Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Washington state ride or die
Those of you who are not addicted to the gossip internets may not be familiar with Katie Price, a sophisticated English lady who became famous posing topless for London's version of the New York Post. She got so famous showing her tits–sorry, I mean glamour modeling–that she decided to get a new set of modest F cups installed. Then she banged out a bunch of British footballers, starred in approximately 50 British reality shows, and married some boy bander named Peter Andre.
After spitting out some kids with Peter, things went south for the happy couple, and they split up. She has clearly tried to handle her public divorce with all the care and consideration of any celebrity mother of three concerned about making it as easy as possible on her children: by dumping the kids with her ex and heading to Ibiza to slut it up with her new (gay) boy toy.
I'd normally have approximately ZERO interest in this story if it weren't for the shirt her main homo is wearing. I could be mistaken due to the deep cleavage-baring scoop neck on that shirt, but I do believe it says "Washington State Riders."
I have been to Ibiza and I live in Washington state, and you frankly could not have two more incongruous places. I have no idea why this shirt was being peddled in Europe, much less represents something fashionable for Katie Price/Jordan's rebound queen to rock around Ibiza's many soap bubble clubs. This reminds me of the time I was in Belize and some local who had clearly never been off Ambergris Cay to mainland Belize, much less western Massachusetts, rode by on a beat up old Schwinn wearing a Smith College Biology shirt. Somehow I don't have a Smith College Biology shirt, and I graduated from Smith College with a fucking degree in biology, but a dude living in a corrugated metal shanty on an island off the coast of Belize with no paved roads and sporadic running water somehow managed to rock this fashion.
And I'm not even sure what the "Washington State Riders" are, but I'm equally indignant that somehow this shirt is hot in España but not in Washington state. I Googled "Washington State Riders" and found a bunch of stuff about motorcycles, although no group named exactly that. However, I could be wrong, but it looks like there's a horse on that lemon meringue pie of a top he's wearing. How do eurotrash fame whores know about some "riding" club in my home state that neither I or the internets are privy to?
Or maybe, squinting at it a little more, that's actually a picture of a rooster on his shirt. If that's the case, that makes a little more sense. I can understand why the Washington State (Cock) Riders club doesn't have much of an internet presence, being that we're a more discreet bunch of sluts (ha). I certainly believe that should Katie Price/Jordan's man get a model/acting gig in Seattle, he'll likewise join this club with a quickness.
Labels: celebrities, international intrigue, P-N-Dub, sluts, vulgar display of faggotry
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Look at this fucking Seattle asshole
This past weekend, my roll dog TAFKAMA persuaded me to attend the Northwest Folklife festival. Well, actually, TAFKAMA's girlfriend persuaded me, because TAFKAMA was almost as unenthused about the prospect as myself. The last time I went to Folklife (in 1997), it was pouring rain and the marijuana enthusiasts I was cavorting with insisted that we take shelter in this gigantic lean-to built of random tarps, garbage bags, and 2x4s stuck haphazardly into the muddy grass. I was surrounded by unbathed assholes in homemade clothes made of wet, moldy-smelling hemp trying to spread their scabies and mooch from my stash. It was like being in a sauna scented with patchouli, compost, and B.O., complete with a drum circle and stupid bitches on too many hallucinogens trying to dance. To make matters worse, my cousin dropped acid, and was apparently tripping balls when the structural integrity of this refugee camp for people who don't bathe or shave their armpits by choice began to collapse. One of the supports came loose in the mud, striking my cousin in the head and inspiring a proufoundly disturbing freakout on my cousin's part. I spent the rest of the night trying to keep him from getting arrested and/or sent to the hospital. I did not like Folklife then, and I didn't suppose that I'd like it now.
For those of you unfamiliar with Seattle's busy municipal festival schedule, Folklife is a big clusterfuck of crafts, fair foods, performance art, and music held on Memorial Day weekend at the Seattle Center. There's a bunch of free music shows, an Elephant ear stand, plenty of skateboarding and hacky sacking, and ample space for every random hippie craft peddler in the Northwest to hawk the ugliest sea glass jewelry and pewter salmon-shaped belt buckles money can buy. Basically, this event is a bug light for people that I inherently loathe. However, since I'm a glass half-full type of bitch, I decided to make the best of it and cope in my own way: by making fun of everyone! And since there was no way I could keep track of all the many people to mock by virtue of their great numbers, I brought my camera.
Behold, the multitudes of Seattle and their strange musical instruments, their asinine tattoos, and their unfortunate style choices. The Emerald City at its finest.
Bag pimpin'. Seriously, bagpipes and Scottish bullshit in general is apparently SO HOT right now with the antiestablishment set. It's like everyone watched Highlander, remembered that Sean Connery decapitating bitches is badass, and traded in their anarchy shirts for kilts.
