Thursday, February 26, 2009
I WANT THAT COPY OF PoV!!!!!!
So my PI (boss/mentor) has this blog and podcast, which I was once a guest on in what a Razzyphile deemed "the geekiest thing ever." Yes, I am a huge nerd. This is not news.
Anyway, my PI is having a contest on his podcast that if you put up links to him and drive enough traffic his way, he'll give you a free copy of the third edition of Principles of Virology, his textbook. I only have the second edition and you might think that he would bless all the students in his lab with free copies of the new version. Not so...the book is over $100 a copy and he apparently doesn't get enough free copies from his publisher to be generous. So I've got to earn mine with webmastery. And since, as many of you regular Razzyphiles have noticed, I've been awfully remiss on the posting because I'm finishing up my dissertation frantically and getting ready to move to Seattle for a virology postdoc there. In addition to just wanting the newest, hottest edition of PoV, I'm actually going to need it.
I did double check with him that he wanted his considerably classier web ventures associated with a lowbrow site purporting to be the ultimate source of useless bullshit. He did explicitly state that he doesn't mind getting traffic from RAZZY.org, and in fact, I'm his second highest referrer after the American Society for Microbiology's website! I should think that fact right there should earn me one of these free copies of PoV, but just in case, I'm shamelessly plugging the AWESOME VIROLOGY BLOG and EVEN MORE AWESOME THIS WEEK IN VIROLOGY PODCAST here. I especially encourage those of you who like when I occasionally drop a little science on your asses to go. Neither are designed for a hardcore scientific audience, and my PI's writing/conversing style is engaging and easy to follow. Besides, my PI is basically a legend in the field, and you will definitely learn a great deal from him about the fascinating field of study I've chosen. Okay, I know I bitch about it all the time, but that's just because I've been in grad school forever. I actually think virology is really great and I am very glad to have chosen it as a career.
So GO READ THE VIROLOGY BLOG AND LISTEN TO TWiV!!!!
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), epidemic geekery, nerd alert, science, viruses rule
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Twi-LAME
When I travel, I have a ritual that I almost always perform. I stop at the airport gift/book/junk food/drugstore, and purchase a trashy piece of reading material. This is the only time I allow myself to read crappy paperback bestselling works of fiction. I prefer books with murders, sex, and an utterly predictable mystery to solve, particularly the Mother Goose-inspired titles of James Patterson. I’ve also been known to indulge in some Stephen King and John Grisham from time to time. Sometimes this ritual works out well, and by “well” I mean I enjoy this guilty pleasure, I finish the book right around the time my flight is landing, leave it in the pocket of the seat in front of me with the SkyMall for the next passenger to enjoy, and immediately forget about whatever the cookie cutter plot was. Sometimes it doesn’t work out so well, such as the times that I’ve made the foolish mistake of reading anything by Dan Brown. When I read Angels and Demons, I was literally reminding myself that audibly cursing out a book on a plane surrounded by strangers is probably not a good idea, even if said book is as offensively retarded as Angels and Demons.
When I decided that, in spite of the A&D debacle, I was going to read The Da Vinci Code, it was even worse. I had some hippie computer programmer with a fucking ponytail hitting on me via incomprehensible jokes about coding in Perl and inviting me on sailing trips through the San Juans on one side, and The Da Vinci Code pissing me off with every poorly composed page in front of me. I was only reading The Da Vinci Code because so many people, including ones who normally don’t read these types of books, were talking about this shit like it was the best thing since the Bible, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. As I read, I grew angrier and angrier that The Da Vinci Code, which I rated as the literary equivalent of a frost-bitten Lean Cuisine chicken cordon bleu , was something that a significant number of people had recommended to me as both mindblowingly awesome and educational. I was insulted that Dan Brown conned a lot of otherwise intelligent people into believing that a bland, patronizing, Grail Quest-flavored retelling of a Learning Annex art appreciation course is some sort of phenomenal contribution to the canon of great literature. I thought that after enduring The Da Vinci Code without either falling into some state of catatonia or murdering anyone, I had suffered enough. And then last month, I wandered into the Hudson News at JFK and purchased a book that made The Da Vinci Code look like War and Peace
That book, which may be the single worst book I’ve ever read, is called Twilight.
