Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Happy 49th birthday to my firstborn!
Today I am sad because my beloved biological dog Caesar turns 49! Okay, he actually turns 7, but that's 49 in dog years. Apart from a few stray gray hairs around his sweet little muzzle, Caesar has hardly aged and is as roguishly handsome as he's always been. This is comforting to me because the thought of Caesar passing on soon (the average lifespan for German Shepherds and Rottweilers both is 10 years) to doggy heaven is one I find extraordinarily painful to contemplate. I'm getting all teary just thinking about it, and you can ask anyone who has made the mistake of mentioning Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows around me: dog mortality is a topic that I am emotionally VERY ill-equipped to handle. If I get all choked up just hearing the "Here, Yeller! Come back, Yeller! Best doggone dog in the West" song, you can imagine what happens when I consider the prospect of my own best doggone dog transcending this mortal coil. I've brought this dog from 5 pounds of fuzzy, blue-eyed, giant-pawed puppy cuteness to the 110 pounds of distinguished debonair canine that he is today, and he might as well be my fucking kid. I love this dog like a child, and I can't believe he's middle aged. Does this dog look like he's almost over-the-hill to you?
After you finish criticizing my woeful photography skills, you might see in Caesar's happy, goodfy face that he's still full of youthful spirit. Despite his advancing years, he continues to enjoy activities such as chasing sticks and squirrels, leaping joyfully around St. Nicholas Park like some kind of Alsatian-Bavarian gazelle, humping Chingy! into submission, snapping at flies, and barking out the window at the evil neighbors. He really hates those neighbors. They're always doing shady shit like walking around their apartment and adjusting their window blinds. They're up to something, and Caesar will never stop barking until he exposes them for all the nefarious existing that they do. This is Caesar's primary job, and he was up early at work even on his own birthday. He was also busy doing his secondary job, which is acting as a living pillow for his extremely hungover mommy to clutch desperately while trying to convince herself to get the fuck out of bed and go to lab.
Caesar is the best dog in the entire world, and I'm totally going to swing by a pizza place and bring him home a big slice of pepperoni (his favorite people food of all time) to celebrate. You only turn 49 in dog years once! Happy birthday, Caese!
Labels: aging, Caese Doggy Dogg, doggity style
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Daily Douchebag: dog haters
Name: ASSHOLES
DOB: whenever assholes are born
Occupation: hating on man's best friend
Hometown: wherever assholes come from
Current residence: Toronto, Canada and New York, New York
Douchebaggery: This past week, Razzyphile L&L e-mailed me to inform me of some very disturbing goings on at High Park in Toronto where she lives with her super cute French bulldog Lamont. Apparently, there is an area of the "off-leash" section currently being contested by various factions. The dog people want this to stay a dog area, while some bitch-ass environmentalist types have complained that the area is getting "trampled." The debate has grown very heated, and as a result, some sick bastard has decided to up the ante in favor of the dog haters: by leaving out bread soaked in antifreeze.
If you don't have dogs, then you may not know that antifreeze is one of the most famous dog poisons of all time next to chocolate. Supposedly antifreeze tastes sweet and dogs particularly like it, so every year there are some accidental dog deaths resulting from dogs licking antifreeze that spills from leaky radiators. However, for someone to leave out chunks of bread soaked in antifreeze in the off-leash area of Toronto's version of Central Park is nothing short of a cold-hearted attempt to murder unsuspecting pets. Already two dogs have died from eating the poisoned bread, and four are hospitalized. The detective charged with investigating has said she believes the dog assassin is motivated by the dispute.
I am always astounded at the lengths some people will go to in order to express their disdain for dogs. The other day I was at my local park in the informal "off-leash" area (translation: an area that nobody goes to where I illegally let my dogs run around), when some guy came up and said "Excuse me, lady, but there ARE leash laws." I took a look at him and realized he was just some fat motherfucker who had been sitting around the chess-playing enclosure several blocks away.
"Yeah, well, they're not bothering anyone here," I said, shrugging.
"There are CHILDREN in this park," he said. "We can't just have dogs running around when there's kids playing." I turned to look at my dogs. Caesar was sitting chewing on a stick, and Chingy! was sniffing a tree trunk/potential urine target like a wine connoisseur with a glass of vintage Cabernet. Likewise, I didn't see ANY children anywhere nearby.
"My dogs aren't bothering anyone," I reiterated slightly more defiantly. "And they are very friendly. They don't even pay attention to children."
The guy started getting pissed. "That doesn't matter! You need to leash those animals RIGHT NOW. There are children here!"
"Yeah, I get that," I said, starting to get pissed. Where does this motherfucker get off telling me that these absent children are supposed to be my concern? I HATE kids. I WISH my dogs would start harassing them rather than ignoring them in favor of sticks to chase and bushes to piss on. Furthermore, I can see in the distance that the chess area table this tubby fucker had just vacated was filled with dudes passing around a blunt. Apparently, my dogs not bothering anyone is a big threat to kids, but OPENLY SMOKING POT NEXT TO THE FUCKING PLAYGROUND is not. "Well, are you a cop? Are you going to write me a ticket?" I asked bitchily. I figured as long as he was busy getting high with his chess-playing friends, he wouldn't snitch. I figured wrong.
"I'm calling the cops, you fucking entitled white bitch!" he snarled at me, pulling out his cell phone.
I gave him a venomous eye-roll, and leashed my dogs. Not that the cops would come in a rapid manner for such a complaint, or actually get me in very much trouble, but in New York City a leash law violations isn't a ticket; it's a summons that you HAVE to go to court for. Not wanting to deal with that hassle and not wanting to ultimately pay $100 per dog, I figured I would just end our morning constitutional there. "Fine," I said in my bitchiest tone of voice. "We're leaving."
Unfortunately, even complying with his request didn't shut this fucker up. "YOU FUCKING BITCH, YOU THINK YOU OWN THE PARK?" he shouted at me. "YOU FUCKING ENTITLED PEOPLE WITH YOUR FUCKING DOGS! IT'S NOT YOUR FUCKING PARK!"
"Oh, really?" I snapped back. "I didn't realize it was actually YOUR park!"
"THERE ARE FUCKING KIDS PLAYING HERE! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE WITH YOUR FUCKING DOGS, YOU FUCKING WHITE BITCH!"
I'm not going to even attempt reasoning or shouting at someone whose argument revolves around the fact that I'm acting "entitled," I'm white, I'm a bitch, and there are allegedly children in the vicinity who can be somehow damaged by my dogs. Sure, my dogs were in violation of the leash law, but as I said, they weren't anywhere near him, his blunt-smoking chess friends, or any children. I always try to stay away from other people in the park when letting my dogs run around to be respectful of the fact that not everyone is dog-crazy, and to avoid such conflicts. Furthermore, there are a ton of people who let their dogs run around in this area, and to my knowledge no problems have occurred related to dog bites or anything of that ilk. This guy just hates dogs, so he decided to shamble halfway across the park to bark orders at me, threaten police involvement, and inexplicably bring my racial phenotype and supposed sense of entitlement to unleash my dogs in an unused green space into the matter. All I can say to a dude like that is "FUCK YOU, HATER!"
I can't understand where dog haters come from, because dogs make my life wonderful. Sure, they're a pain in the ass, but at the end of the day, my dogs are fantastic companions who bring a great deal of joy into my life and I love them dearly (even Chingy!). I can understand how someone like J-Sexy, who is a "tidy" person according to her, doesn't want to own dogs because of the problems with hair and slobber and poop-scooping that comes with the territory. Even she understands, though, how deeply dog owners bond with their pets and love them as members of their family. However, I cannot understand why anyone would go out of their way to ensure that my dogs have to stay on a leash in spite of not threatening or harassing anyone, much less resort to poisoning dogs for the crime of trampling grass in the course of exercising and playing. There is something inherently wrong with a person who hates a sweet, loving, completely innocent dog's existence so much that they would conspire to kill them with antifreeze-soaked bread (as well as any other unfortunate animals in the area, such as the raccoons that have died as collateral damage). Between the racist leash law snitch in my park and the underground dog murderer in Canada, dog hating is on the rise. I can only assume this means that the contemporary human condition is in even worse shape than I originally thought.
And on that depressing note, I'm going to go walk my dogs OFF-LEASH. Illegally. Fuck the dog haters.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Douchebag, doggity style, Razzyphiles
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
A new item on the menu at Chez Chingy!
Last weekend, barbecue season started in St. Nicholas Park on account of the lovely weather and the beginning of summer. While I love summer and I love barbecues, I do not love when these things invade my local park. Barbecues in the park mean that there is often barbecue refuse around for my dogs to consume. This is very bad, because most of the refuse is chicken bones, which dogs aren't supposed to eat. Caesar is a notorious chicken bone hound, and he's extremely sneaky about it. Sometimes he'll act like he's sniffing something like he's going to piss on it, and the next thing I know, I hear crunching and realize that he's deftly scooped up some errant bone I didn't see. Then I have to pry Caesar's giant jaws open and try to fish the bone out of this throat before he swallows it. He is a smart dog, so he continues to refine his covert bone-consuming methods and I continue to fight a losing battle against his appetite for barbecue waste.
Caesar is so bad about consuming street food that I even made up new lyrics to the song "Soul Survivor" by Akon and Young Jeezy from several summers ago. Instead of singing, "If you're looking for me you can find me on the block disobeyin' the law...a real G, thoroughbred from the streets, pants saggin' with my gun in my drawers," I would sing "If you're looking for me you find me in the park disobeyin' my mom...real Caese, thoroughbred likes to eat, tail waggin' with some bones in my jaws." Yeah, I know it's corny, but anyone who has met Caesar knows how severely obsessed he is with eating discarded people food (usually chicken or rib bones, but also he enjoys crab claws/shells, squashed french fries, and licking candy wrappers), and the song is fitting.
Anyway, just because when we go to the park during barbecue season I have to keep a close eye on Caesar, that doesn't mean Chingy!'s fat ass doesn't get in trouble concerning his scavenging tastes. Chingy! is particularly bad, because rather than just eat food waste like Caesar does, he eats things that no other creature save flies, roaches, or rats are interested in. For example, I've caught him eating indigent diarrhea, decomposing squirrel carcasses, cicadas, and garbage. Even worse, sometimes he opts to vomit what he eats, usually on my clothing, bed, or some other treasured object that it's hard to clean rancid dog puke off of. Recently, I thought that maybe Chingy!'s park eating habits were improving. I caught him eating some acorns a while back, and I actually encouraged this, since acorns seem kind of healthy, and God knows Chingy! needs to lose weight.
This morning, however, I caught him chewing something and since there weren't any oak trees where we were, I had a bad feeling that it wasn't acorns. I wandered over to Chingy! to see what he was so busy chowing down on. Someone had emptied out their barbecue on the grass, and Chingy! was eating old, half-burned charcoal briquets. I yelled at him and pulled him away by his collar, and he sneezed black bits of charcoal rudely all over my feet and ankles, then tried to return to his pile of Kingsford. "Goddammit, NO! NO, CHONGAY, NO!" I admonished him repeatedly, and he continued to plant his little paws obstinately as he struggled to turn back to the pile of charcoal. Finally I quit fucking around with dragging him by the collar and leashed him back up. When we returned home, I noticed that the entire inside of his mouth looked like a fucking coal mine.
While I suppose that discarded barbecue charcoal is better than vagrant shit in terms of what Chingy! could be eating, I imagine that it's probably not very healthy, even for a garbage disposal of a dog like him. Besides, the idea of cleaning charcoal vomit out of my couch or duvet cover is not an appealing one. Chingy!'s achievements in foul culinary indulgences continue to ensure his reign as the most revolting dog in my household for some time to come.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, fat fucks, gross, oh the horror
Friday, March 28, 2008
Doggystyle glamour shots
It's been awhile since I've reminded you all what a pair of awesome dogs I have. Okay, CAESAR is awesome, and Chingy! is more along the lines of awesomely gross, but you get the idea. Last night the dogs were being especially cute so I took a couple pictures of them as they were occupying most of my bed.
