Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Not what fantasies are made of
On Saturday, my BFF LL Cool Jew took a quick break from her in-laws to have dumplings and drinks with me. While we were sitting at P.D. O'Hurley's slugging down Irish coffees, we heard some of the local fellas at the bar talking about how Plaxico Burress "shot himself in the foot."
"Did Plaxico Burress fucking shoot himself?" LL Cool Jew asked, alarmed, as much of her domestic peace hinges upon the Giants' fortunes.
"That can't be!" I said, myself alarmed not because of concerns about disrupting my marital bliss, but because Plaxico Burress has been stinking up my Fantasy roster all season. I immediately scanned the many televisions tuned into College Game Day on ESPN and assumed there would be something on the ticker about it. I did not see anything about Plaxico shooting himself, so I said, "Nah, dude, it would be all over ESPN if he had. They must mean figuratively, because of his attitude problems all year."
"I hope so," said LL Cool Jew, looking nervous about the prospect of attending the circus later that day with her husband BigBagel, brother-in-law, and father-in-law, all of whom are rabid Giants fans.
"Me too. That motherfucker is on my Fantasy team and I was hoping to trade him for a draft pick next year to someone who actually made the playoffs," I said. Unfortunately, despite my Fantasy team being the defending league champions and looking super hot on paper at the beginning of the season, most of my marquis players failed to do jack shit all season. The only silver lining is that, though Tha Razzies paralleled the exceptionally disappointing Seattle Seahawks, at least we won more than two fucking games all season. Therefore, I planned to trade Plax and all these underperforming douchebags for draft picks or better keepers and hope Tha Razzies have a bright season next year.
LL Cool Jew and I didn't see or hear anything further about Plax at the bar, so I forgot about it until I got home and noticed that she had texted me: "dewd, he DID shoot himself!" I immediately went to the trusty internets and realized that the moron was at some shitty club carrying the gun in his waistband with the fucking safety off, and, while his foot escaped unscathed, he shot himself through the thigh. I should add that Plax was not hanging out at some thugged-out shithole in Bed-Stuy or the South Bronx. He was at the Latin Quarter, located in the utterly non-dangerous Radisson Lexington Hotel in East Midtown, where the salsa band that played LL Cool Jew's wedding performs on Wednesday nights and guests enjoy Chef Ralph Mercado's tasty "LatAsian" creations with their bottle service. This is the kind of establishment where you are more likely to dodge spray-tanned bridge-and-tunnel types in pastel Kangol hats taking kamikaze shots than bullets. There is absolutely NO REASON WHATSOEVER, except for validating what an idiotic asshole you actually are, to pack heat at a place like this.
Furthermore, Plaxico told the lamest lie in the history of prevarication when he said he was actually shot at an Applebee's where he ate before he hit the club. I guess that sounds slightly better than "I accidentally shot myself because my gun WITH THE FUCKING SAFETY OFF started to fall out of my pants while I was holding a drink," but not by much.
LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's crew are not the only ones as outraged as myself at Plaxico's idiotic firearm skills. Thanks to the greatest newspaper in the history of print journalism, the New York Post, and its fellow tabloid the New York Daily News, I have spent the last three days being reminded of Tha Razzies' grim Fantasy reality every time I walk past a bodega or get on the subway (my favorite is the "GIANT IDIOT!" Post cover):
Now the Giants have suspended and banned Burress for the rest of the season, and are rumored to be getting out of the remainder of his $35 million dollar contract. It's bad enough that Plaxico might wind up booted from the New York Football Giants, since he'll probably go to the one team that, if Adam "Pac Man" Jones is any indication, welcomes violent criminals with open arms: the hateful Dallas Cowboys. At least if he goes to the Cowboys, I can probably trade him and watch media hilarity ensue as he tries to coexist with Terrell Owens's ego. A much worse scenario involves Plaxico's fate at 100 Centre Street, AKA the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse. New York City has some of the strictest gun control laws in the nation, and possession of an illegal, loaded firearm carries a 3 1/2 year mandatory minimum sentence. Which means that if Plaxico is convicted in spite of hiring celebrity gun charge lawyer extraordinaire Benjamin Brafman, my Fantasy team goes from disappointing to totally fucked. Thanks a lot, Plax.
Labels: BigBagel, crime and punishment, Fantasia, guns, LL Cool Jew, NFL football, NYC, retard rage
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Avada kedavre! No, seriously, AVADA FUCKING KEDAVRE!
Okay, so I know that the "Avada kedavre" killing curse only works in Harry Potter, but frankly it's about as believable as the latest stunt epic douchebag David Blaine is pulling as far as "magic" is concerned. Besides, the prospect of eliminating him Voldemort-style in a rush of green light has never been more appealing. I wish that I could Avada kedavre David Blaine and get him to permanently cease and desist clogging up my news pages with tales of his latest exploits in pointlessness.
In the past, David Blaine has somehow managed to convince the public that swimming around in a giant breast implant, being frozen in a block of ice, and being trapped in a plexiglass box constitutes some sort of illusionist mystery. The reality is that David Blaine just likes to tell everyone there is something wizardly and enigmatic about doing uncomfortable things for a really long time when you wear eyeliner and black shirts. I have news for all the gullible morons who like to ooh and aah about David Blaine's so-called feats of amazement: his apparent high tolerance for repeated extended urethral catheterization doesn't indicate magic so much as a penis with impaired sensory capabilities. He's no Uncle Majic the Hip-Hop Magician, that's for damn sure.
His latest exercise in media whoring charlatanry, dramatically named the "Dive of Death," involves him hanging upside down in Central Park for two days. Apparently this means he could be at risk of high blood pressure, blindness, and a stroke. I'm hoping that all of the above will go down and result in David Blaine going on the permanent PUP list for magicians, but so far he's just dangling like a giant pretentious bullshit-spewing Robert Downey, Jr.-impersonating bat.
He's like a giant douchebag-shaped piñata, and his handlers were wise to suspend him six stories up. If he were within reach, I'd gladly start pummeling him, and that wouldn't end well, because instead of pouring out delicious candy, he'd likely unleash a giant shitstorm of loathsome assfuckery. Since I can't play Bludgeon-the-Fucktard, I will instead just root for a stroke. LET'S GO STROKE!
Labels: assholes, Harry Potter, magick is bullshit, NYC, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
I know you're fat, but you don't need an umbrella that big
Dear New Yorker With the Giant Umbrella,
I know you're fat. I know that a lifetime of eating pizza slices and McDonald's and various iterations of halal street meat has given you the figure of Rosie O'Donnell after a particularly lazy week of couch surfing, but that does NOT mean you have to walk down the crowded New York City sidewalk on a rainy day with an umbrella roughly the size of an America's Cup yacht mainsail.
I also know that you may not be as accustomed to the rain as a native Pacific Northwesterner like myself. Let me assure you that should a stray drop of sky-water touch your dimpled flesh you will not melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. Trust that if you did, I would run around throwing water at your corpulent ass because I hate fat people and I especially hate fat people who carry around giant umbrellas, and your dissolution would be a boon to my general mood and demeanor.
Your umbrella is just as, if not more inconsiderate, than all the other annoying fat-person-in-New-York things you do. For example, huffing up the subway stairs at the pace of a weary snail, only to halt at the top and block all ascending and descending traffic in order to catch your breath, light a cigarette, and/or start catching up on your phone calls. Blocking the sole means of egress from a thoroughly populated and necessary conduit of urban life like the subway is bad enough, but throw a gigantic umbrella in the mix and you're supersizing your already massive oblivious dickheadishness. It's like being in the first scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark, except instead of being a hot adventurous Smith College archaeology professor trying to outrun a massive rolling boulder in an ancient South American temple because I want to brag about a priceless ancient golden idol, I'm an irritable Smith College graduate trying to circumvent a massive Rocawear-clad beach ball in a dirty subway staircase because I'm probably late getting to lab.
Even worse than the subway is when you walk down the street with your giant umbrella. It's like you are a traveling bubble occupying most of the sidewalk, since anyone not wanting to get their eyes gouged out by the edges of your umbrella has to give you a wide berth. This means that to avoid your umbrella, not only to we have to dash out of the way on what little sidewalk remains, but we have to usually drop our normal-sized umbrellas and get wet ourselves so that you may walk beneath your own portable fucking tent.
