Monday, June 08, 2009

 

Who has the biggest chain I've seen thus far?

I'm friends with Faheem "T-Pain" Najm on Facebook, and he's probably one of my favorite Facebook friends.  He updates his status all the time, and it's usually something hilarious.  It's also nice to know that T-Pain can descend from the lofty peaks of the Tallahassee McMansion where he spends the days sipping Nuvo and Patron to dick around on Facebook when he's bored like the rest of us little people (ie: accompanying a link to the Adult Swim website with the commentary "full episode of aqua teen hunger force.  fuck i am good.")  Because of this I know all sorts of information about T-Pain, including that he named his most recent child Kaydnz Kodah (!) and he and his wife like to have orgies with strippers in Costa Rica.  I'm not even kidding. 

T-Pain also likes to post photos frequently, especially of the many custom products he commissions.  Teddy Pinnedherassdown is a man of refined tastes, and he likes to bless the Facebook masses with visual evidence that he's a little more sophisticated than your average rappa ternt sanga.  For example, this lovely and touching tribute to his late dear friend, the recently departed Roderick "Dolla" Burton II.


After all, anyone can send flowers or sympathy cards or make a charitable donation, but there's really not more of a sentimental memorial than airbrushing your one-hit wonder collaborator's image on the hood of your vintage Chevelle.  Tallahassee Pain is nothing but class.  He makes the Queen of England look like a stinking derelict begging for change on a freeway offramp in comparison.

Anyway, today I was pleased to see that T-Pain continues to set the standard for elegance with a recent piece of diamond jewelry he obviously made to dazzle the other social elites he clearly rubs elbows with on the regular.  I knew something was going to be good when my news feed alerted me that T-Pain had prefaced a new photo on his wall with the declaration, "I told everybody I'm not playing no more anybody wanna try to out do me then we goin at it like next door neighbors. Believe dat." I believed dat, and immediately looked at the picture and was nearly blinded with the intensity of this ice. Seriously, get a sweater, because the man and his Louis Vuitton purses (see background in second picture) are more frozen than Antarctica:

Dayum, shawty snappin!  All I want to know is whether or not this is causing any drama in T-Pain's relationship with pretend cocaine kingpin/former correctional officer William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts II, AKA the self-proclaimed biggest boss I've seen thus far. Previously, Rick Ross has prided himself on wearing the largest, most ridonkulous chains in the entire Sunshine State. Rick Ross is so serious about his extremely large jewelry that he was deeply insulted when one of his baby mamas and Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson accused him of renting his signature giant self-portrait yellow diamond pendant.  However, his sometime collaborator, purported friend, and fellow Floridian T-Pain has clearly challenged him when making Facebook wall statements like "DUDES AND GIRLS I JUST WANNA GIVE A QUICK PREVIEW OF THE LAST CHAIN ULL EVER LIKE. IM SHUTTIN IT DOWN."

Them's fightin' words.  I think the next logical course is for Rick Ross to pick up the "Big Ass Chain"-shaped gauntlet T-Pain has thrown and get something so large and absurd that he walks hunched over when he wears it.  That would be quite the achievement, since Rick Ross is a pretty big fella with a great deal of heavy chain-rocking experience, and probably has the neck weightbearing capabilities of an Oregon Trail cart ox.  Break out the candy-colored rocks and let's take this battle to the next level!

Labels: , , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 9:06 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Wednesday, April 01, 2009

 

The deadliest night out

I should have been working on my thesis yesterday, but JerseyGirl called me up and said that I had to go out with her.  I told her it was not a good time.  I'm handing in my thesis this week.

"Razzy, I have a surprise celebrity for you to meet.  And YOU HAVE TO COME.  I would tell you to skip your wedding for this.  You are going to cereally bug when you see who it is."

That was enough to pique my interest.  "Who is it?"

"I'm not telling.  But you are going to LOSE IT.  I can't wait to see your face.  You don't have a choice.  You are coming out for drinks."

"Okay, fine, I'm coming.  But seriously, who is it?  Is it R. Kelly?  I'm going to have a fucking heart attack if I have drinks with Kells.  Is it Lil' Kim?  Is it Lil' Wayne?!"  Now I was not only sold on coming, I was determined to find out who I was meeting so I didn't act like a total asshole.

"Not telling.  I'm going back to work.  Just dress classy, but show a little cleave."

"It's not anyone from the New York Yankees, is it?"  JerseyGirl is, unfortunately, a Yankees fan, so I worried that she might be bringing me to meet one of Satan's pinstriped minions just because I'm more into sports than most of our other girlfriends.

"I wouldn't pull strings so you could meet someone you hate!  It's not a Yankee.  But I'm not telling.  See you at 8 sharp at the Time Warner Center tomorrow."

So I spent every spare moment yesterday pestering JerseyGirl and all our friends to whom she disclosed this mystery guest's identity about the matter.  All I could ascertain was that it wasn't Chris Hansen or Geraldo.  I figured that it probably wasn't Belladonna, since JerseyGirl doesn't watch porn and wouldn't know who that was, and probably wouldn't be meeting with her and a bunch of cable news producers.  I also figured that it probably wasn't anyone from the cast of "Battlestar: Galactica," since she doesn't watch that, and I cried twice during the series finale neither do I.  Despite wishful thinking, I also didn't think R. Kelly was the type who would personally attend such a function.  And I knew Lil' Kim is currently in L.A. filming "Dancing With the Stars."  So I settled on the notion that I was going to be meeting Morrissey, only because I've had a hard-on for him since I was a moody baby dyke, I'm definitely more into him than any of our other friends, and he was in town this past week.

I was thus really excited, and got to the Time Warner Center a little early.  I decided I should eat something to calm my nerves, so I went to Whole Foods and got some fancy pizza.  I was still so wound up that I could barely concentrate on mocking the people next to me in the cafeteria who were clearly on a first date at WHOLE FUCKING FOODS via text to JerseyGirl.  Normally I have all sorts of scathing things to say about this unbelievably stupid practice, but all I could manage was a text reading "People who go on dates at Whole Foods are lame."  JerseyGirl replied, "I know, ew.  See you in 5."

So I went upstairs to meet her, and then we went to the bar.  Nobody was there.  "I'm meeting Morrissey, aren't I?"

"Razzy, SHUT UP.  I'm not telling you.  You'll see in a minute."

Then the special guests arrived.  Morrissey was not among them, but I did see a familiar face.  It was Captain Keith from the F/V Wizard on "Deadliest Catch!"  And then, behind him, like a hero of Valhalla in the flesh, came the shining, Nordic godlike countenance of ***CAPTAIN SIG HANSEN OF THE F/V NORTHWESTERN***!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  I was speechless for a minute, before I advised him that once on MySpace he linked to my blog and declared me his .1 fan.  I was disappointed to learn that this wasn't actually him, but someone who runs his MySpace page for him, but who cares?  I was meeting Sig in person and that's way better than a MySpace comment any day.  He actually blushed when I told him that I once wrote that I was surprised he didn't melt the frozen sea spray off the Northwestern's rigging just by standing near it.  He recovered, ordered an Absolut and Coke (aka "Norwegian champagne") and proceeded to match my Johnnie Walkers drink for drink.

I chatted Keith and his wife up for a while, and they were both very nice people.  I learned that both Captain Keith and Sig think their wives have much more difficult jobs.  I was very pleased to see that fame hadn't gone to any of their heads, and they were really cool, down-to-earth people.  Sig was thrilled when I understood that "kukslikke" means "cocksucker" in Norwegian, and was impressed by my proficiency in swearing, which is at the advanced level of any given cowboy mining the Bering Sea for "red gold."  Sig thought it was hilarious that I went brunette because my Sarah Palin Halloween costume was so successful.  We commiserated about how lutefisk is gross, and I almost wept with joy when Sig told me that being a small girl wouldn't prohibit me from fishing myself.  "Jake Harris is scrawnier than you," he told me.  I didn't mention that I doubted I was tough enough to handle the extreme conditions or the frequent almost-dying part of the job.  And of course I took pictures.  This is what I look like when extremely happy on account of being flanked by two incredibly hot REAL MEN.  


