Sunday, May 31, 2009
What happens to a dream deferred?
I don't know if Chingy! knows the answer to that, but he certainly knows a thing or two about what a raisin in the sun looks like.
CHONGAY CHONG, Langston Hughes!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Look at this fucking Seattle asshole
This past weekend, my roll dog TAFKAMA persuaded me to attend the Northwest Folklife festival. Well, actually, TAFKAMA's girlfriend persuaded me, because TAFKAMA was almost as unenthused about the prospect as myself. The last time I went to Folklife (in 1997), it was pouring rain and the marijuana enthusiasts I was cavorting with insisted that we take shelter in this gigantic lean-to built of random tarps, garbage bags, and 2x4s stuck haphazardly into the muddy grass. I was surrounded by unbathed assholes in homemade clothes made of wet, moldy-smelling hemp trying to spread their scabies and mooch from my stash. It was like being in a sauna scented with patchouli, compost, and B.O., complete with a drum circle and stupid bitches on too many hallucinogens trying to dance. To make matters worse, my cousin dropped acid, and was apparently tripping balls when the structural integrity of this refugee camp for people who don't bathe or shave their armpits by choice began to collapse. One of the supports came loose in the mud, striking my cousin in the head and inspiring a proufoundly disturbing freakout on my cousin's part. I spent the rest of the night trying to keep him from getting arrested and/or sent to the hospital. I did not like Folklife then, and I didn't suppose that I'd like it now.
For those of you unfamiliar with Seattle's busy municipal festival schedule, Folklife is a big clusterfuck of crafts, fair foods, performance art, and music held on Memorial Day weekend at the Seattle Center. There's a bunch of free music shows, an Elephant ear stand, plenty of skateboarding and hacky sacking, and ample space for every random hippie craft peddler in the Northwest to hawk the ugliest sea glass jewelry and pewter salmon-shaped belt buckles money can buy. Basically, this event is a bug light for people that I inherently loathe. However, since I'm a glass half-full type of bitch, I decided to make the best of it and cope in my own way: by making fun of everyone! And since there was no way I could keep track of all the many people to mock by virtue of their great numbers, I brought my camera.
Behold, the multitudes of Seattle and their strange musical instruments, their asinine tattoos, and their unfortunate style choices. The Emerald City at its finest.
Bag pimpin'. Seriously, bagpipes and Scottish bullshit in general is apparently SO HOT right now with the antiestablishment set. It's like everyone watched Highlander, remembered that Sean Connery decapitating bitches is badass, and traded in their anarchy shirts for kilts.
Seattle couture alert! I knew it was only a matter of time before I stumbled across some sexpot capable of combining civil liberty, work freebies, and a bare chest. Who IS this ravishing rogue in the ACLU fleece vest with nothing underneath?! And what better way to exercise one's most basic civil liberty than to ask some passing hottie if you can bum a smoke off her?! Free speech, motherfucker!
And on the Third Day, after Jesus rose from the dead in fulfillment of the scriptures, he hired Artie Lang as a bodyguard and restyled himself as a safari photographer and avid drum circle participant.
"So guys, Ken says we should meet him and Skipper over at the Cha Cha later."
Axl Rose, is that you?
All of the boys and all of the girls are NOT dying to If You Seek THIS DUDE.
Milk may do a body good, but it sure as shit isn't doing anything for this Blossom's-dad/Patrick Duffy hybrid's ugly face.
It was a challenge for me to stay away from these tantalizing specimens. Effeminate Joey Ramone and Firecrotch Paul Westerberg and their gang of merry MMORPG-playing virgins were about 10,000 degrees of sizzling hot sex. I can only assume that they weren't swarmed with every legwarmer-wearing, shaggy-haired slag at the music festival because they burned them with their scorching hotness.
And what have we here? Why, it's one of Seattle's most eligible bachelors looking single and ready to mingle, as he's dressed to impress. This low rent Layne Staley donned his finest fedora, bandit-style neck kerchief, and Iron Maiden muscle shirt, grabbed a latte, and put out the vibe. No word on whether he managed to score.
