Thursday, March 27, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Amateur Night at the Apollo Theater
DOB: 1934
Occupation: judging competing talent and entertaining tourists
Hometown: Harlem, New York, New York
Current residence: same--253 W. 125th Street
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I was really sick the last couple days and basically didn't do anything besides lay in bed and consume soup and DayQuil. Luckily, the anonymous commenter currently doing the lion's share of Razzy hating has proved to be as inept at opining on medical matters as he/she is at correctly predicting my legal demise, and I don't have AIDS, bubonic plague, or anything resembling a hemorrhagic fever virus. I was laid out by my old nemesis, rhinovirus, and now am on the mend. I was worried, though, that I wouldn't be able to rally enough to make it out to Amateur Night last night.
My friend JerseyGirl is crazy about "Showtime at the Apollo," and for her impending birthday, her boyfriend Kodiak thought it would be fun to surprise her and her tightest girls with tickets to Amateur Night. He bought tickets for us all weeks in advance and I knew that I'd have to be hospitalized in order to really skip out on it. Besides, I've always wanted to check it out, and it's just one of those New York things I haven't gotten around to doing in the five years since I've lived here. So I took a handful of DayQuil and trekked the one subway stop down to 125th street.
When we got there, JerseyGirl was--in her words--"straight-up cereally buggin'" and "renarded" with excitement. "LOOK! It's the TREE OF HOPE!" she shouted, pointing at the stump-type thing that the contestants rub for luck before taking the stage. "O.M.G. I can't believe we are actually here," she said. "O.M.G. O.M.G. This is totz so awesome." I think she was happy with her present.
I was disappointed to learn that the Sandman had passed in 2003 (it's been awhile since I caught an episode of "It's Showtime at the Apollo" on TV) and the shepherd's staff he used to drag people offstage is not used by his replacement. The amateurs were entertaining, even if there was an excess of dance troupes. If I'd had my way, every last douchebag in a stupid sweatshirt would have been dragged away in shame. I hate dancing, both in terms of doing it and watching it. There was this one fat woman who collapsed onstage singing "I Who Have Nothing" (my choice to win...unfortunately, she did not), and a jazz horn ensemble called the "BSHA Group." They sucked, but we all declared them JerseyGirl and Kodiak's favorites on the basis of their name.
"BS? H and A? That group is made for you two, dude!" I exclaimed (H and A are Kodiak and JerseyGirl's first initials, and BS--not bullshit--is one of their special BF/GF bonding activities).
"Dude, our BS is way more inspired than this," said JerseyGirl, scoffing at their uninspired rendition of "My Favorite Things." However, from that point on, we all referred to that group as the "Buttsex Kodiak JerseyGirl Group."
In spite of not being at the top of my game in terms of verbal capabilities (I was having a hard time shouting "BOOOO!!!!" without collapsing into a fit of coughing and--like the true dweeb that I am--had to take several hits off my asthma inhaler during the event), I still managed to get very excited about Amateur Night. And today I am not back to 100%, but I am considerably improved. Amateur Night was not only worth getting out of bed for as an evening of entertainment and as a salute to my friend turning 28, it actually may have helped facilitate my recovery. I do NOT shout "BOOOOO!!!!" to Amateur Night.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Harlem world, I hate dancing, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, NYC
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Uncoordinated comedienne of the dancehall
Last night I went over to J-Sexy's to make her chicken and dumplings, because she's getting tired of milkshakes and can only tolerate soft, bland American fare for her healing tonsillectomy wounds. Since her typical cuisine involves things like curried goat and oxtail, she needed the culinary services of a chef with the know-how of PWT from the P-N-Dub: namely, proficiency with Bisquick and vast gravy-making expertise. I was happy to oblige. I rounded up the rotation student from our lab, and we arrived at J-Sexy's with ample stores of groceries and beer.
While I cooked and we all drank, J-Sexy put on a typical dancehall reggae mix CD. She and the rotation student started talking about their love of dancing. I chimed in with my negative opinion of dancing. I HATE dancing, probably because when I go out I'm always wearing uncomfortable shoes, and because I'm terrible at it. I am clumsy and I have no rhythm (except when I'm on my back, baby!). The only kind of dancing I can do at all is stripping, because I can swing around on a pole and because my nudity distracts from my horrible moves.
I think I got this from my dad. His bad dancing is a thing of legend. To this day, whenever we're in the car and one of his signature jams comes on the radio (BTO's "Takin' Care of Business," "American Band" by Grand Funk Railroad, "Come On, Eileen" by Dexy's Midnight Runners, "Addicted to Love" by Robert Palmer, or "Turning Japanese" by the Vapors...he's weird), he does this move my brother and I call "The Ostrich." He claps his hands together once, and starts jutting his head forward repeatedly like a bird. In addition to the appallingly bad dance genes that I inherited from him, he also made me never want to dance again when I was twelve. That year, my cousin married this Samoan guy, and his cousins were doing some traditional Polynesian dancing at their wedding. They invited anyone who cared to do so to join them as they seductively swayed around in their grass skirts. I obliged because then, as now, I was a show-off and wanted to impress. I thought I looked pretty hot up there in my flowered rayon culottes, gyrating to the sweet island melodies of the South Pacific. However, when we saw some clips of the wedding video a while later, the dancing part came on, and my dad exclaims, "Look at Razzy!" and bursts into guffaws. In fairness, I appeared to be doing a bizarre combination of the Running Man and the Twist, and it's amazing that any of the wedding guests could even keep a straight face watching me. However, at twelve, I was traumatized and permanently put off from dancing. I think my dad feels bad about this now, as he's always very apologetic about it when my brother compares me to Elaine from "Seinfeld." I always shout at my dad, "I learned it from watching you!" and he hangs his head in shame.