At the end of the night, there was nobody left but myself, Sig, and his handlers, and Sig wanted to go to another bar.  I thought that was a capital idea.  He wanted to go to some Irish bar that he got into a fistfight in during his last visit, although he couldn't remember anything about it except that it was around the corner from where he stayed last time, and the owner's name was Mickey.  He finally called his brother Edgar (!!!!) to figure it out, and got the name.  Unfortunately, his handlers advised us that he had an early morning, and it was not a good idea.  So I just finished smoking the unfiltered Camel I bummed from Sig, and hopped in a cab so that I could go home and freak out about having just met Sig in person.  The Discovery Channel guy told me to call him today about going out tonight instead, so I've got my fingers crossed that I'll get to witness Sig brawling with some local riffraff tonight.  Or at least throw back a few more cocktails with him.  If not, hopefully I'll at least get to see him at "CatchCon," which appropriately enough is the afternoon before the annual Crab Feed that I attend at my high school.

And on that note, I better get off cloud fucking nine and get some work done so I can (maybe) go raise hell with Sig tonight.  

P.S. JerseyGirl, YOU FUCKING RULE!  MAJOR FRIEND POINTS!  *MAJOR!*

Labels: , , , , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 7:21 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Saturday, March 21, 2009

 

It's whatever, ho

I was spending an exciting Saturday night watching March Madness On Demand working on my thesis, and I was plunged into a fugue state on account of both my brackets being totally ruined with the University of Washington's loss to Purdue this evening.  Yes, I know I should not have picked U-Dub to go all the way in either, much less in one, but this year I thought picking a total dark horse and staying true to my home state might just be crazy enough to work.  Sadly, it didn't, and now I'll suffer the annual indignity of losing to the girl who picked teams based on their mascots and getting shit from all my dude friends about picking the not-UConn Huskies until at least April.  Alas.  

Anyway, I decided to seek some distraction so I naturally went straight to Khia's MySpace blog.  I figured that as long as I was going to be staring at a bunch of inscrutable bullshit (ie: my thesis), I might as well stare at some entertaining inscrutable bullshit (ie: Khia's manifestos against all her apparent enemies, including but not limited to Porsche Foxx, Trina, Jacki-O, Wendy Williams, Lisa Raye, Rick Ross (I think), and either Chris Brown or Rihanna's "ragedy ass pussy" depending on the circumstances of that whole dust-up).  I was pleased to see that Khia's been keeping busy hiring professional Photoshoppers and buying gigantic African drums to straddle so it looks as though she has a bizarrely low-hanging dong for her new album, Nasti Muzik. 


Though I'm pretty amazed at the fact that Khia only looks mildly busted here rather than something that would be slain in an old episode of "Buffy," no amount of clever marketing can soften Khia's true edgy nature.  I'm assuming she spent all her money getting her cellulite and crazy snaggleteeth airbrushed out of the Nasti Muzik promotional material and thinking of clever props to help disguise her prodigious gut, because THIS is the video from her latest song:

Seriously, that IS "whatever, ho."  Obviously this was not a Hype Williams production.  It was made by some random Khia fan using scenes from the fucking Sims!  Isn't the Sims like a game from like 1998?  You know you are in desperate need of some new management when you promote your newest single via some homemade catfight-at-the-club-and-beach-in-stripper-heels fan fiction made with a software package that runs on Windows 95.  Frankly, they should just give Khia a camcorder and let her film herself babbling about her various rivalries.  If she talks anything like she writes, it's bound to be entertaining, or at least the parts I can understand will be.

Really, not even the sluttiest Rock of Love stripper dress can spice up this (shockingly attractive) Sims avatar that is supposedly Khia telling everyone "whatever, bitch" and smacking them around.  I'd like to see the real Khia reading her blog on tape.   I don't even care if it's to a beat, because entries such as this have their own innate rhythm and flow and are truly like magic to my ears:
Let's not forget I have something special for Lil Red Ridin Hoe... That Bitch has rode her last ride at the Florida State Fair. Her wristband is expired... The people at the gate said her PUSSY wont sell no moe!!! LMAO!!!
I THINK the aforementioned "Lil Red Ridin Hoe" refers to Angela "Jacki-O" Kohn (ha at her real name), who has released a similarly titled album.  I would rather see Khia regaling us with all the gruesome details about how Jacki-O "rode her last ride at the Florida State Fair" on account of her suddenly unpopular PUSSY (Khia's emphasis).  Or Khia could do PSAs about the ethics involved in "Ike Turnering" a woman.  In any event, we ought to see her unveil a stream of priceless, jabbering invective in her full gnarly glory, not transformed into some boring e-video ho by one of the few fans who actually likes Khia's pedestrian and utterly forgettable rap songs.  

Khia really needs to quit rapping and become my personal assistant.  I've got a thesis that needs (still more) writing.  My wristband has expired.  I need Khia to come in and show me how it's done, Florida State Fair style!  She can write every day and, though I'd probably watch my traffic plummet, I'd e-die happy.  Khia is so awesome.

Labels: , , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 11:08 PM 0 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

 

A veritable font of wisdom

Let me be the first to say that I loathe dudes who beat up chicks for ANY reason.  My position on this is pretty firm.  I don't give a fuck if the chick hits the dude first, or if she was sass-talking him, or if she pushed him, or what.  The fact is that dudes are bigger than chicks and unless the bitch has a black belt, there's no way some big dude beats on an unarmed woman in self-defense.  Period.  And I think any bastard who does so is a fucking cowardly, pussified, punk-ass dickbag loser who rightfully deserves to spend some quality time in a prison shower learning some fucking humility.  PERIOD.  When it comes to wife-beaters, it's ALWAYS the abuser's fault no matter how provocative or maddening the lady was, and I say an emphatic "hang 'em high."

While I might view domestic violence as a very black and white issue, however, I defer to other wise scholars with more profound intellectual gifts than myself to address the shades of gray involved concerning this complex subject matter. For example, this pillar of wisdom:  

Namely, the sage known as Khia, a brilliant lyricist who once wrote poetic lines such as "my neck, my back, lick my pussy and my crack" and now provides counsel to lost souls that look to Hood magazine for guidance.  Not content to wait until someone asked for her take on the Rihanna-Chris Brown issue via a letter to her advice column in Hood, Khia took to her MySpace blog to describe the exact type of situations that may be appropriate for "Ike Turnering" a woman:
Nowwwwww… Let’s get started!!! What the HELL is really going on with these hoes getting knocked in they EYE?? Face crammed ALL in the STEERING wheel!!!! Now… Rihanna… If you got WARTS all on dat RAGEDY ass PUSSY.. SPREADING dat FUNKY MONKEY around….You needed dat ASS beat !!! Passing off diseases to my beautiful BLACK KINGS!! But if not… Chris Brown… You was DEAD ASS WRONG!!!!! First it was Gucci, then Rocko and now….. Chris Brown!!! Yall niggas aint gone keep Ike Turnering dese hoes cuz the industry getting ready to shut yall niggas DOWN!!! HELLLL…… Much shit as the Queen talk I don’t know nann nigga GONE hit ME in my eye…….Uhh-Uhh!!!!
I did hear rumors that Rihanna may have infected Chris Brown with herpes that she got from banging Jay-Z.  As a virologist, I would correct Khia that herpes lesions, which are caused by herpes simplex virus, are different both etiologically and morphologically from genital warts, which are caused by human papillomaviruses.  I know nothing about whether or not Rihanna is, at the ripe old age of 21, in possession of a "RAGEDY ass PUSSY," and I disagree with Khia's stance that inadvertantly spreading any sort of "FUNKY MONKEY" around is justification for being beaten and bitten to disfigurement by one of Khia's beloved BLACK KINGS.  I do agree that regardless of the RAGEDY ass condition of Rihanna's genitalia, Chris Brown is indeed DEAD ASS WRONG and he ought to cease and desist with the Ike Turnering, especially considering that Khia is correct about his career being basically over.  I also thank her for advising me that Gucci Mane and Rocko are apparently wife beaters as well, so I will steer clear of them the next time I'm in Hotlanta (assuming they're anywhere near the Chili's at the airport, which is pretty much the only place in Atlanta I've ever popped bottles at).