In case you aren’t a fat, ugly, bespectacled adolescent preteen girl and you didn’t notice hordes of the same swarming your local theater a few months back, you might not know about Twilight. It’s a Mormon vampire fantasy with legions of extremely dedicated tween girl fans. I normally don’t read books for children because I hate kids, and I normally avoid vampire stories, because I don’t care about what annoying goth fruitcakes get up to when they’re not exsanguinating random bitches. I assume shopping for crushed velvet frocks or appropriately spooky wine goblets for their decrepit old mansions and castles, listening to "Toccata and Fugue," and practicing their Transylvanian accents. However, several of my friends liked this trash, so I decided to give it a try. After all, I’d spoken derisively at length about Harry Potter, but after reading it became a serious HP nerd so dedicated that I cut in front of children at the Lincoln Center Barnes and Noble TWICE trying to get my copy of book 7 . Maybe I’d likewise be pleasantly surprised by Twilight. At least I expected that it would at worst be solid trashy plane reading.
WRONG. Twilight sucks. Actually, “sucks” isn’t strong enough. Twilight is so bad that the very word should be stricken from the English language. I’d be happy to exclusively say “dusk” just to ensure that nothing could remind me of the mind-numbingly horrific experience of reading this shitty fucking abomination of a novel. I think I would probably rather read The Notebook fifty times without stopping than Twilight once. I hate Twilight so much that I’m tempted to bring my copy into lab and destroy it with whatever kind of hardcore acid we have in our "Corrosives" cabinet. Actually, I’d like to piss on Twilight before burning it and destroying the ashes with acid. In fact, I think the actual paper the book is printed on is begging me to do so. The book is that fucking appallingly terrible.
For starters, the story’s narrator, the protagonist Bella, is the dumbest bitch I’ve ever encountered in the world of fiction, and that includes legendary dumb bitches like Daisy from The Great Gatsby. Daisy looks like a damn rocket scientist next to this hooker. Bella spends the entire book pining away after Edward, her obnoxious vampire boyfriend. In fact, Bella seems to have no interest in anything whatsoever besides obsessing over Edward. Occasionally she takes a break from figuring out how to better craft her entire reason for living around her statuesque undead paramour to do some domestic chores around the house, but that's about it. What kind of a personality devoid loser does fucking dishes and laundry for fun when she's not devoting herself slavishly to some dumbass guy? Not any slag I would be rolling with. The minute Edward and all the other devastatingly sexy vampires roll onto the scene, I was hoping one of them would bite the fuck out of Bella and call it a day, because I was so sick of reading Bella's utterly idiotic musings like "there's no way this godlike creature could be meant for me", "I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him," and (my favorite) "you're exactly my brand of heroin." Oh, bitch, please. Save it for some bad poetry in your diary and get a life, and that's real talk.
When I decided that, in spite of the A&D debacle, I was going to read The Da Vinci Code, it was even worse. I had some hippie computer programmer with a fucking ponytail hitting on me via incomprehensible jokes about coding in Perl and inviting me on sailing trips through the San Juans on one side, and The Da Vinci Code pissing me off with every poorly composed page in front of me. I was only reading The Da Vinci Code because so many people, including ones who normally don’t read these types of books, were talking about this shit like it was the best thing since the Bible, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. As I read, I grew angrier and angrier that The Da Vinci Code, which I rated as the literary equivalent of a frost-bitten Lean Cuisine chicken cordon bleu , was something that a significant number of people had recommended to me as both mindblowingly awesome and educational. I was insulted that Dan Brown conned a lot of otherwise intelligent people into believing that a bland, patronizing, Grail Quest-flavored retelling of a Learning Annex art appreciation course is some sort of phenomenal contribution to the canon of great literature. I thought that after enduring The Da Vinci Code without either falling into some state of catatonia or murdering anyone, I had suffered enough. And then last month, I wandered into the Hudson News at JFK and purchased a book that made The Da Vinci Code look like War and Peace
That book, which may be the single worst book I’ve ever read, is called Twilight.
