Wednesday, September 03, 2008

 

Liveblogging 90210 2.0 or whatevs

I was just going to post my thoughts about last night's premiere episode of "90210" v2.0, which I gathered with my bitches to view at my friend JerseyGirl's house. However, while there, CorporateCard wanted to know why I wasn't "liveblogging" the episode. She works in cable news so she probably wants me to be a citizen reporter or whatever, because my coverage of a bunch of drunk girls watching a trashtastic CW TV show is definitely going to meet a serious need in the world of cable gonzo journalism. After the first scene, in which Ethan, AKA New Dylan McKay, is receiving a BJ from either David Silver/Kelly Taylor's half-sister or a chick who later turns out to be a major druggie, I decided that this wasn't a bad idea, if only to straighten out all the new Niner canon we'd have to absorb. We thought at first the head doctor was the drug chick and were unimpressed with her skills. She doesn't have much endurance in the fellatio department because, according to CorporateCard, "Her name is Poppy Pills. She doesn't have enough strength for blowjobs. She's a pill popper!"

Anyway, with that sort of shit going on, I figured that even if I didn't "liveblog" in the sense of immediately publishing my reportage, I could at least open up my laptop and record some of my thoughts for this morning. I didn't quite love the show as much as JerseyGirl (who announced the close of every commercial break with "OKAY YOU GUYS, QUIEEET, IT'S BACK ON!"), but I have to confess that I was pleasantly surprised by it. It wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been for a show that literally rips off the original Niner premise (Midwestern family–Rob "Kyle McBride from 'Melrose Place'" Estes and Lori "Aunt Becky from 'Full House'" Loughlin and their two similarly aged kids–move to Beverly Hills and try to fit in), and even though Rack pointed out that the New Brenda Walsh looks like a cheap Ali Lohan knockoff, the new Jim and Cindy Walsh are too hot for me to care much. JerseyGirl wouldn't stop raving about Rob Estes–or "Grant Show," as he was mistakenly called several times–being "like, the hottest dad EVER."

There were also enough appearances by former Niner characters to keep me watching. Apart from Brenda Walsh and Kelly Taylor returning to the show, Hannah Zuckerman-Vasquez (almost-bastard daughter of Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman and her cuckolded baby daddy Jesse Vasquez) is the anchor for the West Beverly TV news station ("Good morning, West Beverly High...and buenos dias") and Erin Silver, daughter of hot pieces Jackie Taylor and Mel Silver, DDS, is a main character. Some of the new characters are also awesome. I love Naomi, the slutty New Kelly Taylor, who looks like Jessie Spano with a dash of slutty-ass Lucinda Williams thrown in, and whose name is so reminiscent of the Elizabeth Berkeley's greatest role, Nomi, from Showgirls that I plan to refer to her as Nomi henceforth. Apparently Nomi is on the outs with Silver after spreading gossip that ruined Mel and Jackie's second marriage (as usual, because Mel Silver couldn't keep it in his pants around his dental hygienist staff). I also love the fact that New Brandon Walsh is black (he's adopted, as the dialogue immediately reveals to prevent any confusion that he may be the fruit of Rob Estes and Lori Loughlin's loins), because it's high time Niner added a little splash of diversity to the main cast. Also, Lucille Bluth from "Arrested Development" plays the washed-up, drunk ex-Skinemax actress of a grandmother, Tabitha. From the moment Tabitha steps onto the scene brandishing "an iced tea before noon...with a little Long Island in it," I know I'm going to love her.

By the next scene, she's dishing out advice on how to get back at lacrosse bullies. "Just grab onto those jewels and twist them, like a garbage bag," says Tabitha about ball-squeezing revenge for the possibly racial targeting of the New Brandon Walsh. Later her computer "freezes up" because she spills scotch on the keyboard and suggests that the lacrosse team terrorize their rivals by unleashing a horde of pigs on their pitch or whatever. When Rob Estes suggests she cut back on the boozing, she responds with a dismissive "oh PISH!"

I also love Erin Silver, who just goes by "Silver" because the name "Erin" is too conformist or something. She runs a blog that specializes in eviscerating her social enemies, and may or may not have been the chick sucking off the New Dylan in the opening scene, which prompted all my girlfriends to shriek, "SHE'S THE RAZZY OF THE SHOW!!!" While I have to admire a cocksucking blogger who smotes her enemies' ruin on the mountainside via the power of the internets, I wish that I was such a success in the blogging game. Silver claims she gets "half a million hits" DAILY on her site. As in 500,000 unique hits per day! I'm excited if I get 2,000...clearly I need to get better at making derogatory viral videos about my schoolmates. Apparently there are a lot of people interested in seeing her dressed as the guy from A Clockwork Orange presenting videos hating on various high school classmates who wrong her. Silver also has an itchy blogging finger. When the New Brenda inadvertantly gets dragged to the Peach Pit After Dark with New Kelly Taylor, Silver immediately makes a scathing Flash animation painting her as a slack-jawed yokel for "dissing me to go hang with the Bratz dolls."

I certainly can relate to Silver when she's confronted about her bloggity scandals by her big sister and West Beverly guidance counselor Kelly Taylor, who says, "What are we gonna do about this blog of yours? It does nothing but cause problems." I've seriously had the same conversation with my parents about a dozen times, after I've said something like, "So, uh, don't freak out or anything, Mom, but some chick tried to get me raped via Craigslist" or "So, uh, don't freak out or anything, Mom, but I just got served with a $25,000 defamation suit." Silver responds with, "That's what blogs are supposed to do. Cause problems." Thus far, I can relate to Silver. She's also exactly as hot as the offspring of the incomparable ex-coke snorting hot piece Jackie Taylor and horny oral surgeon Mel Silver should be.

The other teenagers (with the exception of Navid, the New Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman, who looks like some type of literary Criss Angel) are at least intriguing. The drug girl who may or may not be too Viked out to properly fellate the New Dylan is constantly "rollin' hard" (per JerseyGirl) and is constantly in debt to her dealer. She even bursts out in random snatches of druggie song in class and almost gets caught using in class by the New Gil Meyers ("Claim Benadryl," advised CorporateCard sagely). She also apparently is acting in Disney Channel shows to pay her mother's mortgage, but this isn't working out very well because she's usually too fucked up to follow through with her auditions. She's not too fucked up, however, to stand up for Silver's blog-skewering of Nomi (who was publicly humiliated by the New Dylan when he cheated on her) by screaming, "She wasn't rejected, BITCHLIPS!"

The show is not without its problems. As far as the New Brenda and New Brandon are concerned, there's entirely too much sexual tension between brother and sister. They're constantly having their Brenda-Brandon sibling counsels while laying in bed together.

"If you're gonna do it, at least have an Americana quilt underneath," said CorporateCard. "It takes the edge off the incest." There was always some tension between the Original Walshes, but these two new ones make Brenda and Brandon look perfectly tame. At least they're adopted, so if they do screw at some point, their potential offspring won't emerge with a flipper on its head. Then again, Grandma Tabitha just looked at the new Brenda and said, "Look at that ass...you could crack an egg on it." Maybe inappropriate sexual behavior runs in their family.

The new Brenda Walsh is also a whole lot of I don't care. Not only does she look like a misplaced Lohan sister, she shares the Original Brenda's predilection for ill-advised moral freakouts. In fact, at one point Nomi sees her at some party and says, "I didn't expect to see you here, what with all your morals and everything." However, she's no Brenda Walsh in terms of personal style or drama. As CorporateCard wisely noted, "She doesn't have the brains, she doesn't have the bodysuit...NO DEAL!"