Apparently today's generation of skater punks are easily bewitched by trick yo-yo-ing. Or maybe the guy on the right is just considering his next career move, since festival roving yo-yo performer is probably one of the good-paying jobs that actually does start after he gets up.
These guys look like they are either the last remnants of the Manson Family or about to attempt to sell me cunt and whiskey at the Gem Saloon in Deadwood. And please believe that whichever comparison is more apt, their band still sucked extraordinarily.
Here I captured a quiet, reflective moment in which this young, wallet chain-bearing man and his black widow forearm tat discreetly pour a PBR (of COURSE) into a Steamers soda cup. He stares off into the distance as he ponders who he will bum his next cigarette from.
This fat Fred Durst-looking dude came by with his busted Andy Samberg-looking friend and actually asked me to take his picture. Well, he made a comment about me taking pictures of the crowd, I asked if he'd like his picture taken, and he answered in the affirmative. He was like "Make sure you e-mail that to fatfreddurstlookingdudeorwhatevs@google.com." I responded, "Actually, just go to my website. I'm reporting on this event for RAZZY.org. That's R-A-Z-Z-Y dot ORG! Check it, Big Guy!"
"Dude, as long as you're up, can you get me some curly fries? I'm busy practicing my I'm-in-denial-that-I-should-buy-tank-tops-at-Lane-Bryant squat. And texting."
TAFKAMA managed to find a pair of sunglasses even stupider and with more tines than the ones he was wearing. He indicated his excitement by rapidly pumping his fists. The forks actually work on him.
I can't think of a less appealing offer than a complimentary hug from this aspiring vagrant/jelly bracelet aficionado. Except maybe what was on the other side of this cardboard placard: "DONATIONS OF CASH AND CIG'S ACCEPTED."
Local artists: because if you roll with the socks-and-Tevas set, you can never have enough pictures of the Cascades or the Columbia River hanging around your yert.
Real men wear shirts covered with a jaunty Scottish terrier pattern when singing atonal renditions of "Blowin' In the Wind" for spare change.
A little bit grungy, a little bit metrosexual. Seriously, are those punk hipster man-pris that he's wearing? God, no wonder the best asymmetrically-coiffed pussy he could get has such an extreme FUPA that for a second I thought she might have a little retro style-mixing, hygiene-eschewing bun in the oven.
Whatever this grouchy chick in the green is bitching about, I probably agree with her, since I can't imagine she's hating on anything besides her friend's poor hairstyle choices. I can practically smell that unwashed cat-scratching post lounging across from her radiating a foul vapor of fermenting armpit sweat and rancid nag champa from through my computer screen.
This lady right here is a common variety of Seattle craftswoman. She probably drives an Outback or a CRV, she always eats weird shit like sunflower seed butter and muesli and yak yogurt for lunch, and she has a REI platinum card, which she probably used to buy an REI fanny pack. She likes to camp, hike, recycle, and wear unattractive cowboy hats. She actually buys and listens to CDs of Andean flute players. She's got a closet full of ponchos and you know that homegirl rocks denim jackets with corduroy collars in the fall. She lives on a farm in Issaquah and likely owns horses. If you look in the mirror behind her, you can see me, and my expression pretty much says it all.
Behold, the genesis of a Craigslist "missed connection."
"ZOMG, I can't believe that guy is wearing a HOLLISTER shirt! Who wears Hollister shirts? They're like so unoriginal, not at all like the Vuarnet shades and terrorist scarf I'm rocking. What a total conformist follower."
This guy's grave expression lets the world know that he wants to be taken extremely seriously.
Miley Cyrus hearts recycling.
Jamie-Lynn Spears, what are you doing here?!
I was unaware that the band Insane Clown Posse was still around and had actively practicing fans. In fact, I had forgotten about Insane Clown Posse's very existence. When pressed, I vaguely remember that they made shiteous rap metal and used to hose each other down homoerotically with bottles of some weird Detroit-specific brand of soda. However, the ICP faithful–which the internets inform me are called "juggaloes" on account of their clown-themed tomfoolery and their attempt to associate themselves with male prostitutes–were out in full makeup and regalia at Folklife.
