Monday, March 30, 2009
Raise your voice
Yesterday I was reading Dlisted, my main go-to site for celebrity e-bitchery, and laughed out loud when its author Michael K. wrote that Ashton Kutcher is the type to "give his peen a 'voice' while you're trying to blow him." Not only does that sound about right concerning the bedroom habits of the insufferably juvenile Mr. Kutcher, but it reminded me of the infrequently discussed but nonetheless relevant topic of talking on behalf of your genitalia and I felt compelled to weigh in on the matter.
Years ago, when I lived in beautiful Tacoma, Washington, the City of Destiny, I banged this dude who would translate for his penis while we were getting sexy. Specifically, he referred to it as "the boy" or "his boy," and wanted to relay its opinion to me throughout our drunken fucking. We were doing it and he said something like, "My boy feels great." Initially I was confused about what he meant and ignored it. However, he continued in this vein with comments like "Damn, my boy thinks you have a great pussy" and "the boy isn't going to last much longer if you keep going like this," and then attempted to engage me about it. He said something completely idiotic like "my boy wants to know if he's the best you've ever had?" I laughed in his face and responded with something like, "Tell your boy to shut up and fuck me."
This dude was definitely the Ashton Kutcher type. I knew him from around the Tacoma bar scene and from my interactions with him at such storied establishments as Hank's and Magoo's, I knew that he hung drywall or did construction or something and his life's ambition was to take surfing lessons. He had a tattoo of a sun with an ankh or a yin-yang or something along those lines on his upper back, even though he was the farthest thing imaginable from an eastern mystic. He also had an armband tat of some fake-me-out Celtic design and a Chinese character (that I like to think was the symbol for "tool") on his ankle like a damn girl. I had been at his apartment one time and he had taped torn-out pages from the Victoria's Secret catalog all over the walls by the toilet. I have no problem with dudes who keep their spank literature in plain view. In fact, I respect the brazen attitude of a dude who will leave his stack of Hustlers next to the john in plain view. However, taping ripped out pages of Heidi Klum selling 2 for 1 Angel bras for $49.99 as bathroom decor is a whole other level of douchebaggery, and cheap douchebaggery at that. Can't you at least buy a Maxim or something if you insist on decorating your bathroom with softcore jerk-off material? If this guy weren't cute in a Tacoma kind of way (meaning just okay) and I hadn't consumed half the stock of Sapphire gin at Magoo's that night, I probably wouldn't have seriously considered bagging him or his United Nations tattoos. In fact, my friend MillerTime had a crush on him and I wasn't going to go there out of deference for our friendship; however, she wasn't at the bar that night, and he was moving to Florida the next day. I figured that she'd never get her shot, and I might as well not let the dick go to waste.
Unfortunately, I didn't realize I'd be getting color commentary courtesy of "his boy" about the awesomeness of my vagina and its compatibility with said name-bearing penis. He didn't even stop when I laughed at him. In fact, he kept babbling on about "his boy" without saying anything in particular. It was like listening to Dick Vitale call our one-night stand. Then after "his boy" finished the job and retreated to its resting state, he bitched at me for smoking in my own apartment and plugged my toilet! He was a real charmer.
Since then, I've fortunately not come across anyone who said such asinine things on behalf of his penis during sex. I have had other guys say some silly stuff, like demanding that I compare their cock to smoked meat, shouting "DRAINAGE!" while ejaculating on my ass, or promising that I was about to be "split in half by (his) big, black snake." Luckily, however, I've never had another dude either attempt to interpret for his penis or assume the guise of his penis and chat me up. I don't think there is any way to make that hot.
Oh the other hand, I have successfully managed to talk with someone's genitalia myself, so I should never say never. A while back, I was banging this dude who set the tone by turning on some Skinemax original programming prior to us hooking up. I usually go straight to the internet for my porn because I don't like to trifle with any boring softcore bullshit, so I hadn't seen anything in that genre for awhile. It turns out that it's not the "Red Shoe Diaries" that I remember, which was sort of fake-classy (at least it referred to its actresses as "glamour models") and rarely showed much besides tits. Today's Skinemax, however, showed constant, close-up, full-frontal pussy shots and Randy Spears was in it! However, there still was not any real fucking in it, and the acting was TERRIBLE. Not that I expect an Oscar-worthy performance from the cast of "Co-Ed Confidential," but given that half of them are actual porn stars, I would expect them to at least believably simulate sex. There was one chick pretending to give a dude a blow job and her head was bouncing around so vigorously she looked like a damn jack-in-the-box. I started ranting indignantly about this, and after a few minutes, the honey took matters into his own hands and asked why I was wearing so many clothes. That reminded me that I did not go over to his apartment to critique the acting on Cinemax, and got down to business.