WRONG. Twilight sucks. Actually, “sucks” isn’t strong enough. Twilight is so bad that the very word should be stricken from the English language. I’d be happy to exclusively say “dusk” just to ensure that nothing could remind me of the mind-numbingly horrific experience of reading this shitty fucking abomination of a novel. I think I would probably rather read The Notebook fifty times without stopping than Twilight once. I hate Twilight so much that I’m tempted to bring my copy into lab and destroy it with whatever kind of hardcore acid we have in our "Corrosives" cabinet. Actually, I’d like to piss on Twilight before burning it and destroying the ashes with acid. In fact, I think the actual paper the book is printed on is begging me to do so. The book is that fucking appallingly terrible.
For starters, the story’s narrator, the protagonist Bella, is the dumbest bitch I’ve ever encountered in the world of fiction, and that includes legendary dumb bitches like Daisy from The Great Gatsby. Daisy looks like a damn rocket scientist next to this hooker. Bella spends the entire book pining away after Edward, her obnoxious vampire boyfriend. In fact, Bella seems to have no interest in anything whatsoever besides obsessing over Edward. Occasionally she takes a break from figuring out how to better craft her entire reason for living around her statuesque undead paramour to do some domestic chores around the house, but that's about it. What kind of a personality devoid loser does fucking dishes and laundry for fun when she's not devoting herself slavishly to some dumbass guy? Not any slag I would be rolling with. The minute Edward and all the other devastatingly sexy vampires roll onto the scene, I was hoping one of them would bite the fuck out of Bella and call it a day, because I was so sick of reading Bella's utterly idiotic musings like "there's no way this godlike creature could be meant for me", "I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him," and (my favorite) "you're exactly my brand of heroin." Oh, bitch, please. Save it for some bad poetry in your diary and get a life, and that's real talk.
The only sensible thing Bella does in the entire book is show disdain for Forks, Washington, where most of the action takes place. I have been to Forks on several occasions, and if given a choice between eternity there or in Hell, I'd strongly consider Hell. It's a tiny, piece of trash town with absolutely no redeeming qualities, which is apparently why domesticated (ie: non-people-eating) vampires like living there. There's not a lot of sun (which just causes the vampires to glitter like a bunch of really attractive disco balls, but it's apparently really obvious and distracting) and the place is populated exclusively with ignorant hicks, so it's clearly a great place for a clan of statuesque Volvo-driving (seriously) Mormon vampires to blend in. Just as a further indication of the type of people living in Forks, the teenagers in the book all take time out from their parents by cruising over to La Push. My family spent a couple summer vacations salmon fishing at this fetid shitshow of a Quileute reservation town, and those were the crappiest summer vacations ever. La Push was always cold, I invariably got seasick from being on the north Pacific in my uncle's 20-foot Bayliner, and the beach was covered with broken glass, because the kids in La Push do what every other bored-ass teenager from a crappy economically depressed town: drink cooking wine stolen from the coolers outside tourist fishermen's RVs and smash the bottles on the beach. This happened like four times before it occured to my aunt to keep her salmon poaching-grade chardonnay inside the trailer...and yes, note that we were the "rich," faincy out-of-towners and we were worried about losing four jugs of Gallo from outside the RV, which should give you an idea of how classy the denizens of La Push actually are. However, that's not the way the kids roll in Twilight. They go to the beach and there isn't a drop of liquor anywhere in sight. They build beach fires and look at tide pools. Those aren't the drunken Forksian/La Push hicks I remember. UNREALISTIC. FAIL, STEPHENIE MEYER, FAIL!
Apart from the lame setting and lead characters, Twilight may actually be one of the most poorly written, relentlessly cheesy novels I've ever read. Half the fucking book is this bitch Bella gushing about how incomparably gorgeous her vampire boyfriend is, and how she literally faints when he pecks her on the cheek. The rest is them exchanging lame dialogue while they smell each other because that's about as hot and heavy as they can get. Apparently, though he is a boring Volvo-driving vampire who only eats random wild animals, making out too passionately with Bella will cause him to lose control and eat her. Clumsy teenage boning is thus definitely out of the question. So instead they just snuggle and sniff each other and have lame exchanges like this:
I could feel his cool breath on my neck, feel his nose sliding along my jaw, inhaling."I thought you were desensitized.""Just because I'm resisting the wine doesn't mean I can't appreciate the bouquet," he whispered. "You have a very floral smell, like lavender...or freesia," he noted. "It's mouthwatering."
