Monday, August 25, 2008
It's a world of laughter, a world of horny local TV news reporters
Yesterday was my girl MillerTime's big 3-0, and I hope that she enjoyed it more than she thought she might. Ladies seem to have a lot of trouble with hitting thirty, especially if they haven't yet obtained their MRS degree, and all week I'd been fielding IMs from her saying things like "I can't believe I'm almost THIRTY." I have no doubt that a few Bacardi and diets at either the Roadhouse Tavern in Puyallup or Doyle's in Tacompton took the edge off, and she enjoyed her thirtieth natal day as much as she did other memorable anniversaries of her entry into the world.
Yesterday as I was at work between incubation times, I was checking out some "news" (read: random bullshit on the blogosphere). I stumbled across an article that made me wonder if the fates managing strange coincidence weren't celebrating MillerTime's birthday too.
TV journalist fired after ad reportedAs it turns out, I have met online "cool guy to play with" solicitor Jeff Gradney. Back in the summer of 2000, right after I'd moved back to the P-N-Dub from college, MillerTime and I went to the Taste of Tacoma, an annual outdoor summer bacchanal of gluttony. While there, we were approached by this dude, who explained that he was doing a story on the Taste for KING 5 news and wanted to interview us. After a brief interview in which we both confirmed that we liked walking around outside and eating like a couple of fat girls, this dude started hitting on us. At the time I was engaged in a torrid affair with my high school best friend G-Boner's cousin, and I was solely interested in banging him. However, MillerTime is a perpetual flirt and was going through one of her rare single phases, and exchanged math with him.
K TNV-TV, Channel 13, reporter, Jeff Gradney has been fired after he and his girlfriend were accused of soliciting male partners on the Internet.
Gradney, who joined the ABC affiliate three years ago, was dismissed Monday, after a disgruntled employee sent management and staffers a Craigslist ad, a source said, that appeared to show the reporter having sex with his girlfriend. The ad read: "hot, intensely passionate couple looking for a cool guy to play with."
Jim Prather, vice president and general manager of the Journal Broadcast Group station, confirmed Gradney was let go but declined further comment, saying it was a personnel matter.
"Wouldn't it be crazy if I hooked up with Jeff Gradney, KING 5 TV reporter?" MillerTime asked, scrutinizing his business card, after he had left to seek more interviewees.
Ultimately MillerTime never did hook up with Jeff Gradney, as he utterly cockblocked himself. He started blowing up her voice mail with a variety of increasingly sexual messages before she had a chance to respond to the first one. Any guy leaving multiple voice mails without getting an encouraging call back is at the very least unattractive; it signals desperation and overeagerness. However, when the messages turn explicitly sexual without any sort of physical encounter or other such precedent to warrant such content, it's creepy and off-putting. MillerTime didn't call Jeff Gradney back, and we forgot about him for the most part. I was unaware, for example, that he apparently left KING 5 for Vegas's ABC affiliate beneath a cloak of ignonimy for sexually harassing a host of his female colleagues, as the internets just informed me. In light of that, I have less sympathy than I normally would for someone getting canned for having a Craigslist-facilitated kinky sex life outside of work (which would be total sympathy; mind your own business, local news station!).
I think, however, it's fitting that this news broke on MillerTime's birthday. If anything, she can worry less about being thirty and instead thank her lucky stars that she's not getting DPed by Jeff Gradney and some random dude from Craigslist (who I can say from personal experience are a bunch of total winners). So happy birthday, MillerTime! Rest assured you are having a better time of it than your former would-be paramour.
Labels: aging, MillerTime, P-N-Dub, perversion, sex
Monday, December 17, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Deputy David Roscoe Hutchinson IV
Nickname: Hutch
DOB: May 22, 1977
Occupation: King County sheriff's deputy, shitty ex-boyfiend (okay, that was a typo but I'm leaving it, it works)
Hometown: Puyallup, Washington
Current residence: Puyallup, Washington
Douchebaggery: Hutch is my friend MillerTime's ex-fiance, and I am calling him out here at her request. Well, I'm also doing it because THANK GOD she broke up with him and they aren't getting married, because in my opinion he was a total asshole and fully worthy of a public douchebagging. I always got on well enough with Hutch because I had to, but it did not escape my notice that Hutch was not a nice guy to MillerTime, and not the kind of guy I want to see one of my best girlfriends marry.
For one thing, he was lazy and expected MillerTime to practically wipe his ass for him. MillerTime is the kind of girl who has some serious mother hen instincts, and every time I would go over to their condo, she'd be in the middle of doing his laundry or making him dinner. I would be like, "Are we going to go out drinking or what? Hutch can fold his own damn boxer shorts." MillerTime would insist that sometimes Hutch did do his own laundry, but in the five years they dated and lived together, I don't think I ever once saw him go near their washing machine except to dig through the dryer for something he wanted and subsequently bitch at MillerTime that she hadn't gotten around to washing it yet.
As evidenced by his contributions to domestic life, Hutch had a grossly unfair view of the roles in their relationship. He would get all over MillerTime for things that he did himself with impunity. For example, MillerTime came to visit me in New York last spring, and Hutch called her to bitch about how much money she was spending. In truth, because we'd attended a wedding, and all the rehearsals and bachelorette parties and stuff associated with it, MillerTime spent a lot less money than she could have if we had just gone out to restaurants and bars every night. However, Hutch bitched at her anyway, in spite of the fact that during the same conversation, he informed her that he loaned his buddy $1500 out of their savings one night when they were drunk at the casino. When MillerTime got off the phone, I was like, "I don't understand...it's okay for him to give Wick $1500 fucking dollars out of YOUR SAVINGS, but it's not okay for you to buy a stupid I heart NY t-shirt for $5 and then get some drinks? That's bullshit!" MillerTime agreed. Their relationship was progressing very rapidly toward its doom at that point.
During her visit to New York, MillerTime picked up the habit of drinking a beer while watching TV from me and continued this upon her return to the P-N-Dub. Hutch started to berate her for being "an alcoholic" on the basis that she was having beer "for no reason." In Hutch's mind, normal drinking behavior is to drink only when you plan on consuming so much alcohol that you black out and/or transform into an entirely different (and by no means improved) person. Having one or two beers to unwind is a drinking problem, but binge drinking yourself into oblivion--and then DRIVING--is healthy and safe. Hutch actually used this line to kidnap his and MillerTime's dog Stretch when they broke up. Because MillerTime is an alcoholic with her one or two beers on a school night, she isn't a fit dog mother. I keep telling MillerTime that if she wants to go break into his apartment and get Stretch back, I'll totally help her get all Not Without My Daughter on Hutch's bitch ass and smuggle that dog back up to the safe side of Puyallup where he belongs.
Dognapping on a trumped-up charge of unfit parenting isn't the only grossly unfair bullshit Hutch has pulled. In the paragraph before I mentioned that Hutch actually has a much more serious drinking problem than MillerTime. He might drink less frequently, but when he does, he drinks inordinately more and does far, FAR worse things than MillerTime. For one thing, he sees nothing wrong with hopping behind the wheel of his Jeep after a shot of Wild Turkey or twenty and driving home from the casino, which I think everyone can agree is an excellent example for a police officer to set. However, when MillerTime would go out and stay at my or some other friend's house because she didn't want to drive drunk, Hutch would call and berate her for not coming home. Also, as I alluded to before, when he drinks, he likes to get his compulsive gambling on with his buddies. Sometimes this means him lending large sums of cash to his buddies when they hit an unlucky streak at the Pai Gow table. Sometimes this means him withdrawing large sums of cash for himself, because GOD FORBID he should be deprived of the opportunity to play video slots while he drinks himself stupid. One time, right before they broke up, Hutch withdrew almost the entire balance on his and MillerTime's joint checking account, and they almost weren't able to pay their mortgage because of it. Yet somehow, MillerTime always ended up being the one accused of being irresponsible.
Hutch is also downright mean. One time we were all out at a bar and ran into one of his ex-girlfriends. For no reason other than to be a dick, he spent the entire night dancing and flirting with her for MillerTime's benefit. Another time, Hutch crashed at my house one time and jumped into my bed with me. I am absolutely certain that had I not told him to go away, he would have hooked up with me. What kind of asshole tries to hook up with his girlfriend's best friend? Unlike him, MillerTime can trust me, so it wasn't going to happen then or EVER, but I took note of that behavior. I thought it was indicative of a deeper character flaw, and it turns out I was right. Hutch was also mean about the way he proposed to MillerTime. MillerTime is the kind of girl who really likes the idea of a big, romantic wedding, and naturally, she'd been waiting four and a half years for her proposal. When Hutch FINALLY got around to getting her ring and proposing, he told her it was hidden somewhere in their condo. After laughing at MillerTime tearing the place apart for twenty minutes, he revealed that he had it in his pocket all along and just wanted to see how long it would take for her to figure it out. That's how every romantically-minded girl pictures her engagement: being mocked by her fiance for wanting to get married to him.
