Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Olympic gymsnatchtits judges
DOB: ???
Occupation: hating on America
Hometown: Australia, Russia, and China
Current residence: National Indoor Stadium, Beijing, China
Douchebaggery: Anyone who watched last night's uneven bars Olympic ladies gymsnatchtits individual medal competition knows that my barely legal girlfriend Nastia Liukin got screwed harder than me at an open bar nerd convention full of MIT graduates. She tied cheating thirteen-year-old He Kexin and wound up coming out behind courtesy of the new scoring system's wack tiebreaking rules. The undeservedly low score the Australian judge gave to Nastia fucked up her average, and she found herself with yet another silver medal in spite of earning the same score as her pubescent competition. That's right...they tied, and Nastia still lost. Thanks to the perpetually eloquent and informative Bela Karolyi ranting to Bob Costas about the scoring system afterward, this was due to "incompetence at the judging."
Similar issues with unfairly low scores posted by the Chinese and Russian judges screwed Alicia Sacramone out of a medal in the vaulting and almost fucked Nastia in the all-around. At least I expect the Russians and Chinese to play dirty when it comes to posting unfair gymsnatchtits scores reflecting an anti-American bias. Why the Australian judges have jumped enthusiastically into hating on Team USA is beyond me, but according to Valeri Liukin it's been this way for the past three world championships. Now I have a new reason not to go to Australia. Apart from the fact that Foster's sucks and they have horrifying spiders, they have American-screwing gymsnatchtits judges who are at best inexcusably inept and at worst flagrantly complicit in rigging the Chinese gold haul. Nastia was robbed, and to use the immortal words of Bev Niner's resident morally condescending slut Kelly Taylor, Australia is never again.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, international intrigue, Olympics, ranting
Monday, August 18, 2008
Daily Douchebag: lame Olympic sports
DOB: various
Occupation: stealing NBC TV time from sports I actually care about and/or Bela Karolyi hating on China
Hometown: various
Current residence: Beijing, China
Douchebaggery: I haven't shut up about the Olympics, partly because I just like writing shamelessly jingoistic trash talk about how America rules and China sucks, and partly because I enjoy the spectacle of world-class athletes demonstrating their abilities in the world's premier international sporting competition. Unfortunately, some of the specific sports involved don't really do it for me. While I'm always good for a few ardent cries of "U! S! A!" and diplomatic sentiments like "That's what you get for hating freedom, you pinko human rights violators!" and "SUCK ON IT, FOREIGNERS!," I find that my nationalistic chauvinism loses a little steam while trying to get excited about shit like archery or judo.
I certainly respect the fact that the abilities of the athletes competing in these sports are light years beyond mine, and I don't mean to diminish their prowess at their sports. Obviously if I were to attempt to outfence the Olympic rapier team I'd be summarily stabbed. However, a lot of these sports are a total snorefest to watch. I get so bored that I even forget to root obnoxiously for America, and that's when I know it's time to change the channel and watch a rerun of "Project Runway" or get a little hot Mark Schlereth action on "Inside the NFL."
Archery: If this sport included more Lord of the Rings-type stuff, like dudes climbing up the sides of massive elephants to shoot entire squadrons of wild-eyed Haradrim from the southlands prior to taking out the elephant itself and sliding down its trunk while it collapses in its death throes as a final display of showmanship and finesse, I'd be more into it. Unfortunately, Olympic archery is just a bunch of balding dudes standing around shooting at a target. They don't even do that arrow-splitting thing that Robin Hood used to pull off. Unless archery is changed to involve either something like that, elves from Middle Earth, or Ted Nugent stalking a bunch of elk around some remote Michigan forest, I want no part of it.
Canoeing/Flatwater Kayaking: The only thing more lame than doing competitive rowing is doing it in a CANOE. Unless your name is Meriwether Lewis or William Clark, I am not going to be impressed by any feats of canoeing. Call me when you get involved with a real sport that Boy Scouts don't get merit badges for learning.
Equestrian: Having long gotten over the horse-craziness many girls experience during their prepubescent years, I could give a fuck about how well bitches in jodhpurs can trot a horse around a stable. They need to add a rodeo event or an actual RACE or something to spice up the snorefest that is dressage.
Fencing: I'd normally love anything that involves sabers and swordfighting, because those things remind me of pirates. Unfortunately, fencing doesn't involve wearing plumed hats, carrying a blunderbuss for show, or doing any sort of swashbuckling. Instead, fencing appears to be about wearing an outfit that looks like a cross between Hannibal Lecter's anti-cannibalism muzzle and Bender from "Futurama," and they always stop people from actually stabbing each other. That kind of takes all the fun out of swordfighting, if you ask me.
Judo: It's like wrestling, except MORE boring. I don't care if this is a martial art; two seconds of judo make me wish I were at a tax seminar.
Marathon: On Saturday, I went out drinking, and while I waited for my companion in this laudable pursuit to arrive, I was watching the Olympics on the bar TV. The women's marathon was on. I got bored after about thirty seconds, when I realized there was still another three fucking hours of endurance running. I appreciate the physical feat of running 26.2 miles in just a few short hours, but that shit is not fun to watch. Showing the last minute of the race and briefing me about anyone who threw up or died en route to the finish line is perfectly adequate marathon coverage as far as I'm concerned. I got so bored with what LL Cool Jew referred to as "SNORE...running in panties." I turned my attention to the preseason Jets-Redskins game, which wasn't so much a football game as a testament to how many of the (pitiful) Jets fans in attendance already forked over cash for "Jet Favre" jerseys. You know you're in trouble when two of your favorite sporting events are on TV (Olympics and NFL football), and the overriding thought in your mind is "I hope the camera pans over to the Redskins bench so I can feast my eyes on Seahawks legend Jim Zorn."
Rhythmic gymnastics: I am staunchly opposed to any "sport" that involves ribbon twirling. The only reason to watch gymsnatchtits is watching freakishly built children perform feats of agility and athleticism that seem physically impossible. Replacing said impressive gymnastic moves with balls and sashes defeats the entire purpose.
Rowing: This should be fun, because it's a race, but I always hated crew people. My high school ex-girlfriend rowed crew, and not only was she a really shitty girlfriend, I hung out with her "crew people" in college once. They ROYALLY sucked on account of attending Harvard, and being snobs about being on the fucking Harvard sculling team or whatever. The best part of that night was watching my ex-girlfriend puke into a Harvard Coop bag while getting shafted by the dumb bitch she was drunk dialing. Karmic reward is sweet, but crew is not. The Smith crew lesbians weren't any better. They were always whining about those of us engaged in the sports of alcoholism and revelry about how they had to get up at 5 a.m. for practice. I would tell them to either fuck off and go stay at their girlfriends' lame dorm where people drink a nip peach schnapps once a month (and that's on a crazy month) and are generally more silent than a room full of deaf-mutes, or tell them they should have thought about the fact they were in college before they joined the crew team. Sometimes I'd blow a lungful of Parliament Light smoke in their faces because I'm an asshole like that. Crew sucks.
Sailing: I guess the WASPs who don't get into tennis have to have some sport to compete in. Nonetheless, I can't get behind any "sport" that involves wearing Nautica clothes and topsiders.