However, I couldn't get over the shoddiness of the travesty on television, and continued to jabber on about it while we were hooking up. Granted, my statements on the matter became much more terse, but I wasn't going to rest until I had vented. So I said something like, "This is what a fucking blow job looks like," and started fellating him between brief statements excoriating the unconvincing product that Cinemax was selling. I finally shut up once we started actually fucking, because only then was I distracted enough by my imminent orgasm to get over my critical disappointment in today's original softcore programming. Afterward, we were chatting while waiting for the dude to recharge, and he said, "I was really impressed with the way you were able to carry on a conversation at the same time as giving me head. I wasn't even annoyed."
"Uh, thanks," I said, then I noticed that Wild Orchid was now on Skinemax. "Hey, young Mickey Rourke! Now that's hot."
My dude was undeterred and continued, "Seriously, feel free to argue with my dick any time. It was a great blow job, and you made many excellent points."
"And you only made one," I said, grabbing his dick and realizing he was good to go again. Mollified, I proceeded to spend the rest of the night doing him with no complaints. Now, thinking back, I realized what a fine line there is between talking to and for your genitals. Talking to is clearly hot and sexy when done correctly by a pro ho like myself. Talking for, however, is just not okay. Ever. Fellas, if I want to talk to your cock, I will. Otherwise, tell it to keep its yap shut and just do its damn job. So let it be written, so let it be done.
Labels: perversion, ranting, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts, weiners
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Calling all ancient Greek sea monsters
Ahoy! The world's biggest dickbag has departed dry land and is now tweeting feverishly from the bounding main. A Carnival cruise ship was renamed the "Mayer Craft," thus ensuring that it is no longer worthy of the title "Fun Ship," and is slowly chugging its loathsome cargo from Long Beach, California to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. 
Yes, in yet another failed attempt at wit and humor, the Emperor of All Things Douchebaggy, John Mayer, donned his nautical-themed coochie cutters and welcomed his unfortunate fellow seamen aboard. When I die, this is what I expect Charon will look like as he prepares to ferry me across the river Styx to my eternal damnation: a dickless apparition born from an unholy alliance between old "Love Boat" episodes and any given roofie-slipping frathouse date rapist. Like the former, John Mayer isn't particularly amusing. Like the latter, he is obviously guilty of greatly exaggerating his manhood and thus suffers from a pathological need to overcompensate. I've been hearing all these rumors about how big John Mayer's wang is, and have been disputing them ever since. In these photos, I'm only seeing the slightest hint of knob, and SKINNY knob at that. Please believe that with a set of trunks like these, a veteran cock enthusiast such as myself could easily spot an impressive specimen from 50 nautical miles away. Thanks to his bulgeless short shorts, I am now confident that I am right about how NOT hung his bitch-ass is. John Mayer is, was, and ever shall be a golf pencil-rocking assclown. Trust.
John Mayer is busy turning a perfectly good cruise ship into the modern day equivalent of the Flying Dutchman, a harbinger of ill fate and maritime disaster, so the least I can do is hope that the innocent tourists aboard are put out of their misery before suffering through four days. As this isn't hurricane season, the only option seems to be a seafaring tragedy of mythological proportions to befall the Mayer Craft immediately. Since Scylla and Charybdis seem pretty content to stay put in the Strait of Messina, I'm thinking the Kraken is just the sea monster for the job. Hopefully, John Mayer will soon announce that his beauty surpasses that of the goddess Thetis, drawing her ire. Then she'll pester Poseidon to summon the Kraken, and since Perseus is busy being a constellation, there will be nobody to stop it from totally owning the Mayer Craft. Admittedly this plan is a little far-fetched, but hell...it worked in Clash of the Titans! And not only did that movie rule, but Thetis AKA Dame Maggie Smith is indeed hotter than John Mayer, so my hopes are high. With regard to Mr. Flat-Front Seaman Shorts here, the Kraken needs to get cracking.
[RAZZY Note: Yes, I know the Kraken is actually Scandinavian, and the correct Greek monster in the whole Perseus-Andromeda story is actually Cetus. I did read Edith Hamilton's Mythology like 50 fucking times. Clearly the people behind Clash of the Titans should have too. Either that, or they just decided that my Viking people had better sea monsters than those so-called "classical" Greeks. Either way, the movie still fucking rules, and John Mayer does not. The end.]
