Tuesday, August 26, 2008
May the fattest ass win
I don't watch "Dancing with the Stars" because dancing is dumb and stupid, especially that ballroom crap. I remember one time I was forced by some girls to watch Strictly Ballroom and I wanted to strictly murder everyone in the movie. Watching it with a bunch of has-beens (even totally awesome alumni from the greatest show in the history of television like Jennie "Kelly Taylor" Garth and Ian "Steve Sanders" Ziering) does nothing for me save elicit homicidal impulses, so I haven't watched more than five minutes of this show for the good of my fellow man.
In spite of my reaction to "Dancing with the So-Called 'Stars,'" a lot of people love this shitshow and thus even CNN writes articles about who is going to be on it. This season there's mostly a bunch of people I don't care about fitting the traditional DWTS archetypes. There's the gay ex-teen heartthrob (Lance Bass), the aging soap star (Susan Lucci), the failed vocational reality stars (Rocco DiSpirito), some comedian nobody's heard of (Jeffrey someone), old people you forgot were even alive (Cloris Leachman, Ted McGinley...although I have mad love for Frau Blücher and I'm glad she's keeping busy), random athletes (the hot-ass Misty May and the already forgotten Maurice Green), a retired NFL player (Warren Sapp), some former TV host/Maxim bikini slag (Brooke Burke), and some undeservedly famous slut (Kim Kardashian). I would like to know why of this entire crowd, Kim Kardashian's fat skank ass is getting the top billing when WARREN FUCKING SAPP is on it! For one thing, I doubt Warren Sapp will have the debonair grace that a classy guy like Jerry Rice brought to the show. For another, Warren Sapp is going to be the most entertaining contestant on DWTS of all fucking time.
I love Warren Sapp because he deserves a place of honor in the NFL's shit-talking hall of fame. This is a man who once claimed that opposing fans across the country were conspiring to poison his food to the point where he forced his friends to switch plates with him at restaurants. He once called Packers coach Mike Sherman "a lying shit-eating hound" and threatened to kick his ass. He incurred the rage of normally smiling (but nonetheless loathsome) Shitsburgh running back Jerome Bettis by skipping through a line of warming-up Steelers, and proceeded to do the same thing later to the Colts. He roughed up referees and then comparing them to slave masters. He's called out everyone from Jerramy Stevens to Michael Strahan to Brett Favre, and was one of the hardest-hitting defensive tackles in the NFL before he retired from the woeful Oakland Raiders at the end of last season with the comment, "It would've been real nice to retire with 100 sacks and all that, but I'm okay with 96.5. It's still triple digits, right?"
This also seems a good opportunity to address Warren Sapp's forays into the world of song-and-dance-related entertainment, specifically his role as Trina's philandering boyfriend in her video for "Da Baddest Bitch." Okay, so he may not have danced or done anything besides sit in his home theater and smoke a stogie watching game tape in the video, but conceivably one could dance to this song. The premise of this video asks us to believe that not only are Trina and Warren Sapp cohabitating, but that they use a Brett Favre Packers jersey for their doormat and have lots of cute pictures of them snuggling around the place for Trina to trash in response to his supposed infidelity. Given Trina's self-conferred title, it was decidedly unwise for Warren to supposedly cheat on her, thus prompting her to lay waste to all his prize possessions. Surely, however, Warren's collection of framed Buccaneers' jerseys are expendible when faced with the prospect of Trina's threats to "make you eat it with my period on." Frankly, I'd rather have a bioterrorism-inclined Eagles fan spit hep A on my porterhouse any day than earn my red wings with a hypercritical, Wedgwood china-throwing "curious bitch who took off to get broke off by the baby's dad."
Kim Kardashian doesn't have a shot in hell. I might even have to break out my old Bucs #99 jersey to show my strength of conviction on this matter. ONWARD TO VICTORY, WARREN SAPP!
Warren Sapp was one of the most entertaining NFL players of all time, so I can't believe that Kim Kardashian is getting more press for being on DWTS. The only thing that bitch can bring as far as game is the fact that she's got a sex tape, she's ruined my boyfriend Reggie (Get in My) Bush with her syphilitic twat, and she's rocking the most famous ass implants in the world. Warren Sapp is not only a hilarious loudmouth, I'd take his monster gut over Kim's infamous posterior in any kind of contest any day.
Certainly Warren's gut is striking more fear into Philip Rivers than Skank Kardashian's ass is in Reggie Bush. Philip Rivers is doing some obviously frightened gladhanding and backing off like a bitch, while Reggie (Get in My) Bush is breaking out some halfhearted frat boy raise-the-roof moves to match the cell phone clipped to his belt loop in terms of douchebaggery. Warren is going to lay a blistering verbal smackdown on the Z-list ballroom set as he once did on the Packers offense, while Kim is merely going to back her bloated ass up and inspire her partner to apathetically surrender. In terms of a fat kid shimmy contest, my money's on Warren.
Kim Kardashian doesn't have a shot in hell. I might even have to break out my old Bucs #99 jersey to show my strength of conviction on this matter. ONWARD TO VICTORY, WARREN SAPP!
Labels: fat fucks, hot dudes, NFL football, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, sluts, Stealers suck
Monday, January 21, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
DOB: January 15, 1929
DOD: April 4, 1968
Occupation: minister, inspiring civil rights leader
Hometown: Atlanta, Georgia
Current residence: a grave at the King Center in Hotlanta
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: There are a lot of reasons to like Martin Luther King. I'm a big fan of the civil rights movement, that "I Have a Dream" speech was powerful and inspiring and moving, Dr. King was a hot iconic piece in his day, and he had a sweet smooth Southern preacher voice. However, why I really want to hit that hotness is that Dr. King's dream has been expanded to mean a DAY OFF! BOOYAH!
Unfortunately, because I'm in grad school, I don't get to take today off. However, when I graduate next year and get a real job, I'll be sleeping off my hangover rather than struggling to find something to blog about besides clumsily relate how pissed off I got yesterday at the Giants fans at Josie Wood's Pub thanks to Dr. King. Thanks to Dr. King, I have a dream that next year on this day I'll be happily having dreams rather than schlepping my sorry, Bud Light-scented ass to lab. Hopefully I'll be laying in bed naked having those dreams beside Reggie (Get in My) Bush, Robert Sylvester Kelly, or some other fine, accomplished brother in a salute to Dr. King's wish for interracial harmony. Even posthumously, Dr. King provides hope of days off and sex with hot guys for me, and I have to salute him. Thank you for the dream, Dr. King.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Reggie (Stay Out of My) Bush
NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO!!!!!!!!!
This is very, very, very upsetting. As I was catching up on my gossip internets from the last couple of days, I noticed this picture of busted, scabies-infested slag Kim Kardashian shopping for vibrators--I mean neck and back massagers--at the Sharper Image with none other than Reggie (Get in My) Bush! THIS SUCKS!
