Monday, June 22, 2009
Happy 21st birthday to HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair
An unofficial holiday here at RAZZY.org is the birthday of my friends HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair. Apart from being acquainted for almost twenty years and being good friends and generally great guys, they were among the pioneering Razzyphiles. They have been avid consumers of useless bullshit since I put a damn Friendster bulletin up about trying out this website thing, which should tell you how long they've been tapping this awesomeness. I was glad that this year, on account of my moving back to the P-N-Dub, I was able to celebrate their special day in person.
In the past, I've always put up a picture of Morrissey since they are both big fans. Once Morrissey'sHair bailed on hanging out with me when I was visiting from New York because Morrissey was in town and he wanted to get up early and prowl places he thought Morrissey might go. However, this year, I feel that in all fairness to HotLawyer's changing tastes, I ought to put up a picture of William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts II to truly wish him a "bawse" birthday. Since Morrissey and the biggest boss I've seen thus far are incongruous to say the least, I am putting up a picture of Chingy! celebrating in his own way.
Yesterday morning I woke up and staggered blearily out of HotLawyer's suite at the W. My eye makeup was smeared, I was wearing a sparkly halter top with no bra and my nipples were definitely taking notice of the chilly morning, and I wasn't sure exactly where in downtown Seattle I was. I looked particularly classy doing my ho stroll walk of shame past all the wholesome people having Sunday breakfast and dressed in their church-type finery. As soon as I managed to hail a cab and get back home, I kicked off my shoes and went to change into something more pajama-like prior to walking the dogs. Chingy! took the opportunity to turn my uncomfortable, cheap, internet skank shoes into a pillow–or, more accurately, a jowl rest, which I'm pretty sure is his way of saying "CHONGAY CHONG, HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair!"
Anyway, although their birthday was actually yesterday, I wanted to once again acknowledge their unwavering Razzyphilia, commend them on their taste and sophistication, and thank them for their contributions in terms of enthusiasm and pro bono legal services. I heart you guys! BAWSE.
Labels: aging, HotLawyer, Morrissey'sHair, Razzyphiles
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Read the Bible: Jesus was very pro-whore
Yesterday HotLawyer sent me a link to a local news story from the intellectual backwater and hallowed site of white supremacist history known as Whidbey Island. Of course, megachurch evangelical Christianity has seduced many of Whidbey's native yokels, and not much goes on there, so the hard-hitting journalists over at the Whidbey News-Times decided to write a story showcasing exactly what a bunch of lameasses these people are.
Never been kissed: Bride-to-be waits for her wedding day
When Todd Ritter is told to kiss the bride at the altar this July in front of 277 of their closest friends and family, people will understand if it’s a little clumsy.
It will be the couple’s very first kiss.
“I’m wondering, will I be a good kisser? Do I know what I’m doing? I’m nervous, but excited,” says Rachel Welch, 21, who is marrying 23-year-old Ritter in Oak Harbor.
The couple instated a “no-kissing” policy, to keep things from getting out of hand before marriage. Welch decided at age 14 to save kissing for someone special, and hoped that her first lip-lock would shortly follow “I do.”
Personally, I think this kind of bullshit is actually very anti-Christian. If you read the Gospels, you'll notice that Jesus is kissing all over everyone on the regular. He kisses babies, lepers, homeless dudes, and whores, and doesn't think twice about it. The skankiest prostitutes in all of Galilee were JC's roll dogs, and one would think that such a devout couple of youth ministers would have at least considered that before instituting such a rigid policy. Especially since, judging by their chattiness regarding their Eskimo kissing, chaperone policies, and foot massaging, they apparently have no problem being media whores. They even gave the Whidbey News-Times a frightening, look-we're-scary-super-Christians picture in which you can practically hear them condemning evolution and elaborating on how gay marriage and anyone who helps it become legal is going to burn in eternal damnation.
And since I have been kissed before–on numerous parts of my body and usually as a prelude to getting my sinful nonmarital fuck on–let me explain to Rachel and Todd exactly how lame their marriage is going to be thanks to their policy of extreme abstinence. Since neither of them have any idea what they are doing and are probably taking pointers from the Michael W. Smith "I Will Be Here for You" video, their first heavy makeout sesh is going to be nothing short of disgusting. Todd looks like one of those guys who thinks that hot tongue kissing involves licking and slobbering all over every part of your face except your mouth, so I hope Rachel enjoys a good spit shine. And as far as Rachel is concerned, if Todd thinks that once he's made an honest uptight prude out of her it's going to be all hot legit Christian sex, he's gravely mistaken. Bitches don't go from Eskimo kisses and love letters to blowjobs and anal overnight, and Rachel strikes me as the type who won't put out on her wedding night. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if both of them are so abysmally bad at sex that they wind up doing it as infrequently as possible. After all, who even needs a sex life when you have the rapture to look forward to?
This is why I always fuck on the first date. I'm not going to invest my time and emotion in someone without giving them a test drive and making sure they are competent at turning me out. As a result of this policy, if I ever do get married, please believe that my future spouse will be a tiger in the sack and will likewise benefit from my extensive experience in this area. I also take umbrage with Todd's assertion that Rachel's no-kissing purity vow is an indicator of her "awesome" self-respect, thus implying that sleeping around means I don't respect myself. I have an awesome amount of respect for myself (you can't fancy yourself the most awesome human being on earth EVER without having a healthy amount of self-esteem), and I can't think of any better way to demonstrate that than by giving myself the gift of plenty of varied hot ass. I think it's actually disrespectful to yourself and your partner not to be the best lay you can be, especially if you're about to take vows promising to never hit the sheets with anyone else ever again. It's a sacred duty to your future spouse to get out there and practice on as much strange as possible before you limit genital privileges to just one person. Then again, since neither Todd nor Rachel have any basis for comparison, maybe they won't even know what they are missing when they are rutting clumsily away at one another with the lights off and their shirts on. Ignorance is bliss for the abstinent purity ring set, I guess.
Labels: assholes, Dear God, HotLawyer, media whores, retard rage, sex, sluts
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
Friday, June 20, 2008
Happy birthday, Morrissey'sHair and HotLawyer!
I've made it a tradition to publicly acknowledge my friends Morrissey'sHair and HotLawyer's birthdays for the last couple years, because they were reading my site before ANY of my other friends when it was just a couple crappy movie reviews. They are the OG Titanium Elite-level Razzyphiles and that I must recognize. Plus, they're my boys and I get together with them lots whenever I'm home in the P-N-Dub. Here's some fun facts about them:
-They are appropriately Geminis, as they are twins
-Morrissey'sHair is older than HotLawyer by four minutes, just like Brandon and Brenda Walsh
-You can tell them apart because Morrissey'sHair broke his nose in junior high
-I totally boned one of them years ago (you can speculate as to which one). We were drunk. No harm, no foul!
-They are both lawyers. HotLawyer gets people off on DUIs and meth lab charges, while Morrissey'sHair negotiates bankruptcy settlements for the financially fucked
-HotLawyer has provided me with many pro boner legal services in the past whenever some fucktard threatens me with Craigslist rape or lawsuits
-Morrissey'sHair probably WILL have to provide me with pro boner legal services if I don't get out of grad school and start making some goddamned real money soon
-They both have a sickening devotion to Morrissey
-They once sent me a Rush Limbaugh book in high school from a "secret admirer" because I was such a bleeding heart neo-marxist feminazi lesbian back then. Now, they're both rabid Obama supporters and I'm a Republican. The tables have turned.
-My father LOVES them, especially HotLawyer, because of the praise they lavish on his cooking. When I mentioned I was coming home this summer for a visit, he asked, "So, what night are we having those guys over for dinner? HotLawyer sure does like my cooking."
-They're both hot studly dudes, great drankin patnaz, and totz kewl guys!
Anyway, their birthday is actually TOMORROW, but since stupid Apple has my computer somewhere in Texas while they fix it, I won't be able to post anything for them since I'll be getting drunk and sunburnt at the Coney Island Mermaid Parade all day. So today I'm recognizing that my fellas are turning the big 3-0! Only two more decades to go before they're officially over the hill.
Happy birthday, dudes. I'm going to get drunk and try to feel up some mermaid tits in your honor!
XOBJBS,
Razzy
And just for you two, here's a picture of Morrissey. Like Caese and Chingy!, he hates Iams dog food. Unlike Caese and Chingy!, it's probably because Iams isn't vegan or something. Caese and Chingy! are just Beneful loyalists.
Labels: aging, HotLawyer, Morrissey'sHair, Razzyphiles
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus
DOB: November 23, 1992 (holy crap, I was a FRESHMAN IN HIGH SCHOOL when this ho slithered out of her mother's cooch...God I am old)
Occupation: tween idol, future porn star
Hometown: Franklin, Tennessee
Current residence: the eternal Disney media whore circuit
Douchebaggery: All the kids these days are into this "Hannah Montana" thing, although I have no idea what it's about because I hate kids and avoid things kids like the way an evangelical Christian would have avoided a gay AIDS patient circa 1985. I know that "Hannah Montana" is some Disney channel show about a broad who spends half her time as a normal teenager and half her time in disguise as a world-famous pop star, and that sole factoid enrages me. Seriously, they had this show millions of years ago (the 80s) when I was a kid, except it was a cartoon and the lead character was named Jem. I doubt that Miley/Hannah could ever pull off something as dope as keeping her secret pink hair tucked up in a blue-and-white striped beret while she did her philanthropy work like Jem did, because unlike the frontwoman of the Holograms, Miley/Hannah is a far cry from truly, truly, truly outrageous.