Seattle couture alert! I knew it was only a matter of time before I stumbled across some sexpot capable of combining civil liberty, work freebies, and a bare chest. Who IS this ravishing rogue in the ACLU fleece vest with nothing underneath?! And what better way to exercise one's most basic civil liberty than to ask some passing hottie if you can bum a smoke off her?! Free speech, motherfucker!
And on the Third Day, after Jesus rose from the dead in fulfillment of the scriptures, he hired Artie Lang as a bodyguard and restyled himself as a safari photographer and avid drum circle participant.
"So guys, Ken says we should meet him and Skipper over at the Cha Cha later."
Axl Rose, is that you?
All of the boys and all of the girls are NOT dying to If You Seek THIS DUDE.
Milk may do a body good, but it sure as shit isn't doing anything for this Blossom's-dad/Patrick Duffy hybrid's ugly face.
It was a challenge for me to stay away from these tantalizing specimens. Effeminate Joey Ramone and Firecrotch Paul Westerberg and their gang of merry MMORPG-playing virgins were about 10,000 degrees of sizzling hot sex. I can only assume that they weren't swarmed with every legwarmer-wearing, shaggy-haired slag at the music festival because they burned them with their scorching hotness.
And what have we here? Why, it's one of Seattle's most eligible bachelors looking single and ready to mingle, as he's dressed to impress. This low rent Layne Staley donned his finest fedora, bandit-style neck kerchief, and Iron Maiden muscle shirt, grabbed a latte, and put out the vibe. No word on whether he managed to score.
Apparently today's generation of skater punks are easily bewitched by trick yo-yo-ing. Or maybe the guy on the right is just considering his next career move, since festival roving yo-yo performer is probably one of the good-paying jobs that actually does start after he gets up.
These guys look like they are either the last remnants of the Manson Family or about to attempt to sell me cunt and whiskey at the Gem Saloon in Deadwood. And please believe that whichever comparison is more apt, their band still sucked extraordinarily.
Here I captured a quiet, reflective moment in which this young, wallet chain-bearing man and his black widow forearm tat discreetly pour a PBR (of COURSE) into a Steamers soda cup. He stares off into the distance as he ponders who he will bum his next cigarette from.
This fat Fred Durst-looking dude came by with his busted Andy Samberg-looking friend and actually asked me to take his picture. Well, he made a comment about me taking pictures of the crowd, I asked if he'd like his picture taken, and he answered in the affirmative. He was like "Make sure you e-mail that to fatfreddurstlookingdudeorwhatevs@google.com." I responded, "Actually, just go to my website. I'm reporting on this event for RAZZY.org. That's R-A-Z-Z-Y dot ORG! Check it, Big Guy!"
"Dude, as long as you're up, can you get me some curly fries? I'm busy practicing my I'm-in-denial-that-I-should-buy-tank-tops-at-Lane-Bryant squat. And texting."
TAFKAMA managed to find a pair of sunglasses even stupider and with more tines than the ones he was wearing. He indicated his excitement by rapidly pumping his fists. The forks actually work on him.
I can't think of a less appealing offer than a complimentary hug from this aspiring vagrant/jelly bracelet aficionado. Except maybe what was on the other side of this cardboard placard: "DONATIONS OF CASH AND CIG'S ACCEPTED."
Local artists: because if you roll with the socks-and-Tevas set, you can never have enough pictures of the Cascades or the Columbia River hanging around your yert.
Real men wear shirts covered with a jaunty Scottish terrier pattern when singing atonal renditions of "Blowin' In the Wind" for spare change.
A little bit grungy, a little bit metrosexual. Seriously, are those punk hipster man-pris that he's wearing? God, no wonder the best asymmetrically-coiffed pussy he could get has such an extreme FUPA that for a second I thought she might have a little retro style-mixing, hygiene-eschewing bun in the oven.
Whatever this grouchy chick in the green is bitching about, I probably agree with her, since I can't imagine she's hating on anything besides her friend's poor hairstyle choices. I can practically smell that unwashed cat-scratching post lounging across from her radiating a foul vapor of fermenting armpit sweat and rancid nag champa from through my computer screen.
This lady right here is a common variety of Seattle craftswoman. She probably drives an Outback or a CRV, she always eats weird shit like sunflower seed butter and muesli and yak yogurt for lunch, and she has a REI platinum card, which she probably used to buy an REI fanny pack. She likes to camp, hike, recycle, and wear unattractive cowboy hats. She actually buys and listens to CDs of Andean flute players. She's got a closet full of ponchos and you know that homegirl rocks denim jackets with corduroy collars in the fall. She lives on a farm in Issaquah and likely owns horses. If you look in the mirror behind her, you can see me, and my expression pretty much says it all.
