Monday, June 02, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Sex and the City
DOB: May 30, 2008
Occupation: making women look like a bunch of desperate, haggard, vapid idiots
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: a theater near you
Douchebaggery: I've gone off on Sex and the City before, and thought that I exorcised my annoyance with this show then. Now that this trash has been made into a movie, I've realized that I have a bottomless well of hatred for Carrie Bradshaw et al.
"But Razzy," you might say. "This show is all about women having lots of sex! Isn't that exactly what you are all about?"
Perhaps, if these women were having lots of sex and being awesome about it, I would raise a glass of scotch in honor of this show. However, any sex that actually gets had on the show does little to mitigate the abhorrent characters that, as a woman, I'm supposed to relate to. While I'm currently sitting on my bed in my New York City apartment typing away at my MacBook like Carrie Bradshaw always does, and while certainly some readers will suggest that I'm also a geriatric, unattractive, withered 29-year-old prune, that is where the similarities end. I'm not thinking a bunch of trite thoughts about my "woman's right to shoes" or pondering the ins and outs of how men and women relate to one another in a heavy-handed way, and I'm certainly not doing voice-over in my head about what I'm writing.
Sure, every once in awhile I post my dumb girl thoughts about being a dumb girl, like about the boys I like, boys I liked, boys I liked once but now hate, etc. However, those introspective, oh-yeah-I-guess-I-am-a-girl posts are usually few and far between. I certainly am not going to waste anyone's time regularly debating whether or not I like so-and-so and trying to present my own personal drama as a microcosm of how all relationships are or should be. First off, God help the world if a completely incompetent relationship-haver like either myself or Carrie Bradshaw is considered some sort of sage with great philsophical insight into love or relationships. Carrie Bradshaw is all hung up on Mr. Big--who is WAY better when he's playing Detective Mike Nolan--the same way I'm hung up on my former paramour the R-uh. I don't talk about that much, because nobody wants to hear me vacillating about my feelings concerning old relationship skeletons in the closet. Besides, HotLawyer once pointed out that when I talk about the R-uh, I go to "a very dark place" and that's certainly no good for me. Therefore, all you're ever going to hear about regarding the R-uh are gross stories about anal sex bloopers, not a bunch of sad stories about the many, many reasons things between us got fucked up (or were fucked to begin with) and trying to make emotional sense out of it. I'll save that for my shrink. If only Carrie Bradshaw's lame ass would follow a similar policy regarding Mr. Lameass Big. I could care less whether she ever finds her peace about that douchebag, and I certainly don't care to watch a movie that features their presumably doomed attempt at nuptials.
I also truly hate the generalizations about women that Carrie's dumb ass makes as she writes her shiteous columns. If she's any indication, then all bitches are like her: superficial, frivolous fag hags with careers that are secondary to their shopping habits and their boy problems. Sure, I like new clothes and cute shoes, and I sometimes get distracted by drama in my love life. However, there is NO FUCKING WAY I would drop everything and move to Paris to be with some snobby, old Russian ballerina, just like there's no fucking way I would drop everything and move back to be with an asshole like Mr. Big. Of course I know many women who have changed their plans to accommodate their relationships, and this is fine. In most of those cases, my female friends made some sort of compromise with their partner, which you have to do to make a relationship (or a marriage) work. However, when Carrie acts like it's a perfectly normal female response to ask "how high?" when a douchebag says "jump," she does women everywhere a disservice. This show doesn't demonstrate that a woman can have a career and a relationship at the same time; it demonstrates that a woman can have a career until some dude shows up, dickmatizes her, and makes her throw it all away so that she can be with him. Even Samantha, the only bitch on this show I remotely like, eventually falls into the trap of accommodating her gay-looking model boyfriend unconditionally.
It's hard enough to get through one paltry 30 minute "Sex and the City" episode, much less a two hour movie. If they cut out every part except where Samantha is screwing around, then maybe I would consider illegally downloading it. However, one of my neighbors told me that she saw it and there was hardly any sex in it, so that's all I need to know in order to not see this trash. My friend JerseyGirl once said of my movie taste, "If there's not murder, explosions, or people getting fucked, Razzy's not going to like it." Since I suspect that there aren't any murder or explosions in Sex and the City, and since there's apparently minimal people getting fucked, I'll pass on these dried-up old shoe whores permanently. Unless by some miracle the sequel to this movie (which has already been given the go-ahead) is called Sex and the City vs. Predator, I'm staying the hell away from these cosmo-swilling grannies.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, movies, retard rage, Sex and the City, sluts
Monday, April 21, 2008
Death and the City
I was not at all excited for the new Sex and the City movie due out next month. Apart from Samantha's adventures in sluttery, I could care less about new storylines involving these superficial, ugly old broads going shoe shopping and banging ugly old dudes. However, thanks to a recent interview by the ugliest of the ugly old broads, Cynthia Nixon, I now have something to get excited about. Supposedly, one character is going to bite the big one in the new movie.
As far as I'm concerned, as long as one character is getting killed off, why not take them all out (except Samantha)? The producers have labored under the delusion that any of these characters (again, except Samantha) are likable or fun. These women are a bunch of obnoxious old shrews with little character apart from their love of overpriced footwear and their tendency to act like junior high retards regarding the men in their life. I think any of the following scenarios would be good, or to use the SatC ladies' favorite adjective--FABULOUS:
1. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha sit down to a table of cosmopolitans at some upscale lounge. Samantha goes to fuck the bartender in the bathroom and while she's gone, a meteorite crashes through the roof right onto their table, killing them instantly in a blaze of cosmic dust and shattered martini glasses.
2. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha attend a prestigious gallery opening. While Samantha is off banging some artist type in the bathroom, Mr. Big walks in with an Uzi and takes everyone out because it's the only way to get Carrie's fickle, whiny ass to quit him once and for all. Then he kills himself, both for much-needed closure and because he's way hotter when he's Detective Mike Logan on various "Law and Order" franchises.
3. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha go shoe shopping. While Samantha steps out of the Manolo Blahnik store to bang some random guy in the bathroom of the Starbucks next door, a freak shelf collapse kills the remaining three women via impalement by stiletto heels.
4. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha visit the spa. While Samantha is banging one of the facial technicians, Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda are boiled to death when the sauna's thermostat goes inexplicably haywire.
5. Carrie goes bankrupt due to spending far beyond the means of an unemployed columnist, gets evicted from her Upper East Side apartment, and contracts drug-resistant tuberculosis. While crashing with Charlotte and Miranda, she gives them the consumption as well, and they all die. Samantha is spared because she is too fabulous to hang out with Carrie after she joins the ranks of the homeless, and she's probably banging some dude in a bathroom somewhere.
6. Miranda finally nags Steve to his breaking point. While they are at some function where Samantha is banging some dude in the bathroom, Steve walks in with a bomb strapped to his chest and blows the place up. Only the bathroom where Samantha is skanking it up survives the explosion.
7. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha are forced to take the subway somewhere. Samantha changes her mind upon venturing into the dirty subterranean realm of the common folk and retreats to a nearby bathroom where she bangs some guy. Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda are unaccustomed to how the subway works, and accidentally step into the path of an oncoming F train, thinking that's how they are supposed to board it.
8. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha go to a sushi restaurant. While Samantha is banging the sake delivery man in the bathroom, Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda eat an improperly cut piece of blowfish and die when their hearts explode. Actually, I don't know if improperly cut blowfish really makes your heart explode, but that happened on an episode of "The Simpsons" once, so it's likely.
9. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha throw a botox party. Samantha is banging the plastic surgeon in the bathroom while Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda all die from acute botulinum poisoning thanks to the massive amounts of botox required to youth up their craggy-ass faces.
10. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha take a road trip to the Hamptons. Upon arrival, Samantha promptly gets down to business banging the pool boy at their rental. Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda just spontaneously drop dead because they suck.
However this goes down, it's going to be awesome. Anything that will put these hags out of their misery and relegate them to late-night reruns on TBS where they belong is right on in my book.
Labels: movies, people who died, retard rage, Sex and the City
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Leonora Epstein
Name: Leonora Epstein
DOB: August 30, 1985
Occupation: "sex" blogger (sex in quotes because she rarely seems to have any) and web assistant at Cosmopolitan magazine
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Yesterday, Jersey Girl sent me an e-mail:
From: JerseyGirl--Smith '02 (jgirl@thirdmostwatchedcablenewsnetwork.com)I checked it out, and indeed JerseyGirl was right. This blog features Leo Epstein (Smith '07 and classmate of the loathsome Tej Bindra)--a 22-year-old whippersnapper working as some kind of editorial assistant at my favorite magazine Cosmopolitan--blogs about her attempts to transform from a "socially awkward" dowdy Smith girl with an unflattering haircut and bad skin into some kind of cheap young wannabe "Sex and the City" character. This transformation involves her learning how to apply eyeliner (in fairness, I suck at this too), dress sluttier, and string guys along without sex for as many dates as possible. This is even worse than when the now-defunct Jane magazine cast a wide net seeking a dude willing to bone this 29-year-old virgin (Smith '99), because she was desperate to get some dick before she turned 30. I thought that showcase of the standard fugliness, social ineptitude, and severely undersexed loserliness common among Smith grads was some of the worst press my fair alma mater could get in terms of the overall fuckability of its alumnae. Now, thanks to Leo, I know I was wrong.
To: Razzy--Smith '00 (razzy@razzy.org)
Omg dude, check out this link - it's an article about a Smith grad who is now blogging for Cosmo. It makes me embarrased that I went to smith
According to Leo's blog anyway, most of her metamorphosis into a vapid, shoe-obsessed, Cosmo-reading cocktease consists of her dating ugly dudes and refusing to fuck them. This doesn't sit well with ladies like myself and JerseyGirl. If you ask JerseyGirl about how she and her boyfriend Kodiak got together, she'll say something along the lines of "I hit that shit the first night...what, what!" Then she does a little guidette fist pump. As I didn't grow up on the Jersey Shore, I omit the fist pump, but my policy is the same with guys: I always fuck on the first date. It's a good way to get the lay of the land (so to speak) and see if he's a jackhammerer, a shoulder-pusher, a pencil-dick, a one-pump chump, a chapstick, or otherwise problematic between the sheets. Besides, if he doesn't "respect me in the morning" or call me back or whatever, than fuck him. Coming straight out the gate fucking is a useful way to screen out assholes and/or the impotent/inadequately penised, and it hasn't failed me yet. Therefore, I can't relate to bitches like Leo who go with the opposite strategy: withhold as long as possible.
I could barely get through the first few posts in which she talks about her lame boyfriend Josh. After initially complaining that Josh is too old (32) and wondering if it was "immoral" to date other people while she's letting this asshole who SHE ISN'T EVEN FUCKING buy her dinner and bore her to death, she finally gets drunk and booty texts him.
...after 3 glasses of merlot...on a whim I texted Josh, "Is it bad that I want to drunk text you right now?"Who the hell reiterates in a drunken "come over and hook up with me" text that they'll keep things PG-13, and this is a selling point? I'd be like, "yeah, no thanks, son...I'm going to call up my NC-17 rated booty call. I can touch my own fucking tits. You can either bring your dick or nothing at all." I mean, I'm sure that Josh is trying to get laid, so he has to promise he'll back off at second base in order to persuade her to make things "O-tastic" (lamest descriptive term ever, and how is PG-13 "O-tastic", unless Leo's the luckiest bitch in the world and can achieve climax during tedious foreplay), which I'm guessing means Josh did a little light fingerbanging. Unfortunately, this dumb slag learned the hard way why she should have saved herself a whole lot of time and trouble by giving old Joshie a test drive at their first meeting, because a couple of posts later, she's singing a different tune:
I shut my phone and the minutes rolled by. Crrraaaap! Bad bad bad bad BAD idea! He had probably read it and decided he would never call me again. But then, sure enough: "Haha! I see dinner with the parents is going well."
