Thursday, October 16, 2008
To all the Joe Sixpacks I've fucked before...
Last night when I was watching officer and a hot piece Senator John McCain debate old Pointy Pelvis Obama, I have to admit that I got a little tired of hearing about "Joe the Plumber" and his fate. Yeah, yeah, I get it...Obama's a pinko who hangs out with ex-terrorist professors and is in bed with the Trotskyite community organizations my BFF LL Cool Jew used to work for. In fact, I'm getting a little tired of hearing about all these "Joe" characters. The McCain campaign needs to quit naming the average hardworking American "Joe" because it's getting old.
I know about the kind of (blue collar PWT) American McCain is referring to, because I grew up surrounded by Joe Sixpacks and Joe the Plumber, except none of them were named Joe. There's my uncle Don the Boeing machinist, my dad Rick the schoolteacher and former Teamster/dairyman/truck driver, my uncle Beau the Frito Lay deliveryman, my uncle Merle the carpenter, my uncle Gene the mental hospital handyman, my cousin Josh the county sheriff, my uncle John the shipping clerk, my cousin Kyle the drug addict/petty criminal, and so forth. Then, when I grew up and returned to my humble county of origin after college, I encountered plenty more Joe Six- Twelve- 24-Packs in the greater Tacoma-Puyallup non-metropolitan area. Among others, I fucked Chris the roof shingler, Carson the Alaska tour guide and metalworker, Don the piercing and tattoo apprentice, L.J. the meth dealer (my discovery of his particular small business venture marked the end of our affair), and Brent the day laborer. None of these guys, who I presume are the people McCain and Palin are talking to and about, are named "Joe."
Furthermore, the majority of these guys probably don't vote, and many of them probably don't pay taxes, much less care about tax breaks. Mike the proud deadbeat dad/drywall hanger was way more interested in fucking me up the ass while we watched WWE Smack Down (I was REALLY drunk) than he probably ever would be about the middle class share of the tax burden. Furthermore, since he actually bragged that he couldn't be bothered paying his child support, I doubt he was on top of getting anything out to the IRS. When Nick the landscaper came over and got shitfaced with me on two $7 bottles of wine that he pronounced "classy" prior to banging me to the point of vomiting said wine into my hand as I ran to the bathroom (that was obviously the classiest part), I sincerely doubt that he was concerned about the merits of trickle-down versus trickle-up economics. In fact, his main concern after I gargled the regurgitated cheap merlot out of my mouth and we resumed chafing rug burns into my ass was that my dog Caesar ate his entire bag of weed while we were screwing on my living room floor.
These "Joe Sixpacks" aren't even watching the debate to hear the message Senator McCain is trying to say to them and on their behalf. They probably don't even know there's a debate going on. To give you an idea of their general awareness of the greater world, Jeff the airplane mechanic, a dude who was trying to court me in a clumsy and ineffective way, asked if I'd ever heard of Thai food. Not if I'd ever tried Thai food or if I liked Thai food, but if I'd ever HEARD of it at all. I told him that I heard rumors of a mysterious land in southeast Asia called Thailand, and that they have food there. He completely missed my sarcasm and thought this represented an opportunity to introduce me to rare culinary treats like coconut curry and spring rolls. I decided that he was too dumb and annoying to continue banging, and dumped him before he could make a big show about putting me face to face with an exotic delicacy like a plate of fucking pad thai, and he commenced stalking me all over Tacoma, which culminated in him molesting me at a bar and my slapping him and getting him thrown out. Wherever Jeff the airplane mechanic is now, I have no doubt that his taste for mee krob comprises his sole interest in foreign policy, and he could give a shit less what ACORN does or what the Bush tax cuts are or what either candidate thinks about incorporating clean coal technology into their energy plans. Like most of the Joe Sixpacks I know, he's probably more interested in the Seahawks injury report than overhauling the tax code. I would wager that his sole expertise on the matter of taxes is that if you drive to the Puyallup reservation, you don't have to pay them on your cigarettes or chaw.
John McCain needs to quit talking to Joe Sixpack and Joe the Plumber and whoever else. He needs to start talking to his other constituencies. For example, I would like to hear him say something about how he's going to make sure Razzy the Impoverished Skankified Microbiology Graduate Student won't have any problem whatsoever getting an insanely high-paying job when she graduates, so that she can continue to look snobbishly down at all the Joe Sixpacks she bones whenever she's home in the P-N-Dub. They obviously need a fourth debate where John McCain can address this small but critical part of the American voting public, because these Joes have been hogging all the attention.
Labels: John McCain, P-N-Dub, politics, PWT, sex, sluts
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Justin Timberlake
Name: Justin Randall Timberlake
DOB: January 31, 1981
Occupation: a fashion maven in his own deluded mind
Hometown: Shelby Forest, Tennessee
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I used to like JT back in the day. I thought *NSYNC was hilarious (although Joey the Fatone was really my favorite of all the guys) and I've been known to slay "Bye Bye Bye" in karaoke after a few cocktails. I also enjoyed Justin's solo work...until every girly girl in the world decided that he was the second coming of Elvis and forced me to endure an endless spinning of Future Sex/Love Sounds. Even though that shit is like two years old, it's STILL the only thing my friend MillerTime listens to in her car. And after my friend Wmania's bachelorette party, she insisted that we all dance to "Love Stoned" in her condo SEVERAL times. "Oh my GOD, dude, this song is like, the greatest song ever. It is SO HOT. How can you not like this?" she kept asking. LL Cool Jew and I just sat on the couch drinking beer and bitching about the Justin Timberlake-playing meat market club we had just escaped, where we were hit on by Karl Rove's nephew (or some prominent neo-con's nephew, I can't remember who because I was trying to drink the pain of the whole incident away).
Girls who love Sex and the City love Justin Timberlake and think he's hot. I think he's a testicularly challenged one-trick pony who bit David Silver's style and sings like a girl. Trust that my twat doesn't get all tingly when he shows up in his trucker hat to warble in the falsetto register and act like he's the first genius who decided to wear a wife beater. As a matter of fact, given his latest asshole comments to the press, I would not be surprised if he took credit for inventing that treasured bit of white trash couture either.
Apparently, JT decided to start beef with notorious COOLPIX camera pranking, manpri-sporting, "matchy matchy" douchebag fashionista extraordinaire Ashton Kutcher over who started the fucking TRUCKER HAT craze of 2003. In a recent interview, Justin said the following:
It's funny, I keep hearing Ashton Kutcher say how he was responsible for trucker caps. Me and my friend Trace Ayala were wearing them when we were 17.
WHO TAKES CREDIT FOR STARTING THE TRUCKER HAT FAD??? That's like taking credit for starting the overalls-with-one-strap-undone trend of 1991, or the stirrup-stretch-pants-with-slouch-socks-and-Keds trend of 1987, or the floral-rayon-dress-with-hiking-boots trend of 1994. You don't hear the douchebag who started wearing "Big Johnson" or "Coed Naked" shirts demanding that the public recognize his obnoxious taste in clothes. Even worse, it foments a douche-off between two of the most despicable trendsetters in teen fashion. You know Ashton Kutcher is going to respond with this, probably by some stupid prank that will inspire more eye rolls than laughter, and those of us who suckle celebrity gossip from the internets like beer from a tap will be forced to endure a neverending back-and-forth about who has perpetrated more crimes upon popular dressing.
Furthermore, I beg to differ with Justin's claim that he discovered this amazing fashion accessory when he was 17 (which would have been 1998). I can attest that all my uncles, as well as the majority of red-blooded truck-driving men in Puyallup, Washington were rocking their "CAT" and "John Deere" millinery as long as I can remember. Just because my uncles aren't rocking their forest camouflage "STIHL" gear (which probably came complimentary with their new chainsaw) on any red carpets doesn't mean that they weren't down with the local fashion long before Justin Timberlake ever put on a pair of Mickey Mouse ears. Being that Justin is from a hick town himself, he should know that claiming to have pioneered this look is as intellectually dishonest as claiming he invented double-wides or instructing the masses regarding the pragmatic value of auto parts store-insignia-stamped beer cozies.
Even JT's attempts at being self-deprecating about his tremendous influence on the fashion world are infuriating. Later in the interview, he says, "Honestly, I don't walk out of my house thinking, 'Man, I hope somebody thinks this looks cool!' There's some stuff I wear that people think is not cool." Hmmm...you mean stuff like TRUCKER HATS? Because indeed I don't think that is cool. I think it is a contrived attempt to steal credit for accessories popularized by legendary designers like Jeff Foxworthy and Larry the Cable Guy, and it doesn't score him any points with me that plagiarizing redneck chic is so effortless for Justin. Then again, I would expect nothing less from the knuckle-dragger that gave us the unbelievably annoying term "wardrobe malfunction." His whole life has been a damn wardrobe malfunction. Someone should pop a trucker cap in his ass, already.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, media whores, overcompensation, PWT, ranting, retard rage
Thursday, May 08, 2008
One month until it's BS-stravaganza!
I was getting excited to visit my friend LL Cool Jew next month in New Orleans, so I was looking up some of the things we're going to geek out on. After checking out bayou boat trips and restaurant menus and the like, I decided to investigate one of our most-anticipated tourist activities: the Britney Spears Museum! Actually, it's the Kentwood Historical and Cultural Museum, or as their website says, the Kentwood Hiatorical and Cultural Museum, but apart from a modest exhibit on the Kentwood, Louisiana natives who fought valiantly in the second World War, the entire thing is devoted to BS. No, not bullshit or buttsex! I'm talking about the legendary Ms. Britney Spears.