Finally, Hutch had a big problem with urination. He was one of those guys who gets up in the middle of the night drunk and pisses in odd places, like closets, or on walls, or in shoes. On the night that I summarily booted Hutch out of my bed, he took a piss on top of my coffee table. I noticed the next day when I went downstairs and noticed that the lace tablecloth by where Hutch had been sleeping was wet. I thought that was odd, since I didn't see any glasses or beer bottles or any other potential source of liquid around. Then I sniffed it and sure enough...URINE. I called up MillerTime.
"Dude, your boyfriend pissed on my coffee table."
"WHAT?!"
"Hutch pissed on my coffee table! The tablecloth is soaked! It smells like piss."
"Are you sure it wasn't Caesar?" Caesar was a puppy then, and had his fair share of accidents.
"Caesar is big, but he can't lift his leg THAT high. I mean, the top of the coffee table is covered. He even managed to fill up the ashtray on top of the coffee table!"
"Oh, Jesus, dude, I'm sorry. Don't say anything to him, though, he'll be embarrassed."
At the time, I respected MillerTime's request to help her man save face. However, now that she's on board with my view that he's a FUCKING ASSHOLE, I might as well share this story with the internets. And in case you ever happen to be driving around south King County, Washington (somewhere in the neighborhood of Kent, Auburn, Des Moines, etc.) and you get pulled over by an asshole sheriff's deputy by the name of "Hutchinson," you can tell him that not only are you well aware that HE drives drunk and pisses on people's furniture, but that he is a mean-spirited dick who didn't fuck his girlfriend properly and then stole her dog. It might not stop him from arresting you, but trust that it will sure embarrass him down at the sheriff's station in front of all his macho cop buddies.
Oh, and Hutch, by the way...there was also a reason why your girlfriend was calling you "Razzy" when your name is "David." If you're going to make your girlfriend clean up after your bitch ass like the worthless chauvinistic asshole that you are, you should at least put out once in a while to reward her for going through the trouble of scrubbing the skidmarks out of your boxer briefs. It's the least you could do, you selfish prick.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Douchebag, MillerTime, overcompensation
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
To revadge or not to revadge?
Last week, BigBagel, who is obviously VERY busy covering health issues on the Gulf Coast of the mighty Mississip in his waning days as a newspaper reporter, sent out the following query to LL Cool Jew and some of her friends:
In case you didn't read the above article, it's all about how vaginoplasty (cosmetic reconstruction of the vadge and/or surrounding lady bits) has come into vogue either to improve one's genital appearance or to make a new fake hymen for crazy Christian bitches who want to physically repent for their old, sluttish ways. The article explores concerns among surgeons about vaginoplasty being an unnecessary and potentially dangerous procedure. LL Cool Jew was mortified that BigBagel had decided this was a move sanctioned by the very beautiful and sweet marriage vows they exchanged back in April:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Rack (rack@fashiondesignhouse.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandistnonprofit.org), Jersey Girl (jerseygirl@thirdrankedcablenewscompany.com), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), MillerTime (mtime@tacomahmo.com), Motherbucker (mbucker@somepoliticalplaceoranother.com), HotLawyer (hotlawyer@criminaldefenselawfirm.com), Morrissey'sHair (morrisseyshair@bankruptcylawfirm.com)
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: being that i am now a married man...
ah, the funny things I come across as a health journalist. anyway, I feel a little more comfortable asking about this now that I am a married man, well, really since I now have access to a network of female friends.
http://www.reuters.com/article/healthNews/idUSN3125637420070831
this is a totally unscientific survey entirely for non-professional curiosity reasons. this is also an attempt to deal with my senioritis issues at work, even though I have a fuckload to do right now. Anyway, what do y'all think of the vaginoplasty procedure? Would you consider it for yourself? If so, under what cirucmstances? Cosmetic ever be a consideration? Performance-based reasons? "revirgination"? I can tell you from my perspective, no goddamn way i'd let anyone get a knife near my johnson unless it was somehow the only way to prevent it from falling off.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listI then felt the need to respond, not because I was shocked BigBagel decided to solicit this informal poll, but because this topic has interested me ever since I saw some old bitch get vaginoplasty on an episode of "Nip/Tuck" a couple seasons back and since I heard the rumors on the internet about the horrors that befell Jenna Jameson when she underwent this procedure:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandistnonprofit.org)
zomg, i cannot *believe* my husband just sent a vaginoplasty article to all my friends...it was an unsanctioned move, fyi, and btw bigbagel, hotlawyer and morrissey'shair are men...
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listI felt that pretty much covered it, and so did FalloniusMonk, albeit for apparently different reasons. I'm assuming she was referring to point #5 about fucking dudes with penis piercings, since she's a big ol' lesbo.
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
NO FUCKING WAY.
1. My vagina is a goddamn work of art, and it has many admirers who agree with me (including certain unnamed parties on this e-mail list).
2. Because of this procedure, Jenna Jameson's vagina looks like Petra after the hot Nazi stupidly brought the Grail over the Seal at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. In fairness, I haven't seen her post-surgical modifications, but if the work she's had done on the rest of her is any indication of her surgeon's skill, I sincerely doubt its appearance has been improved.
3. I don't know why any woman would consider this unless her cooch looks like the Mines of Moria. If your vadge is too loose, there's this little exercise called a Kegel that EVERY woman should know about and do on the regs, and that can fix it up.
4. As to the notion that I might have unattractive external or internal genitalia...SHA RIGHT. Like I said, my shit looks like a freakin' Georgia O'Keefe lily. Except better.
5. After a particularly memorable (in a most unpleasant way) one-night stand with a dreadlocked retard who had eleven penis piercings and experienced the extremely painful process of healing from a vaginal shredding, including walking bow-legged (and not in the good way promised to strippers by R. Kelly in "R&B Thug"), I have decided not to let anything sharp and metal near my twat ever again. That dude also gave me a visible hickey and a urinary tract infection...bastard.
You might also be interested to know that there is also a type of collagen injection called "The G Shot" that, per its website (www.thegshot.com), "can temporarily augment the Grafenburg spot in sexually active women with normal sexual function." MAYBE I would consider something like that because I'm down for more intense orgasms and it's just a little shot...except in this case, the lengthy list of risks (http://thegshot.com/risks.htm ) including "vesico-vaginal fistula (hole between the bladder and vagina)," "erosion," "exposed material," and "local tissue infarction and necrosis," mitigates the reward. NO THANKS! I'll stick to my regular old orgasms and leave my lady parts unsullied by medical intervention.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listMotherbucker, likewise a big ol' lesbo, decided to take a more snarky approach in her response:
From: FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com)
They should call it Revagination.
I leave the eloquence to Dr. Raz. For wildly different reasons, BigBagel, I concur with her - and you, for that matter: hell motherfucking no.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listJerseyGirl, as all of our friends would have predicted, responded with a typical "ew, gross!" sentiment. JerseyGirl once almost threw up when I was discussing some of the messier aspects of anal sex, so this topic didn't suit her rather squeamish temperament.
From: Motherbucker (mbucker@somepoliticalplaceoranother.com)
I would definitely get it. I want my twat to remain forever tight for all the hot dick I regularly get involved with...
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listSo far, with the exception of Motherbucker who was being 100% sarcastic, nobody has taken a pro-vaginoplasty stance. However, to relieve BigBagel's insatiable curiosity about the wild world of revagination, I thought I'd bring the debate to the internets. If anyone has an opinion about whether they'd personally would or would not get vaginoplasty or why they would or would not encourage their bitch to get a Twat 2.0, spend those two cents on the comment page, y'all! Maybe BigBagel can write another Pulitzer-worthy investigative report on it. Also, I'm still waiting to hear from HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair about what they think as far as their vaginas are concerned.
From: JerseyGirl (jerseygirl@thirdrankedcablenewscompany.com)
That is gross. No.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, gross, HotLawyer, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, MillerTime, Motherbucker, oh the horror, plastic surgery, Rack, science, sex, stank vaginas
Thursday, August 30, 2007
My last will and testament
Yesterday, this was on the cover of the finest news publication in the history of print journalism:
Yes, Leona Helmsley left $12 million to her beloved Maltese, Trouble. Trouble helped Leona sell rooms at the Helmsley Hotel by appearing with her in ads extolling Leona's hospitality and dedication to customer service (and that must mean Trouble is damn near as old as Leona when she bit the big one), as well as living up to his name and his mistress's reputation by biting members of the Helmsley housekeeping staff.
In response to this story, Razzyphile El Cyd wanted to know what exactly what I would leave to my treasured mutts. I was just thinking about this because the other night, I had a dream that Chingy! went on tour with Lil' Boosie, and then when I tried to rescue him from the "tour bus" (in the dream it was a cinder block-worthy RV), he got run over and died. I was holding his squashed little Hutt body, looking into those freshly lifeless turbid little eyes, and woke up in tears. Luckily, it was just a dream and Chingy! was snoring away contentedly in his usual spot on my extra pillows, but it did remind me that in spite of all the bitching I do about him, I would be devastated if Chingy! passed on. Obviously if I were to croak, I'd want to ensure that my dogs could, like Trouble, continue living their lavish lives of luxury, so I figured I'd respond to El Cyd's request. Besides, it seems very responsible to have my affairs in order should I meet my untimely demise (you never know...between my haters, stalkers, drug-dealing neighbors, embittered former sex partners, alcoholism, smoking, and dangerous New Yorker habit of jaywalking whenever possible, it could happen).