We exchanged a few more texts which pretty openly and honestly debated the idea of him coming over. Being the gentleman that Josh is, he reiterated that it was a short walk, up to me, and he would keep things PG-13. At that point, I was pretty much set on having him come over.
In the half an hour before Josh would come over to my place, I madly raced around my apartment, lighting candles, making the bed, and picking up dirty towels off the floor. It must have distracted me from how nervous I was, because when I had a moment to breathe before the buzzer rang, I noticed that my heart was racing...and not just from cleaning so quickly. But, when Josh appeared at my door, gave me a huge smile, cupped my face in his hands and slowly kissed me, I melted....
In the interest of reserving some aspect of privacy, I won't go into the details of the evening. Overall, though, it was a fun time. Nothing too serious.
But I will just say that...it was O-tastic!
So I know I said things with Josh the other night were O-tastic. Which is true. Except for that we didn’t have sex. So, when we finally “did the grown-up,” recently well…things were less than stellar (and actually, there were two attempts in there because we had two dates in the past week). I’m not sure I understand why. I mean, everything up until the sex was fine, but when we finally got to it…Let’s just say that if there are any crickets in New York City, I could hear them chirping.I love how in the course of this "sex" blog, the only sex that ever seems to happen was this fabled New Year's one night stand and the post-"O-tastic" letdown that was Josh, yet Leo is a fucking tough critic. I'm sure the sex DID suck, since Leo strikes me as not only an inexperienced former Smith ex-LUG (lesbian until graduation), but as one of those quiet types in the sack. I don't care if a partner isn't as noisy as myself (that's a tough act to follow...it's been done, but rarely), but there's nothing worse than banging someone who just lays there and acts like they may as well be getting their shoes shined. Not to mention that I'm sure she's the type who turns off all the lights and is generally too insecure about her body to do anything but rut uninspiredly from a static and supine position. Zzzzzzzzzz.
I have to say, it’s kind of a bummer. Even though I wanted to keep things casual with him, I came to see that he had a lot of potential. He was a gentleman and a half, he was smart, funny, and I was attracted to him.
Of course, I’ve been thinking about this non-stop since I’ve last seen him, and I’ve given it a lot of thought. So it’s not like I’m just writing him off. I even poked around in our sex articles and found “When Everything’s Great but the Sex," but the fact that I didn’t even want to picture myself acting out the article’s suggestions was a fair clue that things with Josh just weren’t meant to be.
Now just how to let him down lightly? Seeing as “you’re bad in bed” and “you’re too old for me” are both offensive excuses. There’s the good old “this just isn’t working for me”, but I do kind of feel like I owe Josh some respect. I casually asked Christie today for some advice and she wasn’t much help, as she jokingly suggested, “You could sleep with him again and say the wrong name in bed. That would get rid of him. Maybe say it before you guys actually get too far into things, just so you don’t have to do it with him again.” (She was totally kidding, by the way).
I am so bad at confrontation (ummm…remember a little New Year’s post when I couldn’t just politely ask my one night stand to leave but instead had to lie to his face to get him to out of my house?), so this is starting to make me nervous. I know deep down, though, that I should learn from this experience, end the relationship (or flirtation, or whatever it was!) the right way.
Except that Christie’s suggestion is starting to look more and more appealing….
And how fucking pathetic do you have to be to spend all your time concocting elaborate schemes to let Josh down easy? First off, Josh is ten years her senior, so I'm sure he can mentally wrap his mind around that he won't be growing old watching his beloved Leo's upper arms get progressively fatter and more wobbly. Somehow I think Josh, an apparently smart, funny, financially independent single man in New York City, will manage to go on with his life sans Leo's immature, acne-spotted ass. As Josh is an adult who has probably been rejected by hotter chicks than Leo, if she really wanted to do the next kiss on Josh's list a favor, she'd tell him that he needs to bone up on his bedroom skills. I mean, giving some constructive advice that will help Josh in the long run is certainly more respectful than pulling some shady sexual trickery to make a guy dump you because you're too much of a pussy to just sever ties yourself. As is, she'll probably just get vacillate endlessly about what to do, then just never call him back. Then she'll treat the internets to a series of interminable blog entries whining about her feelings concerning the fact that she never gets any ass and doesn't have a boyfriend. Loser.
As always, Smith College proves that its reputation as a depository for sexually frustrated, annoying, pudgy girls will persist indefinitely. I may as well resign myself to accepting the fact that I should just skate over that aspect of my education. "I went to grad school at Columbia"--a statement which in my mind conjures images of pain, suffering, and torture on par with something produced by Hieronymous Bosch--sounds downright sexy compared to "I went to Smith," which conjures images of small tits and large guts nagging me for something. No thanks.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Dumb Smith bitches, fat fucks, JerseyGirl, retard rage, sex, Sex and the City, sluts, you're ugly
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Help a honey out
So I was surprised last week when this honey who unceremoniously left me home and enraged on a Friday night via the world's lamest text message ("can we do a raincheck-type thing?") e-mailed me to apologize. As hard as it may be for you all to believe, I have had dudes blow me off after banging me before (obviously they are stupid and insane), but having one regret his actions and take the initiative to actually say sorry is unprecedented in my experience. I felt his apology was sincere, and accepted it because (don't tell anyone) I'm actually a sort-of nice person, and I thought he was funny (the greatest attribute in my value system) prior to his being a dumbass. Thus I improved his status from "Elevated" to "Guarded" on my Honey Asshole Behavior Alert Scale, and now we're e-mail friends of sorts:
It turns out this honey wasn't apologizing exclusively to mitigate the shame he should feel at being dumb enough to cancel plans with me and vanish after I totally blew his mind in bed, but because he also needed some advice on how to run his stable of hos. Apparently he's had a little bit of trouble getting girls to fall in line with his "let's just fuck without any emotional commitment" paradigm of relationships and wanted to know if I could help communicate this message to the ladies. Being that I have been dealing with annoying stalkers and hanger-ons lately, I could relate to his dilemma and thought about it over the weekend. I came up with some advice on being a better communicator about his goals and explaining more clearly the motives of the girls he's choosing to date/bang, but I thought it might be helpful to survey the opinions of the internets. Here is his question:
Also, if you'd prefer an alternate topic for commenting on, this honey asserts that Maker's Mark with ginger ale is not a gay drink. I say he may as well be drinking an apple martini. Thoughts?
