Wednesday, December 17, 2008
No longer a pretty Face
The other day I was looking at some sort of "where are they now" montage of actors from my childhood on the gossip internets. When I saw this guy, my first reaction was, "Who the fuck is that? He looks beat, whoever he is."
When I read the caption identifying this man, I was completely shocked. Not only do I know who this guy is, he was on one of my favorite shows growing up. If you were one of the many red-blooded, explosion-loving Americans who were interested in the adventures of a crack commando unit sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit, who promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground, and where, though still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. That's right, this dude is none other than Dirk Benedict, AKA Lieutenant Templeton "Face" Peck from the motherfucking "A-Team"!
Indeed, Face, the A-Team's smooth-talking procurer of cars and other useful pieces of stylish equipment (he was so adept that his colleague "Howlin' Mad" Murdoch once credited him with somehow acquiring a mint-condition '56 Cadillac which was inexplicably needed for some military mission in the jungles of Vietnam), isn't looking so good. Somehow I think if "The A-Team" were still up and running, Face would be spending a lot more time doing his actual mercenary duties than picking up women. I don't know if he's had some work done, but there's something that's different about his once-eponymous countenance. He certainly looks far removed from the days when he was gracing the cover of Playgirl magazine.
Indeed, Face, the A-Team's smooth-talking procurer of cars and other useful pieces of stylish equipment (he was so adept that his colleague "Howlin' Mad" Murdoch once credited him with somehow acquiring a mint-condition '56 Cadillac which was inexplicably needed for some military mission in the jungles of Vietnam), isn't looking so good. Somehow I think if "The A-Team" were still up and running, Face would be spending a lot more time doing his actual mercenary duties than picking up women. I don't know if he's had some work done, but there's something that's different about his once-eponymous countenance. He certainly looks far removed from the days when he was gracing the cover of Playgirl magazine.
The thing about Face that was most memorable was he was the type of guy who looked the same age. He could have been anywhere from 25 to 55 during the A-Team's heyday, and I wouldn't have known the difference. Actually, everyone on the A-Team was like that except for the timelessly old George Peppard, who played Captain John "Hannibal" Smith. Years later, I was in high school and one of my classes was showing us some made-for-TV movie from the mid-90s about the Montgomery bus boycott and the civil rights movement. Dwight Schultz came on screen and HotLawyer, who was in my class, blurted out, "Hey, it's Murdoch from the A-Team!" The entire class started laughing and Mr. Eckert had to threaten JUG ("Justice Under God," the Jesuit equivalent of detention) to shut us up. Murdoch was easy to spot, because in spite of the fact that he was playing an uptight Alabaman bigot instead of a lunatic helicopter pilot residing in an insane asylum when not needed for A-team ops, he looked exactly the same as he did 10 years before. Now, even as a failed conservative radio personality almost twenty years after the A-Team's glory days, he still looks like the same guy. And certainly even children who weren't born when "The A-Team" was on could probably recognize Mr. T. I don't know what the hell happened to Face, because he looks beat down.
The only possible explanation I can come up with is that age finally caught up with him (Wikipedia tells me he's 62) and he's resorted to desperate measures to maintain what was once his boyish charm and attached recognition. Since his last attempt at staying relevant (apart from working the autograph table at numerous "Battlestar Galactica" conventions in the midwest) was to appear on "Big Brother" in the UK. If he's gotten into reality famewhoring, I would not be surprised to learn that he's also wound up on the business end of a needle full of cut-rate nail salon Botox. It's a pity, because Dirk Benedict used to be a hot piece. I'm currently trying to figure out how to get a copy of that Playgirl he was in 25 years ago. In the meantime, I guess I'll have to content myself with this awesomeness, and reminisce fondly about days long since past, where men were men, bullets were completely harmless, and mercenaries dressed up in zany costumes instead of killing innocent Iraqi citizens a la Blackwater:
Man, "The A-Team" ruled so hard.
Labels: aging, oh the horror, TV, you're ugly
Monday, November 17, 2008
The dirty thirties
Sorry to interrupt everyone's preparations for their Jonestown Massacre anniversary parties, but I wanted to let you all know that it's my thirtieth birthday today, and true to form, I decided to ring in my third decade of life with a soul-crushing hangover. I wanted to write a long ode to my own magnificent awesomeness today, but thanks to the inordinate number of complimentary shots and pitchers at my football bar yesterday, I'm barely going to be able to muster the energy to get to the afternoon talks of the thrilling virology conference that Mt. Sinai threw in honor of my natal celebration. So far my birthday weekend has involved drinking, football, drinking, Korean barbecue, drinking, hot lesbian sex, drinking, and drinking. An afternoon of talks about innate immunity and interferon antagonism (followed by more drinking, Monday Night Football with dudes from my fantasy league, and drinking) is certainly going to do a lot to distract from the fact that I currently look like I got trampled by a team of Budweiser Clydesdales.
Oh, yeah, and I dyed my hair brown to celebrate this historic occasion. Happy 30th Razzy Vagina Ejection Day! Razzyphiles can feel free to send pearls, which are traditionally given at thirtieth anniversaries of totally kickass instances, such as me blessing the earth with my inimitable (and loud, crass, obnoxiously charming) presence. I particularly appreciate receiving pearl necklaces. Razzy Haters, I'm a year older and thus an even MORE haggard, strung-out, washed-up, totally beat-down old crone, so have at it!
Labels: aging, alcoholism, Razzification, Razzy Haters, Razzyphiles
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Happy 49th birthday to my firstborn!
Today I am sad because my beloved biological dog Caesar turns 49! Okay, he actually turns 7, but that's 49 in dog years. Apart from a few stray gray hairs around his sweet little muzzle, Caesar has hardly aged and is as roguishly handsome as he's always been. This is comforting to me because the thought of Caesar passing on soon (the average lifespan for German Shepherds and Rottweilers both is 10 years) to doggy heaven is one I find extraordinarily painful to contemplate. I'm getting all teary just thinking about it, and you can ask anyone who has made the mistake of mentioning Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows around me: dog mortality is a topic that I am emotionally VERY ill-equipped to handle. If I get all choked up just hearing the "Here, Yeller! Come back, Yeller! Best doggone dog in the West" song, you can imagine what happens when I consider the prospect of my own best doggone dog transcending this mortal coil. I've brought this dog from 5 pounds of fuzzy, blue-eyed, giant-pawed puppy cuteness to the 110 pounds of distinguished debonair canine that he is today, and he might as well be my fucking kid. I love this dog like a child, and I can't believe he's middle aged. Does this dog look like he's almost over-the-hill to you?