Labels: assholes, John Mayer sucks, nerd alert, ranting, seamen, small penises
Friday, March 27, 2009
He won't be missing the salon
I was very sad to hear that Clifford "T.I." Harris was sentenced to a year and a day in prison today. Well, sad, but not surprised considering I've known that this was imminent ever since he was busted a while back on federal weapons charges for having two illegal automatic machine guns in his trunk. In any event, I'm disappointed that I'm going to have to wait a while before the self-proclaimed King of the South is available to film the sequel to the greatest urban trick roller skating battle movie of all time AKA the masterpiece known as ATL.
In spite of his legal troubles, T.I. has been financially very successful in the past few years. I imagine that he's grown accustomed to the material comforts that undoubtedly come with the large personal fortune he's amassed. Given that federal prison is not known for its lavish accommodations, I would wager that T.I. might have a difficult time adjusting to life without the luxuries he is used to. I can think of one thing he's not going to miss much, though: a regular appointment at the waxing salon.
Damn, T.I.! Who would have thought the little guy was such a damn Sasquatch below the belt (or, actually, above the belt given T.I.'s general style preferences)? Everywhere else he's as smooth as a silk Gucci swag rag, and under his drawers he's like fucking Homo neanderthalensis. I wouldn't have guessed he was rocking that kind of topiary. At least he won't have to worry about maintaining that once he's cooling his heels in the clink.
Labels: crime and punishment, hot dudes, rap
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
You're exactly my brand of haterade, Twilight
I thought that my loathing toward the Twilight franchise was going to be like a summer fling, except full of boiling hate rather than hot sex. I figured that after some initially intense, explosive feelings of loathing toward this shitshow, my ire would burn itself out and I'd move on to the next pop culture phenomenon worthy of my dedicated abhorrence. In a few months, my comprehensive dislike for the world's lamest Washington coast-dwelling, Volvo-driving, neutered supermodel glitter vampires would fade just like last year's random honeys and I could train the crosshairs of my hateration elsewhere.
Unfortunately, due to my inability to avoid Twilight-related news, it appears that my hatred has been reduced to a slow simmer and is here to stay. I read the news, and there's Twilight, being inexplicably associated with random gang violence. I read my celebrity gossip, and see that Robert Pattinson is grossing everyone out on the set of the Twilight sequel New Moon because of his dislike for showers and generally disturbing lack of personal hygiene. Oddly, the fact that Robert Pattinson has the bathing regimen of a homeless meth addict on the gay hooker stroll and looks accordingly does not seem to deter a disturbingly large number of my female friends from rhapsodizing about his putative hotness, and I get to hear about this frequently via their Facebook status messages. In fact, Facebook is where I am most routinely confronted with unwanted Twilight-related information. Just yesterday, my news feed advised me that my high school ex-girlfriend is "stoked that her nephew gave her the collector's edition of Twilight on DVD for her birthday." Upon reading that, my eyes started rolling so uncontrollably that it probably looked like I was having a really bitchy seizure.
In fact, the only REMOTELY positive thing I can think of about Twilight is a little tidbit my Facebook wife ElCyd shared with me last night. We were Gchatting about the usual (Jayhawk basketball, the latest honeys on our ho rosters, how awesome we are, how much law school/grad school sucks, fucking girls and/or lesbian drama, our plans for world domination, our inherent Scorpio similarities, and how much my defense party is going to rule), and ElCyd decided to bring up Twilight. I can forgive ElCyd's rabid enthusiasm about Twilight, as she fully admits that it's godawful. I guess it's useful, too, since she came up with the only positive thing I've ever heard about the entire brand:
ElCyd: (p.s. best part of twilight the movie is the shout-out to Vitamin R)
Razzy: i did not see, obv
Razzy: but WHAT
Razzy: RAINIER BEER WAS IN TWILIGHT?!
ElCyd:: YES!
ElCyd: and they CALL IT VITAMIN R
ElCyd: IN THE MOVIE
Razzy: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!?!?!?!
Razzy: NO
Razzy: WAY
ElCyd: seriously
Razzy: ZOMG
ElCyd: i know.
Razzy: okay i might have to see twilight now
Razzy: i'm assuming it's not the sparkle vamps who call it that
ElCyd: no no
Razzy: but the redneck teens from forks
ElCyd: lol
ElCyd: redneck parents
Razzy: of course
Razzy: the teenagers don't drink
Razzy: they just build lame bonfires
ElCyd: in reference to a tallboy 6 pack of cans
Razzy: ah yes, the tallboy sixer of vitamin R
Razzy: soon to be a common sight in my refrigerator
Razzy: trust that
ElCyd: oh, i do.
ElCyd: please believe.