Soccer: Soccer (which I refuse to and will NEVER refer to as "football") is the stupidest sport on earth, and it is a testament to America's greatness that most of us here in the United States of Asskickery could give two shits about it. Who needs to get with a sport that is every European's favorite thing? Europe blows.
Shooting: I love guns, so I SHOULD like shooting. However, it's not only a bunch of shooting at targets rather than game trophies, terrorists, or mutant aliens, the commentators always get really hung up on how to do use guns safely. I can sum that up in one sentence: IT'S CALLED A SAFETY, morons. Don't point the gun at your competitor when that's off, and voila! Safe gun use. Get over it.
Tae kwon do: Wait, they DON'T actually beat the shit out of each other during a tae kwon do contest? I thought they were supposed to "sweep the leg" and "put him in a body bag," all the while having "no mercy." At least that's what I learned from the Kobra Kai dojo. Unfortunately, real Olympic karate or whatever doesn't involve anything like that, or any ass-kicking at all. It's more about shit like "form." Who cares?
Wrestling: I normally like latently homoerotic sports in which grown, usually aggressively heterosexual men writhe around in singlets, but unless there is trash-talking and some member of the McMahon family involved, I get bored quickly. In "serious" Olympic wrestling, there isn't a whole lot of trash talking save that Swedish guy who renounced his bronze medal and stormed off, and there is virtually NO entrance music. In fact, the only time I've cared about an Olympic wrestler is in this context.
Oh, it's true, it's true. The only reason I cared about Kurt Angle's Olympic gold was they gave him ample cause to continually replay his awesome entrance music circa 2001 and throw a hissy fit about fans who chanted "you suck!" to it in spite of his ascending the medal podium in Atlanta. I mean, come on, his name is Kurt Angle, and what the heck...he won a gold medal and it's around his neck! Olympic wrestling should have more of that hotness.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, NFL football, Olympics, sportsmen
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Daily Douchebag: dumb dyke-alike lesbians offended by me
DOB: looked to me like around 1984
Occupation: getting offended
Hometown: probably somewhere in the Midwest that allowed them to develop such massive chips on their shoulders
Current residence: I'm going to take a wild guess and say Park Slope, Brooklyn, New York
Douchebaggery: The other night, I attended my usual Tuesday night bar trivia (where my team took the top prize for the second week in a row–HOLLA!). Next to our barside table, a pair of lesbians had bellied up to play trivia with the bartender's assistance. I took one look at these bitches and knew I wasn't going to like them. I obviously had no problem with the fact that they're gay, as I've got my own reserved seat at the sushi bar. I knew I wouldn't like them because of the type of lesbian they both were, which I know well from Smith College. They both looked like they were having a Hoegaarden to prefunk for a Dolores O'Riordan impersonator convention and were regarding everyone with the same insufferably condescending expression, as if any moment they were about to break out with a furious passive-voice tirade about everyone else's heteronormative ideals. They were the kind of dykes who act like they invented lesbianism, and treat their queerness as their sole distinguishing trait. They were so into clubbing everyone over the head with their politicized muff-diving inclinations that their trivia team was even cleverly named "The Lesbians."
After destroying The Lesbians at trivia, we turned our attention to Olympic women's gymsnatchtits. I started going off about my desire to do the nasty with Nastia Liukin, and discussed her merits versus LL Cool Jew's designated crush Alicia Sacramone. When these ladies both fucked up their floor routines, I said something like, "Don't worry, ladies, you can find comfort by sticking your faces in each other's twats back at the athlete's village." At this point, Lesbian #1 leaned over to me and demanded, "Excuse me, but are you a lesbian?" I could tell that she was about to call me a homophobe if I answered in the negative.
"I'm bisexual," I said bitchily. "WHY?"
Lesbian #1 didn't give any answer for demanding to know my sexual orientation prior to bitching at me for making assumptions about Alicia Sacramone's pussy-eating predilections. Instead, she turned to Lesbian #2 and exchanged a flurry of scathing whispers. They were probably thrown, as on one hand, they couldn't call me a homophobe since I just freely admitted that I eat at the clam bake. On the other, they probably didn't consider me a wholly legitimate gay person since I allow evil men to pollute my sacred female space with their patriarchal penises. I shrugged and went back to addressing the Sapphic sexual practices of Team USA, after underscoring my bisexuality by making out with CuteClothes for their viewing pleasure (and my personal gratification...CuteClothes is a hot-ass bitch.)
The Lesbians settled their tab and prepared to leave. As they were stomping out, Lesbian #2 said (while walking quickly past) to me, "Just so you know, what you were saying was, like, really offensive." Then she tried to keep walking.
Oh no the bitch didn't just try to give me an ambulatory dressing-down! I wasn't having that, so I said, "No, HOLD UP, bitch. You don't get to just walk away from that. That offends ME. What the fuck business do you have being offended by what I'm saying? I wasn't even talking to you!"
"You can't just talk about whether those women are lesbians. You have no right to discuss lesbian issues in a straight bar!"
I don't have the right to discuss lesbian issues in a straight bar? Last time I checked the Bill of Rights, there weren't any exceptions to the First Amendment specifying that, especially considering these twats wore their lesbianism like a damn power suit. "That's pretty awesome coming from a bitch who named her trivia team 'The Lesbians'!" I retorted.
"That's different," she said. "We were being funny!"
"And I wasn't?" Sha right. I'm way funnier than these humorless cunts. "I see...only YOU and your dyke-alike are allowed to talk about gay chicks in this 'straight bar.' That makes a lot of sense. You're not only dumb, you're also a hypocrite! That offends ME."
This didn't go over well. Probably my use of the word "dyke," pointing out her hypocrisy, and implying that she wasn't smart all combined to make this professionally angry bitch REALLY mad. She unleashed a torrent of roundabout "like, that is so wrong" gender politics babble, and eventually implied that since I was sitting at a table of three other heterosexual chicks and one dude, I was not in a position to discuss the taboo topic of hot girl-on-girl.
"Really? A table full of straight girls, huh?" I turned to my table. "Ladies, raise your hand if you are gay." I thrust my hand in the air, and was joined in asserting my enthusiasm for pussy by CuteClothes and Twathopper. "See, I have more lesbians in my entourage than you do. I guess nobody told us we aren't allowed to mention it here in this 'straight bar.'"
Lesbian #2 couldn't argue with our numbers, so she instead changed the subject to the fact that she thinks I'm a chauvinist pig. "You were talking about those women like OBJECTS. Sexuality is a very powerful and complex blah blah blah blah...and you were just, like, CHEAPENING it. That's just what men do!"
I was about to snap back that I love men and she would hardly be the first to point out my many masculine qualities, but at that point the bartender told us to break it up. "Alright, Sappho, back to Brooklyn with you," I said. "We can continue this next week if you deign to leave the Isle of Lesbos for these straighter pastures so we can kick your flat ass in trivia again."
"Oh, WE'LL BE BACK!" she shot at me, and grabbed her girlfriend and stormed out.