Like Jem, however, Miley/Hannah's music is apparently contagious, because there are moms planning contract killings, running elaborate fraud scams based on essays about non-existent soldier fathers being killed in combat in Iraq, and otherwise going crazy to secure tickets for their kids to her concert. Two weeks ago, a 3-D movie of this same concert was the number one movie in America, which reminds me that in addition to jacking Jem's game, Miley/Hannah appropriated the title of Jay-Z and R. Kelly's ultimately doomed collaboration album Best of Both Worlds for her tour. Sadly, I imagine Miley/Hannah's tour doesn't include musical numbers with titles like "Take You Home With Me AKA Body" and "Pussy." At least she had the decency not to try and duplicate the magic that is Kells and Jigga. I'd get all "Trapped in the Closet" (ie: pull out my fake Beretta and make dramatic expressions) on her ass if she ever had the audacity to sing lines like "your body's cut just like my jewelry" (or "jewlery", as Kells pronounces it) or "ain't got a gun but my wrist said 'freeze'."
However, her Disney bastardization of great American franchises like Jem or Robert Sylvester Kelly are only part of the reason why I dislike Miley/Hannah. HotLawyer and I summed it up best in a text conversation we had the other night during the Grammys.
HotLawyer: Hannah montana is so ugly. I hate herI don't know how someone can start looking like an overbukkaked skank at the age of fifteen, but I guess that's just how it goes when your dad is a country line dancing crossover one-hit wonder and he reared you with aspirations of logarithmically exceeding his achievements in media whoredom. I can't get into any kid who looks like she should be getting DPed on a grainy webcam rather than singing wholesome songs about being a positive role model for little girls. This slag isn't going away, so I expect her to disrupt cultural treasures that I enjoy for some time to come (TRUST that Chris Hansen will be doing "To Catch a Predator" episodes fraught with gross instant message references offering Hannah Montana merchandise as incentive to try pedophile anal).
Razzy: She looks like some porn skank in a max hardcore movie
HotLawyer: Her face is busted. Ten bucks says she winds up doing gutter porn in five years
Razzy: True dat
There is so far virtually no backlash over the overexposure of this prostitute with the exception of the sages at Consumer Reports. They are coming down hard on Miley/Hannah for some scene in her concert movie where Billy Ray Cyrus is driving her around Tennessee and she's singing in the back seat or something with NO SEAT BELT. Since according to their stats, 65 percent of teenagers in fatal traffic accidents aren't buckled in (a trend I support since it means fewer kids around to annoy me), Miley/Hannah is endorsing death by reckless disregard for legally mandated highway safety measures. I wish she would lead by example. Nothing would be better than a "Hannah Montana" movie in which she and her Achy Breaky daddy went through the windshield of their Range. Alas, maybe someday.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, destroy all children, HotLawyer, media whores, porn, sluts
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Daily Douchebag: The Biggest Losers
Name: every contestant, trainer, doctor, and host (Caroline Rhea and/or Sami from "Days of Our Lives") on NBC's "The Biggest Loser"
DOB: various
Occupation: bitching about being fat
Hometown: Anytown, USA
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I never watch this show because I caught an episode of it a couple years ago and my head almost exploded due to the large quantity of whining fat people. Oh, boo hoo, the treadmill is hard! Oh, waaaah, I don't want to eat steamed broccoli. Well, asshole, you should have thought about that before you let your weight balloon over the 300 lb mark. Watching this show made my blood pressure dangerously high, so I never watched it again. In fact, when this was on yesterday, I had just gotten home semi-drunk from having after-work drinks with SisterChristian, and rather than watch people diet, I watched Anthony Bourdain making snide jokes and stuffing his face with water buffalo curry in Chiang Mai, Thailand.
Last night, probably because "American Gangster" or a Taylor Swift video wasn't on, HotLawyer apparently decided to sit down in front of his idiot box back in Tacompton and make the same mistake I had a couple years back. I saw this morning when I work up that he sent me a text that read: "I have determined that everyone on Biggest Loser is a really big loser." Truth!
"The Biggest Loser" is a show that allows all the lazy fat people sitting on their fucking couches to feel like they're doing something about being fat, because they are watching a show about other fat people losing weight. While it claims to be a show that will "inspire" the lardasses at home to get off their fat asses and try to lose weight themselves, I guarantee that the viewers at home are much more interested in watching the contestants battle their morbid obesity from a sedentary position, probably with tubs of ice cream on their laps. This show creates more fat people than it destroys.
Also, HotLawyer is right when he says that all the contestants are losers. The transgendered-looking staff of trainers (especially Jillian--she definitely has a Y chromosome) always has to go to ridiculous lengths to motivate most of these dipshits. They will put them on an elliptical machine for all of five minutes before the average "Biggest Loser" contestant is hyperventilating and begging to quit. And the complaints they make ad nauseum about exercise are NOTHING compared to the complaints about their diet, which basically consists solely of steamed vegetables. Without fail, some dumb bitch is eating brownies on the sly by the end of the first episode, precipitating a lot of lame discussions with the trainers and staff about trust and impulse control. Then the fat chick freaks and is obstinate about how she deserves brownies because of some sad story in her past, the therapists come in to counsel her on how brownies are the crutch she relies upon to get over her childhood trauma (always a variation on having low self-esteem due to being made fun of for being fat), and the viewer is left wanting to throw their TV out the window, preferably onto the nearest passing fat person. Did you think that losing 150 pounds was going to be as easy as hitting the Taco Bell drive through? Quit your bitching and eat your fucking spinach.
Probably the worst part of "The Biggest Loser," though, comes when they all weigh in at the end of the show. These are not people who should be in sports bras and running shorts for ANY reason, yet there they are, clambering up onto the fancy scale with all their spare flesh spilling out for the world to see. The only good I can see coming out of such a frightening display of fat half-naked people on national television is that presumably it causes the aforementioned fat people (along with everyone else) to lose their appetites, thus augmenting their diets. It is an appalling 15 minutes of television. There is a reason why fat people wear baggy t-shirts and mumus at the beach, and that reason is the weigh-in scene on the "Biggest Loser." If I wanted to be grossed out, I would just watch one of those medical anomaly shows about birth defects or weird vascular face tumors on TLC.
I guess I can't get too worked up, though, because "The Biggest Loser" exists merely as the yang to the yin of one of NBC's few triumphs (besides "To Catch a Predator"): the revival of "American Gladiators." I watched that Sunday and, with the exception of me getting annoyed by Hulk Hogan's "brother"-laden commentary, it was just as awesome as I remember it being when I was a kid.
My favorite gladiators so far are Helga and Titan, Helga because bitch is a hot piece of fierce faux-Teutonic rage (plus she gives some serious porn star face) and Titan because he looks like the bastard child of a Ken doll and the guy who played RoboCop, and I love RoboCop. Man, that movie kicked ass. Even more ass than Titan kicks on the regular during the "Pyramid."
I guess "American Gladiators" ass-stomping dominance had to be kept in check by something as unimaginably lame as "The Biggest Loser." It would be nice if NBC could find some sort of happy medium, like a crossover special in which the American Gladiators just run roughshod over all the contestants on the "Biggest Loser." I bet they wouldn't whine to the Gladiators like they do to their trainers. Even if they did, the Gladiators would just make awesome growly faces and beat the shit out of them with their infamous giant Q-tips anyway. I am practically pissing myself with excitement about the idea of Helga and Titan knocking all those fat fucks into a pool with some 100-pound swinging medicine balls. NBC needs to get right on that.
Labels: American Gladiators, Daily Douchebag, exercise drama, fat fucks, gluttony, HotLawyer, TV
Monday, December 31, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Taylor Swift
DOB: December 13, 1989
Occupation: country singer, barely legal object of fantasy, world class cocktease
Hometown: Wyomissing, Pennsylvania
Current residence: Nashville, Tennessee
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Well, I really don't care much about Taylor Swift. She's hot in a country singer kind of way, I guess, but she's got a little too much hair for my taste. Not that I wouldn't sit on her face if given the opportunity (now that she's just turned 18, don't call Chris Hansen), but I can imagine that chick is going to have a very short shelf life. For one thing, take a look at her mom:
This whole post is actually just throwing a bone to my buddy HotLawyer, "bone" being the operative term because that's precisely what he wants to do to Taylor Swift. Badly. Yesterday, he was texting me about the Seahawks game that I couldn't watch on account of it not being on TV here in New York (and my not bothering to go to my usual football bar to watch every team play their second stringers in the last game of the NFL regular season), and all of a sudden I get a text from him that reads along the lines of "Taylor Swift is just so fuckable! I just saw her video." This makes me think that no matter how many times HotLawyer insists he prefers brunettes, it's all a front because the overwhelming evidence suggests that like any decent gentlemen, he prefers blondes. We have more fun, after all.