After you finish criticizing my woeful photography skills, you might see in Caesar's happy, goodfy face that he's still full of youthful spirit. Despite his advancing years, he continues to enjoy activities such as chasing sticks and squirrels, leaping joyfully around St. Nicholas Park like some kind of Alsatian-Bavarian gazelle, humping Chingy! into submission, snapping at flies, and barking out the window at the evil neighbors. He really hates those neighbors. They're always doing shady shit like walking around their apartment and adjusting their window blinds. They're up to something, and Caesar will never stop barking until he exposes them for all the nefarious existing that they do. This is Caesar's primary job, and he was up early at work even on his own birthday. He was also busy doing his secondary job, which is acting as a living pillow for his extremely hungover mommy to clutch desperately while trying to convince herself to get the fuck out of bed and go to lab.
Caesar is the best dog in the entire world, and I'm totally going to swing by a pizza place and bring him home a big slice of pepperoni (his favorite people food of all time) to celebrate. You only turn 49 in dog years once! Happy birthday, Caese!
Labels: aging, Caese Doggy Dogg, doggity style
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Homeopathy is bullshit
I slept weird the other night and now have an annoyingly painful kink in my neck. I've been taking ibuprofen and fielding all sorts of advice on how to deal with it. My boss suggested I get some of that cream that has aspirin in it, but "not the kind that makes you smell like an old person." My colleague and platonic life partner, J-Sexy, simply cackled and reminded me that I am getting up there in years and joint, neck, and back problems are going to be par for the geriatric course in my thirties. "Perhaps you should get a heating pad, Oldilocks! Or perhaps you should acquire a boyfriend to rub it for you!"
I gave her a withering look. "Aren't you from the Jamaicubahaitican Republic? Can't you do some of that santeria hoodoo shit to fix me up? Like kill a chicken, smoke a cigar, and blow dust at me or whatever. Help a rheumatic bitch out, Miss Cleo!"
"No, I can only tell the future. The cards never lie," said J-Sexy. "I predict your neck will get better. Now come over here and I suppose I can rub it for you."
While I appreciated J-Sexy's deigning to rub my neck, it didn't provide a long-term solution. Last night when I got home, I popped a couple more ibuprofen and went to dig through my medicine cabinet to see if I had anything that might further improve the situation. The best I could find was a tube of this stuff called "The Rub."
I've had this tube since the day after I fucked this guy who was a piercing apprentice in 2003. This dude's metal bodily adornments absolutely ruined me. Not only was my twat shredded thanks to his ELEVEN penis piercings, I had a raging urinary tract infection and a huge hickey on my neck. I recalled that while drunkenly hooking up with him the night before, he had really been licking and sucking on my neck a lot. In addition to spending a humiliating morning at the gynecologist's office the next day for a very unfortunately timed annual checkup, I had to actually wear a scarf to work thanks to Lestat leaving a hematoma the size of Texas on my neck. The scarf was not an effective disguise, and within five minutes of arriving, my cubicle neighbor T-Bag took a break from reading ZagsHoops.com to ask loudly, "Hey, Miss Ang, what's that on your neck?! What could that be? You've got something on your neck!"
Several of our other co-workers/drinking buddies joined in, and I spent a morning enjoying the ignonimy of being the office slut. Granted, this wasn't exactly a new position for me to be in, but having an obvious hickey was even more embarrassing than usual. So at some point I was outside increasing my risk of cancer and heart disease with my office smoking buddy, T-Bag's sort-of girlfriend the receptionist.
"What do I do about this? Freeze a spoon? Who the fuck gives someone a hickey at all, much less a visible one?!" I raged.
"I heard that freezing a spoon thing doesn't work," said Receptionist. "But I heard that Preparation H works within a couple hours."
"Preparation H? Like for hemorrhoids? Really?" I thought about it. It's true that hemorrhoids have something to do with clotted blood and fucked-up blood vessels, which is basically what a hickey is all about. It seemed like a reasonable hypothesis.
"Well, yeah, I mean I think a hemorrhoid is kind of like a hickey on your ass," said Receptionist.
"Okay, dude, we have to go to Bartell's," I said, and dragged Receptionist to the drug store down the street from our office. "Keep an eye out and make sure nobody from work is around." I really didn't want to get caught buying Preparation H on the same day I showed up to work wearing glasses and a hickey-(ineffectively) hiding scarf. I grabbed a tube of Preparation H and went to purchase it. I placed the box label-side down and tried to act casual. The cashier grabbed the tube, examined the box, smirked at me, and took his sweet time ringing it up. It felt like an eternity.
Back at the office, Receptionist stood guard while I applied Preparation H to my hickey in the ladies' room. It was surprisingly thick and greasy, and had an unpleasant medicinal smell that I identified with my grandmother's bathroom. However, I sucked it up and waited all day for the Preparation H to shrink my hickey before my eyes.
Unfortunately, by the time I left the office, I realized that the hickey hadn't changed at all. I grew alarmed, because I only owned one scarf, and as it was June, turtlenecks were not an option. I thought I might have to call in sick from work unless I somehow got rid of the hickey. On the way home, I swung by this fancy grocery store to buy some stuff for dinner. Because Queen Anne Thriftway was so fancy, they didn't have a regular drug store section that might have other anti-hickey options. Instead, they had a "homeopathic" section full of herbal tinctures and vitamins and bullshit like that. I think herbal cures are generally bullshit, but I was desperate. I found this stuff called "The Rub" that claimed to treat muscle soreness and "minimize bruising," which sounded to me like "snake-oil hickey cure." I purchased it.
I spent the rest of the evening rubbing The Rub into my neck, eating frozen pizza, and drinking a bottle of shiraz. The next day, to my extreme delight, the hickey was gone! I could have kissed that tube of The Rub. I put it in my medicine chest just in case I ever got another hickey. While I have since banged some real losers, none of them has ever been so despicable as to give me a prominent hickey, and I haven't needed it.
However, with my ouchy neck, I decided that it was high time I saw if The Rub was as good at relieving muscle pain as curing hickeys. I was full of hopes that if The Rub could perpetrate the miracle cure of shrinking my hickey by at least 90% overnight, it could provide some respite from the discomfort in my neck.