Apparently, upon visiting this cozy, unassuming little cottage, in addition to viewing a fully automated small-scale replica of the stage from her first tour, I can expect to find creepy displays of Britney's childhood bedroom, right down to her Madame Alexander dolls and Barbie furniture, and tacky collages of treasured Spears family photos.
It's disturbing that my own childhood stuff is so reminiscent of Britney's. Not only is my similar brass-knobbed day bed still in my parents' "guest room" (minus the *NSYNC-shirt wearing teddy bear), my parents totally have a couple of those gold-foiled ready-made collages featuring vintage Razzy action circa 1985 hanging in their living room. All the Spearses need is a family portrait taken by Olan Mills, and Britney and I had the same childhood. Well, except for she was being fame-whored to the Mickey Mouse Club and fostering dreams of superstardom while I was building Lego houses, rocking the face off the mock Puyallup city council, and dominating the art of creating papier maché/tempera paint volcanoes thanks to my mastery of generating impressive acid-base reactions using household products in the gifted program and fostering dreams of supreme nerdiness. Other than that, though, I could BE Britney Spears if my parents had treated me like a cash cow rather than an aspiring dork. In fact, during the five minutes in my tween years that I decided I was going to be a supermodel (DON'T LAUGH...at least not until you've seen the ten pages of permed, Mary Kay-lacquered, acid-washed hilarity that is my "portfolio"), my parents humored me by letting me get my pictures taken, but they wisely wouldn't let me forsake my studies to enroll in the Barbizon school or hire one of the high-powered modeling agents working at the South Hill Mall Glamour Shots to represent me (and undoubtedly landing me awesome gigs like showing off the latest in Esprit and Generra fashions on the runway outside the South Hill Mall Gottschalks née Lamonts storefront. If I'd been surnamed Spears, my ass would have been at some audition before I finished saying "I want to be a star when I grow up."
I can only assume that this is why BS is currently known for her taste (or lack thereof) in ratty weaves, her Frappuccino-FUPA, and insanity, while I'm currently known for...well, not a whole lot besides titty pictures, useless bullshit, and batshit craziness. Okay, maybe it would be better if I were known for something more respectable, but at least I've never been committed to a psych ward. Yet.
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, PWT, Razzification
Friday, March 28, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Kristin "Billie" Davis
DOB: 1976?
Occupation: female mega-pimp
Hometown: per the Post AKA the greatest newspaper in the history of print journalism, a "rough and tumble California trailer park"
Current residence: Rikers Island, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Apparently ex-Girls Gone Wild who look disturbingly like my friend LL Cool Jew are not the only hookers former Governor Eliot Spitzer likes to bone. In a New York Post article cleverly titled "And There He Ho's Again," we are introduced to this lovely lady, Billie Davis, a madam who allegedly serviced the horny governor personally. Billie claims to run the "world's largest escort agency," and is known for what the Post describes as having "a reputation for hard-partying, shameless self-promotion, and a rumored 10,000-name-long client list." That list supposedly includes a number of "big names" and "sports superstars," including one "very prominent" Yankee, and a number of Spitzer's campaign contributers.
I love Billie because she is what a madam/hooker is supposed to look like. Bleached blonde, tits everywhere, porn star pancake, and cocksucker red lipstick in full effect is the look I would go for if I were a john. It's the look I'd rock if I were to get into the prostitution biz. Actually, now that I think of it, it's the look I sometimes rock now when I'm going out on the town to pick up some fellas.
Billie is such a great hooker name. It's the kind of name that a hard-drinkin', no-nonsense gal with a sharp tongue and a heart of gold (I'm assuming she has a heart of gold) should have. Billie is the kind of girl who would have worked in a saloon back in olden days, carrying a Derringer in her garter and wearing rouge to the shock and disdain of all the so-called "ladies" in town. She reminds me of a modern-day Belle Watling from Gone With the Wind.
Belle was the most notorious whore in Atlanta, yet she could always be counted upon in times of crisis. She gave actual gold money rather than worthless Confederate dollars to the woefully underfunded hospital, provided an alibi for (pussified loser) Ashley Wilkes when he was shot illegally raiding the shantytown where Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy was attacked while driving her buggy, and dispensed sage advice to Rhett Butler regarding his marital woes. She wore slutty clothes and perfume, dyed her hair, didn't give a fuck what anyone thought, constantly swilled champagne, and ran the most happening brothel in town. I have no idea if Billie here would give money to help wounded soldiers during wartime, but I have no doubt that in every other way, she is as shrewd and entrepreneurial as Belle (apparently she had some sort of extremely elaborate money laundering scheme going on to take the criminal taint off her millions in earnings). She's certainly got the hooker hotness down pat.
I say kudos to Eliot Spitzer for finally demonstrating some real taste in his prostitutes. That Ashley Alexandra Dupre chick was too girl-next-door for my liking; I like my hoes to look like they just came to life and walked off a blow-up doll assembly line. Thank you, Billie Davis, for not getting your money out of harm's way in time to skip town, because I expect you to grace the cover of New York's finest tabloid newspaper and inspire 70-point bad puns for months to come.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, hot chicks, large exclamatory font, politics, PWT, sex, sluts
Thursday, March 20, 2008
My future boyfriends
Last year, Floyd Sr., patriarch of a clan of petty criminals and (per my objective judgment) methamphetamine manufacturers/distributors/addicts, was arrested for crimes against humanity in central Florida. I'm not sure what those crimes were, but I'm willing to bet it involved either possession/sale of drugs, assault in the context of a bar brawl, public intoxication, or domestic battery. Some other time, Justin, one of his eight sons was arrested for a separate but undoubtedly similar offense. These fine fellows were thus given a free pictures for their touching family photo album at the state's expense:
Ah, forehead tattoos. What a treasured tradition those Bebees have cultivated within their family. They're like a clan of redneck Maori. According to The Smoking Gun, Floyd, Sr. also has the words "Got-R-Did" on the back of his head to bookend the old thinking muscle with some class. Apparently to one-up his old man, Justin also has the words "Fuck" and "You" tatted on his eyelids, the aggressive white trash tweaker version of that Smith College girl who writes "Love" and "You" on her eyelids to flash at choice moments (such as when he's trying to spell "neolithic") during Professor Henry "Indiana" Jones's archaeology class in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
The Bebee gentlemen (who apparently work in the "odd jobs" industry) are truly refined gentlemen, and I wish they would move to Puyallup. Not only could I recommend an excellent local criminal defense attorney to them (obviously as necessary to the Bebees as my parents' financial planner is to them), they would have no problem getting employment as either nomadic handymen or tweak dealers, and would undoubtedly rapidly rise to the upper echelons of Puyallup trailer park society. They'd be the toast of Neener's, Nifty's Fifties, Bumpy's, the Roadhouse, Muggs and Juggs, the VFW club, or any of the other local social clubs. Pity they're stuck in Florida, because Puyallup could really benefit from a couple of sophisticated gentlemen like these two.
The Bebee gentlemen (who apparently work in the "odd jobs" industry) are truly refined gentlemen, and I wish they would move to Puyallup. Not only could I recommend an excellent local criminal defense attorney to them (obviously as necessary to the Bebees as my parents' financial planner is to them), they would have no problem getting employment as either nomadic handymen or tweak dealers, and would undoubtedly rapidly rise to the upper echelons of Puyallup trailer park society. They'd be the toast of Neener's, Nifty's Fifties, Bumpy's, the Roadhouse, Muggs and Juggs, the VFW club, or any of the other local social clubs. Pity they're stuck in Florida, because Puyallup could really benefit from a couple of sophisticated gentlemen like these two.
Labels: crime and punishment, hilarious shit, P-N-Dub, PWT, ridiculous absurdity
Monday, February 18, 2008
"I Do" the Puyallup
Last night, LL Cool Jew texted me:
Needless to say, these functions are a joy to behold, and clearly I need to watch more CMT. Besides, it's putting Puyallupian culture on the map, and I'm all for that. The P-N-Dub hick is a special breed of redneck that is generally underrepresented in the media, and I applaud CMT for dishing out a hot slice of Puyallup to satiate the nation's appetite for the sexy, rain-soaked PWT so common in my hometown.
I'm already hooked on this show, and I haven't even seen it.
the episode of my redneck wedng right now s set n washington state. groom wearing seahawks ballcap n mossy oak vestWHAT? "My Redneck Wedding?" What is this show, why are there hicks on it who are probably my relatives, and why haven't I ever heard of it before? This sounds to me like a must-see! I inquired back to LL Cool Jew what channel this show was on. She replied:
cmt dude. zomg have u not gotten into my big redneck wedding hostd by tom arnold? i wd b so excitd 2 introduce you 2 it!So it turns out this show is on CMT. That would explain why I haven't seen it. While I do like the hot pieces named Toby Keith singing about trucks and freedom and Brad Paisley singing about checking ladies for ticks, I don't spend a large portion of my time masturbating to their videos like certain Taylor Swift fans I know. I certainly don't spend any of my time checking out what kind of original programming CMT is offering. However, that's about to change. Since I didn't want to wait until the next time I visit LL Cool Jew in New Orleans, I went to the internets to find out more. I found a synopsis of the episode LL Cool Jew was talking about on the "My Big Redneck Wedding" website.