I saw that they had attended some crappy event together months ago, but I figured that she was just a large-assed diversion and Reggie had moved on to some other slag-about-Hollywood. After all, I haven't seen that skank wearing a pink Saints #25 jersey contaminating the Superdome with crabs all season! Then again, while Reggie was stacking paper from his various endorsement deals, he didn't have such a great year on the football field. My buddy Js and Ps, who took Reggie (Get in My) Bush as his first round draft pick, has been bitching about his lack of productivity all season. I can't really blame him, since who would have thought he'd be splitting carries with Aaron Stecker. Then he tore his PCL and is out for the season. It's probably because Kim Kardashian was behind the scenes, cursing Reggie with her talent-sapping, hot guy-ruining, football prowess-mitigating ass dentata. From the outside, with a slutty Lycra blend skirt on it, I know it looks like this:
But turn her around, bend her over, and take a gander between those two behemoth ass implants, and I bet you see that Reggie has been sticking his dick into something more akin to this:
Seriously, I would not be surprised if that is where the inspiration for the Pit of Sarlacc came from. I don't care how rich Kim Kardashian's parents are; that bitch, like fellow celebutard and former BFF Paris Hilton, is straight-up trash. Being from the Meth Lab Capital of the U.S. of A., I know it when I see it. Hooker is such a nasty, vermin-ridden prostitute that she makes me seem classy and prudish.
Anyway, I'm pissed because I figured if Reggie had just hit that once ages ago, he'd have since washed his pubes with Rid and be safe for me to sit on by now. Unfortunately, now that I realize they've got this long-term thing happening, not only am I convinced that Reggie's penis may not ever recover from the ruination wrought by Kim Kardashian's nether regions, but that if I ever have to the chance to actually get Reggie in my Bush, I'll be experiencing burning and discharge within several hours of that occurring.
I hate Kim Kardashian. HATE!
This is very, very, very upsetting. As I was catching up on my gossip internets from the last couple of days, I noticed this picture of busted, scabies-infested slag Kim Kardashian shopping for vibrators--I mean neck and back massagers--at the Sharper Image with none other than Reggie (Get in My) Bush! THIS SUCKS!
Anyway, I'm pissed because I figured if Reggie had just hit that once ages ago, he'd have since washed his pubes with Rid and be safe for me to sit on by now. Unfortunately, now that I realize they've got this long-term thing happening, not only am I convinced that Reggie's penis may not ever recover from the ruination wrought by Kim Kardashian's nether regions, but that if I ever have to the chance to actually get Reggie in my Bush, I'll be experiencing burning and discharge within several hours of that occurring.
I hate Kim Kardashian. HATE!
Labels: assholes, gross, media whores, NFL football, oh the horror, ranting, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, sluts
Thursday, September 06, 2007
It's the most wonderful time of the year...
That's right...the National Football League officially begins its 2007 season in less than one hour, and I couldn't be more fucking stoked. Today, I got this e-mail in my inbox, and it served to increase my frenzied excitement (as well as almost lick my computer screen, until I remembered that I work in a lab full of live viruses and it's inadvisable to put my tongue on anything in here):
I'm not sure which of these two wants it more, but I can tell you which one I WANT more, and I'll give you a hint...it's not FAS* Manning's big brother. (*FAS="fetal alcohol syndrome")
The only thing that makes me take a break from my swooning over the hotness that is Reggie (Get in My) Bush for one second is the sting of knowing that he's not on my fantasy team. In spite of my leaguemate Unicorn Dick's attempts to trick me into drafting with my pussy rather than my years of Fantasy Football experience, I begrudgingly passed over Reggie to fill out my team with LaDanian Tomlinson. LT's hot too, and as an added bonus he hasn't stuck his dick in Kim Kardashian, but he just doesn't have that same debonair, seductive appeal that Reggie brings so effectively. Alas...Bush got snapped up in the first round before I could add him to my roster.
At least I'll get to watch his fine ass cutting all over the field in the face of the pathetic and hapless Colts defense. Seriously, Reggie can outrun and outblock a Pepsi machine. I think he's going to stomp his fly-ass cleats all over Indianapolis's pathetic excuse for a run defense. On the sidelines, Peyton's going to be pissed, shouting "fuck!" to himself as he is wont to do on every occasion where he can't shout his favorite derogatory alternative to the f-bomb ("idiot kicker!"). It's going to be awesome. I CANNOT WAIT!!!! I'm so ready for some football!
The only thing that makes me take a break from my swooning over the hotness that is Reggie (Get in My) Bush for one second is the sting of knowing that he's not on my fantasy team. In spite of my leaguemate Unicorn Dick's attempts to trick me into drafting with my pussy rather than my years of Fantasy Football experience, I begrudgingly passed over Reggie to fill out my team with LaDanian Tomlinson. LT's hot too, and as an added bonus he hasn't stuck his dick in Kim Kardashian, but he just doesn't have that same debonair, seductive appeal that Reggie brings so effectively. Alas...Bush got snapped up in the first round before I could add him to my roster.
At least I'll get to watch his fine ass cutting all over the field in the face of the pathetic and hapless Colts defense. Seriously, Reggie can outrun and outblock a Pepsi machine. I think he's going to stomp his fly-ass cleats all over Indianapolis's pathetic excuse for a run defense. On the sidelines, Peyton's going to be pissed, shouting "fuck!" to himself as he is wont to do on every occasion where he can't shout his favorite derogatory alternative to the f-bomb ("idiot kicker!"). It's going to be awesome. I CANNOT WAIT!!!! I'm so ready for some football!
Labels: Fantasia, hot dudes, NFL football, Reggie (Get In My) Bush
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Ori Schwartz
DOB: 1981?
Occupation: computer nerd
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Ori graduated from Boston University in 2003 and went to work at IBM as a programmer for awhile. However, he decided to give the finger to corporate America, and spend all his time nerding out at one of his favorite pursuits: fantasy football. Thus, he combined both his expertise as a code-crunching nerd and a NFL stat-crunching nerd and developed FleaFlicker.com, a free software program for managing one's fantasy league. Being that I am the commissioner of my league, the Columbia Ballers, I give a flying fuck about these things.
In years past, my fantasy league has always relied on one of the free major fantasy football sites, either NFL.com or Yahoo.com. However, last year, this other guy started a league at school, and it became apparent that in the world of Columbia grad school fantasissimos, there were two divisions of play: the just-have-fun league, and the super hard core league. Obviously, my league is the latter. It has gotten this reputation because in years past, I've booted people from the league for not showing adequate dedication or level of play. I gave LL Cool Jew and BigBagel their walking papers two years ago for letting too many weeks go by where they let players on bye weeks take up active roster space. I rule with an iron fist, and anyone not up to snuff can go back to playing the fantasy equivalent of Pop Warner. As a result, the Columbia Ballers league is now full of expert fantasy players who trade, talk smack, and compete something fierce. The other league at school...well, let's just say that in their inaugural season, one guy released his entire team halfway through the season because he wasn't winning, and another guy who won the league only did so because, not knowing anything about football, some blog told him to take LaDanian Tomlinson in the draft and he coasted solely on LT's rushing production for the entire year. Amateurs.