Seriously, dumb vampire, that is not the smell of your fucking destiny. It's the smell of a $7.99 bottle of Bath and Body Works lotion. Get with the century, loser. And as long as Edward is learning about modern customs, he might read up on how the women of the present regard STALKING. This moron vampire actually tells stupid-ass Bella that he fucking hangs out in a tree and watches her sleep every night. Instead of being creeped out and ordering him the hell out of her life, Bella, again demonstrating her total and utter lack of any sense or intelligence whatsoever, thinks it's fucking cute and endearing after he assures her that she repeats an endless litany of "Edward" in her sleep. Then again, I would expect no less from a bitch so completely clueless she refers to NyQuil as "gratuitous drug use" and thinks exchanging body odor with her man is hot. Granted, I like a man to be on top of his hygiene and smell nice, but at the end of the day I want a dude who I can blow without him either whining about how dangerous he is or trying to exsanguinate me. That's something Edward can fucking work on, and it shouldn't be THAT hard if he's so "godlike."
I could probably rage on about this abortion of a novel for hours, but I have to get back to work on my thesis, and frankly, I'm not sure the internets are big enough to contain all my anti-Twilight hatred. I'll just try to work on getting my breathing and heart rate under control, and leave you with a reminder that all the bitches who love this trash look like this:
Before you start criticizing me for knocking on these children, let me remind you all that I am a huge nerd. I can tell you that Gandalf's sword is named Glamdring. I know Hermione Granger's middle name. I can tell you who Cthulhu is and that in his house of R'lyeh he waits dreaming. And I've been remiss with the posts lately because I'm on the home stretch doctorate in science. My nerdiness is well-established, and is in fact my profession. However, I am like the fucking captain of the cheerleading squad in comparison to these fugly, custom-shirt-crafting losers. Even when I was a poetry-writing, morbidly depressed, Sylvia Plath-reading baby dyke wearing hideous Eddie Bauer fleece pullovers and ill-fitting Salvation Army khakis I was like a prom queen compared to these bitches in terms of our respective spots on the social hierarchy. These are the bottom of the high school barrel. These are the kids who lettered in band and got jackets made anyway. They were the kids who you thought you would rather be stretched on the rack than kiss. The ones who had bad skin and smelled weird and still wore stirrup stretch pants long after the early 90s were over. They are the ones who read Twilight. Don't be one of them! Leave sexless Mormon vampire romance novels on the shelf (or better yet, the garbage can) where they belong!
Labels: destroy all children, epic geekery, librophilia, nerd alert, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Monday, February 16, 2009
The biggest beef I've seen thus far
I always enjoy a nice entertaining public dispute between two rappers, particularly if the dispute is over something as stupid as who is more real, or to borrow some of the industry lingo, who keeps it more trill. I especially love it when the conflict over whose superior realness arises because one of the parties' feelings were hurt. Somehow exactly such an argument arose between one Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson and William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts II, and over the past week, it has gotten completely out of control. My boyfriend Curtis may have finally met his match in petty public multimedia squabbling.
Apparently, Rick Ross took a break from being the biggest boss that we've seen thus far to feeling sad about getting snubbed socially by Fitty when they crossed paths at the BET awards. Fitty didn't say hi or something, and this hurt Rick Ross's feelings. So instead of just getting over it because it's really not that big of a deal, Rick vented his frustrations about his wounded self-esteem via a diss track titled "Mafia Music," in which he suggested that 50 Cent burnt down his baby mama's house because he's a "jealous, stupid motherfucker." This comment did not go over well with 50.
Not one to back down from an argument, 50 responded with a song of his own entitled "Officer Ricky," reminding everyone that Rick Ross is actually a former Florida state corrections officer rather than some kind of criminal overlord trafficking huge quantities of cocaine in and out of Miami. Rick Ross was unimpressed by Fitty's work and gave him 24 hours to come up with something better. So Fitty went to Florida family court records and tracked down Tia Kemp, the mother of one of Rick Ross's children, who is currently embroiled in a bitter paternity/child support suit against him. After declaring on his website thisis50.com that he plans to "fuck up (Rick Ross's) life," took her shopping for fur coats in New York. In the course of their shopping spree/filming a video entitled "Curtis and Tia Go to the Furrier", Tia advised my man Curtis that Rick Ross is not exactly financially as established as he boasts in his songs. According to her, his jewelry is rented, his cars are leased, and he only makes $200,000 a year. I'm a little suspicious of Tia's story, though, because really...where do you rent jewelry like this?