It turns out this honey wasn't apologizing exclusively to mitigate the shame he should feel at being dumb enough to cancel plans with me and vanish after I totally blew his mind in bed, but because he also needed some advice on how to run his stable of hos. Apparently he's had a little bit of trouble getting girls to fall in line with his "let's just fuck without any emotional commitment" paradigm of relationships and wanted to know if I could help communicate this message to the ladies. Being that I have been dealing with annoying stalkers and hanger-ons lately, I could relate to his dilemma and thought about it over the weekend. I came up with some advice on being a better communicator about his goals and explaining more clearly the motives of the girls he's choosing to date/bang, but I thought it might be helpful to survey the opinions of the internets. Here is his question:
I just can't figure out how to get it through some girls' heads that by sleeping with them, it doesn't mean I want to date and fall in love with them. Is there some magic words to get these chicks to divorce the sex from any emotions. Am I a total asshole for feeling this way?Like I said, this was relevant to current situations in my own life, and as an added bonus, reminded me that I had been meaning to write a scathing polemic against "Sex and the City" and what a bullshit show that is. Therefore, I would be interested to hear YOUR thoughts (for once) on this matter. So leave some comments, Razzyphiles!
I thought that in 2007, after Sex and the City and all that, it's cool to just fuck around a little bit without it meaning too much. Or am I just picking horrendously clingy girls.
In a nutshell, that's my dilemma. Thoughts?
Also, if you'd prefer an alternate topic for commenting on, this honey asserts that Maker's Mark with ginger ale is not a gay drink. I say he may as well be drinking an apple martini. Thoughts?
Labels: Razzification, sex, Sex and the City, sluts, vulgar display of faggotry
Monday, December 03, 2007
Sex and the Shitty
Like many girls, I have seen a lot of "Sex and the City" episodes. Now after seeing numerous reruns on non-HBO TV (which are lame, as all the good parts get cut out), I have come to a couple conclusions about this series that are going to make a number of women howl with outrage at my blaspheming. Those conclusions are:
1. This show sucks
AND
2. This show sucks
I remember thinking this show was WAY more clever and amusing that it actually is. When you deconstruct "Sex and the City," it's unrealistic, absurd, and not all that funny. Okay, Samantha can be entertaining, but even her accomplishments at sluttery are often mitigated by the appallingly garish dresses and ridiculous hats she wears. Not even the world's most accomplished playerette flirter can pull off a teal, midriff-baring peasant top with a pair of fuchsia hot pants at age 50.
The rest of the characters are intolerable.
Just describing these women makes me hate them:
1. Carrie Bradshaw: Horseface Jessica Parker plays the main character, who seems to regard herself as a sort of literary giant because she can come up with cliched phrases to justify her addiction to $700 shoes, which she is mysteriously able to afford along with a huge Upper East Side apartment despite being employed as a writer for a WEEKLY column. She is otherwise known for being a selfish, indecisive narcissist who is driven wild by either rich old "Law and Order" alums and Russian ballerinas or simpering pussies. Because Carrie is the main character on the show, we are supposed to sympathize when she runs out on her friends at the Opera because she spots an ex-boyfriend in the audience and has the coping skills of an twelve-year-old with a copy of Tiger Beat. Even worse, Carrie's idiotic, immature behavior is made more infuriating by juxtaposing her spaz-out sessions with preachy, trite voiceovers of Carrie reading the bullshit she scribes for her worthless column. SHUT UP, bitch. Demanding your "right to shoes" is not only a piss-poor pun that loses steam immediately upon your whiny voice verbalizing it over scenes of you and your friends engaging in a glut of consumerism up and down Fifth Avenue, it makes women seem like a bunch of superficial, vapid twats who make a scene over Manolos that their ugly asshole boyfriends don't care about anyway. I DO NOT RELATE!
2. Miranda Hobbs: a lawyer who never seems to meet with clients or appear in court or do anything besides make notes of all her sexual conquests on legal pads, Miranda has the distinction of being the ugliest of all the dried-up old broads having sex in the city. It's telling that her first role after "Sex and the City" was playing Eleanor Roosevelt, who has the distinction of being the ugliest first lady in the history of the American presidency. Miranda seems to love men who are squarely in her class of physical appearance and I do not respect her taste. If I looked like her, and I had a hot black doctor confess his love for me via pepperoni pizza, I would give him a lifetime supply of blow jobs, not dump him unceremoniously for my scrawny, bespectacled, fugly bartender of a bastard baby daddy. Miranda also loves to wear hot pink, which when combined with her flaming red hair, produces a most unpleasant visual effect. I DO NOT RELATE!
3. Charlotte York (when not MacDougal or Goldenblatt): an uptight WASP art dealer with a seriously unhealthy idealization of marriage that borders on straight mental illness, Charlotte can usually be found obsessing about how she is having problems with either her marital status or her ability to procreate. Charlotte is boring, judgmental, and forever in pursuit of her MRS degree. She cannot openly communicate with anyone about anything, and even has a hard time telling her girlfriends about her sex problems, which is mystifying since that is the central premise of this show. Charlotte also doesn't put out and seems like an emotionally stunted, outrageously high-maintenance, royal pain in the ass to date. I DO NOT RELATE!
4. Samantha Jones: the only somewhat likable character on the show, Samantha is New York City's most notorious middle-aged slutbag. I'm always like, "You go, girl" when Samantha has threesomes, schemes to make her current boyfriend's jizz taste better, fucks random college kids, bangs a hotelier in his private jet, picks up a dude at a wedding, throws out her back banging her Brazilian artist girlfriend with a strap-on, etc. I am also impressed at Samantha's hotness in spite of her advanced age. However, the producers and writers apparently felt that Samantha's almost show-redeeming behavior could not go unpunished, because in addition to making her wear some truly hideous coutoure, they gave her breast cancer in the show's final seasons, which resulted in some very unfortunate wig selections. They also gave her that gay-faced boyfriend and a sudden desire to settle down. I DO NOT RELATE!