Razzy: those tallboy sixers of vitamin R are like $4
Razzy: so awesome
Razzy: i wonder if that clip is on youtube
Razzy: that will save me from having to watch twilight in its entirety
Razzy: which could result in someone's death
Unfortunately, nobody has yet had the presence of mind to save innocent bystanders from my murderous wrath by posting a YouTube of the scene in which Bella Swan's dad gives a shout-out to the greatest beer ever brewed, the sweet nectar of the P-N-Dub, Rainier Beer AKA "Vitamin R." Now maybe if there's a scene in New Moon in which the characters go pick up a crisp beef burrito and some Mexi-Fries from the Forks Taco Time, or take a detour to my hometown to Do the Puyallup, I could muster the inner strength to tolerate this bullshit. In the meantime, Bella Swan can stay addicted to her unshowered sparkling paramour. I have accepted that there is no escape from my hatred for it, and will just remain addicted to hating it.
Labels: ElCyd, librophilia, P-N-Dub, ranting, retard rage
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Sparkly Volvo-driving vampire groupies vs. MS-13: Battle of the Wal-Mart
In today's hilarious news, it seems that Wal-Mart is trying to downplay rumors spread via text message that the rabid tween girls who planned to spend last night camped out waiting for the Twilight DVD to drop were at risk of being brutally killed as part of some sort of gang initiation. Given my opinion of the twelve-year-old girl's vampire-themed Book of Mormon, I was rooting for the bangers. Nothing would put the lid on all these crazy bitches in their puff-painted "Bite Me" shirts like some random gun violence.
Unfortunately, this was quite apparently a hoax, since rumors about how "three women are to be killed by a Mexican gang" were everywhere from Colorado to Wal-Mart's northern Arkansas homeland, and from what I can tell not a single Twilunatic was unceremoniously felled by a Latin King's bullet at a Wal-Mart Twilight DVD release party. Not that I'm pro-random murder, but Twilight actually drove me crazy enough that I might consider such a gang initiation a public service.
I was actually disappointed to hear that this was just another made-up gang story meant to frighten stupid people, like the Tacoma Mall ankle slasher. When I was in grade school, there were rumors that "gang members" would hide under your car and when you put your bags in your car, they would slash your ankle with a razor blade. When you reached down to see what went on, they'd get out and steal your shit, and maybe rape and/or murder you as well. Some of my crazy aunts actually believed this so resolutely that they carried around little flashlights to look under their cars with when they went to the mall. Of course, the ankle slashers were the ones who were also putting razor blades and broken glass in Halloween candy, sticking HIV-infected needles in the coin-return slots on pay phones, and dying after drinking Coke with a mouthful of Pop Rocks. Apparently, the ankle slashers have now moved on to baseless text threat-hoaxes against ugly fat tween girls who like pining away for glittery gay Mormon vampires. Bummer. I would rather people meet their untimely end via anti-Twilight gang violence than trampled to death by legions of rabid Christmas shoppers, but I guess that's just not the world we live in. Sigh.
Labels: capitalism, crime and punishment, movies, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist
Saturday, March 21, 2009
It's whatever, ho
I was spending an exciting Saturday night watching March Madness On Demand working on my thesis, and I was plunged into a fugue state on account of both my brackets being totally ruined with the University of Washington's loss to Purdue this evening. Yes, I know I should not have picked U-Dub to go all the way in either, much less in one, but this year I thought picking a total dark horse and staying true to my home state might just be crazy enough to work. Sadly, it didn't, and now I'll suffer the annual indignity of losing to the girl who picked teams based on their mascots and getting shit from all my dude friends about picking the not-UConn Huskies until at least April. Alas.
Anyway, I decided to seek some distraction so I naturally went straight to Khia's MySpace blog. I figured that as long as I was going to be staring at a bunch of inscrutable bullshit (ie: my thesis), I might as well stare at some entertaining inscrutable bullshit (ie: Khia's manifestos against all her apparent enemies, including but not limited to Porsche Foxx, Trina, Jacki-O, Wendy Williams, Lisa Raye, Rick Ross (I think), and either Chris Brown or Rihanna's "ragedy ass pussy" depending on the circumstances of that whole dust-up). I was pleased to see that Khia's been keeping busy hiring professional Photoshoppers and buying gigantic African drums to straddle so it looks as though she has a bizarrely low-hanging dong for her new album, Nasti Muzik.