Khia continues with a lengthy stream of consciousness rant that puts The Sound and the Fury to shame in terms of its initial indecipherability.  I had to reread it like four times before I realized she seems to express support for my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson in his feud with William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts, castigate former radio personality Stephanie "Porsche Foxx" Calhoun for her apparent culpability in a recent string of arsons plaguing Atlanta, and accusing current radio personality Wendy Williams of being transgendered, looking like both the Michelin man and "a OVER fed English bulldog," and having an extremely large neck.  She also takes issue with Lisa Raye, the actress who is presently the First Lady of Turks and Caicos, at least until her ugly divorce to the islands' Premier is finalized.  Khia seems to think that Lisa was trying to trap the "Count" governing the British territory into a "100 stack booty call" and she ought to flee, since "Turkish women aint got no respect for you Chile!  They should have whooped your ass cause they don't play that hoe shit ova there!"  I guess Khia is confused about the fact that Turkey is an entirely different place than Turks and Caicos, but since she's obviously putting all her energy into enlightening us as to who is a ho and why, I can forgive her for not brushing up on geography.  After I got to the part where Khia advises Lisa Raye that "You will neva be Michelle Obama!!!  Go back to the pole and the low budget ass films you know!!!", I couldn't take any more of my mind being blown and got back to work on the considerably less brilliant piece of prose that is my dissertation.  

If you are remotely interested in being completely astounded, I strongly suggest you get with Khia's MySpace blog.  It reads like what would happen if a Cylon hybrid got out of her bathtub on the basestar, moved to the Suitcase City neighborhood of Tampa, and decided to see what it would be like if James Joyce started a MySpace feud with Trina and the entire population of Atlanta's hip-hop radio DJs (not that I know what a "Cylon hybrid" actually is...some nerd who watches some show that sounds something like "Gattlestar Balactica" came in and fucked with my computer, that's how that got there).  Anyway, how could you not benefit from a woman who has had enough brushes with the Florida state department of corrections to warrant such a lovely mosaic of mug shots?  Khia rules.

Labels: , , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 7:52 PM 2 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, October 23, 2008

 

The only thing missing was "Razzy's a pimp" on the Goodyear Blimp

So you may have noticed that I've been remiss the last week or two in posting regularly.  In fact, you were probably rending your garments and wailing and gnashing your teeth and other assorted Biblical-type expressions of lament and sorrow that you weren't getting Razzified on the regular.  This is because unfortunately I have this thing I'm doing called grad school, and I'm almost done with it.  Therefore, not only do I have acute senioritis (or more accurately, sixth-yearitis), I have more bullshit to do than you even want to hear about.  I have experiments to run, mice to kill, viruses to grow, cloning projects to finish, two riveting first-author papers to write, and a thesis committee to appease.  I was doing the latter today, which is why I spent most of the week cranking out some last minute experiments and preparing to rock their faces off with some hot Power Point action.

Well, not only can I say "mission accomplished" to that notion, but on the VERY SAME DAY I discovered that, after two long years of passaging and plaque assaying and begging my virus to replicate, I gave a mouse a goddamned cold!  And not some bullshit real-time PCR assay showing RNA replication like certain competitors of mine managed to get published (in a fucking Nature journal, of all places), but actual, honest-to-God, infectious motherfucking rhinovirus that kills cells and will give you a cold, make you miss work or school, and possibly exacerbate your asthma, COPD, or cystic fibrosis.  REAL rhinovirus, not some pussified replicative form of the viral genome. 

I know this doesn't sound like much, but I'm seriously having a fucking awesome day.  In fact, this is one of the most awesome days in recent grad school memory.  In fact, I can't think of a day when I was happier in grad school.  I suppose the day I graduate will be better than this, but for now, I'm right up there in O'Shea "Ice Cube" Jackson territory regarding "good day" status.  This is the science nerd equivalent of looking in the mirror and ascertaining that there are no jackers in sight while getting a beep from Kim, who reputedly can fuck all night.  This is like no barking from the dog and mama cooking the breakfast with no hog (if I were a fake-me-out Muslim like Ice Cube apparently was when he released The Predator, anyway).  It's like picking up the cash flow, then playing bones and being the individual skillful enough to be repeatedly yelling "domino."  I probably won't be getting laid tonight with anyone who can fuck all night or doing any backyard gambling, but I will at least be having beers with J-Sexy, who apart from my PI is the one person in the entire world capable of deeply appreciating exactly how fucking mindblowingly, orgasmically, phenomenally awesome THIS is:


I know, I know...try to resist masturbating furiously at the sight of such a sexy piece of data until you are in a private place more appropriate for that sort of activity.  I'm off to drink some beer and eat a fucking cheeseburger.  And come up with topics for lots of interesting posts that I'll have slightly more time to throw together every couple of days, of course.  Thanks for your patience with me being an absentee blogger, and please feel free to have a drink or fifty in my honor!

Labels: , , , , , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 5:23 PM 5 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

 

The silver lining

Where is the tabloid magazine footage of one Ms. Jessica Simpson wearing one of her vile pink Cowboys jerseys marching snottily into the stadium to watch her excessively lauded boyfriend Tony Romo get owned by the likes of the Arizona Cardinals?  I was expecting to see Jessica rocking a giant dipteran pair of sunglasses and looking like a heavily Mystic tanned, Cowboys logo-adorned, Barbified version of Gregor Samsa with lots of Texas-sized hair extensions and a fetish for handbags large enough to stow a side of beef in, strolling into her luxury suite ready to spread her myiasitic plague of fumbling, badly held snaps, and interceptions to her man once again.

Oddly, Jessica Simpson was nowhere to be found when the Cowboys lost to the the Cards, as she was off singing cuntry music to rednecks in North Carolina at some lame NASCAR race. I found this hard to believe, since it seems that Jessica will neither shut up about Tony Romo or be fewer than 100 yards from him at any given time, but apparently she needed more money to spend in the NFLshop.com Cowboys team store, so she was off titillating the Dale, Sr.-worshiping elite by suggestively working this nozzle-thingy prior to yowling at them in her affected hick twang:

Proving, however, that she's really got her accursed claws deep into Romo's nutsack, he sprained his pinky in spite of her absence and is out for the month!  As Brad Johnson, who is currently competing with Kerry Collins, Jeff Garcia, and Brian Griese for the title of New Vinny Testaverde, will now be taking snaps for the Cowboys, I couldn't be happier.  For one thing, I hate the fucking Cowboys.  For another, any misery befalling NFC teams besides the absolute disgrace that the Seahawks' season has been thus far is fine by me.  I encourage Jessica Simpson to continue dating Tony Romo so that her malignant misfortune can eat him up like a cancer.  This is the silver lining to what has been a very depressing first quarter of the NFL season.

Oh, and Jessica...just in case it doesn't work out with Tony Romo, I hear Ben Roethlisberger is single.  I'm sure the Shitsburgh Steelers would really benefit from your inherent anti-quarterback destructive powers.  I know you and Tony are tight, but just in case he gets sick of sitting on his couch watching his team lose while you jabber about purses and fashion during his convalescence, you might think about giving Big Ben a call.  Just a suggestion.