The other problem with "Sex and the City" is that it gives guys a lot of silly notions about women, and I've had to sort out more than a couple confused men. Namely, they think that bitches these days are all getting together to drink cosmos and swap raunchy sex stories. While that may be true, it does not in any way mean that modern ladies are all busy buying Jimmy Choo shoes and vibrator/back massagers at The Sharper Image and having a grand old time, and this translates into easy sex. Of course my girls and I spend a lot of time talking about sex, but that doesn't mean that most women have given up their old-fashioned notions of dating and romance. Not all girls are like me and are willing to fuck strangers in bar bathrooms just because it makes for a good story, and in fact, most of them aren't. Most women don't separate their feelings from their sex lives. Many, many women--no matter what they profess to want from their dating life--are looking for a nice husband and a touchy-feely relationship rather than simply a gratifying roll between the sheets. While this is captured by Charlotte and Carrie's storylines on the show, it is usually lost on the dudes watching it. Guys see this show as "SEX (and the city)", get a glimpse of Samantha in action, fast-forward through the parts where the gals process about their feelings about their relationships, and are thus disappointed when they try to translate this to their own lives and find out that most chicks aren't sexual sharks prowling high-end martini bars in search of casual dick and/or group sex. Even more unfortunate for the fellas misled by this show, the chicks who usually get their sexual aggression on in such environs are on the hunt for a fat wallet.
I don't like the fact that this show bills itself as some sort of hilarious, heartwarming take on the nature of women and their relationships, because it's not very representative. I would never quit my job and move to Paris with Mikhail Baryshnikov, I would never fuck a pussy like than furniture-whittling bitch Aidan, I would never wear a big floppy flower on my bodice, I would never have the audacity to expect the wife whose husband I had been fucking in her bed to forgive me after I put her on the spot by crashing her lunch date, and I would never, EVER run out on my girls without so much as a simple goodbye simply because one of my ex-boyfriends showed up. These skanky old prunes don't represent me and I resent the fact that they market this show as doing so.
My friend Wmania announced on her blog--much to the amusement of myself and all our other friends who have seen it--that she "believe(s) in Sex and the City (the TV show)." Well, I believe in Sex and the City (actual sex in New York City, which is where I live) and NOT the TV show. This show is bullshit. It should be called "Frivolous, petty, one-dimensional old hags and the City" because that's what it's about. "Sucks and the City" has a nice ring to it. Fuck "Sex and the City!"
1. This show sucks
AND
2. This show sucks
I remember thinking this show was WAY more clever and amusing that it actually is. When you deconstruct "Sex and the City," it's unrealistic, absurd, and not all that funny. Okay, Samantha can be entertaining, but even her accomplishments at sluttery are often mitigated by the appallingly garish dresses and ridiculous hats she wears. Not even the world's most accomplished playerette flirter can pull off a teal, midriff-baring peasant top with a pair of fuchsia hot pants at age 50.
The rest of the characters are intolerable.
1. Carrie Bradshaw: Horseface Jessica Parker plays the main character, who seems to regard herself as a sort of literary giant because she can come up with cliched phrases to justify her addiction to $700 shoes, which she is mysteriously able to afford along with a huge Upper East Side apartment despite being employed as a writer for a WEEKLY column. She is otherwise known for being a selfish, indecisive narcissist who is driven wild by either rich old "Law and Order" alums and Russian ballerinas or simpering pussies. Because Carrie is the main character on the show, we are supposed to sympathize when she runs out on her friends at the Opera because she spots an ex-boyfriend in the audience and has the coping skills of an twelve-year-old with a copy of Tiger Beat. Even worse, Carrie's idiotic, immature behavior is made more infuriating by juxtaposing her spaz-out sessions with preachy, trite voiceovers of Carrie reading the bullshit she scribes for her worthless column. SHUT UP, bitch. Demanding your "right to shoes" is not only a piss-poor pun that loses steam immediately upon your whiny voice verbalizing it over scenes of you and your friends engaging in a glut of consumerism up and down Fifth Avenue, it makes women seem like a bunch of superficial, vapid twats who make a scene over Manolos that their ugly asshole boyfriends don't care about anyway. I DO NOT RELATE!
2. Miranda Hobbs: a lawyer who never seems to meet with clients or appear in court or do anything besides make notes of all her sexual conquests on legal pads, Miranda has the distinction of being the ugliest of all the dried-up old broads having sex in the city. It's telling that her first role after "Sex and the City" was playing Eleanor Roosevelt, who has the distinction of being the ugliest first lady in the history of the American presidency. Miranda seems to love men who are squarely in her class of physical appearance and I do not respect her taste. If I looked like her, and I had a hot black doctor confess his love for me via pepperoni pizza, I would give him a lifetime supply of blow jobs, not dump him unceremoniously for my scrawny, bespectacled, fugly bartender of a bastard baby daddy. Miranda also loves to wear hot pink, which when combined with her flaming red hair, produces a most unpleasant visual effect. I DO NOT RELATE!
3. Charlotte York (when not MacDougal or Goldenblatt): an uptight WASP art dealer with a seriously unhealthy idealization of marriage that borders on straight mental illness, Charlotte can usually be found obsessing about how she is having problems with either her marital status or her ability to procreate. Charlotte is boring, judgmental, and forever in pursuit of her MRS degree. She cannot openly communicate with anyone about anything, and even has a hard time telling her girlfriends about her sex problems, which is mystifying since that is the central premise of this show. Charlotte also doesn't put out and seems like an emotionally stunted, outrageously high-maintenance, royal pain in the ass to date. I DO NOT RELATE!