Too bad my neck is just as sore as it was when I fell asleep last night. Granted, last night I was eating delivery pizza and drinking Pilsner Urquell, so maybe my change of routine from the first time I used The Rub sapped its effectiveness as a magic neck malady cure-all. Or maybe homeopathic products are just a lot of inert bullshit dressed up in a lot of lame hippie marketing, and they don't work at all. Maybe my prior success using The Rub was more indicative of a placebo effect occurring due to my desperation to rid myself of that troublesome hickey rather than a panacea for slut problems in 2003. In any event, my neck still hurts, I'm probably going to spend the next week smelling like Ben Fucking Gay, and I'm pissed that I ever had hope in this homeopathic quackery.
Labels: aging, medical drama, ranting, Razzification, sex, sluts
Monday, August 25, 2008
It's a world of laughter, a world of horny local TV news reporters
Yesterday was my girl MillerTime's big 3-0, and I hope that she enjoyed it more than she thought she might. Ladies seem to have a lot of trouble with hitting thirty, especially if they haven't yet obtained their MRS degree, and all week I'd been fielding IMs from her saying things like "I can't believe I'm almost THIRTY." I have no doubt that a few Bacardi and diets at either the Roadhouse Tavern in Puyallup or Doyle's in Tacompton took the edge off, and she enjoyed her thirtieth natal day as much as she did other memorable anniversaries of her entry into the world.
Yesterday as I was at work between incubation times, I was checking out some "news" (read: random bullshit on the blogosphere). I stumbled across an article that made me wonder if the fates managing strange coincidence weren't celebrating MillerTime's birthday too.
TV journalist fired after ad reportedAs it turns out, I have met online "cool guy to play with" solicitor Jeff Gradney. Back in the summer of 2000, right after I'd moved back to the P-N-Dub from college, MillerTime and I went to the Taste of Tacoma, an annual outdoor summer bacchanal of gluttony. While there, we were approached by this dude, who explained that he was doing a story on the Taste for KING 5 news and wanted to interview us. After a brief interview in which we both confirmed that we liked walking around outside and eating like a couple of fat girls, this dude started hitting on us. At the time I was engaged in a torrid affair with my high school best friend G-Boner's cousin, and I was solely interested in banging him. However, MillerTime is a perpetual flirt and was going through one of her rare single phases, and exchanged math with him.
K TNV-TV, Channel 13, reporter, Jeff Gradney has been fired after he and his girlfriend were accused of soliciting male partners on the Internet.
Gradney, who joined the ABC affiliate three years ago, was dismissed Monday, after a disgruntled employee sent management and staffers a Craigslist ad, a source said, that appeared to show the reporter having sex with his girlfriend. The ad read: "hot, intensely passionate couple looking for a cool guy to play with."
Jim Prather, vice president and general manager of the Journal Broadcast Group station, confirmed Gradney was let go but declined further comment, saying it was a personnel matter.
"Wouldn't it be crazy if I hooked up with Jeff Gradney, KING 5 TV reporter?" MillerTime asked, scrutinizing his business card, after he had left to seek more interviewees.
Ultimately MillerTime never did hook up with Jeff Gradney, as he utterly cockblocked himself. He started blowing up her voice mail with a variety of increasingly sexual messages before she had a chance to respond to the first one. Any guy leaving multiple voice mails without getting an encouraging call back is at the very least unattractive; it signals desperation and overeagerness. However, when the messages turn explicitly sexual without any sort of physical encounter or other such precedent to warrant such content, it's creepy and off-putting. MillerTime didn't call Jeff Gradney back, and we forgot about him for the most part. I was unaware, for example, that he apparently left KING 5 for Vegas's ABC affiliate beneath a cloak of ignonimy for sexually harassing a host of his female colleagues, as the internets just informed me. In light of that, I have less sympathy than I normally would for someone getting canned for having a Craigslist-facilitated kinky sex life outside of work (which would be total sympathy; mind your own business, local news station!).
I think, however, it's fitting that this news broke on MillerTime's birthday. If anything, she can worry less about being thirty and instead thank her lucky stars that she's not getting DPed by Jeff Gradney and some random dude from Craigslist (who I can say from personal experience are a bunch of total winners). So happy birthday, MillerTime! Rest assured you are having a better time of it than your former would-be paramour.
Labels: aging, MillerTime, P-N-Dub, perversion, sex
Friday, June 20, 2008
And speaking of birthdays...
My thirtieth isn't for a few months (November 17th...mark your calendars), but I know you're all already fretting about what to get me. Probably because it's almost impossible to top the "My Bitches" Razzy: Manhattan's Favorite Dog-Owning Bisexual Alcoholic figurine my friend Rack made for me last year.
However, I just found the perfect present for me. As anyone with the most basic Razzyphilic tendencies knows, I love me some Heineken beer. And as several lucky fellas can attest, I know several ways to have a great time in a hot tub, and a jacuzzi is one furnishing that my apartment sorely needs. Thus, behold the perfect birthday gift:
I'm not sure where you can actually get one of these, but someone's got to know. If you are that someone, you might want to get to shopping. Anyone getting me this to celebrate my third decade of life will reap great rewards, and by "rewards" I mean "grade A oral"! TRUST!
Labels: aging, alcoholism, I LOVE IT, Razzification
Happy birthday, Morrissey'sHair and HotLawyer!
I've made it a tradition to publicly acknowledge my friends Morrissey'sHair and HotLawyer's birthdays for the last couple years, because they were reading my site before ANY of my other friends when it was just a couple crappy movie reviews. They are the OG Titanium Elite-level Razzyphiles and that I must recognize. Plus, they're my boys and I get together with them lots whenever I'm home in the P-N-Dub. Here's some fun facts about them:
-They are appropriately Geminis, as they are twins
-Morrissey'sHair is older than HotLawyer by four minutes, just like Brandon and Brenda Walsh
-You can tell them apart because Morrissey'sHair broke his nose in junior high
-I totally boned one of them years ago (you can speculate as to which one). We were drunk. No harm, no foul!
-They are both lawyers. HotLawyer gets people off on DUIs and meth lab charges, while Morrissey'sHair negotiates bankruptcy settlements for the financially fucked
-HotLawyer has provided me with many pro boner legal services in the past whenever some fucktard threatens me with Craigslist rape or lawsuits
-Morrissey'sHair probably WILL have to provide me with pro boner legal services if I don't get out of grad school and start making some goddamned real money soon
-They both have a sickening devotion to Morrissey
-They once sent me a Rush Limbaugh book in high school from a "secret admirer" because I was such a bleeding heart neo-marxist feminazi lesbian back then. Now, they're both rabid Obama supporters and I'm a Republican. The tables have turned.