In Puyallup, Wash., Tami and Brad are getting hitched the northwest redneck style, with rain, mud, guns, quads and plenty of beer guzzling fun. The only problem is, Brad's mom doesn't like it one bit. She's a wedding planner and was hoping her son would get married the old-fashion way - in a church with flowers, dresses and class. With mom changing the couple's plans and Brad procrastinating with getting the wedding site ready, this tomboy bride is getting nervous.God, I can't BELIEVE I'm not related to these people. Now that I think of it, I might have a distant cousin named Tami. They're even getting married on someone's undeveloped property in MY HOMETOWN. Indeed, there is no place more romantic than some dude's Puyallup muddin' grounds to park your trailers (which I'm sure were decorated up real faincy-like for the occasion...with paper lantern string lights from Wal-Mart and everthing), your shotgun collection, and your portable meth lab to honor such an historic occasion. What could be more romantic than a fleet of recreational vehicles, a glorious display of one's right to bear arms, gray skies, and red plastic cups overflowing with Rainier Beer, the sweet nectar of the P-N-Dub? I can see how Brad's wedding planner mom apparently failed to persuade the happy couple to have the wedding "in a church with flowers, dresses, and class," as nothing outromances a traditional wedding like a keg party in a muddy yard on under Puyallup's sultry overcast skies. Besides, she never had a chance. This couple knows what they want when it comes to making major relationship moves. They waited all of three days after they met (at a bar in Auburn, which probably translates to "over a video poker machine at the Muckleshoot Casino") before shacking up. Their passion ignited over a mutual love for four-wheeled all-terrain vehicles and Brad's interests is intense, and their dream of a special day will not be mitigated by the selfish demands made by an interfering future mother-in-law. Nobody is going to stop Brad and Tami from commemorating their blessed matrimony with a thrilling game of wedd'n day lawn bowling.
Tami and BradMy cousin got married in a very similar situation, in his front yard. Well, actually, it was my aunt and uncle's front yard, but my cousin lived there with his new bride in a trailer parked off'n the side yard. There were fewer guns (although some firearms did make an appearance), an equivalent number of four-wheelers, and more earth-moving equipment. No joke. They exchanged vows adjacent to a parked and tarp-shrouded Bobcat. At least they tried to class it up a little by wearing traditional wedding outfits, right down to the bridesmaids' dyeable Payless satin pumps. Sadly, those pumps were stained by the perpetually sodden earth pervasive in my aunt and uncle's slowly sinking yard. The reception fare consisted primarily of finger-foods found in the Costco freezer section. I probably consumed half my body weight in taquitos and meatballs reheated in a crock pot with Yoshida's sauce that day. I also recall washing it down with a few ice-cold cans of Rainier, which is far more a far more appropriate golden carbonated spirit to raise than champagne to raise in celebration of Spanaway's most recent newlyweds. Vitamin R was also useful in ameliorating my anxieties about a sinkhole forming in the yard around my aunt and uncle's woefully maintained septic tank at any time during the festivities.
Tami is from Auburn, Wash.
Brad is from Auburn, Wash., but if you ask him, he will tell you Minot, N.D.
We met thru a mutual friend at a bar in Auburn, Wash. We met on a Friday, went out again that Saturday and he moved in the next Tuesday!!! A whirlwind!!! But so totally worth it.
For fun, we like to be outdoors. Brad plays bocce (Italian lawn bowling), hunting, quads, snowmobiles ... anything outside. Tami is about quads and watching Brad do his thing ... and fishing.
We did the redneck wedding because that's Brad. It was so perfect for us to have the camo, Carhartts, quads and mud! It fits who we are, or I guess more of who Brad is!
The main feature that we wanted in our wedding was family and shotguns. Basically our whole wedding was family. Brad's uncle even got ordained so that he could marry us!!! And the shotguns were a big deal to Brad. He and his brother are very into hunting so guns are a big part of his life. He wanted to incorporate that aspect in the wedding.
For the future, we are planning to get pregnant, hopefully soon. We are getting settled into our new house, and Brad bought me a new SUV to go with our new house. He really does take good care of me and my son Logan.
Needless to say, these functions are a joy to behold, and clearly I need to watch more CMT. Besides, it's putting Puyallupian culture on the map, and I'm all for that. The P-N-Dub hick is a special breed of redneck that is generally underrepresented in the media, and I applaud CMT for dishing out a hot slice of Puyallup to satiate the nation's appetite for the sexy, rain-soaked PWT so common in my hometown.
I'm already hooked on this show, and I haven't even seen it.
Labels: Do the Puyallup, holy fucking matrimony, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, P-N-Dub, PWT, TV
Monday, February 11, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Brad Paisley
DOB: October 28, 1972
Occupation: hot piece country singer
Hometown: Glen Dale, West Virginia
Current residence: Franklin, Tennessee
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: LL Cool Jew and I were texting during the Grammys last night, and I was explaining how I was thus far underwhelmed. No Britney Spears...as a country singer I had never heard of named Brad Paisley took the stage. Well, I'd heard his name before, but normally I have very little interest in country singers unless they are named Toby Keith and sing about drinking beer out of mason jars and putting boots in people's asses. However then I noticed two undeniable things: Brad Paisley is hot, and his song is called "I'd Like to Check You For Ticks." I immediately texted LL Cool Jew to express my feelings. Great minds think alike, because she was simulaneously sending me similar sentiments.
Razzy: Meantime this country guy is kind of hotDamn, if I ain't a sucker for these hot-ass hayseeds. They are the source of many of my trials and tribulations, but hell if I don't love banging a fine hick who knows his way around guns and trucks. I just love a fella who talks about hunting and writes lyrics like "you press that bottle to your lips and I wish I was your beer", "In the small there of your back your jeans are playing peek-a-boo, I'd like to see the other half of your butterfly tattoo," and "Don't worry, I've got your back, babe...and I've also got your front." He reassures the lady in this song that on account of his superior level of "class," he's going to be a gentleman while he checks her tramp stamp for bloodsucking arthropods. Not every guy at the bar would be so considerate as to disguise his outdoor moonlight groping as an effort to protect her from Lyme's borreliosis, babesiosis, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, or anything else of the pathogen variety that happens to prefer transmission via tick blood meals. Brad Paisley doesn't want his drunken redneck hookups to be tainted by any type of vector-borne rickettsial infection. Nothing fucks up a hot date like catching a nasty case of ehrlichosis. He's a fine country boy who probably smells like Old Spice and tractor oil, he knows how to spit some truly accomplished cracker game, and he's an amateur microbiogist to boot. In other words, he's totally my future husband.
LL Cool Jew: dude this song is called "i want 2 check u 4 ticks"!!!! brad paisley rules
Razzy: I'll check u 4 ticks. Be still my heart.
LL Cool Jew: "i know this place out in these woods i used to hunt"......
Razzy: I'd like him to check me with his dick
LL Cool Jew: we gotta daily dude brad paisley
Razzy: Totz.
Sadly, Brad is already married. A hot piece like him only stays on the market so long, and he married the chick who was in Father of the Bride. They have one son together, with the best PWT name of all time: William Huckleberry Paisley. Hopefully they'll divorce so I can get down to business making more cracker babies, or at least having all the sex that baby-making implies with Brad Paisley. He is hot and I'm downloading some of his shit presently. Hey, he has a song called "Alcohol"! Awesome.
Really, the country singers are the only guys that made this year's Grammys watchable. Vince Gill got some type of country award given by Ringo Starr and said, "I just got an award from a Beatle...Kanye, has that happened to you, yet?" And Taylor Swift was dressed like some kind of cross between a boudoir lampshade and medieval courtesan and making total porn star face at Jay-Z. Awesome. I need to listen to more country music.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, PWT
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
How do you tell your future mother-in-law to go suck a dick?
It all began about 15 years ago, when my future father-in-law decided to uproot his family from their home in Brooklyn and move to Putnam County, NY. At that time, the family could get a bigger bang for their buck as far as homes and property go by moving upstate. However, the area was sparsely populated so moving up there meant country living for the family. With no family, no friends, no job, no driving ability, husband at work, and kids at school, the matriarch of the family was left to her own devices. But instead of discovering the peen of a young Latino gardener, this desperate housewife discovered conservative talk radio. And that shit has become her whole life.
I don’t give a rat’s ass what my f.m.i.l.’s political leanings are because I am not fucking her nor marrying her. But all she ever does is talk about politics (and by talk I mean repeat whatever bullshit she heard on Fox News that day) and she expects everyone else to agree with her (and gets irate when they don’t). I bit my tongue for a long fucking time because I happen to love her son, Mr. T.
Having grown up with one of those Keith Olbermann loving liberal moms, I am accustomed to political discussions around the dinner table. But I am also accustomed to them remaining civil (mostly) and the opinions of others’ are typically respected or at least tolerated. At a recent dinner with Mr. T’s parents, f.m.i.l. pulls out some book by Ann Coulter and starts raving about it. I can’t fucking stomach Ann Coulter. I think she is a fucktard. She is incapable of defending her views and debating a point like an adult, so she resorts to name calling and ends up looking like a fucking idiot to me. And while I do have an eye for the ladies, looking at Skeletor/Marc Anthony in a blond wig doesn’t get me all hot and bothered. I couldn’t endure the idol worship any longer, so I said, “I can’t stand Ann Coulter”. I didn’t get an opportunity to explain why because f.m.i.l. quickly snapped, “Well I love her because she tells all the assholes where to go with themselves.”
All I kept thinking was, “did this bitch just call me an asshole?” I don’t agree with anything Ann Coulter says, so wouldn’t I be one of those aforementioned assholes she tells where to go? I mean f.m.i.l., who I’ve heard say some really dumb shit, is trying to call ME an asshole?! WTF? The good thing is, I didn’t slap that ho, so I didn’t go to jail. But I wanted to; in fact I still do. After we left, Mr. T was telling me to be cool and consider the source bla bla bla. But I don’t know if I can be gracious for much longer. So my only hope is to keep her quiet somehow. This is where the dick in her mouth comes in! I just need to figure out how to make this happen…
Note: Unlike Razzy, I suck at spelling and punctuation. Too bad. Like Razzy, I have big tits.