In spite of the fact that she's a plain, boring pain in the ass aspiring to dethrone Drug Girl as the queen bee of the West Beverly theaterfag circuit, all the boys seem to like her. New Dylan is vying for her affection with some super-wealthy Bentley-driving douchebag who looks like a cross between Tom Cruise and that guy from "Smallville." Too bad the Original Dylan was a badass who won Brenda's heart by taking nips from airplane bottles of booze and smashing Bel Age Hotel flowerpots in rage. The New Dylan is a lacrosse stud (and since when was FUCKING LACROSSE a popular sport on the West Coast?), and he attempts to woo New Brenda by weaving tales of a mythical five-armed sea creature called a "pentapus." What in the "bitch, please" is that?

The new Gil Meyers also annoys me. He's ten times more interfering and morally self-righteous than the original Gil Meyers, English teacher and faculty advisor of the West Beverly Blaze. He also has already started dating Kelly Taylor after almost bungling it by referring to her four-year-old son as "baggage." Oh yeah, and did I mention Kelly Taylor has a son? I couldn't figure out if her baby daddy is Dylan or Brandon, because while we all thought it was Dylan's, a conversation with Brenda Walsh revealed that Brandon may be somewhat of a deadbeat dad, choosing to live in Belize rather than Beverly Hills with what remains of "the gang." In any event, Kelly Taylor has the little brat wearing CROCS, which is inexcusable, even on a toddler.

Anyway, overall, the new "90210" is hardly the original, but even if it doesn't measure up to the lofty standards set by the greatest show in the history of television, I can still roll with it on Tuesdays. I'd watch it just for Silver's blog-mediated revenge schemes. There was one hilarious number lampooning the public outing of New Dylan cheating on Nomi in which New Dylan says nothing but "I like lacrosse." Silver recognized her own genius.

"I think this may be my best blogisode ever," she notes. At that point JerseyGirl exhorted me to turn on my laptop's webcam and film our own "blogisode," which was a pale imitation of Silver's, to say the least. For one thing, I am no cinematographer, director, or any kind of editor while demonstrating proper blowjob technique on beer bottles via the computer webcam on my lap. For another, I have no idea how to make Flash animations. I could learn a few things from Silver, especially since her skills have netted her HALF A FUCKING MILLION UNIQUE HITS PER DAY!

Anyway, if you're really, really bored, here's our unbelievably shitty "blogisode." Haters can have a field day with my chin:

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:24 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, August 21, 2008

 

I miss Valerie more

I saw today that the CW has released a new promo video for Bev Niner 2.0 today featuring none other than the legendary Shannen "Brenda Walsh" Doherty. This video was expressly designed to get my Brendaphile friends like JerseyGirl and Twathopper hyperventilating with excitement. I can practically hear JerseyGirl all the way across the George Washington Bridge in her Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey office shouting "O! M! G! YESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!" True to form, Twathopper just e-mailed me about this informing me that "I think I just had an O at my desk."

In case you are dumb and stupid not a fan of the greatest show in the history of television ("Beverly Hills, 90210"...DUH!), let me explain a little bit about Brenda Walsh. The tempestuous younger (by four minutes) twin sister of the insufferably moral Brandon Walsh, she emigrated to America's most infamous zip code when her accountant father Jim was transferred from Minneapolis and immediately commenced starting a bunch of dramatic shit. Prior to the arrival of the duplicitous uber-slut Valerie Malone in season 5, I was always on Team Kelly Taylor, but I have to appreciate Brenda's ability to create some extremely memorable television moments. Here's a brief summary of her scandals:
Granted, Brenda never faked a pregnancy to extort a married guy out of $100,000 or smoked pot out her window while noting, "God, these people are such a bunch of squares" like Valerie Malone, but she had her moments until she was fired from Bev Niner for being a bitch and her character was exiled to drama school in London. Supposedly, Brenda was off becoming a famous actor, director, and all-around theaterfag. Her excuse for returning to West Beverly High is to direct the high school production of Spring Awakening. Isn't that musical supposed to be about teenagers masturbating and committing suicide? That sounds appropriate for high school students as portrayed by the CW. And I can only imagine the kind of performances an accomplished thespian like Brenda will elicit from her high school proteges. Check out her mastery of the craft as Maggie the Cat in the California University production of Tennessee Williams's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Brilliant!

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# posted by Razzy @ 11:41 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Monday, August 04, 2008

 

Twathopper dodges an ugly fake-lesbian bullet

My lesbian apprentice Twathopper has had a terrible time meeting decent girls, and initially I attributed this to her fishing in the most stagnant, appalling of all online dating sites: nerve.com.  This has netted her boring cupcake-baking marathon bloggers, cancer-faking professional babysitters, and militant lesbians into feigned lactation play.  However, she's asked me a million times about how she's supposed to meet "normal" lesbians if NOT on the internets, because it's not like there's a bunch of girls running around the bars with signs reading "Hello, My Name is Lesbian."  Her visits to lesbian bars have been disastrous.  First, she went to Cattyshack with a straight couple, and "straight-up cereally bugged" and fled when a cute girl approached her.  Then, I told her that maybe it would be better if she didn't have an audience, and took her to Cubby Hole with me.  I assured her I wouldn't be all "let's watch Twathopper hit on girls" because I would be too busy hitting on girls myself, and at the very least she could follow my lead.  Unfortunately, both our trips to the Cubby Hole ended badly.  The first started off promising, with me chatting up a couple semi-hot chicks about "The L Word" (which I've never seen, and which normally would make me roll my eyes and say "how predictable," but I can bullshit about lesbian chic to set a good example and possibly get laid myself), but ultimately turned frightening and resulted in a terrified escape from a pushy bulldyke who locked me in her sights and proceeded to assault me with Jamba Juice giftcards.  The second time was after Pride, where, while I was being invited to join some skank at an orgy-at-sea, Twathopper was feeling sad and depressed.  I declined the offer to join a bacchanal on the Hudson and took my little apprentice home for pizza and Bev Niner.

Therefore, I told Twathopper that if the bar scene isn't going to work for her, she has to meet lesbians the same way everyone else meets people: through friends, at parties, at work, at work events, or wherever else you might be able to socially network in life.  "Don't you know any lesbians?" she asked.  "You did go to Smith College!"

"Yes, of course I know lesbians, dude," I said.  "The problem is, they're all coupled up!  You know how the lezzies roll.  Most of the time it's first date, then cohabitate."