I'd be hard-pressed to come up with anything that screams "I AM A HUGE LOSER" more resoundingly than being a rabid, publicly out Juggalo. I can't fathom why anyone would embrace a culture based on shitty music, clown makeup, hatchets, fat people, and being stuck in 1998. These guys make World of Warcraft-playing shut-ins look like the world's most eligible bachelors in comparison. I could probably beat up these bitch-asses. FAIL.
In spite of what these ladies' shirts profess, it would really be more accurate to say they are "Keeping It Round." I am sad I didn't get a chance to see these gals' square dancing skills in action, because I always love me a large elephant stampede.
Ah, the innocence of girlhood! Nothing warms my heart more than seeing a young lass as refined as this. I nostalgically hearken back to my own days as a dewy-eyed maiden of ten or eleven, when I'd put on my favorite marijuana leaf-kerchief and go essential oil and dried herb shopping. Alas, if only I were a child again!
I'm calling it now: these people are from Puyallup, and came up to Seattle for this. If not from Puyallup, they are from somewhere nearby, like Graham, Spanaway, Pacific, Fife, Orting, or maybe Auburn or Kent. They're talking about how great it is to travel to the BIG CITY for this faincy outside-type party, even if Slipknot isn't playing.
And yep, she's definitely from down south. That's a meth country tramp stamp if I've ever seen one. Please believe I'll probably see this bitch at the Roadhouse one of these days.
When Robert Sylvester Kelly announced at the beginning of the song "Hotel" that "we in our throwbacks" in the hopes that the ladies would get the hint that "we got room keys," this was probably not the image he was trying to evoke.
Here's another entry into the "Most Stomach Churning Outfit" contest. I can only hope that Laura Ingalls Wilder is suggesting to Muffin Top that playing a stick with a long string on it is a great workout.
What's most frightening about the Brangelina of Folklife is that he's pushing a stroller. Apparently, they have reproduced. God help us all.
Every time a shitty improv jam band plays, a moronic skank in Rainbow Brite legwarmers gets her wings.
"I know the Weezer Tribute Band is playing on a stage around here somewhere."
"Dude, know what would be awesome? Let's skate down to Seattle Center and shop for some local salmon and/or thunderbird totem folk art."
Trust a veteran penis aficionado on this: homeskillet's ear-butt plugs are bigger than his dick. So is that American Spirit he's sucking on, for that matter.
When I was in grade school, my music teacher Mrs. Knudsen made us all play the recorder. In particular, she wrote this one shitty recorder song that went along with this Native American myth about the Whale in the Sky. Because I had played piano for five or six years at that point, I was completely unimpressed with her lame four-note interpretation of "Whale in the Sky." Even worse, she made half the class play it, and half the class sing these asinine lyrics she wrote for it, most of which consisted of repeating "WHA-ALE IN THE SKYYYYYYYY." Thanks to that incompetent recorder composer, every time I see someone playing a recorder, I immediately hear that shit in my head. It was like the Lady Gaga of grade school: something that gets in your head and despite your hatred for it, won't get out. Anyway, I saw this dude, and immediately thought, "WHA-ALE IN THE SKYYYYYYYYYYY."
And finally, TAFKAMA demonstrates how we managed to get through. He has these awesome hypercolor cups that make Vitamin R look like perfectly legal, innocuous strawberry lemonade. Said cups were very useful once my vodka ran out.
I think that from now on, when I go to a stupid event in Seattle, I'm going to bring my camera. This city is really like a horn of plenty brimming with people for me to rag on. A veritable scornucopia. Stay tuned, and if you live here, watch out.
Labels: assholes, goddamn Seattle, P-N-Dub, TAFKAMA
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
This is a threat?
