Monday, January 26, 2009
...and STAY OUT of the World Economic Forum!
I just read an article about how this year's World Economic Forum at Davos, Switzerland is going to be short on the celebrities compared to years past. Instead, this year the party is going to feature a bunch of boring world leaders. Surely the people of Davos are going to be totally bummed that instead of Claudia Schiffer, an inexplicable attendee from years past, they are going to be rubbing elbows with hot pieces like these:
I'm not bummed, however, that something called the "World Economic Forum" is being attended by various presidents and prime ministers rather than a bunch of celebrity douchebags. In fact, I'm hardly surprised that the global economy is as fucked as it is considering that last year, the keynote speaker was the head of Lehman Brothers. Furthermore, years past have also seen the likes of these fucktards running around:
Yeah, I'm sure they made some really important contributions to this event. Angelina Jolie could talk about how best to steal orphans from developing countries to promote an image of saintliness, Brad Pitt could explain how a gold-plated couch is a sensible investment, and Bono can explain how to simultaneously maintain a smug, overly pious demeanor while lecturing people about poverty from behind his rose-colored designer sunglasses and run an AIDS charity into the ground. No wonder that with a bunch of self-righteous geniuses like these running the world economy we are currently as fucked as we are.
I'm not bummed, however, that something called the "World Economic Forum" is being attended by various presidents and prime ministers rather than a bunch of celebrity douchebags. In fact, I'm hardly surprised that the global economy is as fucked as it is considering that last year, the keynote speaker was the head of Lehman Brothers. Furthermore, years past have also seen the likes of these fucktards running around:
People who spend their time renting 32,000 square foot mansions while arrogantly lecturing the little people about doing their part should not be anywhere near a place where decisions are being made regarding the reinvigoration of the world's stalled credit markets. Bono should be excluded based on those dumb sunglasses alone. Yeah, we get it, asshole. Even when you are trying to show off what a big social conscience you have, you're still a rich rock star. An aging, obnoxious rock star who likes pink lenses, much like my one aunt who sold Mary Kay did in the 80s. However, Vladimir Putin, who is also known to play ridiculous dress-up, still has the decency and professionalism to show up for a fucking economic forum in a suit sans decorative eyewear. I suspect this is because Putin is famous for, oh, say, RUNNING RUSSIA WITH AN IRON FIST instead of singing inexplicable Spanish on iPod commercials. Not that I'm a big fan of Putin's autocratic stranglehold on the Russian government or his apparent desire to deprive former Soviet territories of their independence via carpet bombing, but he's certainly more qualified to sit in a meeting about the global economy than a dude whose primary achievement on the world political stage is being the most recognizable person in Ireland. Sorry, Bono, but while the whole world liked "With or Without You," writing the lyrical content of The Joshua Tree album doesn't give you the economic credentials to do anything besides interrupt, distract from, and generally disrupt the productivity of actually powerful people trying to stave off a global depression.
It's a little late, but better late than never in terms of booting these pompous, unqualified retards out of forums like these. Angela Merkel doesn't need to get Brangelina or Bono's two cents before she starts strategizing with Gordon Brown and Nicolas Sarkozy about how to save Europe's banks. Way to improve the World Economic Forum. Go Swiss bankers!
Labels: assholes, capitalism, celebrities, international intrigue, politics, retard rage
Sunday, January 25, 2009
My byline will never be as good
Since I've spent the last four days pulling 10 to 14 hour days in lab frantically trying to get as many experiments done as possible before my thesis defense (and, essentially, graduation) in April, I haven't had much time for anything non-scientific. I got the postdoc I interviewed for, so I'm going to be moving cross-country shortly after my defense and I won't have much time to finish up any lingering last minute experiments. Therefore, I've been practically living in lab.
In the course of my work, I've been up to my tits in scientific literature trying to finish the discussion section of my two papers. Today I was reviewing a paper which I know only too well, since J-Sexy e-mailed me an article a year ago from the BBC in which this English asthma expert was claiming to have developed a mouse model of rhinovirus infection. As that is what I have been slaving away trying to do for the last five and a half years, this was deeply upsetting to me. Add to it that the paper was published in a goddamn Nature journal! For those of you who very wisely chose a career outside science, Nature, Science, and Cell are probably the best journals you can get published in. This paper wasn't in Nature proper, but it was still in Nature Medicine, which is definitely a respectable publication.