I spent a while racking my brain trying to think of some hot single lesbians who Twathopper hadn't already met, and couldn't think of any.  I figured it couldn't hurt to throw out a wide net, so I asked another dude I was friends with at the time.  I used to call him DanRubin on this site, but he was really mean to me and no longer deserves a Bev Niner-based Razzy name.  Since I think he's a total fucking asshole because he hurt my feelings, made me cry, and inspired my breaking out some old lesbian poetry, I'm going to instead refer to him as "Minuteman."  Not only did he go to UMass, but this is an accurate description of his manly prowess or lack thereof in the bedroom.  At the time, however, he and I were still friends and we were IM-ing, and considering he was always trying to have threesomes (and failing, since I know from experience that a fella needs more than three thrusts' worth of stamina to please one woman, much less two), I thought he might at least know some ladies who had considered the idea of banging a girl.  At any rate, I figured it didn't hurt to ask:
Razzy: dude do you know any cute lesbians who are looking to be set up on a date?
Minuteman: nope
Razzy: doh
Minuteman: i know a kinda geeky girl who's curious to experiment with girls
Razzy: hmmm
Razzy: this is not for me by the way
Razzy: my lesbian trainee is having trouble meeting other lesbians
Razzy: is that the girl you were trying to have a threesome with?
Minuteman: yeah
Minuteman: she was down but the other girl chickened out
Razzy: loser
Razzy: well my friend loves tori amos and solstice-ass shit like that
Razzy: she just came out as a lesbian
Razzy: but she has yet to close the deal
Razzy: i have given her advice and advice and advice
Razzy: i even instructed her step-by-step on "how-to" perform oral on a chick
Razzy: but she lets these dumb broads she goes out with spend all their time talking about their feelings
Razzy: so i'm trying to get her laid
Minuteman: nice
Razzy: and i don't do mercy fucks so i'm not going to handle it myself
Minuteman: can you see this profile
Minuteman: [some bitch's Facebook profile with a pic featuring this Brobdingnagian girl in boxy hipster glasses posing with a shorter girl sporting an absolutely ginormous set of tits]
Razzy: yes
Minuteman: the girl in the glasses is the wanna be lesbian
Razzy: hmmmm
Razzy: and jesus, she's tall
Razzy: the shorter girl has a hot rack
Minuteman: i agree
Razzy: i guess the glasses girl isn't ugly
Minuteman: she has a sweet body and is very horny
Minuteman: i like both those qualities
Razzy: yes those are both admirable
Razzy: she does appear to have a hot bod
Razzy: well, does she want to go hang out with a trainee lesbian to experiment with?
Minuteman: i told my wanna be lesbian friend that your friend would contact her through facebook if interested
Razzy: what?!
Razzy: oh shit, i don't know how that will work
Razzy: i'll have to give twathopper a real pep talk
Razzy: half her problem is nerves
Razzy: is your friend down?
Minuteman: she's in training too
Minuteman: it'll be fun
Razzy: i'm trying to write a letter right now
Razzy: for twathopper to send this broad
Razzy: ugh in spite of trying to convince twathopper this sounds like a great idea
Razzy: i NEVER cold call pussy like this on facebook
Minuteman: do you want her real email address
Razzy: no that's even creepier
Minuteman: word
Razzy: what do you think of this:
Razzy:"This may seem kind of weird since we've never met, but to make a long story short, my friend Razzy was talking to her friend Minuteman, and they seemed to think we might get along. I don't usually do this, but do you want to test this theory over drinks sometime?"
Minuteman: perfect
Razzy: it's not creepy or weird?
Minuteman: A. is there a way to do this that isn't creepy or weird
Razzy: i know
Minuteman: B. Who cares? it's not us
As it turned out, Twathopper finally mustered the gumption to Facebook message this chick amidst a lot of "OMGOMGOMGOMGs" sent my way on Gchat.  Naturally, the finely-tuned snippet of game I lent her worked, at least at first.  This chick agreed to meet her, and it turns out that she and Twathopper had some professional interests in common.  Twathopper does PR, and at the time, one of her clients was a luggage company.  This chick wrote for a luggage magazine or something, so they exchanged a few flirtatious e-mails and actually agreed to get together and discuss baggage on their first date.  If that's not lesbian romance, I don't know what is.

Unfortunately, like most straight "curious" girls without an enthusiastic guy around to hassle them, BaggageBitch decided that lesbianism was more the stuff of fantasies for her.  She sent Twathopper an e-mail the day of their much-anticipated date, and claimed that she broke her toe and was immobilized.  Twathopper and I both suspected that what actually broke was more likely her nerve.  We both said, "Fuck that cowardly wannabe dyke and the one-pump chump Minuteman dick she rode in on!" and directed our energies elsewhere.  Eventually, Twathopper did get laid, and she's currently scouting several prospects for further conversation about Ingrid Michaelson/advanced muff diver certification.

Well, as it turns out, Twathopper lucked out big time.  On Friday night, Twathopper was going to the Yankees game, and sent me the following text:   "Dude i walked past that baggagebitch chick on the way 2 the game: She totes recognized me.  Haha.  It's totes kewl she pussied out: Trust!"

I snickered.  BaggageBitch wouldn't be the first person on Facebook to have a profile picture that makes her look way more attractive than she is in real life.  I responded: "Ew was she butt?"

Twathopper replied: "Kinda.  I mean not butt ug but not cute."

It's pathetic enough to be one of those girls that is always giving lip service to wanting to bang chicks and then backs out when an opportunity presents itself.  It's even worse when the chick you ditched on a blind date sees you and thinks you are too ugly (or at least insufficiently cute) to hit anyway.  No wonder BaggageBitch looked away and hurried off; she knows Twathopper is way too hot to L her worthless P.  We're getting you a hot date to that Tegan and Sara concert yet, Twathopper!

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:52 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Monday, July 28, 2008

 

Daily Douchebag: bar tabs like this


Name: my table's bill Friday night

DOB: July 25, 2008

Occupation: making everybody who had a piece of this seriously consider the extent of their alcoholism

Hometown: our dirty hot waiter's apron at El Rey del Sol

Current residence: the financial ledgers at El Rey del Sol

Douchebaggery:  I'm generally a pretty thirsty bar patron, but every once in a while I drink so much alcohol that I even surprise myself.  Last Friday night was one of those occasions.  My friend JerseyGirl throws these happy hours, primarily because she likes any excuse to make an Evite about getting shitfaced.  At almost all of these events, I get wasted and very frequently laid with one of the horny gentlemen working with JerseyGirl in the trenches of cable news production.  However, at this most recent occasion, JerseyGirl recently broke up with her boyfriend, I've been stressed to the point of almost getting my old poetry notebook out and scrawling out some appalling verse, Rack's boyfriend TheOldGuy's mom just passed away, and Twathopper's been lamenting her usual incompetence at lesbianism, so this happy hour could be a "quiet night out" with closer friends.  There weren't as many random cubicle neighbors Evited as usual.

In hindsight, it was probably a mistake not to throw the usual bar-banger, because instead of leaving early to pork some hot swarthy employee of MSNBC or FOX News, I stayed until the finale when the bill arrived, and I was HAMMERED.  I was so drunk that on the way home, I almost fell asleep in the cab, something I've sworn never to do ever since my first year in New York I wound up with a cabdriver who started jerking off on the Henry Hudson where there was no escape for me.  With those kind of guys taking drunk bitches home, there's no way I'm going to get unconscious and trust the driver will wake me at my humble tenement rather than in some abandoned alley in the Bronx where he'll rape me and dump my lifeless body for the Special Victims Unit to find.  I was so drunk that the simple task of staying semi-conscious was a Herculean feat on the way home.  I was really, really drunk.

That's why I was not surprised to recall later that we drank over NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS WORTH OF MARGARITA PITCHERS.  I remember being surprised at the time, and raving about "there is NO WAY we drank that much!  I'm practically sober!" like the truly delusional drunk-ass bitch I was by the time the waiter closed us out.  "NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS?!?  Wait, we didn't REALLY drink that much...did we?"  Okay, well some of that was the tip and tax, and in fairness we ate a paltry $31 worth of nachos, but otherwise we drank probably literally twenty five extraordinarily stiff pitchers of tequila-based cocktails...among a maximum of twenty people, some of whom didn't drink much.  As I estimate that around 15 of us drank margaritas, that means we each had 1.67 pitchers each over the course of around four hours.  Even for boozehounds like us, that is a shitload of well tequila to consume.

It's not surprising that the next day, many of the attendees reported incapacitating hangovers.  I myself was miraculously not clutching the toilet bowl for the next twelve hours (a hangover that in my case seems to be reserved almost exclusively for mixing liquor nights, like when I switch back and forth between scotch, G&Ts, and vodka-Red Bulls).  I was, however, very glad when my afternoon drinking plans were canceled so that I could convalesce and make amends to my own liver, because I still felt like shit.  I need to remember this the next time we hit up a margarita happy hour, or I'm going to be calling Schick Shadel sooner than later.