Taylor Swift is lucky that she's a talented songwriter (so the internets tell me...I don't listen to country music unless it's being performed by a certain awesome American flag-guitar-toting patriot/Ford truck spokesman named Toby Keith), because if she weren't in country music, she has would-be porn star written all over her. She even looks like a younger, fresher, less used Hannah Harper:
And on another note, who wants to put money on Taylor Swift being Tony Romo's next girlfriend? She's totally the type. I smell a pink Cowboys jersey in her future.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, HotLawyer, kewlness, porn, sluts
Thursday, December 20, 2007
T.O. also hates pink jerseys
Yesterday, I had the following Gchat with HotLawyer:
At least one dude agrees with me on the pink jersey and the Jessica Simpson issue. At least one man, a bold soul named Terrell Owens, is brave enough to stand up and say that he doesn't appreciate pink Romo jerseys one bit, at the very least because there is only room for one ridiculously dressed fag hag in Texas Stadium, and that ain't Jessica Simpson. She's pouty because not only did her dumbass, overrated boyfriend deliver the worst performance of his career thanks to her game-killing presence, but because T.O. looks waaaaaaay cuter than her in his sexy women's wear from NFLshop.com:
T.O. had some choice words for Jessica:
Keep in mind this is coming from a guy whose love for drag queenish blondes is so legendary that it became the most controversial opening for a Monday Night Football game ever. Remember that shit where T.O. ditches the game to go bang Nicolette Sheridan in the Eagles' locker room from two years ago? Here's the YouTube to refresh your memory (and I dare you not to snicker when T.O. says, "Donovan needs me." Hilarious.)
Given Terrell's susceptibility to seduction by such bitches who look like they have to pull a Buffalo Bill-style weiner tuck before getting some pregame ass in the locker room, I'm surprised he's not competing with Tony Romo for Jessica's attention. I would say that it's both because her ass was preventing Romo from completing passes to T.O. in triple coverage, and because he can't get past that fugly, embarrassing, despicable pink Romo jersey! If she'd worn nothing but a towel to ruin the Cowboys' offense in, maybe he'd be more sympathetic.
In any event, T.O. promises more good times in the coming weeks:
Oh, and I have a message too: GO SEAHAWKS!
HotLawyer: RazzyI consulted also with my ex-boyfriend Benzo, and he was of the opinion that pink jerseys aren't awesome, but he doesn't care one way or the other. "If I see a hot chick wearing a pink jersey, I'm not going to ignore her just because she's got a pink jersey on." I was totally annoyed that my boys didn't share my staunch anti-pink jersey sentiments. Then again, I can't be too annoyed at a man who squires his lady around Tacoma wearing his-and-hers Tatupu jerseys. I should actually be thankful we don't share the same opinion on this one, as his taste is clearly questionable.
HotLawyer: Princess HotLawyer owns and wears a PINK Tatupu jersey
Razzy: hey dude
Razzy: tell Princess HotLawyer to chuck that
Razzy: those pink jerseys are shameful!
HotLawyer: they're hot
Razzy: you really think those pink jerseys are hot?
HotLawyer: yes
Razzy: NO!
Razzy: they are the scourge of nfl pro gear
HotLawyer: They rule your ass
Razzy: never
HotLawyer: Plus, we don't look like douchebags when we sport our matching Lofa jerseys
HotLawyer: Lofa! Lofa!
Razzy: you already look like a douchebag wearing the same jersey as your GF!
HotLawyer: trick, please!
At least one dude agrees with me on the pink jersey and the Jessica Simpson issue. At least one man, a bold soul named Terrell Owens, is brave enough to stand up and say that he doesn't appreciate pink Romo jerseys one bit, at the very least because there is only room for one ridiculously dressed fag hag in Texas Stadium, and that ain't Jessica Simpson. She's pouty because not only did her dumbass, overrated boyfriend deliver the worst performance of his career thanks to her game-killing presence, but because T.O. looks waaaaaaay cuter than her in his sexy women's wear from NFLshop.com:
T.O. had some choice words for Jessica:
"Right now, Jessica Simpson is not a fan favorite -- in this locker room or in Texas Stadium. With everything that has happened, obviously with the way Tony played and the comparison between her and Carrie Underwood, I think a lot of people feel she has taken his focus away. Other than that, she was high on my list until last week."Translation: Bitch, take your stank, talentless, pink jersey-wearing ass back to wherever Tony Romo's last dumb blonde country-fried bimbo girlfriend went and let him get his mind off your herpetic punani and back on completing passes to me. Up until last week, I would have been willing to tap that ass, but now she's dead to me.
Keep in mind this is coming from a guy whose love for drag queenish blondes is so legendary that it became the most controversial opening for a Monday Night Football game ever. Remember that shit where T.O. ditches the game to go bang Nicolette Sheridan in the Eagles' locker room from two years ago? Here's the YouTube to refresh your memory (and I dare you not to snicker when T.O. says, "Donovan needs me." Hilarious.)
Given Terrell's susceptibility to seduction by such bitches who look like they have to pull a Buffalo Bill-style weiner tuck before getting some pregame ass in the locker room, I'm surprised he's not competing with Tony Romo for Jessica's attention. I would say that it's both because her ass was preventing Romo from completing passes to T.O. in triple coverage, and because he can't get past that fugly, embarrassing, despicable pink Romo jersey! If she'd worn nothing but a towel to ruin the Cowboys' offense in, maybe he'd be more sympathetic.
In any event, T.O. promises more good times in the coming weeks:
"Oh, I got a message for her when we make the playoffs. Just stay tuned."The message will be something along the lines of, "Keep your pink jersey-rocking ho ass the fuck out of Texas Stadium, bitch," except delivered with Terrell's signature panache. Truly, the playoffs cannot come fast enough.
Oh, and I have a message too: GO SEAHAWKS!
Labels: assholes, Benzo, hot dudes, HotLawyer, media whores, NFL football, oh the horror, Seahawks, sluts
Monday, December 10, 2007
Sig Hansen is the 12th man
Yesterday while I sat stewing in malevolent thoughts concerning a certain despicable team from Foxborough, Assachusetts and waiting for my man Alex at Josie Wood's Pub to turn on the Seahawks-Cardinals game, I was busy texting my buddy from the P-N-Dub, HotLawyer.
HotLawyer: Prediction--hawks win by fourteen! Fuck yeah!
Razzy: I went to church yesterday and prayed 4 just that
HotLawyer: God answered
Indeed he did and how, because the Seahawks actually ended up winning by 21 points. However, at this point prior to kickoff, the game still wasn't on in the bar, so HotLawyer had to call me to tell me that something AWESOME happened at Qwest Field. In case you don't know much about Seahawks football, we fans are known as the "12th man." Yes, I know Texas A&M thought of this first, but we really perfected it in Seattle. Here's the hot piece of middle linebacker known as Lofa Tatupu running around yesterday waving the 12th man flag for the fans' delight:
At the beginning of every game, a local Seattle celebrity and/or hero is called upon to raise the 12th man flag. Often, this is a douchebag like John Kerley (host of a local shitshow called "Evening Magazine") or one of Seahawks owner Paul Allen's douchebag friends from Microsoft. Sometimes they do better and get a hot Mariner (ie: Ichiro) or some hot former Seahawk like Jim Zorn to do it. And once in a great while, they get someone who truly embodies everything that makes Seattle great. Someone who is a real man, a true hero, and a devastatingly handsome hunk of Viking sexiness.
Who could meet such high and exacting standards, you ask? There is only one man I can think of, and his name is CAPTAIN SIGURD HANSEN OF THE F/V NORTHWESTERN!
YES!!!! Who is Captain Sigurd Hansen of the F/V Northwestern, you ask? Only the most dreamy crab boat captain ever to mine the Bering Sea for "red gold" on the Discovery Channel's "Deadliest Catch." My feelings for Sig are well-known, since he himself stumbled upon a blog entry I wrote praising his bravery and rough-edged Scandinavian hotness, linked it on his MySpace, and declared me his .1 fan (!). Sig is so damn sizzling that undoubtedly all the people shivering in the chilly Seattle winter weather at Qwest Field probably felt like the heat was turned on full blast.
"Sig just raised the 12th man flag!" HotLawyer told me excitedly. "This portends well for the Seahawks, I think."
Immediately after getting off the phone with HotLawyer, I got a text message from his twin brother, Morrissey'sHair.
Morrissey'sHair: At game. Sig raised the 12th man flag!
Razzy: HotLawyer told me. Is it like 80 degrees at qwest field because sig is there?
Morrissey'sHair was probably occupied with a large frosty cup of Rainier beer, so he didn't get back to me about Sig causing unseasonably warm weather at Qwest Field, but I'm sure if he hadn't been busy chugging Vitamin R and cheering for the Hawks he would have replied in the affirmative.