Behold, the genesis of a Craigslist "missed connection."
"ZOMG, I can't believe that guy is wearing a HOLLISTER shirt! Who wears Hollister shirts? They're like so unoriginal, not at all like the Vuarnet shades and terrorist scarf I'm rocking. What a total conformist follower."
This guy's grave expression lets the world know that he wants to be taken extremely seriously.
Miley Cyrus hearts recycling.
Jamie-Lynn Spears, what are you doing here?!
I was unaware that the band Insane Clown Posse was still around and had actively practicing fans. In fact, I had forgotten about Insane Clown Posse's very existence. When pressed, I vaguely remember that they made shiteous rap metal and used to hose each other down homoerotically with bottles of some weird Detroit-specific brand of soda. However, the ICP faithful–which the internets inform me are called "juggaloes" on account of their clown-themed tomfoolery and their attempt to associate themselves with male prostitutes–were out in full makeup and regalia at Folklife.
I'd be hard-pressed to come up with anything that screams "I AM A HUGE LOSER" more resoundingly than being a rabid, publicly out Juggalo. I can't fathom why anyone would embrace a culture based on shitty music, clown makeup, hatchets, fat people, and being stuck in 1998. These guys make World of Warcraft-playing shut-ins look like the world's most eligible bachelors in comparison. I could probably beat up these bitch-asses. FAIL.
In spite of what these ladies' shirts profess, it would really be more accurate to say they are "Keeping It Round." I am sad I didn't get a chance to see these gals' square dancing skills in action, because I always love me a large elephant stampede.
Ah, the innocence of girlhood! Nothing warms my heart more than seeing a young lass as refined as this. I nostalgically hearken back to my own days as a dewy-eyed maiden of ten or eleven, when I'd put on my favorite marijuana leaf-kerchief and go essential oil and dried herb shopping. Alas, if only I were a child again!
I'm calling it now: these people are from Puyallup, and came up to Seattle for this. If not from Puyallup, they are from somewhere nearby, like Graham, Spanaway, Pacific, Fife, Orting, or maybe Auburn or Kent. They're talking about how great it is to travel to the BIG CITY for this faincy outside-type party, even if Slipknot isn't playing.
And yep, she's definitely from down south. That's a meth country tramp stamp if I've ever seen one. Please believe I'll probably see this bitch at the Roadhouse one of these days.
When Robert Sylvester Kelly announced at the beginning of the song "Hotel" that "we in our throwbacks" in the hopes that the ladies would get the hint that "we got room keys," this was probably not the image he was trying to evoke.
Here's another entry into the "Most Stomach Churning Outfit" contest. I can only hope that Laura Ingalls Wilder is suggesting to Muffin Top that playing a stick with a long string on it is a great workout.
What's most frightening about the Brangelina of Folklife is that he's pushing a stroller. Apparently, they have reproduced. God help us all.
Every time a shitty improv jam band plays, a moronic skank in Rainbow Brite legwarmers gets her wings.
"I know the Weezer Tribute Band is playing on a stage around here somewhere."
"Dude, know what would be awesome? Let's skate down to Seattle Center and shop for some local salmon and/or thunderbird totem folk art."
Trust a veteran penis aficionado on this: homeskillet's ear-butt plugs are bigger than his dick. So is that American Spirit he's sucking on, for that matter.
When I was in grade school, my music teacher Mrs. Knudsen made us all play the recorder. In particular, she wrote this one shitty recorder song that went along with this Native American myth about the Whale in the Sky. Because I had played piano for five or six years at that point, I was completely unimpressed with her lame four-note interpretation of "Whale in the Sky." Even worse, she made half the class play it, and half the class sing these asinine lyrics she wrote for it, most of which consisted of repeating "WHA-ALE IN THE SKYYYYYYYY." Thanks to that incompetent recorder composer, every time I see someone playing a recorder, I immediately hear that shit in my head. It was like the Lady Gaga of grade school: something that gets in your head and despite your hatred for it, won't get out. Anyway, I saw this dude, and immediately thought, "WHA-ALE IN THE SKYYYYYYYYYYY."
And finally, TAFKAMA demonstrates how we managed to get through. He has these awesome hypercolor cups that make Vitamin R look like perfectly legal, innocuous strawberry lemonade. Said cups were very useful once my vodka ran out.
I think that from now on, when I go to a stupid event in Seattle, I'm going to bring my camera. This city is really like a horn of plenty brimming with people for me to rag on. A veritable scornucopia. Stay tuned, and if you live here, watch out.