-My father LOVES them, especially HotLawyer, because of the praise they lavish on his cooking. When I mentioned I was coming home this summer for a visit, he asked, "So, what night are we having those guys over for dinner? HotLawyer sure does like my cooking."
-They're both hot studly dudes, great drankin patnaz, and totz kewl guys!
Anyway, their birthday is actually TOMORROW, but since stupid Apple has my computer somewhere in Texas while they fix it, I won't be able to post anything for them since I'll be getting drunk and sunburnt at the Coney Island Mermaid Parade all day. So today I'm recognizing that my fellas are turning the big 3-0! Only two more decades to go before they're officially over the hill.
Happy birthday, dudes. I'm going to get drunk and try to feel up some mermaid tits in your honor!
XOBJBS,
Razzy
And just for you two, here's a picture of Morrissey. Like Caese and Chingy!, he hates Iams dog food. Unlike Caese and Chingy!, it's probably because Iams isn't vegan or something. Caese and Chingy! are just Beneful loyalists.
Labels: aging, HotLawyer, Morrissey'sHair, Razzyphiles
Friday, May 23, 2008
Boomers: The Wackest Generation
Like everyone else, I was saddened to learn this week of Sen. Ted Kennedy's cancer diagnosis. But I have a terrible confession. Inwardly, I experienced an undeniable, haughty jubilation. "That's right, Boomers," I thought. "Your era is coming to an end." Across the nation, aghast, stricken Boomers clumsily BlackBerry'd each other the news after retreating to the executive washroom to stare at themselves in the mirror and, perhaps for the very first time, contemplate their own mortality. Yes, Boomers – you never thought it possible while slinging mud at Woodstock or jumping the barricades at the 1968 Chicago Democratic Convention, but YOU TOO WILL DIE!
As a Gen-Xer, of course I realize that my parents are Boomers, as are my beloved husband's beloved parents, as are Razzy's and etc. Duh, I don't want them to die! Individually, we love our Boomers – but as a demographic, THEY ARE SO ANNOYING! Here's why:
They refuse to admit they ARE The Establishment.
Yeah, that's right. What, you think that what little remains of the enfeebled World War II generation is still running this bitch? No, the world is racing against the clock to collect their oral histories before the last few of them start pushing up daisies. Just because you aren't rocking humongous Watergate-hearings-style, black-rimmed Coke-bottle glasses and grumbling about "kids these days" doesn't mean you haven't yourselves become The Man. Nothing chaps my ass quite like a rich, powerful boomer airing out his liberal laundry and railing against "out-of-touch politicians in Washington" or "greedy corporate pigs." Know who those folks are, dude? They aren'ts your parents' generation, because face it -- they're either invalid or dead. THE ESTABLISHMENT IS YOU, BOOMERS. You.
They refuse to retire.
Despite their visceral hatred for The Establishment, boomers demonstrate little to no interest in relinquishing their death grip on their cushy jobs bossing the rest of us around. Not only do they want to keep working past retirement age, those that do decide to hang it up are all too often followed by members of the seemingly endless boomer depth chart. They're like shark's teeth - there's always another waiting in the background to replace them. This leaves those of us 40 and under to wallow in the ranks of white-collar, low-to-mid-pay-grade servitude, waiting haplessly for the strapping boomers ahead of us to decide they'd like to take up wood-turning in lieu of work, since their sweet health insurance plans keep them strong as bulls. For the love of all things sacred, boomers, take your cue from Dennis Hopper already and RETIRE! Jump out of planes, ski the Swiss alps, take a hot-air balloon tour over wine country or whatever the hell else you think is awesome - God knows you can afford it!
They like to boast inappropriately and unimpressively about their crazy college days and "drug phase(s)."
Gotta love a boomer who freaks out and stages an intervention when his college-aged children get busted for pot possession by Dartmouth campus police, then in the next breath breaks into a gasconade about their mind-blowing, Carlos Castaneda-inspired peyote odysseys on the Hopi Reservation back in '72. You know who's taken aback by your forays into the world of hallucinogens? Your parents. Guess what? They're dead. Everyone younger than you thinks those grainy YouTube vids of hippie boomers dancing horrifically while blasted out of their minds on weak LSD are totally f'ing pathetic. You could never do as many drugs as Lil' Wayne or the incredible walking crack ho Amy Winehouse. How are we supposed to even be fazed by your wack nuggets of fake-me-out druggie nostalgia? You sent us to private school, remember (how progressive of you!)? Thanks to the spoiled, rich friends we made there, we surpassed your level of drug experience by sophomore year and STILL got straight As. Do you hear us bragging about it??
They have propagated the taking-over of university buildings as a means of protest.
Am I the only one who is already completely f'ing bored by the constant "this day in 1968" 40th-anniversary boomer nostalgia news stories that have become totally ubiquitous? My (least) favorite so far was presented recently by NPR "All Things Considered" host and uber-boomer Robert Siegel, and focused on the taking-over of several Columbia University buildings in order to protest the Vietnam War. In addition to being pissed about gym construction in a local park, "Members of the radical group Students for a Democratic Society opposed Columbia's ties to a think tank involved in weapons research for the Vietnam War," the story explained. "Mark Rudd, then-chairman of Columbia's SDS chapter, tied the two issues together, saying at the time that students would not attend a university that exploited black people and developed weapons to kill them and murder the Vietnamese. 'I see it as part of the enormous part of the anti-Vietnam War movement involving millions of people,' says Rudd, a retired math teacher who lived underground as a revolutionary for seven years. 'We stopped a war of aggression.'" DID YOU? FOR REALS? According to my feeble GenX memory, the Vietnam War ended in 1975, fully seven years after your slumber party at the dean's office. NICE WORK! Seems to me the war ended whenever the president f'ing felt like it. Now, forty years later, your big legacy on this front is that idiot college students will take over a building for any damn reason. How the hell is shutting down College Hall at Smith going to help Mumia Abu-Jamal in any form or fashion?
They are completely clueless about sex.