This is unacceptably selfish, antisocial behavior. What makes you think you are so special that you deserve to take up more than your allotted portion of the city sidewalk? You already DO take up more than I do on account of your obnoxious obesity. You shouldn't be rewarded for your sloth and lack of personal physical maintenance by being allowed to carry an umbrella the size of Queens and thus occupy even more precious public space. You should be mocked for your fatness and derided for your selfish choice of rain repelling equipment! You should be reviled by your fellow man for so callously gobbling up more than your share of sidewalk and forcing your neighbors literally into the gutter because your precious ass just HAS to carry a goddamned golf umbrella. You should be roundly disparaged for your poor displays of citizenship, not tolerated in spite of your obnoxious largesse.
Fat people with giant umbrellas take notice: from now on, I will not put up with your lack of consideration any longer. Henceforth, I plan to say things like "nice umbrella, Jumbo" and "hey, I think there's a little piece of your back cellulite that's getting wet" the next time I am trapped behind one of your mobile circus tents. I'm also going to give you a blast of extra super cunty face just to drive it home that I hate you and your stupid umbrella.
Cordially,
Razzy
Labels: assholes, fat fucks, NYC, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Monday, August 11, 2008
You may kiss the bride, or get pissed at the dickhead guest
On Saturday, I attended the wedding for two of my grad school buddies. They met in lab and are crazily in love and the event was generally a joyous one. Even a cynical old slut like myself is touched when two people are clearly devoted to each other and make it official. Besides, their wedding was not only perfect for them, it was a fun party on a lovely sunset cruise around Manhattan. One of their labmates served as their minister, they danced to Guns 'n' Roses, and there was an open bar with top shelf liquor. I enjoyed 99.9995% of the wedding.
The part of the wedding I did not enjoy, however, was the presence of That One Asshole who insists on being a bitch even at such a happy occasion. Every wedding, graduation, anniversary, or other happy life celebration usually includes That One Asshole. At my family gatherings, this is usually my Aunt Jesus, who likes to start fights about politics and/or religion. One year at my parents' annual Christmas open house, she started talking loudly about the sin of homosexuality in front of my cousin whose wife had recently left him for another woman. What purpose this served besides publicly humiliating my cousin–who was already devastated by the breakup of his almost twenty-year marriage–I have no idea, but that's how my Aunt Jesus rolls. Since she's constantly talking about what a fabulous Christian she is, I assume she learns that sort of behavior in church.
However, That One Asshole doesn't always come in the form of a fundamentalist Sean Hannity parrot. That One Asshole has many iterations, but their ultimate goal is always the same: to place their own need for overcompensation above all else, and rain on someone else's parade in the process. In the case of the wedding I attended, That One Asshole was one of the most insidious breeds of cocksucking dickheadishness in existence: a Columbia University graduate student.
The wedding took place on the top floor of this boat, which was a tight squeeze for all the guests. There were some folding chairs arranged in rows, and some benches along the wall behind tables. Because I boarded the boat early with my buddy NeisMan and his girlfriend NeisLady, we squeezed into the benches along the wall so people wouldn't have to squeeze past us later. That One Asshole sat in the folding chair across from the table in front of me. When he sat down, I thought he looked familiar, but couldn't place him. He gave me a weird look, and I figured he must have felt the same way, but didn't think much of it and spent the pre-ceremony time trying to give NeisLady tips on avoiding seasickness. Specifically, I was telling her not to look down. That turned into a conversation about how glass bottomed boat tours are the worst thing for anyone to do if prone to seasickness, and I told a brief anecdote about how I once saw a guy blow chunks on such a boat trip in Hawaii. Apparently That One Asshole was listening to our conversation, because he turned to me and said, "Do you think you can NOT talk about puking at a wedding?"
"Sorry," I said, somewhat irritated. I had not been talking particularly loudly. Since I know I am naturally louder than most people, I make a conscious effort to tone it down at events like weddings to avoid being That One Asshole myself. I don't want people to think I'm an embarrassment, so I go to great lengths to ensure that I'm not hollering about blow jobs and assfucking and who is a motherfucker and whatnot as a happy couple is about to exchange their vows. I also get really annoyed when this goes unnoticed. At a bridal shower I attended a while back, some of my friends were trying so hard to "handle" me that I almost went off about it. However, then I remembered that interrupting an event with a temper tantrum is also That One Asshole behavior, so I just sucked it up, gritted my teeth, reminded myself that my friends are humans who make mistakes too, and allowed myself to be managed like an unruly child, proving (at least to myself) that I can in fact be a mature adult when an occasion calls for it. That's why when this dude basically shushed me, I just smiled and changed the subject. Then the wedding started.
We all stood as the bride entered, and NeisLady's girlfriend whispered to me that she looked beautiful. I whispered back my agreement, as she did in fact look radiant and very happy. However, I was feeling less than radiant, because there was no room to stand behind the table we were seated at, and trying to awkwardly balance with hyperextended knees on a rocking boat in four-inch heels is extremely uncomfortable. When the minister grad student told us to be seated, I did so gratefully and whispered to NeisLady (who was suffering the same), "Thank God." That One Asshole glared at me and said loudly to his neighbor, "I could do without the COMMENTARY." Again, I'm not trying to be That One Asshole who bitches out another wedding guest during the ceremony, so I just smiled and turned my attention to the nuptials in progress.
That One Asshole continued to shoot me the evil eye throughout the ceremony for offenses such as digging out my Kleenex when I started tearing up. As embarrassing as it is, I almost always cry at weddings. I'm not sure why, but my emotions get the better of me when I see a couple who love each other expressing it so openly, and making a commitment as abiding and legally serious as marriage. This is probably because it seems like a convention of human society that I will most likely never participate in, and thus regard it as something special and rare. That One Asshole seemingly did not even tolerate this one weakness on my part, and expressed his disapproval by doing a lot of loud, exasperated sighing and eye rolling. When the ceremony ended, my friend G-Cat's girlfriend G-Kitten was crying too, so I went with her to the bar to be with more sympathetic company.
A while later during the pre-dinner drinks-and-hors d'oeuvres portion of the party, I was standing with my pals DulapVara and Carcass, as well as NeisMan, NeisLady, G-Cat, and G-Kitten on the rear deck of the boat taking in the scenery. At one point a Circle Line boat full of photo snapping tourists sailed by. While my normal instinct would be to flash my tits and/or give them the finger and shout "WELCOME TO FUCKIN' NEW YORK!," I just waved and blew kisses to be a good wedding guest (okay, I think I did do the middle finger/cussing thing a little later, but I made sure nobody was watching except my friends). Nonetheless, That One Asshole, standing on the other side of the deck smoking a cigarette, proceeded to continue his relentless mean-mugging. "Hey dudes," I said to my friends. "Who is that guy? The dude over there who keeps glaring at me."
"Why? You got him in your sights? Uh oh," said one of my wiseass friends.
"Very funny," I said. "No, I mean I guess he's good looking, but he seems to hate me for some reason. I know I've met him somewhere before."
"I think he's a grad student. From a lab on the Morningside campus. Biology department, I think," one of my friends said.
Hmmm. The bride is a member of the biology department, even though she works uptown at our campus with us. Then it hit me like a hard dick from the back. I suddenly remembered where I met That One Asshole.
At the bride and groom's engagement party many months earlier, I had been flirting with That One Asshole. By normal standards, he's pretty average looking, which means by grad school standards he's a veritable Adonis. At their engagement party, he was certainly the only guy in attendance I'd consider hooking up with. I remember sitting in the bedroom at this party with him discussing that very prospect and possibly making out a little bit (I don't remember, but considering my availability for sucking face, it's highly probable). However, the deal was killed when he informed me that he's into S&M, and he expected me to smack him around in the bedroom. He didn't just want me to do some playful spanking; he wanted me to punch him and put all my effort into beating the shit out of him. This was a problem for me.
