Thursday, August 07, 2008
Like a cop car
The other day, J-Sexy and I were IMing about this girl I was jocking, and I quoted Faheem "T-Pain" Najm's masterpiece "Buy You a Drank" with respect to my seduction strategy. This got our chat going off on a whole other tangent concerning Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter's masterpiece about cop-suspect sex, "Mrs. Officer."
Razzy: i'm totally wearing that gray and black dress
Razzy: like a straight up SLIZUT
J-Sexy: hahaha
J-Sexy: that is a great dress
J-Sexy: wear heels too
Razzy:: i'll buy her a drank
Razzy: maybe we'll be in the bed like ooo ooo ooo ooo
J-Sexy: we-o-we-o-we
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: like a cop car
J-Sexy: like a cop car
J-Sexy: jinx
Razzy:: all she want me to do is fuck the police
J-Sexy: i am actually lol-ling
Razzy: i am too!
J-Sexy: i like lil wayne
Razzy: me too
J-Sexy: he is super funny
Razzy: i just turned that song on
Razzy: what an awesome song
J-Sexy: it is so silly
J-Sexy: my god
J-Sexy: amazing
Razzy: lil wayne and kells both love to make their women make car noises
J-Sexy: it's so odd
Razzy: i have personally never simulated a vehicle in the throes of passion
Razzy: i certainly have never emulated a cop car
Razzy: although maybe i should
J-Sexy: i routinely make a honking noise
J-Sexy: the men love it
Razzy: are you serious???
J-Sexy: of course not!
J-Sexy: ewwww
Razzy: i am seriously LOLing hard
Razzy: imagining you honking at your boyfriend!
J-Sexy: that would be so retarded
Razzy: rodney king baby, beat it like a cop
Razzy: i think the next time i get laid
Razzy: i'm going to make some vehicular noises
J-Sexy: do it!!
J-Sexy: you have to
Razzy: and see how it goes over
Razzy: i'll do a kells/lil wayne medley
Razzy: we-o we-o wee
Razzy: toot toot beep beep
J-Sexy: haha
J-Sexy: man, if the dude doesn't know this kinda music he will think that you are nuts
Razzy: which will be even more hilarious
J-Sexy: but if he does, what a laugh!
J-Sexy: either way it will be hilarious
J-Sexy: toot toot
Razzy: beep beep
J-Sexy: i dare you to
Razzy: i'm going to!
The last time I got laid, I forgot to get automotive on the lucky fella's ass while we were getting down. However, the next time I get some action, I am definitely going to break out the literal car talk and see how that works out. I have to make sure the lights are on so I can see the other party's expression, which I only assume will be a combination of shock, confusion, and amusement. Then the person will probably be like, "Why the hell are you making a siren noise?" and I'll be like, "DUH, you're making my body sing like a cop car!" Unless, of course, due to some miracle of fate the next visitor to my boudoir is either R. Kelly or Lil' Wayne, in which case they'll probably congratulate themselves on a job well done.
Labels: hilarious shit, J-Sexy, Lil' Wayne, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: homos
DOB: same as humanity
Occupation: totally ruling
Hometown: everywhere
Current residence: everywhere!
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: So Sunday was Pride, and as always, it was a drunken great time. It's hard to be in a bad mood around thousands of gays during Pride because the atmosphere is so buoyant and joyful. Besides, being part lesbish myself, I have gone through the difficulties that most hommasekshuls probably face at one time or another: feeling like a freak, a pervert, a hellbound sinner, etc. Pride is great because everyone just celebrates who they are without reservation, and has a fucking blast. I have nothing but respect for the way gays can party their faces off with regard to who they are.
What I have less respect for is the proliferation of ugly-ass lesbians. I just do not understand why so many dykes just don't keep themselves up. There were more fat-ass harpies in stretch pants and pizza-faced trolls than I could shake a Pride flag at. While I made good on my promise to Twathopper to point out some of the ladies who did not fall into the category of "butch" or "dykes on bikes," I was less successful in pointing out some regular-looking lesbians who were actually attractive. Before the parade started, J-Sexy, I'mNotRussianGoddammit, Twathopper, Twathopper's friend (who I'll call CuteClothes because she's a snappy dresser...the last time I saw her she was rocking this adorable pair of heels and Sunday she was stunting in this hot-ass strapless dress), and myself went to this place down Seventh Avenue a couple blocks from the parade route for outdoor brunch, and we could not get over the sheer number of lesbians slacking heavily in the personal maintenance department. First off, a lot of ladies need to eat more pussy and less McDonald's, because there were some morbidly obese broads out in force. Unfortunately, said fat-ass broads were the ones who seemed to think that either white lycra stretch pants or a stripper-esque bra/miniskirt combo were appropriate attire for their size 22 asses. Second, a lot of the girls who WOULD be attractive were not making an even minimal effort to keep themselves up. I'd see what appeared from down the street to be a cute girl heading our way, only to realize that girlfriend needs to hit the Proactiv solution something serious when she'd get up close. The general sloppiness of the average lesbian wandering around was emphasized by the impeccably groomed gay men juxtaposed beside them. The group of super bitchy fags at the table next to us heard J-Sexy and I crowing about Tila Tequila's "snap-on tits," instantly became our friends, and we spent a solid hour making fun of the personal style choices of passing lesbians.
"Hey, I'mNotRussianGoddammit," said J-Sexy. "There's a girl for you. She looks kind of alternative and she has short hair."
We all looked to see this girl in a torn, dirty shirt, a pair of stained cutoffs, and a short, tousled mop of greasy hair.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" asked I'mNotRussianGoddammit. "I don't like HOMELESS girls!"
"J-Sexy, that bitch DOES look like a vagrant. And she's wearing a FANNY PACK!" I argued in I'mNotRussianGoddammit's defense.
"Fanny packs are in now! They're retro," said J-Sexy. "And anyway, she's not a vagrant...she's just grunge!"
"Grunge?! What is this, 1993? Dude, sorry, but I left my old Alice in Chains shirt back in my FRESHMAN YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL!" I said to J-Sexy. I felt it was important to argue in I'mNotRussianGoddammit's defense, since she's a hot piece and can certainly do better than indigent lesbians caught in an early '90s time warp.
Anyway, after about two hours of this, we decided to actually go check out the parade. That was thwarted by a sudden torrential rainstorm, from which we took shelter in the nearest bar. Unfortunately, this bar catered so strictly to a male clientele that not only were all the bartenders wearing nothing but tighty whities, there were Sistine Chapel-esque paintings of a host of chiseled, muscle-fag cherubim on every wall and cheesy house music blaring at an eardrum-rupturing volume. "I've got my eye on that vinyl jumpsuit over there," I said to Twathopper, who started laughing, because this is a line that Brandon Walsh used from the season 2 episode of "Beverly Hills, 90210" where Emily Valentine slips U4EA into his Fresca at the "underground club" AKA gay rave the gang attends.
"God, this place is such a sausage fest," noted CuteClothes. At that moment, a group of lesbians walked in to escape the rain, and we noticed that a couple of them were pretty cute. Unfortunately, they were all couples. Typical. I swear, it's easier to find a four-leaf clover growing out of a New York City sidewalk than a lesbian who is both single and attractive.
We finished up our beers, the rain tapered off, and we fled across Christopher Street to Kettle of Fish, a bar that is marginally more lesbish. At least it's a more mixed crowd, anyway, in the sense that there were plenty of unattractive lesbians playing Galaga and watching the Euro Cup final. We proceeded to drink heavily while we waited for my buddy El Polaco to march by with his group of gay Catholics. He came by at the end of the parade, and by that time, we were shitfaced and plastered with "God Made Me Queer" stickers. At that point, we bid goodbye to CuteClothes (too bad, because I was hoping I could work the "So, we both went to Seven Sisters schools...do the math" seduction angle with her), who wisely remembered that it was a school night. The rest of us weren't so smart, and ended up going to Cubby Hole, the dyke bar where I was infamously hassled by the nefarious bulldyke Blu. Luckily, Blu was not in attendance. Less luckily, I was so shitfaced that I decided it would be a great idea to drink J-Sexy's overproof rum straight as we waited in line, resulting in me actually DANCING once I got inside. Not only did I dance, I actually smoked a cigarette inside this tiny closet of a bar, and then proceeded to try to convince Twathopper to actually talk to this girl she thought was cute. Sadly, Twathopper's alcohol consumption had caught up with her and she was rapidly devolving into a gloomy solstice depression. I kept grabbing her chin and readjusting her facial posture, saying, "Chin UP, Twathopper! Nobody wants to L a super-depressed P, girl!" Unfortunately, she was too far gone, so I said goodbye to the girl I met who was trying to talk me into going to an orgy on some boat. It's for the best, because while an orgy might be fun and an awesome story, I probably shouldn't accompany random bitches I just met onto a floating bacchanal full of strange lesbians from which there is no escape short of diving into the Hudson River. I took Twathopper home for some pizza and some good old-fashioned lesbian processing about her feelings to lift her spirits. I even watched a Tegan and Sara video on LOGO with her, and managed to turn her frown upside down once we switched on the choice "Beverly Hills, 90210" episode where Brandon embarks on a self-righteous crusade to block the High Point Center from replacing the Peach Pit.
I may not have gotten laid, and I may not have gotten my apprentice laid, but I know it was a great Pride when I was too fucking hung over and exhausted yesterday to even regale you with the tale and go off about how much the homos kick ass.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, J-Sexy, lezbollah, NYC, Twathopper, vulgar display of faggotry
Friday, March 21, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: J-Sexy...AGAIN
RAZZY Note: This isn't J-Sexy. She doesn't want her picture floating around too much on the internets, so I put up this picture of the original Queen of the Dancehall, Lady Saw, instead. J-Sexy is way better looking than Lady Saw, but like her, she is black and beautiful, pink and fruitiful.