I don’t give a rat’s ass what my f.m.i.l.’s political leanings are because I am not fucking her nor marrying her. But all she ever does is talk about politics (and by talk I mean repeat whatever bullshit she heard on Fox News that day) and she expects everyone else to agree with her (and gets irate when they don’t). I bit my tongue for a long fucking time because I happen to love her son, Mr. T.
Having grown up with one of those Keith Olbermann loving liberal moms, I am accustomed to political discussions around the dinner table. But I am also accustomed to them remaining civil (mostly) and the opinions of others’ are typically respected or at least tolerated. At a recent dinner with Mr. T’s parents, f.m.i.l. pulls out some book by Ann Coulter and starts raving about it. I can’t fucking stomach Ann Coulter. I think she is a fucktard. She is incapable of defending her views and debating a point like an adult, so she resorts to name calling and ends up looking like a fucking idiot to me. And while I do have an eye for the ladies, looking at Skeletor/Marc Anthony in a blond wig doesn’t get me all hot and bothered. I couldn’t endure the idol worship any longer, so I said, “I can’t stand Ann Coulter”. I didn’t get an opportunity to explain why because f.m.i.l. quickly snapped, “Well I love her because she tells all the assholes where to go with themselves.”
All I kept thinking was, “did this bitch just call me an asshole?” I don’t agree with anything Ann Coulter says, so wouldn’t I be one of those aforementioned assholes she tells where to go? I mean f.m.i.l., who I’ve heard say some really dumb shit, is trying to call ME an asshole?! WTF? The good thing is, I didn’t slap that ho, so I didn’t go to jail. But I wanted to; in fact I still do. After we left, Mr. T was telling me to be cool and consider the source bla bla bla. But I don’t know if I can be gracious for much longer. So my only hope is to keep her quiet somehow. This is where the dick in her mouth comes in! I just need to figure out how to make this happen…
Note: Unlike Razzy, I suck at spelling and punctuation. Too bad. Like Razzy, I have big tits.
Labels: family matters, ILoveWhiteTrash, PWT, retard rage
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Adnan Ghalib
DOB: 1972
Occupation: gold digger, paparazzo
Hometown: England?
Current residence: Malibu, California or whatever hotel the legendary Ms. Britney Spears has checked into tonight
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Adnan is living the American dream. After toiling for months as a paparazzo for the FinalPixx agency, he managed to really snare his quarry: Britney Spears. Brit-Brit took a shine to Adnan's (slightly gay) swarthy hotness and suddenly the hunter has become the hunted. Adnan can now usually be seen trying to avoid his former colleagues with Britney as they do the usual white trash publicity circuit: Chevron stations, Starbucks, and various Los Angeles-area parking lots. To show her devotion to her new man, Britney has even adopted a faux British accent, taken Adnan Mercedes shopping, and supposedly bought a pregnancy test on her and Adnan's last romantic date at a 24 hour Rite Aid store. Even better for Adnan, rumor has it that Britney wants to convert to Islam so that she and Adnan can get married, because undoubtedly Adnan is devout in his faith and only will marry a good Muslim girl. One of my friends recently sent me an e-mail commenting on Adnan's reversal of life roles, and I must say that I agree with his sentiments on the subject:
I really admire the paparazzi guy that's banging Britney Spears. More people should be talking about him -- turning from one of the people with a camera shooting Britney Spears to being shot with Britney Spears. Only in America.True that. I replied that Britney should marry him only to have her last name be "Ghraib" which I mistakenly thought was Adnan's last name until this morning when I was researching him for this post. I wish it was, because if Brit-Brit married him then her name would invoke pleasant memories of things like human rights violations and wartime prison torture by barely literate white trash. Actually, Britney isn't too far removed from PFC Lynndie England. I wouldn't be surprised if they turned out to be country cousins. It's not a stretch to imagine Britney getting up to some Geneva Convention-violating sexual humiliation:
Anyway, Adnan is making the greatest business decision of his life by sticking his dick into that nest of fake hair and french fry grease, because you know Britney's not in any kind of pre-nup signing mood. She hates legal proceedings if her custody hearings are any indication, so chances are, as soon as his divorce is finalized and he makes an honest woman out of Britney, he'll be entitled to 50%. He's just got to tough it out for a little while longer, and he's got it made. Of course, by the time Britney's done buying Slim Jims, Marb Lights, and Frappuccinos, that might be only a couple hundred grand, but still. He'll probably get a book deal and will be able to afford many more effeminate faux Pashmina scarves to keep his swarthy neck warm during late-night drug store runs. Adnan should go on Donny Deutsch's show and tell us all his brilliant entrepreneurial secrets, because his business acumen is beyond reproach.
I'd hit that, after Adnan breaks Britney's heart, cashes out, and completes his regimen of antibiotics and delousing agents. He's a hot piece.
Labels: Britney Spears, capitalism, celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, PWT
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Daily Douchebag: dumbasses in Texas
DOB: various
Occupation: sittin' around starin' at the sky
Hometown: Stephenville, Texas
Current residence: Stephenville, Texas
Douchebaggery: I've always thought that people who are into UFO conspiracies and the like are pretty fucking stupid. I don't exclude the possibility of life on other planets, or the possibility that that life might develop technology enabling them to travel to earth, but the people who see a fucking plane fly by and immediately started blabbing about aliens and are either dumb or crazy or both.
Well, a new crop of these morons have popped up in Texas. This is currently CNN.com's most popular news story, indicating yet again what we already knew after George Bush was elected twice and the legendary Ms. Britney Spears was the lead newsmaker of 2007: morons abound here in the good old U.S. of A.
Texans report seeing UFOWell, let's think for a second here. One guy looked at it through his rifle scope and then compared it to reports of "big bass or big buck," another guy said he couldn't see it with binoculars., and yet another guy said it was a mile long and a half-mile wide, which would be Independence Day-esque proportions. I'm thinking these guys didn't wash their old radiators well enough before converting them into the stills they brew their moonshine in.
STEPHENVILLE, Texas (AP) -- In this farming community where nightfall usually brings clear, starry skies, residents are abuzz over reported sightings of what many believe is a UFO.
Ricky Sorrells says he saw a flat, metallic object hovering about 300 feet over a pasture behind his Texas home.
Several dozen people -- including a pilot, county constable and business owners -- say they have seen a large silent object with bright lights flying low and fast. Some reported seeing fighter jets chasing it.
"People wonder what in the world it is because this is the Bible Belt, and everyone is afraid it's the end of times," said Steve Allen, a freight company owner and pilot who said the object he saw last week was a mile long and half a mile wide. "It was positively, absolutely nothing from these parts."
While federal officials say there's a logical explanation, locals swear that it was larger, quieter, faster and lower to the ground than an airplane. They also said the object's lights changed configuration, unlike those of a plane. People in several towns who reported seeing it over several weeks have offered similar descriptions of the object.
Machinist Ricky Sorrells said friends made fun of him when he told them he saw a flat, metallic object hovering about 300 feet over a pasture behind his Dublin, Texas, home. But he decided to come forward after reading similar accounts in the Stephenville Empire-Tribune.
"You hear about big bass or big buck in the area, but this is a different deal," Sorrells said. "It feels good to hear that other people saw something, because that means I'm not crazy."
Sorrells said he has seen the object several times. He said he watched it through his rifle's telescopic lens and described it as very large and without seams, nuts or bolts.
Maj. Karl Lewis, a spokesman for the 301st Fighter Wing at the Joint Reserve Base Naval Air Station in Fort Worth, said no F-16s or other aircraft from his base were in the area the night of January 8, when most people reported the sighting.
Lewis said the object may have been an illusion caused by two commercial airplanes. Lights from the aircraft would seem unusually bright and may appear orange from the setting sun.
"I'm 90 percent sure this was an airliner," Lewis said. "With the sun's angle, it can play tricks on you."
Officials at the region's two Air Force bases -- Dyess in Abilene and Sheppard in Wichita Falls -- also said none of their aircraft were in the area last week. The Air Force no longer investigates UFOs.
One man has offered a reward for a photograph or videotape of the mysterious object.
About 200 UFO sightings are reported each month, mostly in California, Colorado and Texas, according to the Mutual UFO Network, which plans to go to the 17,000-resident town of Stephenville to investigate.
Fourteen percent of Americans polled last year by The Associated Press and Ipsos say they have seen a UFO.
Erath County Constable Lee Roy Gaitan said he first saw red glowing lights and then white flashing lights moving fast, but that even with binoculars could not see the object to which the lights were attached.
"I didn't see a flying saucer and I don't know what it was, but it wasn't an airplane, and I've never seen anything like it," Gaitan said. "I think it must be some kind of military craft -- at least I hope it was."
As far as I am concerned, UFOs should only be included in the news if they actually are aliens and if someone besides a gaping, dentally challenged, trailer-dwelling inbred tractor aficionado sees it. It seems that every time someone reports a UFO, that someone is always some sort of barely literate yokel using a lot of double negatives and regional colloquialisms. This enourages the second wave of UFO losers to come out of the woodwork: all the unemployed geeks who fancy themselves "scientists" and show up to "investigate" the "phenomenon." In reality, they are not so much using experimental methods to objectively and empirically evaluate rational hypotheses as they are wildly inventing "facts" and developing outlandish conspiracy theories about how the U.S. government is covering up some sort of devil's bargain we've made with the aliens.