Unfortunately, unlike Leona, I don't have a lot of spare millions laying around to bequeath to my pets. However, I do have a number of priceless items which my dogs would likely treasure. And by "treasure," I mean "find deliciously chewable." So, without further ado, allow me to order the affairs of my estate:
I, Razzy, a resident of New York, New York, being of sound and disposing mind and memory and over the age of eighteen (18) years or a member of the armed forces of the United States or a member of an auxiliary of the armed forces of the United States or a member of the maritime service of the United States, and not being actuated by any duress, menace, fraud, mistake, or undue influence, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will, hereby expressly revoking all Wills and Codicils previously made by me.
I. MARRIAGE AND CHILDREN
I am not married (thank God). I am a single parent and have the following children:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Date of Birth: October 8, 2001
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Date of Birth: June 3, 2003
II. EXECUTOR: Owing to her exceptional bond with my d-o-double g's, I appoint LL Cool Jew as Executor of this my Last Will and Testament and provide if this Executor is unable or unwilling to serve then I appoint MillerTime as alternate Executor, as she'll know what to do with all my old sex toys. My Executor shall be authorized to carry out all provisions of this Will and pay my just debts, obligations and funeral expenses.
III. GUARDIAN: In the event I shall die as the sole parent of minor children, then I appoint LL Cool Jew as Guardian of said minor children. If this named Guardian is unable or unwilling to serve, then I appoint Miss Corbutt as alternate Guardian for Caesar, and KatieScarlett as alternate Guardian for Chingy!
IV. SIMULTANEOUS DEATH OF BENEFICIARY: If any beneficiary of this Will, including any beneficiary of any trust established by this Will, shall die within 30 days of my death or prior to the distribution of my estate, I hereby declare that I shall be deemed to have survived such person.
V. BEQUESTS:
I will, give, and bequeath unto the dogs named below, if he or she survives me, the Property described below:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Relationship: biological dog
Property: all old Heineken bottle caps littering my desk and floor for the purposes of mastication and amusement, any and all Kongs which may be found under my bed, my comforter for frustrated or enthusiastic humping purposes, any and all partially consumed bones, rawhides, pig ears, or other animal skin-based dog treats which may surface in the course of the Augean stables-caliber cleanup of my apartment, all leftover Beneful, all the cheese and/or pepperoni and/or in my refrigerator, and all the flies that migrate in through my unscreened windows, which provide Caesar great joy as snapping-at targets.
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Relationship: adopted dog
Property: any and all dirty socks and/or underwear for licking and chewing, any and all remote controls, vibrators, houseplants, household electronics and appliances, CDs, DVDs (including both mainstream and pornographic films), cosmetics, computer and accessories (including flash drive, external DVR, and shitty-ass non-functional HP printer/copier/scanner) asthma inhalers, lighters, feminine hygiene products, Palmer's Cocoa Butter dispensers, stiletto heeled shoes, treasured heirloom crucifixes, wicker baskets shaped like Washington state, Glade plug-ins, digital cameras, or other priceless material for purposes of methodical destruction by snaggle-teeth or grotesquely abbreviated paws, the contents of my kitchen and bathroom garbage cans, and all the knick-knacks on my tchotchky shelf, particularly my Harry Potter replica wand, my Catholic priest Homie doll, and my statue of Kali, Hindu Goddess of Destruction.
Name: Dulcinea Cool Jew-Bagel
Address: New Orleans, Louisiana
Relationship: honorary god-Chihuahua
Property: my great-grandmother's hand-tied rag rug, her preferred indoor shitting spot.
Name: Kylee Razzy
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: niece
Property: all clean socks, for carrying around the house as suits her
Name: Stretch Fitz-MillerTime
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: step-dog
Property: my book of IQ tests, in the hopes that he may overcome his developmental disabilities and reach an acceptable level of cognition; my Seahawks 2005 NFC Championship blanket, in hopes that he will have a soft place to recover from head injuries sustained by running into walls
Name: Ilse Fitz-Neo
Address: New York, New York
Relationship: dogsittee
Property: nothing, for reasons that are known to her...okay, fine, it's because she's spoiled enough already and she already has acquired one of Caesar's rope chew toys
VI. ALL REMAINING PROPERTY; RESIDUARY CLAUSE: I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my parents Raz-Ma-Taz and Chicken, provided that my parents survives me. If my parents do not survive me, then I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my children per share, but if any child predeceases me, then his or her share will pass, per share, to his or her lineal descendants, natural or adopted, if any, who survive me; but if there are none, and there won't be, because they are neutered, then his or her share will lapse and pass equally as part of the shares of my other named children; but if none of my named children survives me or leaves a lineal descendant who survives me, then according to the order of intestate succession in the State of New York.
VII. ADDITIONAL POWERS OF THE EXECUTOR: My Executor shall have the following additional powers with respect to my estate, to be exercised from time to time at my Executor's discretion without further license or order of any court:
To take over my blog. No offense to my other contributors, but LL Cool Jew, you're the closest thing to me and I know you'll make sure the useless bullshit stays fresh and as free of grammatical and spelling errors as possible.
VIII. WAIVER OF BOND, INVENTORY, ACCOUNTING, REPORTING AND APPROVAL: My Executor and alternate Executor shall serve without any bond, and I hereby waive the necessity of preparing or filing any inventory, accounting, appraisal, reporting, approvals or final appraisement of my estate. I direct that no expert appraisal be made of my estate unless required by law.
IX. OPTIONAL PROVISIONS: I have placed my initials next to the provisions below that I adopt as part of this Will. Any unmarked provision is not adopted by me and is not a part of this Will.
If any beneficiary to this Will is indebted to me at the time of my death, and the beneficiary evidences this debt by a valid Promissory Note payable to me, then such person's portion of my estate shall be diminished by the amount of such debt. ALR
Any and all debts of my estate shall first be paid from my residuary estate. Any debts on any real property bequeathed in this Will shall be assumed by the person to receive such real property and not paid by my Executor. ALR
I direct that my remains be cremated and that the ashes be manufactured into a fly-ass Lifegem to be mounted in a hot platinum setting according to the wishes of my Executor, who shall proceed to show-stop in the rocks on her wrist like pink lemonade made from my residual carbon. ALR
X. CONSTRUCTION: The term "testator" as used in this Will is deemed to include me as Testator or Testatrix. The pronouns used in this Will shall include, where appropriate, either gender or both, singular and plural.
XI. SEVERABILITY AND SURVIVAL: If any part of this Will is declared invalid, illegal, or inoperative for any reason, it is my intent that the remaining parts shall be effective and fully operative, and that any Court so interpreting this Will and any provision in it construe in favor of survival.
IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I, Razzy, hereby set my hand to this last Will, on each page of which I have placed my initials, on this 30th day of August, 2007 at my apartment in Sugar Hill, New York, State of New York.
That ought to do it. I'm glad I've now got that grown-up chore out of the way. Suze Orman, bless her lesbish, financially responsible heart, would be so proud of me. Now, if I can only figure out how to manage my investment portfolio (read: the Almond Roca can of change on my dresser), I'll have all my shit together.
In response to this story, Razzyphile El Cyd wanted to know what exactly what I would leave to my treasured mutts. I was just thinking about this because the other night, I had a dream that Chingy! went on tour with Lil' Boosie, and then when I tried to rescue him from the "tour bus" (in the dream it was a cinder block-worthy RV), he got run over and died. I was holding his squashed little Hutt body, looking into those freshly lifeless turbid little eyes, and woke up in tears. Luckily, it was just a dream and Chingy! was snoring away contentedly in his usual spot on my extra pillows, but it did remind me that in spite of all the bitching I do about him, I would be devastated if Chingy! passed on. Obviously if I were to croak, I'd want to ensure that my dogs could, like Trouble, continue living their lavish lives of luxury, so I figured I'd respond to El Cyd's request. Besides, it seems very responsible to have my affairs in order should I meet my untimely demise (you never know...between my haters, stalkers, drug-dealing neighbors, embittered former sex partners, alcoholism, smoking, and dangerous New Yorker habit of jaywalking whenever possible, it could happen).
Unfortunately, unlike Leona, I don't have a lot of spare millions laying around to bequeath to my pets. However, I do have a number of priceless items which my dogs would likely treasure. And by "treasure," I mean "find deliciously chewable." So, without further ado, allow me to order the affairs of my estate:
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF
RAZZY
RAZZY
I, Razzy, a resident of New York, New York, being of sound and disposing mind and memory and over the age of eighteen (18) years or a member of the armed forces of the United States or a member of an auxiliary of the armed forces of the United States or a member of the maritime service of the United States, and not being actuated by any duress, menace, fraud, mistake, or undue influence, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will, hereby expressly revoking all Wills and Codicils previously made by me.