After freaking out for a while, I realized that the paper actually leaves a lot to be desired for a variety of reasons I won't bore you with. I also took comfort in the fact that this paper has a zillion authors. Apparently it took a village to produce a model that barely produces any measurable infectious virus. It's hard to beat twenty-some authors from four collaborating labs on your own in terms of sheer productive output, so I can't beat myself up too much for getting scooped. Besides, I've developed my model and it's sufficiently different (and better) that I can still publish in a quality journal.
Anyway, I've read and re-read this paper so that I can do some studies to compare my model with theirs, and also so I can do some different studies and include some new information in my paper. Today I was reading it yet again and making snotty comments to myself in my head about their experimental methods. When I got bored of thinking things like "no DUH virus production is going to be statistically significant if you're comparing it to UV-inactivated virus that DOESN'T REPLICATE AND ISN'T INFECTIOUS," I idly flipped to the front of the paper and for the first time noticed the names of some of these authors.
While I believe my model is superior in terms of actually mimicking human rhinovirus pathogenesis in a mouse, I know that inevitably their byline is going to be better, and not just because it has a big Nature Medicine logo on it.
It's like this paper was authored by a cadre of gay porn stars. My name is nowhere near as awesome as "Bruno Guy," "Alberto Papi," or (my personal favorite, the obvious power bottom) "Dallas M. Swallow." Are these even real names? I'm imagining these dudes finishing up an ELISA for Th2 cytokines in BAL fluid, then traipsing over to the set of Bareback Mechanic Fuckers 4. I hope that my paper is regarded scientifically as an improvement over this model, but there's no way that unless I use a stage name my byline will be more entertaining than one featuring the name Dallas M. Swallow. In this area, this group will always be superior.
RAZZY EDIT: Oops. I just Googled Dallas Swallow, and it turns out Dr. Swallow is in fact a woman, and her expertise is mucin expression. "Gel-forming mucin" is a fancy way of saying "snot." So...now that I know Dr. Swallow is a respected mucus geneticist, well, I'm still laughing. I have the maturity of a ten-year-old boy. It's like when my mom starts talking about the goings on in the world of ultrasound and mentions "Siemens." HA-I'm actually snickering thinking about that now. I should grow up.
Labels: epidemic geekery, grad school bullshit, nerd alert, science, viruses rule
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Fake vagina poll
A few days ago, this dude I went to grade school and high school contacted me on Facebook asking how I was. I replied tersely that I was very busy with my thesis writing and postdoc interviewing but I'd otherwise been doing fine over the last ten years. Apparently he was aware of this as he had perused my blog on occasion. Specifically, he had perused the several posts I've written concerning one Ms. Chasey Lain and her tragic and precipitous descent into hideous plastic surgery and crack (and/or maybe meth) addiction. He added that he used to jerk off to her movies in college and enjoyed that experience so much that he actually purchased a Chasey Lain replica rubber vagina to bang. He was now disappointed that Chasey is but a loathsome, Gollum-esque shadow of the utterly fucktastic porn star she once was.
This entire email gave me pause, as I was a little startled to learn this bit of information about this guy. I remembered this guy as one of those extremely quiet types who would either grow up to be a software tycoon or a serial killer. In our decade of being classmates, we maybe exchanged twenty words TOTAL. I actually don't know anything about this dude except that my brother was friends with his little brother back when they were nine, but now I know how he masturbates. I was a little shocked, not just because this is an odd and slightly creepy piece of information to hear from someone you barely knew during childhood, but because he actually admitted to owning and using one of those fake vaginas.
I have always been puzzled by those fake porn star vaginas. I am by no means a prude, nor am I opposed to using masturbation accessories. I could go on for hours about essential features of a quality vibrator the way some dudes talk about cars or motorcycles. However, I just don't understand those fake porn star vaginas.