I then decided to take some individual shots, primarily because I am always insecure on Caesar's behalf. Chingy!, being a generally bad dog who constantly disobeys, stinks, engages in shockingly revolting behavior (eating homeless guy shit, stamping ass prints on my friends' white pants, crapping on my kitchen floor immediately after being taken for a walk just to be a dick, unprovokedly ejaculating on my living room floor, etc.), has made it his life's mission to destroy every last bit of personal property I own, and yet somehow has still managed to command legions of fans (seriously, I once got FAN MAIL ADDRESSED TO CHINGY!), seems to get most of the attention here on RAZZY.org. Poor Caesar, who is a generally well-behaved, useful (at least in terms of stick-chasing and barking at the neighbors he inherently harbors deep distrust towards), and devastatingly handsome dog, gets way less press on this blog by virtue of his good dog status than that asshole Chingy!, so I figured I should take some shots of Caesar being adorable so he could claim his share of the love. Lord knows Caesar is more deserving, and last night he was giving some good dog face:
Because I am secretly a softhearted wimp (don't tell anyone, I don't want my reputation as a batshit crazy skank bitch ruined), I told Chingy! that I'd take a picture of him too. He was being a diva, though, and decided that as long as I'm going to call him an asshole, he would oblige by living up to the title:
If giving the camera a glimpse of his Eye of Sauron (a great eye, lidless, wreathed in flame) doesn't define class and elegance, I don't know what does.
CHONGAY CHONG, Caesar pictures!
[RAZZY Update: As if he knows I'm writing shit about him, Chingy! just came up, sneezed on me, and try to lay down on my MacBook keyboard. Fucking asshole!]
Labels: assholes, Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross
Monday, January 28, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Sergio Cool Jew-Bagel
DOB: November 2007
Occupation: being sickeningly cute
Hometown: Covington, Louisiana
Current residence: casa de Cool Jew-Bagel, New Orleans, Louisiana
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I'm not so sick and depraved as to be into bestiality--especially not with puppies--so I don't really want to hit Sergio, but I simply had to weigh in on how FUCKING OBSCENELY, RIDICULOUSLY CUTE LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's new puppy is. I got a call from LL Cool Jew to check my e-mail a while back, and found this letter:
Hi,
My name is Sergio, and I am the newest member of the Cool Jew-Bagel family. I weigh about 2 pounds and like my new big sister, I am a long-hair chihuahua. I am about 9 weeks old and was born in Covington, La.
Here are some pictures of me.
In the first one, I am showing my ability to mug for the camera, or at the very least be really freaked out by that giant human shoving it in my face and making funny noises.
In the second photo, my new sister is showing how excited she is to meet me.
In the third photo, I take my first bath. It sucked.
In the final photo, there I am with the scary but warm lady who keeps making coo-ing noises.
Anyway, nice to meet you! I hope you make it to New Orleans soon to see me in person.Sergio is a hot, fluffy little piece. If my apartment weren't already overrun with dogs, I'd want one of those little 2-pound feather dusters for my very own. For one thing, it would be nice to have a small dog that is actually small (versus one that weighs in at a monstrous THIRTY pounds like Chingy! the Hutt, who is presently putting my feet to sleep and snoring loud enough to sound like a fucking wood chipper...CHONGAY CHONG, Sergio!). For another, I'm just a sucker for cute puppies. I can't wait until Sergio gets to meet his Auntie Razzy. Looks like a trip to New Orleans is in my near future.
-Sergio
Labels: BigBagel, Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, doggity style, LL Cool Jew, the D
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Rug burned
Last night I checked my mail and received one of the weirdest pieces of junk mail I've ever gotten. I was about to throw away the envelope covered with what I assumed were interest rates and temporary favorable terms for some credit card that would be my utter fiscal destruction, until I looked a little closer.
The front read:
The letter inside explained more:
They may look like reject extras from a vintage Breck shampoo ad, but they put great stock in the prayer rug method of wealth acquisition. And speaking of the prayer rug, I finally found it. Apparently over at St. Matthew's, a piece of paper constitutes a "rug."
Unfortunately, no matter how long I stared, I couldn't make Jesus open his eyes. I attribute this to either the fact that my prayer rug is broken, or my complete inability to solve Magic Eye puzzles. It has to be that, because there's no way Jesus wouldn't open his eyes for me. If he could, he'd probably be winking at me. You know JC picked up some game hanging with all those hookers back in the day.
Anyway, since I still had my doubts about the efficacy of the prayer rug. I decided to do a little experiment. Although St. Matt's prides itself on its 57-year history, my faith is considerably older. In fact, my religion has approximately 1950 years on St. Matthew's Churches. Since I've been praying the Catholic way my whole life and have yet to be on my knees in a church full of material blessings, I figure this can serve as a negative control for religious devotion that breeds copious overnight wealth. Being Catholic hasn't gotten me a lot besides the ability to metabolize unholy amounts of alcohol and solid blow job techniques. Let's see if St. Matt's can do better. Time for the power of the prayer rug versus the power of the Holy See!
First, I said a full decade of Hail Marys using my trusty rosary. I would have said the whole rosary, but I was watching TV and I can't remember the damn Apostle's Creed. I suppose I could have looked it up, but let's face it: ten Hail Marys might as well be fifty plus some extra Our Fathers and Glory Bes. And nothing happened, anyway. For example, a slutty team of lipstick lesbian models and professional football players didn't show up with a check for a million dollars after rocking the beads off my rosary with the devout piety of my prayer.
Next, I decided to do this prayer rug meditation routine. I elected to kneel on it, which is a position that comes naturally for me. In fact, I decided to get really comfortable to ensure maximal transduction of energy between my prayer rug, St. Matt's church, and God. I figured that my assuming what is a relaxed and secure position for myself could only help my energy beam reach as far as Oklahoma. And heaven.
Unfortunately, after holding this pose for a few minutes, the only blessing I felt I had received was that my Heineken was still cold. I asked God to pretty much hook me up with lots of money, ice, and a fleet of whips to show-stop around town in, and wrapped it up. I got up to stretch, and was just about to dig my Bible from its burial site beneath books about seamen, infectious disease, serial killers, and classic mythology to put the prayer rug in. Upon my vacating the prayer rug, a new tenant moved promptly in:
Either Caesar has some blessings to request from upper management, or a major souce of variability has been introduced into my impeccably designed scientific experiment. The letter didn't say anything about whether or not it was okay for one's big, goofy dog to get in on the praying action. It's probably not. After all, "God sees."
Since Caesar decided to meddle with my comparative study of Catholic praying versus St. Matthew's Churches praying, it was basically irretrievably fucked, so I tossed aside the prayer rug and went back to beer drinking and TV-watching. I totally don't have a stamp to mail back the prayer rug or the money to sow a seed at St. Matthew's, but oh well. Hopefully God will find it in his heart to forgive me and hit me with a blast of holy blessing power (ie: a check with lots of zeroes).
Besides, I don't feel all THAT bad about not seeing the prayer rug method through to its completion and reaping the benefits. I'm not sure that 46 grand would have appeared out of thin air even if I had bothered to tuck my prayer rug into my New Testament. I decided to crack open the secret prophecy that I wasn't supposed to look at until the prayer rug was safely on its way back to Tulsa. In spite of the fact that lengthwise it was a damn novel, there were precious few predictions about my future in it. Basically, the only one I could see was "As you remain faithful in your seed sowing into my kingdom, surely you shall be blessed." In other words, I'll be blessed in a to-be-determined way after I hook St. Matt's up with some cold, hard cash. Obviously, that prophecy is WAY off.
I think I'll just stick to munching rugs rather than praying on them. That's more fun, anyway.
The front read:
YOUR HOME FIRST!Loans? Like there's a check inside? Like some church has decided to randomly loan me money? That seems legitimate. I was intrigued. I flipped over the envelope and read the back:
Sunday--January 2008
This very old church loans this to you, to bless someone connected with this home. Then, it must go to another family that desires God's blessings. See letter inside...
Dear Jesus,Hmmm...what is this "Saint Matthew's Churches" of Tulsa, Oklahoma? And why have they singled me out for the benefit of their prayer? I like the sound of this imminent financial blessing I'm about to receive. Plus, the liberal use of boldfacing certainly implies excitement. I better open this letter so that I get "the desires of my heart."
We pray that you will bless someone in this home spiritually, physically, & financially. And please dear Lord, bless the one who's hands open this letter. Make good changes in this one's life and give them the desires of their heart. We pray over and bless this letter in your Holy Name. Amen.
The letter inside explained more:
LET THIS BE THE BEST YEAR OF YOUR LIFE THROUGH FAITH AND PRAYER.GOD IS READY TO HELP YOU REACH YOUR DREAMS AND GOALS.
Dear...Someone Connected with This Address,Okay, I'll do that. If God is suddenly in the loan sharking-by-mail business, I'm curious to know more about his deal brokers at St. Matt's. And I am Someone Connected with This Address, in that I live here. I'll read on.
READ WHAT GOD IS DOING HERE AT SAINT MATTHEW'S CHURCH.
People just like you are writing to this 57-year-old church, telling us of all types of blessings since this church started praying with them. They are receiving divine help in the form of answered prayer. Some are seeing loved ones saved, and many of them are receiving spiritual, physical, and financial blessings of all types (III John 2, Philippians 4:19)--better jobs, raises in salaries, being able to buy and sell homes, buying new cars, and so on. Actually, these dear people are receiving so many blessings that it is impossible to mention them all in a letter. Read the enclosed brochure on how a Sister used the same type of Bible faith prayer rug that we are sending to you with this letter, and how she was blessed with $46,000.00! Now, we must talk to you about something we see, in the Holy Spirit, concerning you and your family's needs.FORTY SIX GRAND?! From God? Holy shit. Talk to me, St. Matt's.
GOD'S HOLY BLESSING POWER IS IN THE ENCLOSED ANOINTED PRAYER RUG OF FAITH WE ARE LOANING YOU TO USE!!!Jeez, this sounds really urgent...and confusing. Where is this rug they mentioned? And how does it work? I'm a little skeptical, since God hasn't seen fit to bless them with knowledge of how to properly place a comma. I also don't like the fact that I was just returning to my tenement for a relaxing evening with my good friend, Television, and now I'm all of a sudden on a TV-free, rigid 24 hour agenda involving God and some kind of special carpet. This better be worth it. I mean, I want something very wonderful to come to me, but the prospect of my harnessing "God's holy blessing power" with this fabled prayer rug is raising some red flags over in the Razzy Bullshit Detection Department.
WE MUST GIVE YOU THIS OPPORTUNITY FIRST...THEN IT MUST GO TO THE HOME OF ANOTHER DEAR FRIEND WHO NEEDS A BLESSING...You, or someone connected with this address, and another dear family are about to be blessed through this unusual, Bible Faith, Church, Prayer Rug, which we are placing in your care for these next 24 important hours. Because of any needs you are facing, we want you to use this Church Prayer Rug first, then we must pass it on to another dear friend of ours who also needs a blessing. As we pray for you and everyone connected with this address, WE FEEL THAT SOMETHING VERY WONDERFUL IS TRYING TO COME TO YOU.
When you use this Biblical Faith Church Prayer Rug, go into a room where you can be alone (just God and you). Turn off the television and radio and try to be by yourself when you kneel on this Holy Ghost, Bible Prayer Rug, or spread it over your knees. We want this Church Ministry, Prayer Rug to be touching both of your knees as you pray for the needs you are facing right now. It is going to be like you are kneeling before God All Mighty at the altar inside a great church of blessings. If you need more joy, peace, health, money, a new car, a new house, healing in family communication, or whatever, we as a very old (57 years) church, want to know about it. Check your prayer needs on page two of this letter. Talk to us. This power you and this church ministry are about to use works! (St. Matthew 18:19)Kneeling before "God All Mighty" in a church full of blessings sounds to me like a good night in a bar bathroom. If that is all it takes to get joy, peace, health, money, a new car, a new house, healing in family communication and whatever, I'm suddenly newly confident in my ability to put this Holy Ghost, Bible Prayer Rug to good use.