DOB: 1981
Occupation: getting bitch-slapped by poliovirus 2A protease, saying "mmm-mmm-mmm" disapprovingly, making cheap jokes about my age (ie: her favorite nickname for me is "Oldilocks"), being my platonic life partner, chillaxing
Hometown: Kingston, Jamaica
Current residence: Washington Heights, New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Today is my platonic life partner's department seminar, and she's unhappy with it. Both of us are unhappy in general with the way our graduate thesis projects have progressed, and nothing brings out dissatisfaction with your data like department seminar. Yesterday, we were talking about ways to spice it up. In the past, J-Sexy has put her Power Point slides on brightly colored backgrounds to add some cheer. This year, she was initially much more pessimistic about the whole thing, and skipped the neon-yellow background. However, yesterday, she changed her tune and decided that she would like to have some entrance music like that used to great effect in sports entertainment. Our lab speculated that it would really add a lot to her presentation to start it off with "IF YOU SMELLLLLL WHAT J-SEXY. IS COOKIN'!" followed by some pyrotechnics, The Rock's theme music, and J-Sexy strutting out to raise the People's Eyebrow at whatever members of our department showed up. I even offered to wear a slutty outfit and come out with her as her "manager," and hit any faculty members not paying close enough attention to her awesome data in the back with a folding chair.
Unfortunately, I expect she'll have scrapped those plans after thinking about it more carefully. So I'll just say that I am certain she'll kick ass and we'll all be impressed with her antagonism of the poliovirus interferon antagonist. She's a hot piece, an insanely talented scientist, a great cook, a sharp mind, and the best platonic life partner a girl could ask for. Plus, she's a member of the greatest group in the history of Facebook. I LOVE YOU, J-SEXY!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Facebook, grad school bullshit, hot chicks, J-Sexy, science, viruses rule
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Mae yao jeh huan
Last Friday was my platonic life partner J-Sexy's farewell party for her tits. She's getting a breast reduction this Friday. Before all the breast men and women out there gasp, never fear. She's going from a triple D to just a single D, so she'll still have a great rack, but considerably less back pain.
Anyway, to wish her cans Godspeed and safe passage, we went to this restaurant on the Upper West Side which has the distinction of offering FREE WINE with dinner. Of course the wine comes from a box labeled "Franzia," but swill is swill and drunks like us will suck it down anyway with cheap-ass Chinese food.
After dinner, I realized that in addition to the free hooch and the tasty scallion pancakes, they actually have the most accurate fortune cookies in the world. Most of the time I immediately forget my fortune, unless it's something too striking to ignore. In college, I got a fortune that said, "You have a future in medical research." TRUE! I kept that one in my wallet for years. In fact, I might still have it in my box of college crap. On Friday, I got another equally true fortune.
"Holy shit, dudes," I said as I opened it. "On the back, my fortune is teaching me how to say 'still single' in Chinese. Mae yao jeh huan. It even clarifies that 'still single' means 'not married'!"
"You lying bitch!" said J-Sexy. "That is ridicolos. It does not say 'still single'!"
"Yes, it does!" I showed her. Then I flipped it over to see my fortune. Nothing could be more fitting than this:
The only way that cookie could be more right is if it said "SHA RIGHT" instead of "yeah, right!" And it was a true predictor of the future. Indeed, I did not avoid the opposite sex. Or the same sex, for that matter. It might as well have just taught me how to say "I'm a slut" in Chinese. Which, now that I think of it, would be useful to know.
Anyway, to wish her cans Godspeed and safe passage, we went to this restaurant on the Upper West Side which has the distinction of offering FREE WINE with dinner. Of course the wine comes from a box labeled "Franzia," but swill is swill and drunks like us will suck it down anyway with cheap-ass Chinese food.
After dinner, I realized that in addition to the free hooch and the tasty scallion pancakes, they actually have the most accurate fortune cookies in the world. Most of the time I immediately forget my fortune, unless it's something too striking to ignore. In college, I got a fortune that said, "You have a future in medical research." TRUE! I kept that one in my wallet for years. In fact, I might still have it in my box of college crap. On Friday, I got another equally true fortune.
"Holy shit, dudes," I said as I opened it. "On the back, my fortune is teaching me how to say 'still single' in Chinese. Mae yao jeh huan. It even clarifies that 'still single' means 'not married'!"
"You lying bitch!" said J-Sexy. "That is ridicolos. It does not say 'still single'!"
"Yes, it does!" I showed her. Then I flipped it over to see my fortune. Nothing could be more fitting than this:
The only way that cookie could be more right is if it said "SHA RIGHT" instead of "yeah, right!" And it was a true predictor of the future. Indeed, I did not avoid the opposite sex. Or the same sex, for that matter. It might as well have just taught me how to say "I'm a slut" in Chinese. Which, now that I think of it, would be useful to know.
Labels: hilarious shit, J-Sexy, NYC, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, sluts
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Plum Pomidor
DOB: 2005
Occupation: getting grad students staggeringly drunk on a Tuesday night
Douchebaggery: Yesterday afternoon, I remembered that it was Tuesday, and that on Tuesdays, Parrilla, this steakhouse down the street from work, has $2 beers during happy hour. So I dragged SisterChristian over there after lab, and then convinced J-Sexy that she should swing by after she finished giving inspirational speeches to junior high kids about STDs and careers in science, or whatever do-gooder stuff she does Tuesday evenings. At 7, when the $2 beer supply dried up, SisterChristian wisely decided to go home. I was not quite ready to be responsible, however, so I convinced J-Sexy that we should go to Plum Pomidor, this bar/restaurant up the street, for one cocktail.
Last week, we did this and had two drinks...nothing serious. J-Sexy, however, swore that she would never drink another dirty martini. I was planning to stick to beer, but the moment we walked in, Ed the bartender said something along the lines of "here comes trouble" (apparently he remembered the loud conversation I treated the entire bar to about the three Bs--blowjobs, buttsex, and bisexuality.) Then he said, "I think you probably want a Johnnie Walker Black" and my plan to stick to beer was promptly out the window. J-Sexy forgot last week's vow and ordered a dirty martini. Then some dude at the bar bought us both another round. Then we did switch to beer, but Ed gave us a round of complimentary tequila shots. Then Ed gave us another round of beers. By the time we left, not only were we a couple of drunk bitches, we were the last customers in the bar and somehow J-Sexy actually decided that we should do yet another round of tequila shots. Who the fuck thinks it's a good idea to do tequila shots on a Tuesday night? DRUNKS, that's who.
Anyway, I got home wasted at around 1 a.m., only to hear the sound of my upstairs neighbor, this obnoxious hippie jazz musician who I hate almost as much as spiders, raisins, and housework, HAVING SEX! I at least heard this repetitive thumping sound that sounded an awful lot like the noise my bed makes when some honey is all thrusting up on me. "How is that asshole getting laid? More importantly, how is he getting laid when I am NOT?" I wondered. He looks like the bastard child of the Crypt Keeper and a stringbean, with a goatee. I shuddered thinking about the quality of the pussy he brought home. I should have stayed at the bar and tried to take home the bartender. He did have a couple tequila shots, and while I'm not usually into guys with reddish hair, he's pretty hot. And he gave me a knuckle pound for being "a wolf" as far as my sexuality is concerned, noting something about being able to recognize his own kind. I bet I could have hit that if I'd hung around, and I guarantee we would have outsexed jazz boy and whatever fugly bitch he brought home. Hmm...maybe next Tuesday I'll remember to dress sexier. Yesterday I was rocking some serious Smith lesbian couture as I'm a little behind on my laundry.
Sadly, I did not get laid, I missed the episode of "Nip/Tuck" that Tiffany "New York" Pollard guest-starred in, I had to listen to jazz boy getting ass which grossed me out, I got a truly insufficient amount of sleep, and now I'm hung over. No more tequila Tuesdays! Bad Razzy! Bad Plum Pomidor! Bad!!!!
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, J-Sexy, Razzification, SisterChristian
Monday, November 26, 2007
Razzy: Homemaker of the Year
I'm sure you're all wondering how my Thanksgiving went, because you were likely spending the holiday weekend agonizing about my lack of bloggery, as you all undoubtedly spend approximately 99.999999999% of your time thinking Razzy-filled thoughts. I know. But sorry, dudes, even beloved internet icons ("beloved internet icon"=loser with nothing better to do than live vicariously through her own blog) like myself need to take a couple days off from the grueling useless bullshit business sometimes. I actually had a lot of work. My buddy G-Cat and my newest labmate SisterChristian and I decided to host all the grad students who were away from their families for Thanksgiving. G-Cat provided his apartment, SisterChristian provided assistance, and I provided my vast culinary expertise. It was no small feat, as we ended up feeding around 20 people. I made two turkeys in two ovens in two different apartments, stuffing, five quarts of gravy, mashed potatoes, baked macaroni and cheese, three pies, yams, guacamole, and a turkey sculpture out of cheese logs.
Okay, I had some help with everything (except the work of art that is that turkey cheese sculpture, which I lovingly handcrafted myself), but I was basically the head chef and in charge of everything. I pulled it off, garnering rave reviews for my culinary skills.
"Razzy, I didn't think you were this domestic," said one of the orphan grad students attending our soiree.
"As far as wife skills go, I can fuck and I can cook, but I'm shit at cleaning," I explained.
"Two out of three ain't bad," he said (failing to credit Meat Loaf for the quote). I agree, and I think cleaning is the one thing you can get away with sucking at. You can always hire a maid, but men definitely like it better if you can bang the daylights out of them and then feed them a delicious meal. Too bad I'm not in the market for a MRS degree, because I'd be one hell of a capable wifey.
The one area, however, where my homemaking skills fall short is the fact that I do all this cooking looking like a hot trashtastic dyke, with my practical knotted hair, my wife-beater, and my toned upper arms. The fact that before G-Cat could come carve the turkey like the man of the house should, I decided to teach J-Sexy and SisterChristian how to do lesbian sex to it doesn't exactly paint me as a virtuous keeper of home and hearth:
Looks like I just shot to hell my chances of being declared the heir apparent to June Cleaver. Somehow I suspect the people who give out awards based on homemaking skills might frown on teaching bitches how to find a roasted piece of poultry's G-spot. Oh well. At least the turkey tasted good. Better than some snatches I've licked, that's for sure (just kidding, special girlfriends). Plenty to be thankful for anyway!