"I look forward to it!" I shouted after her. I really do look forward to her return. I used to get in arguments with uppity women's studies lesbians who needed to be taken down a peg all the time back at Smith, and it's been too long since I've had a good old-fashioned Razzy Crude Cussout versus Queer Studies Gibberish smackdown. Please come back to the Joshua Tree next Tuesday so I can own you again, Tegan and Sara!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, lezbollah, ranting, retard rage
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Tori Spelling AGAIN
DOB: May 16, 1973
Occupation: reality TV whore, deluded former Donna Martin
Hometown: Beverly Hills, California
Current residence: Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: The gossip internets informed me yesterday that Tori Spelling pulled out of the new "90210" series yesterday in a huff because she was going to make less money per episode than fellow OG Bev Niner alums Jennie Garth and Shannen Doherty. Apparently Tori feels that her dedication to theatercraft (primarily Lifetime movies and a series of appalling reality shows detailing her marriage to that fug Canadian guy) since turning in her Donna Martin midriff-baring baby tees merits more than $10-20K per appearance. She demanded the $30-50K per episode that Kelly Taylor and Brenda Walsh are getting and the producers refused, so she told them something along the lines of, "Have it your way, CW. Let's just see how your little '90210' remake fares without Donna Martin uglying up every episode. Those new kids aren't going to be shopping at Now Wear This anytime soon! Dean and I are just going to take our hellspawn and film more of the unwatchable minutiae of our stomach-churning married life for the Oxygen network! That'll learn you!"
Good thinking, Tori. I'm sure that the loathsome "Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood" is going to be WAY better for your career. Undoubtedly the handful of obese Bichon Frise-stroking fags and gunt-laden housewives watching Oxygen are a far more powerful demographic than the "Gossip Girl" audience. And I'm sure that myself and all my Bev Niner-obsessed friends will really, really miss not having to listen to Donna Martin blaming her constant abject stupidity on dyslexia or vacillate about losing her virginity. I'm already composing an angry missive to the brass at CW, except said correspondence is mainly complaining that they didn't get rid of your ridiculous ass soon enough.
I would be on board with a Donna Martin return on one condition: her character only was involved in absurd situations like the unintentionally hilarious scene where she is discovered by a model scout in Paris thanks to her seductive pastry-eating skills.
While I did shout "Je suis American, and if you don't like it, too bad!" at Alain Bernard the other night during the Olympics, providing accidental comedy was Tori Spelling's primary contribution to the original Bev Niner. Unless Donna Martin was going to return to wear physically restricting prom dresses and Halloween costumes, get drunk off three sips of champagne at prom, catch David Silver banging Babyface's manager in a limo, get slapped around by her loser boyfriend Ray Pruit in Palm Springs, almost die in a brush fire trying to rescue a baby deer, save herself from certain rape by Garrett Slant by calling David Silver "Dave," deliver weather forecasts that match her belly shirt, fight off her stalker Evan Potter by feigning a passionate kiss, and develop a pain pill-and-merlot addiction, I am not interested in seeing any more of Donna Martin. When Donna wasn't doing something completely ludicrous and idiotic, she was basically a waste of space. I would way rather see Kelly Taylor resume her slutty boyfriend-stealing ways and Brenda Walsh open a can of hysterically self-righteous bitchery all over anyone who crosses her path, be it the aforementioned boyfriend-stealing Kelly Taylor or a group of researchers studying sudden infant death syndrome in cats.
Tori Spelling needs a reality check as to her status in the pantheon of Bev Niner greatness. There's a reason why she was always toward the bottom of the credits. In the first few seasons, she even came behind Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman in terms of billing. She only moved up the ranks when the likes of Joe E. Tata, Vincent Young, and Daniel Cosgrove joined the cast. Poorly played, Tori. Poorly played, indeed.
Labels: Bev Niner, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, media whores, sluts, TV
Monday, August 11, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Alain Bernard
DOB: May 1, 1983
Occupation: Olympic swimmer, un-backing-up shit talker
Hometown: Aubagne, France
Current residence: the ignonimy of defeat, Beijing, China
Douchebaggery: I have spent so much time rooting against China that I've forgotten that there are plenty of other countries whose asses I'd like America to summarily kick, as well. One of the leaders among my most-hated foreign nations is France. Apart from producing some solid wine, cheese, pepper steak, baguettes, inspiration for my boy Chopin to compose some of his greatest piano works, and part of the backdrop for my favorite Hemingway novel, France leads Europe in the garnering of my disdain. I can't stand the snotty, entitled attitude that the French are famous for, and nothing brings out my inner uncouth asshole redneck American like a Frenchman waxing on about how culturally superior his country is. One time, back when I lived in Seattle, I was at this pretentious bar with a couple of my coworkers and was making fun of how another colleague used to show off his high school French–or at least his over-the-top French accent–whenever he called one of our collaborators in France.
"And zen, Docteur So-and-So, yeu will spectratype ze T cells, oui? J'adore yeur deft analeesees of our samples, cheri," I was saying, while my coworkers laughed. The guy sitting next to us at the bar overheard, and butted in.
"I am Française," he said bitchily. "Zis ees exactly why we zink Americaines are steupeed eediots." He gave me a look like, "DAMN, I just owned you, Americaine swine!" Bad idea.
"Oh, really? Well, if you don't like it, none of us will stop you from going back to France. In fact, that would be preferable, since that way we won't have to endure your rude butting in to our conversation."
The French guy just glared at me and rolled his eyes. I wasn't having it. Time to break out my favorite anti-French insult. It's clichéd, but like blue jeans, Coca-Cola, or blow jobs, it never goes out of style.
"Don't give me that 'oh, you crude American' eye roll, Pierre. If it weren't for us, your ass would be speaking German right now." At that point the French guy decided he'd had enough, and promptly began ignoring us. I started telling obnoxious French jokes loudly to my coworker friends, who were enjoying the whole spectacle. "Why are French tanks equipped with rearview mirrors? So they can see the battle," I said. French guy settled his tab and left shortly thereafter. I win again and as usual!
Anyway, very few things satisfy me more than putting an overconfident Frenchman in his place, and I'm glad the U.S. men's Olympic swimming team could do just that. Apparently, one of the few things France is good at besides insufferable condescension is men's swimming. As I would expect from an athlete originating in the country where the word "douche" originated, one of the guys from Team France decided to dismissively shit-talk Team USA's prospects in the 4x100 m relay. "The Americans?" said French swimmer Alain Bernard. "We're going to smash them. That's what we came here for." That's some serious dick-swinging being done by a lead singer-of-Coldplay-looking man who has to rely on a shark tattoo to butch himself up.
Alain should have taken some lessons from other incidences of "we will crush you" shit-talking that backfired hard. Once Roy Williams of the Detroit Lions foolishly vowed to crush the Chicago Bears after they opened the season losing 9-6 to the Seahawks, after adding, "it was stupid how close we were to putting forty points on the board." The vaunted 2006 Lions went on to lose 34-6 to Chicago. In another incident, then-Seahawks tight-end Jerramy Stevens made some comments prior to Super Bowl XL, saying, "It's going to be a sad day when (Jerome Bettis) doesn't walk off the field with that trophy." To this day, I blame Jerramy Stevens's hubris almost as much as I blame Bill Leavy's heavily Steeler-biased officiating for a day that lives in infamy with 12th Men everywhere. There are countless instances of some player firing off his mouth and then getting spanked for it when it matters, and if Alain Bernard weren't so busy looking down his elitist French nose at Team USA, he might have considered that prior to giving our guys some motivation.