Much like their boastful prattling about drugs, boomers love to be "cool" about sex. Premarital sex, nonmonogamous sex, outdoor sex, oh my! Y'all were real sexual deviants. Problem is, since they can't be bothered to see past their own graying wangs, boomers have failed to keep pace with modern developments in sexual behavior and identity. This is best demonstrated by a trip to a boomer shrink, as Razzy recently discovered. It doesn't matter if the visit was prompted by your concerns with how much you drink or an unexpected death in the family - tell a boomer shrink you've dated a chick and the conversation cannot be re-railed. Since they are incapable of believing a queer person can be emotionally stable - that queerness can prompt anything but confusion, isolation, and/or self-hatred - you're forced to spend way too much of your expensive-ass 45 minutes convincing your all-knowing boomer shrink that no, you actually don't have any problem with your sexual orientation. "Impossible," the boomer shrink insists. "After all, I made vicious fun of fellow students I suspected were gay in high school and only recently realized it made me hip and with-it to have a couple of gay friends. And that 'Will & Grace' is so funny! But I digress...surely you've considered suicide at least three or four times. Queer people aren't HAPPY. You haven't considered suicide? Well...shouldn't you, now?" Yes, doc. Sitting in your office at this moment, it's true, I do in fact wish I were dead. Now write me a goddamn prescription.
They are the most offensive Obamamaniacs because they take personal credit for his candidacy.
Boomers are at their worst when en route to the Obama rally. As a friend of mine sagely observed after a recent such gathering in Oregon, the crowds resembled a "glorious-dear-leader" third-world throng. Since the boomers in attendance couldn't be bothered to mingle with the hoi polloi, many of them chose to take in the message of Hope and Change from the comfort of their kayaks. From their coastal enclaves, liberal boomers are smiling and slowly nodding with self-satisfaction as they watch Obama's Hitler Jugend-style supporters flip the fuck out like they were at a Miley Cyrus concert. Not only are boomers convinced they are personally and individually responsible for the fact that a black guy is being taken seriously as a presidential candidate, they also think they can be rejuvenated by voting for Obama because their kids are into him. A couple of glasses of Prosecco into a recent dinner with a couple of my mom's lady boomer friends who were in town for Jazz Fest, one of them declared to me, "You young people are for him, all of you are behind him, it's so inspiring, who am I to stand in your way?"
They refuse to admit they ARE The Establishment.
Yeah, that's right. What, you think that what little remains of the enfeebled World War II generation is still running this bitch? No, the world is racing against the clock to collect their oral histories before the last few of them start pushing up daisies. Just because you aren't rocking humongous Watergate-hearings-style, black-rimmed Coke-bottle glasses and grumbling about "kids these days" doesn't mean you haven't yourselves become The Man. Nothing chaps my ass quite like a rich, powerful boomer airing out his liberal laundry and railing against "out-of-touch politicians in Washington" or "greedy corporate pigs." Know who those folks are, dude? They aren'ts your parents' generation, because face it -- they're either invalid or dead. THE ESTABLISHMENT IS YOU, BOOMERS. You.
They refuse to retire.
Despite their visceral hatred for The Establishment, boomers demonstrate little to no interest in relinquishing their death grip on their cushy jobs bossing the rest of us around. Not only do they want to keep working past retirement age, those that do decide to hang it up are all too often followed by members of the seemingly endless boomer depth chart. They're like shark's teeth - there's always another waiting in the background to replace them. This leaves those of us 40 and under to wallow in the ranks of white-collar, low-to-mid-pay-grade servitude, waiting haplessly for the strapping boomers ahead of us to decide they'd like to take up wood-turning in lieu of work, since their sweet health insurance plans keep them strong as bulls. For the love of all things sacred, boomers, take your cue from Dennis Hopper already and RETIRE! Jump out of planes, ski the Swiss alps, take a hot-air balloon tour over wine country or whatever the hell else you think is awesome - God knows you can afford it!
They like to boast inappropriately and unimpressively about their crazy college days and "drug phase(s)."
Gotta love a boomer who freaks out and stages an intervention when his college-aged children get busted for pot possession by Dartmouth campus police, then in the next breath breaks into a gasconade about their mind-blowing, Carlos Castaneda-inspired peyote odysseys on the Hopi Reservation back in '72. You know who's taken aback by your forays into the world of hallucinogens? Your parents. Guess what? They're dead. Everyone younger than you thinks those grainy YouTube vids of hippie boomers dancing horrifically while blasted out of their minds on weak LSD are totally f'ing pathetic. You could never do as many drugs as Lil' Wayne or the incredible walking crack ho Amy Winehouse. How are we supposed to even be fazed by your wack nuggets of fake-me-out druggie nostalgia? You sent us to private school, remember (how progressive of you!)? Thanks to the spoiled, rich friends we made there, we surpassed your level of drug experience by sophomore year and STILL got straight As. Do you hear us bragging about it??
They have propagated the taking-over of university buildings as a means of protest.
Am I the only one who is already completely f'ing bored by the constant "this day in 1968" 40th-anniversary boomer nostalgia news stories that have become totally ubiquitous? My (least) favorite so far was presented recently by NPR "All Things Considered" host and uber-boomer Robert Siegel, and focused on the taking-over of several Columbia University buildings in order to protest the Vietnam War. In addition to being pissed about gym construction in a local park, "Members of the radical group Students for a Democratic Society opposed Columbia's ties to a think tank involved in weapons research for the Vietnam War," the story explained. "Mark Rudd, then-chairman of Columbia's SDS chapter, tied the two issues together, saying at the time that students would not attend a university that exploited black people and developed weapons to kill them and murder the Vietnamese. 'I see it as part of the enormous part of the anti-Vietnam War movement involving millions of people,' says Rudd, a retired math teacher who lived underground as a revolutionary for seven years. 'We stopped a war of aggression.'" DID YOU? FOR REALS? According to my feeble GenX memory, the Vietnam War ended in 1975, fully seven years after your slumber party at the dean's office. NICE WORK! Seems to me the war ended whenever the president f'ing felt like it. Now, forty years later, your big legacy on this front is that idiot college students will take over a building for any damn reason. How the hell is shutting down College Hall at Smith going to help Mumia Abu-Jamal in any form or fashion?
They are completely clueless about sex.