Unless it has something to do with Dennis Kucinich being hilariously crazy, I don't want to see "UFOs" in my news headlines. If I want to see this kind of crap, I can watch an old "X-Files" rerun (and by the way, the possibility of the FBI actually having divisions like the one depicted on that show is a major reason why I'm a libertarian...talk about a waste of taxpayer money), not CNN. No more hicks talking about UFOs in the news!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, PWT, retard rage
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Casey Aldridge
DOB: sometime in 1988
Occupation: soon-to-be deadbeat teenage dad, huge fan of "Two-a-Days"
Hometown: CLEARLY somewhere in rural-ass Louisiana
Current residence: Kentwood, Louisiana
Douchebaggery: As usual, I've managed to become rapidly completely engrossed by the distinguished upper-crust family of aristocrats known as the Spears family. The latest news concerning those classy Spears ladies is that Casey Aldridge, Jamie-Lynn's sperminator, is out as quickly as he was in!
Apparently Jamie-Lynn dumped his ass and is excited to be a single working mom just like her big sis. Well, maybe not "working" since chances are "Zoey 101" isn't planning on having its eponymous character get knocked up in between bouts of giggling with her friends and liking cute boys (or whatever happens on that show...I don't watch that tween trash), but a single mom anyway. I have to say this was a good move on Jamie-Lynn's part for a few reasons.
For one thing, Casey started banging Jamie-Lynn when he was 16 and she was 13 when they met at church and he charmed her with his "Two-a-Days" hair (he wants to be Ross, Hoover Buccaneers quarterback, BAD). Gross! Apparently, he may now face statutory rape charges, although it better not be Team Spears filing them. I don't see how you can charge him when Jamie-Lynn's expert Christian mother signed off on them shacking up together when Jamie-Lynn was 14 or 15! Then again, didn't Casey have anything better to do than just impregnating his underaged common law wife? Like GO TO HIGH SCHOOL, for example? Shouldn't he have been taking his SATs or writing an essay on A Separate Peace or going to a Hoover Buccaneers pep rally or some normal 17-year-old activity rather than putting the final touches on his impeccably mussed hick bangs? Don't get me wrong, because I practice-fucked my lame boyfriend plenty of times in cars, parks, beaches, and friends' houses when I was that age, but I was too busy with other stuff (ie: AP tests, obsessing over my ability to play Chopin's repertoire of nocturnes as well as Artur Rubinstein, writing shiteous Sylvia Plath-influenced poetry, other egregious geekery) to think about cohabitating with his broke ass. Casey apparently doesn't have anything going on besides that, because Jamie-Lynn sent his ass packing on account of having no prospects and no maturity.
There is really nothing more humiliating than being dumped by your soon-to-be unemployed teenage baby mama for having no prospects. When you're too much of a useless loser for inbred PWT that emerged from the stagnant sewage puddle that is the Spears gene pool, you've got serious problems. Good luck with life, asshole.
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, media whores, PWT
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Mutton Bustin'
Shockingly, this is not the title of some redneck porn. Not shockingly, this is apparently a sport that goes down every year at my hometown's annual claim to fame, the Puyallup Fair. A local country music station sponsors this fake bullriding competition to facilitate fairgoers better Doing the Puyallup, but to ensure that all the fat trailer trash and enfeebled meth addicts from the outlying areas aren't injured, they ride sheep instead...hence, the "mutton" in "Mutton Bustin'."
Thanks a lot, Puyallup Fair, for allowing this event and for letting some slag put up a clip of it on YouTube. As if my town doesn't already have enough of a bad reputation for doing cracker-type stuff, you have to actually sponsor an exhibit based on a sheep-riding theme. Given that our state's need for anti-bestiality legislation was apparently precipitated by activities going on in the greater Puyallup metropolitan area ("metropolitan"=used EXTREMELY loosely here), I don't think that offering the opportunity to mount a bucking sheep is helping people Do the Puyallup in any kind of wholesome way. You can do it at a trot, you can do it at a gallop, and you can do it to a sheep? Puyallup doesn't need its already dismal reputation concerning the prevalence of daffodils and criminal man-on-livestock sex brought further down by our eponymous Fair condoning bareback sheep rides. I'm totally writing a letter to the editor of the Tacoma News Tribune and the Pierce County Herald when I drop into the P-N-Dub next week. The good, non-animal-fucking people of Puyallup and unincorporated Pierce County will not have the name of our beloved Fair besmirched in such a vulgar and perverted manner. Down with Mutton Bustin'!
Thanks a lot, Puyallup Fair, for allowing this event and for letting some slag put up a clip of it on YouTube. As if my town doesn't already have enough of a bad reputation for doing cracker-type stuff, you have to actually sponsor an exhibit based on a sheep-riding theme. Given that our state's need for anti-bestiality legislation was apparently precipitated by activities going on in the greater Puyallup metropolitan area ("metropolitan"=used EXTREMELY loosely here), I don't think that offering the opportunity to mount a bucking sheep is helping people Do the Puyallup in any kind of wholesome way. You can do it at a trot, you can do it at a gallop, and you can do it to a sheep? Puyallup doesn't need its already dismal reputation concerning the prevalence of daffodils and criminal man-on-livestock sex brought further down by our eponymous Fair condoning bareback sheep rides. I'm totally writing a letter to the editor of the Tacoma News Tribune and the Pierce County Herald when I drop into the P-N-Dub next week. The good, non-animal-fucking people of Puyallup and unincorporated Pierce County will not have the name of our beloved Fair besmirched in such a vulgar and perverted manner. Down with Mutton Bustin'!
Labels: bestiality, gross, hilarious shit, P-N-Dub, PWT, ridiculous absurdity, sexy delicious animals
Friday, November 30, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Raunie Amadon
DOB: 1983
Occupation: white trash, loyal smoker, matricidal lunatic
Hometown: Laconia, New Hampshire
Current residence: the Laconia jail
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I don't think I need a man as unstable as Raunie in my life, but I have to shake my head at criminal ridiculousness beyond that which is normal. Raunie decided that he was jonesing for a ciggie butt, and like all men in their early twenties with no job, he went right to his dear old mom to ask for some pocket money to buy a pack (of GPCs or Basics, no doubt). When his mom refused, either because she didn't want to or she couldn't afford a pack, he flew into a rage, grabbed a double-sided axe, and threatened to chop her ass up! That would be no small feat, considering that this is Raunie's mother:
I just can't believe this didn't go down in Puyallup. I bet HotLawyer has had clients who've pulled this sort of nonsense before. He's had clients burn down their common law spouse's Dale Earnhardt shrines for revenge, so I wouldn't be shocked to learn that he's got clients who have threatened murder when deprived of nicotine. As he'd say, that's as American as methamphetamine. However, I bet HotLawyer does a better job of keeping his clients quiet during arraignment. Raunie here thought the charges were bullshit, and had to be dragged from the courtroom screaming AFTER the judge set a low bail at the prosecution's request. Raunie is crazy like a fox. He's going to plead insanity and walk. Trust.
And if you want to watch Raunie's hot ass in action, along with his bold mother's brave waddle from the courthouse, please enjoy the local New Hampshirean news coverage:
Now that's what I call a criminal mastermind.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, HotLawyer, PWT, smoking
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Amy Winehouse
DOB: September 14, 1983
Occupation: junkie, neo-soul singer
Hometown: Southgate, London, England
Current residence: Camden, London, England
Douchebaggery: I'm well aware of Amy's triple negative response to the prospect of going to rehab, but I suspect Amy has also said "no, no, no" to showering and eating. This bitch is such a fucking unbelievable mess it's not even funny. For obvious reasons, the gossip internets are all over this trainwreck and I can't even see what's going on with my favorite piece of PWT (the legendary Ms. Britney Spears, of course) without getting a glimpse of this hooker's nappy bird's nest beehive, disgusting anorexic junkie figure, and blood-spattered ballet flats. I'm so sick of it! Amy Winehouse needs to end up dead, dead, dead from an overdose, overdose, overdose already, because I want to hear nothing more about her.
Every day, it's a new depressingly disturbing story about Amy Winehouse ingesting enough illegal substances to knock out a mastodon and causing some sort of trouble. However, Amy Winehouse trouble isn't entertaining trouble. It's not like when, say, Itneybray Earsspay starts rambling crazily at the paparazzi or runs over a cop's foot on her way out of the Malibu Starbucks parking lot or something. It's usually some sort of blood-spattered domestic brawl with her junkie justice-perverting (seriously, that's what the British courts call "witness tampering") husband, and it's sad rather than morbidly entertaining.
The other thing about Amy Winehouse is that she's supposedly so "talented." Everyone always laments that she's throwing her talent away with the substance abuse. So fine, her singing voice might be okay, but just because it sounds good doesn't mean she sings songs that don't annoy the hell out of me. Everything that has ever come out of this bitch's mouth drives me crazy. Even worse, Jay-Z remixed that annoying "Rehab" song and there was a grim period in August/September where it was on fucking Hot97 and Power105 ad nauseum. I listen to Hot97 and Power105 to hear songs about whips, ice, rims, kicks, hoes, R. Kelly's sexual prowess, blowfish sushi, and the like, not a British neo-soul singer with stupid hair and even more tremendously stupid eye makeup mewling along while Jay-Z raps about the Marcy Projects or whatever. Amy Winehouse might be talented, but talent doesn't necessarily exclude annoying, and nothing illustrates that better than this bitch's musical repertoire.
I can't think of anything admirable about her apart from the fact that I have to thank Amy Winehouse, along with Pete Doherty, for reminding me that all is not high tea and crumpets and proper manners over in England, and the Brits have white trash too. This girl could be stirring a fucking pot of anhydrous ammonia and pseudoephedrine in Spanaway, Washington as easily as she could be chasing the dragon in a London hotel room. And when the only attribute I can think of is that you look like you could be right at home in a P-N-Dub meth lab, things are grim indeed. When it comes to Amy Winehouse, I say no, no, no.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, drugs, gross, oh the horror, PWT
Monday, November 12, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Team Britney
DOB: ???