Not only did Team USA take the gold in the 4x100 relay, they completely owned Alain Bernard and his compatriots in the process. It appeared that going into the final 100 meters, France was winning. Luckily Jason Lezak wasn't about to let Alain Bernard or the French-held world record in this event get in his way. He made up America's lost time and kicked Alain Bernard's ass in the final 50 meters and set a world record for relay split swimming in the process. To add extra sweetness to the victory, the record Lezak broke was Bernard's. Suck on that, Alain Bernard and France. USA! U! S! A! U! S! A!
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, Olympics, overcompensation, sportsmen, United States of Asskickery
Friday, August 08, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Brett Favre AGAIN
DOB: October 10, 1969
Occupation: brand spanking OLD New York Jets quarterback
Hometown: Kiln, Mississippi
Current residence: house hunting somewhere around the Meadowlands
Douchebaggery: While I loved some of the plot twists in the whole sordid scandal concerning Brett Favre's unretirement (like the Machiavellian schemes of the Minnesota Vikings to flirt with Brett Favre on the sly using a Packers-issued cell phone and the Packers' subsequent desperate attempts to give him a $20 million pension if only he'd stay back home on his tractor), I am incredibly unhappy with the ultimate outcome. I'm tired of Brett Favre. I'm tired of hearing commentators rave about his "gunslinger mentality" and his stupid consecutive starting record. I was so glad last March when made my entire spring by announcing that he was leaving professional football amidst a deluge of man tears. I was weeping tears of joy.
Unfortunately, my delirious ecstasy regarding the No Favre League was fleeting. Brett changed his mind within a few short months, and the next thing I know, I'm waking up to THIS on the covers (front and back) of my local papers:
The media frenzy of reporting on every last bit of minutiae concerned Favre's initiation into Gang Green is nothing, however, compared to the marketing onslaught already in full force. I found THIS in my e-mail inbox within two hours of the announcement that he was coming to the Meadowlands, primarily to annoy me but also apparently to replace the perenially dismal Chad Pennington and supposedly save the Jets from yet another year of crushing failure.
Since when have I been a Jets fan? I can't recall a single time I've given a rat's ass about the Jets except to curse Laveranues Coles viciously with every breath two years ago when he proved to be one of the most lackluster receivers ever to start for my usually awesome Fantasy team. Since 99.99999% of my NFLshop.com purchases have been Seahawks paraphernalia, I can only assume that NFLshop.com thought I would be interested because my mailing address is in New York. Then again, I know that NFLshop.com really needs to step up its consumer targeting practices, since they had the audacity to send me a catalog of Pittsburgh Steelers Super Bowl XL commemorative regalia. I wouldn't even wipe my ass with a Terrible Towel, and the one pair of Steelers underwear I own (purchased on sale a good 5 years prior to the travesty occurring at Ford Field in 2006) is strictly reserved for period use only. I don't want to see anything from those assholes in my inbox, save maybe an announcement declaring that neon green Deion Branch receiver gloves are half off.
Brett Favre's only been here one day, and already I'm over it. I am praying to St. Sebastian (patron saint of athletes) that Brett Favre breaks his pinky in week 1 and spends the rest of the season being crucified Chad Pennington style by the New York media for being a pussy.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, NFL football, retard rage
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Daniel Henry Plant
Name: Daniel Henry Plant
DOB: ???
Occupation: bullshit excuse-employing pedophile
Hometown: the delightful (except by "delightful," I mean "redneck timber industry shithole") log-processing Oregon border town of Longview, Washington
Current residence: Clallam Bay Corrections Facility, Clallam Bay, Washington
Douchebaggery: HotLawyer was going about his daily business of reading Washington State Appellate Court decisions, found this gem, and requested a good old-fashioned douchebagging of the appellant. This appeal was made by one Mr. Daniel Henry Plant, a drunken creep who didn't agree with the jury of his peers that convicted him of first-degree child molestation. His appeal was denied, and to save you the trouble of deciphering the legalese about the case law for the basis of the appeal's failure, I will quickly translate: motherfucker used the most bullshit excuses of all time for trying to fingerbang a six-year-old.
According to the decision, Mr. Plant showed up at his friend's house after killing a few too many wine coolers. The friend agreed to let his wasted ass stay over, and invited him to climb into bed with her and her six-year-old daughter. Instead of quietly passing out in front of a movie, he started trying to convince the friend to fuck him and kept feeling up the little girl. Though the friend kept refusing what I'm sure were incredibly tempting offers of sexual congress, Mr. Plant didn't get the hint. He exposed himself and then, when it became apparent the friend wasn't interested in banging some dude with her daughter in bed with her, he turned his attention to the kid. The mother was alerted that something was up when her daughter told Plant "don't" in a serious manner, and threw back the covers. At that point, Plant withdrew his grabby hands guiltily from the girl's crotch, and the mother threw him out. The daughter then told her mother he'd been diddling her.
The girl explained that he touched her "pee" and that it was both unwelcome and painful. To add an extra shuddering jolt of revulsion, the police chick who investigated the case noticed that all his fingernails were sharpened to a point. As a sexually active adult with a thoroughly broken-in vagina, I can attest that long nails–much less ones intentionally honed into raptor-like talons–cause sufficient ouchiness to render digital action completely miserable and unpleasant. I can only imagine how this must have felt for an innocent six-year-old who had already suffered the misfortune of being molested by one of her brothers. In his defense, Plant first said he confused the kid with her mother, who in his mind was begging to have sex with his Blue Hawaiian-sodden self. When the investigator didn't believe that story, he said that he was just "testing" the kid to see if she had been molested...by molesting her. He told the investigator he was "just being professional," because certainly molesting children is used by law enforcement officials and child psychologists as an excellent litmus test for determining whether or not a child has already been sexually violated by a creepy kid-touching degenerate asshole. He then claimed that, while admittedly a poorly conceived plan to provide some sort of sick counseling to the girl, his judgment was impaired because he was drunk. He also claimed that his defense attorney didn't bring this up at trial, and thus had a legitimate appeal against his conviction.
I've done many ill-conceived things while under the influence. Granted, I can't recall a time when I was drunk on Bartles and Jaymes, but I've still done some pretty crazy and sometimes regrettable things. Nonetheless, I've never committed any kind of sexual assault, much less child molestation, no matter how drunk I got. I certainly never attempted to perform some type of perverted genital examination on the grounds of some mysterious "professional" interest. I call bullshit, and so did the appellate judges. They summarily rejected his appeal and sent him to experience the joys of keenly honed objects poking at his orifices in a Washington state prison. Except from what I understand about penitentiary life, sharpened toothbrush handles are more common than manicures, and the Clallam Bay commissary doesn't stock any fruit-flavored hooch to take the edge off.
I take my hat off to the appeals court for telling Daniel Plant's stank pedophile ass to take his shankings (in whatever form) like a man. Wine coolers, no matter how loathsome a beverage for anyone (much less a man) to be intoxicated on, are not magical juice that give a person a sudden desire to play doctor with a six-year-old. Blaming the eminent Misters Bartles and Jaymes for his own inherent nastiness is unfair and hardly grounds for an appeal. Send that bitch to prison, stick his name on the local Megan's Law list, and leave the Seagram's out of it!