Anyway, to further distinguish our league's prowess, we decided that this year, the Columbia Ballers were taking the next step and going keeper, which for all you non-fantasy ballers out there means we keep players in our rosters from year to year. That means a lot more work for me as commissioner and a more tricked-out software package to handle it (because God knows I ain't doing that shit on an Excel spreadsheet). In the past, being commissioner meant signing up for a NFL.com league and inviting everyone, and that's about it. Now I have to decide on scoring rules, keeper rules, trading rules, waiver wire rules, drafting rules, etc., and manage this in a way that doesn't cause an uproar with the other highly opinionated team owners. I don't mind the extra commissioner tasks, but the software I was much less sure about. The only way to run a keeper league through NFL.com is to pay $130 for their super fancy deluxe commissioner package, and even the people in our league who have graduated and thus have real jobs were reticent to cough up $12 for a share in that. However, someone tipped me off to this FleaFlicker.com site, and once I got there, I realized that I had found a brilliant solution to accommodate our needs while placating the cheapskates. There were a variety of reviews lauding FleaFlicker (especially because during the 2005 season, a lot of the major fantasy sites crashed due to an inability to handle the traffic, but FleaFlicker stayed operational and thus hot).
After taking a tour of the site and enjoying the artwork featuring a lot of cranky-looking, football-playing fleas, I was still unsure as to whether it could fulfill our keeper needs (check it year round, execute trades in the off-season, etc.), so I e-mailed my questions. Ori responded to me PERSONALLY. When I checked out his picture and saw that he looks like a skinnier, tech geek version of Vin Diesel, I made my first decision as commissioner for the 2007 season and opted for FleaFlicker. Besides, any website named after one of my favorite gimmick plays of all time rules. The flea-flicker play, in which the QB passes off the ball to a running back, who then laterals the ball back to the QB for a forward pass, has provided some of football's greatest moments. The gnarliest sports injury of all time--the snapping of Joe Theismann's femur--was during his attempt at executing a very ill-advised flea-flicker in the face of a blitzing, Lawrence Taylor-containing Giants defense. If you haven't seen this, you should, because it is some NASTY shit watching Theismann's career end as his shin literally breaks in half beneath the original LT's massive weight:
Anyway, props to Ori for making some dope-ass fantasy software and naming it after this. Oh, and did I mention that my fantasy draft is tonight? I got the number one pick in the random draft order, which is SO AWESOME! Hmmm...will I take LaDanian Tomlinson, or will I take Reggie (Get in My) Bush??? I have to be careful, because the last time I had a number one pick in the draft was in 2001, and that year I selected Kurt Warner, who promptly broke his fucking finger and spent the rest of the season reading his Bible and being whipped by that evangelical power lesbian he's married to, thus leaving me switching every week from pathetic quarterback to pathetic quarterback. With considerably more fantasy expertise under my belt at this point and the stinging memory of that season (as well as last season, when thanks to my lack of running backs and my roster being devastated by injuries, led me to finish second-to-last in the league), I have high hopes that I will not be doomed to repeat past mistakes. Rest assured, I will NOT be picking Kurt Warner ANYWHERE in the draft.
Labels: computer incompetence, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Fantasia, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, internet domination, nerd alert, NFL football, Reggie (Get In My) Bush
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Reggie (Get In My) Bush
Name: Reggie (Get in My) Bush
Real Name: Reginald Alfred Bush II
DOB: March 2, 1985
Occupation: NFL running back, New Orleans Saints; endorsement whore
Hometown: San Diego, California
Current Residence: New Orleans, Louisiana (?)
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I've always had many strong feelings for Reggie (Get In My) Bush for a variety of reasons, ranging from my admiration of his rushing performance in his rookie NFL season to the fact that I'm fond of the name Reggie because one of my life's great loves is named that to my unabashed desire to tap that sizzling piece of ass. I love Reggie (Get In My) Bush. That's why I was pleased to get an e-mail from BigBagel advising me of Reggie's latest off-the-field career moves:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: too much bush?
http://www.sunherald.com/sports/story/90100.html
are you prepared for your boy to become as overexposed as Fas's* older brother?
*Fas="Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning, quarterback of the New York Giants
First, one can never have too much Bush unless your name is Irv Lewis "Scooter" Libby and you're into crappy presidents. Second, the link in that e-mail contains an article about how the coming NFL season will include a Reggie Bush advertising blitzkrieg. He's in ads for Subway, Pepsi, Adidas, and GM, and he'll be the most prominent NFL endorser behind Peyton Manning. So long as Reggie Bush doesn't start acting like an arrogant country-fried tool like Peyton, and so long as he doesn't do anything stupid like "CUT! THAT! MEAT!" or "D-CAF! *thump thump* D-CAF!" along the lines of Peyton's ads, I have no problem with him being all over my football ads. I totally loved those Reggie Bush Project commercials where he ran a variety of running and blocking drills against a Pepsi machine to the tune of Europe's "The Final Countdown" last season, so things are looking good so far.
In fact, his endorsements means he has even more money, which, while not the attribute I look first for in men, is nonetheless appealing. That means when he finally realizes that I'm the girl for him and he takes me out, we'll be flossin' in a serious way. Stacking paper and living the capitalist life is the asskicking American way, so I have to salute his selling-out on our holiest of national holidays. Happy 4th Reggie! USA! USA! Call me!
Labels: BigBagel, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, NFL football, Reggie (Get In My) Bush
Friday, May 18, 2007
The Southern chapter of Razzyphiles makes good
Yesterday, I received several exciting dispatches from the Dirrty Dirrty, and it seems some serious congratulations are in order. BigBagel once again pulls far ahead of everybody in my pack of friends in terms of having the most awesome curriculum vitae in the universe, as now in addition to his Pulitzer and his stunning wife (LL Cool Jew), he has been awarded a prestigious fellowship from the Kaiser Family Foundation. This means he gets a huge salary increase compared to what he was making doing the Jimmy Olsen thing in the post-Katrina apocalypse that is southern Mississippi, as well as a computer which will be more suitable for playing the "one game to rule them all" (LOTR online, of course). This is all to facilitate his going for Pulitzer numero dos by writing articles about his specialty, post-traumatic stress disorder and general craziness among Hurricane Katrina survivors. Even more exciting, he and LL Cool Jew are relocating the Cool Jew-Bagel household to the 'Nolia.
Well, I doubt they'll move into the Magnolia Projects next door to Terius "Juvenile" Grey's cousins who have not stacked sufficient paper to ball outrageous elsewhere, but they are relocating to New Orleans. At least when I go visit, we'll have a considerably doper selection of strip clubs to choose from than in the greater Gulfport, MS area, and we'll be able to eat crawfish and drink hurricanes and shit like that. Furthermore, the chances of running into Angelina Jolie and hitting her in the face for being a pompous fucktard are markedly increased there, as are the chances of being able to stalk (hot as hell) Saints running back Reggie (Get in My) Bush. Also, consider me absolutely fucking tickled that they're living in a city famous for bitches flashing their tits, so I should fit right in. BigBagel better get some of his kinte cloth blankets and the spare futon ready for my imminent trip down there.