Gigantic chains that feature either "RR" or "Carol City Cartel" spelled out in diamonds, or a yellow diamond portrait of Rick Ross seem like pretty personalized products. I can't imagine that Jacob the Jeweler just keeps a stash of those in case Rick Ross (or possibly Suge Knight) needs to rent one for a special occasion. In any event, true or not, Tia's writing a book about how poor and law-abiding Rick Ross allegedly is outside of his musical boasting, and plans to release it the same day as Rick's new album Deeper Than Rap. This inspired a rebuttal from the goddamn boss.
Rick Ross called up Miss Info to rant about how he was just glad his baby mama was making money, and adds that 50 Cent was a "parody of hip-hop." He also added that his Floridian friends down South don't take him seriously, and refer to him as "Curly" on account of his frequent antics. He tried to get the "Curly" sobriquet to take off by then releasing a song called "Kiss my Pinky Ring, Curly." Then he put out a video of him pouring out Formula 50 Vitamin Water, in a presumed tribute to a dead homie/implied threat of deadly retaliation for Fitty's myriad insults. Then he went back on the radio to say that 50's talent or lack thereof is actually resulting in the depreciation of Dr. Dre's music, and repeatedly refer to 50 Cent as a monkey. "I don't get sidelined with monkey talk," Rick Ross explained. At this point, Inga "Foxy Brown" Marchand took issue with an oblique reference Fitty made to her brief affair with Rick Ross ("the cop fucked a fox") and demanded he retract his insult lest she handle him "Brooklyn style." Since 50 isn't going to be working on Foxy's nails anytime soon, he's probably safe for now, but I wouldn't be surprised if there's a cell phone-throwing or bitch-slapping incident in the near future.
Meanwhile, 50 Cent was busy going on every radio show possible to insult Rick Ross's financial situation and general trilla status. In addition to tracking down Rick Ross's baby mama, he managed to track down fellow Carol City Cartel member DJ Khaled's actual mother and film her at work apparently sleeping on the job.
Rick Ross called up Miss Info to rant about how he was just glad his baby mama was making money, and adds that 50 Cent was a "parody of hip-hop." He also added that his Floridian friends down South don't take him seriously, and refer to him as "Curly" on account of his frequent antics. He tried to get the "Curly" sobriquet to take off by then releasing a song called "Kiss my Pinky Ring, Curly." Then he put out a video of him pouring out Formula 50 Vitamin Water, in a presumed tribute to a dead homie/implied threat of deadly retaliation for Fitty's myriad insults. Then he went back on the radio to say that 50's talent or lack thereof is actually resulting in the depreciation of Dr. Dre's music, and repeatedly refer to 50 Cent as a monkey. "I don't get sidelined with monkey talk," Rick Ross explained. At this point, Inga "Foxy Brown" Marchand took issue with an oblique reference Fitty made to her brief affair with Rick Ross ("the cop fucked a fox") and demanded he retract his insult lest she handle him "Brooklyn style." Since 50 isn't going to be working on Foxy's nails anytime soon, he's probably safe for now, but I wouldn't be surprised if there's a cell phone-throwing or bitch-slapping incident in the near future.
Meanwhile, 50 Cent was busy going on every radio show possible to insult Rick Ross's financial situation and general trilla status. In addition to tracking down Rick Ross's baby mama, he managed to track down fellow Carol City Cartel member DJ Khaled's actual mother and film her at work apparently sleeping on the job.
I was more puzzled by the fact that DJ Khaled's mom appears to work as...an inventory clerk at the Men's Wearhouse? I can't think of any other reason why she is in a room full of men's jackets sleeping at her computer. And why does she look like she's dressed like there's a blizzard outside. Doesn't she live in Miami? I wish Fitty would have explained some of this, but unfortunately he did not because he apparently had second thoughts about this approach and removed it from his website after a day. Some people agreed this was below-the-belt since DJ Khaled's mom has nothing to do with any of this and has not committed any transgressions besides sleeping on the job and giving birth to DJ Khaled, thus cursing us all with his annoying trademark "WE THE BEST!" proclamations at the beginning and end of every song he appears on.