These next 24 important hours are crucial to you. Timing is important to God. After you kneel on this Church Prayer Rug, or place it over your knees, place it in a Bible, on Philippians 4:19. (If you don't have a Bible, it's okay--just slide it under your side of the bed, for tonight, if you can. If you can't do this, it is okay.) Leave It There No Longer Than Tonight Only! God sees. Then, in the morning it is a must that you get this unusual blessing Church Prayer Rug out of this house and back to us, here at the church's chapel prayer room, in faith. We must also have this letter back, with whatever you need prayer for, printed on page two. You must get this Bible Prayer Rug back to us so we can rush it onto another family that's in need of a blessing. Do this without fail. Please, do not break this flow of power between us.Okay, okay...this is complicated, but whatever. I actually even have a Bible.
Notice the face of Jesus on this Church Prayer Rug. When you first look, you will notice that His eyes are closed. If you relax and continue looking straight into His eyes, you will see His eyes slowly opening, and He will begin looking back at you. Jesus sees your needs (Philippians 4:19). Use this unusual, important, Church Prayer Rug for tonight only.Whoa, an interactive Jesus is on the prayer rug. That sounds trippy. How did they fit a prayer rug into a damn envelope? Hopefully this informative missive will inform me of that next.
Let us ask you: Would you like to have God's blessings upon your home, your family and your finances? Say, "Yes, Lord Jesus, I do need Your financial blessings upon me and my family's finances (Deuteronomy 28:6). Just put a mark by your needs below, telling us that you want prayer. Also, check any other needs you are facing. Pray about sowing a seed gift to the Lord's work. Give God your best seed and believe Him for His best blessing (St. Luke 6:38).Uh oh, this sounds like the catch in this whole deal. "Sowing a seed gift" actually means "open your wallet to the Lord," and that I don't do. Okay, I put a few ducats in the collection box at Mass, but that's about it. I don't just write checks to the church. If this whole "financial blessing" is conditional upon my monetary investment, then fuck a prayer rug!
Dear Jesus, help this one get their best seed to sow towards their coming harvest (Galatians 6:7). We pray in Thy Name. Amen.
Now, go and use this Church, Faith, Prayer Rug. The Lord is watching and waiting, by faith. You are about to enter the Holy Spirit of God right here in your home, through this faith exercise. Then, it is a must that you return it for another to use.Oooo! Secret prophecy?! Well, now I'm definitely going to do this prayer rug business and follow my faith, Holy Ghost instructions, if only to get the equivalent of a Jesus freak fortune cookie. I checked out the testimonials and I have to admit that they sound pretty convincing, at least if you're willing to assume these people from the 1970s are credible witnesses:
Friends of Jesus for 57 Years of Glorious Service!
Saint Matthew's Churches Bishops
P.S. Read your faith, Holy Ghost instructions on the enclosed, sealed prophecy, only after you have mailed this Prayer Rug back to the church.
They may look like reject extras from a vintage Breck shampoo ad, but they put great stock in the prayer rug method of wealth acquisition. And speaking of the prayer rug, I finally found it. Apparently over at St. Matthew's, a piece of paper constitutes a "rug."
Unfortunately, no matter how long I stared, I couldn't make Jesus open his eyes. I attribute this to either the fact that my prayer rug is broken, or my complete inability to solve Magic Eye puzzles. It has to be that, because there's no way Jesus wouldn't open his eyes for me. If he could, he'd probably be winking at me. You know JC picked up some game hanging with all those hookers back in the day.
Anyway, since I still had my doubts about the efficacy of the prayer rug. I decided to do a little experiment. Although St. Matt's prides itself on its 57-year history, my faith is considerably older. In fact, my religion has approximately 1950 years on St. Matthew's Churches. Since I've been praying the Catholic way my whole life and have yet to be on my knees in a church full of material blessings, I figure this can serve as a negative control for religious devotion that breeds copious overnight wealth. Being Catholic hasn't gotten me a lot besides the ability to metabolize unholy amounts of alcohol and solid blow job techniques. Let's see if St. Matt's can do better. Time for the power of the prayer rug versus the power of the Holy See!
First, I said a full decade of Hail Marys using my trusty rosary. I would have said the whole rosary, but I was watching TV and I can't remember the damn Apostle's Creed. I suppose I could have looked it up, but let's face it: ten Hail Marys might as well be fifty plus some extra Our Fathers and Glory Bes. And nothing happened, anyway. For example, a slutty team of lipstick lesbian models and professional football players didn't show up with a check for a million dollars after rocking the beads off my rosary with the devout piety of my prayer.
Next, I decided to do this prayer rug meditation routine. I elected to kneel on it, which is a position that comes naturally for me. In fact, I decided to get really comfortable to ensure maximal transduction of energy between my prayer rug, St. Matt's church, and God. I figured that my assuming what is a relaxed and secure position for myself could only help my energy beam reach as far as Oklahoma. And heaven.
Unfortunately, after holding this pose for a few minutes, the only blessing I felt I had received was that my Heineken was still cold. I asked God to pretty much hook me up with lots of money, ice, and a fleet of whips to show-stop around town in, and wrapped it up. I got up to stretch, and was just about to dig my Bible from its burial site beneath books about seamen, infectious disease, serial killers, and classic mythology to put the prayer rug in. Upon my vacating the prayer rug, a new tenant moved promptly in:
Either Caesar has some blessings to request from upper management, or a major souce of variability has been introduced into my impeccably designed scientific experiment. The letter didn't say anything about whether or not it was okay for one's big, goofy dog to get in on the praying action. It's probably not. After all, "God sees."
Since Caesar decided to meddle with my comparative study of Catholic praying versus St. Matthew's Churches praying, it was basically irretrievably fucked, so I tossed aside the prayer rug and went back to beer drinking and TV-watching. I totally don't have a stamp to mail back the prayer rug or the money to sow a seed at St. Matthew's, but oh well. Hopefully God will find it in his heart to forgive me and hit me with a blast of holy blessing power (ie: a check with lots of zeroes).
Besides, I don't feel all THAT bad about not seeing the prayer rug method through to its completion and reaping the benefits. I'm not sure that 46 grand would have appeared out of thin air even if I had bothered to tuck my prayer rug into my New Testament. I decided to crack open the secret prophecy that I wasn't supposed to look at until the prayer rug was safely on its way back to Tulsa. In spite of the fact that lengthwise it was a damn novel, there were precious few predictions about my future in it. Basically, the only one I could see was "As you remain faithful in your seed sowing into my kingdom, surely you shall be blessed." In other words, I'll be blessed in a to-be-determined way after I hook St. Matt's up with some cold, hard cash. Obviously, that prophecy is WAY off.
I think I'll just stick to munching rugs rather than praying on them. That's more fun, anyway.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, Catholicism, correspondence, Dear God, intentional buffoonery, Razzification
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Giving thanks
Okay, Razzyphiles, I'm sorry to say that I'm going to be all quiet on the blog front the next day or so on account of the holiday weekend. I'm sure you'll all be with your families stuffing your faces with turkey and whatnot, so it's not like you'll care, but I just thought I'd let you know. I mean, there's foreigners who read my site who are presumably spending this American holiday laughing at how there's going to be even more morbidly obese Yanks come Friday thanks to our annual tradition of unabashed gluttony. So sorry to all those who enjoy my useless bullshit from abroad; you'll just have to live without any awesome Razzification for a couple days this week so I can get my fat girl on along with my fellow freedom-loving patriots here in the Estados Unidos.
In case anyone is wondering, though, this is what my weird little family is thankful for this holiday:
Caesar thanks the many squirrels and sticks in St. Nicholas Park that have provided him with ample chasing substrates for the past two years:
"Hey, thanks, you guys, I really like chasing stuff, it's like my favorite thing ever!"
Chingy! thanks nobody, because he feels entitled to everything:
"CHONGAY CHONG! **SNOOOOOOOOOOORE**"
And I thank all you awesome Razzyphiles for making my website traffic what it is today:
So here's some Thanksgiving tits to say gracias!
You guys all rock! Happy Thanksgiving! Travel safe and don't overeat (too much).
In case anyone is wondering, though, this is what my weird little family is thankful for this holiday:
Caesar thanks the many squirrels and sticks in St. Nicholas Park that have provided him with ample chasing substrates for the past two years:
Chingy! thanks nobody, because he feels entitled to everything:
And I thank all you awesome Razzyphiles for making my website traffic what it is today:
So here's some Thanksgiving tits to say gracias!
You guys all rock! Happy Thanksgiving! Travel safe and don't overeat (too much).
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, internet domination, nudity, Razzification, Razzyphiles
Monday, November 05, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my dogs
Name: Caesar and Chingy! Rasmussen
DOB: see below
Occupation: see below
Hometown: see below
Current residence: see below
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Okay, so I don't want to have sex with either of my dogs--who are both NEUTERED anyway--but as soon as I published today's Daily Douchebag busting on them, both of the monsters started acting extra sweet. Caesar came over and laid down at my feet, then looked up at me very sweetly with his milk chocolate eyes. Chingy!, meanwhile, came over and rubbed his face against my leg. While this was either a gesture of affection or an attempt to wipe his eye booger on my pants, I'm not sure, but I was touched enough to feel bad about calling my two most loyal Razzyphiles "Douchebags." So now I'm calling them my Daily Dudes I Want to Hit, and everything breaks even. It's like in football; the penalties offset.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, doggity style
Daily Douchebag: my dogs
DOB: October 8, 2001 and June 10, 2002, respectively
Occupation: sleeping, disrupting my sleep, eating, barking, stinking, shitting, pissing on things, eating garbage off the street, chasing sticks and squirrels, wagging tails/question marks, panting, dogging it up
Hometown: Tacoma, Washington and Howard Beach, Queens, New York, respectively
Current residence: Sugar Hill, Harlem, New York, New York
Douchebaggery: In one of his greatest masterpieces, Robert Sylvester Kelly once described how on a typical night, he "walk up out the club with a dizzy head, I got two chicks both got dizzy legs, I'm bout to double up." If you replace "walk up out the club" with "climb into bed" and "two chicks" with "two stank, disruptive canines," then you have a relatively accurate account of my typical evening's efforts at retiring. Of course I love my dogs something serious, and to the point where it may just be unhealthy. However, just because I love them and they are cute dogs doesn't mean they make it easy for me to sleep. This morning, my alarm went off and, because I was a little hung over from watching football all day yesterday, I hit snooze. The dogs, who were flanking me on the bed, decided, however that they were ready to get up. Well, not get up, but readjust themselves to establish a more comfortable position on my bed.
Caesar started wagging his tail, and since his ass was facing me and his tail might as well be another limb, it was like having a large, brushy windshield wiper going back and forth on my face. Meanwhile, Chingy! did some of his usual recalcitrant sneezing on the other side of my face, then stepped on my right tit before deciding that he was too lazy to actually climb over me to Caesar's side. So he stepped on my tit again before curling up again on my side, yawning at me and treating me to a gust of Pug morning breath (which is slightly worse than Pug any-other-time-of-the-day breath). As my buddy Rack noted yesterday, "Bless his rancid little heart." Then Caesar heard one of my neighbors locking their apartment door outside in the hall, and decided to start barking furiously to advise me that as usual, he suspects that my neighbors are up to no good. At this point, I abandoned all hope of snoozing for another blissful nine minutes and hauled my sorry ass out of bed.