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:27 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, July 03, 2008

 

Adventures in Labia-sitting

OK, so I'm trying my damndest (with the ever-so gracious support of Razzy) to be a good solstice. But more importantly, I'm trying to be a successful solstice. And as the summer solstice just came and went, I should be in full bloom now. Alas, if you're staying on top of the awesomeness that is this blog, it's quite apparent that I'm average at best. It's been over a year at proactively courting the ladies and I've come up quite short...dismally short: "FEED ME" short. Although I've earned my stripes, I've yet to find a hot piece that's at the very least available, and at the very most, simply not "Girl, Interrupted" crazy or too scared/confused to pursue anything that has the semblance of an adult, sexual relationship. I'm what many would call a novice lesbian. So much so that often times I feel like I'm 15 years old, in high school and just starting the dating process altogether- which I guess in essence I am. So I might as well write this post like the 15 year-old 'lil girl I've become.

Hi everyone, I'm Twathopper. I like girls. And I just started dating them, but I don't have very good taste when it comes to them. I like crazy girls. And huge nerds. Oh, and since I'm quite new to this, I still mess around with guys. Well, not anymore, but I used to. And I pick much better dudes than I do chicks. Oh well! Here's the rundown of how it's been going since last May:

My first attempt at snaggin a chick: Writersprout. Me framing an article. Enough said. Or better said, I got dicked so hard with no actual "dicking", or L'n P for this paticular matter.

Ex-boyfriend of 6 years: I'll call him WuTang, because he loves them. He has the tattoo to prove it, although he'll deny it. Anyway, we had a nice, one night fling last summer that needed to occur. I was solidly assured I was never, and never would be, in love with him. But I got some, and TRUST I needed it. See above.

Old dude: After that I made some alcohol related decisions, and old dude was one of them. I'm not saying it was a bad decision, because I found him to be quite smooth and good looking, regardless of him being 20 years my senior. Plus he had that Southern charm. Oh did I mention he's a client of mine? Maybe not the best decision I've made, but as soon as he mentioned that he saw Fleetwood Mac in their heyday (ya know when Stevie Nicks was the hottest piece going in the 70s), my pants literally dropped to the floor. But I found out quickly he was more lesbian than I'll ever be when I discovered all he wanted to do was L my P all night. I basically had to tell him to do me. And then even that was solsticey. Jesus. 

Sarah Babysits: This was all about the Babysitter who cried "cancer." Before that happened though, I was just a sucker for a hot chick–and she was completely my type. But I'm the asshole who let her hang around off and on for a good 6 months, because I just couldn't believe someone could lie about cancer. Or as I like to say, I just can't wrap my brain around crazy. 

The Bartender: During most of these flings, there has been one constant, and that's my bartender friend. He's sweet, normal, good looking, nice to my friends, complimentary, available when I want him to be and scarce when I want that. Oh and did I mention the free drinks? It's awesome and probably everything I'm looking for. Too bad he's a dude and I can't fall for him. Damn.

SuperLez: Two words: FEED ME. Again, enough said. Oh wait, more can be said. What Razzy left out, that I find to be a HUGE, HUGE dealbreaker, is we barely made out. Yep, this bitch found making out to be enormously intimate, and because she just knew it was physical between us, she barely would. LOSER. And if you know me, you know I love to make out, so I barely needed the "Feed Me" excuse to cut her loose. TRUST she ain't no Julia Roberts and I for damn sure am not Richard Gere.

So there you have it, that 's my abysmal year of dating. With the exception of the few nice guys in there (well not really because they're GUYS), the proof is in the solstice pudding that I'm pretty much the worst lesbian around. Or if I wanna be nice to myself, a slow learner. But I'm trying and Razzy is an excellent mentor. So if you guys know any hot, normal, available solstices, send 'em my way and I'm sure I'll be totally uninterested as that's completely not my type.

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# posted by Twathopper @ 5:09 AM 4 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, July 01, 2008

 

Talk ridiculously to me

The other day, I was Gchatting with Twathopper and she was telling me some of the more offensive things her ex-paramour Superlez pulled during their brief stint dating. Apparently, although Superlez didn't seem very interested in having real-life sex, she loved phone sex. Granted, this was the lamest phone sex ever, since she spent 99% of it telling Twathopper how cute she was and what she liked about her. In the brief times they actually managed some light physical coupling, Superlez apparently also liked to dirty talk. One time she started bossing Twathopper around about her "cunt," and while the C-bomb doesn't really bother me, it's not one of Twathopper's favorite words and she had to argue with Superlez about whether or not it turned her on. Another time, Superlez pulled one of the grossest, most off-putting instances of dirty talk I've ever heard. Whilst hovering over Twathopper, she said, "Feed me!"

"Uh...what?" Twathopper didn't know what she was talking about.

"Feed me!" repeated Superlez, who then began suckling on Twathopper's tits like some sort of demented baby from hell. This was such a huge turn-off that Twathopper–in spite of being hard-up for lezzie sex–stopped their hooking up in its tracks, because in her words "I'm not into baby fantasies and shit" as having "a grown woman suck on my tits like a fucking infant" was off-putting to say the least. As she put it, "equating the adult act of sex with children" is "not hot at all," and I couldn't agree more. For one thing, I hate kids, and for another...if there's one thing that doesn't go together it's HOT SEX and IMITATING CHILDREN. Another one of my friends was dating this guy a while back, and he used to baby talk all the time. It was mildly disturbing enough that he would routinely say things like "I wuv wu, sweetie-weetie" and stuff like that in front of her friends at bars and restaurants. In the bedroom he was even worse. He would say stuff to her like "Baby, will wu sucky wucky my cocky wocky?" When she told me about this, I thought that if any dude ever said something like that to me, my first response would be, "EW! Oh my GOD, NO! Never again!"

When it comes to dirty talk, there's a fine line between hot and creepy that clearly some people cross with flying leaps. I have certainly engaged in my fair share of dirty talk, but luckily I've never had anyone try to baby talk me in bed. I have, however, on many occasions had some sexy talk turn really fucking funny quickly. Obviously, I'm the kind of person who gets turned on by humor and laughing, so this isn't a problem except in the realm of phone sex. I am terrible at phone sex because I get about two lines deep and start cracking up. In the past I've tried a few times and haven't gotten farther than "...and then I pull your giant, hard cock out of your pants..." before I dissolve into giggles like the totally mature, sophisticated lady that I am. I'm a lot better at dirty talk when I'm actually getting it on, but even then I sometimes can't control myself if something surprisingly hilarious comes out.

For example, the guy who told me that I performed fellatio with a great deal of "flair" made me snicker on his dick, which could have turned into a very bad situation with my gag reflex had I been deep throating rather than doing some between-swallowing head work at that particular moment. I could not control the full belly-laugh that happened when this dude (who I apparently lured back to my web of sin and depavity with my incredibly seductive rendition of the Scorpions' "Wind of Change") blowing his load all over my ass shouted "DRAAAAIIINAGE!" Luckily he had a good sense of humor and wasn't put off by my clutching my side laughing at his money shot move. I've had some other instances of pretty hilarious dirty talk, as well. One of my former booty calls would always start fucking me and demand, "TELL ME ABOUT MY COCK!" I'd then proceed to come up with all sorts of outlandish stuff, like comparing his dick to a Johnsonville brat, telling him to buck like a raging stallion, and complimenting his ability to drill me like a Texas oil rig. Another dude I was dating would always ask me to "play with his chest," which was code for giving him vicious titty twisters. Seemingly pinching his nipples encouraged him to say incredibly ridiculous stuff along the lines of "I'm going to split you in half with my big black snake, girl" and "I'm fucking you so deep my dick's going to come out the top of your head." And yet another dude who was apparently really into artistic ejaculation techniques asked if I wanted some jewelry before giving me a pearl necklace. And yet another Mr. Right Now who I dated for a few months back in Seattle told me that my pussy tasted like the duck sauce Chinese restaurants give you to dip egg rolls in (I disagree...I think my pussy–like most pussy–tastes like a milder version of salt and vinegar potato chips).