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, gross, HotLawyer, kewlness, sexual assault
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Katy Perry
Name: Katheryn Hudson
DOB: October 25, 1984
Occupation: dumbass
Hometown: Santa Barbara, California
Current residence: Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: When I was visiting my friend LL Cool Jew a while back in New Orleans, we were driving around and there was a commercial on the rap station (which in the Crescent City is basically an all-Lil' Wayne channel). "Let's listen to the teenager station!" she said, and changed the channel. Then that "I Kissed a Girl" song came on the radio. LL Cool Jew stopped compulsively twirling her hair and a look of horror came on her face as she listened to the lyrics.
"You're my experimental game?" LL Cool Jew asked. "Is this for fucking real?"
"Dude, this is like the #1 download on iTunes, and it has been for a while," I said.
"It's not what good girls do? I hope my boyfriend don't mind it?!" LL Cool Jew continued, looking progressively more disgusted. "I didn't know exploitive faux lesbianism was the new rebellion!"
"Go figure, dude," I said. "Thanks to Tila Tequila, all the dumb bitches on MySpace are now aware that making out with chicks is a great way to get guys' attention."
LL Cool Jew continued to shake her head with a look of stern disapproval on her face (thank God she didn't hear Katy Perry's OTHER song, "Ur So Gay"), and cleansed our musical palette by switching back to the Lil' Wayne channel. She's also not the first of my friends to find Katy Perry's ode to dyke-to-be-liked offensive. FalloniusMonk summed it up perfectly. "Enough of this Katy Perry horseshit. This isn't about Chapstick. It's about pussy."
I think that myself and all my friends with an ounce of gayness are deeply annoyed that a former gospel singer like Katy Perry has appropriated lesbianism as some kind of cheap ploy for attention. Although I generally bust on lezzies regularly and act very cavalier about my predilection for some hot girl-on-girl, being (partially) gay is still a struggle sometimes. When I was trying to cope with being a lesbian teenager in Catholic school, I read a lot of (Smith alumna) Sylvia Plath and filled about fifty notebooks with appalling poetry and spent a lot of time crying. I felt like a freak and my psychotic ex-girlfriend did little to make coming to terms with my sexuality any easier. Even as an adult, it took me a long time to admit to being bisexual, and sometimes that is still difficult to explain to people. Hearing Katy Perry sing about it like it's a fucking trucker hat or a vintage t-shirt or some other lame edgy hipster accessory makes me want to smack a bitch for her audacity.
What I think is even more irksome is the fact that all the kiddies have latched onto Katy Perry's "Look at me, I made out with some random chick" schtick like it's some kind of anthem for nonconformist rebellion. An entire generation of Ramones shirt-wearing emo assholes now think that dyking out is tantamount to Manic Panic hair dye or studded belts in terms of showing their boyfriends how fucking original and countercultural they are. Memo to Katy Perry: you are not Kathleen Hanna, and you're not doing lesbians any favors with your bullshit. You are a disingenuous, fake-ass bitch, and you make it harder for those of us who not only like kissing girls, but like fucking them too. Furthermore, you haven't discovered anything new or groundbreaking. You've just popularized what pornographers have known for years. Most guys like watching girls hook up with other girls. It's not novel or unique, and it only serves to teach the knuckle-dragging fucktards who listen to Z100 that it's acceptable to trivialize lesbianism for the sake of obnoxious attention whoredom.
I have no problem with people experimenting sexually, or talking about it. What I do have a problem with is Katy Perry taking decades of struggles for gay rights and reducing it to the MTV audience's equivalent of a wrestling gimmick. Until she writes a song called "I Ate a Pussy," Katy Perry needs to go back to shopping at Hot Topic and shut the fuck up.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, lezbollah, retard rage, sluts
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Richard Cooey
DOB: 1967?
Occupation: death row inmate
Hometown: Akron, Ohio
Current residence: Southern Ohio Correctional Facility, Lucasville, Ohio
Douchebaggery: By all accounts, Richard Cooey's offenses go beyond mere douchebaggery to utter reprehensibility. In 1986, he was drinking beer with some high school buddies and dropping basketball-sized chunks of concrete off a freeway overpass onto random cars. When one of these concrete chunks disabled a car driven by two female students, this Larry the Cable Guy doppelganger and his fellow Bad Samaritans offered them assistance. Instead of a ride for help, Richard and one of his pals drove the women to a secluded area, took turns raping them, and then, when Richard used his friend's name by asking him to "put on the Bad Company tape" (because "Rock and Roll Fantasy" is apparently a great jam for committing rape at knifepoint), they murdered their victims by strangling and stabbing them. Richard was convicted and sentenced to death, and since then he's been squeezing every last drop of time out of the appellate process.
While his crimes are reason enough to warrant my total and eternal disdain, I further loathe Richard Cooey for his latest attempt to avoid the needle. Specifically, he's claiming that he's too fucking FAT to be executed! Apparently, his morbid obesity makes it difficult to find a vein, and this will violate his Eighth Amendment rights. I disagree with the death penalty, and apart from my philosophical issues regarding our judicial system's right to take a person's life no matter how reprehensible their crimes, I can't fathom how it's fair to execute a mentally retarded person but NOT some fat asshole. It's not like some person with diminished capacity can change, but a porky motherfucker like Richard Cooey can certainly be forced onto a damn treadmill and issued two Slim-Fasts and a sensible dinner from the prison mess.
How does one get fat in prison anyway? I've seen "Oz" and those MSNBC "Lockdown" shows. If there's one thing that prisons always have, it's a well-equipped weight room. Apparently Richard just sat on his progressively expanding ass during death row exercise hour, and stuffed his face at the Ohio taxpayers' expense. Now he's just as fat as many of his law-abiding fellow Ohioans, and is going to evade what their state considers justice because of his unabashed gluttony. In fact, if his sentence is commuted to life in prison, the people of Ohio will be paying his undoubtedly astronomical medical bills for the next however many years of his life.
I've gotten some shit in the past for being "size-ist." In fact, after I berated some Smith bitch for her obnoxious "big, beautiful blog," she went so far as to remove it from the internets altogether (the domain has since turned into a gateway to chubby chasing porn sites). The only time I can recall I've ever changed my mind about fucking a guy in the middle of sex was when I suddenly sobered up and realized that he was morbidly obese, and I haven't banged a truly fat dude since. Fat people just piss me off, because at the end of the day, they can do something about their condition, yet I'm the one who needs to amend my life to work around their personal choice. I don't like being told that I'm a discriminatory asshole because I don't like accommodating the slow motherfuckers waddling slowly up the subway stairs in front of me, or because I hate it when someone's cellulite rolls spill over my armrest into my airline seat, or because I resent having to wait at my corner bodega while a dude argues with the deli guy about why it costs more to put an additional half-pound of Boar's Head ham on his sandwich. I know that fat people are human beings too. They're LAZY human beings who would rather everyone else go out of their way to accommodate their choice not to make a few relatively simple lifestyle choices, and I reserve my right to be annoyed at their space-occupying, slowness, and lack of sex appeal.
Therefore, I don't give a damn if anyone thinks I'm insensitive, boorish, or "size-ist" for hating an entirely loathsome rapist murderer trying to avoid justice via obesity. If the prison doctor can't find a vein on Richard Cooley, I say fry his fat ass instead.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, fat fucks
Monday, August 04, 2008
Daily Douchebag: pussy-fiending anonymous commenter CREEPS WHO THREATEN ME
Name: anonymous
DOB: ????
Occupation: creeping me the fuck out
Hometown: ???