Labels: assholes, goddamn Seattle, P-N-Dub, TAFKAMA
Monday, May 18, 2009
Seattle is already pissing me off
Don't get me wrong, because I'm excited to be back in the P-N-Dub. Although there are many things I miss about New York, my time in Seattle so far has basically ruled. I have appliances that I've merely fantasized about for the last six years, and I'm very happy doing chores around my comparatively gigantic apartment and listening to my icemaker thump steadily and rapturously. I have a Costco membership, my buddies Morrissey'sHair and TAFKAMA are practically my next-door neighbors, my fridge is loaded with Vitamin R, I partied with Sig Hansen AGAIN at CatchCon, the Mariners are at least doing a little better than they were last year, and I managed to cap off a night of lame wall painting with some hot unexpected lesbian sex. Oh, AND I get to have dinner at my parents' house every weekend! As soon as I identify the location of the nearest Taco Time, life will be all sunshine, Mexi-Fries, and cunnilingus.
However, in spite of my happiness at being back in the verdant corner of the country from whence I came, aspects of Seattle that I consider less than appealing have already begun to draw my ire. I knew it was only a matter of time before this happened. When I lived in Tacoma, Seattle used to piss me off to no end. It turns out, this is still true. While I'm generally enjoying life, a few things have emerged to push my internal "KILL A BITCH" button.
1. Stupid fucking eco-asshole-themed bumper stickers. People in Seattle love to be greener than the Prius driver next door, and they aren't shy about covering their hybrid or their Subaru in stickers proclaiming this. I actually saw a Saturn hybrid (LOSER) that had a bumper sticker reading "TREEHUGGER." This was in the company of a variety of obnoxious self-righteous stickers along the lines of "Ignore the Environment...It Will Go Away," "Have You Thanked a Green Plant Today?," and "The Revolution Will Not Be Motorized." Sha. The Terminator movies have indicated that any major revolution will, in fact, be motorized, and that franchise is more credible than an asshole who puts a "< / car >'" sticker ON HIS FUCKING CAR! Buy some REI fleece instead of blowhard bumper stickers bragging about how "My Prius Accelerates Faster Than Your SUV" and shut your tempeh hole, hippie-crite. Oh, and BT-dubs. That duo of Kucinich '04 and '08 stickers on the back window of your Outback? You should be embarrassed about that.
2. SoapNet is not included in the Seattle Comcast basic digital cable package. The other day I went to watch a rerun of the greatest show in the history of television AKA "Beverly Hills, 90210" and flipped through my new digital cable until I found SoapNet. I was all excited to see Dan Rubin, hot Jewish English nerd, flirt with Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman while she whines condescendingly about the self-loathing Jew running the Alpha Omega sorority, Steve Sanders pledge the KEG house while laying the groundwork for major drama with the nefarious John Sears, David Silver experiment with meth, and Brenda fail miserably at being Jim Walsh's office bitch. Alas, my hopes were dashed when I flipped to SoapNet and discovered that I have to upgrade to a more expensive cable package to get my Bev Niner fix! The fact that I have seen every Bev Niner episode at least five times and own the DVDs is irrelevant. Bev Niner-showing channels should ALWAYS be considered "basic" and included in cable packages accordingly. I also discovered that National Geographic Channel is likewise considered semi-premium when I DVR'd an hour of a blank screen that should have showed me "Locked Up Abroad: Indonesia." I never thought I'd say anything nice about the knuckle-dragging morons who work at Time Warner Cable, but at least they have their priorities in order more than Seattle Comcast.
3. My local pizza place sells RAW pizza. Seriously. I live down the street from this place called 'Zaw, which is not only a stupid fucking name, but they sell uncooked pizza. At first I thought this was one of those places that serves actual raw pizza, but after checking out their website, I realized that it's actually a take-and-bake place. I guess that's slightly better, but it's probably the most self-inflated bake-at-home pizza place–excuse me, I mean "artisan pizza in the raw" place–I've ever seen. On their website their pizza is described as "tummy-nourishing" and "life enhancing." They add snottily, "Not all pizza comes in a grease-stained box. (Ick!)" Parenthetical Ick! is right, at least if we're talking about the asshole who actually managed to make a take-and-bake pizza menu pretentious. Parenthetical Ick! is how I feel about trying to order something called "The Arizawna" or "Formaggio the IV" when I'm drunk and hungry for some grease-stained box pizza and then having to actually cook it. (Fucking hella ICK!)