Labels: , , , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 8:28 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, October 02, 2008

 

My night last night, by JerseyGirl

RAZZY Edit: This may look like it was posted by me, but is actually an e-mail I received last Friday morning from my friend JerseyGirl.  She swore up and down she wanted to turn this into a blog posting of her own, but has been so busy with work that she hasn't gotten a chance.  Plus, she's afraid to look at my website from work because her office is full of annoying snoops that read her computer over her shoulder and would maybe have a negative opinion of her professionalism if a picture of my tits popped up. Anyway, she asked me to retool her "high five me, bitches, because I'm a himalaya playa" e-mail as a post, which I'm only too glad to do since I've been seriously remiss in the useless bullshit production department this week. I wish I had a better excuse than lab is busting my balls...or it would be, if I had balls. You get the idea. Anyway, enjoy JerseyGirl's story about juggling her man-harem.

Okay -

As many of you know, I was supposed to go out with M.A. on a date.  M.A. is my boyfriend from summer before college and 1st semester in college–we haven't spoken in ten years, and he found me on Facebook. Yesterday was so dreary and I hadn't washed my hair, so around 5 o'clock I said I had to work late and blew off the date. On my way home from work riding the short bus, I started listening to "Burning Up" by Madonna, and I started to get a little excited. So I decided to text M.C. with: "What are you doing tonite?"

No response.

So I send another text:  "Come over"

About 30 seconds later he writes me back telling me that he's at some movie premiere that wont be over till about 10, but he'll come over then.  Sweet...I am so excited.

I chillax, drink a Molson Golden, take a shower, eat some Easy Mac, watch "The Office," drink a couple more MGs, and smoke a little when my phone rings about about 10:01.  It's O.D. It's really noisy in the background and I ask him what's going on. He's at some event, he tells me, and wants to know what I'm doing.  I ask him if this was a booty call and he starts dying laughing. He tells me he really wants to see me, and can he come over?  I say no, I have to get up early for work tomorrow, sorry.  Come meet me out on Friday. He agrees and asks me to send him more dirty pics to his BlackBerry.

About five minutes later my phone rings and it's this guy from college, D.J., who called me randomly 2 weeks ago after not being in touch for three years. We chatted briefly two weeks ago and since then he's called me at least two times. I finally call him back last night, and we start chatting, and he brings up that our mutual friend from college's wedding is this weekend. He then goes:

"That's sort of the reason I was calling, I was wondering what you were up to this weekend, and if maybe you wanted to go with me to the wedding."

Ummmmmmmm, guy, I haven't laid eyes on you in 3 years, are you straight up CRAZY right now?  I respectfully decline, telling him I have my friend's engagement party (which I do), and hurriedly hang up the phone.

About a minute later I get a text from M.C. saying that he's having some stomach issues and might not be able to make it. So, I promptly text O.D. saying "I can't stop thinking about you." He writes back, "Want me to come over?" to which I respond "YES!"  He says, "Okay give me about 30 minutes."

M.C. then calls me to tell me that he really wants to see me, but that he is having stomach issues and it's probably in everyone's best interest if he goes home. At first I'm like "Suuuure, no big deal! Some other time."  As we're chatting, I get a text from O.D. saying, "I'm sorry to say it, but I think I'm too drunk to drive." Way to go, 40-year-old guy. So then I start pouting a little bit on the phone with M.C., trying my damnedest to make him come over.  Alas, his stomach issues are too great. I hang up the phone dejected.

I text O.D. back "Ok wastoid."  He writes back "Send me pictures," to which I write back "um no retard I want to get laid!" to which he responds "your gonna get it all on Friday."  He is the WORST TEXTER EVER , I mean what does that even mean????

I snuggle into bed, lights out, all ready to pleasure myself courtesy of my Sharper Image back massager when my phone starts ringing. It's M.C.

"I've changed my mind … I'm coming over," he tells me.

Double crisis averted!!!  I was about to go to bed alone, and I was also playing with fire by potentially inviting two guys over to my apartment at 11:30pm–not a good sitch at all. What's also not a good sitch at all is that O.D. bought a 12 pack of condoms a couple weeks ago, and we used 2 when we hung out. Now there's only 8 left.  I hope he's not too good at math!!!!

M.C. and I fucked until the break of dawn and I feel ready to conquer the world today.

XOBJBS,
JerseyGirl

Labels: , , , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 1:22 PM 1 Comments Links to this post

Monday, September 08, 2008

 

He's no Kells, but he can still make an entrance

I was busy with football yesterday for the most part, but that doesn't mean I couldn't take time at commercial to see what's going on over at the VMAs (answer: not much, but the legendary Ms. Britney Spears did manage to crush the competition in three categories with her "Piece of Me" video).  There was a pretty awesome performance by Lil' Wayne and T-Pain (or "T-Wayne," as they've taken to calling their partnership), but otherwise I was more interested in laughing at the Bears helped the Colts break in their ugly new stadium by summarily kicking their bitch asses.

However, there was one notable exception to the general soporific boredom that was the VMAs, and that is Faheem "T-Pain" Najm's entrance.  Apparently, the "rapper ternt sanga" and hair-in-mouth-hating world's most hilarious critic of Ray-J's penis ("the man got a huge meat on him...no homo, but the man is swangin'") decided to really continue with the circus ringmaster theme he's been cultivating as of late, and arrived on a T-Pain chain-wearing ELEPHANT surrounded by a cadre of midget clowns and slutty acrobat chicks.

Say what you will about Teddy Pinnedherassdown, like he can't actually sing without an auto-tuner, or his lyrics are ridiculous (they are), or that "mansion" doesn't really rhyme with "Wisconsin," or he can't properly spell "in love with,""drink," or "rapper turned singer," but you have to admit that the man can rock some ridiculously funny style.  His chain-rocking elephant is considerably more awesome than one of those Kanye West sunglass-wearing Care Bear plushies and furries that preceded his troupe of skank carnies to the VMAs.  In fact, I think any time you show up ANYWHERE cruising in a pachydermal whip you're going to win the awesomeness award, even if you are a fat guy from Tallahassee with nappy dreads and a fondness for garish satin top hats.  T-Pain definitely wins.

Labels: , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 7:09 AM 0 Comments Links to this post
 

The Lord's day

Many people spend their Sundays in church.  They put on their finery and get up early and head to their sacred space of choice for a day of prayer.  While I'm a CEO Catholic (Christmas-Easter only), that doesn't mean I don't observe the same tradition of Sunday worshipfulness, except my Sunday best is a Lofa Tatupu jersey, my church of choice is called Josie Wood's Pub, and my religion is the National Football League.  I may be a heretical Catholic for cheating on my spiritual faith with a professional sports league, but football is worth the time I might spend in purgatory for that.  Anyway, chances are I'm headed for the big brimstone bath downstairs what with all my fornication and abortion-having and eating meat of Fridays in Lent and partial gayness, so skipping Mass for football is basically a no-brainer.

Yesterday, I felt like it was Christmas morning.  I woke up early, cruised down to the Village, and was seated at my usual table at my usual football bar by 12:15, catching up with what all the other regulars were up to during the off-season.  Then all my boys showed up by the time the 1 pm game started, which was very exciting because my buddy G-Cat is a Bills fan (he showed up in a Lee Evans jersey he claims to have "pulled from the clearance bin"), and that's who the Seahawks were playing.  I was busy alternately shit-talking G-Cat and shit-texting another Bills fan in our Fantasy league while I watched the unfortunate manner in which that game unfolded (the Seahawks played like shit overall, Julius Jones can lick my twat because he's sure not doing it for me on the football field so he may as well make himself useful otherwise, and our lack of decent receivers has never been more glaringly obvious), when something amazing happened.