Anyway, I'm a horrible dancer, and I hate doing it. If I want to get laid I show my tits and drink like a fish and impress guys with my staggering intellect and debonair charm, not convulse wildly in a pair of painful stilettos. If I want people to laugh uncontrollably, then I dance. I sometimes bust out some private dancing for J-Sexy because she finds it infinitely amusing. If she's having a bad day, all I have to do to get her in peals of laughter is start popping and locking or attempting the dutty wine. The rotation student was doubting that I'm really THAT bad.
"J-Sexy loves it when I dance. She thinks I'm the greatest. She's always asking me to teach her my moves."
"Oh yes, Razzy, always," said J-Sexy, laughing.
"She's always like, 'Shawty snappin. Put on some T-Pain and dance for me. If you went to Kingston you'd be the Queen of the Dancehall.'" I continued.
"Definitely," said J-Sexy. "Hands down."
"Wine gal, wine gal, wine like a gypsy!" I sang along with the song playing and did the Razzy Wine, which looks like a cross between a grand mal seizure and a vigorous pelvic thrusting. My audience was in hysterics.
After dinner and several more beers, J-Sexy got out her camera to provide some definitive proof that I am one of the worst dancers in the history of coordinated rhythmic movement to music. Unfortunately she doesn't own a video camera, but I think the stills are evidence enough that I'm godawful at it. I look like I have cerebral palsy:
I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I drink better'n I dance.
While I cooked and we all drank, J-Sexy put on a typical dancehall reggae mix CD. She and the rotation student started talking about their love of dancing. I chimed in with my negative opinion of dancing. I HATE dancing, probably because when I go out I'm always wearing uncomfortable shoes, and because I'm terrible at it. I am clumsy and I have no rhythm (except when I'm on my back, baby!). The only kind of dancing I can do at all is stripping, because I can swing around on a pole and because my nudity distracts from my horrible moves.
I think I got this from my dad. His bad dancing is a thing of legend. To this day, whenever we're in the car and one of his signature jams comes on the radio (BTO's "Takin' Care of Business," "American Band" by Grand Funk Railroad, "Come On, Eileen" by Dexy's Midnight Runners, "Addicted to Love" by Robert Palmer, or "Turning Japanese" by the Vapors...he's weird), he does this move my brother and I call "The Ostrich." He claps his hands together once, and starts jutting his head forward repeatedly like a bird. In addition to the appallingly bad dance genes that I inherited from him, he also made me never want to dance again when I was twelve. That year, my cousin married this Samoan guy, and his cousins were doing some traditional Polynesian dancing at their wedding. They invited anyone who cared to do so to join them as they seductively swayed around in their grass skirts. I obliged because then, as now, I was a show-off and wanted to impress. I thought I looked pretty hot up there in my flowered rayon culottes, gyrating to the sweet island melodies of the South Pacific. However, when we saw some clips of the wedding video a while later, the dancing part came on, and my dad exclaims, "Look at Razzy!" and bursts into guffaws. In fairness, I appeared to be doing a bizarre combination of the Running Man and the Twist, and it's amazing that any of the wedding guests could even keep a straight face watching me. However, at twelve, I was traumatized and permanently put off from dancing. I think my dad feels bad about this now, as he's always very apologetic about it when my brother compares me to Elaine from "Seinfeld." I always shout at my dad, "I learned it from watching you!" and he hangs his head in shame.
Anyway, I'm a horrible dancer, and I hate doing it. If I want to get laid I show my tits and drink like a fish and impress guys with my staggering intellect and debonair charm, not convulse wildly in a pair of painful stilettos. If I want people to laugh uncontrollably, then I dance. I sometimes bust out some private dancing for J-Sexy because she finds it infinitely amusing. If she's having a bad day, all I have to do to get her in peals of laughter is start popping and locking or attempting the dutty wine. The rotation student was doubting that I'm really THAT bad.
"J-Sexy loves it when I dance. She thinks I'm the greatest. She's always asking me to teach her my moves."
"Oh yes, Razzy, always," said J-Sexy, laughing.
"She's always like, 'Shawty snappin. Put on some T-Pain and dance for me. If you went to Kingston you'd be the Queen of the Dancehall.'" I continued.
"Definitely," said J-Sexy. "Hands down."