I. MARRIAGE AND CHILDREN
I am not married (thank God). I am a single parent and have the following children:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Date of Birth: October 8, 2001
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Date of Birth: June 3, 2003
II. EXECUTOR: Owing to her exceptional bond with my d-o-double g's, I appoint LL Cool Jew as Executor of this my Last Will and Testament and provide if this Executor is unable or unwilling to serve then I appoint MillerTime as alternate Executor, as she'll know what to do with all my old sex toys. My Executor shall be authorized to carry out all provisions of this Will and pay my just debts, obligations and funeral expenses.
III. GUARDIAN: In the event I shall die as the sole parent of minor children, then I appoint LL Cool Jew as Guardian of said minor children. If this named Guardian is unable or unwilling to serve, then I appoint Miss Corbutt as alternate Guardian for Caesar, and KatieScarlett as alternate Guardian for Chingy!
IV. SIMULTANEOUS DEATH OF BENEFICIARY: If any beneficiary of this Will, including any beneficiary of any trust established by this Will, shall die within 30 days of my death or prior to the distribution of my estate, I hereby declare that I shall be deemed to have survived such person.
V. BEQUESTS:
I will, give, and bequeath unto the dogs named below, if he or she survives me, the Property described below:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Relationship: biological dog
Property: all old Heineken bottle caps littering my desk and floor for the purposes of mastication and amusement, any and all Kongs which may be found under my bed, my comforter for frustrated or enthusiastic humping purposes, any and all partially consumed bones, rawhides, pig ears, or other animal skin-based dog treats which may surface in the course of the Augean stables-caliber cleanup of my apartment, all leftover Beneful, all the cheese and/or pepperoni and/or in my refrigerator, and all the flies that migrate in through my unscreened windows, which provide Caesar great joy as snapping-at targets.
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Relationship: adopted dog
Property: any and all dirty socks and/or underwear for licking and chewing, any and all remote controls, vibrators, houseplants, household electronics and appliances, CDs, DVDs (including both mainstream and pornographic films), cosmetics, computer and accessories (including flash drive, external DVR, and shitty-ass non-functional HP printer/copier/scanner) asthma inhalers, lighters, feminine hygiene products, Palmer's Cocoa Butter dispensers, stiletto heeled shoes, treasured heirloom crucifixes, wicker baskets shaped like Washington state, Glade plug-ins, digital cameras, or other priceless material for purposes of methodical destruction by snaggle-teeth or grotesquely abbreviated paws, the contents of my kitchen and bathroom garbage cans, and all the knick-knacks on my tchotchky shelf, particularly my Harry Potter replica wand, my Catholic priest Homie doll, and my statue of Kali, Hindu Goddess of Destruction.
Name: Dulcinea Cool Jew-Bagel
Address: New Orleans, Louisiana
Relationship: honorary god-Chihuahua
Property: my great-grandmother's hand-tied rag rug, her preferred indoor shitting spot.
Name: Kylee Razzy
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: niece
Property: all clean socks, for carrying around the house as suits her
Name: Stretch Fitz-MillerTime
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: step-dog
Property: my book of IQ tests, in the hopes that he may overcome his developmental disabilities and reach an acceptable level of cognition; my Seahawks 2005 NFC Championship blanket, in hopes that he will have a soft place to recover from head injuries sustained by running into walls
Name: Ilse Fitz-Neo
Address: New York, New York
Relationship: dogsittee
Property: nothing, for reasons that are known to her...okay, fine, it's because she's spoiled enough already and she already has acquired one of Caesar's rope chew toys
VI. ALL REMAINING PROPERTY; RESIDUARY CLAUSE: I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my parents Raz-Ma-Taz and Chicken, provided that my parents survives me. If my parents do not survive me, then I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my children per share, but if any child predeceases me, then his or her share will pass, per share, to his or her lineal descendants, natural or adopted, if any, who survive me; but if there are none, and there won't be, because they are neutered, then his or her share will lapse and pass equally as part of the shares of my other named children; but if none of my named children survives me or leaves a lineal descendant who survives me, then according to the order of intestate succession in the State of New York.
VII. ADDITIONAL POWERS OF THE EXECUTOR: My Executor shall have the following additional powers with respect to my estate, to be exercised from time to time at my Executor's discretion without further license or order of any court:
To take over my blog. No offense to my other contributors, but LL Cool Jew, you're the closest thing to me and I know you'll make sure the useless bullshit stays fresh and as free of grammatical and spelling errors as possible.
VIII. WAIVER OF BOND, INVENTORY, ACCOUNTING, REPORTING AND APPROVAL: My Executor and alternate Executor shall serve without any bond, and I hereby waive the necessity of preparing or filing any inventory, accounting, appraisal, reporting, approvals or final appraisement of my estate. I direct that no expert appraisal be made of my estate unless required by law.
IX. OPTIONAL PROVISIONS: I have placed my initials next to the provisions below that I adopt as part of this Will. Any unmarked provision is not adopted by me and is not a part of this Will.
If any beneficiary to this Will is indebted to me at the time of my death, and the beneficiary evidences this debt by a valid Promissory Note payable to me, then such person's portion of my estate shall be diminished by the amount of such debt. ALR
Any and all debts of my estate shall first be paid from my residuary estate. Any debts on any real property bequeathed in this Will shall be assumed by the person to receive such real property and not paid by my Executor. ALR
I direct that my remains be cremated and that the ashes be manufactured into a fly-ass Lifegem to be mounted in a hot platinum setting according to the wishes of my Executor, who shall proceed to show-stop in the rocks on her wrist like pink lemonade made from my residual carbon. ALR
X. CONSTRUCTION: The term "testator" as used in this Will is deemed to include me as Testator or Testatrix. The pronouns used in this Will shall include, where appropriate, either gender or both, singular and plural.
XI. SEVERABILITY AND SURVIVAL: If any part of this Will is declared invalid, illegal, or inoperative for any reason, it is my intent that the remaining parts shall be effective and fully operative, and that any Court so interpreting this Will and any provision in it construe in favor of survival.
IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I, Razzy, hereby set my hand to this last Will, on each page of which I have placed my initials, on this 30th day of August, 2007 at my apartment in Sugar Hill, New York, State of New York.
That ought to do it. I'm glad I've now got that grown-up chore out of the way. Suze Orman, bless her lesbish, financially responsible heart, would be so proud of me. Now, if I can only figure out how to manage my investment portfolio (read: the Almond Roca can of change on my dresser), I'll have all my shit together.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, family matters, intentional buffoonery, KatieScarlett, large exclamatory font, LL Cool Jew, MillerTime, Miss Corbutt, Razzification, the D
Friday, August 24, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: MillerTime
DOB: August 24, 1978
Occupation: diabetes educator, hottest bitch in Pierce County
Hometown: Tacoma, Washington
Current residence: DO THE PUYALLUP! (Washington)
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Well, for starters, it's my sweet MillerTime's birthday today, and my, how that bitch has grown since I first met her at the tender age of 10. She and I met at Camp Don Bosco (Catholic horse camp), and proceeded to face off in CYO sports for the next few years. Fast forward almost twenty years, and we're still facing off, albeit in a most affectionate manner now that the whole All Saints versus St. Pat's second base benchwarmers rivalry has been squashed.
There's a lot I'd like to say here about MillerTime, but she'd kill me if I wrote down 90% of it, so I'll just say that she is a hot chick and she is now recently single. So handsome fellas of Puyallup, beware. MillerTime is, much like Robert Sylvester Kelly, a flirt. She texts me this every so often when she's had a few. Seriously, she sends me texts that say "I'm a flirt." She's a dog on the prowl when she's walkin' through the mall, and if she could, trust that she probably would fuck with all y'all. She's not black, handsome, she doesn't sing (except the occasional extremely drunken rendition of the Dixie Chicks' "Sin Wagon" on karaoke night at the West End), and she's not rich, but BELIEVE ME, she's a flirt. So as it's her birthday, and it's a Friday, and she is no longer fettered by the old ball and chain who is moving out of her condo shortly, I expect her to go out and tear up the P-N-Dub bar scene with a slutty shirt showcasing that hot rack of hers. IT'S MILLERTIME!!!!
Happy birthday, you sexy bitch!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, MillerTime, P-N-Dub
Monday, June 04, 2007
Be still my uncontrollably palpitating heart
Today could have been a really bad day. I had a very long day at work, I'm off the cancer sticks and thus somewhat bitchy, and when I arrived home wanting nothing more than finish up a few work things, watch TV, and cool off with a frosty cold Heineken, my key made a funny noise as I turned it in the lock. Then it wouldn't move. After ten minutes of twisting it, banging on my door, twisting the key again, kicking my door, and swearing at it, I called a locksmith. I found out that my lock had "collapsed", and I only barely avoided an obscene bill to replace the entire lock. Instead I "got lucky" and just needed a new cylinder, according to the short but dirtily sexy Czechoslovakian number who fixed it. Thus I had a $450, marginally less obscene bill to pay in cash.