4. There is a Lady Gaga song on any given radio station at any given time. Yes, Lady Gaga annoyed me plenty in New York too, but I don't recall Hot97 playing "Just Dance" every two seconds. They may have played "Right Now" by Akon or anything by Ne-Yo every two seconds, but not Lady Gaga. Here, I discovered to my extreme chagrin that "Poker Face" was simultaneously eliciting homicidal anger from me on THREE different radio stations. Because my hot Cam'ry doesn't yet have a CD player and I can't be bothered to dig out my old cassette tapes (which consists Vanilla Ice's To The Extreme, NKOTB's entire early 90s repertoire, Out of Time by REM, the Metallica black album, and the Cocktail soundtrack, if I recall), I'm stuck with the radio. Hearing that fug disco skank belt out a casino-themed ode to her own sick game (and I do mean sick...bitch is a blight upon humanity and her face should be reclassified as a disease) does not give me a peaceful attitude about rolling to Taco Time in the Cam'. Lady Gaga sucks and yet the people of western Washington (at least those listening to KUBE 93, Movin' 92.5, or KISS 106) seem to compulsively require regular dosing with the electronically augmented wailing of this club banshee at 5 minute intervals. Please, dear God, can the backlash bred by such relentless overexposure start ruining this hooker's life already?
5. Spiders. In six years in New York City, I maybe saw five spiders. They were all small and manageable. The worst spider incident in NYC involved me discovering a daddy long-legs residing in a corner of the ceiling in my shower, and I had to ask this dude I was banging to exterminate it for me. Here, I have pleasant dreams about daddy long-legs. The spiders in the P-N-Dub are no fucking joke. This weekend I was hanging out with my friend TAFKAMA at his girlfriend's house. We left to go hit the bars, and on the way out, TAFKAMA says something like, "Check that out, Razzy." I look at where he is pointing, and see ONE OF THESE FUCKING THINGS. I freaked out and fled the scene at a sprint, babbling "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod." Once outside, TAFKAMA apologized, saying he didn't realize I was THAT arachnophobic, in spite of having heard anecdotal tales of my great spider-related freakouts for nearly 20 years. I am not pleased about the fact that there is plenty more spider action where this came from.
6. People who can't fucking drive. The greater Seattle-Tacoma region has some of the worst traffic in the country, and this isn't just because state officials have the transportation engineering skills of Paris Hilton. While it is completely asinine that people seem to believe that the solution to all of Seattle's horrible congestion problems is to extend the novelty monorail built as a tourist attraction for the 1962 World's Fair, the real problem is not just based on flawed transit planning. The real problem is all the stupid assholes who can't drive in the rain. If you live in Seattle, your ass really has no excuse AT ALL for going 35 on the freeway just because it's sprinkling. You should be used to driving in the rain since everyone drives here and it rains all the fucking time. You should not freak out and go at a snail's pace, and then stop to let an entire freeway ramp merge in front of you because you drive like a fucking pussy, oblivious to the giant line of cars slowing to a miserable halt on the freeway behind you. I'm not a super aggressive or pissed-off driver, but I also don't act like a passive dick by being "nice" and letting more than one car bust into line in front of me.
I could go on for pages, except I have to go to work. My new job is definitely not giving me a honeymoon period. I already have business cards and a full Outlook schedule! And I have a meeting this morning, which should be sufficiently dull as to allow me to organize my thoughts about the next 6+ points about what to hate in Seattle.
Labels: P-N-Dub, ranting, Razzification, retard rage
Monday, May 04, 2009
Miss me?
First off, let me apologize for being so absent the past three weeks or so. I was finishing up my thesis, defending it, and then jumping through eight zillion bureaucratic hoops you don't even want to hear about in order to get Ph.ake doctored. BUT you can all officially call me Dr. Razzy now. I even have a faincy letter from Columbia saying so. Then, as soon as I finished, I moved to Seattle. Moving cross country sucks just as much as I remember it sucking, so I didn't feel compelled to share that wonderful experience with the few Razzyphiles who haven't either deserted me in disgust or killed themselves in despair over my absence.
Anyway, first things first: I sort-of moved into my new apartment yesterday. My dad had a hilarious conversation about veganism and fake meat with the long-haired Seattle-type guy working the pizza counter at Whole Foods. This was after my dad duly impressed another Whole Foods employee and fellow "Seinfeld" fan with his Vandelay Industries t-shirt, which was declared "awesome." My dad started swaggering around the store, emboldened by his compliments from the Whole Foods guy, complaining he'd left his sunglasses at home because "when you're cool, baby, the sun always shines." Then he pondered employment at Whole Foods, because "people there have some taste, alright."