"Wine gal, wine gal, wine like a gypsy!" I sang along with the song playing and did the Razzy Wine, which looks like a cross between a grand mal seizure and a vigorous pelvic thrusting. My audience was in hysterics.
After dinner and several more beers, J-Sexy got out her camera to provide some definitive proof that I am one of the worst dancers in the history of coordinated rhythmic movement to music. Unfortunately she doesn't own a video camera, but I think the stills are evidence enough that I'm godawful at it. I look like I have cerebral palsy:
I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I drink better'n I dance.
Labels: hilarious shit, I hate dancing, intentional buffoonery, J-Sexy, oh the horror, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Lord of the Douche
The other morning, J-Sexy and I were drinking coffee in our break room with a couple postdocs from other labs on the floor. We were talking about horrible Christmas music, and that brought up The Pogues. This inspired both postdocs, one of whom is Welsh and the other Scottish, to start brutally ripping on Irish music.
"I hate Irish music, it's bloody appalling," offered Welsh Postdoc.
"Bullshit," I said. "You're always talking about how great U2 is, and they SUCK." Welsh Postdoc told me a while back that he spent $400 getting tickets to see U2. I'm sure that at least $2 of that astronomical ticket price went towards debt relief in Africa.
Welsh Postdoc could see that I was about to start on one of my typical tirades about Bono, so he headed me off at the pass. "Not all music by Irish bands...I'm talking about traditional Irish music. Anything traditional Irish is horrible. Folk music or worse, punk folk music like The Pogues. Anything that inspires jigging. The food is awful. Don't talk to me about 'the mysteries of Ireland,' it's bollocks."
"Don't forget Riverdance," suggested Scottish Postdoc. "Do you like Riverdance?" he asked J-Sexy and myself.
"Do I look like I watch Riverdance?" I responded.
"Riverdance? Is that the show with the gay little tapdancing man?" asked J-Sexy. If it doesn't concern dystopian novels, dancehall reggae, or "America's Next Top Model," she can't be bothered.
"Michael Flatley," said Scottish Postdoc. "Ever been to his website?"
"No!" we said in unison.
"Oh, God!" said Welsh Postdoc. "You have to go on there and see the photo galleries! Go look at him on the beach--he's flexing his pitiful little muscles for the camera in one of those Speedos--or his pictures with Stephen Hawking. Stephen Hawking looks like he'd rather be anywhere else."
"GET. AWAY. FROM. ME. YOU. FUCKING. FREAK." said Scottish Postdoc, miming typing and speaking in a computer-y voice reminiscent of Stephen Hawking's speech generating machine.
"Or his St. Patrick's Day card," Welsh Postdoc continued. "He's such a smarmy little bastard, in the pub with his pint of Guinness and his waistcoat, the wanker. Bloody mysteries of Ireland."
After a little more chatting about Michael Flatley, which included Welsh Postdoc doing a stunning impression of his signature "Celtic Tiger" moves, J-Sexy and I went back to lab and immediately looked up michaelflatley.com. The UK postdocs were absolutely right. I cannot fathom why anyone pays the ungodly prices to see Michael Flatley jigging around. I had seen enough promo shots and clips of "Lord of the Dance" and "Riverdance" to know that Michael Flatley is a tool whose only ability to entertain me lies in unintentional comedy, but I had no idea that Michael Flatley was such an exceptionally absurd piece of work. I've come to several conclusions, which I think are illustrated nicely by the following photographs:
1. Michael Flatley has a small penis.
It's not too difficult to prove this thesis, since that Speedo leaves nothing to the imagination. However, even if he favored baggier swim trunks, any man who, in all seriousness, strikes this "Welcome to the Gun Show" bodybuilder pose is basically announcing to the world that he's lacking in the manhood department. And homebody has some feminine legs. It could just be the pose, but he looks like he's about to squeal "Boop boob be doop" and blow a kiss at the camera with that coquettish, ass pushing-out stance.
2. Michael Flatley is an intellectual poseur knows nothing about quantum physics or black holes.
I know that Stephen Hawking always looks pretty rough given his Lou Gehrig's disease or whatever, but here he looks like he's pleading with his ailment to take him now and end this acute misery. He seems as though he wishes that there were a button on his tricked-out chair that would release a giant Acme-brand boxing glove on a spring just for occasions like these, when he runs into Michael Flatley, gets suckered into a bullshit photo op, and can't do any face-punching himself. I refuse to believe that brilliant physicists with congenital neurological diseases whose academic reputations are built on stunning insights into the nature of creation and the universe spend their spare time watching bullshit like "Riverdance."
3. Michael Flatley is pursuing a workout strategy that will only lead him further down the path to totally busted.
I guess that Michael Flatley is not familiar with what happened to Mickey Rourke when he decided to try pugilism in his spare time. 9 1/2 Weeks Mickey Rourke was one of the hottest pieces of ass on the planet in his day. He was like a cross beween Russell Crowe and James Dean, and he was fine as hell:
Mickey Rourke did not need to take up boxing to prove that he was a badass, as the chain smoking, criminal record, actually banging his co-stars during filming of sex scenes for Wild Orchid, and general fuck-it-who-cares attitude was sufficient. Now, after a failed career as a professional fighter and some cheek implants and lip Restalyn to fill out his beaten-on face, he looks like this:
Mickey Rourke actually had plenty of hotness to work with before he destroyed his face, so I can't imagine what kind of roadkill Michael Flatley's going to look like after going a few rounds with the blokes at the gym.