Current residence: the IP address originated from Reston, Virginia, but that doesn't mean anything...it could be anywhere
Douchebaggery: I'm used to getting comments from people bitching about how I haven't posted pictures of my fucking cooze even though months ago I said that eventually I would get around to doing so. I think that, while I've got great tits, the rest of me is just okay-looking, so it's very flattering that some of my readers think I'm such a hot piece and would like to jerk it to the total package. However, while I do enjoy a nice ego-stroking, I also reserve the right to exercise a little discretion when it comes to disclosing visuals of my vagina, and that discretion has been built on some of the uncomfortable and sometimes downright creepy requests and demands to see said gash.
I realize I am VERY forward and honest about myself–both physically and with regard to my personal life–on this website, and that such requests come with the territory. I accept that, and I don't mind when readers remind me that they'd like to see the whole enchilada. However, whether or not I show myself full-frontal is my decision, and I've just never been completely comfortable with doing that the same way I show pictures of my breasts. I thought I was, but every time I go to post it, I realize that I'm just not okay with it. I know that this sounds uncharacteristically prudish coming from someone who probably has fifty pictures of her tits on the internets, but...well, there's a big difference between my tits and my twat. I know that I already have a picture of me fully naked on this site, but frankly, Kate and Camilla do a way better job taking full-body nudes with their professional photography equipment than I do with my webcam, and at the end of the day, I'm just not very comfortable having a twat shot on every archive page of this website. Even shameless sluts like myself have their limits, and I guess this is mine. Besides, as my photography skills have been criticized in the past for bad lighting, amateurish composition, and general lack of artistry, it's not like any self-portraits of my cooch are going to be that great anyway.
Sometimes the insistence of the demands for a gander at my cho-cha is so strong that it becomes disturbing to me. Again, I realize I promised this and I am fine when people remind me that I did so. I appreciate each and every reader I have, and I am flattered by the interest. However, it's a much different story when people assume that, in lieu of my publishing pictures of my pussy, I owe them something else. I've gotten a couple e-mails suggesting that if I don't want to show my pussy online, maybe I should go to so-and-so's apartment and show them personally, and then fuck them on top of that for my negligence. Usually I just don't respond, because guess what? I don't CARE if I promised halfheartedly on my website to show you the goods...you don't get to demand sex or a private show or anything else on account of my reserving the right to CHANGE MY MIND ABOUT MY OWN FUCKING GENITALIA AND PUBLIC DISPLAYS THEREOF. However, yesterday I was greatly unnerved when Friday's excuse/topless pic received a comment that went from annoying insistence to a straight-up threat (complete with shitty grammar):
Your a fucking liar, YOU BITCH!!!!!!!!
Months and months ago you promised to show us all you're pussy and there are alot of us who have come back waiting for this day. Instead you FLAGGRANTLY IGNORE when I remind you and just keep up with these halfassed tit pictures (and see comment above, this last one is like you did event ry!)
I for one am sick and tired of waiting and waiting for you to make good on your promise and show what you got going on down there. Your funny its true but how many people do you think really read this for the articals? Thats what my dad used to say about his Playboys but its not like he really read any of it.
If you know what's good for you you will hurry up and do like you said LIKE YOU PROMISED. Or else maybe someone will come to collect like it or not you liar ass bitch. Just kidding or am i...???????????
All of you who have been relating a paraphrased version of Levell "David Banner" Crump's mantra "since you're so hot, fuck it, show your pussy lips" can now thank this Anonymous for ensuring that this will never happen. I do not appreciate being threatened with someone coming to forcibly view my nether regions. I don't care if I promised, either. I DO have the right to change my mind about publicly exhibiting something as personal as my own goddamned vagina, and suggesting that I hurry up with that "if (I) know what's good for (me)" is not going to do anything besides guarantee that I will never do so again. If I were talking to a guy in a bar and made some joke about flashing him, then decided not to, and he forced me to expose myself, that would be FELONY FUCKING SEXUAL ASSAULT. Making threats about forcing me to do this over the internet is no different, and as I know from experience how quickly things can go from online comments to someone showing up at my doorstep to rape me, I don't take these things lightly. Future comments of this nature will merit a police report, and whoever wrote this should be aware that doing this over the internets is a federal crime.
Furthermore, I'd like to know what kind of degenerate comes here to not read "the articals." It's not like I'm trying to emulate Playboy. Most of what I post are "articals," not jerk-off pictures. This website is admittedly dedicated to "useless bullshit," NOT nude self-portraits, and if you would rather see naked chicks than "halfassed tit pictures," how about you go to a site dedicated to peddling smut? There are approximately 8 million of these out there, and most of them feature chicks who are way hotter than me and make a living showing off their uncensored pussies. Seriously, I strongly suggest that whoever wrote this consider whether they wish to have the FBI show up at their door (and probably meet with the fury of all the angry pussy-fiending freakaholic Razzyphiles whose chances at viewing my poon have just been shattered for all eternity), or just move on to a different site where there are plenty of bitches showing off what they've "got going on down there." If it's a cunt you want, then read any of my "Daily Douchebag" entries. If it's a literal picture of one you want, go somewhere else, because thanks to Anonymous, that isn't happening in the near future, if ever.
Thus, my apologies for breaking a "promise." I usually pride myself on being a bitch of my word, but when my vacillating over something as personal as showing off my cooch gets this kind of reaction out of someone, my own feeling of comfort and safety has to take precedence. I hope all the other pussy-fiending Razzyphiles will continue to read and enjoy what I have to offer beyond images of my naughty parts. I work hard to keep the non-NSFW parts of this website as entertaining as useless bullshit can be, and I hope that you will continue to appreciate that in spite of my rescinding my offer of crotch cam shots. I promise now to make up for it by continuing to write useless bullshit to the best of my ability, and I sincerely thank those of you who will stick around for your understanding.
Labels: crazies, Daily Douchebag, retard rage, scathing indictments, sexual assault
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Justin Timberlake
Name: Justin Randall Timberlake
DOB: January 31, 1981
Occupation: a fashion maven in his own deluded mind
Hometown: Shelby Forest, Tennessee
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I used to like JT back in the day. I thought *NSYNC was hilarious (although Joey the Fatone was really my favorite of all the guys) and I've been known to slay "Bye Bye Bye" in karaoke after a few cocktails. I also enjoyed Justin's solo work...until every girly girl in the world decided that he was the second coming of Elvis and forced me to endure an endless spinning of Future Sex/Love Sounds. Even though that shit is like two years old, it's STILL the only thing my friend MillerTime listens to in her car. And after my friend Wmania's bachelorette party, she insisted that we all dance to "Love Stoned" in her condo SEVERAL times. "Oh my GOD, dude, this song is like, the greatest song ever. It is SO HOT. How can you not like this?" she kept asking. LL Cool Jew and I just sat on the couch drinking beer and bitching about the Justin Timberlake-playing meat market club we had just escaped, where we were hit on by Karl Rove's nephew (or some prominent neo-con's nephew, I can't remember who because I was trying to drink the pain of the whole incident away).
Girls who love Sex and the City love Justin Timberlake and think he's hot. I think he's a testicularly challenged one-trick pony who bit David Silver's style and sings like a girl. Trust that my twat doesn't get all tingly when he shows up in his trucker hat to warble in the falsetto register and act like he's the first genius who decided to wear a wife beater. As a matter of fact, given his latest asshole comments to the press, I would not be surprised if he took credit for inventing that treasured bit of white trash couture either.