Though I'm pretty amazed at the fact that Khia only looks mildly busted here rather than something that would be slain in an old episode of "Buffy," no amount of clever marketing can soften Khia's true edgy nature. I'm assuming she spent all her money getting her cellulite and crazy snaggleteeth airbrushed out of the Nasti Muzik promotional material and thinking of clever props to help disguise her prodigious gut, because THIS is the video from her latest song:
Seriously, that IS "whatever, ho." Obviously this was not a Hype Williams production. It was made by some random Khia fan using scenes from the fucking Sims! Isn't the Sims like a game from like 1998? You know you are in desperate need of some new management when you promote your newest single via some homemade catfight-at-the-club-and-beach-in-stripper-heels fan fiction made with a software package that runs on Windows 95. Frankly, they should just give Khia a camcorder and let her film herself babbling about her various rivalries. If she talks anything like she writes, it's bound to be entertaining, or at least the parts I can understand will be.
Really, not even the sluttiest Rock of Love stripper dress can spice up this (shockingly attractive) Sims avatar that is supposedly Khia telling everyone "whatever, bitch" and smacking them around. I'd like to see the real Khia reading her blog on tape. I don't even care if it's to a beat, because entries such as this have their own innate rhythm and flow and are truly like magic to my ears:
Let's not forget I have something special for Lil Red Ridin Hoe... That Bitch has rode her last ride at the Florida State Fair. Her wristband is expired... The people at the gate said her PUSSY wont sell no moe!!! LMAO!!!I THINK the aforementioned "Lil Red Ridin Hoe" refers to Angela "Jacki-O" Kohn (ha at her real name), who has released a similarly titled album. I would rather see Khia regaling us with all the gruesome details about how Jacki-O "rode her last ride at the Florida State Fair" on account of her suddenly unpopular PUSSY (Khia's emphasis). Or Khia could do PSAs about the ethics involved in "Ike Turnering" a woman. In any event, we ought to see her unveil a stream of priceless, jabbering invective in her full gnarly glory, not transformed into some boring e-video ho by one of the few fans who actually likes Khia's pedestrian and utterly forgettable rap songs.
Khia really needs to quit rapping and become my personal assistant. I've got a thesis that needs (still more) writing. My wristband has expired. I need Khia to come in and show me how it's done, Florida State Fair style! She can write every day and, though I'd probably watch my traffic plummet, I'd e-die happy. Khia is so awesome.
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), I LOVE IT, Khia, MySpace, rap
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
NOT FUCKING FAIR!!!!!!!!!!
Star magazine just advised me that Douchebag of the Geological Epoch John Mayer is planning to write a tell-all about his relationship with Jennifer Aniston.
I think it's now official that John Mayer is the worst human being in the world. Not because he's writing a tell-all, which I'm sure will be excellent reading should you ever find yourself having a hard time falling asleep. I can only imagine what sort of tawdry tales he can tell about how Jennifer Aniston's leathery old ass spends all her time being vain and obnoxious. I'm sure I will be blown away when John Mayer regales us with the scandalous details of how an aging TV actress desperate to sustain her own relevance spends all her time doing yoga with some $400-an-hour private instructor. NO FUCKING WAY, John Mayer! STOP THE FUCKING PRESS!!
Whoever is coughing up $10 mil for a titillating batch of "secrets" like that is paying about $10 million too much. John Mayer is thus an extreme asshole, as I can't imagine he pulled off such a deal without some sort of contract with Satan. I don't remotely understand how this pubestachioed cooing dove (FYI, that's a dude who makes "ooo, ooOOO" disturbingly feminine cooing sounds while he's banging you with as much gusto as the average tampon you insert during your monthly) managed to negotiate a $10 million dollar deal for revealing the most boringly obvious non-secrets in the world. I'm really hard pressed to think of anybody whose secrets I am less interested in than old Human Benadryl Aniston. You'd have to pay me to waste time reading what I already know, because I can tell you exactly what a day in Jennifer Aniston's life entails for free. Observe:
1. Wake up at 10 a.m.
2. Do combo bed/spray tan.
3. Do yoga for 3 hours.
4. Get hair and makeup done for 3 hours. Bitch at them when they fail to give historical props to the cultural importance of "the Rachel."
5. Consult astrologer.
6. Go somewhere expensive for dinner and get photographed by paparazzi.
**OPTIONAL** Do above with Courtney Cox Arquette, assuming you can accommodate her similarly uneventful schedule.
7. Go home.
**ALSO OPTIONAL** Fill out e-Harmony profile, stealing Match.com commercial line "I'm just a goof, looking for my ball," because she's the only one in the entire fucking world who thinks that's cute or sexy. Go to bed, hoping to find an inbox full of many matches based on deep compatibility.