4. Michael Flatley is a disgrace to drunk Irishmen everywhere.
That bitch isn't even drinking his Guinness. Since it's his fucking national holiday, he should know that to really celebrate it, one needs to get staggeringly, pissing in public places, vomiting on the bar, completely fucking shitfaced drunk. And look at his signature! How does that even remotely resemble "Michael Flatley"? It looks like a kindergartner's drawing of a pirate ship. Happy Saint Who Reputedly Drove the Snakes From Ireland Day, yourself, dumbass. Erin go bragh, fucktard.
5. Michael Flatley is unfamiliar with the natural range of predatory big cats.
Thanks to St. Patty, there may not be any snakes in Ireland, but you don't have to be the fucking Croc Hunter to know that there aren't any tigers there, either. Okay, so the Celtic Tiger is actually a symbol of Ireland's transition from a primitive backwater to the modern nation-state it is today, but come ON. This production looks like some kind of bizarre, crack-induced hallucination that combines key elements from Newsies, Armageddon, and The Untouchables. And unless he's included Sean Connery delivering awesome lines like "Just like a Wop...bringing a knife to a gunfight," I am not intrigued. Whatever is going on here, I'm having a hard time believing that it's an accurate parallel to the rise in wealth and disposable income for the average Irishman in the late 1990s.
6. Michael Flatley's dancing looks really fucking stupid.
I'm only a quarter Irish in terms of heritage and I'm embarrassed that this motherfucker is trying to teach Celtic history doing this kind of bullshit in this shirtless black-on-brown leather suspender ensemble. If Kevin Federline dressed up as a leprechaun and popped and locked for two hours it would be a closer approximation of Ireland's economic and nationalist rise to the world stage. Lord of the Dance, my ass.
Seriously, if I want to know about Ireland, I'll watch a movie like Darby O'Gill and the Little People (which traumatized me as a child...that banshee was really scary) or this cinematic masterpiece:
Yes, Leprechaun: Back 2 Tha Hood is the sixth film in the seminal Leprechaun series, and I'm somewhat abashed to admit that I've seen it, along with its predecessors, Leprechaun, Leprechaun 2, Leprechaun 3, Leprechaun In Space, and Leprechaun In Da Hood. Sticky Fingaz gives a very disappointing performance, and frankly, the Leprechaun delivering bad puns (even with a decidedly hip-hop flair) before he disembowels people he thinks have stolen his gold is getting awfully tired, but in terms of quality material and performance, it looks like Gangs of New York in comparison to "Celtic Tiger." If I want to experience the fighting spirit of Ireland's people, I'll turn on the fucking SciFi channel, which seems to have the Leprechaun films on heavy rotation.
I'll most certainly NOT purchase tickets to see Michael Flatley performing ridiculous, exaggerated steps in front of a giant flaming tiger. I've never liked dance anyway. I hate the act of actual dancing, and my last trip to the ballet was the Nutcracker when I was six, where I threw a temper tantrum out of boredom and then fell asleep before the second act. I'd rather shove an ice pick up my vagina than see the self-proclaimed "Lord of the Dance" teach me history via jigging. Fuck Michael Flatley!
"I hate Irish music, it's bloody appalling," offered Welsh Postdoc.
"Bullshit," I said. "You're always talking about how great U2 is, and they SUCK." Welsh Postdoc told me a while back that he spent $400 getting tickets to see U2. I'm sure that at least $2 of that astronomical ticket price went towards debt relief in Africa.
Welsh Postdoc could see that I was about to start on one of my typical tirades about Bono, so he headed me off at the pass. "Not all music by Irish bands...I'm talking about traditional Irish music. Anything traditional Irish is horrible. Folk music or worse, punk folk music like The Pogues. Anything that inspires jigging. The food is awful. Don't talk to me about 'the mysteries of Ireland,' it's bollocks."
"Don't forget Riverdance," suggested Scottish Postdoc. "Do you like Riverdance?" he asked J-Sexy and myself.
"Do I look like I watch Riverdance?" I responded.
"Riverdance? Is that the show with the gay little tapdancing man?" asked J-Sexy. If it doesn't concern dystopian novels, dancehall reggae, or "America's Next Top Model," she can't be bothered.
"Michael Flatley," said Scottish Postdoc. "Ever been to his website?"
"No!" we said in unison.
"Oh, God!" said Welsh Postdoc. "You have to go on there and see the photo galleries! Go look at him on the beach--he's flexing his pitiful little muscles for the camera in one of those Speedos--or his pictures with Stephen Hawking. Stephen Hawking looks like he'd rather be anywhere else."
"GET. AWAY. FROM. ME. YOU. FUCKING. FREAK." said Scottish Postdoc, miming typing and speaking in a computer-y voice reminiscent of Stephen Hawking's speech generating machine.