Also, LL Cool Jew informed me last night that their fellow Columbia J-school alum, Killer, is in the middle of a bidding war between three different publishing houses who want to buy the rights to his graphic novel retelling of Darwin's Origin of the Species for the 150th anniversary of its original publication. I love it when one of my friends/Razzyphiles gets a book deal, especially one who has earned my respect by being a seasoned whiskey drinker like Killer. And BTW, Killer, if you need a consultant who combines expert knowledge of both evolutionary biology and 19th century British naval expeditions to the far side of the world a la the HMS Beagle, holler at your girl! I can't draw a cormorant to save my life, but I can tell you all sorts of anecdotal tales about Darwin's life as a seafaring naturalist. For starters, he was not accustomed to winding down after a hard day battling the Napoleonic fleet, amputating childrens' arms without anasthesia save a belt of laudanum, and a hearty meal of weevil-infested hardtack by playing Mozart string duets with the captain like in Master and Commander.
Now, given BigBagel and Killer's impressive personal achievements, you might expect them to look something like this:
Those are some random Manhattan Project scientists showing their mastery of the fission reaction. They are some smart, very stoic guys, conducting their work in atomic physics with such sobriety as starting the nuclear arms race warrants. People presume that anyone conducting substantial work recognized by such august institutions as the Kaiser Foundation and major publishers of commemorative works would be as dapper, serious, and obviously brainy as the gentlemen above. Not in BigBagel and Killer's case.
Here's BigBagel, passed out on the altar of the synagogue at his own wedding rehearsal, from the lethal combination of tequila, Jaegermeister, and Jameson's that his "friends" forced down his throat at his bachelor party:
And here's Killer, anally fingering the Dirrty XXXtina blow-up doll (which really looks a LOT like Christina Aguilera) that I gave LL Cool Jew as a bachelorette party gift:
Giants among men, that's what I say. Veritable pillars of society.
The real winner in all of this may be LL Cool Jew, however, as she no longer has to slog her Michael Kors cork wedges through shin-deep hog wallows in Jefferson Davis County, MS to get quotes from gigantic hillbilly politicians or play hardball with Senator Trent Lott at press conferences. Unfortunately, that means that priceless pictures like these will no longer find their way to my inbox:
That's a pity, but I'm sure LL Cool Jew will be considerably happier in an actual city working a 9-to-5 as a PR flunky for nonprofit organizations filled with leftist revolutionaries, which is currently her most promising job opportunity. She's the daughter of a Black Panther kung fu master (seriously) from San Francisco, so that's like going home for her. It's a major step up from covering chemical spills and Jesus pageants in southern Miss.
In any event, a big fat SKOAL to my bitches in the Dirrty! Or as Lo-Key and Ayatollah once stated in their masterpiece of sound "FEMA Check," "keep your head up to all my peeps on the beach in the Ninth Ward!"
Well, I doubt they'll move into the Magnolia Projects next door to Terius "Juvenile" Grey's cousins who have not stacked sufficient paper to ball outrageous elsewhere, but they are relocating to New Orleans. At least when I go visit, we'll have a considerably doper selection of strip clubs to choose from than in the greater Gulfport, MS area, and we'll be able to eat crawfish and drink hurricanes and shit like that. Furthermore, the chances of running into Angelina Jolie and hitting her in the face for being a pompous fucktard are markedly increased there, as are the chances of being able to stalk (hot as hell) Saints running back Reggie (Get in My) Bush. Also, consider me absolutely fucking tickled that they're living in a city famous for bitches flashing their tits, so I should fit right in. BigBagel better get some of his kinte cloth blankets and the spare futon ready for my imminent trip down there.
Also, LL Cool Jew informed me last night that their fellow Columbia J-school alum, Killer, is in the middle of a bidding war between three different publishing houses who want to buy the rights to his graphic novel retelling of Darwin's Origin of the Species for the 150th anniversary of its original publication. I love it when one of my friends/Razzyphiles gets a book deal, especially one who has earned my respect by being a seasoned whiskey drinker like Killer. And BTW, Killer, if you need a consultant who combines expert knowledge of both evolutionary biology and 19th century British naval expeditions to the far side of the world a la the HMS Beagle, holler at your girl! I can't draw a cormorant to save my life, but I can tell you all sorts of anecdotal tales about Darwin's life as a seafaring naturalist. For starters, he was not accustomed to winding down after a hard day battling the Napoleonic fleet, amputating childrens' arms without anasthesia save a belt of laudanum, and a hearty meal of weevil-infested hardtack by playing Mozart string duets with the captain like in Master and Commander.
Now, given BigBagel and Killer's impressive personal achievements, you might expect them to look something like this:
Here's BigBagel, passed out on the altar of the synagogue at his own wedding rehearsal, from the lethal combination of tequila, Jaegermeister, and Jameson's that his "friends" forced down his throat at his bachelor party:
And here's Killer, anally fingering the Dirrty XXXtina blow-up doll (which really looks a LOT like Christina Aguilera) that I gave LL Cool Jew as a bachelorette party gift:
The real winner in all of this may be LL Cool Jew, however, as she no longer has to slog her Michael Kors cork wedges through shin-deep hog wallows in Jefferson Davis County, MS to get quotes from gigantic hillbilly politicians or play hardball with Senator Trent Lott at press conferences. Unfortunately, that means that priceless pictures like these will no longer find their way to my inbox:
"So tell me, Mr. Pitts, how have Jefferson Davis County's new zoning laws affected swine farmers from a 'good old-fashioned country boy logic' standpoint?"
"Senator Lott, would you kindly elaborate on your efforts to ensure that the JEWISH VOTES get counted?"
In any event, a big fat SKOAL to my bitches in the Dirrty! Or as Lo-Key and Ayatollah once stated in their masterpiece of sound "FEMA Check," "keep your head up to all my peeps on the beach in the Ninth Ward!"
Labels: BigBagel, Dirrty Dirrty, I LOVE IT, Juvenile, Killer, LL Cool Jew, Reggie (Get In My) Bush
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Kim Kardashian is the Paris Hilton wannabe prostitute who released her own sex tape and then cleverly "sued" Vivid for her paycheck to make it seem like she didn't release it after all. This sex tape was embarrassing because it supposedly revealed two humiliating secrets: she likes to finish off an exhausting roll in the hay with a golden shower, and she had sex with Brandy's little brother, who is now sticking his dick into the hot crack fiend mess that is Whitney Houston. I didn't see the sex tape, because I am way over socialite amateur porn. They're usually boring, and I like my porn made by professionals. Give me Jenna or Briana or Chasey over the excessively Mystic Tanned piece of shit that is Kim Kardashian any day.
Anyway, Kim is otherwise famous because her late father wrote some legal brief for O.J., and because she's now squandering the inheritance he left her being a talentless hooker who attends every D-list red carpet party to collect swag and be famous for nothing. Needless to say, I think she's a waste of space on my internet gossip sites, but now I think she needs to be FUCKING TERMINATED. Why, you ask?