You'd think that with all the important stories in today's news (new ho shooting to dethrone Ruth Bader Ginsberg as hottest bitch on the Supreme Court, prop 8 sadly stands, economic collapse, etc.), CNN could come up with a better use of their journalistic resources than THIS FUCKING STORY:
I've really had it with bitches who fall for this fucktard's antics. Ashton Kutcher is a snake oil charlatan with no talent save that of being inexplicably tolerable to stupid people. Everything about this motherfucker is despicable, and I don't know why people haven't recognized that since the late 90s or whenever "That '70s Show" was on. I basically hated him from the moment I gazed upon his guffawing, trucker hatted visage. A quick review of his CV reminds me that he came on the scene playing a dumb, lazy, unemployable stoner, then morphed into an annoying pest playing contrived pranks on people. Then he was mistaken for a celebrity anyone cares about by fucking and marrying Demi Moore. Then he became disgustingly overappreciative of his own value, made two years' worth of absolutely terrible films, and obnoxiously embraced Kabbalah. Now he's become my own personal multimedia gadfly, goading me with a deft combination of COOLPIX camera ads and self-aggrandizing pretensions that I should care about how this knuckle-dragger's Twitter habits influence his fickle relationship with his own media whorishness. Big deal: more assholes follow Ashton's Twitter feed than CNN's. He probably has more Facebook friends too. WHO CARES?! Larry King, please explain why you cluttered up your valuable primetime cable news space with this asshole's Twattery. It takes the average person about 30 seconds to not feel sorry for Ashton Kutcher being impaled upon his own proverbial e-sword. I'm losing approximately NO sleep knowing that Ashton worrying that someone might intrude upon and irritate him via the very media conduit he has used to torment the entertainment industry-consuming public for the past decade. Karma's a bitch, and so are you, Kutcher!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, internet domination, ranting, retard rage, TV
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Excuse me, but WHAT, BITCH NAMED KATE GOSSELIN?!?!?!?!
I am a glutton for punishment, and I really couldn't help myself. I went to the gossip internets and read more completely unsubstantiated, totally unreliable, and most likely false bullshit about the entirely loathsome "Jon and Kate Plus 8" family drama. It seems that there isn't much going on with real famous people, because the Gosselin parents are being thoroughly owned for their incompetence at media whorecraft. I could pretend that I'm the level of classy that stops after one glass of Franzia and takes the high road about obviously obnoxious twats, but let's be real about it: my new life goal apart from professional success and landing lots of hot ass is that THE GOSSELINS MUST BE STOPPED. I don't want to see them or hear about them and their gigantic litter of brats any longer, and I'm more than content to see the tides turn against them so severely that they are uniformly hated by the world and thus fade into the obscurity where they belong.
I'm clearly not the only one. The esteemed journalists at Us Weekly are obviously feeling me. The only thing they fail to point out is that she looked like a massive cunt even when she was just "a mom". She looks like the kind of mom who would force you to drink milk, eat raisins, and say unfamiliar Protestant prayers when you went over to hang out with her kids. This one girl I was friends with in sixth grade had a mom who did that, and she looked just like pre-monster Kate Gosselin. I bet if fleeting reality fame/infamy hadn't come her way, Kate Gosselin would have presumptuously overparented other people's children and decorated with God's eyes, framed needlepoint, and gingham-patterned geese just like Mrs. Gesch.
And due to their highly competent reportage, Us Weekly has managed to distill everything I hate about Kate Gosselin into a quick blurb, courtesy of a probably misappropriated quote from an obscure Associated Press features brief published in 2005:
Kate Gosselin said she feels society has a responsibility to help with the children, since modern medicine promotes the use of fertility drugs, which can lead to multiple births.
Kate Gosselin ought to get down on her knees and thank OctoMom's shameless social parasitism for distracting everyone from the fact that she is the true pioneer of egregious, infuriating media gaffes. However, Kate is finally getting the credit she deserves for her equally obnoxious attitude about subverting nature to achieve such a massive brood and then passing the responsibility off on the rest of us, and that's not going to translate into great "Jon and Kate Plus 8" ratings. Much like a predatory lender or American auto executive, it's a bad time to be a money hungry not-actually-that-famous reality star with eight mouths to feed and a broke-ass equally subfamous stump of a man who may or may not be banging some lesbian fifth grade teacher on the side. Probably because HOW *DARE* YOU BLAME SOCIETY FOR YOUR OWN VAIN BABY-OBSESSED CRAZY BITCH PSYCHOSIS THAT MY TAX DOLLARS SUBSIDIZE YOU FUCKING STUPID UGLY SELF-RIGHTEOUS TROLLOP-ASS CYPRESS MOSS-ESQUE-LABIA-HAVING PROSTITUTE!!!!