Rick Ross responded with a video blog of his own implying that the members of the G-g-g-g Unit are g-g-g-gay and that 50 Cent takes steroids. The best part of the video is when 50 is depicted showering with Lloyd Banks and Tony Yayo with no penis, and a disclaimer pops up that informs the viewer, "This ain't a joke–steroids make ya junk smaller!" He also continued his simian-themed retorts, by noting that he is not frightened of Fitty's empty threats because he's "understanding the monkey," and started a website entitled thisiscurly.com where pictures of 50's son Marquise's head were photoshopped onto a monkey's body. Unfortunately, this coincided with the Smoking Gun releasing court transcripts in which Rick Ross's lawyer and a Miami Beach police officer who agreed that he had no gang affiliation or notable criminal reputation whatsoever.
Fitty has since put out a song entitled "Pimpin' Curly," and continues the absurd bloggery/vloggery. Currently on thisis50.com you can go watch a cartoon entitled "Officer Ricky: Everybody Hates Chris," which features Rick Ross arresting Chris Brown, followed by a bizarre sequence in which DJ Khaled accidentally ends up in Afghanistan and is blown up by Osama Bin Laden, and that is where this beef stands as of today. I'm sure Rick Ross is putting together another song and/or homemade cartoon criticizing 50. Personally, if I were him, I'd dig Jeffrey "Ja Rule" Atkins out of whatever obscurity he's wallowing in and get that classic beef going again. Either that, or he could flex his current event muscles and rip on the fact that currently 50 Cent is in the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela celebrating Hugo Chavez's recent election to dictator-for-life. I've never heard anyone involved in a rap beef imply that an adversary is a socialist who consorts with autocratic tyrants, and I think it's high time for such politically-themed hatery.
I also would like to suggest to 50 that he put his photoshop skills to good use with this magazine cover, which may be one of the most nauseating images I have ever seen. Whatever might be going on with Fitty allegedly taking steroids to bolster his muscled physique, I think it's safe to say that nobody suspects Rick Ross is doing the same thing. It's an honor for a rapper to appear on the cover of XXL magazine, but it seems less boastworthy when the title of the magazine also describes the size of the shirt said rapper so unfortunately discarded prior to the shoot.
Shudder. I don't see why Flo Rida couldn't have been the one to be sans shirt for this cover. Jesus, even the normally portly DJ Khaled looks well-built in comparison. I can only imagine the kind of fun 50 Cent could have with this. It would go well as the latest chapter in this whole ridiculous saga. Have at it, fellas! For the sake of my entertainment, I hope they never squash it.
Labels: 50 cent, Dirrty Dirrty, hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, February 12, 2009
This is why I always remember to take my pill on time
It's pretty safe to say that "octomommy" Nadya Suleman is the antithesis of me. This crazy bitch lives with her mom, is unemployed, has over 50 grand in debt, receives food stamps and collects disability benefits for three of her kids (although according to her, that doesn't count as welfare), and is a single mother with an addiction to the IVF clinic. Seriously, this bitch put fourteen fucking test tube babies on the California taxpayers' tab because she was lonely as a child or something. Being saddled with one brat I couldn't afford, much less FOURTEEN of them, and subsisting as a parasite of the state/online mendicant is not my idea of a great way to spend my life.
Apart from the fact that I hate children and being stuck at home with a small army of them rather than doing some type of interesting, meaningful job is an accurate description of my personal hell, there is another reason why I would never want to be start procreating aggressively.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!! Seriously, being eight months pregnant with octuplets is just as bad as I could imagine, if not worse. Homegirl looks like the main egg-laying bitch from the movie Aliens. I mean that shit is like some kind of Lovecraftian horror that will drive anyone who interacts with it completely batshit insane. And speaking of batshit insane, I'm going to have nightmares for weeks about those stretch marks alone. Pregnancy with one kid is bad enough on a bitch's figure, but after seeing what having EIGHT buns in the oven looks like, I'm ready to rip out my entire reproductive tract and sew up my vagina for good measure just on the off chance that something like this might happen to me. I could pretty much write off ever having sex again with anyone remotely attractive (at least not without getting them really, REALLY drunk and in a really dark room) if my body was ravaged like this. Nadya's not going to be ready for bikini season for a while...or hopefully ever. This is just not okay.