Anyway, I'm glad that Captain Sig took a break from "selling out" (according to some ardent "Deadliest Catch" fans) by putting his name on Russian crab being sold at Wal-Mart to celebrate his Seahawks love. When he finished raising that flag, he probably fired up a cigarette and called Captain Phil Harris of the F/V Cornelia Marie to rub it in that he was the face of the 12th man. I can't wait for next season of "Deadliest Catch" when Sig taunts Captain Phil with wheezy laughter into his radio about assisting in the defeat of our pathetic divisional rivals from Arizona.
Obviously the Seahawks won thanks to Sig's blessing Qwest Field with his virile masculinity and his overall positive mojo. How could anything but victory come after watching Sig put his decades of crab-fishing experience into one of the finest executed 12th man flag raisings in the history of standard bearing? Watch and see for yourself:
So. DAMN. HOT!
HotLawyer: Prediction--hawks win by fourteen! Fuck yeah!
Razzy: I went to church yesterday and prayed 4 just that
HotLawyer: God answered
Indeed he did and how, because the Seahawks actually ended up winning by 21 points. However, at this point prior to kickoff, the game still wasn't on in the bar, so HotLawyer had to call me to tell me that something AWESOME happened at Qwest Field. In case you don't know much about Seahawks football, we fans are known as the "12th man." Yes, I know Texas A&M thought of this first, but we really perfected it in Seattle. Here's the hot piece of middle linebacker known as Lofa Tatupu running around yesterday waving the 12th man flag for the fans' delight:
Who could meet such high and exacting standards, you ask? There is only one man I can think of, and his name is CAPTAIN SIGURD HANSEN OF THE F/V NORTHWESTERN!
"Sig just raised the 12th man flag!" HotLawyer told me excitedly. "This portends well for the Seahawks, I think."
Immediately after getting off the phone with HotLawyer, I got a text message from his twin brother, Morrissey'sHair.
Morrissey'sHair: At game. Sig raised the 12th man flag!
Razzy: HotLawyer told me. Is it like 80 degrees at qwest field because sig is there?
Morrissey'sHair was probably occupied with a large frosty cup of Rainier beer, so he didn't get back to me about Sig causing unseasonably warm weather at Qwest Field, but I'm sure if he hadn't been busy chugging Vitamin R and cheering for the Hawks he would have replied in the affirmative.
Anyway, I'm glad that Captain Sig took a break from "selling out" (according to some ardent "Deadliest Catch" fans) by putting his name on Russian crab being sold at Wal-Mart to celebrate his Seahawks love. When he finished raising that flag, he probably fired up a cigarette and called Captain Phil Harris of the F/V Cornelia Marie to rub it in that he was the face of the 12th man. I can't wait for next season of "Deadliest Catch" when Sig taunts Captain Phil with wheezy laughter into his radio about assisting in the defeat of our pathetic divisional rivals from Arizona.
Obviously the Seahawks won thanks to Sig's blessing Qwest Field with his virile masculinity and his overall positive mojo. How could anything but victory come after watching Sig put his decades of crab-fishing experience into one of the finest executed 12th man flag raisings in the history of standard bearing? Watch and see for yourself:
So. DAMN. HOT!
Labels: Deadliest Catch, hot dudes, HotLawyer, I LOVE IT, Morrissey'sHair, NFL football, Seahawks
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Lofa Tatupu
DOB: November 15, 1982
Occupation: Seahawks middle linebacker, hot piece
Hometown: Wrentham, Assachusetts
Current residence: Seattle, Washington
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: ELEVEN TACKLES AND THREE INTERCEPTIONS. Take that, Philadelphia Eagles! Every turnover benefiting the Seahawks yesterday was courtesy of the hotness known as Lofa Tatupu. Sitting at my usual football bar, surrounded by a horde of obnoxious Eagles fans sporting their "Bleed Green" shirts, I was the lone 12th man in the establishment, with nobody to share my love of the Seahawks save my P-N-Dub buddy HotLawyer, with whom I exchanged a variety of texts along the lines of "put in Maurice Morris" and "Alexander sucks" throughout the game. The fact that I was wearing my Lofa Tatupu jersey, however, was enough to make me almost visibly swell with pride every time Tatupu picked off A.J. Feely.
Although J-Sexy, who came for the beer and wings, initially agreed with me about Tatupu's hotness, she revised her position upon catching sight of his thick neck.
"Dude, everyone in the NFL has a thick neck," I said. "Their asses are still hot." J-Sexy had been rhapsodizing about certain players' asses prior to narrowing her attention to my man Lofa, and speculating whether or not some of them wore ass padding in their "ridicolos white pants."
"I do not like it when the neck is wider than the head," she added. "His neck is very thick."
I disagreed that this was very noticeable, but J-Sexy was being very mulish on this point. Her fixation on this irrelevant superficial quality reminded me of my dad, who sees Tatupu (or any player with lots of ink on his arms) and grouses, "Well, he'd be a good-lookin' guy if it weren't for all those stupid tattoos!" My dad hates tattoo sleeves to the point where it merits at least one mention whenever he catches sight of Tatupu, and no amount of "He's Samoan, dad, it's cultural," will change his mind on the matter. Watching a NBA game with him is almost intolerable; if only there were a way to adequately capture in prose the epic eye rolls my brother Lil' Tevie gives my dad's anti-tattoo harangues during Sonics games. Those frivolous details are irrelevant to me, though. When Tatupu is getting his Sea-fence on, I don't give a damn about his neck or his body art. I care exclusively about watching that hot piece make the Eagles offense his bitch, thus benefitting my fantasy team immensely as I was playing the Seahawks D/ST.
Yesterday's performance was even more impressive than usual, since Lofa was playing with sore ribs and hadn't practiced all week. Nevertheless, a couple of bitch-ass ribs didn't stop him from saving the game when the Seahawks idiotically punted the ball to Brian Westbrook in the last minute or so of the game and allowed him to return it 64 yards to put the Eagles in scoring position. Tatupu said "fuck you" to his ouchy ribs and promptly executed a spectacular pick. Game over. Then he took his sore ribs, fashioned a slutty ho out of them, and banged the hell out of her in his Philly hotel room. Okay, I made up that last part, but Tatupu is such a magic man that I wouldn't put it past him. Now, if I could only make some headway with J-Sexy about the thick neck issue, I could put up the world's dopest clock in lab:
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Fantasia, hot dudes, HotLawyer, NFL football, P-N-Dub, Seahawks
Friday, November 30, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Raunie Amadon
DOB: 1983
Occupation: white trash, loyal smoker, matricidal lunatic
Hometown: Laconia, New Hampshire
Current residence: the Laconia jail
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I don't think I need a man as unstable as Raunie in my life, but I have to shake my head at criminal ridiculousness beyond that which is normal. Raunie decided that he was jonesing for a ciggie butt, and like all men in their early twenties with no job, he went right to his dear old mom to ask for some pocket money to buy a pack (of GPCs or Basics, no doubt). When his mom refused, either because she didn't want to or she couldn't afford a pack, he flew into a rage, grabbed a double-sided axe, and threatened to chop her ass up! That would be no small feat, considering that this is Raunie's mother:
I just can't believe this didn't go down in Puyallup. I bet HotLawyer has had clients who've pulled this sort of nonsense before. He's had clients burn down their common law spouse's Dale Earnhardt shrines for revenge, so I wouldn't be shocked to learn that he's got clients who have threatened murder when deprived of nicotine. As he'd say, that's as American as methamphetamine. However, I bet HotLawyer does a better job of keeping his clients quiet during arraignment. Raunie here thought the charges were bullshit, and had to be dragged from the courtroom screaming AFTER the judge set a low bail at the prosecution's request. Raunie is crazy like a fox. He's going to plead insanity and walk. Trust.
And if you want to watch Raunie's hot ass in action, along with his bold mother's brave waddle from the courthouse, please enjoy the local New Hampshirean news coverage:
Now that's what I call a criminal mastermind.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, HotLawyer, PWT, smoking
Friday, October 26, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Morrissey
DOB: May 22, 1959
Occupation: singer, object of pathological obsession for me when I was sixteen and many of my friends now
Hometown: Manchester, England
Current residence: London, I guess
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Well, I don't really, because rumor has it Morrissey isn't very much into getting sexy and even if he was/is, I don't think he's into girls. However, today I'm going to the Morrissey concert tonight at the Hammerstein Ballroom because Morrissey and Sylvia Plath were the king and queen of my world when I was an insecure, confused, upset, misunderstood, faux-suicidal teenage lesbian with a fetish for bad poetry, and because I still like Morrissey even if I'm not spending all my time obsessively relating to the lyrics of "November Spawned a Monster" (my birthday is in November; I felt this song so seriously). Anyway, Morrissey'sHair got very excited when I informed him that I was going to this show, and in addition to demanding that I blog about it, told me that I was about to experience the greatest night of my life.