I would like to go around telling everyone that society has an obligation to support me because it encourages me to rule their faces off, but for reasons of not seeming like a delusional lunatic, I refrain from doing so. The vast majority of the society that supposedly encouraged Kate to take fertility drugs certainly won't embrace an annoying, shrewish, totally unendearing frigid nagfest pompously informing them that they need to pick up the tab for her own manifest selfishness. As someone who works in the field of "modern medicine" and an avowed child hater, I assuredly did not encourage Kate Gosselin or anyone else to take fertility drugs, and I strongly resent the implication that this bitch did so at my behest rather than her own arrogant desire to overbreed. And her suggestion that somehow I need to shoulder the burden of her own bad decisions makes me want to kill a bitch.
Kate's about to learn the hard way that it doesn't pay to be a mega cunt (literally and figuratively) with a detestable reproductive history and a fucking HORRIBLE Rosie O'Donnell circa 2002-meets-rabid Old Yeller's raised hackles haircut. People are going to quit that bitch and her show's going to get canceled, and she can go back to firing nannies and emasculating her husband without having a television audience to detest her. As far as I'm concerned, that joyous moment can't come soon enough. Down with the Gosselins!
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Dolla is Dead
In today's sad news, Roderick "Dolla" Burton II was shot and killed at a mall in Beverly Hills, California, probably while he was trying to either get some brain in the Hummer, mashing out in something European, smoking Steve Urkel by the ton, or generally owning the club. If you just asked, "Who the fuck is that?," well, you may remember a song named just that which was hot on "106 and Park" for two seconds last summer.
That was Dolla's song! "Who the fuck is that?" By Dolla. Who used to drop stacks at the bar on the Louis XIII but is dead now. Too bad, although I wouldn't be surprised if he was capped on account of those ratty braids he was rocking. Those are an insult to hair braiders everywhere, and certainly would not pass muster with the fine lady who creates fine braided creations with a certain Robert Sylvester Kelly's hair.
Anyway, Dolla was only 21, and that's sad. Just so you know who you're pouring liquor out for, here is who the fuck Dolla is:
RIP, Dolla. Say hi to Pimp C for me.
Labels: people who died, rap, tragedy
Jon and Kate Plus HATE
An ill wind blows. Lately, every time I go onto the internets for some celebitchery, I am confronted with the unattractive visage of Jon and/or Kate Gosselin. Even worse, I'm confronted with headlines suggesting that one or both of them has been getting freaky with their busted asses...and not with each other. Either I have to picture Jon's fugly pedophile eyes humping drunkenly on some bitch with low self-esteem who thinks he's a celebrity, or I have to picture Kate's haircut doing ANYTHING sexy, which is about as titillating as the notion of watching two rabid prairie dogs mating.
For those of you who may be unfamiliar with this fugly little pair, they are the stars of the TLC reality show "Jon and Kate Plus 8." This show is basically about these two IVF junkies who wound up churning out a set of sextuplets to go with their twins, and all the consequent grossness that ensues. I watched this show once, and in that hilarious installation all eight kids had rotavirus or some kind of nasty gastrointestinal virus. As much as I love watching eight toddlers simultaneously shitting their pants and puking everywhere, I almost immediately flipped the channel to something more classy and palatable, like "Rock of Love Bus." Hey, I'd WAY rather watch drunken strippers and porn stars fall off a pole and puke on Bret Michaels during the "White Trash Olympics" or whatever than watch 60 minutes of this:
I am never going to get into a show about two assclowns whose own outrageous vanity compelled them to bring not one or two but EIGHT bratty kids into the world. I hate kids, and watching eight of them raise hell while these two make annoying commentary (or more accurately, while Kate bitches incessantly in an obnoxious, authoritarian "I'm a MOM!" tone at Jon) is not my idea of must see TV. So while I'm laughing internally that their heavily marketed marriage is falling apart per the gossip internets, I also can't fathom for the life of me why I have to hear unpleasant tales about these two getting some strange on the side.