I'm by no means a prude, but all that domination crap does nothing for me. I don't mind telling a dude he's my bitch, or tying him up, or ordering him to do things, but I'm not comfortable with the idea of physically abusing someone, even if they want me to. For another thing, the people who are really into this lifestyle are generally huge pains in the ass. One of my friends was hired to be a (non-sexual) dominatrix when she first moved to New York, as her "slave" promised this was good money for little more than slapping him around and making him do her chores. She figured this was a great way to get paid for relieving her stress and getting free maid services. Unfortunately, the guy was constantly pestering her to hit him harder and complained that she wasn't putting enough effort into enslaving him. When she tried to counter with "shut up like a good sub" sentiments, he still whined that she wasn't being sufficiently mean or dominant. Eventually she decided to make her money via more conventional means and do her own dishes, and told her slave to find a new mistress. Her story convinced me that the BDSM scene is something I really don't care to be a part of, simply because it sounds like a lot of really annoying work (not to mention a sizable financial investment in ball gags and nipple clamps and all that fetish crap that costs a fortune but seems to be requisite for that lifestyle). Thus, this guy's request that I go Ike Turner on his ass was unappealing as far as drunken post-party sex goes.
Luckily, I didn't even have to finish processing about my discomfort with his proposition, because this other guy who had been following me around like a dog all night came in and deftly cockblocked That One Asshole. This other guy was very nice, but he was literally a foot shorter than me (I'm 5'3"), and as much as my inner profound nerd loves Lord of the Rings, I'm not into fucking hobbits. Plus, he was not pathetically not picking up on my signals of disinterest (ie: constantly ditching him to talk to other people), as indicated by the fact that I was talking flirtatiously with That One Asshole and he stomped up, shoved his iPhone in my face, and said, "Hey, let's do the phone number thing!"
"The phone number thing?"
"Yeah, let's do it! Let's exchange phone numbers! Let's do that phone number thing!"
Poor guy. I evaded his request by telling him he could just send me a Facebook message, which he did, and which I ignored. I also decided to ditch That One Asshole and his face-punching demands by making a hasty escape from that party with my boys G-Cat, NeisMan, and Carcass. That might explain why he was so pissed at me at this wedding. He strikes me as very arrogant, and nothing pisses off a cocksure narcissist like being left in the condition that Lil' Kim describes as "stuck and left nekkid with a hard penis." Okay, I didn't leave him naked except in the figurative sense of having revealed his personal sexual fetish, but I'm pretty sure he was mad about his blue balls because guys usually are.
For the sake of a harmonious wedding and to seem like a gracious almost-former-hook up, when I realized That One Asshole was seated at the same table as G-Cat, G-Kitten, myself, and Carcass, I tried to make nice.
"Hey, dude!" I said. "How are you doing? I didn't get a chance to say hi earlier."
"Yes you did. You just chose to ignore me when I said 'hi' to you," he snipped. Oops. I hadn't heard him greet me.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't realize you said hi. It was completely unintentional." I then realized he didn't have a cocktail. "Can I get you a drink to make it up to you?" I asked.
"I'm not drinking," he said huffily. "I have to go to lab tomorrow."
"So do I," I said, raising my scotch. "That's not stopping me."
He gave me a withering look, so I decided that it was an opportune time to hit the buffet. I spent the rest of the meal talking with everyone else at the table, including one of his friends I'd never met before. His friend was a very jovial, chatty guy who got me going on one of my favorite topics: this very blog. That One Asshole piped in to say snottily that he had aspirations of being a science writer after getting Ph.ake doctored, but didn't know how to go about getting his foot in the door. So after dinner, I saw him on the yacht deck smoking, and went over to continue my attempts at friendliness.
"You know," I said. "If you are really serious about getting into writing, you might consider starting a blog. It's really easy to do, and it's great practice for me. Besides, then when you apply for jobs, you have a body of work you can refer to."
He seemed to lighten up a little bit, and asked me a little bit about my traffic and whatnot. I said, "Really, if I were to get a job as a science writer, I doubt I would refer them to my website. Most science journalists don't routinely incorporate words like 'cocksucker' and 'motherfucker' or anecdotal tales of anal sex into their prose, but it's useful to further develop my style and improve my writing. It's also pretty cathartic and helps keep me honest."
I then realized that I needed a refill on my hooch, so I excused myself. However, our small talk had gone so well I was considering that he might not be such an asshole as I first thought. Maybe he just took it really personally that I'd accidentally slighted him when he greeted me, and realized that it was not intentional. Maybe he was giving me the benefit of the doubt and rethinking his perception of my rudeness.
After the boat docked, most of my fellow alcoholics (including the bride and groom) decided to go get some drinks at the Boat Basin Café before it closed. Carcass and I walked from the dock there with That One Asshole, who was vacillating about whether or not he should go. He then demonstrated that he was not, in fact, over his assholishness, nor was it directed exclusively at me.
"It's getting late," he said. Carcass pointed out that it was barely 11 p.m., which by New York Saturday night standards is practically the afternoon in terms of its lateness. That One Asshole did not appreciate this reminder, and said condescendingly, "The Asian markets open in a couple hours."
The Asian markets? SO? I just don't believe that when he's not slaving away in lab or dreaming of one day writing feature pieces for Scientific American, That One Asshole is busy trading rice futures or whatever. Neither did Carcass, who decided to call him on his bullshit.
"Tomorrow is SUNDAY," Carcass said.
"It's Monday in Asia," That One Asshole said.
"Uh, no, it's not," Carcass added. That One Asshole rolled his eyes, made a scoffing sound, and ditched us. When we got to the Boat Basin Café, I wound up sitting at the same table as That One Asshole, who was nursing his beer and generally being quietly surly. His jovial friend from earlier was chatting with me, and somehow the topic of HIV came up and we had a good-natured scientific debate about it. The friend argued that men could only get HIV by having anal sex with a woman, because vaginal secretions have an insufficient viral load to transmit infection and men can only get the HIV by exposing their weiners to blood, and bleeding only occurs during anal sex. I was vehemently arguing that this was not true (it's not AT ALL true, so fellas, make sure you wrap it up).
"Vaginal secretions have as high a viral load as blood or semen, dude. Furthermore, don't believe that vaginas don't bleed, because I can assure you that they do," I said. "As both a virologist and a slut, I caution you: if you raw dog chicks vaginally, you do so at your own peril."
Before the friend could respond, That One Asshole chimed in.
"Don't you have any sense of decorum whatsoever?" he said in a scathing tone of voice. The table was immediately shocked into the uncomfortable silence that follows such an undeserved and pointed insult delivered as a reprimand. There was no mistaking it. That One Asshole felt such patent dislike for me that he was going to publicly dress me down for arguing my position in response to HIS friend's equally loud assertions about HIV transmission mediated by anal tearing during buttfucking in a virtually empty bar populated solely by drunk people.
"Apparently not," I said, glowering at him. Then I turned to his friend and said loudly, "Is there any particular reason that guy is such a fucking asshole?" The friend told me to ignore him. I said no problem, and excused myself to rejoin my boys at their table. They all commiserrated with me regarding this guy's dickishness, and added their own anecdotes of how he'd been an unmitigated dickhead throughout the course of the wedding. Since we were being kicked out of the bar by the closing staff, we elected to call it a night rather than continue drinking with That One Asshole. We may not have had to rise early to greet the opening Asian markets, but we did all have to go to lab the next day.
As someone whose apparent lack of decorum has now been publicly observed and who has the potential to be That One Asshole, I advise everyone with similar tendencies to rein it in at otherwise fun social occasions. Although I had a generally great time at my friends' wedding, and I wish them all the happiness in the world and a wonderful life together, That One Asshole is now going to mar my and other guests' memories of the occasion. If everyone with That One Asshole potential would resist the urge to satisfy those impulses, weddings would be happier occasions. Then again, most people who are not obviously insecure, overcompensating closet subs getting revenge on the random girl who declined to slap them around and then inadvertantly snubbed them by talking down to her and her friends, and can thus avoid being That One Asshole without my advice. However, if you are a self-important jerk trying desperately to impress people at an event celebrating someone else's achievement, acting like the bigger person is a better way to accomplish that than making pompous explanations for sobriety involving the Asian markets or your superior decorum. Nobody likes That One Asshole, so don't be him.