Much like their boastful prattling about drugs, boomers love to be "cool" about sex. Premarital sex, nonmonogamous sex, outdoor sex, oh my! Y'all were real sexual deviants. Problem is, since they can't be bothered to see past their own graying wangs, boomers have failed to keep pace with modern developments in sexual behavior and identity. This is best demonstrated by a trip to a boomer shrink, as Razzy recently discovered. It doesn't matter if the visit was prompted by your concerns with how much you drink or an unexpected death in the family - tell a boomer shrink you've dated a chick and the conversation cannot be re-railed. Since they are incapable of believing a queer person can be emotionally stable - that queerness can prompt anything but confusion, isolation, and/or self-hatred - you're forced to spend way too much of your expensive-ass 45 minutes convincing your all-knowing boomer shrink that no, you actually don't have any problem with your sexual orientation. "Impossible," the boomer shrink insists. "After all, I made vicious fun of fellow students I suspected were gay in high school and only recently realized it made me hip and with-it to have a couple of gay friends. And that 'Will & Grace' is so funny! But I digress...surely you've considered suicide at least three or four times. Queer people aren't HAPPY. You haven't considered suicide? Well...shouldn't you, now?" Yes, doc. Sitting in your office at this moment, it's true, I do in fact wish I were dead. Now write me a goddamn prescription.
They are the most offensive Obamamaniacs because they take personal credit for his candidacy.
Boomers are at their worst when en route to the Obama rally. As a friend of mine sagely observed after a recent such gathering in Oregon, the crowds resembled a "glorious-dear-leader" third-world throng. Since the boomers in attendance couldn't be bothered to mingle with the hoi polloi, many of them chose to take in the message of Hope and Change from the comfort of their kayaks. From their coastal enclaves, liberal boomers are smiling and slowly nodding with self-satisfaction as they watch Obama's Hitler Jugend-style supporters flip the fuck out like they were at a Miley Cyrus concert. Not only are boomers convinced they are personally and individually responsible for the fact that a black guy is being taken seriously as a presidential candidate, they also think they can be rejuvenated by voting for Obama because their kids are into him. A couple of glasses of Prosecco into a recent dinner with a couple of my mom's lady boomer friends who were in town for Jazz Fest, one of them declared to me, "You young people are for him, all of you are behind him, it's so inspiring, who am I to stand in your way?"
"I voted for Hillary in the primary," I deadpanned, precipitating an uncomfortable silence. That's right - even a boomer candidate is better than a boomer fad.
They're going to cost us the goddamn farm, y'all.
There are just so many of them, and they're going to live 10 or 20 years longer than our grandparents did. So while you're pumping your meager savings into your own 401k, convinced as we all are that it will not be augmented by payments from the Social Security fund into which we've been practically hemorrhaging tax dollars out of our paychecks, it's probably not a bad idea to set some of your nonexistant riches aside for the in-law apartment you're going to need next to your kids' rooms. Because - God love 'em - the boomers will be moving in before long, but not before they blow their entire savings on SUVs and NFL season tickets and Mediterranean cruises.
They're going to cost us the goddamn farm, y'all.
There are just so many of them, and they're going to live 10 or 20 years longer than our grandparents did. So while you're pumping your meager savings into your own 401k, convinced as we all are that it will not be augmented by payments from the Social Security fund into which we've been practically hemorrhaging tax dollars out of our paychecks, it's probably not a bad idea to set some of your nonexistant riches aside for the in-law apartment you're going to need next to your kids' rooms. Because - God love 'em - the boomers will be moving in before long, but not before they blow their entire savings on SUVs and NFL season tickets and Mediterranean cruises.
Labels: aging, Barack Obama, Dumb Smith bitches, LL Cool Jew, politics, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: TAFKAMA
DOB: May 19, 1978
Occupation: computer badass at Amazon.com
Hometown: Tacoma, Washington
Current residence: Seattle, Washington
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I'm a total creep and a bad friend because I forgot that yesterday was TAFKAMA's big 3-0. Okay, I didn't forget so much as I rely on my online social networks to remind me when people's birthdays are, I hardly ever go on MySpace anymore, and I sometimes neglect Facebook too, so I didn't know until he reminded me.
TAFKAMA: chat is gayOf course TAFKAMA is spending his birthday hating. TAFKAMA is always grouchy, even when he's having fun. Hell, he's grouchy even when he's having sex! (I know because we did it a few times when we were drunk, although in fairness TAFKAMA and I had an unspoken agreement to keep it pretty vanilla, because above all else we're old buddies and getting too freaky might make things weird, so maybe I mistook his attempts at keeping it casual for crabbiness). He's probably also hating because he's always breaking his ribs when he goes snowboarding, and that makes it hard to breathe, laugh, or eat without pain. When I went out for lunch with him the last time I was in the P-N-Dub, he looked positively miserable and had enough Vicodin on hand to trank an African elephant.
Razzy: no it's not!
Razzy: it's a great way to waste time
TAFKAMA: it is my b-day
TAFKAMA: 30
Razzy: omg, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Razzy: what are you doing to celebrate???
TAFKAMA: hating
In the hopes that I might be able to get TAFKAMA to crack one of his little begrudging smiles as a belated birthday present, I'm just going to reflect on some of the highlights of our friendship over the years. I met TAFKAMA my freshman year of high school, so we've known each other for almost 20 years. Even more apropos is that TAFKAMA's mom and my mom were friends in high school. They double dated to prom or something like that. Anyway, some of my favorite TAFKAMA moments are as follows:
- We drove through the streets of north Tacoma sometime in 1994 with a flaming copy of The Blue Hawk, this pulp sci-fi novel our sophomore honors world history teacher, Brother Paul, had assigned us as part of his long list of $0.10 paperbacks having something to do with technology and its impact on civilization. As TAFKAMA drove his beat-up old Dodge truck, AKA "Zog" around with burning pages flying off in our wake, he was sucking on a Djarum clove cigarette and saying, "Burning books is against everything I'm about, Razzy...BUT IT'S AWESOME!"
- Also sometime in 1994, while studying for some test, TAFKAMA wrote "Angie Sucks" on one of my Adidas Superstars in bright orange marker (I don't know why he had to fuck up my good shoes when there was a perfectly good pair of ugly lesbotic Birkenstock clogs hanging around). When I finally threw those shoes away with a heavy heart last year, the one TAFKAMA defaced still had a huge orange stain on it.
- TAFKAMA mastered the internets early, and via Prodigy managed to find pictures of some woman performing fellatio on a Clydesdale at some usenet group called "horselove.alt" or something like that. At one impromptu party at his house, I remember witnessing this picture with around 20 other horrified teenagers.