I can't really blame Jon for straying from his marital bed. I'd probably want to screw faux lesbian kindergarten teachers too, if I had to fight with this harpy about getting some on the regular.
The prospect of Kate's stretch marks alone should be considered a mitigating factor in Jon's adultery. And you know this bitch hasn't given him a BJ in ten years (if ever.) Instead, she uses her mouth to constantly berate and belittle him, so I can understand how a frustrated little fella like Jon might eventually get frustrated and look for a less fortified, non-industrial strength vagina to scribble on with his golf pencil. I don't blame him for making like the Ying Yang Twins and deciding that he's sick and tired of listenin' at ya naggin'. In these pictures from the past weekend, you can almost hear Kate's shrewish bossing-around.
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
The only thing I'm curious about is why anyone would want to fuck either of these tools. As discussed previously, Kate's naked torso probably looks like a leather hobo bag that got dropped on the subway tracks and run over by a speeding A train and her hair looks like the nexus of a lesbian book club and a tragic Flowbee accident. And for any dumb chick who thinks she's star fucking on Jon, should I remind her that he has EIGHT CHILDREN? That means not only will you have to put up with eight uncontrollable monsters every other weekend, but he will always be broke and trying desperately to keep up with his child support. Any self-respecting skank will not settle for Z-list fame and no fortune, especially when he's a stumpy, easily dominated pussy. In the wise words of Lil' Kim, I'll pass; the dick is trash.
The moral of this story is that kids don't guarantee a happy marriage or a happy family, so don't have eight of them. That will take an already fragile and ill-advised marriage and turn it into fucking around and miserable birthdays. In fifteen years, please believe these kids are going to go on the "Jon and Kate Plus 8 E! True Hollywood Story" to describe in graphic detail how much they loathe their reality whore parents for forcing them to publicly perpetuate their sham of a marriage. Just throw in the towel, Jon and Kate, for your kids' sake and for those of us who don't want your fertile asses cluttering up their gossip pages.
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, media whores, oh the horror, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Monday, May 18, 2009
Seattle is already pissing me off
Don't get me wrong, because I'm excited to be back in the P-N-Dub. Although there are many things I miss about New York, my time in Seattle so far has basically ruled. I have appliances that I've merely fantasized about for the last six years, and I'm very happy doing chores around my comparatively gigantic apartment and listening to my icemaker thump steadily and rapturously. I have a Costco membership, my buddies Morrissey'sHair and TAFKAMA are practically my next-door neighbors, my fridge is loaded with Vitamin R, I partied with Sig Hansen AGAIN at CatchCon, the Mariners are at least doing a little better than they were last year, and I managed to cap off a night of lame wall painting with some hot unexpected lesbian sex. Oh, AND I get to have dinner at my parents' house every weekend! As soon as I identify the location of the nearest Taco Time, life will be all sunshine, Mexi-Fries, and cunnilingus.
However, in spite of my happiness at being back in the verdant corner of the country from whence I came, aspects of Seattle that I consider less than appealing have already begun to draw my ire. I knew it was only a matter of time before this happened. When I lived in Tacoma, Seattle used to piss me off to no end. It turns out, this is still true. While I'm generally enjoying life, a few things have emerged to push my internal "KILL A BITCH" button.
1. Stupid fucking eco-asshole-themed bumper stickers. People in Seattle love to be greener than the Prius driver next door, and they aren't shy about covering their hybrid or their Subaru in stickers proclaiming this. I actually saw a Saturn hybrid (LOSER) that had a bumper sticker reading "TREEHUGGER." This was in the company of a variety of obnoxious self-righteous stickers along the lines of "Ignore the Environment...It Will Go Away," "Have You Thanked a Green Plant Today?," and "The Revolution Will Not Be Motorized." Sha. The Terminator movies have indicated that any major revolution will, in fact, be motorized, and that franchise is more credible than an asshole who puts a "< / car >'" sticker ON HIS FUCKING CAR! Buy some REI fleece instead of blowhard bumper stickers bragging about how "My Prius Accelerates Faster Than Your SUV" and shut your tempeh hole, hippie-crite. Oh, and BT-dubs. That duo of Kucinich '04 and '08 stickers on the back window of your Outback? You should be embarrassed about that.