4. Samantha Jones: the only somewhat likable character on the show, Samantha is New York City's most notorious middle-aged slutbag. I'm always like, "You go, girl" when Samantha has threesomes, schemes to make her current boyfriend's jizz taste better, fucks random college kids, bangs a hotelier in his private jet, picks up a dude at a wedding, throws out her back banging her Brazilian artist girlfriend with a strap-on, etc. I am also impressed at Samantha's hotness in spite of her advanced age. However, the producers and writers apparently felt that Samantha's almost show-redeeming behavior could not go unpunished, because in addition to making her wear some truly hideous coutoure, they gave her breast cancer in the show's final seasons, which resulted in some very unfortunate wig selections. They also gave her that gay-faced boyfriend and a sudden desire to settle down. I DO NOT RELATE!
The other problem with "Sex and the City" is that it gives guys a lot of silly notions about women, and I've had to sort out more than a couple confused men. Namely, they think that bitches these days are all getting together to drink cosmos and swap raunchy sex stories. While that may be true, it does not in any way mean that modern ladies are all busy buying Jimmy Choo shoes and vibrator/back massagers at The Sharper Image and having a grand old time, and this translates into easy sex. Of course my girls and I spend a lot of time talking about sex, but that doesn't mean that most women have given up their old-fashioned notions of dating and romance. Not all girls are like me and are willing to fuck strangers in bar bathrooms just because it makes for a good story, and in fact, most of them aren't. Most women don't separate their feelings from their sex lives. Many, many women--no matter what they profess to want from their dating life--are looking for a nice husband and a touchy-feely relationship rather than simply a gratifying roll between the sheets. While this is captured by Charlotte and Carrie's storylines on the show, it is usually lost on the dudes watching it. Guys see this show as "SEX (and the city)", get a glimpse of Samantha in action, fast-forward through the parts where the gals process about their feelings about their relationships, and are thus disappointed when they try to translate this to their own lives and find out that most chicks aren't sexual sharks prowling high-end martini bars in search of casual dick and/or group sex. Even more unfortunate for the fellas misled by this show, the chicks who usually get their sexual aggression on in such environs are on the hunt for a fat wallet.
I don't like the fact that this show bills itself as some sort of hilarious, heartwarming take on the nature of women and their relationships, because it's not very representative. I would never quit my job and move to Paris with Mikhail Baryshnikov, I would never fuck a pussy like than furniture-whittling bitch Aidan, I would never wear a big floppy flower on my bodice, I would never have the audacity to expect the wife whose husband I had been fucking in her bed to forgive me after I put her on the spot by crashing her lunch date, and I would never, EVER run out on my girls without so much as a simple goodbye simply because one of my ex-boyfriends showed up. These skanky old prunes don't represent me and I resent the fact that they market this show as doing so.
My friend Wmania announced on her blog--much to the amusement of myself and all our other friends who have seen it--that she "believe(s) in Sex and the City (the TV show)." Well, I believe in Sex and the City (actual sex in New York City, which is where I live) and NOT the TV show. This show is bullshit. It should be called "Frivolous, petty, one-dimensional old hags and the City" because that's what it's about. "Sucks and the City" has a nice ring to it. Fuck "Sex and the City!"
Labels: aging, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, Sex and the City, TV
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Smith is Bitten
I don't know why Sarah Jessica Parker is always spoken of like she's some sort of high priestess of fashion. Most of the time I'll see her as Carrie Bradshaw wearing some absolutely fucking ridiculous getup on "Sex and the City," like some kind of cracked-out leopard printed bodysuit with a poodle skirt and a pair of five inch tall Manolos, and she'll throw this on to go to Blockbuster or the bank. I know when I have to run errands all over Manhattan, nothing is more practical than an $800 pair of the tallest stilettos I can find. The stupid outfits only serve to enhance my dislike for Carrie (obviously I totally relate to and identify with Samantha the old, outspoken, ball-busting, occasionally bisexual slut), and in no way inspires me to wear a chiffon skirt with a paisley bustier and a tartan toga belted around my chest.
In spite of a mountain of photos in outfits as similarly absurd as the one above proving otherwise, a lot of women still talk about SJP like she has this unbelievably superior fashion sense ordained by God himself, and she's laughing all the way to the bank. In addition to her perfume line and her ultimately acrimonious stint as a Gap spokesperson, she now is selling discount hoodies, capris, tank tops, and cargo pants. Presumably she's also selling a bunch of tacky charm bracelets and floppy fabric flowers to pin to one's shirt, since that kind of so-four-years-ago gaudy chic is her trademark. I do applaud her for making that money where she can, because SJP's got a now old-looking, horsey face, a husband on the down low, and a rapidly drying market for romantic comedies co-starring Matthew McConaghey and Terry "The Scourge of NFL Today" Bradshaw.
Anyway, SJP hired some models to help sell her new line calledOld Navy Bitten, and my friend BloodyTosser was one of them. However, she didn't hire any fact checkers, because although BloodyTosser looks great, they've got her shit all wrong:
First, the dumb assholes spelled "Northampton" incorrectly. Second, BloodyTosser last lived in Northampton EIGHT YEARS AGO. She is from London via Tripoli, and after leaving Northampton when we graduated Smith (as any Smith girl with the slightest shred of self-respect and desire for personal growth did), she lived in Chicago, and now Brooklyn. Then again, I get the feeling that Bitten will be ragingly popular at Smith. I can just see that Pumice Heather hoodie now on some portly American Studies major with a bowl cut and a HRC pin on her army green messenger bag, paired with a pair of drawstring frog-patterned flannel jammies, an INSPI(RED) spaghetti-strap tank, a pair of possibly sequined and/or rainbow flip-flops, and toting around the lyrics to the latest Prince song about to be butchered by the Smiffenpoofs or whatever her shiteous acapella troupe is called. BloodyTosser makes it look kind of tough and sexy, because she's hot, she's a badass, and she can kick the crap out of dudes twice her size in the Muay Thai fighting ring. However, every girl at Smith worthy of her striped hair bandana is going to buy this shit, and I predict there's going to be a lot of hirsute, North African vegetable stew-filled FUPAs straining the waistbands of many, many ill-advised low rise stretch chinos at the Cutter-Ziskind dining room come next fall.