The part of the wedding I did not enjoy, however, was the presence of That One Asshole who insists on being a bitch even at such a happy occasion. Every wedding, graduation, anniversary, or other happy life celebration usually includes That One Asshole. At my family gatherings, this is usually my Aunt Jesus, who likes to start fights about politics and/or religion. One year at my parents' annual Christmas open house, she started talking loudly about the sin of homosexuality in front of my cousin whose wife had recently left him for another woman. What purpose this served besides publicly humiliating my cousin–who was already devastated by the breakup of his almost twenty-year marriage–I have no idea, but that's how my Aunt Jesus rolls. Since she's constantly talking about what a fabulous Christian she is, I assume she learns that sort of behavior in church.
However, That One Asshole doesn't always come in the form of a fundamentalist Sean Hannity parrot. That One Asshole has many iterations, but their ultimate goal is always the same: to place their own need for overcompensation above all else, and rain on someone else's parade in the process. In the case of the wedding I attended, That One Asshole was one of the most insidious breeds of cocksucking dickheadishness in existence: a Columbia University graduate student.
The wedding took place on the top floor of this boat, which was a tight squeeze for all the guests. There were some folding chairs arranged in rows, and some benches along the wall behind tables. Because I boarded the boat early with my buddy NeisMan and his girlfriend NeisLady, we squeezed into the benches along the wall so people wouldn't have to squeeze past us later. That One Asshole sat in the folding chair across from the table in front of me. When he sat down, I thought he looked familiar, but couldn't place him. He gave me a weird look, and I figured he must have felt the same way, but didn't think much of it and spent the pre-ceremony time trying to give NeisLady tips on avoiding seasickness. Specifically, I was telling her not to look down. That turned into a conversation about how glass bottomed boat tours are the worst thing for anyone to do if prone to seasickness, and I told a brief anecdote about how I once saw a guy blow chunks on such a boat trip in Hawaii. Apparently That One Asshole was listening to our conversation, because he turned to me and said, "Do you think you can NOT talk about puking at a wedding?"
"Sorry," I said, somewhat irritated. I had not been talking particularly loudly. Since I know I am naturally louder than most people, I make a conscious effort to tone it down at events like weddings to avoid being That One Asshole myself. I don't want people to think I'm an embarrassment, so I go to great lengths to ensure that I'm not hollering about blow jobs and assfucking and who is a motherfucker and whatnot as a happy couple is about to exchange their vows. I also get really annoyed when this goes unnoticed. At a bridal shower I attended a while back, some of my friends were trying so hard to "handle" me that I almost went off about it. However, then I remembered that interrupting an event with a temper tantrum is also That One Asshole behavior, so I just sucked it up, gritted my teeth, reminded myself that my friends are humans who make mistakes too, and allowed myself to be managed like an unruly child, proving (at least to myself) that I can in fact be a mature adult when an occasion calls for it. That's why when this dude basically shushed me, I just smiled and changed the subject. Then the wedding started.
We all stood as the bride entered, and NeisLady's girlfriend whispered to me that she looked beautiful. I whispered back my agreement, as she did in fact look radiant and very happy. However, I was feeling less than radiant, because there was no room to stand behind the table we were seated at, and trying to awkwardly balance with hyperextended knees on a rocking boat in four-inch heels is extremely uncomfortable. When the minister grad student told us to be seated, I did so gratefully and whispered to NeisLady (who was suffering the same), "Thank God." That One Asshole glared at me and said loudly to his neighbor, "I could do without the COMMENTARY." Again, I'm not trying to be That One Asshole who bitches out another wedding guest during the ceremony, so I just smiled and turned my attention to the nuptials in progress.
That One Asshole continued to shoot me the evil eye throughout the ceremony for offenses such as digging out my Kleenex when I started tearing up. As embarrassing as it is, I almost always cry at weddings. I'm not sure why, but my emotions get the better of me when I see a couple who love each other expressing it so openly, and making a commitment as abiding and legally serious as marriage. This is probably because it seems like a convention of human society that I will most likely never participate in, and thus regard it as something special and rare. That One Asshole seemingly did not even tolerate this one weakness on my part, and expressed his disapproval by doing a lot of loud, exasperated sighing and eye rolling. When the ceremony ended, my friend G-Cat's girlfriend G-Kitten was crying too, so I went with her to the bar to be with more sympathetic company.
A while later during the pre-dinner drinks-and-hors d'oeuvres portion of the party, I was standing with my pals DulapVara and Carcass, as well as NeisMan, NeisLady, G-Cat, and G-Kitten on the rear deck of the boat taking in the scenery. At one point a Circle Line boat full of photo snapping tourists sailed by. While my normal instinct would be to flash my tits and/or give them the finger and shout "WELCOME TO FUCKIN' NEW YORK!," I just waved and blew kisses to be a good wedding guest (okay, I think I did do the middle finger/cussing thing a little later, but I made sure nobody was watching except my friends). Nonetheless, That One Asshole, standing on the other side of the deck smoking a cigarette, proceeded to continue his relentless mean-mugging. "Hey dudes," I said to my friends. "Who is that guy? The dude over there who keeps glaring at me."
"Why? You got him in your sights? Uh oh," said one of my wiseass friends.
"Very funny," I said. "No, I mean I guess he's good looking, but he seems to hate me for some reason. I know I've met him somewhere before."
"I think he's a grad student. From a lab on the Morningside campus. Biology department, I think," one of my friends said.
Hmmm. The bride is a member of the biology department, even though she works uptown at our campus with us. Then it hit me like a hard dick from the back. I suddenly remembered where I met That One Asshole.
At the bride and groom's engagement party many months earlier, I had been flirting with That One Asshole. By normal standards, he's pretty average looking, which means by grad school standards he's a veritable Adonis. At their engagement party, he was certainly the only guy in attendance I'd consider hooking up with. I remember sitting in the bedroom at this party with him discussing that very prospect and possibly making out a little bit (I don't remember, but considering my availability for sucking face, it's highly probable). However, the deal was killed when he informed me that he's into S&M, and he expected me to smack him around in the bedroom. He didn't just want me to do some playful spanking; he wanted me to punch him and put all my effort into beating the shit out of him. This was a problem for me.
I'm by no means a prude, but all that domination crap does nothing for me. I don't mind telling a dude he's my bitch, or tying him up, or ordering him to do things, but I'm not comfortable with the idea of physically abusing someone, even if they want me to. For another thing, the people who are really into this lifestyle are generally huge pains in the ass. One of my friends was hired to be a (non-sexual) dominatrix when she first moved to New York, as her "slave" promised this was good money for little more than slapping him around and making him do her chores. She figured this was a great way to get paid for relieving her stress and getting free maid services. Unfortunately, the guy was constantly pestering her to hit him harder and complained that she wasn't putting enough effort into enslaving him. When she tried to counter with "shut up like a good sub" sentiments, he still whined that she wasn't being sufficiently mean or dominant. Eventually she decided to make her money via more conventional means and do her own dishes, and told her slave to find a new mistress. Her story convinced me that the BDSM scene is something I really don't care to be a part of, simply because it sounds like a lot of really annoying work (not to mention a sizable financial investment in ball gags and nipple clamps and all that fetish crap that costs a fortune but seems to be requisite for that lifestyle). Thus, this guy's request that I go Ike Turner on his ass was unappealing as far as drunken post-party sex goes.
Luckily, I didn't even have to finish processing about my discomfort with his proposition, because this other guy who had been following me around like a dog all night came in and deftly cockblocked That One Asshole. This other guy was very nice, but he was literally a foot shorter than me (I'm 5'3"), and as much as my inner profound nerd loves Lord of the Rings, I'm not into fucking hobbits. Plus, he was not pathetically not picking up on my signals of disinterest (ie: constantly ditching him to talk to other people), as indicated by the fact that I was talking flirtatiously with That One Asshole and he stomped up, shoved his iPhone in my face, and said, "Hey, let's do the phone number thing!"
"The phone number thing?"
"Yeah, let's do it! Let's exchange phone numbers! Let's do that phone number thing!"
Poor guy. I evaded his request by telling him he could just send me a Facebook message, which he did, and which I ignored. I also decided to ditch That One Asshole and his face-punching demands by making a hasty escape from that party with my boys G-Cat, NeisMan, and Carcass. That might explain why he was so pissed at me at this wedding. He strikes me as very arrogant, and nothing pisses off a cocksure narcissist like being left in the condition that Lil' Kim describes as "stuck and left nekkid with a hard penis." Okay, I didn't leave him naked except in the figurative sense of having revealed his personal sexual fetish, but I'm pretty sure he was mad about his blue balls because guys usually are.