On another TV nearby, the Patriots were playing the Chiefs.  Suddenly, the bar erupted in cheers of approval and excitement directed at that television.  I turned my attention away from the Bills-Seahawks game and saw a beautiful sight: Mr. Perfect himself, Tom Brady, writhing around on the field clutching his knee and screaming.

Now, while I'm usually not inclined to wish severe, potentially crippling injury on anyone, I have no problem whatsoever doing this on my football enemies.  Of those enemies, the ones who draw the vast majority of my evil thoughts are those wearing either a Patriots or a Pittsburgh Steelers uniform.  While not everyone is as pissed about Super Bowl XL as I am, almost everyone in New York (and anywhere not in New England) can relate to my anti-Pats sentiments.    The mood in Josie Wood's was one of decided elation, save the one dour-looking guy in a Randy Moss jersey and my conundrum of a friend NeisMan, a Giants fan wearing a Jet Favre jersey who stocked his entire Fantasy team with Patriots, including Mr. Perfect.  He was so distraught by Brady's injury that in addition to probably frantically attempting to acquire Matt Cassel from the waiver wire, he changed his team name from "Mora's Patriots" to ":-(" in order to better reflect his prospects for Fantasy dominance this season.  I got a text from a friend who had been battling the flu and advised me as to his recovery: "I'm somewhat better but mostly because I got to hear Tom Brady screaming in pain.  That warmed my evil heart.  I mean, he was shrieking like a goddamn woman.  It was magnificent."

It was indeed magnificent, and most of New York also thought so.  According to the New York Times' (lame and boring) NFL Blog, the entire crowd at the Times Square ESPN Zone "roared with delight" when Brady's season bit the dust.  The author wonders why, and says that "saying the Patriots are rivals of the Jets, and, to a lesser extent, the Giants is not a great excuse."  Sounds like a fine enough excuse to me.  In fact, the Patriots are rivals of EVERY team in the NFL to a certain degree, since we all were rooting for those insufferably arrogant cheaters to get their richly deserved karmic due.  I've hated them so blindly and irrationally that I made a foolish bet with my Pats-praising ex-boyfriend, which resulted in my total humiliation on the internets last Christmas.  Most of the country took great pleasure watching them lose Super Bowl XLII, and I get an extra special thrill of delight thinking of the five spectacular sacks the New York Football Giants' linebackers and defensive tackles laid on his prissy golden ass.  I still get just a little bit hot when I hear Chris Berman describe the 2007 Patriots season as "historic but imperfect," so watching the Patriots' icon of vain dickheadery go down in a blaze of girlish screaming is, to say the least, extremely satisfying.  

Even though it's little consolation knowing that Brady's going to spend the next year off "rehabbing" (running around in J. Crew turtlenecks and banging Gisele), and Belichick will probably not say a word about Brady's injury and just list him as questionable for the rest of the season, I can't help but laugh with great joy and mirth at this new downturn in the Pats' fortunes.  If Sunday football is my religion, then I am shouting "Halle-fucking-lujah!" and "Praise Cheese-sauce!" at the top of my lungs, because I just witnessed the divine at work in Kansas City. 

Labels: , , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 3:42 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Friday, August 29, 2008

 

TGIAlmost NFL SEASON!!!

The last couple days I've been battling an annoying cold, and so have been taking it easy.  I'm used to colds, as they are an occupational hazard of being in the rhinovirus business, but that doesn't mean I enjoy being stuck in my hovel of an apartment nursing one.  To distract myself from feeling crummy, I decided to rely on my most treasured remedy for boredom and discontent:  sweet, sweet television.  There wasn't much on, so I spent my time flipping back and forth between the Jets and Giants games.

Preseason football never does much for me.  It's mildly useful for deciding which eleventh round picks to make in my fantasy draft, but otherwise, watching the commentators scramble for background on the likes of Erik Ainge (he was an All-American in high school and Danny Ainge is his uncle!) and Mario Manningham (he smoked pot in college and scored a pitiful 6 on his Wonderlic exam) in lieu of actual stats is pretty boring.  I tried hard to glean some useful information from these games, and this is what I got:
  • Holy shit, LaMont Jordan plays for the Pats now?  I was so disgusted with this asshole that I had hoped he'd be forgotten in the purgatory of Oakland for time eternal.  Every year that fool is ranked as a top running back, and every year he averages around 15 yards per game with a measly one or two touchdowns all season.  I know this from personal experience, since I wasted an early fantasy draft pick on LaMont Jordan two years ago and his woeful underperformance along with a string of unlucky quarterback injuries singlehandedly sunk my team to second-worst in the league.  I think at one point that year I was so frustrated with his consistent lack of production that I actually benched him in favor of Correll Buckhalter, and it doesn't get much more pathetic or desperate than that.  Oakland's stadium, the Black Hole, is aptly named with regard to the Raiders LaMont Jordan-reliant running game (and, actually, their entire offense).  I can only hope that he brings some of that entirely overrated ass-suckery to poison the loathsome Patriots.
  • David Carr is awesome as a preseason quarterback who will see no playing time unless Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning is grievously injured.  Since FAS doesn't have to worry about losing his mental sharpness to if he gets banged up on account of not having much to begin with, he'll have to suffer some sort of Theismann-esque injury for Carr to take the field again and bring the offense that made me forget the Texans even existed.
  • The Giants have a tackle named Guy Whimper, which is quite possibly the least intimidating football name I've ever heard.  I guess as long as the NFL can accommodate players with inordinately awesome names like Mack Strong, they can bring in the polar opposite too.  Not surprisingly, Guy Whimper lasted only a couple of plays before being carted back to the locker room with turf toe.
  • Watching New England's third string and practice squad guys lose in the preseason is infinitely less satisfying than watching their starters lose in the Super Bowl.
  • Jet Favre manages to annoy me even when he's just standing on the sidelines, as the Associated Press puts it, "arms folded, jersey slightly untucked, and safe from harm."  He truly deserves a spot in the hall of fame, as he's managed to accomplish what few others have: he can piss me off without doing anything at all.
  • Jets commentators can still find approximately 45 minutes worth of play-by-play regarding the nothing that Brett Favre is engaged in.  "You see a cagey veteran like Favre really knows how to watch the game with a critical eye" and "He's really made the transition well into that green Jets uniform" (as opposed to the dramatically different Packers green uniform) were among the deft observations made last night by Greg Buttle during the broadcast.
  • PRESEASON FOOTBALL–ESPECIALLY IN WEEK 4–IS FUCKING BORING NO MATTER HOW HARD YOU TRY TO LIKE IT OR HOW MUCH YOU LIKE FOOTBALL IN GENERAL!
Once I got too bored to continue, I decided to go to the trusty internets and read about football instead.  The cherry on top of my relatively boring night of trying to care about the deepest recesses of the Jets and Giants rosters was seeing ESPN's predictions concerning the 2008 Seahawks:

YES!!!  Once again, the Hawks are heralded to take a division title!  Okay, so it IS the NFC West, which is probably the most cream puff division in the entire National Football League, but I am always excited to see a Seattle sports team get a positive preseason write-up from non-Seattle media.  I always like hearing phrases like "the Seahawks should feast on a weak division in Mike Holmgren's final year" and "This is Mike Holmgren's final year as Seahawks coach...expect him to go out in style."  Certainly seeing the Seahawks characterized as "always consistent" and "one of the finer teams in the NFC" is a considerable improvement upon recent preseason predictions for other Seattle sports teams ("Mariners poised for disappointment" and "Sonics move to Oklahoma City.")  Besides, winning is still winning, even if it's only against the dregs of the NFL better known as the 49ers and the Cardinals.  I also wholeheartedly endorse any instance of (Tacoma native) Marcus Trufant being featured as the face of the Seahawks.   