Uh...SHA RIGHT. For one thing, as exciting as it will be to see Morrissey live, and I'm sure he'll engage in plenty of amusing witty banter between songs, he'll probably say something about animals that will piss me off. To counteract Morrissey's pro-PETA and pro-vegan stance, I'm taking my posse of fellow concertgoers to a German wurst restaurant prior to the show, where the only thing on the menu not containing meat is the sauerkraut. And trust that I'm wearing slutty leather boots. Also, as much as I'm sure Morrissey will be a great concert, LL Cool Jew and I had other thoughts as to what the greatest musical day of our lives will be (NOVEMBER 23RD, NASSAU COLISEUM, ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY WITH NEYO, KEYSHIA COLE, AND J. HOLIDAY), as detailed here in yet another one of the neverending Google chats she and I waste time doing all day at work:
Razzy: morrissey'shair told me today that the morrissey concert I'm going to will be the greatest of my lifeHowever, while Morrissey will never approach R-uh Kelly's status in my baller hierarchy, I am certain that I will still have a great time tonight, and hopefully something amusing will happen for me to blog about. Morrissey'sHair and his brother HotLawyer are both ridiculous Morrissey fans. Last time I was in the P-N-Dub, Morrissey'sHair straight up blew me off one night so he could get up early the next day and stalk Morrissey (who was in town) all over Seattle, and another time I had gone out drinking with HotLawyer and crashed at his place, and when we got there, he popped in "The M in Manchester" and started drunkenly raving about it. Since they are both super-Razzyphiles, I'd better throw them a bone, so I'll make something blogworthy happen tonight at the Hammerstein Ballroom. Trust.
Razzy: and that it would be superior to kells
Razzy: i SNORTED ALOUD
LL Cool Jew: sha
Razzy: and sent him a scoff-heavy e-mail advising him otherwise
Razzy: i told him that the opinions of a man who spent half of the same email defending gwen stefani's virtue are taken with a grain of salt
Razzy: i mean, i'm sure morrissey's going to be great
LL Cool Jew: it will
LL Cool Jew: but it won't be kells
Razzy: but morrissey has never said, "you want to ride up in my truck, but you don't want to let me fuck you"
Razzy: exactly
Razzy: it won't be kells
Razzy: steven patrick morrissey is great and stuff, but he is no robert sylvester kelly
Razzy: no way no how
LL Cool Jew: not like you are expecting it to be kells
LL Cool Jew: you're expecting it to be morrissey
Razzy: exactly
Razzy: i'm sure morrissey will say some funny shit
Razzy: and i'll probably get to roll my eyes when he shoots his mouth off about animals
Razzy: hopefully he will bust on some celebrities or america
Razzy: or fat people
Razzy: but there won't be any real talk
Razzy: see, girl
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, HotLawyer, LL Cool Jew, Morrissey'sHair, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Friday, September 28, 2007
I hella heart Tacoma prostitutes
So I've spent much of the morning scanning the news. Things have been succeeding for me SMASHINGLY in lab (seriously, my PI told me yesterday that I will graduate in a year OR LESS, and this is news so great I can't even really adequately begin rejoicing about it), so I decided to spend a leisurely morning checking up on what's happening back in the P-N-Dub.
I started reading an article from our fine local newspaper, the Tacoma News Tribune, entitled "Crackdown on Pacific Avenue." This article detailed all the police and community efforts to stop hookers from getting their meth money on the south end of Pacific Ave, which is crappy crime central. In addition to ample private establishments and clubs (read: dilapidated and/or abandoned buildings) dealing in the thriving meth and crack trades, there is more herpetic, nasty pussy for sale on this stretch than anywhere else in Tacoma (although South Tacoma Way FOR SURE can give Pac Ave a run for its money in places). However, people who have moved into the neighborhood have decided to take a bite out of crime, and now they are working with extra police patrols to clean up the streets.
Apparently, there's been an influx of hookers to Pac Ave because "Tacoma is the place to be." Maybe for the working girls, but that's only because the johns clearly have no standards (and trust that is true, when I lived in Tacoma I got laid like crazy and was regarded as a great catch on account of not having bacne, hair extensions purchased at my neighborhood Bartell's drugstore, and a legitimate job...the men there really have no standards whatsoever). For example, here's a shot of one of Tacoma's finest hassling a lady of the night:
I hope that bitch isn't charging more than $5 for EVERYTHING, because even though I can't see her face, I can't imagine being a john and getting too excited about fucking the unkempt sack of skinny tits beneath this Streetwalker by Jordache ensemble. Aren't hookers supposed to be sexually compelling? I have a hard time believing that whenever she turns around and you can gaze upon her meth-ravaged countenance, she can really bring that extra bit of sexy. Wouldn't anyone in their right mind rather just go beat off than pay to get a blow job and FOR SURE get herpes (you know this whore's mouth probably looks like that "Ring of Fire" map of volcanic activity around the Pacific rim) from this hooker in an alley off the side of Tacoma City Blueprinting? The prostitution biz is indeed booming: Gary "the Green River Killer" Ridgeway is cooling his heels in maximum security so there are no current active hooker-murdering serial killers on the loose, and you can dress like the bitch above and still be briskly employed as a sex worker. Only in the City of Destiny.
I'm actually just worried about these hookers. Now that the cops and the local residents have taken a bite out of hooker crime, these women aren't going to have a whole lot of options, because I don't care what the cops say, bitches aren't peddling their undoubtedly infectious wares to pay for their college tuition. And since most of them look like the hot mess above, it's not like they can move on to anyplace besides possibly the overpass that Aileen Wuornos used to troll for johns under. These tramps are not even DIY webcam material, much less worthy of going on to work at the Mustang Ranch or Heidi Fleiss-type sex-for-money. They're not even very business savvy. Once HotLawyer told me he represented one of these unfortunate pros, who was arrested after she shouted at a nearby uniformed police officer, "Hey, Officer! Get out of here...you're scaring away my customers!" With brains like that, I don't see these ladies having much of a future, and that's sad. Poor Pacific Avenue hookers...my heart goes out to them.
I started reading an article from our fine local newspaper, the Tacoma News Tribune, entitled "Crackdown on Pacific Avenue." This article detailed all the police and community efforts to stop hookers from getting their meth money on the south end of Pacific Ave, which is crappy crime central. In addition to ample private establishments and clubs (read: dilapidated and/or abandoned buildings) dealing in the thriving meth and crack trades, there is more herpetic, nasty pussy for sale on this stretch than anywhere else in Tacoma (although South Tacoma Way FOR SURE can give Pac Ave a run for its money in places). However, people who have moved into the neighborhood have decided to take a bite out of crime, and now they are working with extra police patrols to clean up the streets.
Apparently, there's been an influx of hookers to Pac Ave because "Tacoma is the place to be." Maybe for the working girls, but that's only because the johns clearly have no standards (and trust that is true, when I lived in Tacoma I got laid like crazy and was regarded as a great catch on account of not having bacne, hair extensions purchased at my neighborhood Bartell's drugstore, and a legitimate job...the men there really have no standards whatsoever). For example, here's a shot of one of Tacoma's finest hassling a lady of the night:
I'm actually just worried about these hookers. Now that the cops and the local residents have taken a bite out of hooker crime, these women aren't going to have a whole lot of options, because I don't care what the cops say, bitches aren't peddling their undoubtedly infectious wares to pay for their college tuition. And since most of them look like the hot mess above, it's not like they can move on to anyplace besides possibly the overpass that Aileen Wuornos used to troll for johns under. These tramps are not even DIY webcam material, much less worthy of going on to work at the Mustang Ranch or Heidi Fleiss-type sex-for-money. They're not even very business savvy. Once HotLawyer told me he represented one of these unfortunate pros, who was arrested after she shouted at a nearby uniformed police officer, "Hey, Officer! Get out of here...you're scaring away my customers!" With brains like that, I don't see these ladies having much of a future, and that's sad. Poor Pacific Avenue hookers...my heart goes out to them.
Labels: crime and punishment, HotLawyer, oh the horror, P-N-Dub, sluts, you're ugly
Monday, September 10, 2007
Thank you, HotLawyer
My buddy and loyal Razzyphile HotLawyer sent me a spontaneous gift last week, which was very nice of him. He and I send each other unexpected surprises every so often. I once sent him some nerdy historical books about seamen, and this past week he sent a shirt which would allow me to "rep the 253" here in the 212. He requested that I wear it out and about in NYC, and take some pictures of me doing so. Unfortunately, the shirt was too big (I swear that it was only "medium" if Lane Bryant was doing the sizing), and I hate wearing ill-fitting, baggy t-shirts that hide my tits and make me look like a fat box.