I get that dudes want to experience banging their favorite porn stars. I also get that in lieu of actually banging one's favorite porn star, masturbation is a solid substitute for that activity. However, I just don't understand how sticking your dick into this this is the equivalent to banging young, pre-crack/meth, pre-Restalyne fish lips Chasey Lain:
I just cannot believe that two AA batteries can accurate simulate fucking a porn star. In my experience with vibrators, two AA batteries are good for about 30 seconds before they start to crap out, and if I for some inexplicable reason wanted that sort of brevity, there are plenty of loser one-pump chumps in my little black book I can call. If two AA batteries can't cut it for a tiny portable bullet vibe, they sure as hell aren't going to duplicate the experience of porking Chasey Lain.
Also, these just aren't very sexy sex toys. Granted, not all sex toys have to be in and of themselves sexy. I have this two-sided dildo thing which, every time I've attempted to break it out for one of my special girlfriends, just makes me laugh because it's hot pink, gigantic, and flops all over the place like some sort of ridiculous gigantic piece of half-cooked pasta. I actually don't think I've used it on any girl apart from playfully flogging her with it as a joke. My strap-on, however, is definitely not designed to be seen and admired so much as it is for banging some broad cross-eyed. Likewise, a vibrator is often form over function. Women don't fantasize about having rabbits eat them out or doing it with a body massager from The Sharper Image. Some vibrators are more stylishly designed than others, but when it comes right down to it they are tools. Fake porn star pussies are designed to be fantasy objects in and of themselves, so that guys can pretend they are actually nailing Chasey Lain or whoever else. I don't know about dudes, but when I fantasize, I don't do so about someone's disembodied torso and genitalia.
Furthermore, I have always figured that these things get seriously gross after just one use. I bet that any sexiness derived from the knowledge that you're fucking a "Cyberskin" exact replica of Chasey Lain's orifices wears off the second you have to scrub the dried-up dick cheese out of their inner recesses. And "TRY ME, BUY ME?" As if the prospect of cleaning post-masturbatory smegma out of a fake porn star pussy wasn't revolting enough, you can actually wind up with someone's literal sloppy seconds. What fucking genius at the Terminator pussy factory marketing department thought the concept of a public testing hole on a fake porn star cooze would be a good idea? Although it's a disgusting sales concept, in fairness, sticking your dick into a dank, dirty passageway that's hosted countless other anonymous, herpetic weiners isn't all that different from actually engaging in sexual congress with the extremely weathered and amphetamine addled Ms. Lain at present.
I have always wondered who in the hell uses these things, and now I have heard from one solitary person that they actually plunked down the ducats to elaborately masturbate into a stank pelvic rubber semen collector. However, since every porn star in the world seems to sell these, someone must be buying them. In fact, Chasey Lain actually has FOUR different models of fake twat on the market, which appear pretty similar in terms of looks and features but retail for anywhere from around $30 to well over $100. Obviously there's a market.
Thus, out of scientific curiosity concerning the practical and economic aspects of Chasey Lain (and/or Your Favorite Porn Star) fake genital molds, I'm doing a little survey on the comment page. How many of you fellas (or girls, although I really can't imagine any practical reason for a woman to use such a product) have actually fucked a fake porn star vagina? How many of you have actually purchased one? And most importantly, how is this product "easy to clean" as the online sex emporiums tout? I am genuinely mystified both that this actually appeals to anyone, much less enough people to warrant an entire industry, so any clarification would be most appreciated. Holler at me, pervs.
Labels: correspondence, gross, oh the horror, perversion, porn
Monday, January 12, 2009
It's called the "Great" Northwest for a reason
I know I've been seriously AWOL lately, and for that I apologize to all the Razzyphiles who have been rending their garments, self-flagellating, weeping, gnashing their teeth, and generally experiencing crushing despair due to useless bullshit withdrawal. I spent the holidays frantically dispatching mice in my lab and arranging postdoc interviews for later this week. I'm also trying to make a serious dent in my dissertation and write two papers. In short, I'm working my tits off (thankfully, not literally), and I have barely had time to eat or sleep. Hell, I've barely had time to get my daily rub-off in, and that's just unacceptable.