I'm somewhat amazed, however, that I seem to have way more stories about this than most of my friends. This is in large part due to the fact that I'm the most open about my sluttery, and I seem to attract ridiculous sexual partners more than my friends. This makes sense, because I'll be the first to admit that I'm pretty ridiculous myself. I asked JerseyGirl, who has done enough silly drunk things to last a lifetime, and the best she could think of was that her boyfriend sometimes says how hot she is "in an 'i'mgonnablowmyloadanyminute' kind of way." I also asked this lovely girl I'll call Tits because she has the hottest natural rack I've ever seen in my life. Tits always has to leave everything early so she can fuck her boyfriend, and while she admitted to trying to convince her boyfriend to let her peg him (he declined), she couldn't think of anything funny that happened with her man. Since she then had to go fuck her boyfriend, I told her to get some dirty talk going on and report back. I have yet to be debriefed. At least FalloniusMonk proved to me that she shares my ability to attract the crazy dirty talk. One time, she was hooking up with some dude who "in the same breath" explained that he was a descendant of Mark Antony and wondered if they could still work together IF THEY WERE MARRIED! Because of their semi-work relationship and his obvious craziness, she elected to never hire him for freelance work again. Another time, "a crazy dyke" asked her if she liked fighter jets in the middle of sex. Sadly, FalloniusMonk did not indicate her love for F-16s by popping in "Highway to the Danger Zone" for the rest of their tryst. Then again, nobody ever accused Kenny Loggins of writing effective lesbian sex jams. Still another time, she fucked some girl in a church parking lot, and the girl asked if she thought Jesus was watching. Well, in Catholic school they taught me that Jesus is basically everywhere, so probably...but I can't imagine he'd be doing anything besides wanking it hard to some hot backseat girl-on-girl in the church parking lot. FalloniusMonk I'm sure came up with some similar don't-worry-about-Jesus-worry-about-lesbian-sex sentiment since she's a pro ho at closing the deal with the ladies, or as she puts it, "Can this just happen? Instead of the Katy Perry horseshit? This isn't about chapstick, it's about pussy!"

Anyway, while it's fun to hit the sheets and do a little dirty talk, in my experience it's actually seldom as dirty as it is either hilarious or creepy. I'm sure some of y'all have stories of your own, and I invite you to share. I suspect that there's a lot more silliness (or possibly creepiness) with the sexiness than sexiness alone. Share, bitches!

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:07 AM 2 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: homos


Name: the gays and gayelles!

DOB: same as humanity

Occupation: totally ruling

Hometown: everywhere

Current residence: everywhere!

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: So Sunday was Pride, and as always, it was a drunken great time.  It's hard to be in a bad mood around thousands of gays during Pride because the atmosphere is so buoyant and joyful.  Besides, being part lesbish myself, I have gone through the difficulties that most hommasekshuls probably face at one time or another: feeling like a freak, a pervert, a hellbound sinner, etc.  Pride is great because everyone just celebrates who they are without reservation, and has a fucking blast.  I have nothing but respect for the way gays can party their faces off with regard to who they are.

What I have less respect for is the proliferation of ugly-ass lesbians.  I just do not understand why so many dykes just don't keep themselves up.  There were more fat-ass harpies in stretch pants and pizza-faced trolls than I could shake a Pride flag at.  While I made good on my promise to Twathopper to point out some of the ladies who did not fall into the category of "butch" or "dykes on bikes," I was less successful in pointing out some regular-looking lesbians who were actually attractive.  Before the parade started, J-Sexy, I'mNotRussianGoddammit, Twathopper, Twathopper's friend (who I'll call CuteClothes because she's a snappy dresser...the last time I saw her she was rocking this adorable pair of heels and Sunday she was stunting in this hot-ass strapless dress), and myself went to this place down Seventh Avenue a couple blocks from the parade route for outdoor brunch, and we could not get over the sheer number of lesbians slacking heavily in the personal maintenance department.  First off, a lot of ladies need to eat more pussy and less McDonald's, because there were some morbidly obese broads out in force.  Unfortunately, said fat-ass broads were the ones who seemed to think that either white lycra stretch pants or a stripper-esque bra/miniskirt combo were appropriate attire for their size 22 asses.  Second, a lot of the girls who WOULD be attractive were not making an even minimal effort to keep themselves up.  I'd see what appeared from down the street to be a cute girl heading our way, only to realize that girlfriend needs to hit the Proactiv solution something serious when she'd get up close.  The general sloppiness of the average lesbian wandering around was emphasized by the impeccably groomed gay men juxtaposed beside them.  The group of super bitchy fags at the table next to us heard J-Sexy and I crowing about Tila Tequila's "snap-on tits," instantly became our friends, and we spent a solid hour making fun of the personal style choices of passing lesbians.

"Hey, I'mNotRussianGoddammit," said J-Sexy.  "There's a girl for you.  She looks kind of alternative and she has short hair."

We all looked to see this girl in a torn, dirty shirt, a pair of stained cutoffs, and a short, tousled mop of greasy hair.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"  asked I'mNotRussianGoddammit.  "I don't like HOMELESS girls!"

"J-Sexy, that bitch DOES look like a vagrant.  And she's wearing a FANNY PACK!"  I argued in I'mNotRussianGoddammit's defense.

"Fanny packs are in now!  They're retro," said J-Sexy.  "And anyway, she's not a vagrant...she's just grunge!"

"Grunge?!  What is this, 1993?  Dude, sorry, but I left my old Alice in Chains shirt back in my FRESHMAN YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL!"  I said to J-Sexy.  I felt it was important to argue in I'mNotRussianGoddammit's defense, since she's a hot piece and can certainly do better than indigent lesbians caught in an early '90s time warp.

Anyway, after about two hours of this, we decided to actually go check out the parade.  That was thwarted by a sudden torrential rainstorm, from which we took shelter in the nearest bar.  Unfortunately, this bar catered so strictly to a male clientele that not only were all the bartenders wearing nothing but tighty whities, there were Sistine Chapel-esque paintings of a host of chiseled, muscle-fag cherubim on every wall and cheesy house music blaring at an eardrum-rupturing volume.  "I've got my eye on that vinyl jumpsuit over there," I said to Twathopper, who started laughing, because this is a line that Brandon Walsh used from the season 2 episode of "Beverly Hills, 90210" where Emily Valentine slips U4EA into his Fresca at the "underground club" AKA gay rave the gang attends.

"God, this place is such a sausage fest," noted CuteClothes.  At that moment, a group of lesbians walked in to escape the rain, and we noticed that a couple of them were pretty cute.  Unfortunately, they were all couples.  Typical.  I swear, it's easier to find a four-leaf clover growing out of a New York City sidewalk than a lesbian who is both single and attractive.