Then I did some painting and went with my buddy TAFKAMA to find my neighborhood bar. I continually marveled at how cheap everything is. A salad, nachos, a Johnnie Walker rocks, a Jim Beam with soda, and three beers came to $27. In New York that same tab would be at least $50. TAFKAMA also advised me that I live in a "hot new neighborhood." I have my doubts because he also told me this "hot neighborhood" was created by Paul Allen, but nonetheless I have yet to see someone over the age of 35 in my apartment building. This place is like a really modern, well-equipped dorm for grownups. Last night when I was showing him the rooftop deck there were about ten people getting drunk and barbecuing tofu tikka masala or something (ugh, Seattle), and among them were at least two hot guys. I mentioned this, and TAFKAMA mused, "I wonder how long it's going to be before you start doing some asshole who lives a floor or two up from you."
So I still don't have much to report, but hopefully living in the giant South Lake Union version of Melrose Place will change that soon. Already TAFKAMA declared that I look "very gangsta for Seattle," which I think bodes well for pulling in some neighborly ass at a roof deck party. I think.
In any event, cancel your suicide plans because I'm going to be back on the blog with greater frequency. So get those "your fat and old and ugly" insults ready, or alternatively dust off those requests/demands that I show off my tits, so I can ignore them both. I am back to service all your useless bullshit needs. Holla.
Labels: goddamn Seattle, P-N-Dub, Razzification
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
You're exactly my brand of haterade, Twilight
I thought that my loathing toward the Twilight franchise was going to be like a summer fling, except full of boiling hate rather than hot sex. I figured that after some initially intense, explosive feelings of loathing toward this shitshow, my ire would burn itself out and I'd move on to the next pop culture phenomenon worthy of my dedicated abhorrence. In a few months, my comprehensive dislike for the world's lamest Washington coast-dwelling, Volvo-driving, neutered supermodel glitter vampires would fade just like last year's random honeys and I could train the crosshairs of my hateration elsewhere.
Unfortunately, due to my inability to avoid Twilight-related news, it appears that my hatred has been reduced to a slow simmer and is here to stay. I read the news, and there's Twilight, being inexplicably associated with random gang violence. I read my celebrity gossip, and see that Robert Pattinson is grossing everyone out on the set of the Twilight sequel New Moon because of his dislike for showers and generally disturbing lack of personal hygiene. Oddly, the fact that Robert Pattinson has the bathing regimen of a homeless meth addict on the gay hooker stroll and looks accordingly does not seem to deter a disturbingly large number of my female friends from rhapsodizing about his putative hotness, and I get to hear about this frequently via their Facebook status messages. In fact, Facebook is where I am most routinely confronted with unwanted Twilight-related information. Just yesterday, my news feed advised me that my high school ex-girlfriend is "stoked that her nephew gave her the collector's edition of Twilight on DVD for her birthday." Upon reading that, my eyes started rolling so uncontrollably that it probably looked like I was having a really bitchy seizure.
In fact, the only REMOTELY positive thing I can think of about Twilight is a little tidbit my Facebook wife ElCyd shared with me last night. We were Gchatting about the usual (Jayhawk basketball, the latest honeys on our ho rosters, how awesome we are, how much law school/grad school sucks, fucking girls and/or lesbian drama, our plans for world domination, our inherent Scorpio similarities, and how much my defense party is going to rule), and ElCyd decided to bring up Twilight. I can forgive ElCyd's rabid enthusiasm about Twilight, as she fully admits that it's godawful. I guess it's useful, too, since she came up with the only positive thing I've ever heard about the entire brand:
ElCyd: (p.s. best part of twilight the movie is the shout-out to Vitamin R)
Razzy: i did not see, obv
Razzy: but WHAT
Razzy: RAINIER BEER WAS IN TWILIGHT?!
ElCyd:: YES!
ElCyd: and they CALL IT VITAMIN R
ElCyd: IN THE MOVIE
Razzy: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!?!?!?!
Razzy: NO
Razzy: WAY
ElCyd: seriously
Razzy: ZOMG
ElCyd: i know.
Razzy: okay i might have to see twilight now
Razzy: i'm assuming it's not the sparkle vamps who call it that
ElCyd: no no
Razzy: but the redneck teens from forks
ElCyd: lol
ElCyd: redneck parents
Razzy: of course
Razzy: the teenagers don't drink
Razzy: they just build lame bonfires
ElCyd: in reference to a tallboy 6 pack of cans
Razzy: ah yes, the tallboy sixer of vitamin R
Razzy: soon to be a common sight in my refrigerator
Razzy: trust that
ElCyd: oh, i do.
ElCyd: please believe.