For the sake of a harmonious wedding and to seem like a gracious almost-former-hook up, when I realized That One Asshole was seated at the same table as G-Cat, G-Kitten, myself, and Carcass, I tried to make nice.
"Hey, dude!" I said. "How are you doing? I didn't get a chance to say hi earlier."
"Yes you did. You just chose to ignore me when I said 'hi' to you," he snipped. Oops. I hadn't heard him greet me.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't realize you said hi. It was completely unintentional." I then realized he didn't have a cocktail. "Can I get you a drink to make it up to you?" I asked.
"I'm not drinking," he said huffily. "I have to go to lab tomorrow."
"So do I," I said, raising my scotch. "That's not stopping me."
He gave me a withering look, so I decided that it was an opportune time to hit the buffet. I spent the rest of the meal talking with everyone else at the table, including one of his friends I'd never met before. His friend was a very jovial, chatty guy who got me going on one of my favorite topics: this very blog. That One Asshole piped in to say snottily that he had aspirations of being a science writer after getting Ph.ake doctored, but didn't know how to go about getting his foot in the door. So after dinner, I saw him on the yacht deck smoking, and went over to continue my attempts at friendliness.
"You know," I said. "If you are really serious about getting into writing, you might consider starting a blog. It's really easy to do, and it's great practice for me. Besides, then when you apply for jobs, you have a body of work you can refer to."
He seemed to lighten up a little bit, and asked me a little bit about my traffic and whatnot. I said, "Really, if I were to get a job as a science writer, I doubt I would refer them to my website. Most science journalists don't routinely incorporate words like 'cocksucker' and 'motherfucker' or anecdotal tales of anal sex into their prose, but it's useful to further develop my style and improve my writing. It's also pretty cathartic and helps keep me honest."
I then realized that I needed a refill on my hooch, so I excused myself. However, our small talk had gone so well I was considering that he might not be such an asshole as I first thought. Maybe he just took it really personally that I'd accidentally slighted him when he greeted me, and realized that it was not intentional. Maybe he was giving me the benefit of the doubt and rethinking his perception of my rudeness.
After the boat docked, most of my fellow alcoholics (including the bride and groom) decided to go get some drinks at the Boat Basin Café before it closed. Carcass and I walked from the dock there with That One Asshole, who was vacillating about whether or not he should go. He then demonstrated that he was not, in fact, over his assholishness, nor was it directed exclusively at me.
"It's getting late," he said. Carcass pointed out that it was barely 11 p.m., which by New York Saturday night standards is practically the afternoon in terms of its lateness. That One Asshole did not appreciate this reminder, and said condescendingly, "The Asian markets open in a couple hours."
The Asian markets? SO? I just don't believe that when he's not slaving away in lab or dreaming of one day writing feature pieces for Scientific American, That One Asshole is busy trading rice futures or whatever. Neither did Carcass, who decided to call him on his bullshit.
"Tomorrow is SUNDAY," Carcass said.
"It's Monday in Asia," That One Asshole said.
"Uh, no, it's not," Carcass added. That One Asshole rolled his eyes, made a scoffing sound, and ditched us. When we got to the Boat Basin Café, I wound up sitting at the same table as That One Asshole, who was nursing his beer and generally being quietly surly. His jovial friend from earlier was chatting with me, and somehow the topic of HIV came up and we had a good-natured scientific debate about it. The friend argued that men could only get HIV by having anal sex with a woman, because vaginal secretions have an insufficient viral load to transmit infection and men can only get the HIV by exposing their weiners to blood, and bleeding only occurs during anal sex. I was vehemently arguing that this was not true (it's not AT ALL true, so fellas, make sure you wrap it up).
"Vaginal secretions have as high a viral load as blood or semen, dude. Furthermore, don't believe that vaginas don't bleed, because I can assure you that they do," I said. "As both a virologist and a slut, I caution you: if you raw dog chicks vaginally, you do so at your own peril."
Before the friend could respond, That One Asshole chimed in.
"Don't you have any sense of decorum whatsoever?" he said in a scathing tone of voice. The table was immediately shocked into the uncomfortable silence that follows such an undeserved and pointed insult delivered as a reprimand. There was no mistaking it. That One Asshole felt such patent dislike for me that he was going to publicly dress me down for arguing my position in response to HIS friend's equally loud assertions about HIV transmission mediated by anal tearing during buttfucking in a virtually empty bar populated solely by drunk people.
"Apparently not," I said, glowering at him. Then I turned to his friend and said loudly, "Is there any particular reason that guy is such a fucking asshole?" The friend told me to ignore him. I said no problem, and excused myself to rejoin my boys at their table. They all commiserrated with me regarding this guy's dickishness, and added their own anecdotes of how he'd been an unmitigated dickhead throughout the course of the wedding. Since we were being kicked out of the bar by the closing staff, we elected to call it a night rather than continue drinking with That One Asshole. We may not have had to rise early to greet the opening Asian markets, but we did all have to go to lab the next day.
As someone whose apparent lack of decorum has now been publicly observed and who has the potential to be That One Asshole, I advise everyone with similar tendencies to rein it in at otherwise fun social occasions. Although I had a generally great time at my friends' wedding, and I wish them all the happiness in the world and a wonderful life together, That One Asshole is now going to mar my and other guests' memories of the occasion. If everyone with That One Asshole potential would resist the urge to satisfy those impulses, weddings would be happier occasions. Then again, most people who are not obviously insecure, overcompensating closet subs getting revenge on the random girl who declined to slap them around and then inadvertantly snubbed them by talking down to her and her friends, and can thus avoid being That One Asshole without my advice. However, if you are a self-important jerk trying desperately to impress people at an event celebrating someone else's achievement, acting like the bigger person is a better way to accomplish that than making pompous explanations for sobriety involving the Asian markets or your superior decorum. Nobody likes That One Asshole, so don't be him.
Labels: assholes, grad school bullshit, holy fucking matrimony, NYC, retard rage, scathing indictments
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
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Tapatio
DOB: 1971
Occupation: Es una salsa...muy salsa!
Hometown: Maywood, California
Current residence: Vernon, California and the "Mexican/Latin" aisle at a grocery store near you
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Tapatio is the best fucking hot sauce in the world. I am also a fan of Marie Sharp's, but if I had to choose between the two, I think Tapatio would win (although in fairness, this is probably only because I haven't found a convenient grocery store or bodega that sells Marie Sharp's, and that's a pity, because it is the chronic shit). I also like dipping my Mexi-Fries (AKA deep-fried tater tots with seasoning salt) in the not-hot "hot sauce" that the P-N-Dub's greatest fast food chain Taco Time offers as a condiment, but TRUST that as there aren't any Taco Times outside of Washington and Oregon, I don't have a supply of Taco Time hot sauce on hand. Tapatio is in any grocery store here, usually in several sizes next to all the Goya products.
I realized this the other night when I was making some tacos and I ran out of Tapatio. Not having any Marie Sharp's handy as a backup, I went to the bodega down the street from my house where they only sell Tabasco and Trappey's Red Devil. Since I know I hate Tabasco, I went with the Red Devil. After eating two Red Devil tacos, I realized that compared to Tapatio, almost every hot sauce in the world is complete and utter trash. As Tapatio's slogan admits, it's a saucy that's very saucy. Despite what its diabolical name would lead one to believe, Red Devil lacks any sauciness or zest. In fact, I thought it was pretty damn mild and it made my taco-eating experience considerably less pleasurable.