As of today, I'm in the beautiful (and by "beautiful" I mean "gray and overcast") P-N-Dub, sitting at my parents' kitchen counter working diligently away on still more science-type stuff. However, I did break away long enough to go out and get my drink on in Tacompton with HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair this past weekend. While I was at Doyle's, a standard Tacoma watering hole, I was informed by the barkeep and Razzyphile extraordinaire Startender that my site has gone neglected for so long that I'm second-to-last on his internet surfing history. Nonetheless, Startender still hooked me up with some complimentary scotch for being the source of all things Razzified, but I drank it with a sense of shame. Despite my legitimate excuses for doing so, I've been appallingly remiss at blessing you with my prosaic hotness. I plan to do a little making up for that now, if only so that Startender doesn't regret his generous gift of Johnnie Walker.
Unfortunately, I haven't been up to speed on my internets gossip on account of spending 90% of my online time on PubMed. So instead of railing on whatever current event has pissed me off and/or excited me I will instead try to answer a question that a number of people have been asking me lately: Why am I moving back to the P-N-Dub?
Oh, did I mention? I'm probably moving back to the P-N-Dub this spring after I get Ph.ake doctored. I love New York like crazy, but I'm so tired of being broke all the time and living in what could pass for a Gangs of New York-style tenement. Seriously, if I live there any longer, I'm going to have to sharpen my teeth and become proficient in hand-to-hand combat with meat cleavers and various farm tools. I'm also tired of struggling to find dogsitters and being so far away from my family. So like all great affairs, mine with living in New York City is coming to an end in favor of stupid, dumb Seattle. Also, there are some hot-ass virologists up at the University of Washington who I can get a sweet postdoc with.
Now, I realize that Seattle is a lame fucking city that annoys me to no end. Seattle people, whether they fall into the category of Overblown Yuppie, Scruffy Hipster, or Environmental Nazi, are all ultimately the same in the sense that most of them are from backwater towns like Eatonville and Mukilteo and Chehalis and compensate for such humble upbringings by being insufferably condescending to everyone crossing their paths. I do not like most of them and they usually do not like me. Tacoma, while I love it for its more unassuming, blue collar atmosphere, is too far away from Seattle to live. I did that commute for three years and vowed that I would never again live so far away from my place of employment. After-work happy hour is a critical part of my professional life, and long driving commutes are not conducive to early evening drunkenness. However, there are many bonuses to living in the P-N-Dub in spite of Seattle's wholesale suckery. In spite of my tendency to be a ruthless, brutal hater, I actually am a very optimistic, glass-half-full kind of person, and I've compiled a list of things that are going to be AWESOME about living here.
1. Close proximity to my parents and little brother. This pretty much speaks for itself. I'm very close to my family, so being able to come over, raid the fridge, do laundry, and get free dogsitting services is hella awesome. Notice I said "hella." I'm getting back into West Coast mode!
2. Taco Time.
For those who have never been to the P-N-Dub, you've probably never heard of Taco Time, and that is your grave misfortune. It is the best fucking fake-me-out Mexican fast food you will ever eat. The crisp beef burrito is like a sublime tube of deep-fried meat and their Mexi-Fries (aka deep fried tater tots with taco seasoning on them) are mind blowing. Taco Time is the only fast food I will deign to consume. When I'm in New York, I have had dreams about eating Taco Time.
3. I always get laid like crazy in the P-N-Dub. I certainly get plenty of action in New York, too, but never like it is here. I don't know what it is about the honeys here, but they LOVE my ass. They're practically lining up to knock this thang out. I'm barely in town for one day and I've got my hand down some random 24-year-old's pants. Then the next night I got some totally different ass! I'm a true playerette for real wherever I'm at, but my inherent game is at its apex here in the Dub-A.
4. It's cheaper than New York. With the exception of some ridiculously priced Lagavulin scotch I drank the other night while I was hanging out at my buddy TAFKAMA's neighborhood bar in Seattle, booze, food, rent, gas, and life in general is less expensive. In New York, I not only have to pay a state income tax and a state sales tax, I also have to pay CITY income and sales taxes. In Washington, there isn't even a state income tax and top shelf scotch in Puyallup is $5.