Occupation: staging the most worthwhile, important, astonishingly courageous protests of all time
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Hollywood Walk of Fame circa the "Britney Spears" star, Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: These yokels are my new heroes. They might look like friendlier, poly-blend Jay Jacobs shirt-wearing versions of the mutant cannibals from The Hills Have Eyes, but they are out there--rain or shine--delivering their brave message of hope that some justice will be done for the mother of the year, the legendary Ms. Britney Spears. This is an epic struggle for all we hold dear as Americans: namely, the right to pop out a couple of brats in quick succession so that you can utilize them as cigarette AKA "lollipop" runners, hostages in high-speed red-light-running car chases with the paparazzi, and two great reasons to create a media circus at Los Angeles family court. It's the sacred institution of motherhood, y'all! Team Britney appreciates how seriously Brit-Brit takes her maternal responsibilities, and they're here to stop the gross injustices being unfairly committed against her by the evil, pro-Federline court system.
I mean, so what if, on the same night that these dedicated activists took to the street to right the wrongs in Britney's custody battle, Britney failed a drug test? It was a false positive! I'm sure she ate a poppyseed bagel or something the day of the test...everyone knows that shit can fuck up a piss test. It's not like that "I Got Five on It" song where one of the Luniz relates the tale of a knowingly failed drug test: "I got to take a whiz test to my PO, I know I failed, cuz I done smoked major weed, bro." In Brit's case, it was obviously a BIG MISTAKE! Similarly, all of her driving-related debacles--from traffic violations to hit-and-runs--aren't her fault. Surely she would be a better driver if she didn't have the paparazzi in her face every minute. Granted, she wouldn't have to deal with that if she didn't get on the phone with X17 or whatever to give them a heads up every time she goes on a Starbucks run, but STILL. None of this shit is Britney's fault. She's been Ms. American Dream since she was 17, don't matter if she step on the scene or sneak away to the Philippines...they're still going to put her derriere in a magazine. Well, that's what the lyrics to her magnum opus of the "woe is me"-themed song, "Piece of Me," state anyway. She's just Ms. Bad Media Karma coping with another day and another drama, simply because she don't see no harm in workin' and bein' a mama. I'm not certain Brit-Brit understands that "karma" implies you've somehow earned such media treatment by racking up a history of bad acts yourself, but her point gets through. How can you blame a hard-working, struggling, toiling single mom for being a victim of circumstance?
That's why I applaud these brave protestors for forgoing their jobs (and thus jeopardizing lucrative careers at establishments such as TGIFriday's, Wal-Mart, and Circuit City) to brave the frigid Hollywood weather to stand against the unjust and shabby disparaging of Britney's parenting skills, which along with her weave-choosing and manicure-maintaining skills, are beyond reproach. Children may be starving, the AIDS epidemic may be out of control, Chad and Sudan may be getting their genocide on, and the war in Iraq may be laying the groundwork for Armageddon, but those are all issues Team Britney can live with. However, don't expect them to just sit idly by when her ability to expose SPF and JJ to massive clouds of secondhand Marb Light and meth smoke is being threatened! These are true activists with a cause worth fighting for. Go wash down a 7-Layer Burrito with a venti caramel Frappuccino to show your solidarity!
Labels: Britney Spears, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, drugs, intentional buffoonery, media whores, PWT
Friday, November 02, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Whoever writes Britney Spears songs
Occupation: should be POET LAUREATES!!!!!
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Another Britney Spears Friday dawns bright and beautiful! TGIBSF! And to celebrate, I'm totally listening to Blackout, which I'm not ashamed to say I actually BOUGHT. I paid $11.99 for it! I probably should have just gotten it illegally, but I'm too lazy to sift through P2P networks for a decent copy, and I like the idea that Britney is currently sucking down her cut of my iTunes profits in the form of a venti caramel Frap.
Anyway, I LOVE Blackout. Here's a quick rundown:
"Break the Ice": From what I can tell, this is a tale about how Britney simultaneously dispels the awkwardness between herself and the random stranger she's hooking up with while dealing with his erection problems. I'm serious. After a lot of talk about "rising to the occasion," Brit threatens her paramour: "I'm-a hit defrost on you." Translation: let's smoke some crystal, y'all!
"Everybody": Imagine if Britney huffed some glue with her favorite country cousins, grabbed a Eurhythmics "Sweet Dreams" CD, and tried to use Garage Band to make a dance jam about grinding. If Puyallup had clubs, this is what would be the DJ would be bumping.
"Freakshow": This is basically a summary of Britney's party philosophy. I love it when Brit-Brit appropriates rappish-sounding language into her songs. "Christian hot, Bugatti whips, hope the new designer fits," she notes. And when it doesn't, Brit-Brit will grab a hideous print mumu from her local Lane Bryant, glue in some hideous tracks, and hit the town. Methinks the VIP section at Hyde is going to need a delousing tomorrow.
"Get Back": This song starts with "The One and Only...BRITNEY!" AKA, the legendary Ms. Britney Spears! We know! "Eyes on my waist...Feel you better think fast. Got that kind of body make you wanna spend cash." WHAT? Spend cash on a Jenny Craig or Nutrisystem membership or tumescent liposuction, maybe. And speaking as someone who now has to lose the Britney bulge now that Halloween is over, I can't imagine my spare tire is going to make anyone want to spend any cash for anything except some pitying weight loss solutions for me.
"Get Naked (I Got a Plan)": Man, this entire CD involves Danja and Britney making a bunch of gross simulated sex noises that sound like a combination between belching and an asthma attack. I've gotta love any song, though, in which Britney sings, "I'm crazy as a motherfucker, bet on that, man." SO TRUE!
"Gimme More": we all know about this song. "It's Britney, bitch"...need I say more?
"Heaven on Earth": Britney's ode to her fantasy man/soul mate, a man who makes her "fall off the edge of my mind." That's putting it poetically.
"Hot as Ice": "To see your foolishness and fuckery, and handlin' my business, holler if you hear me, can I get a witness?" I don't know how this has anything to do with being "cold as fire" and "hot as ice," but it makes sense as a way of handling one's business in the face of foolishness and fuckery.
"Ooh Ooh Baby": "I can feel you deep inside"...EWWW! The idea of Britney feeling anything deep inside is pretty nast. I imagine her vadge looks like the inside of an old man's ear.
"Perfect Lover": Another gross one. "Every time you touch me there..." Brit croons. She omits the next logical verse, which is, "You get a killer case of warts." Even worse, she includes the musical money shot: "You're fillin' me up!" YUCK!
"Piece of Me": a tirade about the intrusions of the paparazzi on her arm. Includes classic lines such as "Don't matter if step on the scene or sneak away to the Philippines, they still gonna put pictures of my derriere in a magazine." Talk about a bunch of spin doctors. They replaced "hairless snatch" with "derriere" and "gas station bathroom and Starbucks" with "step on the scene" and "Philippines." This song has convinced me that Britney's public image is not so much because she's a crazy, cracked-out redneck lunatic with a meth problem and the spending habits of some trailer park welfare mama who just won the lottery, but that she's just misunderstood on account of being "Miss Bad Media Karma" provoked because the paparazzi are "hopin' I'll resort to some havoc" and "end up settlin' in court." Don't people usually settle OUT of court? Isn't the whole point of settling to avoid going to court? Britney's songwriters are not just expert reputation managers; they are legal geniuses, as well.
"Radar": Something about how she likes a man with "the Midas touch." Like K-Fed. Riiiiiight.
"Toy Soldier": No, it's not a remake of Martika's classic, although that would rule too.
Oh man, Blackout is such a hot piece of trash, it's truly worthy of the artist performing it. LOVE IT. Go get it and keep Brit-Brit stank tits-deep in frappucinos and Marb lights!
Labels: Britney Spears, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, PWT, sluts
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Further validating my Britney-doesn't-offend-Catholics hypothesis
Yesterday, I wrote a post about how there's nothing Britney Spears can really do to piss off Catholics on any substantial issue, especially when compared to the Pope. However, I apparently spoke too soon. Thanks to the miracle of Facebook, I've gotten to witness my Halloween legacy popping up online in real time as my friends and fellow nerdalicious grad students have uploaded the contents of their cameras to the social networking internets. And apparently, I anticipated Brit-Brit's foray into trashily juxtaposing images of whorishness with those of the clergy (and hot Asian chicks in bandages who obviously want to hit my hotness):
And I also anticipated the trend Britney's attempting in dragging the south Indian cricket-playing community into the controversy along with the Holy See. Maybe nothing like that has happened yet, but trust that it will:
Hell, you can almost see the extent to which I took the accuracy of my Britney costume in this picture. In fact, I'm amazed that my HV (hairless vadge), which I shaved just for this monumental occasion, didn't make an appearance to augment my outfit like what. It's right on the threshold of peeping out. Damn...I guess I really can't beat myself up too much for failing to perfectly imitate the master of the paparazzi crotch shot.
And dudes, can you all take a minute to just appreciate how fucking hideously trashtastic my weave and nails look??? Being that trailer fabulous comes naturally to me. You can take the girl outta Puyallup, but you can't take the Puyallup out the girl! Anyway, happy Halloween, y'all!
And I also anticipated the trend Britney's attempting in dragging the south Indian cricket-playing community into the controversy along with the Holy See. Maybe nothing like that has happened yet, but trust that it will:
And dudes, can you all take a minute to just appreciate how fucking hideously trashtastic my weave and nails look??? Being that trailer fabulous comes naturally to me. You can take the girl outta Puyallup, but you can't take the Puyallup out the girl! Anyway, happy Halloween, y'all!