We finished up our beers, the rain tapered off, and we fled across Christopher Street to Kettle of Fish, a bar that is marginally more lesbish.  At least it's a more mixed crowd, anyway, in the sense that there were plenty of unattractive lesbians playing Galaga and watching the Euro Cup final.  We proceeded to drink heavily while we waited for my buddy El Polaco to march by with his group of gay Catholics.  He came by at the end of the parade, and by that time, we were shitfaced and plastered with "God Made Me Queer" stickers.  At that point, we bid goodbye to CuteClothes (too bad, because I was hoping I could work the "So, we both went to Seven Sisters schools...do the math" seduction angle with her), who wisely remembered that it was a school night.  The rest of us weren't so smart, and ended up going to Cubby Hole, the dyke bar where I was infamously hassled by the nefarious bulldyke Blu.  Luckily, Blu was not in attendance.  Less luckily, I was so shitfaced that I decided it would be a great idea to drink J-Sexy's overproof rum straight as we waited in line, resulting in me actually DANCING once I got inside.  Not only did I dance, I actually smoked a cigarette inside this tiny closet of a bar, and then proceeded to try to convince Twathopper to actually talk to this girl she thought was cute.  Sadly, Twathopper's alcohol consumption had caught up with her and she was rapidly devolving into a gloomy solstice depression.  I kept grabbing her chin and readjusting her facial posture, saying, "Chin UP, Twathopper!  Nobody wants to L a super-depressed P, girl!"  Unfortunately, she was too far gone, so I said goodbye to the girl I met who was trying to talk me into going to an orgy on some boat.  It's for the best, because while an orgy might be fun and an awesome story, I probably shouldn't accompany random bitches I just met onto a floating bacchanal full of strange lesbians from which there is no escape short of diving into the Hudson River.  I took Twathopper home for some pizza and some good old-fashioned lesbian processing about her feelings to lift her spirits.  I even watched a Tegan and Sara video on LOGO with her, and managed to turn her frown upside down once we switched on the choice "Beverly Hills, 90210" episode where Brandon embarks on a self-righteous crusade to block the High Point Center from replacing the Peach Pit.

I may not have gotten laid, and I may not have gotten my apprentice laid, but I know it was a great Pride when I was too fucking hung over and exhausted yesterday to even regale you with the tale and go off about how much the homos kick ass.

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:41 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Friday, June 27, 2008

 

LESBIANS, START YOUR VAGINAS!

This weekend is Pride, bitches! I'm especially glad Pride is coming up, because there's no better way to put a spring in your step after a dude treats you shabbily than to go bang a hotter chick than he could ever score (excepting self). Pride is the best pickings in the city, because EVERY lesbian worth her Georgia O'Keefe lilies shows up there. Hell, every gay person goes! The last time I was at Pride a couple years back, I totally flirted with some cute chicks, although then I wasn't yet remembering how fun it is to fuck girls, so I didn't take any action. Now, I'm ready to chat up some chicks and hopefully do what my friends refer to as "L'ing P," our shorthand for "licking pussy." Furthermore, it provides an excellent opportunity for Twathopper, my lesbian apprentice, to find a companion for the Teagan and Sara concert she really wants to attend with a date. Twathopper was a little gloomy about her prospects, so in a super-hot, all-girl, three-way Gchat, JerseyGirl and I doubled up to give her some confidence:
JerseyGirl: Twathopper, tegan and sarah are coming to nyc in october
JerseyGirl: maybe you should buy two tickets, proactively so that you can take a solstice with you
JerseyGirl: oh and actually sigur ros is coming to nyc too
Twathopper: i know about both
Razzy: call me when kells is swinging back this way
Razzy: dude jerseygirl, twathopper probs reads all the music ZINES that tell her these things
Twathopper: hahaha lol ZINES
JerseyGirl: twathopper, i think you should definitely buy 2 tix to tegan and sara
Twathopper: hahahaha
Razzy: yeah cereally
JerseyGirl: buy it and then you can take whatever solstice you are dating at the time
Twathopper: F you jerseygirl!
Razzy: the pussy will be eating out of your pants for those tix
Razzy: from now on you're going to get some decent snatch if it kills me
Razzy: we're gonna find you a GF at pride this weekend
Razzy: TRUST
Razzy: get tix to this show
Razzy: and find some hot twat at pride to squire along with you
Twathopper: let's find the ho first
Twathopper: then get the tix
Razzy: well when do the tix go on sale?
Razzy: if we pull a nice tuna out of the tank at pride for you
Razzy: you'll be living together by next week
Razzy: so problem solved
Razzy: i know how you solstae roll
Twathopper: hahahah lol
Razzy: in fact, you should rent the uhaul now
Twathopper: well i hope it's better than what i saw last year
Razzy: what, at pride?
Twathopper: which was a bunch of old dykes on bikes
Twathopper: and butches everywhere
Razzy: dude every queer in the city comes out for pride!
Razzy: see all the normal-looking girls mixed in with all the crusties?
Razzy: THOSE ARE THE NORMAL LESBIANS
JerseyGirl: i cannot wait to hear stories about l'ing p from bitches you met at pride
Twathopper: oh like me walking around
JerseyGirl: :P
JerseyGirl: haha that's the l p icon
Twathopper: what will i be doing then?
Twathopper: talkin to some chick about tori and live music probz
Razzy: talking to some girl about live music
Razzy: LOL
Twathopper: haha omg!
Razzy: well that'll work
Razzy: you're looking for a keeper
JerseyGirl: omg you guys are in solstice sync
Razzy: with the ladies, i'm all catch-and-release
Razzy: you get in the door, twathopz
Razzy: i get in the pants
Razzy: perf
Needless to say, Twathopper's pessimism about her prospects are misguided. However, I can completely understand where her negative energy is coming from. While our previous foray into the lesbian bar scene turned into an escape mission to free me from the clutches of a highly aggressive, Jamba Juice-giftcard toting bulldyke named Blu rather than the sex Twathopper was hoping for, she did manage to finally earn her stripes and L some P. I'm sure she did a great job thanks to my excellent coaching. Now that she's done it once, she wants to do it some more, preferably after listening to some live introspective female singer/songwriters perform their acoustic harmonies.

Unfortunately, apart from her lone evening of drunken passion, Twathopper's track record is not so great. She's dated a host of the most ridiculous bitches ever, although part of the problem is the fact that she dug up these obnoxious broads on Nerve.com. First there was Writersprout, a cupcake-loving open mic aficionado who sublets for fun and writes the world's most infinitely boring blog. Then, there was Sarah Babysits, a girl who babysits for a living and who actually faked a rare bone cancer to poke at Twathopper's soft spot for the sick and wounded. This was after she faked a dog bite to cover up a missed "text date" (shaking my head) due to a Vicodin coma. In response, JerseyGirl got hold of Twathopper's phone and texted back "did the dog eat your homework, too?", and Sarah Babysits was so stupid that she actually thought this was flirtatious. When Twathopper dumped her on account of "you need to focus on recovering from the rare Ewing's sarcoma you have, especially since you're being inexplicably treated for it by a gastroenterologist," Sarah Babysits experienced an almost instantaneous remission of her malignancy. Twathopper finally stopped responding to her texts after that. I can hardly blame her, because after months of talking and texting and processing, the thing these bitches had in common beside being incredibly lame is their seeming unwillingness to go further than second base. Twathopper had to get these hoes completely wasted to even be permitted a stray grasp of a shirt-covered breast.

Finally, there was Superlez, and this bitch is a piece of work. On their first date, within five minutes of sitting down with their drinks Superlez informed Twathopper that she'd "never been penetrated by a man." Then, after interrogating Twathopper on her experience or lack thereof, Superlez condescendingly asked her, "Do you have any questions about the community?" I don't recall appointing Superlez spokesperson for every chick who bangs chicks, and I frankly don't want some sort of vagina snob who obviously looks down her nose at bisexuals acting like the orientation supervisor for the girl-on-girl circuit. Twathopper was like, "What community? Lesbians? No!" Frankly, the only question Twathopper ever had about "the community" was "why don't any of these girls ever have sex?" Furthermore, any future questions could be undoubtedly directed toward one of the horde of Smith College graduates Twathopper rolls with. Then Twathopper mentioned that she has lots of straight friends, so Superlez informed her that "you're going to start resenting your hetero friends and their hetero ideals." Hopefully for JerseyGirl's sake, that prediction won't come true. I guess I'm in the clear since Superlez never cast any warnings about resenting friends for their bisexual ideals. I told Twathopper that she should throw that uppity dyke back to the online dating cesspool she pulled her out of, but as usual, she did not heed my advice.