Like I said, I love my dogs, but sometimes when they double up with doggity shenanigans like those described above, I am like, "You assholes are lucky I don't sell your stank asses to Cruella DeVille for use as dogskin coat raw material." When R. Kelly talks about "doubling up," he means having threesomes with a pair of drunk cousins with enviable foot massage and hair braiding skills. For me, it means being rudely awoken by two goofy, furry, stinky quadripeds. Doubling up for me is like routine, player.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Douchebag, doggity style, Razzification, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Monday, October 08, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit DOG OF AWESOMENESS: Caesar
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
DOB: October 8, 2001
Occupation: squirrel chaser, people herder, accomplished barker, boy lover, pizza aficionado, bone and edible garbage scavenger, stick fetching devotee
Hometown: Tacoma, Washington
Current residence: Sugar Hill, Harlem, New York, New York
Why He's The Best Dog In the World: Caesar is a smart, roguishly handsome, helpful, sweet, generally great dog, and today is his birthday! I can't believe my sweet little (giant) doggers is six! Caesar is 42 in dog years, so right about now is the time when he should start fucking his secretary and buying sportscars. I actually wonder if he isn't having a little bit of a midlife crisis. This morning I was trying to get him to pose for handsome birthday pictures, and he was being a real diva about it. Every time I'd go, "Caese!" in my excited-dog voice designed to inspire him to jump up and start investigating everything with his monstrous tail wagging incessantly, he'd groan, make some doggy noises that I took to mean, "Leave me alone, I'm trying to sleep here", and go back to sleep with a big, exasperated sigh. I think he's starting to get paranoid about his age.
No matter how many times I tell him he looks great and he still has the attitude and energy of a puppy, he's still giving lots of grouchy dog face about his old age. So if you see him at the park today, throw a stick for him and tell him that he looks fantastic for a six-year-old, because he does.
Labels: aging, Caese Doggy Dogg, Daily Dude I Want to Hit
Thursday, August 30, 2007
My last will and testament
Yesterday, this was on the cover of the finest news publication in the history of print journalism:
Yes, Leona Helmsley left $12 million to her beloved Maltese, Trouble. Trouble helped Leona sell rooms at the Helmsley Hotel by appearing with her in ads extolling Leona's hospitality and dedication to customer service (and that must mean Trouble is damn near as old as Leona when she bit the big one), as well as living up to his name and his mistress's reputation by biting members of the Helmsley housekeeping staff.
In response to this story, Razzyphile El Cyd wanted to know what exactly what I would leave to my treasured mutts. I was just thinking about this because the other night, I had a dream that Chingy! went on tour with Lil' Boosie, and then when I tried to rescue him from the "tour bus" (in the dream it was a cinder block-worthy RV), he got run over and died. I was holding his squashed little Hutt body, looking into those freshly lifeless turbid little eyes, and woke up in tears. Luckily, it was just a dream and Chingy! was snoring away contentedly in his usual spot on my extra pillows, but it did remind me that in spite of all the bitching I do about him, I would be devastated if Chingy! passed on. Obviously if I were to croak, I'd want to ensure that my dogs could, like Trouble, continue living their lavish lives of luxury, so I figured I'd respond to El Cyd's request. Besides, it seems very responsible to have my affairs in order should I meet my untimely demise (you never know...between my haters, stalkers, drug-dealing neighbors, embittered former sex partners, alcoholism, smoking, and dangerous New Yorker habit of jaywalking whenever possible, it could happen).
Unfortunately, unlike Leona, I don't have a lot of spare millions laying around to bequeath to my pets. However, I do have a number of priceless items which my dogs would likely treasure. And by "treasure," I mean "find deliciously chewable." So, without further ado, allow me to order the affairs of my estate:
I, Razzy, a resident of New York, New York, being of sound and disposing mind and memory and over the age of eighteen (18) years or a member of the armed forces of the United States or a member of an auxiliary of the armed forces of the United States or a member of the maritime service of the United States, and not being actuated by any duress, menace, fraud, mistake, or undue influence, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will, hereby expressly revoking all Wills and Codicils previously made by me.
I. MARRIAGE AND CHILDREN
I am not married (thank God). I am a single parent and have the following children:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Date of Birth: October 8, 2001
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Date of Birth: June 3, 2003
II. EXECUTOR: Owing to her exceptional bond with my d-o-double g's, I appoint LL Cool Jew as Executor of this my Last Will and Testament and provide if this Executor is unable or unwilling to serve then I appoint MillerTime as alternate Executor, as she'll know what to do with all my old sex toys. My Executor shall be authorized to carry out all provisions of this Will and pay my just debts, obligations and funeral expenses.
III. GUARDIAN: In the event I shall die as the sole parent of minor children, then I appoint LL Cool Jew as Guardian of said minor children. If this named Guardian is unable or unwilling to serve, then I appoint Miss Corbutt as alternate Guardian for Caesar, and KatieScarlett as alternate Guardian for Chingy!
IV. SIMULTANEOUS DEATH OF BENEFICIARY: If any beneficiary of this Will, including any beneficiary of any trust established by this Will, shall die within 30 days of my death or prior to the distribution of my estate, I hereby declare that I shall be deemed to have survived such person.
V. BEQUESTS:
I will, give, and bequeath unto the dogs named below, if he or she survives me, the Property described below:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Relationship: biological dog
Property: all old Heineken bottle caps littering my desk and floor for the purposes of mastication and amusement, any and all Kongs which may be found under my bed, my comforter for frustrated or enthusiastic humping purposes, any and all partially consumed bones, rawhides, pig ears, or other animal skin-based dog treats which may surface in the course of the Augean stables-caliber cleanup of my apartment, all leftover Beneful, all the cheese and/or pepperoni and/or in my refrigerator, and all the flies that migrate in through my unscreened windows, which provide Caesar great joy as snapping-at targets.
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Relationship: adopted dog
Property: any and all dirty socks and/or underwear for licking and chewing, any and all remote controls, vibrators, houseplants, household electronics and appliances, CDs, DVDs (including both mainstream and pornographic films), cosmetics, computer and accessories (including flash drive, external DVR, and shitty-ass non-functional HP printer/copier/scanner) asthma inhalers, lighters, feminine hygiene products, Palmer's Cocoa Butter dispensers, stiletto heeled shoes, treasured heirloom crucifixes, wicker baskets shaped like Washington state, Glade plug-ins, digital cameras, or other priceless material for purposes of methodical destruction by snaggle-teeth or grotesquely abbreviated paws, the contents of my kitchen and bathroom garbage cans, and all the knick-knacks on my tchotchky shelf, particularly my Harry Potter replica wand, my Catholic priest Homie doll, and my statue of Kali, Hindu Goddess of Destruction.
Name: Dulcinea Cool Jew-Bagel
Address: New Orleans, Louisiana
Relationship: honorary god-Chihuahua
Property: my great-grandmother's hand-tied rag rug, her preferred indoor shitting spot.
Name: Kylee Razzy
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: niece
Property: all clean socks, for carrying around the house as suits her
Name: Stretch Fitz-MillerTime
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: step-dog
Property: my book of IQ tests, in the hopes that he may overcome his developmental disabilities and reach an acceptable level of cognition; my Seahawks 2005 NFC Championship blanket, in hopes that he will have a soft place to recover from head injuries sustained by running into walls
Name: Ilse Fitz-Neo
Address: New York, New York
Relationship: dogsittee
Property: nothing, for reasons that are known to her...okay, fine, it's because she's spoiled enough already and she already has acquired one of Caesar's rope chew toys
VI. ALL REMAINING PROPERTY; RESIDUARY CLAUSE: I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my parents Raz-Ma-Taz and Chicken, provided that my parents survives me. If my parents do not survive me, then I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my children per share, but if any child predeceases me, then his or her share will pass, per share, to his or her lineal descendants, natural or adopted, if any, who survive me; but if there are none, and there won't be, because they are neutered, then his or her share will lapse and pass equally as part of the shares of my other named children; but if none of my named children survives me or leaves a lineal descendant who survives me, then according to the order of intestate succession in the State of New York.
VII. ADDITIONAL POWERS OF THE EXECUTOR: My Executor shall have the following additional powers with respect to my estate, to be exercised from time to time at my Executor's discretion without further license or order of any court:
To take over my blog. No offense to my other contributors, but LL Cool Jew, you're the closest thing to me and I know you'll make sure the useless bullshit stays fresh and as free of grammatical and spelling errors as possible.
VIII. WAIVER OF BOND, INVENTORY, ACCOUNTING, REPORTING AND APPROVAL: My Executor and alternate Executor shall serve without any bond, and I hereby waive the necessity of preparing or filing any inventory, accounting, appraisal, reporting, approvals or final appraisement of my estate. I direct that no expert appraisal be made of my estate unless required by law.
IX. OPTIONAL PROVISIONS: I have placed my initials next to the provisions below that I adopt as part of this Will. Any unmarked provision is not adopted by me and is not a part of this Will.
If any beneficiary to this Will is indebted to me at the time of my death, and the beneficiary evidences this debt by a valid Promissory Note payable to me, then such person's portion of my estate shall be diminished by the amount of such debt. ALR
Any and all debts of my estate shall first be paid from my residuary estate. Any debts on any real property bequeathed in this Will shall be assumed by the person to receive such real property and not paid by my Executor. ALR
I direct that my remains be cremated and that the ashes be manufactured into a fly-ass Lifegem to be mounted in a hot platinum setting according to the wishes of my Executor, who shall proceed to show-stop in the rocks on her wrist like pink lemonade made from my residual carbon. ALR
X. CONSTRUCTION: The term "testator" as used in this Will is deemed to include me as Testator or Testatrix. The pronouns used in this Will shall include, where appropriate, either gender or both, singular and plural.
XI. SEVERABILITY AND SURVIVAL: If any part of this Will is declared invalid, illegal, or inoperative for any reason, it is my intent that the remaining parts shall be effective and fully operative, and that any Court so interpreting this Will and any provision in it construe in favor of survival.
IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I, Razzy, hereby set my hand to this last Will, on each page of which I have placed my initials, on this 30th day of August, 2007 at my apartment in Sugar Hill, New York, State of New York.
That ought to do it. I'm glad I've now got that grown-up chore out of the way. Suze Orman, bless her lesbish, financially responsible heart, would be so proud of me. Now, if I can only figure out how to manage my investment portfolio (read: the Almond Roca can of change on my dresser), I'll have all my shit together.
In response to this story, Razzyphile El Cyd wanted to know what exactly what I would leave to my treasured mutts. I was just thinking about this because the other night, I had a dream that Chingy! went on tour with Lil' Boosie, and then when I tried to rescue him from the "tour bus" (in the dream it was a cinder block-worthy RV), he got run over and died. I was holding his squashed little Hutt body, looking into those freshly lifeless turbid little eyes, and woke up in tears. Luckily, it was just a dream and Chingy! was snoring away contentedly in his usual spot on my extra pillows, but it did remind me that in spite of all the bitching I do about him, I would be devastated if Chingy! passed on. Obviously if I were to croak, I'd want to ensure that my dogs could, like Trouble, continue living their lavish lives of luxury, so I figured I'd respond to El Cyd's request. Besides, it seems very responsible to have my affairs in order should I meet my untimely demise (you never know...between my haters, stalkers, drug-dealing neighbors, embittered former sex partners, alcoholism, smoking, and dangerous New Yorker habit of jaywalking whenever possible, it could happen).
Unfortunately, unlike Leona, I don't have a lot of spare millions laying around to bequeath to my pets. However, I do have a number of priceless items which my dogs would likely treasure. And by "treasure," I mean "find deliciously chewable." So, without further ado, allow me to order the affairs of my estate:
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF
RAZZY
RAZZY
I, Razzy, a resident of New York, New York, being of sound and disposing mind and memory and over the age of eighteen (18) years or a member of the armed forces of the United States or a member of an auxiliary of the armed forces of the United States or a member of the maritime service of the United States, and not being actuated by any duress, menace, fraud, mistake, or undue influence, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will, hereby expressly revoking all Wills and Codicils previously made by me.
I. MARRIAGE AND CHILDREN
I am not married (thank God). I am a single parent and have the following children:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Date of Birth: October 8, 2001
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Date of Birth: June 3, 2003
II. EXECUTOR: Owing to her exceptional bond with my d-o-double g's, I appoint LL Cool Jew as Executor of this my Last Will and Testament and provide if this Executor is unable or unwilling to serve then I appoint MillerTime as alternate Executor, as she'll know what to do with all my old sex toys. My Executor shall be authorized to carry out all provisions of this Will and pay my just debts, obligations and funeral expenses.