- In high school, TAFKAMA was the only boy who joined my feminist club "the Society for Women's Advancement" (DON'T LAUGH! Okay, you can laugh). So what if he only joined to get access to my signs so he could draw devil pictures on them and otherwise deface them with irreverent anti-feminist graffiti; at least he joined and went to at least one meeting (which I'm sure we spent sitting outside Cafe Wa smoking cloves rather than discussing new strategies for "women's advancement").
- TAFKAMA loved his piece of shit truck Zog so much that last year he bought an identical piece of truck off Craigslist and is currently "fixing it up," which I assume means making it marginally roadworthy.
- The first time TAFKAMA and I had sex, we were at my house in Tacoma sometime around 2002 or so, and we had just gotten home after a night of whiskey drinking on the town. How did TAFKAMA seal the deal, you ask? "Hey Razzy, let's make out," he said. When I asked why and suggested that our friendship was such that it might be weird, he said, "So? Making out is fun. Just shut up and make out. We'll just say we were drunk if it's weird." I couldn't argue with that logic, so I just went one step further and fucked him.
- TAFKAMA's hobby is making jam. One time he gave me a jar to give my parents. Now, every time I hang out with TAFKAMA, my dad asks where his jam is.
- One time TAFKAMA beat a guy up to defend my honor. Okay, not so much "my" honor as "his sister's" honor, since his sister and I both slept with the same cheating d-bag. Oh, okay, and TAFKAMA didn't even beat him up about our honor as much as because this guy was overall just a total d-bag for many reasons and TAFKAMA finally got fed up with it. But he kicked his ass nonetheless.
- TAFKAMA taught me about the useful little piece of html called target="_blank". This opens links in new windows. I realize this is like the html equivalent of 1+1=2, but I'm a computer moron, and I appreciate TAFKAMA's assistance nonetheless.
- TAFKAMA drinks bourbon and scores mad Seattle pussy. Wait, I'm not sure that latter attribute is something to be so proud of, because Seattle is full of dumb, annoying skanks. But still.
- TAFKAMA is just awesome and I'm so glad we're still friends after all these years. I hope that the birthday fairy left some hot, sort-of hippie-looking snowboarder chick with an encyclopedic knowledge of Philip K. Dick (or whatever...I know you're an even bigger nerd than me, TAFKAMA) novels on his doorstep to welcome the third decade of his life with a bang.
Hopefully TAFKAMA can stop hating for a few minutes to appreciate the fact that he rules. Ideally he appreciated that, then drained a few Vitamin R's (Rainier Beer, elixir of the P-N-Dub), and scored some hot chick. Happy birthday, TAFKAMA!
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, P-N-Dub, Razzification, TAFKAMA
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: dirty old Danes
RAZZY Note: I couldn't find a picture of this old john so I just substituted a picture of Jack Warden from the completely underrated film Dirty Work. In this scene he stumbles out on stage during a performance of Don Giovanni and gleefully appraises the busty soprano for the benefit of the audience: "Get a load of that mountain range!"
DOB: 1930 or before, presumably
Occupation: getting off with professional ladies
Hometown: ?
Current residence: Skanderborg, Denmark
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Today I read an article about how some old geezer made an "indecent proposal" to a staff member at the nursing home he lives at in Denmark. While the staff doesn't apparently provide those types of services for their residents, they did the next best thing: they hired him an in-call hooker.
"There was a considerable change in his demeanor after the escort girl had paid him a visit. We do this for our clients just as we offer them other services that they need as human beings," explained Inger Marie Kristensen, the facility's director.
Prostitution is legal in Denmark (as it should be everywhere), so this was basically just an instance of hiring a professional consult for services beyond the capabilities of the nursing home staff, like bringing in a masseuse or a dermatologist or whatever other type of specialist. A woman identified only as Susanne, who leads the Danish Sex-worker Association, said that prostitutes "often" visit patients at old folks' homes.
I say hats off to these horny old dudes. If I was stuck in a nursing home, I'd understandably be depressed. Nursing homes are some of the most depressing places in the world next to the Holocaust Museum. When I was in high school, my piano teacher would always have us perform a Christmas recital at a local nursing home. Apart from the fact that I HATED playing Christmas songs to begin with (as my extended family would always demand a performance during my mother's annual Christmas party), I was always so distracted by all the sad, lonely old people that I would invariably screw up my rendition of arrangement of Schubert's "Ave Maria" or whatever the hell I was playing. If I were unfortunate to be living in one of these places, I'd rather have a hooker tickling my G-spot than listen to some uncomfortable high school kid tickle the ivories any day. These old people must be doubly miserable, for both living in a nursing home and being Danish instead of Norwegian. I say let them have some happiness in the form of a pro ho.
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, perversion, sex, uff da
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Michael Gambon and Tilda Swinton (tie)
DOB: October 19, 1940 and November 5, 1960, respectively
Occupation: acclaimed thespians; true players for real
Hometown: Dublin, Ireland and London, England respectively
Current residence: London, England and Naim, Scotland, respectively
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Sure, these much-lauded (and now in Tilda's case, Oscar winning) masters of the theatrical craft seem like they probably spend most of their spare time taking tea and crumpets and other activities that buttoned-up British people do. However, don't let their looks deceive you: these two are straight players who run their stables with more aptitude than even Todd "Too $hort" Shaw, Don Magic Juan, or other pimps of legend. Both of them have homes and spouses, and keep a hot younger piece on the side.
Michael has proved that playing a gay wizard in no way prevents him from enthusiastically loving the ladies in real life. He's married to Lady Anne Gambon, his loving wife of 45 years. He also lives in a bachelor flat close to the boudoir of his 42-year-old mistress Philippa Hart. Tilda lives with her baby daddy and their twins, but spends her down time traversing the world with her 29-year-old Kiwi boyfriend Sandro Kopp. She even left the old ball and chain back in Scotland and brought her younger fucktoy to the Oscars with her this year! According to Tilda, they are all the bestest of friends.
I like these two because they are both improbably hot, and are working that to their full advantage. Normally I don't dig on shaggy old men like Michael because, in the words of T-Pain, he's "wrinkly and got too much hair...I don't like hair in my mouth." Also, my taste in women is limited to lipstick lesbo blondes rather than androgynous would-be David Bowie impersonators. However, both Michael and Tilda are what my friend Rack calls "ugly sexy". By normal estimation, these two should be considered unattractive, but there's a certain intangible hotness to them. Having copious quantities of "ugly sexiness" is likely why they're both able to nail extramarital side pieces several decades younger. Well, either that or Philippa Hart is crazy about Harry Potter and Sandro Kopp was smitten with that hot chain-mail dress number Tilda Swinton wore during the battle scene from The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. I thought that movie sucked, but I perked up immediately when she showed up clad in fur and metal to open a can of swords and evil magic all over some leonine allegorical Christian ass. Tilda Swinton hadn't done much to sway my attention before that, but once I got a gander of that outfit, I was all for breaking me off a piece of battle-ready White Witch.