2. SoapNet is not included in the Seattle Comcast basic digital cable package. The other day I went to watch a rerun of the greatest show in the history of television AKA "Beverly Hills, 90210" and flipped through my new digital cable until I found SoapNet. I was all excited to see Dan Rubin, hot Jewish English nerd, flirt with Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman while she whines condescendingly about the self-loathing Jew running the Alpha Omega sorority, Steve Sanders pledge the KEG house while laying the groundwork for major drama with the nefarious John Sears, David Silver experiment with meth, and Brenda fail miserably at being Jim Walsh's office bitch. Alas, my hopes were dashed when I flipped to SoapNet and discovered that I have to upgrade to a more expensive cable package to get my Bev Niner fix! The fact that I have seen every Bev Niner episode at least five times and own the DVDs is irrelevant. Bev Niner-showing channels should ALWAYS be considered "basic" and included in cable packages accordingly. I also discovered that National Geographic Channel is likewise considered semi-premium when I DVR'd an hour of a blank screen that should have showed me "Locked Up Abroad: Indonesia." I never thought I'd say anything nice about the knuckle-dragging morons who work at Time Warner Cable, but at least they have their priorities in order more than Seattle Comcast.
3. My local pizza place sells RAW pizza. Seriously. I live down the street from this place called 'Zaw, which is not only a stupid fucking name, but they sell uncooked pizza. At first I thought this was one of those places that serves actual raw pizza, but after checking out their website, I realized that it's actually a take-and-bake place. I guess that's slightly better, but it's probably the most self-inflated bake-at-home pizza place–excuse me, I mean "artisan pizza in the raw" place–I've ever seen. On their website their pizza is described as "tummy-nourishing" and "life enhancing." They add snottily, "Not all pizza comes in a grease-stained box. (Ick!)" Parenthetical Ick! is right, at least if we're talking about the asshole who actually managed to make a take-and-bake pizza menu pretentious. Parenthetical Ick! is how I feel about trying to order something called "The Arizawna" or "Formaggio the IV" when I'm drunk and hungry for some grease-stained box pizza and then having to actually cook it. (Fucking hella ICK!)
4. There is a Lady Gaga song on any given radio station at any given time. Yes, Lady Gaga annoyed me plenty in New York too, but I don't recall Hot97 playing "Just Dance" every two seconds. They may have played "Right Now" by Akon or anything by Ne-Yo every two seconds, but not Lady Gaga. Here, I discovered to my extreme chagrin that "Poker Face" was simultaneously eliciting homicidal anger from me on THREE different radio stations. Because my hot Cam'ry doesn't yet have a CD player and I can't be bothered to dig out my old cassette tapes (which consists Vanilla Ice's To The Extreme, NKOTB's entire early 90s repertoire, Out of Time by REM, the Metallica black album, and the Cocktail soundtrack, if I recall), I'm stuck with the radio. Hearing that fug disco skank belt out a casino-themed ode to her own sick game (and I do mean sick...bitch is a blight upon humanity and her face should be reclassified as a disease) does not give me a peaceful attitude about rolling to Taco Time in the Cam'. Lady Gaga sucks and yet the people of western Washington (at least those listening to KUBE 93, Movin' 92.5, or KISS 106) seem to compulsively require regular dosing with the electronically augmented wailing of this club banshee at 5 minute intervals. Please, dear God, can the backlash bred by such relentless overexposure start ruining this hooker's life already?
5. Spiders. In six years in New York City, I maybe saw five spiders. They were all small and manageable. The worst spider incident in NYC involved me discovering a daddy long-legs residing in a corner of the ceiling in my shower, and I had to ask this dude I was banging to exterminate it for me. Here, I have pleasant dreams about daddy long-legs. The spiders in the P-N-Dub are no fucking joke. This weekend I was hanging out with my friend TAFKAMA at his girlfriend's house. We left to go hit the bars, and on the way out, TAFKAMA says something like, "Check that out, Razzy." I look at where he is pointing, and see ONE OF THESE FUCKING THINGS. I freaked out and fled the scene at a sprint, babbling "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod." Once outside, TAFKAMA apologized, saying he didn't realize I was THAT arachnophobic, in spite of having heard anecdotal tales of my great spider-related freakouts for nearly 20 years. I am not pleased about the fact that there is plenty more spider action where this came from.