Razzy: those tallboy sixers of vitamin R are like $4
Razzy: so awesome
Razzy: i wonder if that clip is on youtube
Razzy: that will save me from having to watch twilight in its entirety
Razzy: which could result in someone's death
Unfortunately, nobody has yet had the presence of mind to save innocent bystanders from my murderous wrath by posting a YouTube of the scene in which Bella Swan's dad gives a shout-out to the greatest beer ever brewed, the sweet nectar of the P-N-Dub, Rainier Beer AKA "Vitamin R." Now maybe if there's a scene in New Moon in which the characters go pick up a crisp beef burrito and some Mexi-Fries from the Forks Taco Time, or take a detour to my hometown to Do the Puyallup, I could muster the inner strength to tolerate this bullshit. In the meantime, Bella Swan can stay addicted to her unshowered sparkling paramour. I have accepted that there is no escape from my hatred for it, and will just remain addicted to hating it.
Labels: ElCyd, librophilia, P-N-Dub, ranting, retard rage
Monday, January 12, 2009
It's called the "Great" Northwest for a reason
I know I've been seriously AWOL lately, and for that I apologize to all the Razzyphiles who have been rending their garments, self-flagellating, weeping, gnashing their teeth, and generally experiencing crushing despair due to useless bullshit withdrawal. I spent the holidays frantically dispatching mice in my lab and arranging postdoc interviews for later this week. I'm also trying to make a serious dent in my dissertation and write two papers. In short, I'm working my tits off (thankfully, not literally), and I have barely had time to eat or sleep. Hell, I've barely had time to get my daily rub-off in, and that's just unacceptable.
As of today, I'm in the beautiful (and by "beautiful" I mean "gray and overcast") P-N-Dub, sitting at my parents' kitchen counter working diligently away on still more science-type stuff. However, I did break away long enough to go out and get my drink on in Tacompton with HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair this past weekend. While I was at Doyle's, a standard Tacoma watering hole, I was informed by the barkeep and Razzyphile extraordinaire Startender that my site has gone neglected for so long that I'm second-to-last on his internet surfing history. Nonetheless, Startender still hooked me up with some complimentary scotch for being the source of all things Razzified, but I drank it with a sense of shame. Despite my legitimate excuses for doing so, I've been appallingly remiss at blessing you with my prosaic hotness. I plan to do a little making up for that now, if only so that Startender doesn't regret his generous gift of Johnnie Walker.
Unfortunately, I haven't been up to speed on my internets gossip on account of spending 90% of my online time on PubMed. So instead of railing on whatever current event has pissed me off and/or excited me I will instead try to answer a question that a number of people have been asking me lately: Why am I moving back to the P-N-Dub?
Oh, did I mention? I'm probably moving back to the P-N-Dub this spring after I get Ph.ake doctored. I love New York like crazy, but I'm so tired of being broke all the time and living in what could pass for a Gangs of New York-style tenement. Seriously, if I live there any longer, I'm going to have to sharpen my teeth and become proficient in hand-to-hand combat with meat cleavers and various farm tools. I'm also tired of struggling to find dogsitters and being so far away from my family. So like all great affairs, mine with living in New York City is coming to an end in favor of stupid, dumb Seattle. Also, there are some hot-ass virologists up at the University of Washington who I can get a sweet postdoc with.
Now, I realize that Seattle is a lame fucking city that annoys me to no end. Seattle people, whether they fall into the category of Overblown Yuppie, Scruffy Hipster, or Environmental Nazi, are all ultimately the same in the sense that most of them are from backwater towns like Eatonville and Mukilteo and Chehalis and compensate for such humble upbringings by being insufferably condescending to everyone crossing their paths. I do not like most of them and they usually do not like me. Tacoma, while I love it for its more unassuming, blue collar atmosphere, is too far away from Seattle to live. I did that commute for three years and vowed that I would never again live so far away from my place of employment. After-work happy hour is a critical part of my professional life, and long driving commutes are not conducive to early evening drunkenness. However, there are many bonuses to living in the P-N-Dub in spite of Seattle's wholesale suckery. In spite of my tendency to be a ruthless, brutal hater, I actually am a very optimistic, glass-half-full kind of person, and I've compiled a list of things that are going to be AWESOME about living here.
1. Close proximity to my parents and little brother. This pretty much speaks for itself. I'm very close to my family, so being able to come over, raid the fridge, do laundry, and get free dogsitting services is hella awesome. Notice I said "hella." I'm getting back into West Coast mode!
2. Taco Time.
For those who have never been to the P-N-Dub, you've probably never heard of Taco Time, and that is your grave misfortune. It is the best fucking fake-me-out Mexican fast food you will ever eat. The crisp beef burrito is like a sublime tube of deep-fried meat and their Mexi-Fries (aka deep fried tater tots with taco seasoning on them) are mind blowing. Taco Time is the only fast food I will deign to consume. When I'm in New York, I have had dreams about eating Taco Time.
3. I always get laid like crazy in the P-N-Dub. I certainly get plenty of action in New York, too, but never like it is here. I don't know what it is about the honeys here, but they LOVE my ass. They're practically lining up to knock this thang out. I'm barely in town for one day and I've got my hand down some random 24-year-old's pants. Then the next night I got some totally different ass! I'm a true playerette for real wherever I'm at, but my inherent game is at its apex here in the Dub-A.