The next nine days are going to fucking CRAWL by.  September 7th cannot come fast enough.

Labels: , , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 5:20 AM 3 Comments Links to this post

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

 

Porn is for pussies, and I mean that in a good way

I got a fun piece of fan mail from a Razzyphile who requested the moniker DrunkenStumble a while back:
Razzy!

Though a contemplation of an email has been in the works for nearly a year, I finally had to send one in upon reading Aunt Jesus. Your Aunt Jesus smells an awful lot like my Uncle ... let's call him John (after the Baptist who, let's face it, looked more like a caveman than the baptizer of Jesus) who is a hypocrite of the highest order. He went from awesome drunken party boy to saintly congregation president with the turn of a screw. He also goes into what I've guessed to be Jesus induced hazes whenever homosexuality, liberals, or alcohol is mentioned. This I find EXTREMELY odd seeing that him and my dad's brother is walking that razor's edge between HIV and AIDS and is so far in the closet he's next door fellating the neighbor.

Now I'm one of many Razzyphiles on facebook and finally hunted you down to friend you on facebook, I can't help but thank you for bringing out my inner slut. Before I had met my ex I was so buttoned up that if anyone mentioned porn star I was crimson from the neck down and knowing porn stars openly was a bit of my dirty little secret. My ex introduced me to the site and upon the discovery that someone else thought Belladonna was pretty bad ass made me realize that living the boring life I'd had wasn't going to cut it. So, a smattering of mediocre bed rompings later, I find that you're the best thing I got out of dating my ex.

Now I finally have someone who also thinks John McCain is made of awesome and isn't touting a "God Hates Fags" sign makes the world a far easier place to live in.

DrunkenStumble
I always love a good fawning e-mail, but I particularly love one that credits me for bringing a woman living an admittedly "boring life" to Jesus Belladonna.  I think every woman could learn a thing or two from Belladonna, and not just how to (BOTH SUPER NSFW)  make Cytheria erupt like Old Faithful or get double fisted by Jenna Haze.  In fact, every woman could learn a lot from watching porn in general, and not just about sex.  Porn teaches you what feminism is really all about.

Even when I was an angry feminazi type with a Ms. subscription and a chip on my shoulder about the patriarchy, I just couldn't get behind the deeply man-hating feminist theories of women like Catherine MacKinnon and Andrea Dworkin.  These dumb bitches overcompensated for decades of being the ugliest fat hags at the bra burning rally by declaring all penetrative sex to be rape and claiming that pornography is a violation of women's civil rights.  In a post she wrote discussing the world's most embarrassing Jews, my friend LL Cool Jew, a liberal, 1970s radical-bred, NPR-listening, lesbian on sabbatical from San Francisco, had some choice words to say about Andrea Dworkin the Hutt and her vehement anti-pornography stance:
This is a bitch against whom I passionately railed as a righteously sexually liberated Smith College junior for her repressive, primitive, man-hating, female-sexuality-mistrusting, straight-up-First-Amendment-violating crusade against porn. Saying porn does damage to women necessarily means that women don't enjoy porn, and every woman I know can attest against that. Anyway, don't get me started. Suffice it to say, thank God the good old U.S. Constitution was around to fend off that fat, embarrassing Jewess.
Even back in the day when I was wearing ill-fitting men's clothes, rocking the world's worst baby dyke haircut, jamming to my Bikini Kill CDs, and writing "RIOT GRRL" on my knuckles, I felt the same way as LL Cool Jew.  No matter how pissed off I was about the nefarious patriarchy supposedly keeping us down and no matter how many bad poems I wrote, bands from Olympia, Portland, or San Francisco I admired, or unflattering pairs of Salvation Army cords I donned to express my subversion of the male establishment, I never directed my ire at pornography.  Even before I had seen any porn, I could appreciate its intrinsic value to society, and specifically to women.

I realize that most porn is geared toward men and their fantasies, and that might lead an anger-prone feminist to believe that it is inherently sexist.  I've seen a lot of things in porn that compel me to roll my eyes because they were so obviously thought up by a dude, such as peroxide blondes with five-inch acrylic claws fingerbanging each other and acting like they are shrieking with pleasure rather than vagina-ripping agony, or the feigned joys of a strap-on blowjob.  The small amount of "female friendly" porn available is usually incredibly boring, relying more on romantic storylines and foreplay than hardcore fucking.  In fact, if you believe "Sex and the City," women get off on shoes and relationship drama rather than any kind of actual sexual activity.  However, to suggest that because porn is geared toward men indicates that it is exclusively their province would be wholly erroneous.  

The other night, I was hanging out with a bunch of my bitches and I was regaling them with tales about how I learned to love performing fellatio.  This turned into an instructional session involving me demonstrating some techniques on a beer bottle and referring some skeptics to recent posts from this very blog.  One particularly resistant pupil continued to raise an eyebrow at me, so I said, "Oh, hell, just go watch some blowjob videos on RedTube and emulate it."  The reaction at the table was explosive.

"I FUCKING LOVE RedTube!"  exclaimed the hesitant cocksucker.  "That shit rules!"

"What's RedTube?  Is that like YouPorn?  I'm on YouPorn all the time!" added one of her friends, who, I should add, was a pain-in-the-ass overly political lesbian.

"RedTube is my jam, for sure," said another one of the girls.

I should add that, of all these women, I am probably the most sexually in-your-face girl there.  These ladies aren't prudes, but many of them are definitely the kinds of girls who don't fuck strangers or put out on the first date or have threesomes or otherwise engage in my kind of slutty antics.  In spite of the fact, however, that they are all "good girls" with successful careers and lots of self-esteem, they are all apparently really into hardcore streaming tube sites.  These women obviously don't consider porn to be objectifying or degrading.  They consider it a source of enjoyment and a boon to their sexuality.  Tons of women consume porn in spite of whatever male chauvinist trappings the self-loathing, man-fearing, sexuality-rejecting feminazi theorists of the old guard might base their wack-ass theories upon.  The fact that many modern women have become so comfortable with their own sexuality that they consume male-directed porn with as much gusto as your average dick-jerking, woman-oppressing dude is a triumph for feminism.

I am happy to have done my part for the sex-positive women's movement by helping DrunkenStumble, a woman I've never met before, embrace her love of rubbing them off to Belladonna.  Knowing that setting the example of an open, sexually liberated pervert helps other women achieve the same laudable goal is definitely one of the satisfying perks of being in the useless bullshit business, and it motivates me to continue singing the praises of smut.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go watch some porn.

Labels: , , , , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 6:46 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, August 21, 2008

 

I miss Valerie more

I saw today that the CW has released a new promo video for Bev Niner 2.0 today featuring none other than the legendary Shannen "Brenda Walsh" Doherty. This video was expressly designed to get my Brendaphile friends like JerseyGirl and Twathopper hyperventilating with excitement. I can practically hear JerseyGirl all the way across the George Washington Bridge in her Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey office shouting "O! M! G! YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!" True to form, Twathopper just e-mailed me about this informing me that "I think I just had an O at my desk."