Labels: crazies, destroy all children, gross, oh the horror
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I hate VD
While I've never suffered from a venereal disease, I think it's hardly a coincidence that these pestilent conditions go by the same initials as Valentine's Day. I HATE Valentine's Day, primarily because it is a holiday dedicated to things I despise. It's like when the executives at Hallmark or whoever decided that Valentine's Day was a holiday worth celebrating, they spent hours brainstorming customs that are designed to piss me off. From the romantic comedies to the obligatory gift-giving to the lame-ass decorations, Valentine's Day is a clusterfuck of loathsome abhorrence.
For starters, Valentine's Day isn't even a real holiday. This bullshit was made up to encourage consumer spending, and I don't see anything romantic or passionate about that. Nothing is more annoying than seeing an endless stream of commercials featuring ugly bitches getting all worked up because they got an even uglier tennis bracelet from Zales. Watching some scrawny ho squealing about how "he went to Jared" and paid $199.99 for some tacky heart-shaped necklace does not fill me with a lust for low-budget diamond-and-fug-ass-14-karat-yellow-gold jewelry. This certainly does not make me feel romantic. Homicidal, maybe, but not romantic.
It's also not just the jewelry that's low-quality. Valentine's-themed stuff is always crap. Those heart-shaped boxes of candy always have really shitty chocolate. You can just tell that whoever is in charge of that at See's uses the cheapest grade chocolate fit for human consumption. They also never tell you which chocolate is which, and you have to find out the hard way: by accidentally eating a bunch of nauseatingly repellant buttercreams that taint your mouth with their cloying grossness. Those sampler boxes also go heavy on the chocolate-covered cherries, presumably because cherries are red, and because they are also fucking disgusting. There is nothing worse than biting into a chocolate that you think is going to be something good like caramel or hazelnut and getting an unexpected and VERY unwelcome blast of maraschino repulsion. I'd rather my love interest give me a Hershey bar and call it a day rather than that box of mystery nastiness. Or even better, to hell with the chocolate. Give me some scotch.
I would try to escape from the bullshit of V-Day by going to the movies. Unfortunately, none of the movies in the theater during Valentine's season contain what I consider the three essential elements of cinematic excellence (murder, explosions, and fucking). Instead, the multiplexes are full of date movie/chick flick bullshit like He's Just Not That Into You. God, even typing the title of that movie pisses me off. Never has a movie title so thoroughly captured the spirit of what I presume is two hours documenting the madcap adventures of a bunch of desperate bitches going on lame dates with ugly guys like my archnemesis Justin Long the Mac dude. I don't really know what the movie is even about, but the ads make me think it's a supposed "comedy" about desperate bitches whining about how they don't have a man. And I would rather be gangbanged by an army of morbidly obese, unshowered Steelers fans while listening to Coldplay than sit through Bride Wars, New in Town, or Confessions of a Shopaholic. Come Valentine's Day, theaters abound with films featuring shrews like Kate Hudson, Katherine Heigl, and Jennifer Aniston, and there is truly no escape from the pervasive reality of this horrible holiday.
I even hate the damn iconography of Valentine's Day. To me, a flying baby with archery skills is the stuff of nightmares, not romance or cuteness. The idea that I might be walking along, minding my own business, and be shot at by an infant with a poison arrow that turns me into a lovesick, monogamous, probably undersexed loser is nothing short of absolutely terrifying. I'll stick with just getting blasted in the face with random jizz than blasted by Cupid's plague of irksome, simpering love, thank you very much.
You might think, "Oh, HA! Razzy's a bitter single woman who hates Valentine's Day because she isn't in a relationship." That hypothesis would be incorrect. I hated Valentine's Day even when I had a boyfriend, because it meant I'd have to go out and buy some bullshit to give him. Not that I minded giving my boyfriend gifts, but Valentine's presents for men are a pain in the ass to select, especially if they already have a nice watch. You aren't really supposed to buy a dude a shirt or some other practical, unsentimental gift for V-Day, especially when you know the dude is getting you jewelry. I used to agonize for hours about this, and spent most of my time cursing Valentine's Day for the added stress. Relationship or not, Valentine's Day manages to spread the bullshit around.