"Or his St. Patrick's Day card," Welsh Postdoc continued. "He's such a smarmy little bastard, in the pub with his pint of Guinness and his waistcoat, the wanker. Bloody mysteries of Ireland."
After a little more chatting about Michael Flatley, which included Welsh Postdoc doing a stunning impression of his signature "Celtic Tiger" moves, J-Sexy and I went back to lab and immediately looked up michaelflatley.com. The UK postdocs were absolutely right. I cannot fathom why anyone pays the ungodly prices to see Michael Flatley jigging around. I had seen enough promo shots and clips of "Lord of the Dance" and "Riverdance" to know that Michael Flatley is a tool whose only ability to entertain me lies in unintentional comedy, but I had no idea that Michael Flatley was such an exceptionally absurd piece of work. I've come to several conclusions, which I think are illustrated nicely by the following photographs:
1. Michael Flatley has a small penis.
It's not too difficult to prove this thesis, since that Speedo leaves nothing to the imagination. However, even if he favored baggier swim trunks, any man who, in all seriousness, strikes this "Welcome to the Gun Show" bodybuilder pose is basically announcing to the world that he's lacking in the manhood department. And homebody has some feminine legs. It could just be the pose, but he looks like he's about to squeal "Boop boob be doop" and blow a kiss at the camera with that coquettish, ass pushing-out stance.
2. Michael Flatley is an intellectual poseur knows nothing about quantum physics or black holes.
I know that Stephen Hawking always looks pretty rough given his Lou Gehrig's disease or whatever, but here he looks like he's pleading with his ailment to take him now and end this acute misery. He seems as though he wishes that there were a button on his tricked-out chair that would release a giant Acme-brand boxing glove on a spring just for occasions like these, when he runs into Michael Flatley, gets suckered into a bullshit photo op, and can't do any face-punching himself. I refuse to believe that brilliant physicists with congenital neurological diseases whose academic reputations are built on stunning insights into the nature of creation and the universe spend their spare time watching bullshit like "Riverdance."
3. Michael Flatley is pursuing a workout strategy that will only lead him further down the path to totally busted.
I guess that Michael Flatley is not familiar with what happened to Mickey Rourke when he decided to try pugilism in his spare time. 9 1/2 Weeks Mickey Rourke was one of the hottest pieces of ass on the planet in his day. He was like a cross beween Russell Crowe and James Dean, and he was fine as hell:
Mickey Rourke did not need to take up boxing to prove that he was a badass, as the chain smoking, criminal record, actually banging his co-stars during filming of sex scenes for Wild Orchid, and general fuck-it-who-cares attitude was sufficient. Now, after a failed career as a professional fighter and some cheek implants and lip Restalyn to fill out his beaten-on face, he looks like this:
Mickey Rourke actually had plenty of hotness to work with before he destroyed his face, so I can't imagine what kind of roadkill Michael Flatley's going to look like after going a few rounds with the blokes at the gym.
4. Michael Flatley is a disgrace to drunk Irishmen everywhere.
That bitch isn't even drinking his Guinness. Since it's his fucking national holiday, he should know that to really celebrate it, one needs to get staggeringly, pissing in public places, vomiting on the bar, completely fucking shitfaced drunk. And look at his signature! How does that even remotely resemble "Michael Flatley"? It looks like a kindergartner's drawing of a pirate ship. Happy Saint Who Reputedly Drove the Snakes From Ireland Day, yourself, dumbass. Erin go bragh, fucktard.
5. Michael Flatley is unfamiliar with the natural range of predatory big cats.
Thanks to St. Patty, there may not be any snakes in Ireland, but you don't have to be the fucking Croc Hunter to know that there aren't any tigers there, either. Okay, so the Celtic Tiger is actually a symbol of Ireland's transition from a primitive backwater to the modern nation-state it is today, but come ON. This production looks like some kind of bizarre, crack-induced hallucination that combines key elements from Newsies, Armageddon, and The Untouchables. And unless he's included Sean Connery delivering awesome lines like "Just like a Wop...bringing a knife to a gunfight," I am not intrigued. Whatever is going on here, I'm having a hard time believing that it's an accurate parallel to the rise in wealth and disposable income for the average Irishman in the late 1990s.
6. Michael Flatley's dancing looks really fucking stupid.
I'm only a quarter Irish in terms of heritage and I'm embarrassed that this motherfucker is trying to teach Celtic history doing this kind of bullshit in this shirtless black-on-brown leather suspender ensemble. If Kevin Federline dressed up as a leprechaun and popped and locked for two hours it would be a closer approximation of Ireland's economic and nationalist rise to the world stage. Lord of the Dance, my ass.