Bitch is going out with my boyfriend, Reggie (Get in My) Bush! Now he has crabs and/or herpes, and I'm going to feel concerned for my health on the day (which WILL happen) when Reggie's finally ready to hit it with me. This is just not right.
Anyway, Kim is otherwise famous because her late father wrote some legal brief for O.J., and because she's now squandering the inheritance he left her being a talentless hooker who attends every D-list red carpet party to collect swag and be famous for nothing. Needless to say, I think she's a waste of space on my internet gossip sites, but now I think she needs to be FUCKING TERMINATED. Why, you ask?
Labels: media whores, oh the horror, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, sluts
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Impossible is hilarious
I just returned from my race, and am patting myself on the back for finishing in 43:09. Considering that my training the past couple weeks has consisted of sitting on my ass, drinking lots of Heineken, watching "Deadliest Catch" reruns, and occasionally going for a jog, I'm not at all ashamed of averaging 10:47 a mile. In spite of my "Sabado Gigante" hangover-related concerns that this race would be gigantically bad, I perked up once I got to the park and picked up my number and ChampionChip, because today is a beautiful spring day. The sky is blue, the sun is blazing, the humidity is low, the cherry and magnolia trees are blooming, there was a larger-than-life size decal of Reggie (Get in my) Bush on the side of the "Impossible is Nothing" Adidas promotional trailer, and I stole a banana meant for the kids finishing their 1K fun run. I have to say that so far, it was a good day. I walked over to the starting area to finish the pilfered banana, stretch, and do a little people watching.
This race is the first event I've actually participated in. I joined the New York Road Runners because you have to in order to get into the marathon in the fall, which I intend to do. Even though I have to brave the lottery or raise money for charity to get into the marathon this year, if I run nine races this year I'll have guaranteed entry for the 2008 marathon. I figure that's a reasonable training regimen, so I plan to run eight more of these bad boys before year's end. I realized after today, though, that I am going to have to prepare myself for the ridiculousness I will be confronted with at each of these competitions.
The world of runners is an absurd social scene populated by a variety of characters. Being that I was alone at this event, I was not distracted from observing the cavalcade of runner-types parading past, and noted that there are several distinct categories that runners can be lumped into:
The self-proclaimed running elite: they might still run a ten minute mile, but that doesn't stop these people from thinking they are one race away from the Olympics. They usually have some type of high-tech running outfit on, which is covered with unnecessary vents and probably has a sponsor's logo on it. They wear those ugly Lance Armstrong Oakley sunglasses and do a lot of complicated stretching and bouncing around to prepare for the race. They ask nearby strangers dumb questions like "When is the race going to start?", not because they don't know, but because they are creating an opportunity to regale the questioned with tales of previous race triumphs and provide unsolicited running tips.
Old people: old people always wear the free race t-shirt, even though it may be ill-fitting and wholly unflattering. They also often are sporting a fanny pack, and not a high tech runner's fanny pack, but the giant, old-school kind in some type of Hypercolor fluorescent hue. They run in packs and are aggravatingly slow.
Tech people: in spite of the fact that running requires one piece of equipment (shoes), there are people who buy all these accoutrements to ensure that all the comforts of home can run with them. They have all manner of arm-or-torso-based iPod holders, wallet caddies, and water bottle holders. I saw one dude doing jumping jacks wearing what looked like a cross between one of Schwarzenegger's Commando-era grenade strings and Batman's utility belt around his waist; when I looked closer, it turned out to be a secured water bottle carrier, complete with a COMPASS. I guess that's in case you get lost while running across the 72nd Street Park Transverse and have to get all Bear Grills to find your way back to the Upper West Side.
Desperate single people: I suppose the haters will try to fit me into this category, but it hadn't actually occurred to me that people would use these races to meet potential mates. I certainly don't want to try to mack it to some hot dude while panting and covered with sweat...in my world, the panting and sweating part usually comes after a candidate is taken in by my many crude charms. Nonetheless, there were a lot of chicks in well-thought-out running outfits, makeup, and jewelry, and there were even more dudes trying to spark up conversation in hopes of leading to a running partner. The dude who made the unfortunate decision to chat me up looked like a fat Frodo Baggins in a "Life is Good" shirt, and after I got away from him by pointing out a pile of horse shit in the road and moving away from it and him, he started chatting up this bitch who was at least sixty.
Couples: I assume these are former members of the above group, who were successful in finding a love interest with a NYRR membership, and who now enjoy dates running in races, rather than doing normal shit like eating steak, watching movies, and having dirty backdoor sex. This one couple was so lame they were trying to SHARE iPOD HEADPHONES WHILE THEY RAN.
Firemen: They weren't running in the race, but were ubiquitous along the race course, sitting around in their emergency vehicles watching people and waiting for a runner to keel over. I've spoken many times about the hotness of New York's Bravest, so when I ran past a fire truck at a water station later in the race, I threw a cup of water all over myself. I was wearing a white wife-beater and white unlined sports bra underneath, and from the shouts of encouragement from the boys of Ladder 12 or whatever, my nipples looked awesome.
Pathetic single women trying to feel accomplished: A while back, when I announced my marathon-running ambitions, some readers commented that, to paraphrase, I had sold out:
Fat people: There are obviously a lot of fat people who have realized that running is an efficient method of weight loss. This one group of heifers even had shirts made to commemorate their road running exercise regimen. The back of their shirts said, "Outta my way...I've got goals to achieve!", and they were asking people nearby to take a picture of all three of them from behind to showcase their matching shirts. I would think that the amount of cellulite hanging below the hemline of their appallingly abbreviated running shorts would be enough to motivate them when they take a look at that photograph. After the race started, I got stuck behind one of these cows as she lumbered gaspingly up a hill, and it was my turn to say, "Outta my way, I've got goals to achieve." One goal, for example, is finishing the race in less than five hours.
Business people: Despite the fact that it was Sunday morning, there was a slew of Wall Street-type dudes who were busy Blackberrying right up until the race started. Losers.
Track teams: There were these monstrous groups of teenagers wearing team gear running in packs and generally annoying me.
Underdressed old men: I saw at least fifty dudes who were inadvisably shirtless. These are the types who have strange bodies (skinny with a set of C-cup man-tits) and look like those gasping, emaciated dudes at the end of 28 Days Later who were dying of the rage virus in the middle of the street, covered with badly distributed body hair, and oozing a toxic film of sweat to splash on anyone unwise enough to attempt to pass them. I was contaminated at milepost 3, but fortunately there was a water stand there, so I was able to reenter the Central Park wet t-shirt contest and rid myself of nasty old man running funk at the same time.
Kids: These snotty little overachievers are too athletic for the "Kids Race," the purpose of which I thought was to segregate the children from people like myself who hate them. Apparently, kids can still run the adult race if they want to, and a lot did. I made sure I stepped on as many of their feet as possible. At the end of the race, I decided to take the advice of this random dude I boned a month ago who happens to be a runner. He suggested sprinting at the end of the race. I did, and as I passed a cluster of sweaty, miserable-looking kids, I told them to eat my dust. Suckers!