In case you are dumb and stupid not a fan of the greatest show in the history of television ("Beverly Hills, 90210"...DUH!), let me explain a little bit about Brenda Walsh. The tempestuous younger (by four minutes) twin sister of the insufferably moral Brandon Walsh, she emigrated to America's most infamous zip code when her accountant father Jim was transferred from Minneapolis and immediately commenced starting a bunch of dramatic shit. Prior to the arrival of the duplicitous uber-slut Valerie Malone in season 5, I was always on Team Kelly Taylor, but I have to appreciate Brenda's ability to create some extremely memorable television moments. Here's a brief summary of her scandals:
Granted, Brenda never faked a pregnancy to extort a married guy out of $100,000 or smoked pot out her window while noting, "God, these people are such a bunch of squares" like Valerie Malone, but she had her moments until she was fired from Bev Niner for being a bitch and her character was exiled to drama school in London. Supposedly, Brenda was off becoming a famous actor, director, and all-around theaterfag. Her excuse for returning to West Beverly High is to direct the high school production of Spring Awakening. Isn't that musical supposed to be about teenagers masturbating and committing suicide? That sounds appropriate for high school students as portrayed by the CW. And I can only imagine the kind of performances an accomplished thespian like Brenda will elicit from her high school proteges. Check out her mastery of the craft as Maggie the Cat in the California University production of Tennessee Williams's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Brilliant!

Labels: , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 11:41 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, August 07, 2008

 

I know I've heard a lot of tracks, but Twelve Play's what I want

Thanks to Google alerts, I was advised yesterday that, to my extreme excitement, an album by a certain Mr. Robert Sylvester Kelly has leaked onto the internets in its entirety. I pray to the gods of R&B that this is a harbinger of TP Fourth Quarter bumping Tha Carter III from its lofty position as the almost constantly played collection of jams on my iTunes. I've been waiting for this day since LL Cool Jew and I heard the R-uh in R&B announce it as he bade adieu after blessing us with his mackadelic nightspot realness for two and a half hours on R. Kelly's Double Up tour.

Because I'm approaching the ancient age of thirty, I have no idea how to find secretly leaked TP Fourth Quarter tracks available for illegal download. I don't know how these torrent doohickeys all the kids are using work! Sadly, I thus can't follow the instructions given by Kells in "Like a Real Freak" and "go up to your internet and download me, get my computer love right off the screen." I assume they don't make leaked mp3's that are compatible with the dual cassette boom box technology us old crones are familiar with. What I do know is that Kells better hurry up and release this damn album, because I am fiending HARD for it! I want him to make like he did for TP-2.com and put it on me like drawers, because Lord knows I can hang since he's horny as hell tonight. I'm ready for him to either sex my body like what, like diamonds in the cut, or alternatively tear my shit out, new millenium style!

In the absence of the actual songs, at least the internets have advised me what the titles of the songs are. Since, with the exception of the exquisite ode to sex at the beauty salon, "Hair Braider" and the contemplative slow jam "Playas Get Lonely," I haven't heard any of these songs, I'm going to have to rely on my imagination to get a taste of what Kells cooked up in the Chocolate Factory this time around.

01. Wanna Make A Baby: I think the subject of this song is pretty self-explanatory. Given the number of lyrics Kells has devoted to this topic (to the point of even including "making a baby" as one of his possible reasons for not picking up his cell in his amazing musical voicemail greeting "Leave Your Name"), I can't believe that there aren't about ten million little FitzKellses running around. If he's to be believed, he procreates almost every time he has sex, which is OFTEN.

02. Hair Braider: I've already discussed "Hair Braider" at length, but it never gets old. I'd like to meet this fabled hair stylist. Luckily, Kells's website gives me the opportunity to check out the stylings of many women who have their hair comb grease ready hoping the Pied Piper will roll through and rain on them like confetti.


03. Skin: I'm pretty sure I know what this song is about too, and it sure as hell isn't dermatology. I predict that this song has potential for a lot of awesome metaphors concerning the color and texture of the titular epidermis, specifically in the context of when Kells is showcasing his skills as the "winner in bed" he purports to be.

04. Screamer: Considering R. Kelly's legendarily large "love jones" (which he has previously claimed "makes the room go back" when unleashed from his pants), his apparent fecundity, and lines like "inside of your walls there will dwell a Capricorn," I can't fathom why any woman coupling with Kells wouldn't be a screamer.

05. At the Same Time: Please, please, PLEASE let this be another ode to threesomes. I don't know how Kells can top descriptions of his adventures in group sex with two chicks who both got dizzy legs like "one massage my toes while one braid my hair," "the way they took me down like a forty," or "three's company, bitch, call me Jack Tripper," but I have faith that he can.

06. Whole Lotta Kisses: This one's a toss-up, since on one hand it could be one of those slow, serious Kells love songs where he says nothing funny or ridiculous (ie: "You're My Angel"), or it could be some awesome narrative concerning either Kells's tryst with a stripper or his ability to spice up a mundane relationship with some quality oral skills, including but not limited to kissing, L'ing P, and salad tossing.

07. Might Be Mine: At least Kells can write a song acknowledging that his penchant for both riding bareback and associating with loose women can result in some difficult paternity situations.

08. Son of a Bitch: This is either about Kells's rough upbringing busking for cash on the south side of the Chi, or a vicious assault on the many haters who have derided him for his recent legal problems.
09. Go Low: Based on the title alone, I'm going to go ahead and call club banger on this one.

10. Freaky Sensation: If there were ever a song with the potential for some true Kells ridiculousness, this is it. I predict he'll address topics along the lines than "you say you want to take first-class trips, well I want to work those first-class hips," "I got many styles when it comes to sex positions," "I promise it will be painless as we journey to Uranus," and "betcha I can make your body talk to me...all I need is my CD, a bag of weed, and some Cristie."

11. Two Seater: An update on what R. Kelly's done to continue swelling his stable of whips since he last addressed the topic in the song "Rollin." That song was primarily devoted to his various Maybachs and his fleet of "jeeps" (none of which are actually manufactured by Jeep).

12. Playas Get Lonely: I feel this song deeply. At first I didn't like it because it seemed a little more introspective than the usual "rolling in my drop, tinted on top" sentiment I prefer from Kells. However, as LL Cool Jew pointed out, "playas get lonely is a funny and rather original sentiment...it's about you!" I can't fight the truth.

13. Relief: What I'm going to feel when I finally get my hot little computer hands on this damn album! Hurry up and drop it already, R-uh!

Labels: , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 6:01 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, August 05, 2008

 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the Hip-Hop Magician


Name: Uncle Majic/Shakim the Clown

DOB: ???

Occupation: who the celebrities call for their kids' birthday parties

Hometown: Brooklyn, New York

Current residence: Brooklyn, New York

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Because who doesn't want a "hip-hop magician" that all the celebrities hire for their kids' birthday parties? I certainly do, even though I'm not sure what "celebrities" these are. Somehow I can't really see Donald Trump, Kimora Lee Simmons, or Madonna being swayed by his ads (which are usually on during "I Love Money" and other similar trashtastic Vh1 reality shows), but I'd settle for hiring any "hip-hop" celebrity magician/clown who brings a magic show, balloon animals, games, a popcorn maker, a cotton candy machine, and a bouncy castle to all of his gigs. That's assuredly much better than what magicians usually bring, which if Criss Angel is any indication, includes trucker hats, body jewelry from Hot Topic, a soundtrack composed solely of Korn, Linkin Park, and Drowning Pool songs, and an insufferable sense of condescending superiority that is supposed to pass as mysterious intrigue.  Frankly, I'm tempted to call 718-892-0760 just to see if I can afford his rates for my thesis defense party next year. That would be a welcome departure from the usual cheap champagne and Saigon Grill takeout selection that typically mark a grad student's passage from academic serfdom to a real job. I dare you not to want Uncle Majic to demonstrate his arts at your next special occasion after watching his video:


AD WIZARDS: Hip Hop Magician

As it turns out, I was wrong about the celebrities he's been hired by. I went to hiphopmagician.com and it turns out Kimora Lee Simmons DID book him for her kids' birthday party! He's also performed for the likes of Alan Houston, Wendy Williams, and Treach, as well as warmed up crowds for Mike Epps, Chris Rock, and Dave Chappelle. He claims that "the only thing that separates me from David Blaine is a few thousand dollars." I would argue that he's also separated from David Blaine by accomplishing a feat of illusion that no other magician has yet done: a mere glance at him doesn't make me hate him and wish for his violent death, as is the case with Mr. Blaine and his contemporaries in faux magical bullshit.  In fact, even more miraculous and amazing is the fact that I actually LIKE the hip-hop magician and experience feelings of wanting him to perform for me rather than explode in a freak balloon animal accident.  I'm not a celebrity, and I don't have kids, but nonetheless I want to call him for my birthday party anyway. 