4. It's cheaper than New York. With the exception of some ridiculously priced Lagavulin scotch I drank the other night while I was hanging out at my buddy TAFKAMA's neighborhood bar in Seattle, booze, food, rent, gas, and life in general is less expensive. In New York, I not only have to pay a state income tax and a state sales tax, I also have to pay CITY income and sales taxes. In Washington, there isn't even a state income tax and top shelf scotch in Puyallup is $5.
5. Pretty scenery.
6. Rainier Beer
Otherwise known as "Vitamin R," Rainier is the next best thing to the nectar of the gods. Truly there is no finer lager in the entire world than Rainier. Okay, well, that might not be true because Rainier is pretty shitty. However, as far as shitty beers go, Rainier sets a standard of excellence that all other canned beverages can only dream of achieving. Thus far I've already consumed at least 3 Vitamin R tallboys, and I've still got a week of this working vacation to go.
7. Seahawks fans abound
While the Seahawks may have had one of their worst seasons since the mid-90s this past year, I never stopped wearing my jerseys. Even when we were 2-10 I gritted my teeth and headed for the bar bravely rocking my Tatupu jersey in spite of the derisive statements some of my fellow bar patrons made concerning the Hawks' performance this season. The nicer people (ie: my friends and/or dudes who want to bone me) attributed it to the rash of injuries suffered by the Seahawks. The assholes (ie: Cowboys, Eagles, Giants, Patriots, Jets, and/or Bears fans) attributed it to the phenomenon known around the P-N-Dub as "S.O.S.", or Same Old Seahawks, the local term for the Hawks' reversion to the old days when they sucked harder than a toothless hooker. Moving back to the P-N-Dub means I don't have to put up with any of this bullshit. Instead, I can simply wallow in everyone else's collective depression. It also means I don't have to explain what the fuck "SEA-fence" means.
8. Lots of people for me to mock.
The other night, my friend TAFKAMA took me to a hipster bar on karaoke night. When we walked in, I was like, "TAFKAMA, this place sucks! I feel like I'm in goddamned Williamsburg, what with all these losers in their trucker hats singing bad Blondie covers. Do you come here because you actually hang out with these people? I want to go back to the classy bar with the expensive scotch."
"I never come here with anyone," he confessed. "It's not like I come here because I want to be part of this scene. I only come here to watch and make fun of these people. I know you'd be into that. And there's $1.25 cans of Oly."
While I'll always take a Vitamin R over an Oly, I did admit that I couldn't beat that deal and indeed I was into it. TAFKAMA is a lot of fun to rag on people with because he's extremely perceptive and chances are, he's already got a lot of material that he's just been waiting to try out. For example, I was wondering why these hipsters were so void of boxy glasses, an accessory that I assumed was as much a part of the uniform as a messenger bag or a copy of something by Camus for the pretense of intellect. TAFKAMA advised me, "Bushy Grizzly Adams beards are the new boxy glasses." He was right. Every last one of these assholes had a faceful of unkempt pubes to wear with their plaid button-up/vintage t-shirt combos. TAFKAMA and I proceeded to spend the next two hours tearing apart every asshole in the place, from the guy wearing some sort of Church of Satan shirt to the fat girl wearing what can only be described as pantaloons with a hideous sweater dress that made her look like a giant black-and-green bratwurst.
I could go to hipster karaoke every night if those are the kind of outfits I'm going to see. And in addition to the Hipster Douchebags are the Overblown Yuppies, who spend all their time talking about garlic presses and wines and trying to sound incredibly cosmopolitan and sophisticated in spite of the fact that they live in tiny-ass Seattle, and the Environmental Nazis, who bike everywhere, eat vegan, and constantly whine about being green. In otherwords, the material is limitless.
9. Second to last but not remotely least, all my old school friends. These people have known me since before I hit puberty in some cases, and they always ask when I'm going to move back. Well, the answer to that is probably "April 2009."
10. Finally, to all my devoted Razzyphiles, I am sorry for being so incommunicado. If I move to the P-N-Dub, I will be spending considerably less time freaking out over things like money and grad school and that sort of bullshit. That means I'll have more time for blogging. And since there's only nine good things I could think of about the P-N-Dub, there's a multitude of others that enrage me and will provide solid grist for the Razzy mill for a long time to come. Please be patient with me the next few months as I finish up at school and get a job. I'll check in at least once a week, and I'll be back for good before you know it.
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: alcoholism, excuses, P-N-Dub, Razzification, Razzyphiles, Seahawks
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