Luckily, my friend Rack is a fashion designer, so when I went out for beers with her, I brought the shirt along hoping that she could remedy the situation. We got some scissors from the bar waitstaff, and Rack fixed it up for me commendably. It's now SUPER PWT, and although the shirt lauds Tacoma, it really gave it that extra dash of Puyallup that makes it right for me. She was then kind enough to take pictures of her handiwork, so that I could show my appreciation for HotLawyer by doing as he requested and taking pictures of me running around the city reppin' the 253. I didn't go to any famous NYC spots, like Times Square or somehwhere with a view of the Statue of Liberty, or Central Park, but in my opinion, the outdoor seating area of McAleer's Pub on 81st and Amsterdam is an unsung gem of Mannahattas. It should be in the Fodor's guide, because you can do all sorts of classy stuff there in an "I Hella Heart Tacoma" t-shirt. Like stand around drinking beer (important, because Tacoma is where my alcoholism really came into its own, so booze is absolutely necessary for effective representing) gazing vaguely at the camera like I might be retarded:
Or switch up my style to really go for that extra, I've-teased-out-my-half-grown-out-perm for a Tonya Harding level of trashtasticness. Hey, everyone, look at my desperately-in-need-of-some-Feria dark roots!
Or eat chicken wings and jalapeno poppers suggestively:
Thank you, HotLawyer (and Rack, for the alterations...you are the Diane Von Furstenburg of trailer park casual chic). I will always rep the 253 with pride. City of Destiny, bitches!
Luckily, my friend Rack is a fashion designer, so when I went out for beers with her, I brought the shirt along hoping that she could remedy the situation. We got some scissors from the bar waitstaff, and Rack fixed it up for me commendably. It's now SUPER PWT, and although the shirt lauds Tacoma, it really gave it that extra dash of Puyallup that makes it right for me. She was then kind enough to take pictures of her handiwork, so that I could show my appreciation for HotLawyer by doing as he requested and taking pictures of me running around the city reppin' the 253. I didn't go to any famous NYC spots, like Times Square or somehwhere with a view of the Statue of Liberty, or Central Park, but in my opinion, the outdoor seating area of McAleer's Pub on 81st and Amsterdam is an unsung gem of Mannahattas. It should be in the Fodor's guide, because you can do all sorts of classy stuff there in an "I Hella Heart Tacoma" t-shirt. Like stand around drinking beer (important, because Tacoma is where my alcoholism really came into its own, so booze is absolutely necessary for effective representing) gazing vaguely at the camera like I might be retarded:
Or switch up my style to really go for that extra, I've-teased-out-my-half-grown-out-perm for a Tonya Harding level of trashtasticness. Hey, everyone, look at my desperately-in-need-of-some-Feria dark roots!
Or eat chicken wings and jalapeno poppers suggestively:
Labels: alcoholism, HotLawyer, I LOVE IT, NYC, P-N-Dub, PWT, Rack, Razzification, Razzyphiles
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
To revadge or not to revadge?
Last week, BigBagel, who is obviously VERY busy covering health issues on the Gulf Coast of the mighty Mississip in his waning days as a newspaper reporter, sent out the following query to LL Cool Jew and some of her friends:
In case you didn't read the above article, it's all about how vaginoplasty (cosmetic reconstruction of the vadge and/or surrounding lady bits) has come into vogue either to improve one's genital appearance or to make a new fake hymen for crazy Christian bitches who want to physically repent for their old, sluttish ways. The article explores concerns among surgeons about vaginoplasty being an unnecessary and potentially dangerous procedure. LL Cool Jew was mortified that BigBagel had decided this was a move sanctioned by the very beautiful and sweet marriage vows they exchanged back in April:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Rack (rack@fashiondesignhouse.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandistnonprofit.org), Jersey Girl (jerseygirl@thirdrankedcablenewscompany.com), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), MillerTime (mtime@tacomahmo.com), Motherbucker (mbucker@somepoliticalplaceoranother.com), HotLawyer (hotlawyer@criminaldefenselawfirm.com), Morrissey'sHair (morrisseyshair@bankruptcylawfirm.com)
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: being that i am now a married man...
ah, the funny things I come across as a health journalist. anyway, I feel a little more comfortable asking about this now that I am a married man, well, really since I now have access to a network of female friends.
http://www.reuters.com/article/healthNews/idUSN3125637420070831
this is a totally unscientific survey entirely for non-professional curiosity reasons. this is also an attempt to deal with my senioritis issues at work, even though I have a fuckload to do right now. Anyway, what do y'all think of the vaginoplasty procedure? Would you consider it for yourself? If so, under what cirucmstances? Cosmetic ever be a consideration? Performance-based reasons? "revirgination"? I can tell you from my perspective, no goddamn way i'd let anyone get a knife near my johnson unless it was somehow the only way to prevent it from falling off.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listI then felt the need to respond, not because I was shocked BigBagel decided to solicit this informal poll, but because this topic has interested me ever since I saw some old bitch get vaginoplasty on an episode of "Nip/Tuck" a couple seasons back and since I heard the rumors on the internet about the horrors that befell Jenna Jameson when she underwent this procedure:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandistnonprofit.org)
zomg, i cannot *believe* my husband just sent a vaginoplasty article to all my friends...it was an unsanctioned move, fyi, and btw bigbagel, hotlawyer and morrissey'shair are men...
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listI felt that pretty much covered it, and so did FalloniusMonk, albeit for apparently different reasons. I'm assuming she was referring to point #5 about fucking dudes with penis piercings, since she's a big ol' lesbo.
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
NO FUCKING WAY.
1. My vagina is a goddamn work of art, and it has many admirers who agree with me (including certain unnamed parties on this e-mail list).
2. Because of this procedure, Jenna Jameson's vagina looks like Petra after the hot Nazi stupidly brought the Grail over the Seal at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. In fairness, I haven't seen her post-surgical modifications, but if the work she's had done on the rest of her is any indication of her surgeon's skill, I sincerely doubt its appearance has been improved.
3. I don't know why any woman would consider this unless her cooch looks like the Mines of Moria. If your vadge is too loose, there's this little exercise called a Kegel that EVERY woman should know about and do on the regs, and that can fix it up.
4. As to the notion that I might have unattractive external or internal genitalia...SHA RIGHT. Like I said, my shit looks like a freakin' Georgia O'Keefe lily. Except better.
5. After a particularly memorable (in a most unpleasant way) one-night stand with a dreadlocked retard who had eleven penis piercings and experienced the extremely painful process of healing from a vaginal shredding, including walking bow-legged (and not in the good way promised to strippers by R. Kelly in "R&B Thug"), I have decided not to let anything sharp and metal near my twat ever again. That dude also gave me a visible hickey and a urinary tract infection...bastard.
You might also be interested to know that there is also a type of collagen injection called "The G Shot" that, per its website (www.thegshot.com), "can temporarily augment the Grafenburg spot in sexually active women with normal sexual function." MAYBE I would consider something like that because I'm down for more intense orgasms and it's just a little shot...except in this case, the lengthy list of risks (http://thegshot.com/risks.htm ) including "vesico-vaginal fistula (hole between the bladder and vagina)," "erosion," "exposed material," and "local tissue infarction and necrosis," mitigates the reward. NO THANKS! I'll stick to my regular old orgasms and leave my lady parts unsullied by medical intervention.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listMotherbucker, likewise a big ol' lesbo, decided to take a more snarky approach in her response:
From: FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com)
They should call it Revagination.
I leave the eloquence to Dr. Raz. For wildly different reasons, BigBagel, I concur with her - and you, for that matter: hell motherfucking no.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listJerseyGirl, as all of our friends would have predicted, responded with a typical "ew, gross!" sentiment. JerseyGirl once almost threw up when I was discussing some of the messier aspects of anal sex, so this topic didn't suit her rather squeamish temperament.
From: Motherbucker (mbucker@somepoliticalplaceoranother.com)
I would definitely get it. I want my twat to remain forever tight for all the hot dick I regularly get involved with...
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listSo far, with the exception of Motherbucker who was being 100% sarcastic, nobody has taken a pro-vaginoplasty stance. However, to relieve BigBagel's insatiable curiosity about the wild world of revagination, I thought I'd bring the debate to the internets. If anyone has an opinion about whether they'd personally would or would not get vaginoplasty or why they would or would not encourage their bitch to get a Twat 2.0, spend those two cents on the comment page, y'all! Maybe BigBagel can write another Pulitzer-worthy investigative report on it. Also, I'm still waiting to hear from HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair about what they think as far as their vaginas are concerned.
From: JerseyGirl (jerseygirl@thirdrankedcablenewscompany.com)
That is gross. No.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, gross, HotLawyer, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, MillerTime, Motherbucker, oh the horror, plastic surgery, Rack, science, sex, stank vaginas
Monday, August 13, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Lindsey Lawrence
DOB: July 26, 1986
Occupation: drunken brawler
Hometown: Maple Valley, Washington
Current residence: Seattle, Washington
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Apparently Ms. Lawrence decided to put her recently-of-legal-drinking-age ID to good use and check out karaoke Thursday at Changes Tavern in Seattle. Unfortunately, some dude decided to try singing "Yellow" by Coldplay, which did not meet Ms. Lawrence's high and exacting standards. She first explained to the man that both his singing abilities and song choice "fucking sucked." Then, when he failed to cease and desist what must have been some godawful falsetto whining, Lindsey took it to the next level. According to a police report available on The Smoking Gun, she "grabbed at the microphone and pushed and punched him in order to get him to stop singing." At that point, she was thrown out of the bar physically (because she wouldn't go when they asked nicely), and proceeded to assault most of the bar patrons. When the cops arrived, she went ballistic and "threw 2 or 3 headbutts" at one of the arresting officers before they were able to cuff her and haul her ass away.