"Razzy, I didn't think you were this domestic," said one of the orphan grad students attending our soiree.
"As far as wife skills go, I can fuck and I can cook, but I'm shit at cleaning," I explained.
"Two out of three ain't bad," he said (failing to credit Meat Loaf for the quote). I agree, and I think cleaning is the one thing you can get away with sucking at. You can always hire a maid, but men definitely like it better if you can bang the daylights out of them and then feed them a delicious meal. Too bad I'm not in the market for a MRS degree, because I'd be one hell of a capable wifey.
The one area, however, where my homemaking skills fall short is the fact that I do all this cooking looking like a hot trashtastic dyke, with my practical knotted hair, my wife-beater, and my toned upper arms. The fact that before G-Cat could come carve the turkey like the man of the house should, I decided to teach J-Sexy and SisterChristian how to do lesbian sex to it doesn't exactly paint me as a virtuous keeper of home and hearth:
Labels: bestiality, gluttony, grad school bullshit, intentional buffoonery, J-Sexy, lezbollah, perversion, Razzification, SisterChristian
Monday, November 05, 2007
I TOLD you Kristeen Young sucked!
When I went to the Morrissey concert the week before last, my crew lingered at the German restaurant where we were indulging in pre-Morrissey sausages, schnitzel, and beer to ensure we missed the lame-ass opening act. Unfortunately, we still managed to catch the last few songs of the opening act, some chick named Kristeen Young. When we walked in, MIss Corbutt turned to me and goes, "Did we just walk into Olympia, Washington circa 1992?" I replied, "Got a pen? Because I need to write 'RIOT GRRL' on my knuckles." Seriously, this dumb slag might as well have asked 15-year-old feminazi poetry writing Razzy to decorate her keyboard for her:
We both rolled our eyes, and as if she could read our minds, Kristeen noted that she was about to play her last song. Thank GOD.
Morrissey'sHair was blowing up my spot via text all throughout the show, and I made a point to complain about this Kristeen snatch to him.
While I would be flattered if someone gave my oral sex skills a positive review, Morrissey was most certainly not. I don't blame him for being mad that this outdated hooker was dragging his good name through the mud by claiming that even though Morrissey is a vegan, he still eats the occasional bearded clam. I mean, I'm sure Morrissey can suck a mean dick, but to suggest that he'd hit that sack of Bikini Kill-influenced tits is just a straight-up insult. And thus, Kristeen Young was fired. HA!
If only her dismissal had taken effect immediately, and thus saved me the annoyance of hearing two and a half Kristeen Young jams. I think the only one who didn't mind her was J-Sexy, and that's only because while J-Sexy likes "Mahrissey", she isn't particularly familiar with his entire repertoire and was there mostly to have a novel experience. During the show, she kept saying, "I wish he would play that 'Playboy' song, I don't know these other songs." At that moment, he was playing "How Soon Is Now" and I said, "But J-Sexy, this is like the most famous Smiths song." She gave one of her typical imperious shrugs. Classic.
Morrissey'sHair was blowing up my spot via text all throughout the show, and I made a point to complain about this Kristeen snatch to him.
Razzy: U have no idea how bad this ho opening sux. Morrissey i'm sure hates her. Stupd generic lezbot.Well, as it turns out, Morrissey's love for Kristeen Young has run out. Apparently at the show a couple days before the one I attended, some audience member was sick of listening to her caterwaul and called out for Morrissey. Kristeen Young responded, "Morrissey gives great head...I mean, cunnilingus."
Morrissey'sHair: Kristeen Young? Moz loves her.
Razzy: Ugh. I guess he was also a pnw lez circa 92 then.
While I would be flattered if someone gave my oral sex skills a positive review, Morrissey was most certainly not. I don't blame him for being mad that this outdated hooker was dragging his good name through the mud by claiming that even though Morrissey is a vegan, he still eats the occasional bearded clam. I mean, I'm sure Morrissey can suck a mean dick, but to suggest that he'd hit that sack of Bikini Kill-influenced tits is just a straight-up insult. And thus, Kristeen Young was fired. HA!
If only her dismissal had taken effect immediately, and thus saved me the annoyance of hearing two and a half Kristeen Young jams. I think the only one who didn't mind her was J-Sexy, and that's only because while J-Sexy likes "Mahrissey", she isn't particularly familiar with his entire repertoire and was there mostly to have a novel experience. During the show, she kept saying, "I wish he would play that 'Playboy' song, I don't know these other songs." At that moment, he was playing "How Soon Is Now" and I said, "But J-Sexy, this is like the most famous Smiths song." She gave one of her typical imperious shrugs. Classic.
Labels: comeuppance, feminazism, J-Sexy, lezbollah, Miss Corbutt, Morrissey'sHair, overcompensation, sluts
Monday, October 29, 2007
It's Razzy, bitch!
So hot off the press is the first glimpse of this year's Halloween costume and its execution for the annual grad student party I attend every year:
My Britney look went pretty well considering I did it all at the very last minute. I went out for brunch Saturday morning with LL Cool Jew and BigBagel, Rack and TheOldGuy, Fallonius Monk, JerseyGirl and Kodiak, and J-Sexy. Then I went over to hang out at LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's hotel for a moment, but that was thwarted when LL Cool Jew became violently ill from drinking one too many Campari-and-sodas the night before with yours truly. I was pretty hung over myself from drinking from 5 pm, throughout the Morrissey concert, after the Morrissey show with Miss Corbutt and her boyfriend, and then after that with LL Cool Jew at two different bars. I got to bed at 4 in the morning and had to get up again at 10.
However, in spite of having a busy schedule of cocktail consumption, concerts, and catching up with all my tightest bitches, I knew that I could get the costume shopping done in around an hour by heading for Manhattan nexus of places to buy cheap, slutty underwear, fake hair, and glue-on French manicure fingernails for my "Gimme More" Britney outfit: 125th Street.
I first stopped at Rainbow, a trashtastic store where you can buy 15 different styles of hoop earrings for under $3 per pair, the most painful, shabbily made stripper shoes imaginable, and bras that cost less than $5. I initially found the perfect black, sparkly bra, but as I went through the rack, I noticed that the entire stock was a little too big. I have pretty big tits for a girl my size, but 48DD is a whole other species of gigantic rack compared to my comparatively modest 34C. "Why the fuck are all these damn bras so big?" I wondered, then noticed that all the matching boy-short panties were also quite voluminous. Again, I have a pretty big ass for a girl my size, but not so big as to warrant a "3X"-sized panty. After another examination of the merchandise, I realized I'd accidentally stumbled into "plus-size" territory. Crap! Those black, sparkly bras were only available in size 14, and despite aspersions concerning my weight advanced by some Razzy Haters on the comments page of this very blog I am nowhere NEAR being a size 14. Thus, I had to give up on the perfect bras and get the closest substitute in my size. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do.
Then, I picked up some tacky nails at the nearby Rite-Aid, and tried fruitlessly to explain the concept of my costume to the mostly non-English speaking Haitian guy working at the beauty supply store J-Sexy recommended. In spite of the fact that he seemed determined to sell me $50 skeins of copper-colored hair, I managed to find some $6 Barbie hair. I picked up an iced tea at Starbucks (I know, I should have gotten a caramel Frappuccino, but I just wasn't in the mood to consumer 15,000 liquid calories in any other form besides beer), snagged a pack of Marb lights, glued nail tips to all my fingers but the right ring, and behold...I AM the legendary Ms. Britney Spears:
I may have gotten the costume at the last minute, but I didn't work out for a full month to achieve this perfect Britney body. No sit-ups, no Gauntlet, not even so much as a single, short, mile-long trot around the park, just so I could have the perfect quantity of love handle to spill over the waistband of my $3.50 Rainbow boy shorts. That's dedication. I've successfully trashy-slutted up another Halloween party, and I knew this to be true when Captain Jack Sparrow stumbled up to me and informed me that I was "the most beautiful woman in the history of the world" right before he locked himself into the bathroom to regurgitate the bottle of Captain Morgan's he'd unwisely chugged in a little over an hour. Halloween: mission accomplished.
However, in spite of having a busy schedule of cocktail consumption, concerts, and catching up with all my tightest bitches, I knew that I could get the costume shopping done in around an hour by heading for Manhattan nexus of places to buy cheap, slutty underwear, fake hair, and glue-on French manicure fingernails for my "Gimme More" Britney outfit: 125th Street.
I first stopped at Rainbow, a trashtastic store where you can buy 15 different styles of hoop earrings for under $3 per pair, the most painful, shabbily made stripper shoes imaginable, and bras that cost less than $5. I initially found the perfect black, sparkly bra, but as I went through the rack, I noticed that the entire stock was a little too big. I have pretty big tits for a girl my size, but 48DD is a whole other species of gigantic rack compared to my comparatively modest 34C. "Why the fuck are all these damn bras so big?" I wondered, then noticed that all the matching boy-short panties were also quite voluminous. Again, I have a pretty big ass for a girl my size, but not so big as to warrant a "3X"-sized panty. After another examination of the merchandise, I realized I'd accidentally stumbled into "plus-size" territory. Crap! Those black, sparkly bras were only available in size 14, and despite aspersions concerning my weight advanced by some Razzy Haters on the comments page of this very blog I am nowhere NEAR being a size 14. Thus, I had to give up on the perfect bras and get the closest substitute in my size. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do.