8. Repeat.
I mean, I guess there's probably some whining about how she used to be married to Brad Pitt and is so unlucky in love or whatever in the mix too, but who cares? That shit is boring, and spiking in a little "taking John Mayer's douchenozzle in missionary with shirts on" does nothing to spice it up, unless "spice it up" actually means "simultaneously gross me out and bore the shit out of me." Unless John's "private photo album" includes shots of Jennifer Aniston taking a baseball bat up the ass like Belladonna, I can't see how it would be worth more than the digital camera it's stored in. Frankly, even then I couldn't be bothered. I certainly wouldn't pay $10 million for that, much less news that Jen accidentally confused John Mayer with Brad Pitt in bed. This is hardly surprising, considering that not only is Jen still famously bitter about how her man ditched her for the Baby Collector, but the aforementioned 10-years-ago's Sexiest Man Alive is almost as insufferably obnoxious as the loathsome Mr. Mayer. I would be hard pressed not to confuse them myself, and I'm an internets gossip junkie so addicted that I can tell the Olsen twins apart and know what Peaches Geldof looks like.
I am primarily outraged that John Mayer, who does not need $10 million as much as I do, is getting such a ridiculous book advance for a tell-all about something as soporific as his dalliance with this busted-ass catcher's mitt of a woman. Granted, I tried hard to get a book deal in the sense that I wrote emails to two or three j-school grads I know and talked about wanting to do so and thought really fervently that it would be awesome to get fame and fortune for being Razzy. However, even if I sent the world's most stellar pitch to every publisher in the entire world or actually made the slightest amount of meaningful effort, I wouldn't get a $10 million deal. Granted, I don't have the pre-existing literary chops of writing such profound statements as "I want to run through the halls of my high school," but hell...I've slept with a whole bunch of doctors and lawyers who will surely be important someday, as well as writers for a couple publications even my parents have heard of, and other totally not-famous-but-work-for-famous-places types of people. I even dated a waiter at a famous restaurant, porked a fella who placed 27,945th in the New York City marathon, and publicly dumped a guy who invented the chip that went into Motorola StarTac phones! We all had one of those in like 1999!!!! Okay, he didn't actually invent the chip, but he wrote the mathematical algorithms that made it work, so same difference...you still wouldn't have been able to use your notoriously unreliable flip-phones without him and his state school engineering degree, which has known my vagina. I'm a total star fucker, like John Mayer!
Plus, I've had threesomes and done some hot girl-on-girl stuff and even taken it up the butt with some of these not-famous-but-I-could-maybe-convince-you-they-peripherally-are-type people. I'm not going to write shit about someone's boring obsession with yoga or in-home hairstyling. I'll tell you how big their dick is and whether or not it's worth a sit and spin! Instead of giving you pictures of a couple uninspiring, vain twats walking around LA with giant sunglasses on, I'll give you some straight-up real talk. And I'd be happy with a $10,000 book deal, which is a bargain compared to paying $10 million for something that does what Lunesta can for a mere $30 co-pay. So, assuming Star has its facts straight (which is actually a big assumption), I'm willing to underbid John Mayer and write whoever is paying for this a far more interesting book. So don't pay this tard an AIG bonus worth of cash for his account on what it's like to stick your dick in the human equivalent of a couch. Give it to me instead, and get your money's worth.
Labels: celebrities, John Mayer sucks, librophilia, ranting, Razzification, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A veritable font of wisdom
Let me be the first to say that I loathe dudes who beat up chicks for ANY reason. My position on this is pretty firm. I don't give a fuck if the chick hits the dude first, or if she was sass-talking him, or if she pushed him, or what. The fact is that dudes are bigger than chicks and unless the bitch has a black belt, there's no way some big dude beats on an unarmed woman in self-defense. Period. And I think any bastard who does so is a fucking cowardly, pussified, punk-ass dickbag loser who rightfully deserves to spend some quality time in a prison shower learning some fucking humility. PERIOD. When it comes to wife-beaters, it's ALWAYS the abuser's fault no matter how provocative or maddening the lady was, and I say an emphatic "hang 'em high."
Khia continues with a lengthy stream of consciousness rant that puts The Sound and the Fury to shame in terms of its initial indecipherability. I had to reread it like four times before I realized she seems to express support for my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson in his feud with William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts, castigate former radio personality Stephanie "Porsche Foxx" Calhoun for her apparent culpability in a recent string of arsons plaguing Atlanta, and accusing current radio personality Wendy Williams of being transgendered, looking like both the Michelin man and "a OVER fed English bulldog," and having an extremely large neck. She also takes issue with Lisa Raye, the actress who is presently the First Lady of Turks and Caicos, at least until her ugly divorce to the islands' Premier is finalized. Khia seems to think that Lisa was trying to trap the "Count" governing the British territory into a "100 stack booty call" and she ought to flee, since "Turkish women aint got no respect for you Chile! They should have whooped your ass cause they don't play that hoe shit ova there!" I guess Khia is confused about the fact that Turkey is an entirely different place than Turks and Caicos, but since she's obviously putting all her energy into enlightening us as to who is a ho and why, I can forgive her for not brushing up on geography. After I got to the part where Khia advises Lisa Raye that "You will neva be Michelle Obama!!! Go back to the pole and the low budget ass films you know!!!", I couldn't take any more of my mind being blown and got back to work on the considerably less brilliant piece of prose that is my dissertation.