Tapatio should be available as readily as ketchup or A1 steak sauce in New York City's bodegas. Not having it puts a considerable damper in my taco enjoyment. In fact, the next time I run out of Tapatio, I'm just going to save the tacos for a time when I can get my hands on some. Tacos without Tapatio are like anal sex without lube. You just have no business fooling with that, and if you do, you'll gravely regret it.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, gluttony, NYC, Razzification
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Jesus would upstage all of our bitch asses
There is this crackhead couple that lives in my building, and they both drive me insane. The dude--who perpetually has a gigantic, purulent, oozing sore on his lip that I'm convinced is a herpes lesion amalgamated with a festering pipe burn--is always trying to tell me how to handle my dogs, and the chick is always hitting on me. Both are missing many teeth, smell, lack basic hygiene skills, act sketchy, and are basically what you would expect to see if you looked up "crackhead" in the dictionary. They are always trying to talk to me, and while I know I should tell them "fuck off, crackies," I simultaneously realize that they are pathetic crack addicts and I should have a more Christian attitude towards them.
However, the more I think about it, the more the prospect of having a more Christian attitude pisses me off. Surely if I asked myself "what would Jesus do?" when faced with a babbling, dentally challenged woman bobbing up and down like a fighting cock on meth speaking nonsense about the legendary beauty of my blonde hair (a favorite topic of hers is adulation of my Helen of Troy-esque looks, which just goes to show you how fucking delusional she is), he would not tell her to fuck off. The Gospels are replete with tales of Jesus befriending lepers, whores, tax collectors, the possessed (AKA schizophrenic and otherwise mentally ill), the blind, the deaf, the dumb, the lame (and by that I mean crippled), and anyone else who was an outcast way back when in Caesar Augustus-ruled Israel. Supposedly I'm to be nice and accepting to the crackheads, and invite them back to my apartment for a grilled cheese and a beer.
However, "what would Jesus do?" is a pretty fucking unfair standard. Unlike me, Jesus had the ability to take care of the whole crack addiction problem with a snap of his damn divine fingers. He didn't have to worry about being robbed blind by the crackheads he invited home for a number of reasons. All he had to do was order that pesky lust for crack into a herd of pigs, send them trotting off a cliff, and problem solved (although I bet the pig farmer didn't much appreciate seeing his annual income run squealing into the Sea of Galilee). Since he could instantly cure almost any socially repugnant malady, it was no big deal for Jesus to clean their asses up and invite the freshly cured and probably extremely grateful crackheads to wherever.
Furthermore, Jesus didn't have to worry about being a gracious host once those recently Christianized crackheads came over, since he could also conveniently turn water into wine and bust loaves and fishes out of his ass whenever he felt like it. Even if the crackheads hadn't completely gotten rid of their old habits of stealing and freeloading, Jesus could basically replace anything they ran off with because he had son-of-God skills. In fact, I went to Catholic school for twelve years and I've done a lot of Bible-reading in my time, and I can't think of a single Gospel account in which Jesus buys ANYTHING. Every time he needed something, whether it was more hooch at a rowdy Canaan wedding, snacks for the faithful at the OG Billy Graham crusade, or a convenient storm to prove his awesomeness to his boys when they doubted him, Jesus could make it happen. I can't make that happen efficiently enough to allow crackheads into my house.
Actually, Jesus didn't have to worry about crackheads fucking up his house since he DIDN'T SEEM TO HAVE ONE. No matter what you saw in The Passion of the Caviezel (including the part where Jesus supposedly invented the modern table), the Gospels don't say a damn word about where the hell Jesus actually hung his sandals. From what Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John tell me, Jesus was a damn homeless wandering hippie. So he could bring home all the strays and degenerates he wanted, because it was SOMEONE ELSE'S HOUSE! What the hell is it to Jesus and his non-materialistic ass if the crackheads of 33 A.D.-era Galilee trash Lazarus and his sisters' house? It's not his crap they're going to jack or destroy. It's not his hard-earned fishing money that they're going to burn through like a pound of schwag at a Phish concert. And if anyone complains about that, Jesus will just be like, "Why don't you go ask the fucking Jewish elders what I do when people get uptight about money? Those Pharisees are still pissed that I cost them like ten trillion shekels over at the temple/public marketplace when I got my righteous outrage on! And by the way, how dope was that when I ran around overturning tables? You wish you were born from a virgin womb, bitches." In other words, Jesus is an ungrateful hippie who feels entitled to do everything just because he CHOSE to be poor. For that matter, he chose to be crucified just to make a point. That whole "why have you forsaken me?" nonsense on the cross was just for dramatic effect. TRUST! Attention whore.
Now I'm probably going to hell for all this shit-talking about Jesus, and I'd like to say for the record that Jesus is still my Lord and Savior and all that. Judging by the company he kept, he clearly loved the skanky types, and if he could cure leprosy, I bet he could cure a mean case of the herp too (and I'm not one of the 26% of New Yorkers who have herpes, but that doesn't mean I couldn't be someday). Plus, he died for my sins, and I've done a lot of sinning, so I appreciate his efforts to put me in one of the nice Bosch paintings as opposed to the ones where random demons are shitting out souls who hate on JC. However, suggesting that I ask myself what the fuck Jesus would do with the crackheads is irrelevant, because that fucking granola-ass hippie would probably work some divine magic that I simply cannot do. I'd love to have the whole city over and be like, "who wants chips and salsa?" and pass around plates of the same that never exhausted themselves. I'd love to run around singlehandedly curing infectious diseases with mud and some Messianic hocus-pocus. I'd love to respond to capital punishment by springing out of my tomb after three days and be like, "HA, suckers! I bet you wish you asked Pontius Pilate to crucify Barabbas! Kiss my resurrected ass!" However, I have to avoid getting killed because I can't just sleep it off and pop out of my shroud and ascend to heaven amidst a big show for my followers. Even if I could rise from the dead, I can't send the average Razzyphile's drunken stupor into a herd of pigs, so my followers would probably be too hung over to show up at my tomb before dawn after a couple days with herbs and spices or whatever.
In other words, quit asking me to apply what Jesus would do to my life, because I can't do 99% of it. Therefore, the next time one of those crackheads tells me I'm beautiful or they like my dogs, I'm going to do what Razzy would do. Specifically, I'm going to tell them, "Look, I hate you both! NEVER talk to me again!"
Labels: Dear God, drugs, NYC, Razzification
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Upper East Side honeybees
DOB: the early Pleistocene
Occupation: swarming, making honey, homesteading on choice real estate
Hometown: eastern tropical Africa
Current residence: East 75th Street and Second Avenue, New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Today's issue of the greatest paper in the history of print journalism (otherwise known as the New York Post) features an article ("UPPER EAST HIVE: Bee-Listers All Swarm 2nd Ave.") about a swarm of bees that tried to establish a hive in a newspaper box on the Upper East Side. The city had to call in a beekeeper from the Bronx Zoo to remove the bees after "frantic calls to 311 began pouring in."
These bees are true New Yorkers. I have been hearing an increased amount of bitching and moaning about how bees are dying in droves thanks to global warming and pollution, but not these bees. These bees said "fuck you" to that and moved to a fancy neighborhood, pollution be damned. I admire these bees for not only surviving in the urban jungle, but for their taste in fancy neighborhoods. They are some hot-ass bees.
Another thing I like personally concerning these bees is that they moved literally onto the same street where my lesbian apprentice Twathopper lives. I'm interpreting the fact that a bunch of bees in a mating swarm moved to a newspaper box in Twathopper's neck of the woods as an omen that she's finally going to dip into a honey hole of her own. With any luck, her new apian neighbors signify that Twathopper is going to follow their box-dwelling lead.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, lezbollah, NYC, sexy delicious animals, Twathopper
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Amateur Night at the Apollo Theater
DOB: 1934
Occupation: judging competing talent and entertaining tourists
Hometown: Harlem, New York, New York
Current residence: same--253 W. 125th Street
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I was really sick the last couple days and basically didn't do anything besides lay in bed and consume soup and DayQuil. Luckily, the anonymous commenter currently doing the lion's share of Razzy hating has proved to be as inept at opining on medical matters as he/she is at correctly predicting my legal demise, and I don't have AIDS, bubonic plague, or anything resembling a hemorrhagic fever virus. I was laid out by my old nemesis, rhinovirus, and now am on the mend. I was worried, though, that I wouldn't be able to rally enough to make it out to Amateur Night last night.
My friend JerseyGirl is crazy about "Showtime at the Apollo," and for her impending birthday, her boyfriend Kodiak thought it would be fun to surprise her and her tightest girls with tickets to Amateur Night. He bought tickets for us all weeks in advance and I knew that I'd have to be hospitalized in order to really skip out on it. Besides, I've always wanted to check it out, and it's just one of those New York things I haven't gotten around to doing in the five years since I've lived here. So I took a handful of DayQuil and trekked the one subway stop down to 125th street.