Then, I picked up some tacky nails at the nearby Rite-Aid, and tried fruitlessly to explain the concept of my costume to the mostly non-English speaking Haitian guy working at the beauty supply store J-Sexy recommended. In spite of the fact that he seemed determined to sell me $50 skeins of copper-colored hair, I managed to find some $6 Barbie hair. I picked up an iced tea at Starbucks (I know, I should have gotten a caramel Frappuccino, but I just wasn't in the mood to consumer 15,000 liquid calories in any other form besides beer), snagged a pack of Marb lights, glued nail tips to all my fingers but the right ring, and behold...I AM the legendary Ms. Britney Spears:
Labels: Britney Spears, FalloniusMonk, fat fucks, Halloween, Harlem world, J-Sexy, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, nudity, NYC, Rack, Razzification, sluts, vanity
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Daily Douchebag: J. Alexander
DOB: ???-a lady never tells, I guess
Occupation: criticizing bitches on "America's Next Top Model," annoying the shit out of me via dumb horseplay with Tyra
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Los Angeles?
Douchebaggery: Okay, dudes, it's time for some speed blogging, because I was up until 2 last night and forgot to pick up a sugarfree Red Bull to help put the wind in my sails this morning. I was up so late because J-Sexy made me akee and salt fish, the Jamaican national dish, and codfish fritters, and underestimated the prep time. So we didn't eat until after "America's Next Top Model," and then I had to help her finish drinking all the beer in her fridge. Once I finally did get to bed, I slept fitfully, both due to nicotine patch dreams and a stinky Pug who snored noisily into my ear all night. As a result, I slept shamefully late (8 a.m.-normally I've been up 2-3 hours by now), and I have a lot of mice to send to their untimely deaths today. So I've got to make this fast.
As usual, J-Sexy and I erupted into howls of derision and irritation the second Miss J showed up on the screen with his already giant afro (it grows an inch with each passing week of this "cycle," because Miss J always does cutesy crap like this...in the past he'd add boutonnieres or garish ruffles to his shirt). Miss J is fucking irritating at judging panel on "America's Next Top Model." Actually, all the judges are somewhat irritating. Twiggy is nice and rarely says anything other than "'Allo, girls" to the assembled would-be "top models" (who seem to get uglier and less remarkable with each passing cycle), Nigel Barker is kind of hot but has a really skeezy look about him, Tyra acts like an obnoxious dumb ass, and Miss J is the catalyst for all of Tyra's loud, pointless, condescending hijinks, which usually take the form of some type of outlandish charade illustrating that the contestants are hos who lack Tyra's expertise at posing in a "fashiony" or "modely" way and may involve Tyra and/or Miss J lapsing into faux hood slang. Tyra does, after all, love to brag that she's from Inglewood, so she likes to flex her "authentic urban" accent muscles from time to time via chattering about modeling with the toughest drag twink in the hood.
Miss J has apparently modeled, but I'm not sure why, because he is ugly in or out of drag. I guess if a runway show needed a hollering, overexcitable queen, then Miss J is your she-man, but otherwise he needs to stick to his chosen profession of "runway coach." Furthermore, Miss J needs to explain how he has the chutzpah to criticize bitches for their clothes given the outfits that he is usually rocking. He usually looks like a florist's shop, a costume warehouse, and a Claire's Boutique store threw up all over him. Don't shriek, "You're dressed like a hoochie, GURRRL!" at some poor, fugly bitch just because she wore a skirt to judging panel, probably because the week before she wore pants and Miss J and/or Tyra didn't like that either.
I liked it a lot better when Janice Dickinson was on "Top Model" providing the bitchiness, primarily because she and Tyra obviously hated each other, Janice wouldn't hear a word of Miss J's foolishness, and she didn't need theatrics to tell the girls how they were failing miserably at achieving top model status. She'd just look the girls over and snap, "You're fat...go lose ten pounds." She was rough. Miss J pales in comparison, and I'm so sick of his not-funny hilarious antics. Keep him in the one runway-walking competition and replace him on the panel with someone who doesn't do shiteous improv judging with Tyra all day, because I've just HAD IT with that fucker.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, J-Sexy, vulgar display of faggotry
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Sorry, Dudes, I've Got Nothin'
Okay, people, I am HUNG OVER. I'm pushing thirty and can no longer handle my cheap red wine like I could when I was nineteen and I'd drink Concha y Toro until my teeth were a deep shade of purple and just hop out of bed with a spring in my step and a twinkle in my eye the next day, ready to go jovially terrorize some dumb Smith bitches. This is no longer the situation for me. I am now feeling like death itself has taken a shit inside my cranium. Red wine is awful, awful, AWFUL stuff, especially when combined with scotch and beer. I am not even sure what happened last night, except that at some point, I was hauling CorporateCard out of J-Sexy's apartment while she moaned, "I'm going to throw up! I'm going to throw up!" Other than that, I vaguely remember talking to my friend CorporateCard's boyfriend on the phone, and taking about fifty pictures with J-Sexy in which I was deep-throating this crappy wooden penis sculpture she purchased in Belize. Because if there's a random penis lying around and I've had a few cocktails, it's only natural that I'm going to pick it up and stuff it in my mouth like the big, skankity slut that I am. In fact, for some reason J-Sexy and CorporateCard were so interested in seeing my expert head-giving techniques that the memory card on CorporateCard's camera is now filled with pictures of me fellating everything in J-Sexy's apartment, from empty wine bottles to her Belizean wood to her remote controls. It's a good thing we didn't have a video camera, because if we did, there would be footage of me strolling around, doing disgusting sexual things with J-Sexy's household objects, and telling the girls that from now on, they should address me as "Sophisticated Q. Classmussen." Because I'm so classy! DUH!
Anyway, I can't think of a dude I want to hit. Except maybe LL Cool Jew, who just called to inform me that she's buying tickets for us to double up and go see Robert Sylvester Kelly in concert at the Nassau County coliseum the day after Thanksgiving. However, that awesome reality has not yet sunk in, and I'm about to go insane because of the jackhammering outside my window, so there's nobody I'm hitting today. Except myself, in the head, for being so stupid as to drink that much red wine on a school night.
Anyway, I can't think of a dude I want to hit. Except maybe LL Cool Jew, who just called to inform me that she's buying tickets for us to double up and go see Robert Sylvester Kelly in concert at the Nassau County coliseum the day after Thanksgiving. However, that awesome reality has not yet sunk in, and I'm about to go insane because of the jackhammering outside my window, so there's nobody I'm hitting today. Except myself, in the head, for being so stupid as to drink that much red wine on a school night.
Labels: alcoholism, CorporateCard, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, J-Sexy, LL Cool Jew, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Daily Douchebag: Jackhammerers
Occupation: Grinding on my sanity
Douchebaggery: Longtime readers and friends know that I have a major problem with dudes whose fucking techniques involves just getting up in you and pounding repetitively away in the style of a jackhammer. However, that is not the variety of jackhammerer I'm talking about today. I'm talking about a literal, honest-to-God, motherfucker operating the jackhammer outside my apartment. Last night I watched "America's Next Top Model" with J-Sexy and CorporateCard, and proceeded to drink entirely too much red wine. In fact, we polished off a bottle of vino each, some scotch, and two sixers of Beck's, and I am paying the price. There's nothing worse than a red wine hangover, except maybe having one and waking to the sound of someone breaking up concrete outside your window.
To make matters worse, I tried to drown out the ringing sound of the jackhammering by turning on some music, thus causing the stringy creep of a hippie who lives upstairs from me to start stomping on the floor aggressively per usual. Already also probably rattled by the jackhammering, he is not in the mood for ANY of my music, whether Big Kuntry King or an Artur Rubinstein rendition of a Brahms concerto.
You know it's a bad day when you wake up and your first thought is, "I've got to get to lab or I'm going to go insane."
Labels: alcoholism, CorporateCard, Daily Douchebag, J-Sexy
Thursday, October 11, 2007
I'm doublin' up with them
J-Sexy is always going off about how "silly" R. Kelly has become since the good old days (AKA "1993...check out this freaky style").
"I like 'Sex Me' and the origonal Twelve Play," she'll say. "But this sex in the kitchen...sex in his jeep...sex in outor space...it's all too ridicolos for me."
I would argue that Kells has grown like a majestic oak tree in terms of his artistic genius, and like a fine wine, continues to improve with each passing season. To prove this, I showed her some recent R. Kelly videos. After I got her to stop laughing at T-Pain for being a "fat, silly man" in the "I'm a Flirt" video and to quiet her praises for the excellent tightness and technical execution of R. Kelly's cornrows, I showed her the brilliant masterpiece of a video known as Sylvester Films' production of "Same Girl."
Since some of you might not watch the YouTubes I embed up here, I'm going to just walk those of you who are Robert Sylvester Kelly amateurs through this. You can't really just jump right into R. Kelly as a virgin. That's like a Pop Warner wannabe trying to start at blocking fullback in the NFL...it's just asking for trouble. If you are just waking up to the phenomenal human being that is Robert Sylvester Kelly, you need a true scholar, who has spent years attempting to master the knowledge that the Pied Piper of R&B has blessed us mere mortals with, to guide you through it. Behold, I present to you..."Same Girl." Seriously, this shit is better than an episode of "Melrose Place" circa season four.
The video begins with Kells in his tony Chicago condominium, gazing out his floor-to-ceiling windows at the Sears Tower and hollering at his manager about his busy schedule. R. Kelly didn't become the R-uh in R&B for nothing; he has a lot of yelling at flunkies to do on the phone:
Meanwhile, at his posh mansion in the Atlanta suburbs, Usher Raymond IV is doing the same thing. He has an album coming out, and a tranny wife who hates his mom giving birth soon, and he was inexplicably supposed to be in Cleveland yesterday, and he is BUSY. So he's pretty much regulating on the assistant tip as well:
Anyway, to relax, Usher and R. Kelly both take a step back and consider their options for chilling out. Since Kells doesn't have any time to twist trees and Usher doesn't have NEARLY the time to go unwind with a high colonic, they do the next best thing...call fellow R&B thugs to dish about their love lives, of course!