My anti-Superlez stance softened a little when I learned that Twathopper got some finger action from her, and I figured that while she may be obnoxious, maybe she would at least get my apprentice over the figurative hump. Unfortunately, Superlez then decided their bedroom antics were going to plateau there, because she apparently has fewer lesbian skills than I had at 15. I mean, I wrote some appalling poetry back then, but it only took me about a week or two to graduate to L'ing P once we got the fingerbanging routine down. Instead of progressing sexually, Superlez stalled via completely sexless phone sex which Twathopper described as "telling me how hot I was" and "what she liked about me." I am not at all surprised that is an accurate description of lesbian phone sex. I bet that segued into an incredibly sexy description of all the boobmashing they could do. She also did a lot of sexless dirty talk that Twathopper did not appreciate, such as strange routines involving baby talked references to nursing to precede some breast suckling. GROSS. After all this hassle and for all her talk about being the biggest dyke at the sushi bar, Superlez still never went downtown, so Twathopper finally cut her loose.

However, she did not stop stalking Superlez via social networking sites, and yesterday sent me her MySpace page. Twathopper made me swear to the Goddess that I would not post a link to it (although I DESPERATELY wish I could), so I will just have to describe what to me looked like a bullet safely dodged. After squinting to read anything beyond Superlez's annoying profile wallpaper of a group of lesbians white-water rafting, I noticed that her sole interest was under (of course) music, and seemed to be limited to some Lisa Loeb wannabe named Ingrid Michaelson who Wikipedia describes as an "indie-pop singer/songwriter" and is "most notably" famous for having contributed 6 songs on the "Gray's Anatomy" soundtrack. She also counts Marlee Matlin among her "Top Friends," because like every predictable-ass pushy lesbo, Superlez loves "The L Word." She also probably has a crushing handshake and a collection of Dar Williams CDs. Other than that, Superlez just exhibits about fifty million pictures of either herself looking mysterious, or herself posing in various Brooklyn establishments with her new girlfriend who is CLEARLY a Nerve.com find judging by her mousy hipster appearance. She also seems to think that, despite her butt girlfriend, she's still quite the lothario as evidenced by her continued attempts to IM and text flirtatiously with Twathopper. IF ONLY I could post her picture and proceed to–in the words of Lil' Wayne–cool her ass down if she thinks she's hot shit, because while she isn't bad looking, the sheer volume of ridiculous brooding, contrived self-portraits make her as unattractive as her personality does within five minutes of meeting this silly twat.

Anyway, with such a dismal history of dating, I am pretty sure that Twathopper can't do any worse at Pride this weekend than the prostitutes she's already wasted ample time on. I'm sure we can find a slightly better broad than the extracurricular subletters, cancer fakers, and bossy self-appointed lesbian ambassadors she's been messing with. Surely we can find her some nice, normal Tori Amos fan for her to swap Lilith Fair stories with, commence cohabitation, and celebrate their love with a romantic Teagan and Sara concert.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:12 AM 2 Comments Links to this post
 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my friends




Name: LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, and Twathopper

DOB: various times throughout 1981

Occupation: history nerd, cable news producer, PR flunky

Hometown: San Francisco, CA; West Longbranch, NJ; Philadelphia, PA

Current residence: New Orleans, Louisiana and New York, New York

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: The last couple of days I was feeling VERY un-Razzified on account of receiving one of the most personally mean "thanks but no thanks" sentiments in history, and I actually had to do something I rarely do: call my friends for emotional support (as opposed to the normal calling my friends to plan where we are drinking/watching Bev Niner). Usually I'm the one doling out all the moral support and making jokes to add some levity to someone else's personal crisis, but I am very thankful that on the rare occasions I'm feeling acutely down and in total crybaby mode, my friends are more than willing to return the favor at their inconvenience. The other night, JerseyGirl and Twathopper both dropped work obligations to rush up to Harlem and drink some brew dogs with me. Then, after listening to me blubber about my hurt feelings and reminded me how badass I am, encourage me to perform an open mic night rendition of my appalling 15-year-old lezzie poetry.

LL Cool Jew kept me on the phone for awhile, which was very kind of her considering she's fretting deeply because her husband is in civil war-torn and journalist-hating Sri Lanka right now, and because she got into a really awful car accident the day before. LL Cool Jew was so great with the scorned woman vitriol (her response to the guy who hurt my feelings–and more specifically the manner in which he hurt my feelings– was "I WANT HIM DEAD!"), that she actually called BigBagel in Sri Lanka to tell him about it, and when she told him that the "I don't want to go out for drinks within the context of a date because you're a big slut who talks about your abortion" schtick was presented in a "for your own good" sort of way, he responded, "Does this mean I get to tell that guy a few things for his own good?" In addition to rallying her family beneath the Razzy Apologist banner, she was also super sweet. After learning about the falling death and decapitation of my beloved St. Francis of Assisi idol, she promptly went straight on to a bunch of Catholic websites and, after noting that my people have the "trinkets-for-salvation" market cornered, purchased me a replacement.

Even hard-ass bitches like myself have their weak spots. One of mine starts with "A" and rhymes with "gabortion," and to have this brought up in the context it was the other day by a person purporting to be my "friend" was a complete shock to me. I've got a pretty thick skin, but hearing someone say that you are an undesirable person because of how you deal with your life's most significant problems is crushing and horrible. Most of the time, I can say "FUCK YOU, HATER!" and give the offending party a well-deserved douchebagging. On rare circumstances, though, somebody hits a really sensitive nerve, and I turn into a sobbing, self-loathing ball of jelly. Let's face it...I don't think I'm really fooling anyone for too long with the whole "I'm Razzy and you're not, so suck it!" attitude I present to the world. As LL Cool Jew once put it, "You keep all that sweetness so hidden away, but you don't need to feel bad when some of it sneaks out!" Deep down, I'm really just an emotionally vulnerable poetry-writing girl who uses my aggressive, no-bullshit, exceedingly honest demeanor as a shield against being hurt and feeling bad. When someone actually manages to penetrate my fomidable exterior and hits a tender spot, I need strong, loving friends to lean on until I regain my "fuck you" legs. I'm really lucky to have friends like LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, and Twathopper (as well as MillerTime, J-Sexy, HotLawyer, and Morrissey'sHair, who have all been patient enough to listen to me bitch about this situation at one point or another), who care about me and are ready and willing to show me how much when I really need it. Thanks, you guys, for helping me get my Razzification back. I love you and you are the best.

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# posted by Razzy @ 4:30 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, June 26, 2008

 

THE most embarrassing thing that I've ever done

Yesterday, I had one of the most upsetting instant message conversations of all time. To make a long and completely unnecessary story very short, I got a "no thanks, I'm not interested in you" in the form of talk about how my public discussion of my abortion makes this dude think I'm a totally unattractive and unlovable freak, and an itemized list of obvious problems with myself that this dude wanted no part of. Basically, it was the cruelest, most humiliating way of hearing "let's just be friends" of all time, and I was in a tremendously bad state afterwards. Don't get me wrong, I've certainly been in the position where a dude just wasn't feeling me, and sure, that makes you feel bad for about a week. Your ego is wounded and that sucks, but you get over it much sooner than later, and big fucking deal. It happens, and (especially when you're a narcissist like me) you get over it. However, I've never received a comprehensive summary of the human flaws I am most sensitive about as a means of saying "I'm just not feeling a re-do of the date we had almost a year ago." All I could do while discussing this–over IM–was try to save face and seem like I was merely embarrassed rather than profoundly hurt that this person actually thought that by telling me all about EVERYTHING that is wrong with me (to the point of quoting comments on this very blog saying that I'm too much of a slut to ever find a man who isn't a freak and then adding that such commenters "have my back") would be a kindness.