III. GUARDIAN: In the event I shall die as the sole parent of minor children, then I appoint LL Cool Jew as Guardian of said minor children. If this named Guardian is unable or unwilling to serve, then I appoint Miss Corbutt as alternate Guardian for Caesar, and KatieScarlett as alternate Guardian for Chingy!
IV. SIMULTANEOUS DEATH OF BENEFICIARY: If any beneficiary of this Will, including any beneficiary of any trust established by this Will, shall die within 30 days of my death or prior to the distribution of my estate, I hereby declare that I shall be deemed to have survived such person.
V. BEQUESTS:
I will, give, and bequeath unto the dogs named below, if he or she survives me, the Property described below:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Relationship: biological dog
Property: all old Heineken bottle caps littering my desk and floor for the purposes of mastication and amusement, any and all Kongs which may be found under my bed, my comforter for frustrated or enthusiastic humping purposes, any and all partially consumed bones, rawhides, pig ears, or other animal skin-based dog treats which may surface in the course of the Augean stables-caliber cleanup of my apartment, all leftover Beneful, all the cheese and/or pepperoni and/or in my refrigerator, and all the flies that migrate in through my unscreened windows, which provide Caesar great joy as snapping-at targets.
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Relationship: adopted dog
Property: any and all dirty socks and/or underwear for licking and chewing, any and all remote controls, vibrators, houseplants, household electronics and appliances, CDs, DVDs (including both mainstream and pornographic films), cosmetics, computer and accessories (including flash drive, external DVR, and shitty-ass non-functional HP printer/copier/scanner) asthma inhalers, lighters, feminine hygiene products, Palmer's Cocoa Butter dispensers, stiletto heeled shoes, treasured heirloom crucifixes, wicker baskets shaped like Washington state, Glade plug-ins, digital cameras, or other priceless material for purposes of methodical destruction by snaggle-teeth or grotesquely abbreviated paws, the contents of my kitchen and bathroom garbage cans, and all the knick-knacks on my tchotchky shelf, particularly my Harry Potter replica wand, my Catholic priest Homie doll, and my statue of Kali, Hindu Goddess of Destruction.
Name: Dulcinea Cool Jew-Bagel
Address: New Orleans, Louisiana
Relationship: honorary god-Chihuahua
Property: my great-grandmother's hand-tied rag rug, her preferred indoor shitting spot.
Name: Kylee Razzy
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: niece
Property: all clean socks, for carrying around the house as suits her
Name: Stretch Fitz-MillerTime
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: step-dog
Property: my book of IQ tests, in the hopes that he may overcome his developmental disabilities and reach an acceptable level of cognition; my Seahawks 2005 NFC Championship blanket, in hopes that he will have a soft place to recover from head injuries sustained by running into walls
Name: Ilse Fitz-Neo
Address: New York, New York
Relationship: dogsittee
Property: nothing, for reasons that are known to her...okay, fine, it's because she's spoiled enough already and she already has acquired one of Caesar's rope chew toys
VI. ALL REMAINING PROPERTY; RESIDUARY CLAUSE: I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my parents Raz-Ma-Taz and Chicken, provided that my parents survives me. If my parents do not survive me, then I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my children per share, but if any child predeceases me, then his or her share will pass, per share, to his or her lineal descendants, natural or adopted, if any, who survive me; but if there are none, and there won't be, because they are neutered, then his or her share will lapse and pass equally as part of the shares of my other named children; but if none of my named children survives me or leaves a lineal descendant who survives me, then according to the order of intestate succession in the State of New York.
VII. ADDITIONAL POWERS OF THE EXECUTOR: My Executor shall have the following additional powers with respect to my estate, to be exercised from time to time at my Executor's discretion without further license or order of any court:
To take over my blog. No offense to my other contributors, but LL Cool Jew, you're the closest thing to me and I know you'll make sure the useless bullshit stays fresh and as free of grammatical and spelling errors as possible.
VIII. WAIVER OF BOND, INVENTORY, ACCOUNTING, REPORTING AND APPROVAL: My Executor and alternate Executor shall serve without any bond, and I hereby waive the necessity of preparing or filing any inventory, accounting, appraisal, reporting, approvals or final appraisement of my estate. I direct that no expert appraisal be made of my estate unless required by law.
IX. OPTIONAL PROVISIONS: I have placed my initials next to the provisions below that I adopt as part of this Will. Any unmarked provision is not adopted by me and is not a part of this Will.
If any beneficiary to this Will is indebted to me at the time of my death, and the beneficiary evidences this debt by a valid Promissory Note payable to me, then such person's portion of my estate shall be diminished by the amount of such debt. ALR
Any and all debts of my estate shall first be paid from my residuary estate. Any debts on any real property bequeathed in this Will shall be assumed by the person to receive such real property and not paid by my Executor. ALR
I direct that my remains be cremated and that the ashes be manufactured into a fly-ass Lifegem to be mounted in a hot platinum setting according to the wishes of my Executor, who shall proceed to show-stop in the rocks on her wrist like pink lemonade made from my residual carbon. ALR
X. CONSTRUCTION: The term "testator" as used in this Will is deemed to include me as Testator or Testatrix. The pronouns used in this Will shall include, where appropriate, either gender or both, singular and plural.
XI. SEVERABILITY AND SURVIVAL: If any part of this Will is declared invalid, illegal, or inoperative for any reason, it is my intent that the remaining parts shall be effective and fully operative, and that any Court so interpreting this Will and any provision in it construe in favor of survival.
IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I, Razzy, hereby set my hand to this last Will, on each page of which I have placed my initials, on this 30th day of August, 2007 at my apartment in Sugar Hill, New York, State of New York.
That ought to do it. I'm glad I've now got that grown-up chore out of the way. Suze Orman, bless her lesbish, financially responsible heart, would be so proud of me. Now, if I can only figure out how to manage my investment portfolio (read: the Almond Roca can of change on my dresser), I'll have all my shit together.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, family matters, intentional buffoonery, KatieScarlett, large exclamatory font, LL Cool Jew, MillerTime, Miss Corbutt, Razzification, the D
Monday, July 30, 2007
You can call your mama right now...
...and tell her you met a Pug. I don't really have anything interesting to say about my damn ruinous dog Chingy!, but I've been getting a lot of "oh, you are too hard on him...he's so cute!" comments lately and I thought I'd remind everyone what an asshole he is.
Okay, he's cute and all, but bear in mind that this is what he does all day long. At least Caesar barks and tries to catch flies. All Chingy! does is stink, shed, and catch some Zs. Oh, and he sneezes indignantly at me when he's not getting what he wants. Chingy! is really like a land manatee. He's basically useless, but people get all hot and bothered when he's threatened or otherwise fucked with. He's the Eric Cartman of dogs: his activities are devoted exclusively to eating, shitting, eating shit, sleeping, snoring, destroying my possessions, and generally causing trouble, all while sporting a "fuck you...I do what I want!" attitude.
CHONGAY CHONG, you assholes!
Okay, he's cute and all, but bear in mind that this is what he does all day long. At least Caesar barks and tries to catch flies. All Chingy! does is stink, shed, and catch some Zs. Oh, and he sneezes indignantly at me when he's not getting what he wants. Chingy! is really like a land manatee. He's basically useless, but people get all hot and bothered when he's threatened or otherwise fucked with. He's the Eric Cartman of dogs: his activities are devoted exclusively to eating, shitting, eating shit, sleeping, snoring, destroying my possessions, and generally causing trouble, all while sporting a "fuck you...I do what I want!" attitude.
CHONGAY CHONG, you assholes!
Labels: assholes, Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Daily Douchebag: the assholes lighting fireworks in the alley behind my apartment
Occupation: Illegal pyrotechnics, dog frightening
Current Residence: Sugar Hill, Harlem, NYC; more specifically, the alley behind my apartment building
Douchebaggery: Fireworks are illegal in New York City, but at least in my neighborhood, that law is given about as much credence as the law forbidding blunt smoking on one's front stoop or barbecuing without a permit at St. Nicholas Park. I was up all night listening to these fuckers setting off bottle rockets in the enclosed alley space behind my building where our super stores the garbage. This space is the lovely view I get if I look down from my windows (if I look straight across, it's a brick wall and a window that SOMETIMES a hot dude with an extremely well-defined upper body changes clothes in, which is much better). It also is a terrible place to play with exploding projectiles, since they invariably contact the buildings surrounding the alley on all sides. Given that there have been THREE fires in my building in the two years I've lived here (one of them major), I assume that my building is basically tinder waiting to ignite and the proximity to unregulated pyrotechnics is thus most disconcerting. Even worse, because it's summer, a lot of people have their windows open. A bottle rocket hit my fucking window last night, which fortunately was closed since I was rocking the air conditioner. However, it seems hazardous and very stupid to use this alley for covert firework igniting, but there's very little I can do about it.
Supposedly I could call 311 and the city will dispatch some police to confiscate the fireworks and hand out some summonses to the offenders, but snitching is a very, VERY unpopular activity in my neighborhood. I would not be endearing myself to anyone, and if it got out that I called the cops on some kids doing what many of my neighbors would characterize as harmless summer fun, I would be most unpopular indeed. More cops is viewed as a very bad thing around here, and I'm not going to be the asshole bringing them. Every once in a while, I get some bullshit for the fact that I'm white (and about as white as you can get, with my blonde hair, blue eyes, and Nordic last name, I look like every Aryan Nation skinhead's wet white dream). Specifically, as a white woman and Columbia student living in Harlem, I'm the reason why rents are going up and the police presence is more noticeable. Most of my neighbors are perceptive enough not to blame me exclusively for inflation in the rental real estate market or police harassment of the citizenry, but every once in a while someone does (and often calls me a Spice Girl, which I find one of the most baffling and somewhat amusing insults ever...I'd have thought that "cracker" or "honky" would be more offensive and effective at mocking my race, but Spice Girl is the favorite). Anyway, I don't need to exacerbate that situation by publicly calling the cops over this.
The fireworks are an annoying fire hazard, but my biggest problem with them involves their effect on Caesar. Despite his mammoth size, Caesar is the world's biggest 'fraidy dog. His greatest fear is loud noises, specifically those caused by thunder, gunshots, and fireworks. I was up all last night when, after being frightened by yet another far-off bang, Caesar leaped onto the bed and onto my chest, seeking protection. He did not think that immobilizing my sleepy ass underneath him was the ultimate protection, though, because he would then jump off and go hide in the kitchen or bathroom, only to return to my bed and jump on me once I'd finally gotten back to sleep. This went on all night, and when the pyrotechnics were especially loud, they induced a chorus of Caesar whining to go along with them. I'm all for American independence, but fuck this illegal firework noise! Neither myself or my dog can put up with this for long, so thank God today is the Fourth and the pyromaniacs of the hood will no longer have a reason to explosively celebrate.
Labels: assholes, Caese Doggy Dogg, Daily Douchebag, doggity style, Harlem world, NYC
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
This just in: Chingy! still morbidly obese
So finally I have joined the 21st century and purchased a digital camera. Last night KatieScarlett took me to some shady camera store in Times Square and negotiated a sweet deal on this cute little camera that looks like an iPod, and which came with a protective rubber case in case one of the dogs decides to appropriate it for a chew toy. To celebrate the purchase and to prefunk for last night's premiere of "Deadliest Catch" (which was fucking AWESOME), we went to the Times Square Red Lobster.
I had never eaten at the Red Lobster in Times Square, partly because I hate Times Square, and partly because I only go to Red Lobsters when I'm not in New York City. There is practically one restaurant for every person in Manhattan, so what the hell is the point of going to a place I can find in Anytown, USA? Nonetheless, Red Lobster was jamming. Every tourist in NYC seems to invariably stick with what they know rather than venture out and try something new, so there were lines coming out of the Red Lobster, as well as the nearby Olive Garden, TGIFridays, Applebee's, and Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. It took us a while to squeeze into some seats at the bar, but once we did we were rewarded with an excellent view of the NCAA Women's basketball championship (which pleased KatieScarlett on account of the abundance of lesbians) interspersed with more "Deadliest Catch" commercials.