I can't wait until the next race event, when I get to do even more race culture anthropology, and will hopefully be clever enough to bring a camera to document the ridiculousness. You know these assholes are just going to get more obviously but unintentionally hilarious as the marathon gets closer.
This race is the first event I've actually participated in. I joined the New York Road Runners because you have to in order to get into the marathon in the fall, which I intend to do. Even though I have to brave the lottery or raise money for charity to get into the marathon this year, if I run nine races this year I'll have guaranteed entry for the 2008 marathon. I figure that's a reasonable training regimen, so I plan to run eight more of these bad boys before year's end. I realized after today, though, that I am going to have to prepare myself for the ridiculousness I will be confronted with at each of these competitions.
The world of runners is an absurd social scene populated by a variety of characters. Being that I was alone at this event, I was not distracted from observing the cavalcade of runner-types parading past, and noted that there are several distinct categories that runners can be lumped into:
The self-proclaimed running elite: they might still run a ten minute mile, but that doesn't stop these people from thinking they are one race away from the Olympics. They usually have some type of high-tech running outfit on, which is covered with unnecessary vents and probably has a sponsor's logo on it. They wear those ugly Lance Armstrong Oakley sunglasses and do a lot of complicated stretching and bouncing around to prepare for the race. They ask nearby strangers dumb questions like "When is the race going to start?", not because they don't know, but because they are creating an opportunity to regale the questioned with tales of previous race triumphs and provide unsolicited running tips.
Old people: old people always wear the free race t-shirt, even though it may be ill-fitting and wholly unflattering. They also often are sporting a fanny pack, and not a high tech runner's fanny pack, but the giant, old-school kind in some type of Hypercolor fluorescent hue. They run in packs and are aggravatingly slow.
Tech people: in spite of the fact that running requires one piece of equipment (shoes), there are people who buy all these accoutrements to ensure that all the comforts of home can run with them. They have all manner of arm-or-torso-based iPod holders, wallet caddies, and water bottle holders. I saw one dude doing jumping jacks wearing what looked like a cross between one of Schwarzenegger's Commando-era grenade strings and Batman's utility belt around his waist; when I looked closer, it turned out to be a secured water bottle carrier, complete with a COMPASS. I guess that's in case you get lost while running across the 72nd Street Park Transverse and have to get all Bear Grills to find your way back to the Upper West Side.
Desperate single people: I suppose the haters will try to fit me into this category, but it hadn't actually occurred to me that people would use these races to meet potential mates. I certainly don't want to try to mack it to some hot dude while panting and covered with sweat...in my world, the panting and sweating part usually comes after a candidate is taken in by my many crude charms. Nonetheless, there were a lot of chicks in well-thought-out running outfits, makeup, and jewelry, and there were even more dudes trying to spark up conversation in hopes of leading to a running partner. The dude who made the unfortunate decision to chat me up looked like a fat Frodo Baggins in a "Life is Good" shirt, and after I got away from him by pointing out a pile of horse shit in the road and moving away from it and him, he started chatting up this bitch who was at least sixty.
Couples: I assume these are former members of the above group, who were successful in finding a love interest with a NYRR membership, and who now enjoy dates running in races, rather than doing normal shit like eating steak, watching movies, and having dirty backdoor sex. This one couple was so lame they were trying to SHARE iPOD HEADPHONES WHILE THEY RAN.
Firemen: They weren't running in the race, but were ubiquitous along the race course, sitting around in their emergency vehicles watching people and waiting for a runner to keel over. I've spoken many times about the hotness of New York's Bravest, so when I ran past a fire truck at a water station later in the race, I threw a cup of water all over myself. I was wearing a white wife-beater and white unlined sports bra underneath, and from the shouts of encouragement from the boys of Ladder 12 or whatever, my nipples looked awesome.
Pathetic single women trying to feel accomplished: A while back, when I announced my marathon-running ambitions, some readers commented that, to paraphrase, I had sold out:
are you getting your botox before or after the race? razzy, don't you know that every fucking manhattan single woman above 28 caves to peer-pressure and runs the marathon? and these same women date older rich men with committment issues, rent in the hamptons, run up debt on fancy handbags, bi-weekly beauty salon visits, and talking to their shrinks.I'm running the marathon to QUIT SMOKING, people! This is not me, and I could write a fucking book about how wrong all these assertions are. However, there were a variety of women of this ilk there. Some of them were mingling with the "Desperate Single People" crowd, and others were busy bragging to anyone who would listen about all the races they've signed up for, their chances in the lottery, their injuries, etc. The worst was this ho decrying the nectar of the gods (AKA booze) because it was so much harder to train after a night of drinking. Well, try training after a night of drinking AND "Sabado Gigante", bitch...you'll be wrecked.
You have now officially an aging single Manhattan girl looking for something meaningful in her life to replace having a relationship. I used to think you were a fun loving free spirited grad student, now I know you are typical narcissistic Manhattan girl. Can I suggest a Post Doc at Cold Spring Harbor so you can move to long island with an older man and live in your "dream house."
Fat people: There are obviously a lot of fat people who have realized that running is an efficient method of weight loss. This one group of heifers even had shirts made to commemorate their road running exercise regimen. The back of their shirts said, "Outta my way...I've got goals to achieve!", and they were asking people nearby to take a picture of all three of them from behind to showcase their matching shirts. I would think that the amount of cellulite hanging below the hemline of their appallingly abbreviated running shorts would be enough to motivate them when they take a look at that photograph. After the race started, I got stuck behind one of these cows as she lumbered gaspingly up a hill, and it was my turn to say, "Outta my way, I've got goals to achieve." One goal, for example, is finishing the race in less than five hours.
Business people: Despite the fact that it was Sunday morning, there was a slew of Wall Street-type dudes who were busy Blackberrying right up until the race started. Losers.
Track teams: There were these monstrous groups of teenagers wearing team gear running in packs and generally annoying me.
Underdressed old men: I saw at least fifty dudes who were inadvisably shirtless. These are the types who have strange bodies (skinny with a set of C-cup man-tits) and look like those gasping, emaciated dudes at the end of 28 Days Later who were dying of the rage virus in the middle of the street, covered with badly distributed body hair, and oozing a toxic film of sweat to splash on anyone unwise enough to attempt to pass them. I was contaminated at milepost 3, but fortunately there was a water stand there, so I was able to reenter the Central Park wet t-shirt contest and rid myself of nasty old man running funk at the same time.
Kids: These snotty little overachievers are too athletic for the "Kids Race," the purpose of which I thought was to segregate the children from people like myself who hate them. Apparently, kids can still run the adult race if they want to, and a lot did. I made sure I stepped on as many of their feet as possible. At the end of the race, I decided to take the advice of this random dude I boned a month ago who happens to be a runner. He suggested sprinting at the end of the race. I did, and as I passed a cluster of sweaty, miserable-looking kids, I told them to eat my dust. Suckers!
I can't wait until the next race event, when I get to do even more race culture anthropology, and will hopefully be clever enough to bring a camera to document the ridiculousness. You know these assholes are just going to get more obviously but unintentionally hilarious as the marathon gets closer.