However, it's all good, because as far as I'm concerned, nothing bad can happen today. Captain Sigurd "The Hotness" Hansen of "Deadliest Catch" fame, after posting a link to my original ode to his rugged good looks and excellence in crab boat captaining and subsequently defending me against allegations of stalking, has once again opined on his MySpace blog, and I am OVER THE FUCKING MOON with excitement.
THAT'S RIGHT! According to Sig (who is infallible) I'm the number one fan (I'm assuming he hit the period key instead of the pound key by accident) of the crew of the F/V Northwestern. Yes, you heard it STRAIGHT FROM SIG HIMSELF...I'm the #1 FAN! Take that, all you hos who called me a stalker! Even cooler is the fact that, judging by his exclamatory "WOOT!," he is absolutely thrilled that I am occupying that lofty position. Because let's face it, what kind of crazy hot Viking fisherman WOULDN'T want a Norwegian-American wannabe pirate from Puyallup in her underwear adoring them? Which reminds me, I'm going to have to get a picture of me in my "I'm a Sig Girl" thong to send the Hansen boys as a morale booster before they brave the violent and unpredictable Bering Sea in this modern day gold rush next fall. Maybe I can convince MillerTime, who is almost as obsessed with Sig's brother Edgar as she is "The Girls Next Door", that she should pose with me in the "I'm an Edgar Girl" thong that undoubtedly she has purchased by now. We can find someone who likes the strong, silent type (ie: Norman Hansen), and complete the trifecta of Northwestern adulation.
This is tantamount to Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson dissing me on his next album, or Robert Sylvester Kelly calling me up and asking if he could sex me up, strip for me, or piss on me (all in spite of my old age), or Ernest Hemingway coming back from the dead to take me lion hunting and/or foreign civil war fighting with him. No matter how many bullshit broken locks or failed experiments in lab I have to deal with, Sig has bestowed upon me what I think is the Northwestern's equivalent of the Congressional Medal of Fucking Honor. Now, the Seahawks just have to win a Super Bowl and my life will be pretty much complete.
However, it's all good, because as far as I'm concerned, nothing bad can happen today. Captain Sigurd "The Hotness" Hansen of "Deadliest Catch" fame, after posting a link to my original ode to his rugged good looks and excellence in crab boat captaining and subsequently defending me against allegations of stalking, has once again opined on his MySpace blog, and I am OVER THE FUCKING MOON with excitement.
THAT'S RIGHT! According to Sig (who is infallible) I'm the number one fan (I'm assuming he hit the period key instead of the pound key by accident) of the crew of the F/V Northwestern. Yes, you heard it STRAIGHT FROM SIG HIMSELF...I'm the #1 FAN! Take that, all you hos who called me a stalker! Even cooler is the fact that, judging by his exclamatory "WOOT!," he is absolutely thrilled that I am occupying that lofty position. Because let's face it, what kind of crazy hot Viking fisherman WOULDN'T want a Norwegian-American wannabe pirate from Puyallup in her underwear adoring them? Which reminds me, I'm going to have to get a picture of me in my "I'm a Sig Girl" thong to send the Hansen boys as a morale booster before they brave the violent and unpredictable Bering Sea in this modern day gold rush next fall. Maybe I can convince MillerTime, who is almost as obsessed with Sig's brother Edgar as she is "The Girls Next Door", that she should pose with me in the "I'm an Edgar Girl" thong that undoubtedly she has purchased by now. We can find someone who likes the strong, silent type (ie: Norman Hansen), and complete the trifecta of Northwestern adulation.
This is tantamount to Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson dissing me on his next album, or Robert Sylvester Kelly calling me up and asking if he could sex me up, strip for me, or piss on me (all in spite of my old age), or Ernest Hemingway coming back from the dead to take me lion hunting and/or foreign civil war fighting with him. No matter how many bullshit broken locks or failed experiments in lab I have to deal with, Sig has bestowed upon me what I think is the Northwestern's equivalent of the Congressional Medal of Fucking Honor. Now, the Seahawks just have to win a Super Bowl and my life will be pretty much complete.
Labels: Deadliest Catch, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, MillerTime, MySpace, Razzification
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
The deadliest obsession
It's been at least a week since I've discussed the devastatingly sexy hunk of hotness that is Skipper Sigurd Hansen of the F/V Northwestern. Obviously, that had to be rectified immediately, to celebrate the super exciting shit going down on "Deadliest Catch" this evening.
As narrator Mike Rowe notes, "the only thing more dangerous than fishing for King crab on the Bering Sea in November is fishing for Opilio crab in January," and Opie season kicks off tonight! Hell YES!!!
In case for some unknown reason, you are not pathologically obsessed with "Deadliest Catch" yet, then you need to watch the opening credits. J-Sexy was going off today about how she did not think it possible to get excited about crab fishing, no matter how much florid language Mike Rowe uses to describe "this modern day gold rush." I dare you to not get excited about the seafaring adventure to be had while skirting the Arctic ice pack halfway to fucking Siberia once you see the badass skippers (especially Sig) juxtaposed with images of crashing 40-foot waves and the sounds of Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead or Alive."
As I said before, HELL YES!
And since I spend so much time talking about "Psycho Sig...on the loose again," MillerTime's preferences are being ignored and she feels left out. So here's her imaginary boyfriend, Captain Phil Harris of the F/V Cornelia Marie.
Just kidding...MillerTime likes hot Vikings too. This is her boyfriend, Sig's younger brother Edgar. Last night she was talking to me about Edgar on the phone and expressed her suspicions that, based on his exuberant personality, he might just be a cokehead. After all, how does he manage to grind out the crab for so many hours on end and have such seemingly boundless energy reserves? While I agree, I'd have to argue that he's actually into meth. He is from the P-N-Dub, after all, and we have almost as much meth as coffee, salmon, and Windows software.
I don't know why Edgar seems so happy, because that is not "clean crab." Look at all the barnacles on those motherfuckers! Probably he thinks it's great because he's high.
Anyway, WATCH "DEADLIEST CATCH"! Tonight at nine on the Discovery Channel! You will not regret it.
In case for some unknown reason, you are not pathologically obsessed with "Deadliest Catch" yet, then you need to watch the opening credits. J-Sexy was going off today about how she did not think it possible to get excited about crab fishing, no matter how much florid language Mike Rowe uses to describe "this modern day gold rush." I dare you to not get excited about the seafaring adventure to be had while skirting the Arctic ice pack halfway to fucking Siberia once you see the badass skippers (especially Sig) juxtaposed with images of crashing 40-foot waves and the sounds of Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead or Alive."
As I said before, HELL YES!
And since I spend so much time talking about "Psycho Sig...on the loose again," MillerTime's preferences are being ignored and she feels left out. So here's her imaginary boyfriend, Captain Phil Harris of the F/V Cornelia Marie.
Just kidding...MillerTime likes hot Vikings too. This is her boyfriend, Sig's younger brother Edgar. Last night she was talking to me about Edgar on the phone and expressed her suspicions that, based on his exuberant personality, he might just be a cokehead. After all, how does he manage to grind out the crab for so many hours on end and have such seemingly boundless energy reserves? While I agree, I'd have to argue that he's actually into meth. He is from the P-N-Dub, after all, and we have almost as much meth as coffee, salmon, and Windows software.
I don't know why Edgar seems so happy, because that is not "clean crab." Look at all the barnacles on those motherfuckers! Probably he thinks it's great because he's high.
Anyway, WATCH "DEADLIEST CATCH"! Tonight at nine on the Discovery Channel! You will not regret it.
Labels: Deadliest Catch, drugs, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, J-Sexy, MillerTime, P-N-Dub, TV
Monday, April 23, 2007
This one's for MillerTime
For some inexplicable reason, my buddy MillerTime is obsessed with "The Girls Next Door." When she was visiting me a while back, she wanted to watch TGND all the fucking time, even though she'd already seen all the episodes. One night, I was trying to fall asleep, but MillerTime likes to fall asleep to the sound of these bitches giggling about their trip horseback riding with all of last year's Playmates, and finally I had to put my foot down and confiscate the remote. I just could not tolerate the nasal whine of GND #1, Holly, as she snickered about what "puffin" (her pet name for decrepit old Hef) would think of her riding a horse with no pants on.
That incident made me dislike the GND even more than I already do for being a bunch of vapid fake-titted hookers, because I now associate Holly's voice with insomnia. Even worse, as I was cruising the internets, I realized that Holly has joined up with an organization I loathe and despise almost as much as the Bush administration to further their non-animal killing agenda. It's pretty stupid, because it's not like going naked is that much of a stretch for this ho...she's been in Playboy like six or seven times. She practically goes naked for a living:
I figured MillerTime would like that even though that bitch would put on a mink coat faster than the above-pictured Holly can bring up how great it is sitting on Hef's shriveled little weiner. So I figured I would make up an alternative for her. Given her fondness for the GND belies an attraction to naked blondes, and particularly to yours truly (her and the rest of the world), I made my own PETA poster.