While this was actually pretty awful, I naturally acted like it was no big deal, and then called my friends in tears. The reason I talk about my abortion the way I do is because it is so unbelievably painful and difficult for me to deal with that the only way I know how to cope with it is to minimize its destructive power by making flippant jokes. Horrible things lose some of their sting when you can make fun of them. Being incredibly hurt by hearing that my sole coping mechanism for dealing with the worst thing that I've ever done is at the top of the list of reasons why I'm an undesirable freak is at least something that my friends can make fun of and thus help me deal with.
A couple of my friends came to my apartment to drink beers with me and discuss how awesome I am and how, while bringing up the fact that I talk about my abortion as a negative I somehow needed to hear about might be one of the coldest things they've ever heard of, we've all put ourselves out there and gotten burned BAD. Sometimes, this burning is in the stupidest, most humiliating, most vulnerability-exploiting way, and what can you do besides try to laugh about that? Everyone was talking about the most embarrassing thing they've ever done in these situations, and who had the most predictable bullshit embarrassing bad dating moves ever? Go figure...that was strictly in the realm of lesbian stories.

Twathopper said something like, "At least you actually slept with this fuck once. And at least you didn't go give some bitch who wouldn't even fuck you their inaugural article in Runner's World framed as a gift!"

While that IS pretty lame, in fairness, Twathopper was putting up with six months of extreme mindfuckery, and she was new to the clam bake. Novice lesbians always do stupid shit like that, and I know from experience. This actually made Twathopper seem sane and normal, because memories of my incredibly annoying high school poetry-writing lesbian phase flooded in, and I was like, "I think I've actually done something even more embarrassing than that. Holy shit, I think I actually have some poetry."

I have a box of crap from yesteryear containing a bunch of random photographs and letters and that kind of thing. One of these random items was a poem I wrote on September 13, 1994 per the date stamp. "I think that myself at age 14 almost 15 was even worse," I said. It's true; I was the most RIDICULOUSLY UNCOOL, TOTALLY INSANE teenage lesbian at a Jesuit high school ever. There is nothing that will drive a highly cognitive, sexually confused pubescent girl nuts like a hefty dose of Catholic guilt and hormone-clouded thoughts of unrequited love. Poetry writing was the least of my problems. I actually did some light stalking, long letter-writing, and truck-egging (and how crazy teenage lesbian is that?) after my ex-girlfriend dumped me for this other girl in our class because she was the sole BDOC (big dyke on campus) in our high school and she basically could. Trust that I realized fifteen years ago how batshit crazy that sort of behavior is over someone not worth that much effort.

Anyway, I realized that even hearing that someone is not attracted to me because of how I've dealt with my most traumatic experience ever is nothing in terms of embarrassment when it comes to how I dealt with my high school lezzie drama. The poem I wrote is absolute proof, and it was actually educational, as I realized when I wrote this, I was still 14 and had obviously grown enamored with fucking my girlfriend. I swear it was when I was fifteen, and I remember the exact date (July 26, 1995) that I lost my virginity to a dude, but apparently I was hitting pussy when I was just 14 according to the date on the poem (*and OOPS, I was born November 17, 1978, so I was totally 15 when this was written...I just obviously suck hard at math, but I'm leaving it). That would be a lot more sexually precocious in an awesome way if it weren't for the UNBELIEVABLY LAME POETRY I WROTE! I couldn't even read this whole thing to my friends because I was so ashamed of it, and I'm certainly not printing the entire thing here now. I am probably more ashamed of this than ANYTHING I've ever done, and strictly because it's the most cloying, awful, totally pathetic teenage lesbian thing I've ever read. Here are some of the excerpts I can actually tolerate releasing to the internets-reading public, and...well, just uff da. UFF DA!

The window is cracked to our naked skin
And we would be cold but for the
Heat of the other woman's flesh.
The blankets, smell of old cigarettes, the keys
Why she loves me.

I mean, SERIOUSLY?!?! I WROTE THIS?!?!?! If I didn't know how incredibly psychotic and overwhelmingly lame I was as an insane faux-suicidal lesbian teenager, I wouldn't believe it myself. And it gets worse.

The act of marriage, sacred and unholy still
With another woman it is just dirt
White dirt and I know God is getting off
On it, that love I feel when her
Skin is plastered to mine with the
Exertion of what she gives for me

I may have had some sick Catholic issues and been in the midst of a sexuality crisis, but on the bright side, at least I was having apparently extremely hot lesbian sex (and by that, I mean mostly boobmashing with a sprinkle of clumsy fingerbanging and labia kissing). "Skin plastered to mine" and "Exertion of what she gives for me"? That sounds to me like some seriously sexy girl-on-girl, but this was obviously spoken by someone who was having sex for the first time. Now that I've had a considerable amount of experience on top of that, I recall that this bitch had no tits, and was constantly complaining that I wasn't hitting the right spot. Give me a break, I didn't even discover my own G-spot until I started fucking boys, and that was totally by accident. At least she apparently got the job done for me. ANYWAY! Back to the horrendous poetry. It really does make me feel better to take the worst times of my life and rag on them hard. How can I really take stuff like this seriously? I certainly cannot take it with the life-or-death gravity as I did when I wrote it.

And masked bitter envy in a cloak of
False and prefabricated guilt.
This is the tree of life up here
Hidden in the outdated closets and faded curtains
Swept back so we can gaze together
Out of the bright picture window and
Watch the light play pretty shapes on
Flattened stomachs, bare golden backs
Red-spotted breasts and long yellow hair.
God, she's so pretty.

Okay, now I am sufficiently embarrassed by this TOTAL doggerel (and yes, I know this particular poem doesn't rhyme and thus technically doesn't qualify as "doggerel," but I can't think of a better word that means "shitty fucking poetry") that I can't continue with the excerpts. This is truly the most horrifyingly shameful thing I've ever committed to paper, and while I'm mortified that I brought this into the world at all, I'm glad that I did for personal self-esteem reasons. From now on, every time I make some incredibly dumbass girl move and get emotionally bitch-slapped for it, I can just pick my original copy of "Forbidden" out of my "old shit" box and remind myself how much crazier I was fifteen years ago, and how I'm SO much better than all of that now. Lord knows my sex life with the ladies these days is a hell of a lot more Strap it On 5 than "God, she's so pretty," and there's certainly nothing I can do or say to any of my sexual partners that's crazier or more horribly shameful than what I wrote in 1994.

In the midst of an extremely hearty laugh, JerseyGirl was like, "Razzy, that poem really is cereally one of the most straight-up renarded things I've ever heard." Truly. And when things like this come up, where I am faced with the consequences of writing extremely personal, touchy things on the internets and having somebody misinterpret the kind of human being I am at my deep expense as a result, I can always rely on the fact that no matter what I do as an adult trying to deal with the complicated issues of life the best way I can, I'm never going to be as "cereally renarded" as I was when I was 14. And actually, that is greatly comforting. It's a huge relief to know that the lamest thing I've ever done has nothing to do with heavy shit like how I deal with my abortion and how other people respond to it. For the first time ever...thank you, inner poetry-writing retarded-ass lesbian. Thank you so fucking much.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:29 AM 5 Comments Links to this post

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