I have to applaud Lindsey Lawrence, because as anyone who has ever had to sit through the actual Coldplay version of "Yellow" can attest, "fucking sucks" is an accurate description of that song. I can only imagine how much worse it is when reimagined by a Rainier-swilling U-Dub frat boy. Needless to say, I fully sympathize with Lindsey, because that might provoke violent rage in me after imbibing a few frosty-cold pitchers of Vitamin R. As TSG points out, a blistering New York Times review of Coldplay's X&Y album calls them "the most insufferable band of the decade," boasting lyrics that make the reviewer "wish I didn't understand English." Jon Pareles, the reviewer, goes on to describe Coldplay singer Chris Martin as "a passive-aggressive blowhard, immoderately proud as he flaunts humility." And I find no fault whatsoever in this paragraph:
Clearly, Coldplay is beloved: by moony high school girls and their solace-seeking parents, by hip-hop producers who sample its rich instrumental sounds and by emo rockers who admire Chris Martin's heart-on-sleeve lyrics. The band emanates good intentions, from Mr. Martin's political statements to lyrics insisting on its own benevolence. Coldplay is admired by everyone - everyone except me.Amen, Jon Pareles! And you are not alone. There are at least two people who share your views on Coldplay, and one of them is myself. The other is the eminently admirable Lindsey Lawrence, who didn't sit idly by while some wannabe "emo rocker" decided to break loose with some "heart-on-sleeve lyrics."
If I were in the P-N-Dub, I'd go post that bitch's bail myself and hook her up with HotLawyer's business card. In spite of his own emo-boy, Morrissey-related leanings, I have no doubt that based on the New York Times review and the natural reaction experienced by most people forced to listen to "Yellow," he could make a solid case for justifiable self-defense and get Lindsey off. If the song sounds like shit, you must acquit. I would characterize enduring a single verse of that simpering, caterwauling, whiny auditory shitshow as a painful and traumatizing assault. The fact that "Yellow" is even available for karaoke should be a crime in itself. Lindsey Lawrence is a hero standing up against the unctuous, cloying, fulsome falsetto renditions of earsplitting aural abortions that ruin a perfectly good night of drunken karaoke. Bravo, Lindsey. You fucking rule.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, HotLawyer, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, P-N-Dub, PWT
Monday, July 16, 2007
Not a contract I would be signing
HotLawyer tipped me off to this interesting document on The Smoking Gun. It seems that after he was arrested for charges of pimping, law enforcement officials discovered that his ho had signed this ironclad legal document:
The contract goes on for ten pages, in which it outlines all the terms and stipulations of the master-slave relationship, and also demonstrates that Master Drew--AKA Andrew Kobak--is without a doubt a huge loser of gigantic proportions. His contract assumes a great deal of faux legalese to give it an air of legitimacy as it explicitly details everything from Master Drew's right to tattoo, pierce, and brand his slave per his whim, proper positions the slave should assume for punishment ("the slave lays across the Master's lap to give him ready access to her tender ass cheeks"), appropriate clothing ("pantyhose are generally speaking an abomination and will not be worn by the slave without permission from the Master or at his specific request"), and the terms by which the slave is allowed to have an orgasm. He need not worry about that last part, because I cannot imagine for the life of me how Master Drew could bring a woman to climax given that he looks like this:
His ginormous double chin probably hangs lower than his fucking nutsack. I could not fathom what, besides being held at gunpoint or viciously extorted, would inspire a woman to sign such a contract with this goateed toad. If this fat asshole came at me with this "Slavery Contract", I'd first point out that such contracts are prohibited by the 13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution (I'm assuming that applies to BDSM-themed sex slavery as well as its intended subject of the planter aristocracy's agrarian slave labor-based economy). I'd also seriously question the legitimacy of any legally binding document written in Monotype Corsiva or some similarly unprofessional font choice.
Granted, I probably have much higher self-esteem, employment prospects, and general life skills than the teenage hooker who actually signed this document, and that's a good thing because I'd make a horrible slave. For example, I'd strike out with the three "Duties of Servitude":
If Master Drew's copyrighted slavery contract managed to accomplish anything, it's probably ensuring that the dumb slave who signed it is going to get off on the prostitution charges she's facing. Now she can argue that she wasn't servicing dudes at $60 a pop (that's it?! I'd ask at least $500 if any of them looked anything like Master Drew, which I suspect they did) because she was trying to be a hooker, but because she was compelled to do so by her owner. I bet Master Drew never imagined that his contract would be used to mount a chattel-based criminal defense. At least his contract accomplished something good, because you know he spent forever writing this.
One thing is certain, though. Given Master Drew's infirm physique and sex offender status, I bet now that he's in the clink, the master has become the servant. And nobody in jail respects "Pumpernickel." You shouldn't have pimped your slave, fatso.
The contract goes on for ten pages, in which it outlines all the terms and stipulations of the master-slave relationship, and also demonstrates that Master Drew--AKA Andrew Kobak--is without a doubt a huge loser of gigantic proportions. His contract assumes a great deal of faux legalese to give it an air of legitimacy as it explicitly details everything from Master Drew's right to tattoo, pierce, and brand his slave per his whim, proper positions the slave should assume for punishment ("the slave lays across the Master's lap to give him ready access to her tender ass cheeks"), appropriate clothing ("pantyhose are generally speaking an abomination and will not be worn by the slave without permission from the Master or at his specific request"), and the terms by which the slave is allowed to have an orgasm. He need not worry about that last part, because I cannot imagine for the life of me how Master Drew could bring a woman to climax given that he looks like this:
Granted, I probably have much higher self-esteem, employment prospects, and general life skills than the teenage hooker who actually signed this document, and that's a good thing because I'd make a horrible slave. For example, I'd strike out with the three "Duties of Servitude":
1. Above all, it is the duty of the servant to please.Probably the only things on this list I could provide are "amusement" and "sexual toy/plaything," and no way in hell would I be willing to provide either service to that fat fucking douchebag. Furthermore, I'd be constantly punished, as I don't think I could so much get out of bed without meeting the conditions for punishable offenses as outlined by Master Drew:
2. Personal duties: Physical/emotional needs of Owner, amusement, sexual toy/plaything, physical comfort, obedience, honesty, loyalty, waiting on Owner as desired and needed.
3. Household duties: Cleaning and keeping the home straightened, laundry, shopping, cooking, care for children when requested, run errands as needed. Any task assigned is considered permanent.
-Going anywhere without permission and/or threatening to do soSince I'd immediately attempt to go anywhere but near Master Double Chin without asking, would be cocky and rude in all my dealings with his flabby ass, would DEFINITELY need to drink copiously to suffer his appalling presence, and would disobey every last command he issued, I'd make the world's worst slave. Also, the second he tried to punish me, I'd be like "PUMPERNICKEL! PUMPERNICKEL!" Then I'd advise him that he picked the stupidest safe word in the history of sadomasochism and run my ass-fucking outfit-clad ass the hell out of The Android's Dungeon.
-Cockiness or rudeness
-Drinking without permission
-Disobedience
If Master Drew's copyrighted slavery contract managed to accomplish anything, it's probably ensuring that the dumb slave who signed it is going to get off on the prostitution charges she's facing. Now she can argue that she wasn't servicing dudes at $60 a pop (that's it?! I'd ask at least $500 if any of them looked anything like Master Drew, which I suspect they did) because she was trying to be a hooker, but because she was compelled to do so by her owner. I bet Master Drew never imagined that his contract would be used to mount a chattel-based criminal defense. At least his contract accomplished something good, because you know he spent forever writing this.
One thing is certain, though. Given Master Drew's infirm physique and sex offender status, I bet now that he's in the clink, the master has become the servant. And nobody in jail respects "Pumpernickel." You shouldn't have pimped your slave, fatso.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, fat fucks, HotLawyer, perversion, retard rage, sexual assault
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair
Name: HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair
Real Name: Raul and Fidel. Just kidding! Their names are withheld--they have important jobs and don't need some judge Googling them and asking them why they associate with a dipshit like myself
DOB: June 21, 1978--THEIR BIRTHDAY IS TODAY!!!!!
Occupation: Attorneys-at-Law. According to their MySpaces, HotLawyer "serves as a check to prevent the government from incarcerating the poor at will" (ie: he provides dumbasses who blow up their meth labs with a vigorous defense) and Morrissey'sHair is "counsel to the insolvent" (ie: he structures bankruptcy settlements).
Hometown: Federal Way, WA in the magnificent P-N-Dub
Current Residence: Tacoma, WA, City of Destiny (HotLawyer) and Seattle, WA, City of Hipster Al Gore-Worshipping Snobs (Morrissey'sHair).