Kells reaches for his phone, in which Usher is in his top five, along with "Twon" (as in the recent ex-con, nearly bulletproof brother-in-law from "Trapped in the Closet"???) and the "Studio" (natch), and dials his favorite confidant:
Usher, exasperated, is pleased to see that even though he can't properly punctuate entries in his cell phone address book, "Kell's" is calling to give his ATL BFF the 411 on his new piece of ass:
Kells: Yo Ush!
Usher: What up, Kells?
Kells: Wanna introduce ya to this girl, I think I really love this girl.
Usher: Yeah?
Kells: Man, she's so fine.
Usher: Straight up, dog?!
Kells: She stands about 5'4"...Coca-Cola redbone...
R. Kelly, despite the fact that Usher presumably isn't having a webcam chat with him, manually demonstrates the silhouette of said love interest's voluptuous body.
Usher is impressed.
Usher: Damn.
Kells: She drives a black Durango...license plate say "ANGEL." Plus she makin' pesos, got a crib on Peach Street, right on 17th Street, and I call her "TT"...
No offense, Kells, but by your own standards, if she's driving a fucking DODGE DURANGO, then mere pesos is exactly what she's making. I'm sure a Durango is a fine mid-sized utility vehicle, but it's not exactly the world's most impressive whip. I guess it's pragmatic for the single mom, though.
Usher is suspicious. Apparently, he's heard these curriculum vitae bullet points before.
Usher: Wait a minute, hold on, dog...
Usher: Do she got a kid?
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Love some Waffle House?
Who doesn't? But this is getting to be too much of a coincidence, and Kells is now on guard as well. After all, he didn't just wake up and start pissing on teenagers yesterday.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Do she got a beauty mark on the left side of her mouth?
Forensic evidence!
Kells: Man...?
Usher: Went to Georgia Tech?
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Works for TBS?
On an aside, I'd like to know if this "Angel" AKA "TT" is responsible for all those "Everybody Loves Raymond" episodes they always show on TBS, because that shit SUCKS! I don't know ANYBODY who loves Raymond. That show is one of the most irritating, repugnant sitcoms of all time. If "TT" is behind that, then I hope she's not "makin' pesos" for long, because scheduling four reruns of that show a day should be a straight-up career killer. But I digress.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Man, I can't believe this shit...damn.
Kells, in spite of his curiosity, hasn't quite grasped the bigger picture yet. His intellect revolves around crafting absurd metaphors about sex, not detective work, after all.
Kells: Tell me, what's wrong, dog? What the hell you talkin' bout?
To reassure Usher, Robert Sylvester reminds him of their dear and treasured relationship, and their commitment to communication and honesty.
Kells: I'm your homie, so just say what's on your mind.
Usher: Man, I didn't know that you was talkin' bout her
Kells: So man, you're tellin' me you know her?
Usher: Like a pastor know his word.
HOLY SHIT! EUREKA! As the infinitely wise counselor, spiritual leader, and Thug Misses Khia would say, "somethin' in the milk ain't clean," and he's got enough of a whiff of some untoward shit going on to hop on his private jet and frustratedly toy with a rubber band while he and Usher continue to slog through their concerns:
Kells and Usher: We messin' with the same girl, same girl, same girl
Usher: How could the apple of my eye...
Kells: ...and my potential wife be the same girl, same girl, same girl?
Usher: Man I can't believe we been messin' with the same girl, same girl, same girl
Kells: Thought she was someone I can trust, and she's been doubling up with us
Well, buck up Kells. At least you managed to work in a brand reference to the title of the album that this song is on. And give props to this chick for not only realizing Lil' Kim's dream of fucking some R&B dick, but being astronomically successful at doing so. This bitch isn't juggling Eric Benet and Avant or some other low-ren shit like that. She's totally playing the King and Queen of R&B, and that's impressive. Then again, I'd expect no less from such a Tera Patrick-looking cable network employee with an ankle tat, a personalized license plate, and a passion for smothered chicken and waffles:
After Usher picks up Kells at the airstrip in his Bentley, they get to comparing war stories about how this flighty temptress crossed paths with them. It is a heated discussion.
Usher: See, I met her at this party in Atlanta.
Kells: Well, I met her at this party in Chicago.
Usher: She came right up to me, givin' me conversation...
Usher fondly recalls how his first impression was of a woman who would peg him with such ferocity that he wouldn't shit right for a week.
Usher: I said, "Do you got a man?" She said "no," with no hesitation.
And so it was on. But apparently, this two-timing slut had a great video ho scoring average batting with this strategy, because Kells has his own variation.
Kells: Well it must be a music thing, cause she said the same to me. She had her body all in my face, while I’m laughin' and buyin' her drinks.
Or, more specifically, some type of rose-colored liqueur best enjoyed by a pool wearing $400 sunglasses at night:
Usher: She whispered in my ear and said, "Can you take me home?"
Kells: Me too. Man, she was in the Chi singin' the same tune.
Usher (alarmed): Is that true!?
Kells: Man, it was true confessions when she said, "I love ya."
Not to leave his beloved homie's shoutout to his infamous hit "Confessions" hanging, Usher proceeded to work the name of a classic Kells jam into his analogous tale:
Usher: Man, I thought her body was calling when she said, "I want you."
Distracted for a moment by the memory that he ACTUALLY thought her strap-on was calling when she said that, Usher covers up nicely with a segue into the portion of the conversation where he breaks out the visual evidence.
Usher: See, I even got some pictures on my phone...
Not to be outdone, Kells whips out his Sidekick.
Kells: Look there, man, she is with some boy shorts on:
I think that solves this mystery. Why is this bitch still shuffling papers and setting up programming schedules or whatever for TBS while in her spare time she's juggling interstate relationships with Robert Sylvester Kelly and Raymond Usher IV? This bitch is a pro ho at multitasking. Hats off to her. Seriously.
Anyway, after Kells and Ush together melodiously lament what a small world it is, and so full of loose, faithless women, they continue to process. In fact, they go to Usher's plush, dark cigar lounge for a snifter of fine cognac and a Macanudo to finalize their therapy sesh and tie up all the lose factual ends. We're being cuckolded by the same woman...CHEERS!
Kells: She said she got me on her ringtone
Usher: Are you talking about the pink phone?
Kells: Uh-huh, the blue one.
I don't know how pink is blue, and I actually thought those colors were totally different, but maybe they're color-blind. That would explain a lot of both men's sometimes questionable and garish fashion choices. It seems, though, at the point where one sings with an echo for emphasis, the difference between pink and blue is a moot point. In fact, more important is demonstrating their prowess at hoops:
Kells: Man, she told me that was turned off. It's obvious that she's been playing us, playing us.
Usher: Cause constantly she’s been lyin' to us, lyin' to us.
By the way, that was a fast yet exhausting game of HORSE. Usher is sweating so much it looks like Kells gave HIM a golden shower (you know Usher wants it!). It's time to take a seat and rehydrate.
Kells: Don’t like the way that she’s been goin bout it, goin' bout it.
Usher: Kells, what you think that we should do about it, do about it?
Good thing you asked, because Kells is a master at scheming. He is, after all, a flirt...and if a man who is Teflon to child porn charges and a twink who married and impregnated a M2F tranny can't come up with a clever solution to this dilemma, who can? Tricksy R&B singers, these two.
Kells: Call her up at her home, she won’t know I'm on the phone...
Usher: Yeah, man, that’s a plan.
The old listen-silently-in-on-the-phone-conversation sting operation is a classic but effective plan, indeed. How could this not work in wreaking vengeance on adulterous whores? Usher likes:
Seriously, put R. Kelly and Usher in charge of the war in Iraq, because these two managed to solve a very serious problem in a matter of mere minutes. They are commendably efficient, managing to investigate, crack the case, and plot revenge without breaking a sweat. Well, okay, Usher broke a sweat trying to defend against R. Kelly's mad penetration skills on the court, but that doesn't really count. They've figured this shit out. Don't double up on a flirt and a closeted teen idol. They'll school you every time with their competence.
Kells: Homie, we about to bust this trick
Usher: Man, just tell her to meet up with you and I'm gonna show up too...
Kells: And she won't know what to do!
Usher: We'll be standing there singing...
They decide that Usher's panic room would be the best place to film their final, most triumphant chorus summarizing their trials and tribulations with this clever and unscrupulous same girl:
Kells and Usher once again sum up the bullet points of how this bitch has wronged them. Same girl, apple of eye and potential wife, doubling up, etc. They'd be upset, but they are too smug and excited at the prospect of really sticking it to this prostitute publicly:
Unfortunately, life is full of surprises, and, much like an episode of "Law and Order" a shocking plot twist turns the whole story upside down! Rather than toying adulterously with the affections of two multi-platinum-selling R&B artists, this "same girl" was actually TWINS! Didn't see that one coming, now, did you? Again...R. Kelly=EINSTEIN/PICASSO/HEMINGWAY/INSERT GREAT CONTRIBUTOR TO THE ANNALS OF COLOSSALLY IMPORTANT CULTURAL ACHIEVEMENT HERE.
HEY GUYS, the jokes on you! High five, TT squared!
This is certainly surprising. Good thing R. Kelly has mastered ridiculousness, and will somehow succeed in making this less awkward once his obvious astonishment has worn off:
Okay, so they may be twins with identical cars sporting the same custom plate, an identical tattoo on the same body part, and an aggressive seduction technique who both answer to the same playful "TT" nickname, but they're still separate people. Honest and virtuous people. So they can go back to being the apple of Usher's eye (apple="BEARD," because unless she's the Adam's apple of his eye, Usher probably isn't concerned for any reason other than appearance's sake) or R. Kelly's potential wife (once he finalizes his divorce from his current wife). Everyone lives happily ever after. Usher is thrilled he has a new chick to offset the pesky gay rumors that circulate about him on the internets, and Kells, being a consummate businessman, is thinking about how this might make for a great song...