When we got there, JerseyGirl was--in her words--"straight-up cereally buggin'" and "renarded" with excitement. "LOOK! It's the TREE OF HOPE!" she shouted, pointing at the stump-type thing that the contestants rub for luck before taking the stage. "O.M.G. I can't believe we are actually here," she said. "O.M.G. O.M.G. This is totz so awesome." I think she was happy with her present.
I was disappointed to learn that the Sandman had passed in 2003 (it's been awhile since I caught an episode of "It's Showtime at the Apollo" on TV) and the shepherd's staff he used to drag people offstage is not used by his replacement. The amateurs were entertaining, even if there was an excess of dance troupes. If I'd had my way, every last douchebag in a stupid sweatshirt would have been dragged away in shame. I hate dancing, both in terms of doing it and watching it. There was this one fat woman who collapsed onstage singing "I Who Have Nothing" (my choice to win...unfortunately, she did not), and a jazz horn ensemble called the "BSHA Group." They sucked, but we all declared them JerseyGirl and Kodiak's favorites on the basis of their name.
"BS? H and A? That group is made for you two, dude!" I exclaimed (H and A are Kodiak and JerseyGirl's first initials, and BS--not bullshit--is one of their special BF/GF bonding activities).
"Dude, our BS is way more inspired than this," said JerseyGirl, scoffing at their uninspired rendition of "My Favorite Things." However, from that point on, we all referred to that group as the "Buttsex Kodiak JerseyGirl Group."
In spite of not being at the top of my game in terms of verbal capabilities (I was having a hard time shouting "BOOOO!!!!" without collapsing into a fit of coughing and--like the true dweeb that I am--had to take several hits off my asthma inhaler during the event), I still managed to get very excited about Amateur Night. And today I am not back to 100%, but I am considerably improved. Amateur Night was not only worth getting out of bed for as an evening of entertainment and as a salute to my friend turning 28, it actually may have helped facilitate my recovery. I do NOT shout "BOOOOO!!!!" to Amateur Night.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Harlem world, I hate dancing, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, NYC
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Eliot Spitzer
Alias: George Fox, Client 9
DOB: June 10, 1959
Occupation: governor of New York; john
Hometown: Riverdale, the Bronx, New York, New York
Current residence: Albany, New York (but possibly not for long)
Douchebaggery: Ever since he was elected governor of the Empire State, Eliot Spitzer has been dogged with all sorts of accusations. There have been a number of scandals related to him pulling all sorts of trickery against his political opponents in the state Assembly and Senate, including using state police to document his rivals' travels and conspiring to influence media coverage of scandals related to his enemies. However, that all looks like a cakewalk compared to his most recent fuck-up. It seems Eliot likes to unwind from all that hard work being a "fucking steamroller" (as he once described himself to a political rival) with a nice, relaxing hour or two with a high-priced call girl.
Last night, LL Cool Jew and I were talking about this and she said, "Dude, did you see the Times article about Spitzer? You've got to check it out. It reads like a Jackie Collins novel." I immediately went and read it, and realized why Eliot was so vague in his press conference yesterday. He's seemingly such an old hand at shelling out for these expensive hookers to the point where he has hundreds of dollars in credit left over from previous bookings, and the prostitutes were gossiping that "George Fox" looked a whole lot like the governor of New York.
I don't really care if dudes patronize hookers. For starters, I don't believe that prostitution should be illegal. Adults selling something that it's legal to give away for free to other adults seems to me like a victimless crime. However, when the john in question himself prosecuted several prostitution rings and was elected based on promises to about restoring ethics to Albany. I have a problem with his credibility. Eliot Spitzer shouldn't have been busting up prostitution rings and bloviating about his ethical credentials when he's known around the escort service water cooler as a "difficult client" with tastes the hookers are reticent about indulging. Although he did make good on one campaign promise:
Bring some passion back to Albany, huh? Well, Eliot certainly did that as far as his passion for the ladies of the night are concerned. He may be a hypocritical dumbass, but nobody could ever accuse him of not bringing the passion. Apparently his passions are so kinky that his hooker had to say, "Listen, dude, you really want the sex?" in response to some requests on his part that were outside her comfort zone. Kudos on making good on your campaign promises. Your constituents thank you.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, NYC, politics, sex
Monday, March 10, 2008
Daily Douchebag: fat ugly overbearing lesbians who call me "Britney"
RAZZY Note: this isn't the fat, ugly, overbearing lesbian I am particularly annoyed with, but it's the closest approximation I could find with a Google search for "fat ugly lesbian." This is Daphne Wright, a deaf lezzie who murdered some chick that was hitting on her girlfriend. Currently the South Dakota Supreme Court is deciding whether or not to put her on death row, because it might be cruel and unusual to execute someone who can't hear.
DOB: ???-mid-70s-???
Occupation: hitting on me via insults, being pushy and obnoxious, clitblocking me with the cute femme chicks at the Cubby Hole
Hometown: the Bronx, New York, New York
Current residence: cruising for bitches in the Village of the West
Douchebaggery: As I mentioned last week, I spent Saturday night at the lezzie bar trying to get some pussy for my honey-loving protegee Twathopper. She didn't manage to score any gash, but she did chat up a few ladies quite comfortably and didn't run away from any of them in terror, so I think the night was overall a success. Unfortunately, I didn't have as much luck in the comfortable chatting with the cute girls department.
The night started off very promising. We ate some delicious sushi, and got a few saketinis in the tank to bolster Twathopper's courage for rubbing elbows with the fingerbangity set, and set out for the West Village buoyant with optimism. Although it took forever to get a drink and the bar was crowded enough to warrant negative attention from the fire marshal, we started off by flirting with a couple of relatively pretty lipstick chicks. Sadly, those girls left to go clubbing, so we stepped out to smoke a cigarette, where I was set upon by a fat, hideously ugly butch dyke named Blu.
After showing off her pocketful of Jamba Juice gift cards, Blu managed to get a few minutes of our time by offering us a blunt, which I will neither confirm nor deny we smoked. During this time she regaled us with her opinion on my looks. Apparently in Blu's estimation, I was the hottest girl in the bar. This would have been better coming from someone not more busted than a '79 Pacer with no muffler. I'm not kidding when I say that Blu looked like a bald cupcake in an ill-fitting Akademks sweatshirt. Thus we headed back inside, but were unable to shake Blu. Blu insisted on introducing me to all her ugly butch friends...as BRITNEY.
"My name is ANGIE," I insisted.
"Okay, Britney."
"Don't call me Britney!"
"Why? Britney's hot, Britney."
Is this 2002? Because the last time I checked, the legendary Ms. Britney Spears has been looking a whole lot more like a stray bitch in whelp than the hot piece of ass she once was six years ago. As much as I love Britney, I don't consider being compared to her a compliment. Not to mention I don't have a weave with rats nesting in it, I wasn't wearing torn fishnets, I don't rock the Lee Press-On nails, and I've never been accused of giving off a persistent odor of yesterday's Taco Bell. I was also wearing the standard Razzy uniform (jeans, high heeled boots, and a V-neck titty shirt) rather than my Halloween costume, so these dykes' insistence on referring to me as "Britney" was really, REALLY pissing me off.
"My name is not Britney," I finally said to Blu's main wingbutch. "My name is ANGIE, and I don't like being called Britney."
"But you're blonde," said Wingbutch. "Blu always goes for you little blonde white girls."
Ohhhh, I see. Because Blu has a racial fetish, I'm supposed to just answer to "Britney" like a good dumb blonde. Sorry, bitches, but I don't accomodate insults just because your fat ugly ass wants to play with a Barbie.
"Well, that's fine," I said to Wingbutch. "And I may be blonde, but I'm not a dumb fucking bitch. I'm getting a Ph.D at Columbia. In SCIENCE. And my NAME IS ANGIE."
At least Twathopper was spending this time flirting with a cute chick. I'm glad at least one of us wasn't having her game irreparably tainted by this posse of overbearing, pushy, possessive harpie lumberjacks. When she took a break from her mark, I was like, "Dude, we have to get outside and smoke. NOW."