6. People who can't fucking drive. The greater Seattle-Tacoma region has some of the worst traffic in the country, and this isn't just because state officials have the transportation engineering skills of Paris Hilton. While it is completely asinine that people seem to believe that the solution to all of Seattle's horrible congestion problems is to extend the novelty monorail built as a tourist attraction for the 1962 World's Fair, the real problem is not just based on flawed transit planning. The real problem is all the stupid assholes who can't drive in the rain. If you live in Seattle, your ass really has no excuse AT ALL for going 35 on the freeway just because it's sprinkling. You should be used to driving in the rain since everyone drives here and it rains all the fucking time. You should not freak out and go at a snail's pace, and then stop to let an entire freeway ramp merge in front of you because you drive like a fucking pussy, oblivious to the giant line of cars slowing to a miserable halt on the freeway behind you. I'm not a super aggressive or pissed-off driver, but I also don't act like a passive dick by being "nice" and letting more than one car bust into line in front of me.
I could go on for pages, except I have to go to work. My new job is definitely not giving me a honeymoon period. I already have business cards and a full Outlook schedule! And I have a meeting this morning, which should be sufficiently dull as to allow me to organize my thoughts about the next 6+ points about what to hate in Seattle.
Labels: P-N-Dub, ranting, Razzification, retard rage
Monday, May 04, 2009
Miss me?
First off, let me apologize for being so absent the past three weeks or so. I was finishing up my thesis, defending it, and then jumping through eight zillion bureaucratic hoops you don't even want to hear about in order to get Ph.ake doctored. BUT you can all officially call me Dr. Razzy now. I even have a faincy letter from Columbia saying so. Then, as soon as I finished, I moved to Seattle. Moving cross country sucks just as much as I remember it sucking, so I didn't feel compelled to share that wonderful experience with the few Razzyphiles who haven't either deserted me in disgust or killed themselves in despair over my absence.
Anyway, first things first: I sort-of moved into my new apartment yesterday. My dad had a hilarious conversation about veganism and fake meat with the long-haired Seattle-type guy working the pizza counter at Whole Foods. This was after my dad duly impressed another Whole Foods employee and fellow "Seinfeld" fan with his Vandelay Industries t-shirt, which was declared "awesome." My dad started swaggering around the store, emboldened by his compliments from the Whole Foods guy, complaining he'd left his sunglasses at home because "when you're cool, baby, the sun always shines." Then he pondered employment at Whole Foods, because "people there have some taste, alright."
Then I did some painting and went with my buddy TAFKAMA to find my neighborhood bar. I continually marveled at how cheap everything is. A salad, nachos, a Johnnie Walker rocks, a Jim Beam with soda, and three beers came to $27. In New York that same tab would be at least $50. TAFKAMA also advised me that I live in a "hot new neighborhood." I have my doubts because he also told me this "hot neighborhood" was created by Paul Allen, but nonetheless I have yet to see someone over the age of 35 in my apartment building. This place is like a really modern, well-equipped dorm for grownups. Last night when I was showing him the rooftop deck there were about ten people getting drunk and barbecuing tofu tikka masala or something (ugh, Seattle), and among them were at least two hot guys. I mentioned this, and TAFKAMA mused, "I wonder how long it's going to be before you start doing some asshole who lives a floor or two up from you."
So I still don't have much to report, but hopefully living in the giant South Lake Union version of Melrose Place will change that soon. Already TAFKAMA declared that I look "very gangsta for Seattle," which I think bodes well for pulling in some neighborly ass at a roof deck party. I think.
In any event, cancel your suicide plans because I'm going to be back on the blog with greater frequency. So get those "your fat and old and ugly" insults ready, or alternatively dust off those requests/demands that I show off my tits, so I can ignore them both. I am back to service all your useless bullshit needs. Holla.
Labels: goddamn Seattle, P-N-Dub, Razzification
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