When I got home in time to crack open a cold one and watch "Deadliest Catch" (in which the hotness that is Sig Hansen pranked Blake the greenhorn captain of the Maverick who spent last season bitching about how he wasn't captain yet and who has a SERIOUS date rapist look about him by hiding a bag of rotten fish in the Maverick wheelhouse), I started playing with my camera. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of interesting shit in my apartment to photograph unless you're into empty Heineken bottles and Red Bull cans. Therefore, I took pictures of the dogs.
Caesar, as always, is as handsome as can be, even though I haven't quite figured out the flash on this new camera yet:
And for those of you inquiring as to Chingy!'s health, specifically whether or not he's lost any weight, the answer to that is an unequivocal NO:
On the bright side, I snagged some errant glucose test strips belonging to an immunology lab that shares our space in the mouse house to test Chingy!'s urine, and so far he is not diabetic. Any news that distracts me from the fact that every day he is more reminiscent of a beached whale is good news. CHONGAY CHONG!
And don't worry, I'll figure out how to take better pictures and how to work this camera in time for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party tomorrow. Obviously, me getting together with ten drunken sluts in ho-ass shirts and sticking that mess in the middle of Scores with an open bar for three hours requires photo documentation. That's why I had to insist on getting this camera this week in the first place. So stand by...MillerTime arrives tonight and the insanity will begin, and I'll have better pics than my fat, sleeping Hutt of a dog to share with the world.
I had never eaten at the Red Lobster in Times Square, partly because I hate Times Square, and partly because I only go to Red Lobsters when I'm not in New York City. There is practically one restaurant for every person in Manhattan, so what the hell is the point of going to a place I can find in Anytown, USA? Nonetheless, Red Lobster was jamming. Every tourist in NYC seems to invariably stick with what they know rather than venture out and try something new, so there were lines coming out of the Red Lobster, as well as the nearby Olive Garden, TGIFridays, Applebee's, and Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. It took us a while to squeeze into some seats at the bar, but once we did we were rewarded with an excellent view of the NCAA Women's basketball championship (which pleased KatieScarlett on account of the abundance of lesbians) interspersed with more "Deadliest Catch" commercials.
When I got home in time to crack open a cold one and watch "Deadliest Catch" (in which the hotness that is Sig Hansen pranked Blake the greenhorn captain of the Maverick who spent last season bitching about how he wasn't captain yet and who has a SERIOUS date rapist look about him by hiding a bag of rotten fish in the Maverick wheelhouse), I started playing with my camera. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of interesting shit in my apartment to photograph unless you're into empty Heineken bottles and Red Bull cans. Therefore, I took pictures of the dogs.
Caesar, as always, is as handsome as can be, even though I haven't quite figured out the flash on this new camera yet:
And for those of you inquiring as to Chingy!'s health, specifically whether or not he's lost any weight, the answer to that is an unequivocal NO:
On the bright side, I snagged some errant glucose test strips belonging to an immunology lab that shares our space in the mouse house to test Chingy!'s urine, and so far he is not diabetic. Any news that distracts me from the fact that every day he is more reminiscent of a beached whale is good news. CHONGAY CHONG!
And don't worry, I'll figure out how to take better pictures and how to work this camera in time for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party tomorrow. Obviously, me getting together with ten drunken sluts in ho-ass shirts and sticking that mess in the middle of Scores with an open bar for three hours requires photo documentation. That's why I had to insist on getting this camera this week in the first place. So stand by...MillerTime arrives tonight and the insanity will begin, and I'll have better pics than my fat, sleeping Hutt of a dog to share with the world.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, I LOVE IT
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Jake Taylor has really let himself go
Last night, I arrived home to see several gigantic trailers and production trucks pulling up to the sidewalk outside my house. I got all excited, thinking they might be filming more episodes of "Law and Order:SVU" there and I could get a glimpse of Tracy "Ice-T" Marrow, his buxom ho-bag of a wife CoCo, or the hotness that is Mariska Hargitay running around my hood. However, I couldn't discern from the "No Parking By Order of the Mayor's Office of Film and TV Production" signs what they were filming, so I basically forgot about it.
This morning, I was reminded when I ventured out to the park with the dogs, but I still couldn't figure out what was going to be filmed, and the production assistants were all running around, wearing headsets, and looking very busy with VERY important stuff like plugging in big cables and unloading equipment, so I didn't ask them. It's a good thing I didn't, because they turned out to be assholes.
Tonight, I arrived home to see lots of activity around the trailers, and one PA was eyeing me beadily as I approached. She looked as though she were ready to tackle me if I made so much as a step toward the trailer directly in front of my building's door. I must have looked sketchy, on account of having a horrible headache. I spent the afternoon doing organic chemistry (which I suck at; in college I got a C in it, and the only thing I was ever good at was distilling alcohol...go figure), and even worse, I was using ether. I don't know why Hunter S. Thompson was into huffing that shit, because the only thing it did for me was provide me with a splitting headache. Then again, I did have it in the fume hood, so maybe I didn't experience the full effects, but have a general policy of not getting high off organic solvents, especially those that are notorious for volatility and explosions. Anyway, I must have looked angry or sketchy or stalkerish, so she eyed me warily until I was safely inside my building. I figured there must be some big celebrity in that trailer to warrant such a vigilant PA guarding it.
I came back out with the dogs five minutes later, only to see that the big Hollywood movie star had emerged and was standing in front of my building. It was not Brad Pitt, or Halle Berry, or Jack Nicholson, or even Justin Timberlake. At first I thought the star, surrounded by an entourage, was James Gandolfini wearing a curly wig, based on his hulking girth and man-boobs (visible even beneath a black shirt AND jacket), but as he turned to face the camera, I realized that it was a much, much fatter version of this guy:
Yes! Tom Berenger, the actor who immortalized Cleveland Indians catcher Jake Taylor in one of the greatest movies ever made, Major League. In case you haven't seen this film, it's a silly but sublime movie with an awesomely 80s cast (also including Charlie Sheen as volatile ex-con pitcher Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn, Corbin Bernsen--who thanks to "L.A. Law" was unbelievably a stud of the era--as wealthy, womanizing shortstop Roger Dorn, Wesley Snipes as wisecracking, base-stealing outfielder Willie Mays Hayes, Bob Uecker as the drunken commentator, and Rene Russo as Jake Taylor's librarian ex-girlfriend.) There's also a cast of awesome supporting characters, including the super cunty team owner's trophy widow, the curmudgeonly old coach, an aging born-again pitcher (who sucks), the Tribe's dedicated fans in all their Indian gear, and the Dominican-Haitian-Mexican designated hitter Pedro Cerrano, who speaks Spanish, practices voodoo, and at one point tells the born-again "chingate, cabron." (Obviously the writers suffered from the surprisingly common confusion that drives J-Sexy crazy, that all the nations of the Caribbean are on one big island and share one big blurred culture.) Major League was a favorite in the Razzy household growing up, so I recognized Jake Taylor's ass IMMEDIATELY, in spite of the fact that he's blown up like Lil' Kim.
His entourage started hurrying him across the street to the Harlem School for the Arts, where they were shooting the movie Order of Redemption, in which Tom Berenger plays a former stud of a criminal defense attorney who becomes a hard-core drug addict. Busta Rhymes is also in this, but I didn't see him. He's probably hanging out with a real-life criminal defense attorney since the people of the City of New York are taking his non-snitching ass to trial on assault charges in May. Caesar wasn't paying attention to any of this. He was more interested in pissing on his usual fire hydrant.
The beady-eyed PA guarding the trailer hurried over and gave me a very admonishing look. "Excuse me," she said. "He needs to do that somewhere else." I looked at her incredulously. Apart from providing water for firefighters and acting as impromptu sprinklers for kids on particularly sweltering summer days, the one other thing fire hydrants are famous for is DOGS PISSING ON THEM. Furthermore, who does this bitch think she is that she can issue such imperative commands to me in front of my own fucking apartment building? At least say "please" and phrase that request in the form of a question, you self-important slut!
"He's a dog. It's a fire hydrant," I said coldly to her. "And it's a public street." She gave me a very offended look. Apparently Tom Berenger is such a big fucking star that he warrants peons stationed outside to prevent dogs from pissing in his trailer's vicinity. I was irritated. As far as I could tell, Mayor Bloomberg gave them the right to park their giant trucks and trailers on the street, not dictate where my dog can or can't urinate, and I resented this dumb snatch telling me otherwise. I thought the best solution was to rattle her by showing how very little I cared for her mandate to fetch coffee and shoo dogs away from Tom Berenger's trailer by addressing the celebrity directly.
"Hey Jake! Where's Willie Mays Hayes?!" I shouted. I know exactly where Willie Mays Hayes is (in federal court answering to charges of tax evasion to the tune of $12 million dollars and probably gearing up to star in Blade 4), but it was the only pithy thing I could think to shout to a man who once called his shot like the Babe and then shocked the (evil) Yankees by bunting, thus securing a pennant for the Tribe.
If Tom Berenger heard me, he didn't respond. He probably didn't, because he was fully across St. Nicholas Ave. at that point, and it was clogged with traffic. In any event, he didn't respond, but the look of horror on the PA's face was priceless. She failed at preventing the local riff-raff from bugging the big MOVIE STAR, and was probably worried about her bullshit job. I felt totally vindicated. Welcome to Sugar Hill, bitch.
On a separate but related topic, if you look up Major League on IMDB.com, the listed plot keywords "include "Voodoo", "Wife's Sexual Pretence", "Vulgarity", "Rum", "Bad Haircut", "Mullet Haircut", "Obscene Finger Gesture", "Sombrero", "Watermelon", and "Urination Scene." What, no "Joe Boo" or "Corbin Bernsen taking one in the nuts?" I wouldn't have noticed this, but you have no idea how difficult it is to find pictures of Tom Berenger on the internets in anything except Platoon. I've literally spent two hours RESEARCHING this blog entry and snagging Major League screen captures off YouTube. Uff da.
This morning, I was reminded when I ventured out to the park with the dogs, but I still couldn't figure out what was going to be filmed, and the production assistants were all running around, wearing headsets, and looking very busy with VERY important stuff like plugging in big cables and unloading equipment, so I didn't ask them. It's a good thing I didn't, because they turned out to be assholes.
Tonight, I arrived home to see lots of activity around the trailers, and one PA was eyeing me beadily as I approached. She looked as though she were ready to tackle me if I made so much as a step toward the trailer directly in front of my building's door. I must have looked sketchy, on account of having a horrible headache. I spent the afternoon doing organic chemistry (which I suck at; in college I got a C in it, and the only thing I was ever good at was distilling alcohol...go figure), and even worse, I was using ether. I don't know why Hunter S. Thompson was into huffing that shit, because the only thing it did for me was provide me with a splitting headache. Then again, I did have it in the fume hood, so maybe I didn't experience the full effects, but have a general policy of not getting high off organic solvents, especially those that are notorious for volatility and explosions. Anyway, I must have looked angry or sketchy or stalkerish, so she eyed me warily until I was safely inside my building. I figured there must be some big celebrity in that trailer to warrant such a vigilant PA guarding it.
I came back out with the dogs five minutes later, only to see that the big Hollywood movie star had emerged and was standing in front of my building. It was not Brad Pitt, or Halle Berry, or Jack Nicholson, or even Justin Timberlake. At first I thought the star, surrounded by an entourage, was James Gandolfini wearing a curly wig, based on his hulking girth and man-boobs (visible even beneath a black shirt AND jacket), but as he turned to face the camera, I realized that it was a much, much fatter version of this guy:
His entourage started hurrying him across the street to the Harlem School for the Arts, where they were shooting the movie Order of Redemption, in which Tom Berenger plays a former stud of a criminal defense attorney who becomes a hard-core drug addict. Busta Rhymes is also in this, but I didn't see him. He's probably hanging out with a real-life criminal defense attorney since the people of the City of New York are taking his non-snitching ass to trial on assault charges in May. Caesar wasn't paying attention to any of this. He was more interested in pissing on his usual fire hydrant.