Seriously, if I want to know about Ireland, I'll watch a movie like Darby O'Gill and the Little People (which traumatized me as a child...that banshee was really scary) or this cinematic masterpiece:
Yes, Leprechaun: Back 2 Tha Hood is the sixth film in the seminal Leprechaun series, and I'm somewhat abashed to admit that I've seen it, along with its predecessors, Leprechaun, Leprechaun 2, Leprechaun 3, Leprechaun In Space, and Leprechaun In Da Hood. Sticky Fingaz gives a very disappointing performance, and frankly, the Leprechaun delivering bad puns (even with a decidedly hip-hop flair) before he disembowels people he thinks have stolen his gold is getting awfully tired, but in terms of quality material and performance, it looks like Gangs of New York in comparison to "Celtic Tiger." If I want to experience the fighting spirit of Ireland's people, I'll turn on the fucking SciFi channel, which seems to have the Leprechaun films on heavy rotation.
I'll most certainly NOT purchase tickets to see Michael Flatley performing ridiculous, exaggerated steps in front of a giant flaming tiger. I've never liked dance anyway. I hate the act of actual dancing, and my last trip to the ballet was the Nutcracker when I was six, where I threw a temper tantrum out of boredom and then fell asleep before the second act. I'd rather shove an ice pick up my vagina than see the self-proclaimed "Lord of the Dance" teach me history via jigging. Fuck Michael Flatley!
Labels: assholes, I hate dancing, international intrigue, media whores, oh the horror, ranting, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, scathing indictments, small penises, you're ugly
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Dutty wine
J-Sexy sent me this video today to show me that my piss-poor wining skills are not representative of other non-Jamaicans' wining abilities, as this dude is quite skilled at it (and according to YouTube, he's Colombiano). I often try to do these moves in lab while singing R. Kelly's "Slow Wind" to her ("You're a Jamaican queen, I'm an American king...let's get together and mix cultures"), which usually inspires laughter and not the respect generally accorded to queens of the dancehall. Anyway, this guy seems to have dutty wining down technically, proving that there's hope for me yet:
Labels: I hate dancing, J-Sexy, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Holy fucking matrimony
The impetus for my present jaunt to the P-N-Dub was the wedding of my dear old friend M-Boner. The wedding turned out to be a blast. For one thing, the potential for vicious bitchery between myself and my ex J's new wife was never realized (she actually turned out to be so extremely nice there was no way I could hate her, and we had a thirty-minute conversation about Stairmasters, the South, and shoes). Also, the wedding and reception were a festival combining many of my favorite things: Catholicism, drinking, catching up with old friends, hot cleavage, drinking, Southern ass rap, public speaking, gambling, drinking, embarrassing my parents, showing off, and drinking. Here is the rundown, complete with supporting photography.
As usual, MillerTime was my date, as she usually is for most date-requiring affairs. For one thing, MillerTime's boyfriend isn't really an enthusiastic wedding guest, and as one commenter on my last post pointed out, I'm "always the cum dumpster, never the bride," so she and I are a solid team at these functions. We can always be counted on for company (since there is NEVER a guarantee of single hot guys at weddings to occupy one's time), and we are loyal partners in open bar alcoholism. I thought the wedding might get off to a bad start, as my mother and I had a bit of a tiff based on my chosen dress (which I felt was very conservative) before MillerTime even picked me up. "Razzy, is THAT what you're wearing to CHURCH?" she asked, frowning. "Your boobs are hanging out, and it's SEE THROUGH!" My mother and I rarely do battle, but when we do it's often over my choice of clothing and/or the hours I keep when socializing, and I frankly get annoyed when she implies that my outfit is too slutty. I'm a fucking single girl, and I'm always looking for some action, so like I'm going to wear something frumpy and high-necked. I told my mom that I didn't appreciate her characterizing me as "the whore of Babylon" before heading off to M-Boner's wedding, and that I was already getting quite enough snide remarks with regard to my ability to pray publicly on the altar. When I got to the wedding, however, I was totally vindicated since many of the Irish ladies were rocking dresses more low-cut than mine, and my mother saw this too and later told me I looked "stylish."
At the actual wedding, which was quite beautiful despite being a lengthy full-on Catholic mass, I was conscripted into reading one of the prayers of the faithful. Despite the concerns of several friends, God fortunately did not decide to smote my heathen ass in ruin upon the altar at this affair for having the audacity to invoke his name on behalf of the bride and groom's dead relatives (yes, I got the prayer for the sick and the dead). I was told later that I read the prayer in a very solemn and respectful manner, so score one for me for NOT behaving like a classless and inappropriate asshole in the house of the Lord. Besides, there was plenty of time for that at the reception.
When we got to the reception, after some standoffish repartee with the hostile and possibly meth-addled bartender, MillerTime and I got right down to business imbibing plenty of chardonnay and Bud Light, respectively. After lots of chatting and catching up with some of our high school classmates and their husbands and babies, we sat down to dinner. MillerTime and I were clearly assigned to the "singles and gays" table, so fortunately we did not have to listen to a bunch of older married people hassling us about when WE were going to be having our weddings. Instead, half our table were Irish friends of the groom's, and they made a point to begin teaching us about Irish wedding customs. For example, in Ireland it is customary for each table to place bets on how long the many speeches will take. MillerTime, who diligently documented the entire event, recorded me reporting on this custom:
Unfortunately, MillerTime and I lost the pool by two minutes, as we overestimated precisely how long M-Boner's mother would be allowed to aimlessly ramble before she was cut off. Our loss of the $50 or so in the speech-length pool was quickly remedied, however, by the unending river of champagne served concurrent with toasting. Several glasses of champers later, and I was in capital shape.