Labels: exercise drama, fat fucks, hilarious shit, NYC, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, ridiculous absurdity
Friday, February 23, 2007
Science explains it
Ever since I got my cherry popped back in '95 (and, for that matter, before when I was solely interested in muff diving), I've never been too prim or proper about sex. In fact, I'm so casual about it now that I have a strict policy of always fucking on the first date, to get it out of the way and to make sure dude doesn't have something wrong with his dick (ie: disease, size, or technical issues). I've had sex with a bunch of my friends, and even some enemies, and it's not really a very big deal to me. Because of this lackadaisical attitude concerning the holy union of man and woman, and because I'm frequently drunk, I've taken home some real losers in my time as well.
Readers of this blog are already familiar with some of these horror stories, including Chapstick Dick, Facial Boy, and the White Piercing Apprentice with Dreadlocks who Shredded my Vagina and Gave me a Hickey. There are plenty more that I have not chronicled for lack of time or what I presume would be lack of reader interest. These guys all had one thing in common: in order for me to fuck them, I was so wasted I probably couldn't have even spelled my own name when I invited them into my bed and my twat.
Fortunately, I no longer have to wonder about the underlying mechanism as to how I wound up banging these trolls because, in an example of grant funding being well-spent, some researchers at the University of Manchester have calculated the formula describing the "beer goggles" effect.
You gotta love those Brits...not only do their university professors engage in worthwhile research such as this, but they immediately send a press release to the BBC so we can all benefit from their contributions to science. This didn't get a mention in Nature or Science, which is making me question those journals' long-undisputed "top-tier" status. Fuck global warming, sustainability, proving the Poincare conjecture (which Science declared "Breakthrough of the Year" even though I have no clue what that is), astrophysical studies of the Kuiper Belt, and even Nature's gay animals...BEER GOGGLES is an unexplained phenomenon that has fascinated and confused mankind since the dawn of time. For evidence of this, see Clan of the Cave Bear. Some Neanderthal porked Darryl Hannah and then, when his prehistoric hangover wore off, was so horrified he'd stuck it in a disgusting Cro-Magnon bitch that he had the other early hominids boot her out of their communal cave. Beer goggles has been responsible for legions of hookups that made people slap their hands to their foreheads in despair the next day and wonder "why." I smell a Nobel prize in the University of Manchester's future!
Without further ado, marvel at the answer to the mystery that has facilitated ugly people getting laid for millenia:
The authors state that the value of beta represents the magnitude of the beer goggles effect, and may be interpreted as follows:
An=15 Johnnie Walker Blacks
S=0 (NYC bars are smoke-free)
L=75 (right in the middle of the scale for "luminosity", so should cover all bases from the darkest lounge to the most well-lit pizza place visited post-bar)
Vo=8/12 (I wear contacts and the prescription is outdated, but I can still see well enough)
d=1 meter
When we calculated, my beer goggles number was only 56, indicating that I would suffer from a "moderate beer goggle" effect and thus find someone I consider hideously ugly (examples: Cisco Adler, Greta van Susteren, any of the Rejects) less "visually offensive." However, it should be noted that this is assuming I'm standing right next to them. If you change d to 5 meters, the number is well over 100, assuring that I'd probably go home with a disfigured monkey eating its own shit and think it was Reggie (Get in My) Bush or Gisele or someone really, really, really good-looking.
I'm glad I know about this now, because I'm about to go to grad student happy hour, and you know I'm going to need a serious pair of beta equals An-squared times delta(S+1) divided by root L times Vo-squared in order to get any play there.
Readers of this blog are already familiar with some of these horror stories, including Chapstick Dick, Facial Boy, and the White Piercing Apprentice with Dreadlocks who Shredded my Vagina and Gave me a Hickey. There are plenty more that I have not chronicled for lack of time or what I presume would be lack of reader interest. These guys all had one thing in common: in order for me to fuck them, I was so wasted I probably couldn't have even spelled my own name when I invited them into my bed and my twat.
Fortunately, I no longer have to wonder about the underlying mechanism as to how I wound up banging these trolls because, in an example of grant funding being well-spent, some researchers at the University of Manchester have calculated the formula describing the "beer goggles" effect.
You gotta love those Brits...not only do their university professors engage in worthwhile research such as this, but they immediately send a press release to the BBC so we can all benefit from their contributions to science. This didn't get a mention in Nature or Science, which is making me question those journals' long-undisputed "top-tier" status. Fuck global warming, sustainability, proving the Poincare conjecture (which Science declared "Breakthrough of the Year" even though I have no clue what that is), astrophysical studies of the Kuiper Belt, and even Nature's gay animals...BEER GOGGLES is an unexplained phenomenon that has fascinated and confused mankind since the dawn of time. For evidence of this, see Clan of the Cave Bear. Some Neanderthal porked Darryl Hannah and then, when his prehistoric hangover wore off, was so horrified he'd stuck it in a disgusting Cro-Magnon bitch that he had the other early hominids boot her out of their communal cave. Beer goggles has been responsible for legions of hookups that made people slap their hands to their foreheads in despair the next day and wonder "why." I smell a Nobel prize in the University of Manchester's future!
Without further ado, marvel at the answer to the mystery that has facilitated ugly people getting laid for millenia:
The authors state that the value of beta represents the magnitude of the beer goggles effect, and may be interpreted as follows:
A formula rating of less than one means no effect. Between one and 50 the person you would normally find unattractive appears less "visually offensive".To amuse ourselves in lab one day, J-Sexy and I applied the following hypothetical parameters (representing a typical night of me raging around NYC and demanding that various dudes do me like I would never in a million years want to be done while sober) and solved for beta:
Non-appealing people become suddenly attractive between 51 and 100. At more than 100, someone not considered attractive looks like a super model.
An=15 Johnnie Walker Blacks
S=0 (NYC bars are smoke-free)
L=75 (right in the middle of the scale for "luminosity", so should cover all bases from the darkest lounge to the most well-lit pizza place visited post-bar)
Vo=8/12 (I wear contacts and the prescription is outdated, but I can still see well enough)
d=1 meter
When we calculated, my beer goggles number was only 56, indicating that I would suffer from a "moderate beer goggle" effect and thus find someone I consider hideously ugly (examples: Cisco Adler, Greta van Susteren, any of the Rejects) less "visually offensive." However, it should be noted that this is assuming I'm standing right next to them. If you change d to 5 meters, the number is well over 100, assuring that I'd probably go home with a disfigured monkey eating its own shit and think it was Reggie (Get in My) Bush or Gisele or someone really, really, really good-looking.
I'm glad I know about this now, because I'm about to go to grad student happy hour, and you know I'm going to need a serious pair of beta equals An-squared times delta(S+1) divided by root L times Vo-squared in order to get any play there.