While I might view domestic violence as a very black and white issue, however, I defer to other wise scholars with more profound intellectual gifts than myself to address the shades of gray involved concerning this complex subject matter. For example, this pillar of wisdom:
Namely, the sage known as Khia, a brilliant lyricist who once wrote poetic lines such as "my neck, my back, lick my pussy and my crack" and now provides counsel to lost souls that look to Hood magazine for guidance. Not content to wait until someone asked for her take on the Rihanna-Chris Brown issue via a letter to her advice column in Hood, Khia took to her MySpace blog to describe the exact type of situations that may be appropriate for "Ike Turnering" a woman:
Nowwwwww… Let’s get started!!! What the HELL is really going on with these hoes getting knocked in they EYE?? Face crammed ALL in the STEERING wheel!!!! Now… Rihanna… If you got WARTS all on dat RAGEDY ass PUSSY.. SPREADING dat FUNKY MONKEY around….You needed dat ASS beat !!! Passing off diseases to my beautiful BLACK KINGS!! But if not… Chris Brown… You was DEAD ASS WRONG!!!!! First it was Gucci, then Rocko and now….. Chris Brown!!! Yall niggas aint gone keep Ike Turnering dese hoes cuz the industry getting ready to shut yall niggas DOWN!!! HELLLL…… Much shit as the Queen talk I don’t know nann nigga GONE hit ME in my eye…….Uhh-Uhh!!!!I did hear rumors that Rihanna may have infected Chris Brown with herpes that she got from banging Jay-Z. As a virologist, I would correct Khia that herpes lesions, which are caused by herpes simplex virus, are different both etiologically and morphologically from genital warts, which are caused by human papillomaviruses. I know nothing about whether or not Rihanna is, at the ripe old age of 21, in possession of a "RAGEDY ass PUSSY," and I disagree with Khia's stance that inadvertantly spreading any sort of "FUNKY MONKEY" around is justification for being beaten and bitten to disfigurement by one of Khia's beloved BLACK KINGS. I do agree that regardless of the RAGEDY ass condition of Rihanna's genitalia, Chris Brown is indeed DEAD ASS WRONG and he ought to cease and desist with the Ike Turnering, especially considering that Khia is correct about his career being basically over. I also thank her for advising me that Gucci Mane and Rocko are apparently wife beaters as well, so I will steer clear of them the next time I'm in Hotlanta (assuming they're anywhere near the Chili's at the airport, which is pretty much the only place in Atlanta I've ever popped bottles at).
Khia continues with a lengthy stream of consciousness rant that puts The Sound and the Fury to shame in terms of its initial indecipherability. I had to reread it like four times before I realized she seems to express support for my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson in his feud with William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts, castigate former radio personality Stephanie "Porsche Foxx" Calhoun for her apparent culpability in a recent string of arsons plaguing Atlanta, and accusing current radio personality Wendy Williams of being transgendered, looking like both the Michelin man and "a OVER fed English bulldog," and having an extremely large neck. She also takes issue with Lisa Raye, the actress who is presently the First Lady of Turks and Caicos, at least until her ugly divorce to the islands' Premier is finalized. Khia seems to think that Lisa was trying to trap the "Count" governing the British territory into a "100 stack booty call" and she ought to flee, since "Turkish women aint got no respect for you Chile! They should have whooped your ass cause they don't play that hoe shit ova there!" I guess Khia is confused about the fact that Turkey is an entirely different place than Turks and Caicos, but since she's obviously putting all her energy into enlightening us as to who is a ho and why, I can forgive her for not brushing up on geography. After I got to the part where Khia advises Lisa Raye that "You will neva be Michelle Obama!!! Go back to the pole and the low budget ass films you know!!!", I couldn't take any more of my mind being blown and got back to work on the considerably less brilliant piece of prose that is my dissertation.