After the speeches, they had the bouquet toss, and MillerTime, G-Boner, and I were shoved immediately onto the dance floor. I stood as far back as possible, and shouted to the bride, "M-Boner! I'm in the back to your left, so aim for the opposite of that! DON'T THROW IT TO ME, I DON'T WANT IT!", then pushed a bunch of little girls into the path of the oncoming bouquet to ensure that I wouldn't so much as even touch it. Once the bouquet toss was over, it was time for dancing.
I'm not a fan of dancing, because I always feel ridiculous when I'm doing it and I'd rather sit around drinking and socializing than sweating my tits off in high heels. The only way I can do it and look only marginally like I have Huntington's disease is if I really get my slut on and dance like a stripper in a rap video, with lots of back-popping, dropping it like it's hot, and ass-jiggling. This gets me into trouble by attracting unwanted grinders at clubs, and because it's inappropriate to basically pretend like I'm having sex while standing up at a wedding. I especially hate wedding dancing, because they always do stupid, gimmicky dances like the macarena and the electric slide, or my least favorite, the conga line. While I managed to avoid being dragged into the macarena fray, I was not so lucky with the conga line. G-Boner and M-Boner's uncle goes, "Hey, Rotten Mouth, get in here!" (This is what he calls me because he prank called us in high school once, and I viciously cussed him out, not realizing that it was him. Since then, he always greets me with "How the fuck are ya, R.M.?") "I hate the conga line!" I told him. "It's fucking stupid, and I don't dance."
"Quit bitching and get your fucking ass in that conga line, R.M.!" he shouted. Refusal was clearly not an option, so I allowed him to haul me into the line between him and his wife, but refused to do the stupid conga or whatever, so I just tried to physically act as idiotic as I felt:
After the conga line mercifully ended, the DJ started playing what he referred to as music "for the kids." This apparently meant "Shake it Like a Salt Shaker" by the Ying Yang Twins. I said to MillerTime, "I wonder how he can characterize any song that has lyrics like 'skeet so much they call him Billy Ocean' and 'she leakin', she soakin' wet' as appropriate for children." I then explained to MillerTime and several other non-rap aficionados what the term "skeet" is referring to (it's not the sporting hobby of shooting at clay discs flying through the air, that's for sure), and everyone was scandalized. I was drunk at this point and excited by the Southern ass rap, so I voluntarily started dancing and singing along to the unedited lyrics of the next song on the "kids music" playlist, "Get Low" by Lil' Jon and the Eastside Boyz. I thus garnered a number of dirty looks from some of the older people when I got to the "to the sweat drips off my balls, to all these bitches crawl, to all skeet skeet motherfuckas, to all skeet skeet, uh goddamn" part of the song.
It hardly seemed as though any time had gone by when the bar closed, thus necessitating a trip across the street to a new Tacoma bar called Doyle's. It was an Irish pub, so all the Irish folks were in great spirits. One very nice guy (albeit with horrible dental work) decided to get everyone involved in some Irish shot-doing customs. MillerTime particularly excelled at this, being that she's a total Celtophile and gave it her best alcoholic shot:
As usual, MillerTime was my date, as she usually is for most date-requiring affairs. For one thing, MillerTime's boyfriend isn't really an enthusiastic wedding guest, and as one commenter on my last post pointed out, I'm "always the cum dumpster, never the bride," so she and I are a solid team at these functions. We can always be counted on for company (since there is NEVER a guarantee of single hot guys at weddings to occupy one's time), and we are loyal partners in open bar alcoholism. I thought the wedding might get off to a bad start, as my mother and I had a bit of a tiff based on my chosen dress (which I felt was very conservative) before MillerTime even picked me up. "Razzy, is THAT what you're wearing to CHURCH?" she asked, frowning. "Your boobs are hanging out, and it's SEE THROUGH!" My mother and I rarely do battle, but when we do it's often over my choice of clothing and/or the hours I keep when socializing, and I frankly get annoyed when she implies that my outfit is too slutty. I'm a fucking single girl, and I'm always looking for some action, so like I'm going to wear something frumpy and high-necked. I told my mom that I didn't appreciate her characterizing me as "the whore of Babylon" before heading off to M-Boner's wedding, and that I was already getting quite enough snide remarks with regard to my ability to pray publicly on the altar. When I got to the wedding, however, I was totally vindicated since many of the Irish ladies were rocking dresses more low-cut than mine, and my mother saw this too and later told me I looked "stylish."
At the actual wedding, which was quite beautiful despite being a lengthy full-on Catholic mass, I was conscripted into reading one of the prayers of the faithful. Despite the concerns of several friends, God fortunately did not decide to smote my heathen ass in ruin upon the altar at this affair for having the audacity to invoke his name on behalf of the bride and groom's dead relatives (yes, I got the prayer for the sick and the dead). I was told later that I read the prayer in a very solemn and respectful manner, so score one for me for NOT behaving like a classless and inappropriate asshole in the house of the Lord. Besides, there was plenty of time for that at the reception.