And so it does. And if this hasn't sold you, then just watch the damn thing! More people are jumping on the speeding freighter of awesomeness that is the Robert Sylvester Kelly bandwagon every day, and I'm certain that by now you're probably one of them, and will watch "Same Girl" followed by every Sylvester Films joint on YouTube.
R. Kelly is the shit. He is the greatest artist of our time. NO JOKE!
"I like 'Sex Me' and the origonal Twelve Play," she'll say. "But this sex in the kitchen...sex in his jeep...sex in outor space...it's all too ridicolos for me."
I would argue that Kells has grown like a majestic oak tree in terms of his artistic genius, and like a fine wine, continues to improve with each passing season. To prove this, I showed her some recent R. Kelly videos. After I got her to stop laughing at T-Pain for being a "fat, silly man" in the "I'm a Flirt" video and to quiet her praises for the excellent tightness and technical execution of R. Kelly's cornrows, I showed her the brilliant masterpiece of a video known as Sylvester Films' production of "Same Girl."
Since some of you might not watch the YouTubes I embed up here, I'm going to just walk those of you who are Robert Sylvester Kelly amateurs through this. You can't really just jump right into R. Kelly as a virgin. That's like a Pop Warner wannabe trying to start at blocking fullback in the NFL...it's just asking for trouble. If you are just waking up to the phenomenal human being that is Robert Sylvester Kelly, you need a true scholar, who has spent years attempting to master the knowledge that the Pied Piper of R&B has blessed us mere mortals with, to guide you through it. Behold, I present to you..."Same Girl." Seriously, this shit is better than an episode of "Melrose Place" circa season four.
The video begins with Kells in his tony Chicago condominium, gazing out his floor-to-ceiling windows at the Sears Tower and hollering at his manager about his busy schedule. R. Kelly didn't become the R-uh in R&B for nothing; he has a lot of yelling at flunkies to do on the phone:
Kells reaches for his phone, in which Usher is in his top five, along with "Twon" (as in the recent ex-con, nearly bulletproof brother-in-law from "Trapped in the Closet"???) and the "Studio" (natch), and dials his favorite confidant:
Usher, exasperated, is pleased to see that even though he can't properly punctuate entries in his cell phone address book, "Kell's" is calling to give his ATL BFF the 411 on his new piece of ass:
Kells: Yo Ush!
Usher: What up, Kells?
Usher: Yeah?
Kells: Man, she's so fine.
Usher: Straight up, dog?!
Kells: She stands about 5'4"...Coca-Cola redbone...
R. Kelly, despite the fact that Usher presumably isn't having a webcam chat with him, manually demonstrates the silhouette of said love interest's voluptuous body.
Usher is impressed.
Usher: Damn.
Kells: She drives a black Durango...license plate say "ANGEL." Plus she makin' pesos, got a crib on Peach Street, right on 17th Street, and I call her "TT"...
Usher is suspicious. Apparently, he's heard these curriculum vitae bullet points before.
Usher: Wait a minute, hold on, dog...
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Love some Waffle House?
Who doesn't? But this is getting to be too much of a coincidence, and Kells is now on guard as well. After all, he didn't just wake up and start pissing on teenagers yesterday.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Do she got a beauty mark on the left side of her mouth?
Kells: Man...?
Usher: Went to Georgia Tech?
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Works for TBS?
On an aside, I'd like to know if this "Angel" AKA "TT" is responsible for all those "Everybody Loves Raymond" episodes they always show on TBS, because that shit SUCKS! I don't know ANYBODY who loves Raymond. That show is one of the most irritating, repugnant sitcoms of all time. If "TT" is behind that, then I hope she's not "makin' pesos" for long, because scheduling four reruns of that show a day should be a straight-up career killer. But I digress.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Man, I can't believe this shit...damn.
Kells, in spite of his curiosity, hasn't quite grasped the bigger picture yet. His intellect revolves around crafting absurd metaphors about sex, not detective work, after all.
Kells: Tell me, what's wrong, dog? What the hell you talkin' bout?
To reassure Usher, Robert Sylvester reminds him of their dear and treasured relationship, and their commitment to communication and honesty.
Kells: I'm your homie, so just say what's on your mind.
Usher: Man, I didn't know that you was talkin' bout her
Kells: So man, you're tellin' me you know her?
Usher: Like a pastor know his word.
HOLY SHIT! EUREKA! As the infinitely wise counselor, spiritual leader, and Thug Misses Khia would say, "somethin' in the milk ain't clean," and he's got enough of a whiff of some untoward shit going on to hop on his private jet and frustratedly toy with a rubber band while he and Usher continue to slog through their concerns:
Usher: How could the apple of my eye...
Kells: ...and my potential wife be the same girl, same girl, same girl?
Usher: Man I can't believe we been messin' with the same girl, same girl, same girl
Kells: Thought she was someone I can trust, and she's been doubling up with us
Well, buck up Kells. At least you managed to work in a brand reference to the title of the album that this song is on. And give props to this chick for not only realizing Lil' Kim's dream of fucking some R&B dick, but being astronomically successful at doing so. This bitch isn't juggling Eric Benet and Avant or some other low-ren shit like that. She's totally playing the King and Queen of R&B, and that's impressive. Then again, I'd expect no less from such a Tera Patrick-looking cable network employee with an ankle tat, a personalized license plate, and a passion for smothered chicken and waffles:
After Usher picks up Kells at the airstrip in his Bentley, they get to comparing war stories about how this flighty temptress crossed paths with them. It is a heated discussion.
Kells: Well, I met her at this party in Chicago.
Usher: She came right up to me, givin' me conversation...
Usher fondly recalls how his first impression was of a woman who would peg him with such ferocity that he wouldn't shit right for a week.
And so it was on. But apparently, this two-timing slut had a great video ho scoring average batting with this strategy, because Kells has his own variation.
Kells: Well it must be a music thing, cause she said the same to me. She had her body all in my face, while I’m laughin' and buyin' her drinks.
Or, more specifically, some type of rose-colored liqueur best enjoyed by a pool wearing $400 sunglasses at night:
Kells: Me too. Man, she was in the Chi singin' the same tune.
Usher (alarmed): Is that true!?
Kells: Man, it was true confessions when she said, "I love ya."
Not to leave his beloved homie's shoutout to his infamous hit "Confessions" hanging, Usher proceeded to work the name of a classic Kells jam into his analogous tale:
Distracted for a moment by the memory that he ACTUALLY thought her strap-on was calling when she said that, Usher covers up nicely with a segue into the portion of the conversation where he breaks out the visual evidence.
Usher: See, I even got some pictures on my phone...
Not to be outdone, Kells whips out his Sidekick.
Kells: Look there, man, she is with some boy shorts on:
Anyway, after Kells and Ush together melodiously lament what a small world it is, and so full of loose, faithless women, they continue to process. In fact, they go to Usher's plush, dark cigar lounge for a snifter of fine cognac and a Macanudo to finalize their therapy sesh and tie up all the lose factual ends. We're being cuckolded by the same woman...CHEERS!
Usher: Are you talking about the pink phone?
Kells: Uh-huh, the blue one.
I don't know how pink is blue, and I actually thought those colors were totally different, but maybe they're color-blind. That would explain a lot of both men's sometimes questionable and garish fashion choices. It seems, though, at the point where one sings with an echo for emphasis, the difference between pink and blue is a moot point. In fact, more important is demonstrating their prowess at hoops:
Usher: Cause constantly she’s been lyin' to us, lyin' to us.
By the way, that was a fast yet exhausting game of HORSE. Usher is sweating so much it looks like Kells gave HIM a golden shower (you know Usher wants it!). It's time to take a seat and rehydrate.
Usher: Kells, what you think that we should do about it, do about it?
Good thing you asked, because Kells is a master at scheming. He is, after all, a flirt...and if a man who is Teflon to child porn charges and a twink who married and impregnated a M2F tranny can't come up with a clever solution to this dilemma, who can? Tricksy R&B singers, these two.
Kells: Call her up at her home, she won’t know I'm on the phone...
Usher: Yeah, man, that’s a plan.
The old listen-silently-in-on-the-phone-conversation sting operation is a classic but effective plan, indeed. How could this not work in wreaking vengeance on adulterous whores? Usher likes:
Kells: Homie, we about to bust this trick
Usher: Man, just tell her to meet up with you and I'm gonna show up too...
Kells: And she won't know what to do!
Usher: We'll be standing there singing...
They decide that Usher's panic room would be the best place to film their final, most triumphant chorus summarizing their trials and tribulations with this clever and unscrupulous same girl:
Kells and Usher once again sum up the bullet points of how this bitch has wronged them. Same girl, apple of eye and potential wife, doubling up, etc. They'd be upset, but they are too smug and excited at the prospect of really sticking it to this prostitute publicly:
Unfortunately, life is full of surprises, and, much like an episode of "Law and Order" a shocking plot twist turns the whole story upside down! Rather than toying adulterously with the affections of two multi-platinum-selling R&B artists, this "same girl" was actually TWINS! Didn't see that one coming, now, did you? Again...R. Kelly=EINSTEIN/PICASSO/HEMINGWAY/INSERT GREAT CONTRIBUTOR TO THE ANNALS OF COLOSSALLY IMPORTANT CULTURAL ACHIEVEMENT HERE.
This is certainly surprising. Good thing R. Kelly has mastered ridiculousness, and will somehow succeed in making this less awkward once his obvious astonishment has worn off:
R. Kelly is the shit. He is the greatest artist of our time. NO JOKE!
Labels: boyfriends, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, J-Sexy, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly, sluts
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Merry 9/11, y'all!
So today I am sorry to say I don't have time to do a "Daily Dude I Want to Hit" or "Daily Douchebag" today as I'm busting out a poster full of rhinovirology hotness for my department's retreat. J-Sexy's is so cute, complete with a catchy title ("Interfering with Interferon") and her trademark "polio-o's" (replacing the letter "o" in her title with little polio virions). Since she set the bar high for eleventh hour virology hotness, I've got to produce something equally aesthetically pleasing for the crowd of discriminating microbiology nerds to praise.