Good thing I had a naked picture of myself in a fur shrug laying around! I knew that was going to come in handy some day. Frankly, I can't think of anything handier than using it to say a big giant FUCK YOU to PETA!
That incident made me dislike the GND even more than I already do for being a bunch of vapid fake-titted hookers, because I now associate Holly's voice with insomnia. Even worse, as I was cruising the internets, I realized that Holly has joined up with an organization I loathe and despise almost as much as the Bush administration to further their non-animal killing agenda. It's pretty stupid, because it's not like going naked is that much of a stretch for this ho...she's been in Playboy like six or seven times. She practically goes naked for a living:
I figured MillerTime would like that even though that bitch would put on a mink coat faster than the above-pictured Holly can bring up how great it is sitting on Hef's shriveled little weiner. So I figured I would make up an alternative for her. Given her fondness for the GND belies an attraction to naked blondes, and particularly to yours truly (her and the rest of the world), I made my own PETA poster.
Good thing I had a naked picture of myself in a fur shrug laying around! I knew that was going to come in handy some day. Frankly, I can't think of anything handier than using it to say a big giant FUCK YOU to PETA!Labels: hot chicks, media whores, MillerTime, nudity, Razzification, sexy delicious animals, sluts
Friday, April 13, 2007
Chingy!'s missing link
My buddy MillerTime was visiting, and she wanted to go to the Museum of Natural History. This is my favorite museum in New York, because not only does it seriously satisfy my inner biology geek, it is also a monument to Teddy Roosevelt and allows me to make tasteless jokes about big sticks and bully pulpits. The museum has just renovated their Hall of Human Origins, which is awesome. I took this picture of Lucy, the first pre-human hominid ever discovered by Louis and Mary Leakey, to send to my Aunt Jesus, along with my most sincere prayers that she might one day find the theory of evolution convincing:
I also tried on a rad flashlight helmet and bought a Tyrannosaurus rex bracelet, because that's how I roll at the dork museum. Scientastic, right?
However, in the Hall of Ocean Life, I made an important evolutionary discovery. Based on a phenotypic analysis, it seems that dogs may have evolved from walruses. Examine the first specimen, the stuffed sleeping walrus at the Natural History museum:
Note the distinguishing copious fat rolls, the pronounced face wrinkles, and the apparent deep slumber that this taxidermied animal enjoys. I also learned from the exhibit that when walruses feed on a variety of clams and other mollusks, they daintily lift them up, holding the shells between their lips before sucking out the meat inside.
Now, observe specimen 2, my very own Pug, the nefarious Chingy!:
Apart from his physical similarity to the walrus, Chingy! has also been known to engage in the lip-holding predatory actions characteristic of the walrus. One time we went down to Washington, DC right after the cicadas had hatched. Cicadas are these nasty bugs that hatch every seventeen years, mate, and promptly die. They were all over the place, fluttering their wings feebly as they died. Chingy! instantly decided that cicadas were going to be the only prey he would ever stalk and hunt, probably because they're on the verge of death and thus easy to capture. He went around picking up the cicadas in his little doggy lips. He would hold them there with a disgusting look of satisfaction as they fluttered their wings pathetically against his nose and stank maw. Unlike the walrus, he didn't actually suck out the insides, but I felt the behavior was similar enough to inspire a hypothesis that obese Pugs are distant evolutionary cousins to these tusked pinnipeds.
You can't argue with the data. I'm pretty sure any evolutionary biologist reading this will agree.
CHONGAY CHONG!
Note the distinguishing copious fat rolls, the pronounced face wrinkles, and the apparent deep slumber that this taxidermied animal enjoys. I also learned from the exhibit that when walruses feed on a variety of clams and other mollusks, they daintily lift them up, holding the shells between their lips before sucking out the meat inside.
Now, observe specimen 2, my very own Pug, the nefarious Chingy!:
Apart from his physical similarity to the walrus, Chingy! has also been known to engage in the lip-holding predatory actions characteristic of the walrus. One time we went down to Washington, DC right after the cicadas had hatched. Cicadas are these nasty bugs that hatch every seventeen years, mate, and promptly die. They were all over the place, fluttering their wings feebly as they died. Chingy! instantly decided that cicadas were going to be the only prey he would ever stalk and hunt, probably because they're on the verge of death and thus easy to capture. He went around picking up the cicadas in his little doggy lips. He would hold them there with a disgusting look of satisfaction as they fluttered their wings pathetically against his nose and stank maw. Unlike the walrus, he didn't actually suck out the insides, but I felt the behavior was similar enough to inspire a hypothesis that obese Pugs are distant evolutionary cousins to these tusked pinnipeds.
You can't argue with the data. I'm pretty sure any evolutionary biologist reading this will agree.
CHONGAY CHONG!
Labels: Aunt Jesus, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, MillerTime, ridiculous absurdity, science
Friday, April 06, 2007
You know it's a good bachelorette party when...
1. You gave all your money to a Finnish stripper named Isabel the night before (or at least you're pretty sure that's where it went)
2. You're still drunk on Gray Goose (upon which, last night, I was slizzing) and Sugarfree Red Bulls that were consumed in gallon quantities just six short hours before
3. You went to bed at 5 a.m. and woke up at 9 to attend the wedding rehearsal at the "#4 'It' Wedding Location in New York City' per the internets with the whole family and impress them with amazing feats like forming a coherent sentence
4. You realize that it's Good Friday today and have to face the nauseating prospect of a meatless dinner at a Spanish restaurant in NEWARK, NEW JERSEY later on
5. You have a temporary tattoo that reads "Blow for a Buck" on your left tit and no amount of scrubbing will get it off
6. Your parting shot to MillerTime, after begging her for dogwalking services, while leaving for the D train is, "I don't care how trashy I look. I'm from Puyallup, goddammit."
LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, in other words, was a success.
2. You're still drunk on Gray Goose (upon which, last night, I was slizzing) and Sugarfree Red Bulls that were consumed in gallon quantities just six short hours before
3. You went to bed at 5 a.m. and woke up at 9 to attend the wedding rehearsal at the "#4 'It' Wedding Location in New York City' per the internets with the whole family and impress them with amazing feats like forming a coherent sentence
4. You realize that it's Good Friday today and have to face the nauseating prospect of a meatless dinner at a Spanish restaurant in NEWARK, NEW JERSEY later on
5. You have a temporary tattoo that reads "Blow for a Buck" on your left tit and no amount of scrubbing will get it off
6. Your parting shot to MillerTime, after begging her for dogwalking services, while leaving for the D train is, "I don't care how trashy I look. I'm from Puyallup, goddammit."
LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, in other words, was a success.
Labels: alcoholism, holy fucking matrimony, LL Cool Jew, MillerTime, ridiculous absurdity
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Straight up, now tell me anything coherent
My friend MillerTime back in the P-N-Dub always watches this morning show called "Mornings Live on Q", on Q13, Seattle's FOX affiliate. She used to watch it because she thought weatherman Walter Kelly was cute (to digress, I almost once mowed Walter Kelly down with my trusty Honda Civic as he emerged from the Starbucks down the street from my old office). Even after Walter Kelly was moved to the 11:00 news, she kept watching "Mornings Live on Q" because she likes the cheesy features they have, like showing pictures of dogs wearing stupid outfits and going "awwwwwww".
Since MillerTime takes roughly three hours to get ready for work in the morning, she gets to watch most of the show. Therefore, she MUST have seen this interview from a couple of days ago, which proves that Paula Abdul is certifiably insane and apparently self-medicating with a combination of Wild Turkey, Quaaludes, and good old-fashioned crack cocaine. Paula's eyes are rolling all over the place, she constantly sways her head from side to side, and all of what can be debatably be called speech that issues from her mouth sounds like someone failing a field sobriety test in an episode of "Cops." It's hardly the peppy "hey, you guys should watch the premiere of AmericanShitshow Idol" that was presumably the reason for her doing this interview in the first place. Behold, proof that Paula Abdul has just dethroned Whitney Houston as the most drugged-out has-been pop singer:
Supposedly Paula Abdul doesn't drink and has NEVER drank a drop in her life. Sha right. Given the above damning video evidence, I've determined that she is straight up LYING about her membership in the temperance league. I know also from my encyclopedic knowledge of E! True Hollywood Stories that she suffers from some rare chronic pain disorder. Obviously, she's still working that to the max in order to maintain a hefty Oxycontin prescription. If ever there was a human being easily associated with those old anti-drug commercials where they fry an egg and declare it "your brain on drugs", it's Paula Abdul.
My favorite quote is after Paula Abdul agrees with Simon Cowell and disses the caliber of singers from Seattle, thus prompting some feeble protests from the interviewers. Paula advises them that there's no such thing as bad publicity (famous last words), and that they should "eat it up" and proclaim that "Seattle has the best delusional people." Takes one to know one, Paula.