We escaped outside for a minute, until Blu caught on and came out to find me.
"You're not LEAVING, are you, Britney?"
"PLEASE stop calling me Britney," I said, exasperated.
"Look, you've got to call me, Britney. I'm not like these other girls. I want to get to know YOU. I'm all about YOU."
"How about you start by calling me by my real name?"
Blu ignored this. "I am into having a relationship with YOU. It's all about YOU. The sex is secondary, it's about the relationship with YOU."
"Well, that's where we've got a problem. I do chicks, not relationships. The sex is PRIMARY for me." I thought to myself this was yet another piece of evidence validating my theory that only hideous people think sex is unimportant.
"Oh, I'll change that."
"Yeah, sure. You know, the guys I hook up with aren't trying to wife me. They also call me Angie."
"Oh...you're BI, Britney?"
"Yeah," I said defiantly. "I play both sides of the ball."
"I'll change that."
"Whatevs. Later, Blu." Twathopper and I rushed off into a cab. I was totally pissed. My well of potential pussy had been completely poisoned by Blu and her disrespectful, entitled insistence on being the worst girlfriend ever.
What the fuck is up with these big, burly old butches? They can be worse than men in terms of objectifying and diminishing chicks they set their sights on. Blu didn't listen to a goddamn word I said and just tried to bully her way into my snatch. In spite of her lame sales pitch about being interested in knowing me, she couldn't even address me by my actual name. I can think of very few times I've ever been so minimized by someone who wanted to get in my pants. I've fucked frat boys in bathrooms who treated me with greater humanity and kindness. I guess Blu has to count on manipulating the insecurities of her targets, because she's not scoring pussy based on her utterly unfuckable fat ugliness. However, I am not insecure, and I won't be suckered into getting head from a morbidly obese asshole because of inept attempts to strip me of my identity and possess me. Find some other bitch to spend your Jamba Juice gift cards on. Blu wishes she could kiss my hot ass.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, fat fucks, lezbollah, NYC, sex, Twathopper
Friday, March 07, 2008
Twathopper is ready to spring
Although I've been trying to dispense useful advice about running a stable of hos and becoming technically proficient at girl-girl sex to my lesbian apprentice Twathopper, she hasn't had much luck with the ladies. By "luck with the ladies" I mean she hasn't gotten further than second base. Her problem is that she doesn't know how to pick decent girls. Her first would-be girlfriend, Writersprout, was so lame that her hobbies are baking vegan cupcakes and SUBLETTING. Sure, I'd like to experience living in other New York neighborhoods too, but moving every three months? Sha right...get a life, loser. She then went on a couple dates, one with some overbearing bulldyke who asked her 5 minutes into the date if she had "any questions to ask me about the lesbian community" because this bitch was so confident in her stereotypical representation of the lady gays that she appointed herself spokesbitch for all of us (yes, I'm including bisexuals like me under the heading of "lady gays.") Her next would-be girlfriend, Sarah Babysits, hasn't put out after like 10 dates, is a former tweaker, current pill-popping drug addict, and perennial compulsive liar, and is an adult who actually BABYSITS for a living. Twathopper just tried to dump Sarah Babysits via text message but the girl was so dumb she actually thought Twathopper was FLIRTING with her. Twathopper's record with the ladies so far is a cautionary tale as to why Nerve.com is not a fertile hunting ground for either a fulfilling relationship or a hot lay.
Anyway, Twathopper is a grown woman who has recently embraced her lesbianism in her late twenties. Therefore, she doesn't need to spend a lot of time processing about how she has gone "solstice;" she's ready to lose her lez virginity. Since it's not looking like Sarah Babysits is going to help out in this department (she's spit a lot of the "let's take it slow, I've been hurt before, so let's just kiss and talk" game that was so popular with the boobmashers on the four-year plan at Smith College) and since she's a despicable character anyway, I told Twathopper that she needs to drop her flies into a new honey hole.
There's just one problem with this: Twathopper's last trip to a place where lesbians congregate and drink was disastrous. She went with JerseyGirl and her boyfriend Kodiak to this hipster lezzie bar in Brooklyn called Cattyshack. Cattyshack is generally filled with the New York City equivalent of the Smith College BDOC (Big Dyke on Campus): androgynous, too-cool-for-school bitches who drink PBR from a can for kitsch value, read and/or publish zines, brag about their love of bands nobody's ever heard of, carry messenger bags manufactured by either Brooklyn Industries or Manhattan Portage, and wear cumbersome glasses whether they need vision correction or not. I'm under the impression that Twathopper likes cute, femmy brunettes, so the selection of available women at Cattyshack wasn't really her style. Furthermore, she's got a problem with nerves. According to all accounts, one of the hot lipstick chicks there took a shine to Twathopper and JerseyGirl took it upon herself to bring her over to meet Twathopper, and according to Twathopper herself, she "bugged." She ran outside to smoke a cigarette and thus effectively clitblocked herself. I advised her that fleeing in terror from interested hot chicks is not an effective strategy for picking up pussy at the gay bar.
So this weekend, I am taking it upon myself to get Twathopper laid. On Saturday night, we will be slutted out and getting trashed at this fine establishment in the Village of the West, the aptly named Cubby Hole:
Originally this was supposed to be a big group outing, but JerseyGirl and Kodiak bailed because they have to get up early and go running on Sunday. This is just as well, because I think a big part of Twathopper's problem is nervousness about having an audience for her maiden voyage into Oyster Bay. Therefore, we're going out for dinner (raw fish...OF COURSE) with JerseyGirl and Kodiak first, where I plan to ensure that Twathopper is well-lubed with vodka martinis prior to hitting the lesbian bar with just me. And not that I'm some kind of lesbo pick-up artist or something, but I'm enough of a player, a drunk, and a generally competent barfly to be a useful wingslut in exactly this situation. Besides, maybe I'll nail some hot chick too!
Razzy: so jerseygirl made us sushi reservations for 7:30 pm saturday!
Twathopper: word up
Twathopper: sushi! then lezzies.
Twathopper: perfecto
Razzy: tuna fest
Razzy: it's going to be rad
Twathopper: hahahah
Twathopper: it shall
Twathopper: no matter what happens, i know you and i can certainly make a night out one for the books
Razzy: FA SHO!
Twathopper: i feel shots coming on
Twathopper: yes razzy, yes i do
Razzy: hopefully you will at least conquer your fear of talking to lesbians in social settings
Twathopper: that would be good
Razzy: or at least talking to unfamiliar lesbians
Razzy: particular unfamiliar but cute lesbians who are trying to talk to you
Twathopper: true that
Twathopper: hopefully some lesbian ground will be broken and officially conquered on sat night
Twathopper: and it's better that a bunch of other people don't come b/c i get pretty self conscious with them there
Razzy: yeah i think that when it's a group thing there's more pressure for you
Razzy: like, "let's all watch twathopper try to hit on chicks"
Twathopper: EXACTLY
Razzy: i will be too busy trying to get pussy for myself to pay too much attention to criticizing your moves
Razzy: i mean, of course i'll help out wingman style
Twathopper: i just told my other friends i wouldn't meet them out b/c of this
Twathopper: i'm all balls this week
Twathopper: yesssss
Razzy: NICE
Razzy: that's the spirit, twathopper!
Twathopper: so hopefully it'll transfer over to sat night
Razzy: well i hope so
Razzy: and again,
Razzy: since it's not like twathopper the lesbian show
Razzy: hopefully it will be like a nice, normal night
Razzy: you know
Razzy: go have some drinks
Razzy: find some honey
Razzy: bang her brains out
Twathopper: getting drunk and making out
Twathopper:: hahaha
Razzy: or that
Twathopper: find some honey
Razzy: yeah!
Razzy: we'll make sure you drink plenty of liquid courage before we hit the cubby hole
Twathopper: i'm always at my best when there's no expectations on the night
Razzy: exax
Twathopper: oh totes
Razzy: maybe we'll run into sarah babysits
Razzy: oh wait, she's probs babysitting
Razzy: or getting zonked on OCs and Xanax and meth
Twathopper: ding ding ding
Twathopper: she babysits like every sat night
Twathopper: loser