BloodyTosser looks fabulous, and I think she should take more modeling jobs because she is a beautiful woman. However, I blame SJP for designing a line that will look like this on the average Smith girl, who in reality looks nothing like BloodyTosser: unremarkable and boxy, with arms like slabs of salt pork and oddly-placed adipose deposits that jiggle in all the wrong places. This prime specimen is exemplary of this phenomenon so prevalent at Smith, where a girl has no apparent tits or ass, but has disproportionally thick forearms, an ample chin, and the most dimpled lower abdomenal fat pad you've ever seen.
Okay, I'm kidding, that's Tej Bindra, and I just wanted to give her a shoutout since she completed matriculating last weekend and will undoubtedly now have non-profits eagerly Googling her to find out more about the vivacious young woman with the Praxis-funded worthless internship on her resume applying for the job in the mail room. In fairness, Tej might not be remotely as fly as BloodyTosser, but she is actually kind of a hottie by Smith standards. Most of the bitches in Little Suffragette City look like this:
Thank you, Sarah Jessica Parker, for ensuring that Smith will retain its place alongside filipinabride.com, the WNBA, and the Supreme Court on GQ's "Places Not to Look for Attractive Women" list for some time to come:
Anyway, SJP hired some models to help sell her new line called
BloodyTosser looks fabulous, and I think she should take more modeling jobs because she is a beautiful woman. However, I blame SJP for designing a line that will look like this on the average Smith girl, who in reality looks nothing like BloodyTosser: unremarkable and boxy, with arms like slabs of salt pork and oddly-placed adipose deposits that jiggle in all the wrong places. This prime specimen is exemplary of this phenomenon so prevalent at Smith, where a girl has no apparent tits or ass, but has disproportionally thick forearms, an ample chin, and the most dimpled lower abdomenal fat pad you've ever seen.
Thank you, Sarah Jessica Parker, for ensuring that Smith will retain its place alongside filipinabride.com, the WNBA, and the Supreme Court on GQ's "Places Not to Look for Attractive Women" list for some time to come:
Labels: BloodyTosser, celebrities, Dumb Smith bitches, fat fucks, hot chicks, intentional buffoonery, oh the horror, ranting, Sex and the City, Tej Offensive
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Digital cable channel guide descriptions are patently false
I worked quite late tonight trying to catch up on all the lab action I missed while enjoying twelve days of blissfully grad school-free beer drinking, sleeping late, getting a killer tan, and generally lazing about. So when I got home and finished walking the dogs a few minutes ago, I decided to catch up on a little crappy TV watching.
I realized while flipping through the channel guide that is supposedly one of the perks to a digital cable subscription that this thing is fucking worthless. For example, this is what the channel guide had to say about tonight's episode of "Sex and the City" on TBS:
Episode: One. Carrie has a rendezvous in the exotic world of art; Charlotte receives some surprise news; Miranda and Steve celebrate Brady's first birthday; Samantha tries to preserve her youth.
This is the worst description of this "Sex and the City" episode ever. I've seen most of the "Sex and the City" episodes at one time or another, and I happen to know that in this episode something entirely different happens. If I were a channel guide episode description writer, I would come up with something a little more accurate, like this:
Episode: One. Carrie goes to a pretentious performance art exhibition and meets a famous and righteously old Russian artist played by former ballerina Mikhail Baryshnikov who then force-feeds her aspic like a foie gras goose; Charlotte has a miscarriage, after which she spirals into a deep depression curable only by watching Elizabeth Taylor's E! True Hollywood Story; Miranda and Steve ditch both of their disproportionately hot significant others after they hook up in the laundry room over their bastard spawn's birthday cake; Samantha discovers a gray pubic hair and accidentally dyes her short-and-curlies bozo clown red in her desperation to make her pussy look younger.
Okay, I realize that it's not quite as pithy as the channel guide version, but it certainly is more compelling and honest. Furthermore, with the convenient "page down" feature available on most common digital cable remote controls, there is no need to be limited by length. The channel guide needs to get its act together.
Here is another example. This is what the channel guide says about tonight's episode of "Criss Angel: Mindfreak" on A&E:
Episode: Building Walk. Criss attempts to walk down the side of a building.
Although this is relatively straightforward, it is a poor and almost misleading description of what actually awaits the television viewer who flips to "Criss Angel: Mindfreak." This is a more accurate summary:
Episode: Building Walk. Criss "Christoper Sarantakos" Angel spends twenty-five minutes trying desperately to out-David Blaine David Blaine: tousles his Robert Smith meets Edward Scissorhands hairstyle, puts on eyeliner, polishes his edgy body jewelry, cranks up his Disturbed CD, speaks in nonsensical riddles to enhance his master of mystery routine, makes at least five "don't try this at home, I am the only professional tool qualified to do them" liability disclaimers, and sells pull-a-quarter-out-from-behind-your-ear snake oil magic tricks to elicit cries of awe frome a bunch of obese tourists buying stupid t-shirts at whatever casino employs his bitch-ass. Then in the last ninety seconds and while the credits roll he attempts to walk down the side of a building.
It couldn't hurt to put a thumbnail photo of Criss Angel on the channel guide, so that people know EXACTLY what an obnoxious prick he is. Would you watch this show if you knew it meant watching this asshole do THIS for 30 minutes?
I would DEFINITELY know to steer clear of "Criss Angel: Mindfreak" if the channel guide were kind enough to indicate that it involves 30 minutes watching the bastard child of John Rambo and the manager of the Sea-Tac Mall Hot Topic preen himself. I wouldn't even look at this shit long enough to notice that the motherfucker is wearing a BROWN belt with BLACK jeans and combining that with what looks like 50 Cent's training bling. Once again, the channel guide is woefully inadequate for my shitty TV informational needs.
Another inaccurate guide entry is the information for "Celebrity Wedding Secrets" on Vh1. The channel guide tells me that this show is as follows:
Celebrity Weddings. Details from the year's celebrity nuptials.