Reasons Why I Want to Hit That Hotness: For starters, it's their birthday. Last year I tracked Morrissey's mopey ass down and forced him to sing for them, because they both are abnormally fixated on him. Last time I was in the P-N-Dub, Morrissey'sHair actually blew off going down to Tacoma for my last Saturday in town because he had to retire early, so he could wake up at the cock's crow and STALK MORRISSEY AROUND SEATTLE all day on Sunday. Their Morrissey fetishes are no joke. Anyway, since this year Morrissey is off touring somewhere (to avoid the same thing happening, no doubt), and I've been slammed with work and didn't have time to go abduct him, I thought I'd give them a shout-out here. I went to high school with these two characters, and back then we mainly functioned as philosophical adversaries in various honors classes-turned-forums for debate. After college, they became my Friendsters, but I didn't see them often since they were off in law school. However, shortly after I started this very website, when there was nothing on it but a 50 Cent album review and some poorly laid out news blurbs about the Pope, they both independently e-mailed me to tell me how great they thought it was. Before any of my closest friends could be persuaded to read my site, HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair were checking it on the daily. As a result, I consider them both good friends and great guys, and they're right up there with MillerTime on my "must-call-immediately" list when I go back to the P-N-Dub.
I shouldn't actually say they are "Dudes I Want to Hit" because in truth, I've already got carnal knowledge of one of them (and I'm not saying which one) from one very drunken night a long, long time ago. On another occasion, I tried to convince the other one to indulge in the overwhelmingly awesome experience of banging me, if for no other reason than I wanted to take the sexual equivalent of the Pepsi challenge. I mean, come on, who doesn't want to hit a pair of twins?! Unfortunately for me, he gave me some song and dance about how I was like a sister to him and he's known me forever and it would be weird and blah blah blah, so I couldn't do any kind of comparative study. Oh well. I'll just have to settle for their excellent company. They're both super smart, hilarious, witty, swarthy, devastatingly handsome, and I'm lucky to count them among my close friends and most beloved, platinum elite Razzyphiles. So HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GUYS! Make sure you guys get drunk, get crunk, and get laid!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, HotLawyer, Morrissey'sHair, P-N-Dub
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Why Paris should stay in jail
I have just gotten a chance to take a breather after approximately five straight days of absolutely brutal work. The last two nights I've only gotten a combined five hours of sleep and at my old age, that's not cutting it. I don't even have the energy to write an end-of-the-season sendoff to "Deadliest Catch;" I'm too exhausted to think up clever crab fishing-related metaphors for Skipper Sig Hansen's hotness. So to wind down from the nonstop activity and large quantities of Sugar Free Red Bull for the refreshing nap I plan on taking, I decided to peruse the fluffy, pithy gossip posts on Dlisted, and noticed a post headed with the banner "Serial Killer Handwriting" about this letter:
Apparently Paris is so bored in prison that she's breaking out her best second-grade penmanship to send to the extraordinarily stupid people who mailed her letters of support. Color me completely unsurprised that bitch dots her i's with hearts and failed to retain the old "i before e except after c" rule we all learned in the first fucking grade. I went through a phase where I did that when I was eleven, but even in my EXCEPTIONALLY dorky tween years I quickly realized how obviously retarded that practice is, and immediately reverted to the classic dot. Anyway, her handwriting definitely has some eerie serial killer qualities to it, and I should know. I'm from the P-N-Dub and we have almost as many serial killers as we do Starbucks. Ted Bundy grew up several blocks away from my mom's childhood (and later my post-college) home on 10th and K Street. Rumor has it that he threw his first victim, a young girl from the neighborhood he met on his paper route, into the gulch across the street from Magoo's, the bar where my parents met and where I've gotten drunk on MANY an occasion back in Tacoma. However, Ted Bundy was an evil genius and kind of a hottie. Mark Harmon totally played him in a made-for-TV movie. He landed that role when he was hot, sexy, Vuarnet shades and Hawaiian shirt-wearing Mark Harmon, not the present day old and busted Mark Harmon. Ted Bundy was pretty foxy for a man who killed hundreds of women in Washington and later Florida, where they fried his ass for it.
This is not Ted Bundy writing, though. I expect Ted Bundy's handwriting had a lot of bells and whistles, and may have been very messy, since he was always wearing a cast on his arm to lure his victims into his gold VW bug. Ted Bundy was a complex man, who probably had a complex scrawl. Paris's writing reminds me instead of our other really famous serial killer:
That's a letter from Gary Leon Ridgway, better known as the Green River Killer. In the 80s, he killed a shitload of prostitutes and runaways and chucked their bodies into the Green River. When I was a little kid, a couple of my crazy aunts used to use the Green River Killer as a some sort of mythical cautionary boogeyman who would sniff me out and get me if I was bad to frighten me into behaving. I never fell for that one, since even as a young child I was insightful enough to point out that I wasn't hooking on Highway 99 out near Sea-Tac, in what is basically the chode of King County. Years later, after the advent of DNA forensics when I was almost done with college, they tracked some old pubes down and matched them to samples found in a truck Gary used to own, and captured his ass.
My friend HotLawyer worked on some kind of task force involved with tracking down the remains of his other victims, and he told me that Gary--or "Gare Bear," as he calls him--was certifiably mentally retarded. His IQ is less than 100 and he literally killed so many women that he couldn't remember all of them, much less where they all were. Apparently he would not be able to talk about his "ladys" unless he ate Herfy's fish and chips morning, noon, and night, and when the detectives had to play hardball with him, they'd go in shouting, "No more Herfy's for you! It's cheeseburgers from here on out!" and Gare Bear would lapse into histrionics, followed by catatonia. I imagine shit like that going down with Paris, too. She'd be pretty easy to manipulate by alternately offering and denying her favorite foods (Adderall and greasy Greek shipping heir dick). You could probably get her to confess to kidnapping the Lindbergh baby that way.
HotLawyer also mentioned that as part of the evidence from Gare Bear's case there was a whole sheaf of photos of him in various states of undress, and some joker in the office copied a picture of him in his skivvies, glued it to cardboard, cut it out, and they'd dress it up like a paper doll in a Seahawks uniform, lei and hula skirt, velvet pimp suit, Gary Payton jersey, etc. I imagine that the highly professional staff of the LA County Jail are doing something very similar with some analogous Paris Hilton effigy right now. I certainly would be.
In any event, the extreme similarity between the handwriting, the mental competency, and the speculative scenarios I offer here makes me wonder if there isn't something much more dark and sinister about Paris than anyone ever imagined. I could see that dumb hooker getting all Green River on some unsuspecting Z-list Hollywood ho (like one of those bitches from "The Hills"...they all seem like hapless murder victims waiting to happen) who happens to accept a ride home from Hyde or wherever with her once she's released. Since they can't hold her in jail for the remainder of her natural life because of some lame technicality in the Constitution, I hope that the cops keep an eye on her when she's loosed upon the world like the Eleventh Plague of Egypt in a few days. Something with her is just not right.
This is not Ted Bundy writing, though. I expect Ted Bundy's handwriting had a lot of bells and whistles, and may have been very messy, since he was always wearing a cast on his arm to lure his victims into his gold VW bug. Ted Bundy was a complex man, who probably had a complex scrawl. Paris's writing reminds me instead of our other really famous serial killer:
That's a letter from Gary Leon Ridgway, better known as the Green River Killer. In the 80s, he killed a shitload of prostitutes and runaways and chucked their bodies into the Green River. When I was a little kid, a couple of my crazy aunts used to use the Green River Killer as a some sort of mythical cautionary boogeyman who would sniff me out and get me if I was bad to frighten me into behaving. I never fell for that one, since even as a young child I was insightful enough to point out that I wasn't hooking on Highway 99 out near Sea-Tac, in what is basically the chode of King County. Years later, after the advent of DNA forensics when I was almost done with college, they tracked some old pubes down and matched them to samples found in a truck Gary used to own, and captured his ass.
HotLawyer also mentioned that as part of the evidence from Gare Bear's case there was a whole sheaf of photos of him in various states of undress, and some joker in the office copied a picture of him in his skivvies, glued it to cardboard, cut it out, and they'd dress it up like a paper doll in a Seahawks uniform, lei and hula skirt, velvet pimp suit, Gary Payton jersey, etc. I imagine that the highly professional staff of the LA County Jail are doing something very similar with some analogous Paris Hilton effigy right now. I certainly would be.
In any event, the extreme similarity between the handwriting, the mental competency, and the speculative scenarios I offer here makes me wonder if there isn't something much more dark and sinister about Paris than anyone ever imagined. I could see that dumb hooker getting all Green River on some unsuspecting Z-list Hollywood ho (like one of those bitches from "The Hills"...they all seem like hapless murder victims waiting to happen) who happens to accept a ride home from Hyde or wherever with her once she's released. Since they can't hold her in jail for the remainder of her natural life because of some lame technicality in the Constitution, I hope that the cops keep an eye on her when she's loosed upon the world like the Eleventh Plague of Egypt in a few days. Something with her is just not right.
Labels: crazies, crime and punishment, HotLawyer, oh the horror, P-N-Dub, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
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