Since MillerTime takes roughly three hours to get ready for work in the morning, she gets to watch most of the show. Therefore, she MUST have seen this interview from a couple of days ago, which proves that Paula Abdul is certifiably insane and apparently self-medicating with a combination of Wild Turkey, Quaaludes, and good old-fashioned crack cocaine. Paula's eyes are rolling all over the place, she constantly sways her head from side to side, and all of what can be debatably be called speech that issues from her mouth sounds like someone failing a field sobriety test in an episode of "Cops." It's hardly the peppy "hey, you guys should watch the premiere of American
Supposedly Paula Abdul doesn't drink and has NEVER drank a drop in her life. Sha right. Given the above damning video evidence, I've determined that she is straight up LYING about her membership in the temperance league. I know also from my encyclopedic knowledge of E! True Hollywood Stories that she suffers from some rare chronic pain disorder. Obviously, she's still working that to the max in order to maintain a hefty Oxycontin prescription. If ever there was a human being easily associated with those old anti-drug commercials where they fry an egg and declare it "your brain on drugs", it's Paula Abdul.
My favorite quote is after Paula Abdul agrees with Simon Cowell and disses the caliber of singers from Seattle, thus prompting some feeble protests from the interviewers. Paula advises them that there's no such thing as bad publicity (famous last words), and that they should "eat it up" and proclaim that "Seattle has the best delusional people." Takes one to know one, Paula.
Labels: American Idol, celebrities, crazies, drugs, MillerTime, P-N-Dub, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
A reminder to my friends in the P-N-Dub
The recent destructive windstorms experienced by the P-N-Dub are nothing...NOTHING...compared to the hurricane that's blowing in tonight. Around 10 p.m. this evening, Hurricane Razzy and Chingy! will arrive at Seattle-Tacompton airport for a fortnight of holiday revelry in the beloved 253 (and 206 and 360).
So to my peeps in the P-N-Dub, I hope you didn't die from carbon monoxide poisoning by bringing your Weber grills inside during the storm last weekend (I heard there was an epidemic of this in western Washington from CNN...better that than the usual "meth epidemic" they report on, I guess). If you're still alive, and you happen to have a special nickname on my website, know that I expect you to cancel any and all appointments and be prepared to jump up in my Lamborghini Gallardo and go back to my place and kick it like tae bo. Well, by "Lamborghini Gallardo" I mean "my parents' Honda Accord", and by "go back to my place", I mean "go back to your place", because my parents aren't down with me using their crib for the drunken after-hours party. It's not that they're unwelcoming; they are usually happy when friends drop in for dinner and watch "Seinfeld" with my dad, or swoon over Giada DeLaurentiis, the buxom host of "Everyday Italian" on the Food Network, with my brother Lil' Tevie, but they usually get pissed when I return home with a posse of drunk people at 2 a.m. and try to squeeze everyone into the twin day bed that occupies the guest/computer room which once was mine. Your places are obviously preferable for late night shenanigans. In any event, I strongly encourage you to stock up on scotch and cases of Vitamin R cans and brace yourself for Razzification.
Also, on a special aside to MillerTime, I promise not to taint your new couches by fucking former high school quarterbacks on them. Would the floor of your new condo be an acceptable alternative?
So to my peeps in the P-N-Dub, I hope you didn't die from carbon monoxide poisoning by bringing your Weber grills inside during the storm last weekend (I heard there was an epidemic of this in western Washington from CNN...better that than the usual "meth epidemic" they report on, I guess). If you're still alive, and you happen to have a special nickname on my website, know that I expect you to cancel any and all appointments and be prepared to jump up in my Lamborghini Gallardo and go back to my place and kick it like tae bo. Well, by "Lamborghini Gallardo" I mean "my parents' Honda Accord", and by "go back to my place", I mean "go back to your place", because my parents aren't down with me using their crib for the drunken after-hours party. It's not that they're unwelcoming; they are usually happy when friends drop in for dinner and watch "Seinfeld" with my dad, or swoon over Giada DeLaurentiis, the buxom host of "Everyday Italian" on the Food Network, with my brother Lil' Tevie, but they usually get pissed when I return home with a posse of drunk people at 2 a.m. and try to squeeze everyone into the twin day bed that occupies the guest/computer room which once was mine. Your places are obviously preferable for late night shenanigans. In any event, I strongly encourage you to stock up on scotch and cases of Vitamin R cans and brace yourself for Razzification.
Also, on a special aside to MillerTime, I promise not to taint your new couches by fucking former high school quarterbacks on them. Would the floor of your new condo be an acceptable alternative?
Labels: alcoholism, MillerTime, P-N-Dub, Razzification
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Holy fucking matrimony
The impetus for my present jaunt to the P-N-Dub was the wedding of my dear old friend M-Boner. The wedding turned out to be a blast. For one thing, the potential for vicious bitchery between myself and my ex J's new wife was never realized (she actually turned out to be so extremely nice there was no way I could hate her, and we had a thirty-minute conversation about Stairmasters, the South, and shoes). Also, the wedding and reception were a festival combining many of my favorite things: Catholicism, drinking, catching up with old friends, hot cleavage, drinking, Southern ass rap, public speaking, gambling, drinking, embarrassing my parents, showing off, and drinking. Here is the rundown, complete with supporting photography.
As usual, MillerTime was my date, as she usually is for most date-requiring affairs. For one thing, MillerTime's boyfriend isn't really an enthusiastic wedding guest, and as one commenter on my last post pointed out, I'm "always the cum dumpster, never the bride," so she and I are a solid team at these functions. We can always be counted on for company (since there is NEVER a guarantee of single hot guys at weddings to occupy one's time), and we are loyal partners in open bar alcoholism. I thought the wedding might get off to a bad start, as my mother and I had a bit of a tiff based on my chosen dress (which I felt was very conservative) before MillerTime even picked me up. "Razzy, is THAT what you're wearing to CHURCH?" she asked, frowning. "Your boobs are hanging out, and it's SEE THROUGH!" My mother and I rarely do battle, but when we do it's often over my choice of clothing and/or the hours I keep when socializing, and I frankly get annoyed when she implies that my outfit is too slutty. I'm a fucking single girl, and I'm always looking for some action, so like I'm going to wear something frumpy and high-necked. I told my mom that I didn't appreciate her characterizing me as "the whore of Babylon" before heading off to M-Boner's wedding, and that I was already getting quite enough snide remarks with regard to my ability to pray publicly on the altar. When I got to the wedding, however, I was totally vindicated since many of the Irish ladies were rocking dresses more low-cut than mine, and my mother saw this too and later told me I looked "stylish."
At the actual wedding, which was quite beautiful despite being a lengthy full-on Catholic mass, I was conscripted into reading one of the prayers of the faithful. Despite the concerns of several friends, God fortunately did not decide to smote my heathen ass in ruin upon the altar at this affair for having the audacity to invoke his name on behalf of the bride and groom's dead relatives (yes, I got the prayer for the sick and the dead). I was told later that I read the prayer in a very solemn and respectful manner, so score one for me for NOT behaving like a classless and inappropriate asshole in the house of the Lord. Besides, there was plenty of time for that at the reception.
When we got to the reception, after some standoffish repartee with the hostile and possibly meth-addled bartender, MillerTime and I got right down to business imbibing plenty of chardonnay and Bud Light, respectively. After lots of chatting and catching up with some of our high school classmates and their husbands and babies, we sat down to dinner. MillerTime and I were clearly assigned to the "singles and gays" table, so fortunately we did not have to listen to a bunch of older married people hassling us about when WE were going to be having our weddings. Instead, half our table were Irish friends of the groom's, and they made a point to begin teaching us about Irish wedding customs. For example, in Ireland it is customary for each table to place bets on how long the many speeches will take. MillerTime, who diligently documented the entire event, recorded me reporting on this custom:
Unfortunately, MillerTime and I lost the pool by two minutes, as we overestimated precisely how long M-Boner's mother would be allowed to aimlessly ramble before she was cut off. Our loss of the $50 or so in the speech-length pool was quickly remedied, however, by the unending river of champagne served concurrent with toasting. Several glasses of champers later, and I was in capital shape.
After the speeches, they had the bouquet toss, and MillerTime, G-Boner, and I were shoved immediately onto the dance floor. I stood as far back as possible, and shouted to the bride, "M-Boner! I'm in the back to your left, so aim for the opposite of that! DON'T THROW IT TO ME, I DON'T WANT IT!", then pushed a bunch of little girls into the path of the oncoming bouquet to ensure that I wouldn't so much as even touch it. Once the bouquet toss was over, it was time for dancing.