In addition to the science business, I was distracted this morning by all those depressing 9/11 memorials on TV. That shit is live from Ground Zero every year, and while I obviously understand the importance of having a 9/11 memorial service, why does it have to be on every single fucking channel? It is a lousy way to start the morning listening to a choked-up NYFD captain rattling off the names of all his dead friends, and I wish there was ONE channel that would pay attention to other important news. I think it would provide hope to us all to hear some GOOD news on 9/11 for a change. For example, the news that 50 Cent's album Curtis dropped today and it is AWESOME.
As usual, 50 Cent is the master of the diss and the unintentionally hilarious lyrics about his prowess in the bedroom (if the song "Peep Show" wasn't titled that, I would have thought Fitty and Eminem were inviting women to their "Creep Show"). I suspect that because of the Razzy-related drama between my top two boyfriends Curtis Jackson and Robert Sylvester Kelly, 50 had some choice words for Kells: "I'm pissin' on grown women...R. Kelly do it to children." That diss will be outdated when the R-uh in R&B is exonerated at his trial starting next Monday, but whatever. Fitty is the silver lining on this 9/11, or as he puts it, he's "in the cut like germs" and you should go celebrate the day we got seriously dissed by Al Qaeda by buying yourself a copy of Curtis and listening to the dulcet beef-fomenting tones of 50 Cent, the world's most accomplished hater next to Osama.
In addition to the science business, I was distracted this morning by all those depressing 9/11 memorials on TV. That shit is live from Ground Zero every year, and while I obviously understand the importance of having a 9/11 memorial service, why does it have to be on every single fucking channel? It is a lousy way to start the morning listening to a choked-up NYFD captain rattling off the names of all his dead friends, and I wish there was ONE channel that would pay attention to other important news. I think it would provide hope to us all to hear some GOOD news on 9/11 for a change. For example, the news that 50 Cent's album Curtis dropped today and it is AWESOME.
As usual, 50 Cent is the master of the diss and the unintentionally hilarious lyrics about his prowess in the bedroom (if the song "Peep Show" wasn't titled that, I would have thought Fitty and Eminem were inviting women to their "Creep Show"). I suspect that because of the Razzy-related drama between my top two boyfriends Curtis Jackson and Robert Sylvester Kelly, 50 had some choice words for Kells: "I'm pissin' on grown women...R. Kelly do it to children." That diss will be outdated when the R-uh in R&B is exonerated at his trial starting next Monday, but whatever. Fitty is the silver lining on this 9/11, or as he puts it, he's "in the cut like germs" and you should go celebrate the day we got seriously dissed by Al Qaeda by buying yourself a copy of Curtis and listening to the dulcet beef-fomenting tones of 50 Cent, the world's most accomplished hater next to Osama.
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, grad school bullshit, I LOVE IT, J-Sexy, rap, Robert Sylvester Kelly, terror
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Chingy! can't chase the Cat(skills)
Last weekend I went camping in the Catskills with a bunch of other grad students. Nothing remarkable happened besides getting drunk, eating smores, and freezing my ass off because I only brought one pathetic, velvet, not-warm hoodie procured for $7 at some cheap ho-clothes store on 125th St. with me and it was like 40 degrees at night. Apart from nearly getting evicted from the state park we were staying in due to "rowdiness after quiet hours," the only other thing we did was go for a hike.
Since I had the dogs with me, I figured Caesar would love it and Chingy! could definitely use the exercise. I went with the group going on the "easy" hike (7 miles), because I figured that Chingy! would be stretched to his physical limits by a trip that long, and the "challenging" hike was 14 miles and involved free-climbing. As it turned out, "easy" meant we made it through two miles of scrambling up and down steep, rocky hillsides before J-Sexy wanted to turn back to resume beer drinking. After one look at Chingy!, I knew that we had to go back too. He was exhausted, with his sides heaving in and out like some sort of corpulent, hyperspasmotic accordion bellows, his tongue lolling out of his squashy little snaggletoothed mouth, and his breath coming in sickening, phlegmy gusts of foulness. We moved to climb back up the rock wall we had just descended, and I thought Chingy! was going to die. These "stairs" were so precipitous that I felt like Frodo scaling the mountainous walls of Mordor to reach the dread pass of Cirith Ungol. I tried to motivate Chingy! with some LOTR dialogue ("up, up, up the stairs we go, Precious...until we reach...the tunnel"), but he paid me no heed. He simply stared at me insolently and resentfully, and I could almost hear him thinking withering "CHONGAY CHONG!" thoughts about my forcing him to endure such an arduous journey. When we got to the top of the neverending rock stairs and started venturing back downhill, one of the girls with us felt so sorry for Chingy! that she volunteered to CARRY HIS FAT ASS back down. I told her, "I wouldn't. He's so fucking heavy, I swear mercury flows through his veins."
"He's so tired, I just have to," she insisted. She picked him up, and I defy you to contradict that he may be the most revoltingly pathetic creature on God's green earth:
Besides stinking, weight problems, astronomical vet bills, shitting, consuming shit, destroying stuff, regarding their owners haughtily, and shedding copiously, what the hell are Pugs good for? Because I know a lot of things they're useless at, and backpacking is one of them. Chingy!'s good samaritan only lasted about 100 feet before she had to put his burdensome ass back down, and he proceeded to be a pain in the ass the rest of the way. He stopped to sniff everything, tried to go on sit-down strike TWICE, attempted to take a nap, shook off his leash, and generally tried to impede my efforts to walk him down the trail in every way possible. Then again, I'm not much of a hiker either, as I'm always stopping to smoke and drink beer, and I spent most of my time on this trip trashing what qualifies as a mountain on the East Coast and sneering at the lack of evergreen trees rather than soaking in the magnificence of the Appalachian wilderness.
Even though I was disappointed that Chingy! didn't experience rapid weight loss from his hiking ordeal, I was pleased to get back to the campsite and get down to business with J-Sexy doing what we do best (drink some brew dogs and eat some meat). I contribute a big"fuck that" to traipsing soberly up rockslides waiting to happen as a means of enjoying the great outdoors. As soon as I got home, I ordered a pizza and watched some porn. Heineken consumption, showers, electricity, and not having to hoist my Hutt of a dog up steep rocky inclines are most definitely my jam. Life in the city is far less shitty.
CHONGAY CHONG, camping!
Since I had the dogs with me, I figured Caesar would love it and Chingy! could definitely use the exercise. I went with the group going on the "easy" hike (7 miles), because I figured that Chingy! would be stretched to his physical limits by a trip that long, and the "challenging" hike was 14 miles and involved free-climbing. As it turned out, "easy" meant we made it through two miles of scrambling up and down steep, rocky hillsides before J-Sexy wanted to turn back to resume beer drinking. After one look at Chingy!, I knew that we had to go back too. He was exhausted, with his sides heaving in and out like some sort of corpulent, hyperspasmotic accordion bellows, his tongue lolling out of his squashy little snaggletoothed mouth, and his breath coming in sickening, phlegmy gusts of foulness. We moved to climb back up the rock wall we had just descended, and I thought Chingy! was going to die. These "stairs" were so precipitous that I felt like Frodo scaling the mountainous walls of Mordor to reach the dread pass of Cirith Ungol. I tried to motivate Chingy! with some LOTR dialogue ("up, up, up the stairs we go, Precious...until we reach...the tunnel"), but he paid me no heed. He simply stared at me insolently and resentfully, and I could almost hear him thinking withering "CHONGAY CHONG!" thoughts about my forcing him to endure such an arduous journey. When we got to the top of the neverending rock stairs and started venturing back downhill, one of the girls with us felt so sorry for Chingy! that she volunteered to CARRY HIS FAT ASS back down. I told her, "I wouldn't. He's so fucking heavy, I swear mercury flows through his veins."
"He's so tired, I just have to," she insisted. She picked him up, and I defy you to contradict that he may be the most revoltingly pathetic creature on God's green earth:
Even though I was disappointed that Chingy! didn't experience rapid weight loss from his hiking ordeal, I was pleased to get back to the campsite and get down to business with J-Sexy doing what we do best (drink some brew dogs and eat some meat). I contribute a big"fuck that" to traipsing soberly up rockslides waiting to happen as a means of enjoying the great outdoors. As soon as I got home, I ordered a pizza and watched some porn. Heineken consumption, showers, electricity, and not having to hoist my Hutt of a dog up steep rocky inclines are most definitely my jam. Life in the city is far less shitty.
CHONGAY CHONG, camping!
Labels: alcoholism, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, exercise drama, fat fucks, intentional buffoonery, J-Sexy
Friday, August 03, 2007
T-t-t-totally dude!
When I first played the Shop Boyz (not to be confused with the Pet Shop Boys) song "Party Like a Rockstar", J-Sexy paused in lab and inquired, "Yo, Razzy, did he just say 'totally, dude'?"
"I think so," I replied. "I think he also just said, 'I'm a surfer screaming cowabunga, totally dude!' I'll have to check that these Shop Boyz guys aren't named after Renaissance painters, because that's some Ninja Turtle-sounding shit right there."
J-Sexy laughed, "What a ridicolos song! Why did you download this?"
"You know me, I'm a hip old granny. Sometimes I like to turn off the Lawrence Welk and see what kids these days are listening to. Besides, anything entitled 'Party Like a Rock Star' is bound to attract my attention."
Also attracting my attention is the fact that, given the exceptionally large number of "totally dude"-s present in their songs and album art, the Shop Boyz' marketing strategy was likely designed by my friend Wmania. Of course, if she actually had, their album cover would read "tottaly dude" (her preferred spelling), but I suspect she influenced it. She says "totally dude" even more than I do, and "rock star" is one of her favorite things against which to compare anything she likes. It's also her favorite diet energy drink.
Anyway, I discovered through the internets today that some morning radio show in Vegas made a parody of this song entitled "Party Like a Lohan." Given my obsession with celebretard criminals, I of course immediately clicked on it. I was amused. You can enjoy these musical stylings by ->->->CLICKING HERE<-<-<-.