The beady-eyed PA guarding the trailer hurried over and gave me a very admonishing look. "Excuse me," she said. "He needs to do that somewhere else." I looked at her incredulously. Apart from providing water for firefighters and acting as impromptu sprinklers for kids on particularly sweltering summer days, the one other thing fire hydrants are famous for is DOGS PISSING ON THEM. Furthermore, who does this bitch think she is that she can issue such imperative commands to me in front of my own fucking apartment building? At least say "please" and phrase that request in the form of a question, you self-important slut!
"He's a dog. It's a fire hydrant," I said coldly to her. "And it's a public street." She gave me a very offended look. Apparently Tom Berenger is such a big fucking star that he warrants peons stationed outside to prevent dogs from pissing in his trailer's vicinity. I was irritated. As far as I could tell, Mayor Bloomberg gave them the right to park their giant trucks and trailers on the street, not dictate where my dog can or can't urinate, and I resented this dumb snatch telling me otherwise. I thought the best solution was to rattle her by showing how very little I cared for her mandate to fetch coffee and shoo dogs away from Tom Berenger's trailer by addressing the celebrity directly.
"Hey Jake! Where's Willie Mays Hayes?!" I shouted. I know exactly where Willie Mays Hayes is (in federal court answering to charges of tax evasion to the tune of $12 million dollars and probably gearing up to star in Blade 4), but it was the only pithy thing I could think to shout to a man who once called his shot like the Babe and then shocked the (evil) Yankees by bunting, thus securing a pennant for the Tribe.
If Tom Berenger heard me, he didn't respond. He probably didn't, because he was fully across St. Nicholas Ave. at that point, and it was clogged with traffic. In any event, he didn't respond, but the look of horror on the PA's face was priceless. She failed at preventing the local riff-raff from bugging the big MOVIE STAR, and was probably worried about her bullshit job. I felt totally vindicated. Welcome to Sugar Hill, bitch.
On a separate but related topic, if you look up Major League on IMDB.com, the listed plot keywords "include "Voodoo", "Wife's Sexual Pretence", "Vulgarity", "Rum", "Bad Haircut", "Mullet Haircut", "Obscene Finger Gesture", "Sombrero", "Watermelon", and "Urination Scene." What, no "Joe Boo" or "Corbin Bernsen taking one in the nuts?" I wouldn't have noticed this, but you have no idea how difficult it is to find pictures of Tom Berenger on the internets in anything except Platoon. I've literally spent two hours RESEARCHING this blog entry and snagging Major League screen captures off YouTube. Uff da.
Labels: assholes, Caese Doggy Dogg, celebrities, doggity style, fat fucks, Harlem world, intentional buffoonery, movies, NYC, scathing indictments, vengeance is sweet
Monday, March 19, 2007
What's wrong with this picture?
While I was digging through my doggy photos to find choice face shots of Chingy! to make the Chingy! the Hutt photo spread, I came across this one. This was taken a couple years ago for the purposes of being a Christmas card, and I had selected it and gotten it all ready to send until I realized that there was something very wrong with it. Can you spot it? And no, it's not the fucking zit on my forehead that looks like Krakatoa erupting...my Photoshop skills are pretty piss poor but they're good enough to have covered that up. I'll give you a hint: it has to do with one of the dogs.
There was an old "Seinfeld" episode where Elaine sent out a Christmas card, only to realize later that her nipple was showing on it. That would be embarrassing, but not nearly as bad as sending all your friends and loved ones seasons greetings in the form of a disgusting dog erection.
Caesar, put away your lipstick! GROSS!
There was an old "Seinfeld" episode where Elaine sent out a Christmas card, only to realize later that her nipple was showing on it. That would be embarrassing, but not nearly as bad as sending all your friends and loved ones seasons greetings in the form of a disgusting dog erection.
Caesar, put away your lipstick! GROSS!
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, oh the horror
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Et tu, Caesar?
Ever since that fat little puglet Chingy! moved into my home three years ago, he has, against my every effort, taught Caesar some of his bad habits. For example, his tendency to kick dirt everywhere after he shits and/or pisses. This is annoying when Chingy! does it, because he tends to get dirt all over my shoes and ankles, and because he always does it with this insufferably superior look on his wrinkly, squashy little face, but at least Chingy! is small enough that he doesn't manage to do much damage. Caesar, who has now decided this would be a useful part of his bathroom ritual, is so large that he manages to kick up so much dirt I feel as though I'm stuck in a Sahara desert sandstorm. Invariably he digs a furrow so large that you could wage trench warfare in St. Nicholas Park in it, if you so desired.
Since Caesar is my favorite, I always blame Chingy! for spreading his evil mannerisms like a disease. I would shout at him if it would do any good, but usually Chingy! is stupid enough to be standing behind Caesar when he begins excavating his post-excretory ditch, and he ends up so covered in dirt that all I can see of him is his little pink tongue poking out of his snaggly little mouth. I can't imagine that shouting at Chingy! for teaching Caesar this trick in the first place would accomplish a damn thing. Instead I just silently curse Chingy! for being a bad influence, because Caesar never pulled this kind of crap until Chingy! waddled insolently into our lives.
Today I realized to my absolute horror that Chingy! has taught Caesar something else that is far worse. Chingy!'s taste for usually revolting shit is well-documented. Chingy! has been caught guiltily scarfing down everything from acorns to mud to cat shit to decomposing squirrel remains to homeless guy diarrhea. I always thought that the handsome, noble Caesar, a dog so intelligent he figured out how to open doors, would be above such things. I thought wrong.
Granted, Caesar has always had a penchant for finding and eating what I call "street food." If there is a chicken bone on the street, Caesar will go into stealth mode, pretend to be innocently sniffing a fire hydrant or other prospective piss target, and the next thing I know, he'll be crunching up the offending discarded bone. I understand that dogs like bones, and I've always attributed Caesar's annoying covert street bone-acquiring to his above-average dog intellect and his insatiable love for people food. I NEVER for one second anticipated he'd devolve into Chingy!-esque cacophagy.
Today, as usual, I released Caesar from the fetters of his leash when we strolled into the park. I usually do this, because off-leash dogs, while technically against the law, are nonetheless customary within the confines of the park so long as the dog is friendly, which goofy, tongue-hanging-out Caese obviously is. Since Caesar is huge, and totally obsessed with the prospect of our usual morning stick-chasing session, I let him off the leash because he pulls on it too much and it annoys me. So he gets to burn off his extra energy by doing exuberant laps of the park perennial shrub garden while Chingy! and I continue up the park stairs to our usual stick-chasing venue at a pace befitting Chingy!'s morbid obesity. This morning, however, Caesar finished running his laps and ran to a landing on the stairs slightly above where Chingy! and I had yet ascended. I noticed him dip his head in what I identified as a classic Caesar covert food-acquiring move. However, much to my horror, it was not food he was acquiring, at least not in the not-into-scat-play circles that I run in.
Caesar brought up his magnificent head, and I saw that he was chomping on a HUGE turd. It was about the size and shape of a grown man's colon, which I suspect was its origin.
"CAESAR! DROP IT! NO! NO! NO!" I shouted. "Bad Caesar! BAD!"
To his credit, Caesar dropped it immediately as I ran up. Also to his credit, Caesar did not try to lick me upon arrival, unlike how Chingy! responded when he was caught in a similar situation. However, upon a closer visual examination of what Caesar was eating, it was most DEFINITELY human feces. Furthermore, Caesar had consumed about half of what was originally there by my rough estimation.
I am aware that all sorts of unsavory shit occurs in St. Nicholas Park under the cover of darkness. I see all kinds of used condoms and empty single-use lube packets littering the walkways there in the harsh light of morning when I walk the boys, and I am always wondering exactly what type of seedy vagrant sex scene occurs there after nightfall. One time I found a full set of clothing on the grassy knoll where I take the dogs, including socks and underwear, laid out neatly the way my mom used to put out my school uniform on my bed when I was a little kid. I am also aware that most of this is probably perpetrated by homeless people and/or drug addicts, given the accompanying empty bottles of King Cobra and occasional dirty syringe-needle set, and my own reasonable suspicions as to who actually has secretive sex in New York City parks at night. However, this clandestine lifestyle is so accepted that the folks who populate the park after hours are actually SHITTING ON THE MAIN PARK STAIRS. If it were just me strolling through the park, I'd merely frown disapprovingly and avoid stepping in it, but it's another matter when apparently both my dogs find this not revolting, but tremendously appetizing. Fuck you, park shitters.
And fuck you, Chingy!, for teaching Caesar your disgusting tricks! Caesar is supposed to be the good one!
Since Caesar is my favorite, I always blame Chingy! for spreading his evil mannerisms like a disease. I would shout at him if it would do any good, but usually Chingy! is stupid enough to be standing behind Caesar when he begins excavating his post-excretory ditch, and he ends up so covered in dirt that all I can see of him is his little pink tongue poking out of his snaggly little mouth. I can't imagine that shouting at Chingy! for teaching Caesar this trick in the first place would accomplish a damn thing. Instead I just silently curse Chingy! for being a bad influence, because Caesar never pulled this kind of crap until Chingy! waddled insolently into our lives.
Today I realized to my absolute horror that Chingy! has taught Caesar something else that is far worse. Chingy!'s taste for usually revolting shit is well-documented. Chingy! has been caught guiltily scarfing down everything from acorns to mud to cat shit to decomposing squirrel remains to homeless guy diarrhea. I always thought that the handsome, noble Caesar, a dog so intelligent he figured out how to open doors, would be above such things. I thought wrong.
Granted, Caesar has always had a penchant for finding and eating what I call "street food." If there is a chicken bone on the street, Caesar will go into stealth mode, pretend to be innocently sniffing a fire hydrant or other prospective piss target, and the next thing I know, he'll be crunching up the offending discarded bone. I understand that dogs like bones, and I've always attributed Caesar's annoying covert street bone-acquiring to his above-average dog intellect and his insatiable love for people food. I NEVER for one second anticipated he'd devolve into Chingy!-esque cacophagy.
Today, as usual, I released Caesar from the fetters of his leash when we strolled into the park. I usually do this, because off-leash dogs, while technically against the law, are nonetheless customary within the confines of the park so long as the dog is friendly, which goofy, tongue-hanging-out Caese obviously is. Since Caesar is huge, and totally obsessed with the prospect of our usual morning stick-chasing session, I let him off the leash because he pulls on it too much and it annoys me. So he gets to burn off his extra energy by doing exuberant laps of the park perennial shrub garden while Chingy! and I continue up the park stairs to our usual stick-chasing venue at a pace befitting Chingy!'s morbid obesity. This morning, however, Caesar finished running his laps and ran to a landing on the stairs slightly above where Chingy! and I had yet ascended. I noticed him dip his head in what I identified as a classic Caesar covert food-acquiring move. However, much to my horror, it was not food he was acquiring, at least not in the not-into-scat-play circles that I run in.
Caesar brought up his magnificent head, and I saw that he was chomping on a HUGE turd. It was about the size and shape of a grown man's colon, which I suspect was its origin.
"CAESAR! DROP IT! NO! NO! NO!" I shouted. "Bad Caesar! BAD!"
To his credit, Caesar dropped it immediately as I ran up. Also to his credit, Caesar did not try to lick me upon arrival, unlike how Chingy! responded when he was caught in a similar situation. However, upon a closer visual examination of what Caesar was eating, it was most DEFINITELY human feces. Furthermore, Caesar had consumed about half of what was originally there by my rough estimation.