I realized that I've written a lengthy rant about Valentine's Day every February since this illustrious blog's inception. In 2006, I wrote about "the fiscal anal rape" I suffered at the hands of Sprint on the holiday of love. In 2007, I protested the obligatory self-pity party that unattached bitches are supposed to throw. In 2008, I douchebagged the entire holiday. In fact, the only positive mention of Valentine's Day I could find on my website was an amused narrative concerning one of my friends advising me that she employed my anal sex tips last year to commemorate the theme of romance and passion. I think that from now on, my Valentine's tradition is going to be complaining about how much I hate this fucking holiday. Happy I Hate Valentine's Day, everyone!
Labels: gross, movies, oh the horror, ranting, Razzification
Monday, February 02, 2009
Repent, for the end is nigh
My regular Bible reading (snicker) has suffered since I left Catholic school and discovered the joys of boozing and whoring, so I'm a little rusty on the Book of Revelations. I remember it was mostly a bunch of spooky prophetic gibberish about skanky pregnant broads and beasts and scrolls and diadems and sinister cowboys and other typical apocalyptic bullshit like that. And I'm pretty sure that one of the signs of our impending doom apart from from the whore of Babylon giving birth to a monster with seven heads or whatever occurred last night.
The Shitsburgh Stealers won the Super Bowl. AGAIN!!
I don't think I can convey forcefully enough my opinion of this football team. I HATE them. If the Steelers played against Al-Qaeda, I'd root for the terrorists. I fantasize about the entire team dying horribly in a freak plane crash. Or at least all getting injured in a freak bus accident in which they are all transfused with tainted blood and get AIDS. No, AIDS AND hep C! And MRSA! And on the way to the hospital they share an ambulance with a group of refugee Chinese chicken farmers and get bird flu too! Or going back in time and convincing all their mothers to get abortions. Or being hunted down, disemboweled, and consumed by a pack of velociraptors. Or any other gruesome and/or utterly miserable occurence which causes them to suffer mightily as their lives are absolutely destroyed. I hate the Steelers that much. I really, really, REALLY hate them.
That's why I was praying that for the sake of my blood pressure, the Arizona Cardinals would be good NFC West division-mates and avenge the great wrong perpetrated by the Shitsburgh Stealers and NFL referee Bill Leavy's officiating crew against the Seattle Seahawks in Super Bowl XL. I also prayed that Mike Tomlin would come to his senses and realize that as the hottest, most fuckable head coach in the NFL, he would be better served helming a team besides the Steelers (or the Cowboys, Patriots, or Colts). I thought my prayers had a shot, since Kurt Warner is obviously super-tight with Cheese Sauce Chrast. I guess Jesus was either busy or mad at me and Kurt for some reason, because he totally straight-up forsook Raymond James Stadium.
For a brief while, the Cardinals did threaten to make my year and even took a brief lead over the Steelers. I should have known that wasn't going to last. The Cardinals' fate turned grimmer with every camera shot of Brenda Warner and her hideous plastic weave praying fervently from the stands. Satan's triumph was complete thanks to the Steelers' old reliable Super Bowl secret weapon: bad officiating. The Cardinals' advance was thwarted by a referee who doesn't seem to know the difference between a legitimate fumble and an incomplete forward pass, and shortly thereafter the devil's minions rushed forward to seize their second Lombardi trophy IN THREE FUCKING YEARS. To add insult to injury, I was surrounded by bitchy pro-Steeler girls at the party I was at. One chick in a Polamalu jersey kept throwing me reproachful looks and going "HEEEEEY!" in this really annoying, whiny way, like I wasn't allowed to talk shit every time I said something disparaging about anyone in a Steelers uniform. This other broad kept talking to me about Super Bowl XL (big mistake) and advising me to "get over it." Not only do I hate the Steelers, I hate their dumb fans! And I hate their city, their uniforms, their attitude, and their terrible towels. I even hate ketchup, so that means I hate their damn stadium name! I hate the way they're too good to put logos on both sides of their helmets, and I hate the way they front like they're these working class heroes when in reality they are just DESPICABLE CHEATING ASSCLOWNS. I HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE THEM, and that's real talk.
At least I can find some solace in this picture of Michael Phelps taking a bong hit. For some reason, it makes me feel better knowing that Mr. Perfect Gold Medals is just another dumb 21-year-old who likes to pull tubes and party. Thank you, News of the World, for giving me some hope and peace in this time of tragedy and turmoil.
Labels: NFL football, ranting, retard rage, Stealers suck
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