Labels: Britney Spears, Catholicism, Halloween, PWT, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Britney Spears
DOB: December 2, 1981
Occupation: trainwreck
Hometown: Kentwood, Louisiana
Current residence: Malibu, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: While Britney is a Cheeto dust-encrusted, bloated, meth-addled shadow of the hot piece of ass she once was, it's Halloween, and she was my muse this year! So even though she'd have to convince me to do her entire supply of meth to hit that fatness (although not like I should talk, see below), I have to salute Britney for her inspiring me to spend all of the Halloween party I went to this weekend doing Britney-type stuff that was the epitome of well-mannered, decent, ladylike behavior and typical of what people can expect from me and the mother of the year out in California. You know, using a deft combination of Starbucks and macrobrewed beer to round out my waistline and attract lesbian interest:
Also, you have to be utterly without shame to allow your record company to advertise your new "comeback" album with the most hilarious commercials of the year. It's seriously laugh out loud, knee-slapping, hilarious, from the first moment Britney croaks "I just can't control myself" (no SHIT!) to the announcer calling her "today's hottest star" to describing the album as "rush-released for October 30th," as if the reason for that wasn't due to the entire thing getting leaked on the internets but because it's "the album the world has been waiting for." Man, I don't want to ruin all the punch lines. Enjoy for yourself:
Anyway, in the spirit of my Halloween costume and my continued gratitude to Britney for her constantly entertaining me via providing ample fodder for mean-spirited internet gossip, I salute her trashtastic ways on this day of what my friend KatieScarlett would call "spooktiness." Gimme gimme MORE, gimme more, gimme gimme...
Labels: Britney Spears, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, fat fucks, Halloween, intentional buffoonery, lezbollah, PWT, Razzification
Monday, October 22, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Kid Rock
DOB: January 17, 1971
Occupation: self-proclaimed rock and roll Jesus, brawler
Hometown: Romeo, Michigan
Current residence: Los Angeles, California and Detroit, Michigan
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I've always liked Kid Rock's white trash sensibilities. His music's not my favorite, although I did find that "Cowboy" song amusing. I like all that "I ain't straight outta Compton, I'm straight out the trailer" stuff. Granted, I didn't actually grow up in a trailer park myself, but I did grow up right down the street from one, as well as several "manufactured home" dealerships, and these dwellings are quite popular in my corner of the P-N-Dub. The entire town of Puyallup and surrounding unincorporated areas of the county (like South Hill, where I came up) could be considered one giant trailer park, as it has a bar called The Roadhouse (which, incidentally, has the greatest deep fried mushrooms and chicken and jos in the world), a nearly 1:1 person:truck ratio, ample meth labs, bastard children aplenty, and one of the county's largest landfills. Puyallup is the kind of place where you can find an IROC-Z for sale at any given used car lot, where the Vitamin R aka Rainier Beer is always cold as if it sprung forth from one of the glaciers on the mountain for which it was named, where you can play pai gow and video poker at the Emerald Queen 24/7, and where spiral perms aren't just a hairstyle, but a way of life. Because, even though I live in high-falutin' New York City now, a piece of my heart will always belong to Puyallup, I can appreciate Kid Rock's PWT style.
I also like Kid Rock because, in keeping with his trashtastic ways, he isn't above getting into a brawl. It doesn't matter if it's a strip club DJ giving him attitude at some shithole titty bar or Tommy Lee getting into his face at the VMAs, he'll straight up beat your ass and not give a fuck about it. I was pleased to see he was up to his old tricks when I read the following headline this morning at CNN.com:
Waffle House Brawl Lands Kid Rock in JailA fight in the Waffle House! A night in jail after brawling at the Waffle House has a certain awesomeness to it. Kid Rock has style and class. I suspect that this mystery woman provoking the fight may have been one of the TT twins doubling up with Kells and Usher, as her adoration of the greater Atlanta area's Waffle House restaurants is as fabled as her B.A. from Georgia Tech or her lucrative job tormenting America with "Everybody Loves Raymond" reruns over at Turner Broadcasting Station.
ATLANTA, Georgia (AP) -- Kid Rock was arrested early Sunday after a brawl at a restaurant and spent about 12 hours in jail before being released, police said.
Kid Rock, left, and his entourage were involved in a brawl at an Atlanta restaurant early Sunday morning.
The musician stopped at the Waffle House restaurant shortly after 5 a.m. after his performance at The Tabernacle in Atlanta, authorities said.
"He and five members of his entourage were involved in a fight with a male customer inside the Waffle House," said Mekka Parish, a spokeswoman for the DeKalb County Police Department.
The customer recognized a female with Kid Rock's party and exchanged words with her, Parish said.
"It escalated to a physical altercation between Kid Rock and that male customer and moved outside to the parking lot," she said. At some point the customer punched out a restaurant window, she said. Kid Rock left in his tour bus and was stopped by police about a mile from the restaurant, Parish said. The musician and five members of his entourage were taken into custody on a misdemeanor charge of simple battery.
The other customer was charged with criminal damage to property, a felony, Parish said. Kid Rock was released from the county jail on bond about 5 p.m. A telephone message left with Kid Rock's publicist was not immediately returned.
On an aside, I wonder if Kid Rock got to hang out with Clifford "T.I." Harris, who is being screwed by the haters at the Cobb County district attorney's office for a relatively minor transgression (being a convicted felon trying to purchase illegal machine guns and silencers). I hope Kid Rock got to swing by his cell and offer a few words of encouragement, like "hang in there, mane" or "don't let the haters get you down, you'll be back at the trap before you know it, little fella!"
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, P-N-Dub, PWT, rap
Friday, October 19, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Britney's "people"
DOB: early 80s or LATER
Occupation: blabbing to the tabloids in the interest of "damage control" when Britney fucks up royally per usual; ultimately doing far worse damage
Hometown: either Kentwood, Louisiana or some shithole corner of LA
Current residence: Malibu, California or whatever posh hotel Brit checks into for her meth binge this week
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Happy Britney Spears Friday, everyone! TGIBSF! I couldn't really ignore James Watson's asshole ways, so a Britney-related douchebag didn't happen (since I couldn't figure out a way to bring the legendary Ms. Britney Spears into my indictment of Dr. Watson as a racist, data-stealing dipshit), but I have made sure to celebrate the clusterfuck of PWT hotness that is Britney for the "Daily Dude I Want to Hit," and given that there is daily Brit updates on the internets, I have ample material.
Today, I'd like to salute those brave souls who spend their days and nights listening to Britney talk in her made-up crazy language, smelling her noxious aroma of old Taco Bell, Yorkie piss, and Marb Lights. Britney has no need for professional reputation management, for when she runs into trouble, she can just rely on her cadre of loyalists to both carry her coffee and deftly handle all public relations matters in the manner to which she is accustomed. In other words, he wannabe-famous cousin from Kentwood, Louisiana or some asshole she fucked in rehab call up Us Weekly and make lame excuses for her.
Take, for example, the recent stripping (yet again) of her parental visitation rights. Brit missed one of her random drug tests, in spite of the judge overseeing her family court case telling her that a missed test is the same as a failed test. While Brit didn't say a word on the subject, but donned a busted wig from her mop collection, took her dog London to Starbucks for her usual venti mocha Frap, mugged for the paps at a gas station, and probably went on a meth binge, her "friends" told the tabloids that she missed her drug test because her cell phone doesn't work in Malibu. While I realize that even in major cities, there are occasionally dead spots or places where one gets shitty reception (I once had to use a pay phone at 57th and Lexington because my phone just would not get a signal outside Bloomingdale's...it happens), come ON, Britney's friends! Either I'm supposed to believe that Britney has some piece of shit pre-paid phone with no voicemail or you're using the world's lamest excuse for your "friend" missing a drug test which determines her standing in a vicious custody battle. I love these morons who seem to think they are doing Britney a favor by offering this as a reasonable explanation for her behavior. They might as well just take some video of Brit smoking meth and send it to TMZ while they're at it.
We all know that Britney's phone rang (or rather, announced, "It's Britney, bitch!" like my phone and half the nation's phones do these days), she took one look at the caller ID, and was like, "Aw, hell, I don't wanna be takin' no drug test right now," sent that shit to voicemail, and went to Mickey D's for a celebratory #3 extra value meal. God bless Britney and all the parasitic fame whores who make Britney possible. This has made 2007 as awesome as it's possible for a year to be.
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, drugs, media whores, PWT
Friday, October 12, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Jamie-Lynn Spears
DOB: April 4, 1991
Occupation: star of Nickelodeon's "Zoey 101," kid sis to the legendary Ms. Britney Spears, sworn mortal enemy of the paparazzi and assorted Britney hecklers
Hometown: Kentwood, Louisiana
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Since it's kind of hard for the tireless staff (ie: me, Caesar, and Chingy!) to do casual Fridays, as dogs are always casual and I usual dress for blogging by rolling out of bed and sitting at my computer in my ever-so-professional birthday suit, I have decided instead that every Friday is Britney Spears Friday. Well, this week it is anyway. So the Dailies today are 100% Brit-Brit, because like much of the rest of the western world, I am completely transfixed by this woman's meteoric fall to the bottom of the celebrity hog trough and her subsequent wallow in it. I've been craving whole milk venti mocha Frappuccinos and Marlboro Lights, and which is a big departure from my usual sugarless drip coffee from the cart and
Anyway, today I decided to give praise to the proto-Britney, her younger sister Jamie-Lynn. As a testament to their PWT roots, Jamie-Lynn's name is a contraction of her parents' monikers, and her interests range from doing some light attention whoring, visiting Starbucks, wearing seizure-inducing floral-and-leopard print monstrosities such as the one above, and consuming culinary delicacies from world-renowned fine dining restaurants like Sonic and Taco Bell. Jamie-Lynn is only sixteen and had been flying below the radar unless you care about things like Nickelodeon Kids Choice Awards (and since I hate kids, I don't), but lately I've seen some sparks from her that indicate dormant media whore greatness just waiting for the right moment to blossom spectacularly.