I'm not a fan of dancing, because I always feel ridiculous when I'm doing it and I'd rather sit around drinking and socializing than sweating my tits off in high heels. The only way I can do it and look only marginally like I have Huntington's disease is if I really get my slut on and dance like a stripper in a rap video, with lots of back-popping, dropping it like it's hot, and ass-jiggling. This gets me into trouble by attracting unwanted grinders at clubs, and because it's inappropriate to basically pretend like I'm having sex while standing up at a wedding. I especially hate wedding dancing, because they always do stupid, gimmicky dances like the macarena and the electric slide, or my least favorite, the conga line. While I managed to avoid being dragged into the macarena fray, I was not so lucky with the conga line. G-Boner and M-Boner's uncle goes, "Hey, Rotten Mouth, get in here!" (This is what he calls me because he prank called us in high school once, and I viciously cussed him out, not realizing that it was him. Since then, he always greets me with "How the fuck are ya, R.M.?") "I hate the conga line!" I told him. "It's fucking stupid, and I don't dance."
"Quit bitching and get your fucking ass in that conga line, R.M.!" he shouted. Refusal was clearly not an option, so I allowed him to haul me into the line between him and his wife, but refused to do the stupid conga or whatever, so I just tried to physically act as idiotic as I felt:
After the conga line mercifully ended, the DJ started playing what he referred to as music "for the kids." This apparently meant "Shake it Like a Salt Shaker" by the Ying Yang Twins. I said to MillerTime, "I wonder how he can characterize any song that has lyrics like 'skeet so much they call him Billy Ocean' and 'she leakin', she soakin' wet' as appropriate for children." I then explained to MillerTime and several other non-rap aficionados what the term "skeet" is referring to (it's not the sporting hobby of shooting at clay discs flying through the air, that's for sure), and everyone was scandalized. I was drunk at this point and excited by the Southern ass rap, so I voluntarily started dancing and singing along to the unedited lyrics of the next song on the "kids music" playlist, "Get Low" by Lil' Jon and the Eastside Boyz. I thus garnered a number of dirty looks from some of the older people when I got to the "to the sweat drips off my balls, to all these bitches crawl, to all skeet skeet motherfuckas, to all skeet skeet, uh goddamn" part of the song.
It hardly seemed as though any time had gone by when the bar closed, thus necessitating a trip across the street to a new Tacoma bar called Doyle's. It was an Irish pub, so all the Irish folks were in great spirits. One very nice guy (albeit with horrible dental work) decided to get everyone involved in some Irish shot-doing customs. MillerTime particularly excelled at this, being that she's a total Celtophile and gave it her best alcoholic shot:
As usual, MillerTime was my date, as she usually is for most date-requiring affairs. For one thing, MillerTime's boyfriend isn't really an enthusiastic wedding guest, and as one commenter on my last post pointed out, I'm "always the cum dumpster, never the bride," so she and I are a solid team at these functions. We can always be counted on for company (since there is NEVER a guarantee of single hot guys at weddings to occupy one's time), and we are loyal partners in open bar alcoholism. I thought the wedding might get off to a bad start, as my mother and I had a bit of a tiff based on my chosen dress (which I felt was very conservative) before MillerTime even picked me up. "Razzy, is THAT what you're wearing to CHURCH?" she asked, frowning. "Your boobs are hanging out, and it's SEE THROUGH!" My mother and I rarely do battle, but when we do it's often over my choice of clothing and/or the hours I keep when socializing, and I frankly get annoyed when she implies that my outfit is too slutty. I'm a fucking single girl, and I'm always looking for some action, so like I'm going to wear something frumpy and high-necked. I told my mom that I didn't appreciate her characterizing me as "the whore of Babylon" before heading off to M-Boner's wedding, and that I was already getting quite enough snide remarks with regard to my ability to pray publicly on the altar. When I got to the wedding, however, I was totally vindicated since many of the Irish ladies were rocking dresses more low-cut than mine, and my mother saw this too and later told me I looked "stylish."
At the actual wedding, which was quite beautiful despite being a lengthy full-on Catholic mass, I was conscripted into reading one of the prayers of the faithful. Despite the concerns of several friends, God fortunately did not decide to smote my heathen ass in ruin upon the altar at this affair for having the audacity to invoke his name on behalf of the bride and groom's dead relatives (yes, I got the prayer for the sick and the dead). I was told later that I read the prayer in a very solemn and respectful manner, so score one for me for NOT behaving like a classless and inappropriate asshole in the house of the Lord. Besides, there was plenty of time for that at the reception.
When we got to the reception, after some standoffish repartee with the hostile and possibly meth-addled bartender, MillerTime and I got right down to business imbibing plenty of chardonnay and Bud Light, respectively. After lots of chatting and catching up with some of our high school classmates and their husbands and babies, we sat down to dinner. MillerTime and I were clearly assigned to the "singles and gays" table, so fortunately we did not have to listen to a bunch of older married people hassling us about when WE were going to be having our weddings. Instead, half our table were Irish friends of the groom's, and they made a point to begin teaching us about Irish wedding customs. For example, in Ireland it is customary for each table to place bets on how long the many speeches will take. MillerTime, who diligently documented the entire event, recorded me reporting on this custom:
Unfortunately, MillerTime and I lost the pool by two minutes, as we overestimated precisely how long M-Boner's mother would be allowed to aimlessly ramble before she was cut off. Our loss of the $50 or so in the speech-length pool was quickly remedied, however, by the unending river of champagne served concurrent with toasting. Several glasses of champers later, and I was in capital shape.
I'm not a fan of dancing, because I always feel ridiculous when I'm doing it and I'd rather sit around drinking and socializing than sweating my tits off in high heels. The only way I can do it and look only marginally like I have Huntington's disease is if I really get my slut on and dance like a stripper in a rap video, with lots of back-popping, dropping it like it's hot, and ass-jiggling. This gets me into trouble by attracting unwanted grinders at clubs, and because it's inappropriate to basically pretend like I'm having sex while standing up at a wedding. I especially hate wedding dancing, because they always do stupid, gimmicky dances like the macarena and the electric slide, or my least favorite, the conga line. While I managed to avoid being dragged into the macarena fray, I was not so lucky with the conga line. G-Boner and M-Boner's uncle goes, "Hey, Rotten Mouth, get in here!" (This is what he calls me because he prank called us in high school once, and I viciously cussed him out, not realizing that it was him. Since then, he always greets me with "How the fuck are ya, R.M.?") "I hate the conga line!" I told him. "It's fucking stupid, and I don't dance."
"Quit bitching and get your fucking ass in that conga line, R.M.!" he shouted. Refusal was clearly not an option, so I allowed him to haul me into the line between him and his wife, but refused to do the stupid conga or whatever, so I just tried to physically act as idiotic as I felt:
It hardly seemed as though any time had gone by when the bar closed, thus necessitating a trip across the street to a new Tacoma bar called Doyle's. It was an Irish pub, so all the Irish folks were in great spirits. One very nice guy (albeit with horrible dental work) decided to get everyone involved in some Irish shot-doing customs. MillerTime particularly excelled at this, being that she's a total Celtophile and gave it her best alcoholic shot:
The bride and groom were so determined to be good hosts that they refused to retire to the honeymoon suite until the bar closed, and were keeping up with their guests in terms of alcohol consumption. M-Boner was a lovely bride, made even lovelier given her double-fisting light beer and water all night long:
All this beverage consumption meant that M-Boner had to use the john at Doyle's, which is an act of bravery when you're wearing an thousands-of-dollar bridal gown in a Tacoma bar at 1:15 in the morning. In fact, it was a feat of engineering that required a team of several girls. MillerTime, G-Boner, and I were like a NASCAR pit crew, except instead of changing belts and hoses or loosening lugnuts, we were trying to prevent Budweiser-imbued urine from tainting M-Boner's multiple layers of virginal white taffeta:
By the end of the night, MillerTime, G-Boner, and I were doing the classic drunken girl act of taking joyous, hugging self-portraits that not only turned out surprisingly well, but also showcased the hot cleavage my mother rebuked me for sporting earlier. Unfortunately, my face looks a little frightening, but that's to be expected, since at this point in the night I'd probably consumed approximately 10 quarts of Anheuser-Busch lagers and Pilsner Urquell.
Anyway, after the party, we hit the after party at G-Boner's brother's house, where I destroyed a plate of imported cheese (don't give a drunk Viking a wedge of Jarlsberg and expect it not to be set upon like a pack of dingos on a baby) and passed out around 5 a.m. The next morning, MillerTime and I were both SEVERELY hung over as we drove back to Puyallup, but it was clearly worth it. You know it's a good party when you start the night looking like this:
And arrive home the next afternoon looking like this:
SO HOT, right? The day after trampiness was a small price to pay for a great party, and probably one of the most fun weddings I've been to. I wouldn't be so decidedly anti-marriage if most weddings were this great of a party. It was certainly worth the airfare, even if I hadn't been able to take time off for a long simultaneous vacation. Happy marriage and lots of love to M-Boner and Mr. M-Boner...I hope you two have a really happy fucking life together!!!
Labels: alcoholism, Catholicism, G-Boner, holy fucking matrimony, I hate dancing, M-Boner, MillerTime, P-N-Dub
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