In case you don't feel like actually listening to this 30-second clip of genius, here's the lyrics.
[CHORUS]
Party like a Lo
Party like a Lohan
Party like a Lo
Party like a Lohan
Party like a Lo
Party like a Lohan
She's totally screwed
You better party big when you party like Lohan
You lookin' good in your mugshot--nice tan
What better way to make your sober debut
Than with a pocket full of blow and a point one two?
Rehab not so bad when you're a star like Lindsay
That ankle band just another fashion accessory
It'd take more than that to make Lindsay embarrassed
How bout you get yourself locked up like Paris?!
[REPEAT CHORUS 2X]
Pretty good for a bunch of morning show DJs, who as a general rule annoy me to the point of getting into someone else's Denali myself and then running them down. They get extra points for working in a diss on Paris Hilton, too. Anyway, I found it an amusing way to kick off a Friday. Good work, guys. It'll probably be a bigger hit than any of the songs Lindsay has released in her career as a singer. T-t-t-totally dude.
"I think so," I replied. "I think he also just said, 'I'm a surfer screaming cowabunga, totally dude!' I'll have to check that these Shop Boyz guys aren't named after Renaissance painters, because that's some Ninja Turtle-sounding shit right there."
J-Sexy laughed, "What a ridicolos song! Why did you download this?"
"You know me, I'm a hip old granny. Sometimes I like to turn off the Lawrence Welk and see what kids these days are listening to. Besides, anything entitled 'Party Like a Rock Star' is bound to attract my attention."
Anyway, I discovered through the internets today that some morning radio show in Vegas made a parody of this song entitled "Party Like a Lohan." Given my obsession with celebretard criminals, I of course immediately clicked on it. I was amused. You can enjoy these musical stylings by ->->->CLICKING HERE<-<-<-.
In case you don't feel like actually listening to this 30-second clip of genius, here's the lyrics.
[CHORUS]
Party like a Lo
Party like a Lohan
Party like a Lo
Party like a Lohan
Party like a Lo
Party like a Lohan
She's totally screwed
You better party big when you party like Lohan
You lookin' good in your mugshot--nice tan
What better way to make your sober debut
Than with a pocket full of blow and a point one two?
Rehab not so bad when you're a star like Lindsay
That ankle band just another fashion accessory
It'd take more than that to make Lindsay embarrassed
How bout you get yourself locked up like Paris?!
[REPEAT CHORUS 2X]
Pretty good for a bunch of morning show DJs, who as a general rule annoy me to the point of getting into someone else's Denali myself and then running them down. They get extra points for working in a diss on Paris Hilton, too. Anyway, I found it an amusing way to kick off a Friday. Good work, guys. It'll probably be a bigger hit than any of the songs Lindsay has released in her career as a singer. T-t-t-totally dude.
Labels: celebrities, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, J-Sexy, rap, Wmania
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: NOBODY
I'm not in a particularly good mood today, partly because writing that thing about the sales reps just whipped me into a state of uncommonly enraged fury, and partly because I'm overworked, underpaid, and sleep-deprived. AND HUNG OVER...again. J-Sexy talked me into going to a Belgian beer bar with her last night when I should have been eating a healthy dinner and getting my beauty sleep. So I wound up instead staying up late, quaffing large volumes of some potent ale made by Trappist monks, and eating naught but pommes frites and aioli. So today there's no dude I want to hit in terms of someone I want to have sex with, because I hate the world. However, there are plenty of dudes I want to hit in terms of actual punching. Namely, everyone except my dogs. Okay, maybe I want to slap Chingy! around a little bit, since he just wiped his eye boogers on my leg and sneezed at me when I cried out in alarm. But since I have a weakness for even his rank, nasty ass, I'll just sit him on my lap like Dr. Claw's cat from "Inspector Gadget" and stroke his vile cranial wrinkles while plotting various evil strategies for world domination.
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, J-Sexy
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Call her now resurrected
After many seasons of waiting, Vh1 has decided to put together a new season of "The Surreal Life." This show intrigues me because there's nothing more fun than watching a bunch of desperate-to-retain-their-long-gone-fame people forced to live together for a few months. I was even more excited when I saw that this crazy bitch just joined the cast! YES!
You may remember Miss Cleo, the self-proclaimed "mystical shaman from Jamaica" from her ubiquitous TV commercials in the late '90s, during which she would show herself on the phone playing solitaire with her tarot cards and crystal ball giving psychic readings (aka committing fraud) to people who would exclaim, "Oh my God, you're amazing, you're so right!". She would also include such strong selling points as "Why pay $4.99 a minute for psychic advice when you can get it for less than a dollar a minute?!" and "You'll never call another 900 number again!" Then she'd wrap it all up by reminding people that "The cards never lie!" and exhorting the viewer to "CALL ME NOW!" Sadly, Miss Cleo's commercials were pulled from the air when she was sued and fined by the FCC for deceptive advertising practices, but luckily a record of her genius survives on YouTube:
Not only does the addition of disgraced TV psychic really spice up the show, but it will drive J-Sexy crazy. Youree "Miss Cleo" Harris is an even bigger embarrassment to Jamaicans than the guys who starred in Cool Runnings, the book How Stella Got Her Groove Back, or Kingston's bronze medal for its world's-third-highest murder rate. I can almost guarantee that there's going to be a lot of "disgosting"'s and "ridicolos"-es flying around lab today when I advise her of Miss Cleo's latest career move. Even worse for J-Sexy is the fact that Miss Cleo, despite her patois renderings of the imperative "call me now!", is a POSER JAMAICAN! She was born in Los Angeles! Then she moved to the P-N-Dub, a place that I can attest suffers from a severe dearth of Jamaicans in general, although she faked bone cancer and fled a few years later to avoid her creditors. She based Miss Cleo's accent on a character she once portrayed in a one-woman play she put on in Seattle. What a faker.
I can't wait for her to be on "The Surreal Life," though, if only to see what she's like when cooped up with the likes of Dabney Coleman and Carrot Top. For one thing, she's a confidence artist of the highest and most shameless order, so you know she's going to start some shit. She's totally cool with being a has-been because she never was a real star in the first place, unless you define stardom as ignonimy. For another, reading between the lines of her Wikipedia page, I discovered that Miss Cleo is a big old lesbo! That's right...she produced a play with "her partner" called For Women Only: A Celebration of Love, Life, and Healing. If I can't immediately shout "LESBIAN!" after hearing that piece of information, I should just tear up my Smith diploma right now. Sure enough, as I scrolled down her Wikipedia, I learned that she actually came out in an interview with The Advocate. The fact that she came out is all the proof I need to know that this chick isn't Jamaican. J-Sexy has told me MANY times about the notorious homophobia rampant in Jamaica. Then again, being a lesbian is probably least of the reasons why Miss Cleo wouldn't dare show her face in Jamrock. Anyway, her dyke status is going to do nothing but add another dimension of awesomeness to interactions in the Surreal Life household.
I think now I can safely make, in the words of DJ Unk, some predictions like they Cleo's. I can make at least one, anyway: "Surreal Life 7" is going to be FUCKING AWESOME just because this hooker is on it. Between this, "The World Series of Pop Culture" with Pat Kiernan, "Rock of Love," and the upcoming "I Love New York 2," Vh1 is the official leader in trashy reality television that totally rules. I can't wait.
Not only does the addition of disgraced TV psychic really spice up the show, but it will drive J-Sexy crazy. Youree "Miss Cleo" Harris is an even bigger embarrassment to Jamaicans than the guys who starred in Cool Runnings, the book How Stella Got Her Groove Back, or Kingston's bronze medal for its world's-third-highest murder rate. I can almost guarantee that there's going to be a lot of "disgosting"'s and "ridicolos"-es flying around lab today when I advise her of Miss Cleo's latest career move. Even worse for J-Sexy is the fact that Miss Cleo, despite her patois renderings of the imperative "call me now!", is a POSER JAMAICAN! She was born in Los Angeles! Then she moved to the P-N-Dub, a place that I can attest suffers from a severe dearth of Jamaicans in general, although she faked bone cancer and fled a few years later to avoid her creditors. She based Miss Cleo's accent on a character she once portrayed in a one-woman play she put on in Seattle. What a faker.
I can't wait for her to be on "The Surreal Life," though, if only to see what she's like when cooped up with the likes of Dabney Coleman and Carrot Top. For one thing, she's a confidence artist of the highest and most shameless order, so you know she's going to start some shit. She's totally cool with being a has-been because she never was a real star in the first place, unless you define stardom as ignonimy. For another, reading between the lines of her Wikipedia page, I discovered that Miss Cleo is a big old lesbo! That's right...she produced a play with "her partner" called For Women Only: A Celebration of Love, Life, and Healing. If I can't immediately shout "LESBIAN!" after hearing that piece of information, I should just tear up my Smith diploma right now. Sure enough, as I scrolled down her Wikipedia, I learned that she actually came out in an interview with The Advocate. The fact that she came out is all the proof I need to know that this chick isn't Jamaican. J-Sexy has told me MANY times about the notorious homophobia rampant in Jamaica. Then again, being a lesbian is probably least of the reasons why Miss Cleo wouldn't dare show her face in Jamrock. Anyway, her dyke status is going to do nothing but add another dimension of awesomeness to interactions in the Surreal Life household.
I think now I can safely make, in the words of DJ Unk, some predictions like they Cleo's. I can make at least one, anyway: "Surreal Life 7" is going to be FUCKING AWESOME just because this hooker is on it. Between this, "The World Series of Pop Culture" with Pat Kiernan, "Rock of Love," and the upcoming "I Love New York 2," Vh1 is the official leader in trashy reality television that totally rules. I can't wait.
Labels: celebrities, crazies, hot chicks, I LOVE IT, J-Sexy, media whores, ridiculous absurdity, TV, Vh1
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
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