I think Britney got everyone's attention tramping it up in that schoolgirl outfit in the "Baby One More Time" video, and I expect Jamie-Lynn is just biding her time before she does something similar. She's practically identical to Brit-Brit, so I expect her to follow that well-trodden path to infamy. Like Britney, she has a fondness for hideous boots and carrying small puppy mill dogs with her everywhere she goes, so I expect her to take the reins of the Spears entertainment dynasty at any time now, like when Britney goes to prison and/or rehab. Jamie-Lynn also ain't a-skeered to do a little hollerin' when need be. The other day some woman started harassing Britney as she walked down Robertson Boulevard emanating clouds of her signature fragrance, (eau de gas station bathroom and Seven Layer Burrito), and Jamie-Lynn wasn't having any of it. She went off on the bitch like a crazy old woman with a rusting single-wide, a .12 gauge loaded with grapeshot, and a burning commitment to protectin' her propitty:
I have no idea what "Kentwood-style" is, but I imagine it would involve an empty hooch jug with XXX on it like in cartoons, a pair of ugly boots, a terrified Yorkshire terrier, and a large greasy bag of chicken fingers slathered in honey mustard dippin' sauce. Yes, I think Jamie-Lynn Spears is going to bring it and bring it hard, providing us fantastically trainwreckity entertainment for years to come. I suggest giving her a reality show to really get the ball rolling. Clan Spears takin' over this bitch!
Labels: Britney Spears, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, media whores, PWT, sluts
Friday, October 05, 2007
She just wants to go that extra mile for you
So the long-awaited video for "Gimme More" by the legendary Ms. Britney Spears has finally dropped and it's every bit as awesome as you might imagine. I'm not embarrassed to say, well...gimme more. I fucking love Britney. I've been hearing a lot of "this song isn't inspired" or "this song is really not up to par" about this masterpiece. Correct me if I'm wrong, but jams like "I'm a Slave 4 U," "Toxic," and "Oops! I Did it Again" weren't exactly on par with a Wagner opera to begin with. "Gimme More" might even be more awesome than its predecessors because of it's complete absurdity, which the video showcases to great effect.
I love Britney's clearly inebriated self trying to get sexy with the stripper pole, and the fuck-me eyes she starts giving the lens whenever she loses track of her dance steps. I also love her terrible lip-synching, especially that contrived giggle at the beginning of the song. She can't even get it right on video! It's the worst fake laugh in the history of fake laughing in pop songs, and that's why it rules. As Tyra would tell her Top Model wannabes, the flaws are what make it unique and beautiful. Plus I laugh out loud at the part where the song goes "DANJADANJADANJADANJA" a little after the midpoint to introduce the part where "the unstoppable Danja" threatens that we'll have to remove him before he stops giving us trashtastic awesomeness like this, and I could listen to the "It's Britney, bitch!" entrance all day long. I wonder if I can get that as a cell phone ringtone? I can't get enough.
Anyway, it looks like someone took a crappy camcorder to the Mos Isley spaceport bar where Luke and Obi-Wan Kenobi met hot-ass Han Solo and filmed the strippers on amateur night, and it's basically awesome. You can almost smell Britney's intoxicating KFC and Marlboro Light-scented pheromones radiating from beneath her excessively small pleather bustier as she gives her blonde alter ego her best drunken tweeker fully clothed striptease. It's a work of art, and fuck y'all haters:
I've got her in a crazy position, and I'm on a mission, so it's good that I have her permission. Britney, gimme more! Gimme gimme MORE! Make good on your promise that if I want more, then that's what she'll give me! Gimme gimme!
I love Britney's clearly inebriated self trying to get sexy with the stripper pole, and the fuck-me eyes she starts giving the lens whenever she loses track of her dance steps. I also love her terrible lip-synching, especially that contrived giggle at the beginning of the song. She can't even get it right on video! It's the worst fake laugh in the history of fake laughing in pop songs, and that's why it rules. As Tyra would tell her Top Model wannabes, the flaws are what make it unique and beautiful. Plus I laugh out loud at the part where the song goes "DANJADANJADANJADANJA" a little after the midpoint to introduce the part where "the unstoppable Danja" threatens that we'll have to remove him before he stops giving us trashtastic awesomeness like this, and I could listen to the "It's Britney, bitch!" entrance all day long. I wonder if I can get that as a cell phone ringtone? I can't get enough.
Anyway, it looks like someone took a crappy camcorder to the Mos Isley spaceport bar where Luke and Obi-Wan Kenobi met hot-ass Han Solo and filmed the strippers on amateur night, and it's basically awesome. You can almost smell Britney's intoxicating KFC and Marlboro Light-scented pheromones radiating from beneath her excessively small pleather bustier as she gives her blonde alter ego her best drunken tweeker fully clothed striptease. It's a work of art, and fuck y'all haters:
I've got her in a crazy position, and I'm on a mission, so it's good that I have her permission. Britney, gimme more! Gimme gimme MORE! Make good on your promise that if I want more, then that's what she'll give me! Gimme gimme!
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, fat fucks, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, PWT, TV
Friday, September 21, 2007
Patience, precious
I fully intended to be back in the saddle with regard to blogging by today, but unfortunately, not having a computer for the last week really fucked me up in terms of my work backlog. I've got assloads of unfinished shit for my job at the Columbia patent office, and since they actually pay me more than $10 in ad revenues here and there, that has to come first. Also, it seems everyone I know needs some important document proofread, and guess who their favorite editor is? It seems that my friends don't just love me for my incisive wit, willingness to bare my breasts, and legendary beauty; apparently, they also love my obsession with proper spelling and grammar and my ability to edit the shit out of important documents like qualifying exams and cover letters for consulting jobs. Although I don't get paid for that, I'm a giver, so I work with their deadlines too. Besides, my buddy Js and Ps won't be able to come eat wings and watch football with me this Sunday if he's stuck trying to remove all the accidental German words that made their way onto his CV. Good luck trying to get a fancy international management consulting job when your CV says "schiesse" all over it. You see why I have to help.
However, rest assured that this weekend I'll be breaking my way back onto the blog, and by Monday should be back to a normal two-or-more posts a day schedule. I have lots of opinions as to what's been going on since the death of my laptop effectively gagged me on the internets. There's ample material I want to bitch about, like the depressing fact that Fitty is not outselling Kanye (for now!), the tragedy of living in a country where you can be publicly tortured by taser for asking John Kerry impertinent questions, and the fact that I'm pissed that my dogs are completely useless at filling in for me on the blogging tip.
I tried to get Caesar and/or Chingy! to pick up some of the slack yesterday, and Caesar seemed interested in the MacBook only if I would throw it for him to chase, retrieve, and chew. Since I'm not into destroying my brand new $1500 computer, I tried to give Chingy! the job instead. Needless to say, he was not interested in sharing anything with the blogosphere besides his rank breath and his disdain. He was also not a fan of the beeping sound the webcam makes right before it snaps a picture:
CHONGAY CHONG, WEBCAM! CHONGAY CHONG, RAZZYBLOG!
And yes, I know I'm sitting around with no clothes on looking like some amateur porn star trying to duplicate the sexiness attained by the newlywed Mrs. Tonya Harding Gilooly in that masterpiece of leaked sex tape known as Tonya and Jeff's Wedding Night, but like that's a surprise. Just another day in Razzy land, where the Puyallup is being throughly done 24/7.
Anyway, like I said, I'll be back in full motherfucking effect by Monday, and will put up something more clever and substantial this weekend. Thanks for your patience with me in the meantime, and thanks for being such good sports about me putting up semi-nude pics instead of any real writing. I know it's a cop-out, but it's a cop-out with tits, and that's not all bad!
However, rest assured that this weekend I'll be breaking my way back onto the blog, and by Monday should be back to a normal two-or-more posts a day schedule. I have lots of opinions as to what's been going on since the death of my laptop effectively gagged me on the internets. There's ample material I want to bitch about, like the depressing fact that Fitty is not outselling Kanye (for now!), the tragedy of living in a country where you can be publicly tortured by taser for asking John Kerry impertinent questions, and the fact that I'm pissed that my dogs are completely useless at filling in for me on the blogging tip.
I tried to get Caesar and/or Chingy! to pick up some of the slack yesterday, and Caesar seemed interested in the MacBook only if I would throw it for him to chase, retrieve, and chew. Since I'm not into destroying my brand new $1500 computer, I tried to give Chingy! the job instead. Needless to say, he was not interested in sharing anything with the blogosphere besides his rank breath and his disdain. He was also not a fan of the beeping sound the webcam makes right before it snaps a picture:
CHONGAY CHONG, WEBCAM! CHONGAY CHONG, RAZZYBLOG!
And yes, I know I'm sitting around with no clothes on looking like some amateur porn star trying to duplicate the sexiness attained by the newlywed Mrs. Tonya Harding Gilooly in that masterpiece of leaked sex tape known as Tonya and Jeff's Wedding Night, but like that's a surprise. Just another day in Razzy land, where the Puyallup is being throughly done 24/7.
Anyway, like I said, I'll be back in full motherfucking effect by Monday, and will put up something more clever and substantial this weekend. Thanks for your patience with me in the meantime, and thanks for being such good sports about me putting up semi-nude pics instead of any real writing. I know it's a cop-out, but it's a cop-out with tits, and that's not all bad!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, computer incompetence, doggity style, intentional buffoonery, internet domination, PWT, Razzification
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