Labels: alcoholism, grad school bullshit, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, science, you're ugly
Sunday, January 14, 2007
1986 is OVER
Let us, for just a moment, forget this. It will never be forgotten, and I'll take this grudge to my grave, but just for today, let's forget this ever happened:
I can let it go for right now, because the Shitsburgh Stealers didn't even make the playoffs. That's their karmic reward for fixing Super Bowl XL AKA the greatest travesty of officiating in the HISTORY of the National Football League. As much as I'd love to rub it in that the Stealers got their deserved comeuppance, I won't stray from the far more important topic at hand: the Seattle Seahawks.
Last week, I was deeply concerned that our playoff dreams were about to fall with a simple, short Dallas field goal at the end of the fourth quarter. I was gulping down scotch, prepared for the inevitability of the Hawks returning to the P-N-Dub with heavy hearts and optimistic words about next season. Then, God chose to intervene in the form of bitch-ass Tony Romo fumbling the snap and making a desperate and ultimately futile path for the goal line. Romo wept, and is probably seeking solace in the arms of his alleged (busted) girlfriend, "American Idol" winner and Hershey's chocolate spokeswoman Carrie Underwood.
Romo made like Justin Timberlake and cried me a river, and I celebrated jubilantly with SoCo shots. This weekend, reality has set in, and we are playing the Chicago Bears, who destroyed us 37-6 during the regular season. The bar that I go to for football is a Bears bar. Normally this doesn't cause a problem, because the Bears fans all stick to one corner of the bar, and don't do much in the way of being obnoxious besides ringing this huge iron bell every time the Bears make a big play. However, I'm already prepared to be the only 12th man in the bar, and I'm not going to sit around quietly and let the Bears fans run the show. I'm going to get there an hour early and make sure I'm sufficiently liquored up before the game even starts, so I can get LOUD (moreso than usual) and belligerent with the Bears fans. I predict that the game MIGHT end with me throwing an entire pitcher of light American lager all over some asshole's Payton or Sayers retro jersey. There will be no more fond flashing back to the '85 Bears, no pleasant reminiscing about Jim McMahon's sunglasses or how he mooned New Orleans and called their women "sluts", no misty-eyed tales of Refrigerator Perry doing the Super Bowl shuffle, no deification of Coach Ditka. This is 2007, and the Bears are now a team led by the easily frightened Rex Grossman (and on an aside to everyone who has ever e-mailed me demanding his removal from my Hot Jews list, I know he's not Jewish, and I'll be more inclined to remember to take his ass off the list if the Bears win today). The Seahawks, if they decide to bring it today, have a fighting chance to see my new object of lust, Reggie (Get in my Bush), and the New Orleans Saints in the NFC Championship game next week.
So GO SEAHAWKS!
And I'd be remiss and a disgrace to the south Sound if I didn't rep the 253 by including a picture of the Tacoma Dome flying the 12th man flag (backwards, as is fitting for Tacoma). Again, GO SEAHAWKS!
Last week, I was deeply concerned that our playoff dreams were about to fall with a simple, short Dallas field goal at the end of the fourth quarter. I was gulping down scotch, prepared for the inevitability of the Hawks returning to the P-N-Dub with heavy hearts and optimistic words about next season. Then, God chose to intervene in the form of bitch-ass Tony Romo fumbling the snap and making a desperate and ultimately futile path for the goal line. Romo wept, and is probably seeking solace in the arms of his alleged (busted) girlfriend, "American Idol" winner and Hershey's chocolate spokeswoman Carrie Underwood.
Romo made like Justin Timberlake and cried me a river, and I celebrated jubilantly with SoCo shots. This weekend, reality has set in, and we are playing the Chicago Bears, who destroyed us 37-6 during the regular season. The bar that I go to for football is a Bears bar. Normally this doesn't cause a problem, because the Bears fans all stick to one corner of the bar, and don't do much in the way of being obnoxious besides ringing this huge iron bell every time the Bears make a big play. However, I'm already prepared to be the only 12th man in the bar, and I'm not going to sit around quietly and let the Bears fans run the show. I'm going to get there an hour early and make sure I'm sufficiently liquored up before the game even starts, so I can get LOUD (moreso than usual) and belligerent with the Bears fans. I predict that the game MIGHT end with me throwing an entire pitcher of light American lager all over some asshole's Payton or Sayers retro jersey. There will be no more fond flashing back to the '85 Bears, no pleasant reminiscing about Jim McMahon's sunglasses or how he mooned New Orleans and called their women "sluts", no misty-eyed tales of Refrigerator Perry doing the Super Bowl shuffle, no deification of Coach Ditka. This is 2007, and the Bears are now a team led by the easily frightened Rex Grossman (and on an aside to everyone who has ever e-mailed me demanding his removal from my Hot Jews list, I know he's not Jewish, and I'll be more inclined to remember to take his ass off the list if the Bears win today). The Seahawks, if they decide to bring it today, have a fighting chance to see my new object of lust, Reggie (Get in my Bush), and the New Orleans Saints in the NFC Championship game next week.
So GO SEAHAWKS!
And I'd be remiss and a disgrace to the south Sound if I didn't rep the 253 by including a picture of the Tacoma Dome flying the 12th man flag (backwards, as is fitting for Tacoma). Again, GO SEAHAWKS!
Labels: NFL football, P-N-Dub, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, Seahawks
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Reggie (Get In My) Bush
Man, Reggie Bush is hot. Every Sunday, my buddies NeisMan and Js and Ps declare that they're rooting for the Pepsi Machine in those "Reggie Bush Project" commercials, and I disagree emphatically. The scenario in these commercials is that Reginald Alfred Bush II (yes, that is his real name) is competing against a Pepsi vending machine for position of starting running back for the New Orleans Saints to the soaring synthesizer riffs of Europe's "The Final Countdown." Somehow I suspect that this is implausible both because Reggie Bush's contract is larger and thus more imperative than the Pepsi machine's, and because the Pepsi machine doesn't have a Heisman on its bookshelf, but whatever. Okay, so the Pepsi machine can definitely block and tackle better than Reggie Bush, but PLEASE. Reggie Bush takes the agility drills. Furthermore, the Pepsi machine will never be able to comply with NFL official rules regarding appropriate official NFL team garb (as clarified during the Terrell Owens now-infamous "Sharpie" incident, your ass has to have everything tucked in and no markers in your socks) and second, the Pepsi machine didn't score four touchdowns last week. More importantly, ladies, who would you rather bang? The fucking Pepsi machine, or THIS guy:
I wish Reggie Bush weren't 21, hot as fuck, ultimate Fantasy keeper league running back, and most likely getting laid like Caligula at a Senate wives' party, because then I would have a modicum of hope that one day I might actually have a shot at him. However, that is not the case, so let me just wallow in passionate yet ultimately doomed adoration for a second. Reggie Bush RULES.
I wish Reggie Bush weren't 21, hot as fuck, ultimate Fantasy keeper league running back, and most likely getting laid like Caligula at a Senate wives' party, because then I would have a modicum of hope that one day I might actually have a shot at him. However, that is not the case, so let me just wallow in passionate yet ultimately doomed adoration for a second. Reggie Bush RULES.
Labels: hot dudes, I LOVE IT, NFL football, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, sex
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