If you are remotely interested in being completely astounded, I strongly suggest you get with Khia's MySpace blog. It reads like what would happen if a Cylon hybrid got out of her bathtub on the basestar, moved to the Suitcase City neighborhood of Tampa, and decided to see what it would be like if James Joyce started a MySpace feud with Trina and the entire population of Atlanta's hip-hop radio DJs (not that I know what a "Cylon hybrid" actually is...some nerd who watches some show that sounds something like "Gattlestar Balactica" came in and fucked with my computer, that's how that got there). Anyway, how could you not benefit from a woman who has had enough brushes with the Florida state department of corrections to warrant such a lovely mosaic of mug shots? Khia rules.
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, MySpace, rap
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Some (un)cut
I've been skanking it up hard with the fellas since July 26th, 1995, and in that time I've gotten a lot of random dick under my belt, so to speak. Although she used to be more of a relationship-type lady, my friend JerseyGirl has since caught up with me with a great deal of gusto. In the course of her recent adventures, JerseyGirl managed to stumble across a phenomenon that you don't often encounter with native-born American fellas:
JerseyGirl: met this brit at brunch
Razzy: uh huh...
JerseyGirl: went back to my place
JerseyGirl: and did it
JerseyGirl: like 5x
Razzy: LOL
JerseyGirl: it was NUTS
JerseyGirl: BUT razzy
JerseyGirl: i was bugging
JerseyGirl: bc when he got naked
Razzy: let me guess...not circumcised
JerseyGirl: it was UNCIRCUMSIZED!!!
JerseyGirl: i was DYING
JerseyGirl: i was like "ewe"
JerseyGirl: he goes that's not very nice to say
JerseyGirl: i'm like sorry but it looks gross
Razzy: dude euros are always uncircumcised unless they're jewish
Razzy: i can't believe you said "ewe" about his D OUT LOUD!
JerseyGirl: haha
JerseyGirl: i know
JerseyGirl: but i was so wasted i didnt care
JerseyGirl: it was HUGE though
I likewise have never personally encountered an uncut schlong, probably because of my propensity for fucking red-blooded Americans and/or Jews. I keep waiting for the day when I will stumble across one, because I'm intensely curious about it. I've certainly seen pictures, so I doubt my response will be to say "ew" when I see that homeslice's weiner is wearing a turtleneck. In fact, I remember this girl I knew in college was dating an uncut dude, and she showed me and a few other intensely curious girls photos of her inflating his foreskin. I remember laughing hysterically because they were really some of the most absurdly ridiculous sex pictures I'd ever seen. I also remember vowing that should I ever come across a honey with extra casing on his sausage I would promptly make like this bitch and blow it up like a balloon for humor value alone. Combining goofy jokes and fellatio sounds like a win-win to me.
JerseyGirl clearly got over her shock about this dude's foreskin because she subsequently planned a trip to England to go get more strange of the tea-and-crumpets variety in spite of the likelihood of encountering more peek-a-boo dick. She was telling me about the new international mark she was wooing via Facebook, and I was encouraging her to whore us up proud.
Razzy: toss it up
Razzy: as i think they say in england
Razzy: i know "tosser" means "slut"
JerseyGirl: haha
JerseyGirl: i just emailed you his pic
Razzy: yeah he's cute
Razzy: although i'm getting MAJOR pencil dick vibes from him
Razzy: i think it's the 5 o'clock 'stache but NOT beard
Razzy: how tall is he?
JerseyGirl: no he's tall
JerseyGirl: i've touched it before
JerseyGirl: it's big
Razzy: well pencils can be long
Razzy: they're just skinny
Razzy: i call a long pencil a "cervical spear"Razzy: i fucked a dude like that once, it felt like fucking a pap smear
JerseyGirl: well i'll let you know!
Razzy: please do!
JerseyGirl: although i dont think it's pencil
JerseyGirl: i have a good feeling
Razzy: i hope i'm wrong, i hate pencil
JerseyGirl: it's probably all skinned up though
JerseyGirl: nasty
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: well now you're an old pro with the uncut weinersJerseyGirl: i know. it's so nast though
Upon her return from Merry Olde Englande, JerseyGirl was pleased to report that her man was a European rarity: not Jewish or Muslim and yet still trimmed. I was a little disappointed, if only because I wanted to hear about JerseyGirl insulting the appearance of her partner's package as foreplay. Now that she's back stateside, she dumped her original skinjob and has no future prospects from the United Kingdom or continental Europe in her sights, so that well of uncircumcized weiner follies has run dry. So now I guess I'm going to have to go out and find some uncut dick of my own for amusement. So take notice all you Razzyphiles of British, Australian, other European, or Americans with hippie parents extraction...for any fellas rocking Shar-pei schlongs, I'm currently enrolling subjects in my personal study. Holler at your skank.
Labels: international intrigue, JerseyGirl, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts, weiners
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