5. Pretty scenery.
6. Rainier Beer
Otherwise known as "Vitamin R," Rainier is the next best thing to the nectar of the gods. Truly there is no finer lager in the entire world than Rainier. Okay, well, that might not be true because Rainier is pretty shitty. However, as far as shitty beers go, Rainier sets a standard of excellence that all other canned beverages can only dream of achieving. Thus far I've already consumed at least 3 Vitamin R tallboys, and I've still got a week of this working vacation to go.
7. Seahawks fans abound
While the Seahawks may have had one of their worst seasons since the mid-90s this past year, I never stopped wearing my jerseys. Even when we were 2-10 I gritted my teeth and headed for the bar bravely rocking my Tatupu jersey in spite of the derisive statements some of my fellow bar patrons made concerning the Hawks' performance this season. The nicer people (ie: my friends and/or dudes who want to bone me) attributed it to the rash of injuries suffered by the Seahawks. The assholes (ie: Cowboys, Eagles, Giants, Patriots, Jets, and/or Bears fans) attributed it to the phenomenon known around the P-N-Dub as "S.O.S.", or Same Old Seahawks, the local term for the Hawks' reversion to the old days when they sucked harder than a toothless hooker. Moving back to the P-N-Dub means I don't have to put up with any of this bullshit. Instead, I can simply wallow in everyone else's collective depression. It also means I don't have to explain what the fuck "SEA-fence" means.
8. Lots of people for me to mock.
The other night, my friend TAFKAMA took me to a hipster bar on karaoke night. When we walked in, I was like, "TAFKAMA, this place sucks! I feel like I'm in goddamned Williamsburg, what with all these losers in their trucker hats singing bad Blondie covers. Do you come here because you actually hang out with these people? I want to go back to the classy bar with the expensive scotch."
"I never come here with anyone," he confessed. "It's not like I come here because I want to be part of this scene. I only come here to watch and make fun of these people. I know you'd be into that. And there's $1.25 cans of Oly."
While I'll always take a Vitamin R over an Oly, I did admit that I couldn't beat that deal and indeed I was into it. TAFKAMA is a lot of fun to rag on people with because he's extremely perceptive and chances are, he's already got a lot of material that he's just been waiting to try out. For example, I was wondering why these hipsters were so void of boxy glasses, an accessory that I assumed was as much a part of the uniform as a messenger bag or a copy of something by Camus for the pretense of intellect. TAFKAMA advised me, "Bushy Grizzly Adams beards are the new boxy glasses." He was right. Every last one of these assholes had a faceful of unkempt pubes to wear with their plaid button-up/vintage t-shirt combos. TAFKAMA and I proceeded to spend the next two hours tearing apart every asshole in the place, from the guy wearing some sort of Church of Satan shirt to the fat girl wearing what can only be described as pantaloons with a hideous sweater dress that made her look like a giant black-and-green bratwurst.
I could go to hipster karaoke every night if those are the kind of outfits I'm going to see. And in addition to the Hipster Douchebags are the Overblown Yuppies, who spend all their time talking about garlic presses and wines and trying to sound incredibly cosmopolitan and sophisticated in spite of the fact that they live in tiny-ass Seattle, and the Environmental Nazis, who bike everywhere, eat vegan, and constantly whine about being green. In otherwords, the material is limitless.
9. Second to last but not remotely least, all my old school friends. These people have known me since before I hit puberty in some cases, and they always ask when I'm going to move back. Well, the answer to that is probably "April 2009."
10. Finally, to all my devoted Razzyphiles, I am sorry for being so incommunicado. If I move to the P-N-Dub, I will be spending considerably less time freaking out over things like money and grad school and that sort of bullshit. That means I'll have more time for blogging. And since there's only nine good things I could think of about the P-N-Dub, there's a multitude of others that enrage me and will provide solid grist for the Razzy mill for a long time to come. Please be patient with me the next few months as I finish up at school and get a job. I'll check in at least once a week, and I'll be back for good before you know it.
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: alcoholism, excuses, P-N-Dub, Razzification, Razzyphiles, Seahawks
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