Labels: , , , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 5:29 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, July 31, 2008

 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince


Name: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

DOB: November 21, 2008

Occupation: ruling your face off

Hometown: London, England (oh, oops, it looks like some of this was filmed in Norway too)

Current residence: post-production

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness:  I am completely and totally unashamed about the fact that I love Harry Potter in a serious way.  When book 7 dropped, JerseyGirl, FalloniusMonk, and I went to the Lincoln Center Barnes and Noble to pick up our pre-ordered copies of HP and the DH, and were so eager that we cut in front of not one but TWO groups of children so as not to delay our gratification.  Yeah, I know it's kind of an asshole move to cut in front of kids, but their arguments are easily quelled by some grown-up bitchery and as far as I am concerned, it's just Darwinism in action.  It's not my problem if those dumb ten-year-olds with fake glasses, drawn-on lightning bolt scars, and Warner Brothers' sanctioned Gryffindor robes can't adapt to the selection pressures of the Harry Potter book release line.

Sadly, since there aren't any more Harry Potter books coming out, I've got to get excited about the movies coming out.  Luckily, there are three more to look forward to (HP and the DH has been split into two movies), so I have plenty of Harry Potter geekery to look forward to for the next few years.  Last summer when HP and the OOTP came out, Rack, TheOldGuy, FalloniusMonk, and I ate some really awesome special brownies and saw it in 3-D IMAX, and it was truly amazing.  I even went to see it again with JerseyGirl later, and I never go see movies twice in the theater.  I didn't even see Lord of the Rings: Return of the King in the theater more than once, and that's my favorite movie ever (although in fairness, I didn't have a spare eight hours to kill after the first time I saw it to accommodate a repeat theater visit for LOTR: ROTK).

Anyway, to ensure my unbridled excitement over the next few months, the trailer for HP and the HBP has been released and I'm fucking thrilled.  Okay, they don't show the part where Dumbledore's homo ass bites it courtesy of Severus Snape, but I guess that wouldn't make it much of a teaser trailer.  And oops, did I say that?  Yeah, Dumbledore totally gets avada kedavre-d by Snape at the end.  Sorry to spoil it, but if you haven't read the book by now, that's what you get for slacking.  Also, the chick in The Crying Game is really a dude, and Bruce Willis is dead the whole time in The Sixth Sense.  If you can't get on this shit when it's hot, then get over it!

So back to Harry Potter...this movie looks like it's going to totally rock everyone's face off, as per usual.  If only it had Daniel Radcliffe's barely legal weiner in it, it would be perfect.  I guess I'll have to go see Equus for that and content myself with the fact that Harry Potter is awesome enough to accommodate the lack of teenage male nudity and the presence of a few despicable children in the audience with me.  

Labels: , , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 5:52 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: "Beverly Hills, 90210" season 5 DVDs!


Name: "Beverly Hills, 90210" season 5 DVD box set

DOB: July 29, 2008

Occupation: THE GREATEST SHOW IN THE HISTORY OF TELEVISION

Hometown: Beverly Hills, California

Current residence: en route to my lab from Barnes and Noble's warehouse

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness:  Many great happenings occur during Bev Niner season 5, but quite possibly the pinnacle of a mountain of awesomeness is the arrival of one hot-ass bitch named VALERIE MALONE:


Valerie was the replacement for the tempestuous and bitchy cunt Brenda Walsh, who moved to attend theater school in London when Shannen Doherty was fired for being a bitchy cunt in real life to her castmates.  Luckily, Valerie brought the drama to fill Brenda's void, and exponentially improved on it.  Brenda was always busy throwing fits for her parents about her high-and-mighty yet inconsistent principles, whining about Dylan McKay, and doing dumb-ass shit like getting arrested for freeing the cats in Buzzkill Zuckerman's sudden infant death syndrome research lab.  Unlike Brenda, who always had some extremely moral pretext for her bitchery, Valerie has no morals whatsoever.  She shows up from her hometown of Buffalo acting like a total goody-two-shoes and by the end of the first episode, is smoking pot out of her window at the Walsh house and telling her friend back home, "God, this people are such a bunch of squares."

Valerie goes on to break Steve Sanders's heart, fuck Dylan cross-eyed at a pool hall without telling him she's the new Brenda, invite her friend to town who promptly steals Donna Martin's mother's jewelry, assist Dylan in conning the con artists who stole his millions to get the money back, attempt to extort a guy out of $100,000 by faking a pregnancy, starts the Peach Pit After Dark, fucks a heroin addict and then thinks she has AIDS, tells everyone at the West Beverly 5-year high school reunion that she "works with the poor," bones David Silver and then talks him out of suicide, has about ten million SUPER bitch-offs with Kelly Taylor, scams Donna's professional shopping clients, fucks Donna's abusive musician boyfriend Ray Pruit, gets accidentally date-raped by Noah Hunter after his brother slips a roofie into her merlot, accidentally gets Brandon arrested when she leaves a joint in her car by the registration, fucks her mother's fiancé the night before their wedding, and generally lies, cheats, steals, and manipulates her way into and out of every situation.  Valerie is a straight up pot-smoking slut with no apparent conscience, at least not until later episodes when she reveals that she is so damaged because her father raped her repeatedly and she popped a cap in his ass, then passed it off as a suicide.  In other words, she may be the most entertaining Bev Niner character ever to grace the greatest show on earth.

Anyway, I can hardly wait until my DVDs arrive and my girls and I can pull up a sixer of brew dogs and a large selection of pepperoni pizza at JerseyGirl or Twathopper's apartments for some quality Niner time.  Thanks to my apartment's paper-thin walls, I've been hearing the theme for the new "90210" issuing from my apparently CW-loving neighbor's apartment for days, so I'm more than in the mood.  SEASON FIVE rules so hard!

Labels: , , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 9:58 AM 4 Comments Links to this post

Friday, July 25, 2008

 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Mrs. Officer


Name: Mrs. Officer (from Tha Carter III)

DOB: June 10, 2008

Occupation: making me laugh hysterically

Hometown: Hollygrove, New Orleans, Louisiana

Current residence: my iTunes

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness:  Okay, so I'm hung over and can't really think of anything I am that excited about...except ONE thing: Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter!  If you haven't illegally downloaded Tha Carter III yet, you are stupid, because it totally rules and has been on daily rotation on my iTunes.  There is one song in particular that makes me seriously laugh out loud every time I hear it, a little tune known as "Mrs. Officer."

This song is a touching ode to the female police office who detains Weezy F. Baby and amazingly, doesn't arrest him.  On the contrary, she has other things in mind.  Specifically, according to Lil' Wayne, "all she want me to do is fuck the police."  Now, while Tha Carter may describe himself as "the hottest hottest under the sun," I assume that refers to his flow and not his actual physical appearance.  If I were a female member of New Orleans's finest, I'm not sure that I would be calling my sergeant and telling him I can't finish my shift because I was smitten with Lil' Wayne's seductive ways.  I am, however, to let this slide, because "Mrs. Officer" is so awesome that I made it the ringer on my new teenager phone.   And if you haven't been blessed with auditory exposure to this jam, consider this your lucky day:

Labels: , , ,


# posted by Razzy @ 8:28 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?

Subscribe to Posts [Atom]