Looking at this, you might think this show documents the tedious minutiae of some famous person's expensive wedding, like talking about the centerpieces or the cake. This, however, is a more apt record of "Celebrity Wedding Secrets:"
Celebrity Weddings. Q-list comedians, self-important bloggers, ex-supporting cast members from sitcoms of yesteryear, desperate-for-free-marketing wedding planners/starfucking sycophants, and former Vh1 reality stars (ie: Wendy the Snapple Lady) bitterly opine about Sir Elton John's life partner ceremony, then attempt to compensate for their shamelessly exposed jealousy issues by guffawing at their own lame jokes.
Now THAT is something I would watch, if only to mock Vh1's heavy-handed pop culture punditry. The channel guide really needs to get its act together. If anyone at Time Warner Cable is reading this, would you kindly pass my suggestion on to the channel guide department that including snappy language in their episode summaries would ultimately prove a boon for the digital cable industry? People would feel more confident relying on the channel guide, and consequently would watch more cable television. Furthermore, people would likely upgrade to channel guide-having digital cable if they knew that there was an entertaining yet informative consumer tool like a Razzified channel guide included in the package. Better channel guide descriptions would benefit everyone. I expect it's only a matter of time before the higher ups at Time Warner are blowing up my cell phone trying to hire me.
I realized while flipping through the channel guide that is supposedly one of the perks to a digital cable subscription that this thing is fucking worthless. For example, this is what the channel guide had to say about tonight's episode of "Sex and the City" on TBS:
Episode: One. Carrie has a rendezvous in the exotic world of art; Charlotte receives some surprise news; Miranda and Steve celebrate Brady's first birthday; Samantha tries to preserve her youth.
This is the worst description of this "Sex and the City" episode ever. I've seen most of the "Sex and the City" episodes at one time or another, and I happen to know that in this episode something entirely different happens. If I were a channel guide episode description writer, I would come up with something a little more accurate, like this:
Episode: One. Carrie goes to a pretentious performance art exhibition and meets a famous and righteously old Russian artist played by former ballerina Mikhail Baryshnikov who then force-feeds her aspic like a foie gras goose; Charlotte has a miscarriage, after which she spirals into a deep depression curable only by watching Elizabeth Taylor's E! True Hollywood Story; Miranda and Steve ditch both of their disproportionately hot significant others after they hook up in the laundry room over their bastard spawn's birthday cake; Samantha discovers a gray pubic hair and accidentally dyes her short-and-curlies bozo clown red in her desperation to make her pussy look younger.
Okay, I realize that it's not quite as pithy as the channel guide version, but it certainly is more compelling and honest. Furthermore, with the convenient "page down" feature available on most common digital cable remote controls, there is no need to be limited by length. The channel guide needs to get its act together.
Here is another example. This is what the channel guide says about tonight's episode of "Criss Angel: Mindfreak" on A&E:
Episode: Building Walk. Criss attempts to walk down the side of a building.
Although this is relatively straightforward, it is a poor and almost misleading description of what actually awaits the television viewer who flips to "Criss Angel: Mindfreak." This is a more accurate summary:
Episode: Building Walk. Criss "Christoper Sarantakos" Angel spends twenty-five minutes trying desperately to out-David Blaine David Blaine: tousles his Robert Smith meets Edward Scissorhands hairstyle, puts on eyeliner, polishes his edgy body jewelry, cranks up his Disturbed CD, speaks in nonsensical riddles to enhance his master of mystery routine, makes at least five "don't try this at home, I am the only professional tool qualified to do them" liability disclaimers, and sells pull-a-quarter-out-from-behind-your-ear snake oil magic tricks to elicit cries of awe frome a bunch of obese tourists buying stupid t-shirts at whatever casino employs his bitch-ass. Then in the last ninety seconds and while the credits roll he attempts to walk down the side of a building.
It couldn't hurt to put a thumbnail photo of Criss Angel on the channel guide, so that people know EXACTLY what an obnoxious prick he is. Would you watch this show if you knew it meant watching this asshole do THIS for 30 minutes?
I would DEFINITELY know to steer clear of "Criss Angel: Mindfreak" if the channel guide were kind enough to indicate that it involves 30 minutes watching the bastard child of John Rambo and the manager of the Sea-Tac Mall Hot Topic preen himself. I wouldn't even look at this shit long enough to notice that the motherfucker is wearing a BROWN belt with BLACK jeans and combining that with what looks like 50 Cent's training bling. Once again, the channel guide is woefully inadequate for my shitty TV informational needs.
Another inaccurate guide entry is the information for "Celebrity Wedding Secrets" on Vh1. The channel guide tells me that this show is as follows:
Celebrity Weddings. Details from the year's celebrity nuptials.
Looking at this, you might think this show documents the tedious minutiae of some famous person's expensive wedding, like talking about the centerpieces or the cake. This, however, is a more apt record of "Celebrity Wedding Secrets:"
Celebrity Weddings. Q-list comedians, self-important bloggers, ex-supporting cast members from sitcoms of yesteryear, desperate-for-free-marketing wedding planners/starfucking sycophants, and former Vh1 reality stars (ie: Wendy the Snapple Lady) bitterly opine about Sir Elton John's life partner ceremony, then attempt to compensate for their shamelessly exposed jealousy issues by guffawing at their own lame jokes.
Now THAT is something I would watch, if only to mock Vh1's heavy-handed pop culture punditry. The channel guide really needs to get its act together. If anyone at Time Warner Cable is reading this, would you kindly pass my suggestion on to the channel guide department that including snappy language in their episode summaries would ultimately prove a boon for the digital cable industry? People would feel more confident relying on the channel guide, and consequently would watch more cable television. Furthermore, people would likely upgrade to channel guide-having digital cable if they knew that there was an entertaining yet informative consumer tool like a Razzified channel guide included in the package. Better channel guide descriptions would benefit everyone. I expect it's only a matter of time before the higher ups at Time Warner are blowing up my cell phone trying to hire me.
Labels: celebrities, Criss Angel, Sex and the City, TV, Vh1
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