the New York Football Giants, since he'll probably go to the one team that, if Adam "Pac Man" Jones is any indication, welcomes violent criminals with open arms: the hateful Dallas Cowboys. At least if he goes to the Cowboys, I can probably trade him and watch media hilarity ensue as he tries to coexist with Terrell Owens's ego. A much worse scenario involves Plaxico's fate at 100 Centre Street, AKA the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse. New York City has some of the strictest gun control laws in the nation, and possession of an illegal, loaded firearm carries a 3 1/2 year mandatory minimum sentence. Which means that if Plaxico is convicted in spite of hiring celebrity gun charge lawyer extraordinaire Benjamin Brafman, my Fantasy team goes from disappointing to totally fucked. Thanks a lot, Plax.
Labels: BigBagel, crime and punishment, Fantasia, guns, LL Cool Jew, NFL football, NYC, retard rage
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
This is your porn star on drugs
Awhile back, I posted about some videos that porn producer and notorious asshole Donny Long uploaded to YouTube starring the once-great and now extremely cracked out porn star Chasey Lain. Sadly, I have been up to my tits in bullshit lab work, and haven't had the time to follow up on what Chasey has been doing since she threatened to have her mafioso boyfriend kill Donny Long for not letting her bang the male talent with a tampon in (and EW, gross). Chasey drove off in her Rolls Royce, crack pipe ablaze, and I thought that might be the last of her. I was saddened, because what a tragic end to such a luminous career in sucking dick on camera for cash.
Thank goodness my Razzyphiles are picking up my slack. Today I received an e-mail with the subject line "Chasey Lain–from bad to worse!" from PackMan, a Razzyphile who has been diligently following this story in my stead (which, I should add, I really appreciate because nobody is more depressed about my lack of bloggery lately than myself, and I need all the help I can get). Attached were two photographs proving that even when you think someone has hit bottom, there's always a little further that they can fall. It also proves that I can scream "WHY, CHASEY, WHY?!" a little louder than I did when I saw her trying to negotiate the going rate for hardcore stills in fluent tweaker gibberish.
This right here is exactly why you shouldn't do drugs, especially those generally bought and sold in crystalline form. Chasey looks like what would result if one of the "Faces of Meth" procreated with something from a George A. Romero movie. She looks like she's more interested in eating brain than giving it, and trust that's not something I want to rub one off to. Chasey looked pretty beat before, but now she looks like the human equivalent of the residue that accumulates on the bottom of a crack pipe. I imagine she smells like a combination of anhydrous ammonia and a Porta-Potty on the last day of Burning Man that has been filled with an endless stream of unbathed, tripping-balls drunken hippies while sweltering in the hot desert sun for three days. Sister needs to be on "Intervention" AND "Extreme Makeover," not cavorting around industry functions with male talent that seemingly can't wait to escape her necrotic clutches before some of her coochie cooties get on his Pacers jersey.
Even more disturbing than Chasey's cadaveric appearance is the fact that she's apparently executing some kind of twisted revenge scheme posing here with Donny Long's personal archnemesis, ChristianXXX. ChristianXXX did a few gay titles in the past, and this has led to a vicious feud in which Donny Long has accused him of being a "tranny fucker" and discouraged other women from working for him due to "safety concerns" (because only gay dudes have STDs, right, Donny, you homophobe?). ChristianXXX has responded by attempting to fight him in a parking lot (Donny Long ran away) and authoring the world's most soporific porn blog about his workout routine and what he likes to order at Chili's. I've never had any problem with ChristianXXX myself because I don't really pay much attention to the male talent in porn unless the dude is gross (in which case I have to actively try to not look at him), and ChristianXXX seems generally well-groomed and unintrusive. However, he may have just jumped into gross-out territory with this ill-advised unholy anti-Donny Long alliance, if the above photos suggest that he did a scene with the decrepit remnants of what was once one of the hottest pieces of ass in the entire adult world. That's really too bad, because the other day I saw a clip of Christian banging Eva Angelina and it was pretty hot. Now I can't even watch it again, because the second his bald, Mr. Clean-looking ass shows up I'm going to conjure up images of Chasey's ghoulish visage. I don't even think the hotness that is Eva Angelina will be able to quell my compulsive and violent urge to vomit all over my computer screen, and that's saying a lot, because she's pretty hot.
And speaking of compulsive, violent urges, I have to stop now due to uncontrollable shuddering.
Labels: correspondence, drugs, gross, oh the horror, porn, Razzyphiles, sluts, tragedy
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