I am aware that all sorts of unsavory shit occurs in St. Nicholas Park under the cover of darkness. I see all kinds of used condoms and empty single-use lube packets littering the walkways there in the harsh light of morning when I walk the boys, and I am always wondering exactly what type of seedy vagrant sex scene occurs there after nightfall. One time I found a full set of clothing on the grassy knoll where I take the dogs, including socks and underwear, laid out neatly the way my mom used to put out my school uniform on my bed when I was a little kid. I am also aware that most of this is probably perpetrated by homeless people and/or drug addicts, given the accompanying empty bottles of King Cobra and occasional dirty syringe-needle set, and my own reasonable suspicions as to who actually has secretive sex in New York City parks at night. However, this clandestine lifestyle is so accepted that the folks who populate the park after hours are actually SHITTING ON THE MAIN PARK STAIRS. If it were just me strolling through the park, I'd merely frown disapprovingly and avoid stepping in it, but it's another matter when apparently both my dogs find this not revolting, but tremendously appetizing. Fuck you, park shitters.
And fuck you, Chingy!, for teaching Caesar your disgusting tricks! Caesar is supposed to be the good one!
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, NYC
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Hail, Caesar! Happy birthday.
Today is a momentous occasion. My sweet biological dog Caesar turns FIVE today. I can barely believe that much time has passed since I first acquired him.
In fall 2001, my roommate Miss Corbutt worked for this bar in Tacoma called Jazzbones. The owner owned a German Shepherd named Katie who had just given birth to eleven puppies, so he wanted to know if I would like one. My family has always had dogs, and I missed not having a creature of the canine persuasion around my house, so I immediately agreed. Besides, I'd never had a puppy, so I thought that would be fun.
In early November, the puppies turned five weeks old, which is the age where they are first BARELY weaned. Most experts say that it is not wise to separate the pups from the bitch who whelped them until 8 weeks, but Jason, Katie's owner, was desperate to reduce the doggification of his home. I could understand why as soon as I walked in the door. The place smelled like a urine bomb had exploded in there. I'm pretty sure he had to redo the floors after five weeks of eleven puppies (and their mother) shitting and pissing everywhere.
Anyway, I told Jason that I wanted a boy, because I've always had male dogs, and my household had enough bitches in it already with me and Miss Corbutt residing there. So Jason, in preparation for my arrival, separated out the three males in the litter.
"This one's my favorite of the boys," he said, handing me a little black fluffball. I held the puppy, and he was very cute, but he was all black without any interesting markings, and he didn't seem to have any interest in me whatsoever.
Just then, I felt a gentle tugging at the hem of my jeans and looked down into the baby blue eyes of a fuzzy guy who was black with huge brown paws pulling on my pant legs insistently, as if to get my attention. Once I looked at him, he stopped tugging, and wagged his little puppy tail happily.
I handed Jason back his favorite, and said, "I think this one down here chose me." I picked him up, and he immediately licked my face and bit my nose. "I'll take him. Jason, meet Caesar." I had already intended to name this dog Caesar, because I love me some Roman Imperialism.
On the five minute drive back to my house, Caesar sat on my lap and WHINED AND CRIED like the world was ending. It was heartbreaking. Then he threw up all over me, which was disgusting. I spent the day trying to cheer Caesar up with treats, food, toys, etc. He wouldn't eat, wouldn't play, and wouldn't stop crying. The next day, he still wouldn't eat, and I tried wet dog food (for which he indicated his disdain by walking through his food bowl and leaving gross offal footprints all over my kitchen), Miss Corbutt tried to give him brown rice (which he wisely ignored altogether), and I was starting to get worried. Maybe he wasn't fully weaned yet, or maybe the psychological trauma of being separated from his mother and siblings so early was tremendous and causing anorexia. I didn't know what to do, so I decided to feed myself and hope that some inspiration would come to me once I had a full stomach. I heated up a leftover piece of pizza from the Clover Leaf Tavern, my favorite pizza place in T-town. Their pizza is its own special, sublime blend of incredibly salty and overwhelmingly greasy. In other words, it's the best pizza ever. It is so fucking good that I suspect that their secret ingredient is crack.
I was about to eat my slice of pepperoni and black olive when I noticed Caesar sniffing it curiously. I plucked off an olive and held it up for him to smell. After a couple tentative whiffs, he gobbled it up. I was so overjoyed that he was eating, I forgot about the pizza being my lunch, or my resolve not to get Caesar hooked on people food. I offered him a piece of pepperoni, which he scarfed down, and then tore off a piece of pizza with cheese, olive, sauce, crust, and pepperoni. He loved that, too. Caesar started eating and stopped whining after that, although he was incorrigible whenever I ordered pizza from the Clover Leaf. "It's like mother's milk to him," Miss Corbutt observed months later when a much-larger Caesar was stalking me for my pizza. His deep love for the Clover Leaf's fine victuals are what prompted me to start calling him "Pizza", a nickname that he answers to as readily as "Caesar."
During his puppyhood, Caesar did a lot of undesirable things, like eating approximately $1500 worth of me and Miss Corbutt's shoes, eating one of her cameras, eating every remote control in the house, shitting and pissing EVERYWHERE, jumping on visitors, nipping my ass constantly while I walked around the house once his herding instincts kicked in, learning to open doors with his nose, and most embarrassingly, breaking into my room once right when I'd finished fucking the R-uh and trying to lick his dick. I don't know if I'll ever get a puppy again because of his ridiculous antics and how agonizing they were to deal with. However, he was one hell of a cute puppy. He had blue eyes, these little needle teeth, and his breath smelled like cafe au lait. He weighed 5 pounds, his fur was like velvet, and he was the size of a football. See for yourself:
Caesar on a seek-and-destroy-Razzy-and-Miss Corbutt's-property mission:
Caesar could be an intimidating puppy:
As a puppy, Caesar's second favorite food next to Clover Leaf pepperoni and black olive pizza was teddy bears:
He also had a taste for furniture:
And a penchant for viciously barking at stuffed chew toys:
Well, Caesar is all grown up now. He grew to match those giant puppy paws of his and now weighs 110 pounds, has a much more manly-sounding bark, and his blue eyes have turned the most gorgeous shade of brown. Here's a couple pictures of Caesar illustrating what he looks like now. I left the image of LL Cool Jew trying to hug me/put me into a sleeper hold to give you some perspective concerning Caesar's massive size:
And I cropped most of myself out of this picture because it's the worst image of me ever captured on film. However, I left my scrub-clad ass in it again for scale, to show that Caesar comes up to my waist. He is a big fucking boy:
And a really good boy. In fact, he's the best dog in the world, and I'm so lucky that he chose me as his human. Happy birthday, Pizza Pony! Just for him, I'm going to stop at the slice shop next to the football bar I go to and get Caese a big slice of pepperoni and black olive 'zza. It's not the Clover Leaf, but I'm sure it will be a welcomed birthday gift nonetheless. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for a brisk game of birthday stick-chasing in the park.
In fall 2001, my roommate Miss Corbutt worked for this bar in Tacoma called Jazzbones. The owner owned a German Shepherd named Katie who had just given birth to eleven puppies, so he wanted to know if I would like one. My family has always had dogs, and I missed not having a creature of the canine persuasion around my house, so I immediately agreed. Besides, I'd never had a puppy, so I thought that would be fun.
In early November, the puppies turned five weeks old, which is the age where they are first BARELY weaned. Most experts say that it is not wise to separate the pups from the bitch who whelped them until 8 weeks, but Jason, Katie's owner, was desperate to reduce the doggification of his home. I could understand why as soon as I walked in the door. The place smelled like a urine bomb had exploded in there. I'm pretty sure he had to redo the floors after five weeks of eleven puppies (and their mother) shitting and pissing everywhere.
Anyway, I told Jason that I wanted a boy, because I've always had male dogs, and my household had enough bitches in it already with me and Miss Corbutt residing there. So Jason, in preparation for my arrival, separated out the three males in the litter.
"This one's my favorite of the boys," he said, handing me a little black fluffball. I held the puppy, and he was very cute, but he was all black without any interesting markings, and he didn't seem to have any interest in me whatsoever.
Just then, I felt a gentle tugging at the hem of my jeans and looked down into the baby blue eyes of a fuzzy guy who was black with huge brown paws pulling on my pant legs insistently, as if to get my attention. Once I looked at him, he stopped tugging, and wagged his little puppy tail happily.
I handed Jason back his favorite, and said, "I think this one down here chose me." I picked him up, and he immediately licked my face and bit my nose. "I'll take him. Jason, meet Caesar." I had already intended to name this dog Caesar, because I love me some Roman Imperialism.
On the five minute drive back to my house, Caesar sat on my lap and WHINED AND CRIED like the world was ending. It was heartbreaking. Then he threw up all over me, which was disgusting. I spent the day trying to cheer Caesar up with treats, food, toys, etc. He wouldn't eat, wouldn't play, and wouldn't stop crying. The next day, he still wouldn't eat, and I tried wet dog food (for which he indicated his disdain by walking through his food bowl and leaving gross offal footprints all over my kitchen), Miss Corbutt tried to give him brown rice (which he wisely ignored altogether), and I was starting to get worried. Maybe he wasn't fully weaned yet, or maybe the psychological trauma of being separated from his mother and siblings so early was tremendous and causing anorexia. I didn't know what to do, so I decided to feed myself and hope that some inspiration would come to me once I had a full stomach. I heated up a leftover piece of pizza from the Clover Leaf Tavern, my favorite pizza place in T-town. Their pizza is its own special, sublime blend of incredibly salty and overwhelmingly greasy. In other words, it's the best pizza ever. It is so fucking good that I suspect that their secret ingredient is crack.
I was about to eat my slice of pepperoni and black olive when I noticed Caesar sniffing it curiously. I plucked off an olive and held it up for him to smell. After a couple tentative whiffs, he gobbled it up. I was so overjoyed that he was eating, I forgot about the pizza being my lunch, or my resolve not to get Caesar hooked on people food. I offered him a piece of pepperoni, which he scarfed down, and then tore off a piece of pizza with cheese, olive, sauce, crust, and pepperoni. He loved that, too. Caesar started eating and stopped whining after that, although he was incorrigible whenever I ordered pizza from the Clover Leaf. "It's like mother's milk to him," Miss Corbutt observed months later when a much-larger Caesar was stalking me for my pizza. His deep love for the Clover Leaf's fine victuals are what prompted me to start calling him "Pizza", a nickname that he answers to as readily as "Caesar."
During his puppyhood, Caesar did a lot of undesirable things, like eating approximately $1500 worth of me and Miss Corbutt's shoes, eating one of her cameras, eating every remote control in the house, shitting and pissing EVERYWHERE, jumping on visitors, nipping my ass constantly while I walked around the house once his herding instincts kicked in, learning to open doors with his nose, and most embarrassingly, breaking into my room once right when I'd finished fucking the R-uh and trying to lick his dick. I don't know if I'll ever get a puppy again because of his ridiculous antics and how agonizing they were to deal with. However, he was one hell of a cute puppy. He had blue eyes, these little needle teeth, and his breath smelled like cafe au lait. He weighed 5 pounds, his fur was like velvet, and he was the size of a football. See for yourself:
Caesar on a seek-and-destroy-Razzy-and-Miss Corbutt's-property mission:
Caesar could be an intimidating puppy:
As a puppy, Caesar's second favorite food next to Clover Leaf pepperoni and black olive pizza was teddy bears:
He also had a taste for furniture:
And a penchant for viciously barking at stuffed chew toys:
Well, Caesar is all grown up now. He grew to match those giant puppy paws of his and now weighs 110 pounds, has a much more manly-sounding bark, and his blue eyes have turned the most gorgeous shade of brown. Here's a couple pictures of Caesar illustrating what he looks like now. I left the image of LL Cool Jew trying to hug me/put me into a sleeper hold to give you some perspective concerning Caesar's massive size:
And I cropped most of myself out of this picture because it's the worst image of me ever captured on film. However, I left my scrub-clad ass in it again for scale, to show that Caesar comes up to my waist. He is a big fucking boy:
And a really good boy. In fact, he's the best dog in the world, and I'm so lucky that he chose me as his human. Happy birthday, Pizza Pony! Just for him, I'm going to stop at the slice shop next to the football bar I go to and get Caese a big slice of pepperoni and black olive 'zza. It's not the Clover Leaf, but I'm sure it will be a welcomed birthday gift nonetheless. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for a brisk game of birthday stick-chasing in the park.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, doggity style
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