When we got to the reception, after some standoffish repartee with the hostile and possibly meth-addled bartender, MillerTime and I got right down to business imbibing plenty of chardonnay and Bud Light, respectively. After lots of chatting and catching up with some of our high school classmates and their husbands and babies, we sat down to dinner. MillerTime and I were clearly assigned to the "singles and gays" table, so fortunately we did not have to listen to a bunch of older married people hassling us about when WE were going to be having our weddings. Instead, half our table were Irish friends of the groom's, and they made a point to begin teaching us about Irish wedding customs. For example, in Ireland it is customary for each table to place bets on how long the many speeches will take. MillerTime, who diligently documented the entire event, recorded me reporting on this custom:
Unfortunately, MillerTime and I lost the pool by two minutes, as we overestimated precisely how long M-Boner's mother would be allowed to aimlessly ramble before she was cut off. Our loss of the $50 or so in the speech-length pool was quickly remedied, however, by the unending river of champagne served concurrent with toasting. Several glasses of champers later, and I was in capital shape.
I'm not a fan of dancing, because I always feel ridiculous when I'm doing it and I'd rather sit around drinking and socializing than sweating my tits off in high heels. The only way I can do it and look only marginally like I have Huntington's disease is if I really get my slut on and dance like a stripper in a rap video, with lots of back-popping, dropping it like it's hot, and ass-jiggling. This gets me into trouble by attracting unwanted grinders at clubs, and because it's inappropriate to basically pretend like I'm having sex while standing up at a wedding. I especially hate wedding dancing, because they always do stupid, gimmicky dances like the macarena and the electric slide, or my least favorite, the conga line. While I managed to avoid being dragged into the macarena fray, I was not so lucky with the conga line. G-Boner and M-Boner's uncle goes, "Hey, Rotten Mouth, get in here!" (This is what he calls me because he prank called us in high school once, and I viciously cussed him out, not realizing that it was him. Since then, he always greets me with "How the fuck are ya, R.M.?") "I hate the conga line!" I told him. "It's fucking stupid, and I don't dance."
"Quit bitching and get your fucking ass in that conga line, R.M.!" he shouted. Refusal was clearly not an option, so I allowed him to haul me into the line between him and his wife, but refused to do the stupid conga or whatever, so I just tried to physically act as idiotic as I felt:
It hardly seemed as though any time had gone by when the bar closed, thus necessitating a trip across the street to a new Tacoma bar called Doyle's. It was an Irish pub, so all the Irish folks were in great spirits. One very nice guy (albeit with horrible dental work) decided to get everyone involved in some Irish shot-doing customs. MillerTime particularly excelled at this, being that she's a total Celtophile and gave it her best alcoholic shot:
The bride and groom were so determined to be good hosts that they refused to retire to the honeymoon suite until the bar closed, and were keeping up with their guests in terms of alcohol consumption. M-Boner was a lovely bride, made even lovelier given her double-fisting light beer and water all night long:
All this beverage consumption meant that M-Boner had to use the john at Doyle's, which is an act of bravery when you're wearing an thousands-of-dollar bridal gown in a Tacoma bar at 1:15 in the morning. In fact, it was a feat of engineering that required a team of several girls. MillerTime, G-Boner, and I were like a NASCAR pit crew, except instead of changing belts and hoses or loosening lugnuts, we were trying to prevent Budweiser-imbued urine from tainting M-Boner's multiple layers of virginal white taffeta:
By the end of the night, MillerTime, G-Boner, and I were doing the classic drunken girl act of taking joyous, hugging self-portraits that not only turned out surprisingly well, but also showcased the hot cleavage my mother rebuked me for sporting earlier. Unfortunately, my face looks a little frightening, but that's to be expected, since at this point in the night I'd probably consumed approximately 10 quarts of Anheuser-Busch lagers and Pilsner Urquell.
Anyway, after the party, we hit the after party at G-Boner's brother's house, where I destroyed a plate of imported cheese (don't give a drunk Viking a wedge of Jarlsberg and expect it not to be set upon like a pack of dingos on a baby) and passed out around 5 a.m. The next morning, MillerTime and I were both SEVERELY hung over as we drove back to Puyallup, but it was clearly worth it. You know it's a good party when you start the night looking like this:
And arrive home the next afternoon looking like this:
SO HOT, right? The day after trampiness was a small price to pay for a great party, and probably one of the most fun weddings I've been to. I wouldn't be so decidedly anti-marriage if most weddings were this great of a party. It was certainly worth the airfare, even if I hadn't been able to take time off for a long simultaneous vacation. Happy marriage and lots of love to M-Boner and Mr. M-Boner...I hope you two have a really happy fucking life together!!!
Labels: alcoholism, Catholicism, G-Boner, holy fucking matrimony, I hate dancing, M-Boner, MillerTime, P-N-Dub
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