Apparently, JT decided to start beef with notorious COOLPIX camera pranking, manpri-sporting, "matchy matchy" douchebag fashionista extraordinaire Ashton Kutcher over who started the fucking TRUCKER HAT craze of 2003. In a recent interview, Justin said the following:
It's funny, I keep hearing Ashton Kutcher say how he was responsible for trucker caps. Me and my friend Trace Ayala were wearing them when we were 17.
WHO TAKES CREDIT FOR STARTING THE TRUCKER HAT FAD??? That's like taking credit for starting the overalls-with-one-strap-undone trend of 1991, or the stirrup-stretch-pants-with-slouch-socks-and-Keds trend of 1987, or the floral-rayon-dress-with-hiking-boots trend of 1994. You don't hear the douchebag who started wearing "Big Johnson" or "Coed Naked" shirts demanding that the public recognize his obnoxious taste in clothes. Even worse, it foments a douche-off between two of the most despicable trendsetters in teen fashion. You know Ashton Kutcher is going to respond with this, probably by some stupid prank that will inspire more eye rolls than laughter, and those of us who suckle celebrity gossip from the internets like beer from a tap will be forced to endure a neverending back-and-forth about who has perpetrated more crimes upon popular dressing.
Furthermore, I beg to differ with Justin's claim that he discovered this amazing fashion accessory when he was 17 (which would have been 1998). I can attest that all my uncles, as well as the majority of red-blooded truck-driving men in Puyallup, Washington were rocking their "CAT" and "John Deere" millinery as long as I can remember. Just because my uncles aren't rocking their forest camouflage "STIHL" gear (which probably came complimentary with their new chainsaw) on any red carpets doesn't mean that they weren't down with the local fashion long before Justin Timberlake ever put on a pair of Mickey Mouse ears. Being that Justin is from a hick town himself, he should know that claiming to have pioneered this look is as intellectually dishonest as claiming he invented double-wides or instructing the masses regarding the pragmatic value of auto parts store-insignia-stamped beer cozies.
Even JT's attempts at being self-deprecating about his tremendous influence on the fashion world are infuriating. Later in the interview, he says, "Honestly, I don't walk out of my house thinking, 'Man, I hope somebody thinks this looks cool!' There's some stuff I wear that people think is not cool." Hmmm...you mean stuff like TRUCKER HATS? Because indeed I don't think that is cool. I think it is a contrived attempt to steal credit for accessories popularized by legendary designers like Jeff Foxworthy and Larry the Cable Guy, and it doesn't score him any points with me that plagiarizing redneck chic is so effortless for Justin. Then again, I would expect nothing less from the knuckle-dragger that gave us the unbelievably annoying term "wardrobe malfunction." His whole life has been a damn wardrobe malfunction. Someone should pop a trucker cap in his ass, already.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, media whores, overcompensation, PWT, ranting, retard rage
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Alexandra Wells and Alyssa Waldrop
DOB: 1986-1990
Occupation: the oldest profession
Hometown: ???
Current residence: a jail cell in Lake Ozark, Missouri
Douchebaggery: The lovely ladies pictured above are both in the family way, and were undoubtedly stressing a little about how to pay the bills once they had another mouth to feed around the house (or possibly, the sleazy no-tell motel room in which they reside). Therefore, with no marketable skills save using buttfuckmissouri.craigslist.org and taking dick, they resorted to a seemingly natural line of work: prostitution.
This in itself isn't all that unusual. What is unusual about them is that their ring consisted entirely of pregnant women, and this was a selling point. While on one hand, I congratulate the ladies on their business acumen for targeting a probably untapped niche market, on the other, I say a big "ew, GROSS!" for catering to a fetish I've never understood. It's probably not a very enlightened thing to say, but I feel like pregnant women are kind of nasty. They have a lot of gas and stretch marks, and they're always pigging out, and I worry that their twats might be...I don't know, weird. When mice get knocked up, they develop a big mucus plug in there, and I'm pretty sure that human mammals do too. SICK!
It also seems like sex with a heavily pregnant chick would be really challenging. You certainly are limited in terms of positions, and I'd be worried about screwing something up. Like, what if you were doing the chick doggystyle and things got crazy and the baby got squished into whatever surface you were doing it on (in this case, a jizz-spattered by-the-hour bed)? I don't know if that can happen, but it seems like you could really fuck up a third trimester fetus by trying some of the positions I assume are part of any decent working girl's repertoire. It seems like you could also really fuck up a dude trying some more adventurous positions. For example, the kind of middle-aged, overweight, out-of-shape dude in a ratty Chiefs sweatshirt that I presume patronizes a heavily pregs rural Missourian hooker could throw his back out if he tried to execute the wheelbarrow and thus support all that weight with his lumbar spine. These hookers were courting danger as well as my symptoms of nausea.
Overall, I'm glad these bitches have ceased mining the internets for pervs interested in pregnant dick. I'm sure their babies will thank them for getting arrested at some point, since they probably are going to have difficult enough childhoods without having to worry about getting a perinatal herpes infection on the way out of their skank moms' high-traffic twats. Eight month pregnant hoes are something that does not need to be on the open pussy market. Justice is served like these bitches' customers won't be.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, gross, oh the horror, sex
Monday, July 28, 2008
Daily Douchebag: bar tabs like this
DOB: July 25, 2008
Occupation: making everybody who had a piece of this seriously consider the extent of their alcoholism
Hometown: our dirty hot waiter's apron at El Rey del Sol
Current residence: the financial ledgers at El Rey del Sol
Douchebaggery: I'm generally a pretty thirsty bar patron, but every once in a while I drink so much alcohol that I even surprise myself. Last Friday night was one of those occasions. My friend JerseyGirl throws these happy hours, primarily because she likes any excuse to make an Evite about getting shitfaced. At almost all of these events, I get wasted and very frequently laid with one of the horny gentlemen working with JerseyGirl in the trenches of cable news production. However, at this most recent occasion, JerseyGirl recently broke up with her boyfriend, I've been stressed to the point of almost getting my old poetry notebook out and scrawling out some appalling verse, Rack's boyfriend TheOldGuy's mom just passed away, and Twathopper's been lamenting her usual incompetence at lesbianism, so this happy hour could be a "quiet night out" with closer friends. There weren't as many random cubicle neighbors Evited as usual.
In hindsight, it was probably a mistake not to throw the usual bar-banger, because instead of leaving early to pork some hot swarthy employee of MSNBC or FOX News, I stayed until the finale when the bill arrived, and I was HAMMERED. I was so drunk that on the way home, I almost fell asleep in the cab, something I've sworn never to do ever since my first year in New York I wound up with a cabdriver who started jerking off on the Henry Hudson where there was no escape for me. With those kind of guys taking drunk bitches home, there's no way I'm going to get unconscious and trust the driver will wake me at my humble tenement rather than in some abandoned alley in the Bronx where he'll rape me and dump my lifeless body for the Special Victims Unit to find. I was so drunk that the simple task of staying semi-conscious was a Herculean feat on the way home. I was really, really drunk.
That's why I was not surprised to recall later that we drank over NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS WORTH OF MARGARITA PITCHERS. I remember being surprised at the time, and raving about "there is NO WAY we drank that much! I'm practically sober!" like the truly delusional drunk-ass bitch I was by the time the waiter closed us out. "NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS?!? Wait, we didn't REALLY drink that much...did we?" Okay, well some of that was the tip and tax, and in fairness we ate a paltry $31 worth of nachos, but otherwise we drank probably literally twenty five extraordinarily stiff pitchers of tequila-based cocktails...among a maximum of twenty people, some of whom didn't drink much. As I estimate that around 15 of us drank margaritas, that means we each had 1.67 pitchers each over the course of around four hours. Even for boozehounds like us, that is a shitload of well tequila to consume.
It's not surprising that the next day, many of the attendees reported incapacitating hangovers. I myself was miraculously not clutching the toilet bowl for the next twelve hours (a hangover that in my case seems to be reserved almost exclusively for mixing liquor nights, like when I switch back and forth between scotch, G&Ts, and vodka-Red Bulls). I was, however, very glad when my afternoon drinking plans were canceled so that I could convalesce and make amends to my own liver, because I still felt like shit. I need to remember this the next time we hit up a margarita happy hour, or I'm going to be calling Schick Shadel sooner than later.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, FalloniusMonk, HillsYes, JerseyGirl, Rack, Twathopper
Friday, July 25, 2008
Daily Douchebag: John Mayer and Pete Wentz
DOB: October 16, 1977 and June 5, 1979
Occupation: apparently, collaborating as a united douchebag front
Hometown: Bridgeport, Connecticut and Wilmette, Illinois
Current residence: some fucking restaurant in Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: Has the seventh seal been broken? Because with the world's most prominent douchebags flocking together, I'm actually praying that the apocalypse is imminent. So maybe nothing happened except the world's undisputed largest douchebag of all time John Mayer got together with Pete Wentz to have a mini douchebag convention/latently homoerotic lunch date. I can just imagine what kind of conversation they had: while going over Pete Wentz's "truckload of big, bold, colorful ideas" and deconstructing the word "douchebag," they had a scintillating discussion about John Mayer's allegedly giant penis and how Pete Wentz cooks up trite Lower East Side bar concepts while whacking off to Morrissey posters. Then they probably exchanged delightful (and by "delightful," I actually mean "nauseating") tales about what it's like to fuck Jennifer Aniston and Ashlee Simpson.
I really wish I was in Los Angeles to crash this little party, because I would have strolled right in and advised them that sleeve tattoos and "guyliner" does not a rock star make. Yes, so Vince Neil circa 1984 (HOT) may have rocked that look, but trust that bitch didn't use a hair straightener back in the day. He was too busy helping Nikki Sixx mainline Jack Daniels, singing "Shout at the Devil," and passing groupies around with his bandmates in between eyeliner applications. Man, Mötley Crüe rocked so hard back in the day. That's why when myself and some fellow drunk-ass sluts made an amateur porn in college we used the Too Fast For Love album as the soundtrack rather than any John Mayer or Pete Wentz-esque musical explorations of sensitivity. I can't think of anything either John Mayer or Pete Wentz have ever produced that inspires me to instruct my very excited boyfriend to film me having three-way oral with a couple of my hot girlfriends. ANYWAY! John Mayer and Pete Wentz aren't getting up to any of that badassery, and appropriating anything from either's repertoire would make me a lot more likely to murder my friends and put them out of their misery rather than lick their twats.
I mean, do you need anything besides a brief glance at these two tards to be thoroughly convinced of their despicable natures? Pete Wentz is busy flipping his sleeveless hoodie and showing off the clear-framed Vuarnets that make him look like even more of an asshole hipster and John Mayer is busy straightening his man-pris and scrunching his hair. They probably spent the time talking about names for the impending Wentz-Simpson spawn and comparing what perfumes they favor. What a couple of straight-up fucktards.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, John Mayer sucks, retard rage, small penises
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Daily Douchebag: former Senator John Edwards
DOB: June 10, 1953
Occupation: world-class hypocrite
Hometown: Seneca, South Carolina
Current residence: Most recently, it was the Beverly Hilton fleeing from National Enquirer reporters
Douchebaggery: I always thought John Edwards was a putz. He comes across as a real salesman, which means I automatically don't trust him one bit. Edwards just cracks that "aw, shucks" Southern boy smile of his and presumes it's disarming enough to distract people from what he is actually saying, and whether it is the truth or a lie. I don't like liars, and I especially don't like liars who think they're so fucking charming they get a pass on being dishonest. I derive more than a little schadenfreude when they get their comeuppance for being so.
Monday night, the National Enquirer was tipped off that Edwards was visiting his mistress and love child at the Beverly Hilton. Granted, it hasn't been proven that this is Edwards's mistress and love child, and in fact one of his campaign staffers took the paternity bullet for him when the Enquirer first reported the story last year, but his behavior certainly seems to suggest that something in the milk ain't clean. According to the story, Edwards showed up at the Beverly Hilton, avoided the lobby, and took a side staircase to his supposed mistress's room. Then, at 2:40 in the morning, he snuck out an elevator into the basement, where to his dismay, he was confronted by several reporters. He ran to the lobby, then ran back to the basement after he spotted a photographer, and eventually locked himself in a men's room until hotel security could escort him off the premises. There could be many explanations for this behavior, but none of them equate to a man who is just making an innocent to a female friend and her new baby...surreptitiously...in the middle of the night...with a great fear of the press finding out. It sounds to me a lot more like he got caught fucking his side broad and visiting his bastard than making a friendly social call.
I don't particularly care who John Edwards is hitting on the side. I certainly can't speak from a position of moral authority, considering I have banged plenty of dudes who were in relationships with other people. I once witnessed one of my paramours calling his girlfriend–at home with their baby–to tell her he was working late (until 2 a.m.) from a seedy motel right before he fucked me cross-eyed. Another time, one of my special girlfriends had a brief phone discussion about paying household bills with her live-in fiancé and explaining that she was too drunk to drive home while I ate her pussy. Yet another time I ran into this guy at a breakfast joint in Tacoma and met his lovely girlfriend of five years, a few days after he gave me a pearl necklace (not the jewelry) and a hideous rug burn on my ass from the vigorous dicking he delivered on my living room floor. My personal position on these people (unless they are dating one of my friends, in which case I won't touch it) is that they are responsible for their own affairs and the cheating aspect of fucking me is their business. Adultery is as old as the institution of marriage itself, and is hardly some new horrible offense that shocks everyone. However, when a public political figure is constantly invoking the image of his loyal, cancer-ridden wife and brood of children as evidence of his upstanding character, I take issue with his hypocrisy.
Even if you are a politician and thus obliged to cater to the people who actually think politicians aren't all a bunch of corrupt, lying assholes, don't spend all your time touting your familial devotion if you are busy impregnating other bitches during your down time. I don't presume to tell people how to wipe their ass, since I already know mine is just as shitty as everyone else's. John Edwards should have just stuck to telling everyone how he has triumphed for the little people via his mastery of civil torts and cut the "family man who stands by his wife while she gets her tits cut off" schtick. At least he probably wasn't impregnating opposing counsel in secret, and thus could have escaped exposure as the duplicitous bullshitter he truly is.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Douchebag, family matters, media whores, politics, retard rage, scathing indictments
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