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Harry Potter, hot chicks, hot dudes, movies, sluts
Monday, February 25, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Young(er) Michael Douglas
DOB: September 25, 1944
Occupation: hot fucking piece and I mean that SERIOUSLY
Hometown: Hollywood, California
Current residence: Pacific Palisades, California, New York, New York, Aspen, Colorado, Bermuda, Majorca, Spain, Swansea, Wales, and Ridgewood, New Jersey.
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I saw a little classic footage of Michael Douglas, complete with flowing mullet, racing to the stage to accept his Oscar for Wall Street and caught my breath. Michael Douglas may not have aged well, and all the plastic surgery he's had has somehow made him look even more geriatric, but in the younger part of his middle age, he was a hot piece of ass.
LL Cool Jew was watching the Oscars with me via text message, and I felt compelled to weigh in on this particular memorable Oscar moment. "Young michael douglas was h o t," I texted. She wasn't seeing things my way, unfortunately, but that's probably because she has no taste in men. KIDDING, BigBagel! She replied: "u r a sick individual."
In turn, I replied snippily, "If by sick u mean awesome."
As I said, I realize that geriatric Michael Douglas doesn't have a whole lot of sex appeal, but how can you deny young(er) Michael Douglas's hotness? In Wall Street he managed to actually make sleazebag trader types--who I consider in real life to be one of the most off-putting, boring, detestable, obnoxious species of men ever to wear suits--seem sexy. I'd let him hit it if he were rocking the Gordon Gekko crispy I-mean-business gel-imbued power mullet and suspenders and bitching at me that "lunch is for wimps" any day. And in Fatal Attraction, I can totally see why Glenn Close went so crazy for him, because I'd throw on the Madame Butterfly record and fuck that cheating husband every which way and all over my apartment. Basic Instinct was one of the first R-rated movies that I snuck into, and I still get hot thinking about the sex scenes in that movie. And don't get me started about Michael's role as expatriate treasure-hunting, bird-collecting, international hot piece Jack Colton in Romancing the Stone.
I would not have thought twice about running my fingers through that lush adventure mullet. I would have totally reenacted all kinds of awesome scenes from Romancing the Stone with him. He could wrestle alligators, say things like "one hell of a morning has turned into one bitch of a day!" and "oh, man, the Doobie Brothers broke up!", and slide down a wall of mud and land with his head in my crotch. Somehow this will all have to be done with the sense of urgency that comes with trying to thwart Danny DeVito when he's hot on your trail. You know, it's that whole we-should-fuck-now-because-we-could-die kind of imperative, desperate, survival situation sex...except instead of the threat of death, there's the threat of having a fat, winded, frustrated fat man steal your treasure map. It would be so hot. Seriously, I've seen Romancing the Stone about 80,000 times and I've put a lot of thought into this.
Anyway, I think this proves that I'm not a sick individual. It's perfectly healthy to spend one's time having sexual fantasies about comic adventures through Colombia seeking giant emeralds with a homeless, exiled petty criminal rocking a mullet and a set of dirty khakis. In fact, I wonder about people who DON'T experience arousal when they think about Young(er) Michael Douglas. There's basically no way you can deny Young(er) Michael Douglas's inherent sexiness, and I defy LL Cool Jew to try. I'm not sick! I'm perfectly normal! NORMAL!
I would not have thought twice about running my fingers through that lush adventure mullet. I would have totally reenacted all kinds of awesome scenes from Romancing the Stone with him. He could wrestle alligators, say things like "one hell of a morning has turned into one bitch of a day!" and "oh, man, the Doobie Brothers broke up!", and slide down a wall of mud and land with his head in my crotch. Somehow this will all have to be done with the sense of urgency that comes with trying to thwart Danny DeVito when he's hot on your trail. You know, it's that whole we-should-fuck-now-because-we-could-die kind of imperative, desperate, survival situation sex...except instead of the threat of death, there's the threat of having a fat, winded, frustrated fat man steal your treasure map. It would be so hot. Seriously, I've seen Romancing the Stone about 80,000 times and I've put a lot of thought into this.
Anyway, I think this proves that I'm not a sick individual. It's perfectly healthy to spend one's time having sexual fantasies about comic adventures through Colombia seeking giant emeralds with a homeless, exiled petty criminal rocking a mullet and a set of dirty khakis. In fact, I wonder about people who DON'T experience arousal when they think about Young(er) Michael Douglas. There's basically no way you can deny Young(er) Michael Douglas's inherent sexiness, and I defy LL Cool Jew to try. I'm not sick! I'm perfectly normal! NORMAL!
Labels: aging, celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, movies, sex
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Oh, yeah, one other thing...
Happy 16th birthday, LL Cool Jew!!!! Now you're old enough to drive!
This picture is a couple years old (taken when she was like 13), but I've always liked it. LL Cool Jew looks like she's up to something. She's probably plotting something as nefarious as what she's going to make for dinner, or whether she can persuade someone to go get her a can of Miller Lite from the fridge, or whether she can talk me into watching "Hardball" or some cable news trash with her. Or maybe she's plotting all the awesome things she's going to do once she's finally old enough to get her driver's license. Yeah, even though she's all growed up and married now, I'm not going to stop making cracks about her young age ever. We'll be eighty and playing shuffleboard at the retirement home and I'll still be like, "You need to borrow my ID to go buy beer, LL?"
Anyway, happy birthday! LOVE YOU!!!!!
Anyway, happy birthday! LOVE YOU!!!!!
Labels: aging, LL Cool Jew
Monday, February 18, 2008
Fuck Wit Dre Day (and everyone's celebratin'!)
Today is President's Day, but who cares? Is anyone really reflecting on the life and achievements of Millard Fillmore, James K. Polk, or Grover Cleveland? All I know about James K. Polk is that on the rare occasion I would actually avoid crashing my wagon raft on boulders in the Columbia River and win the game Oregon Trail on my grade school's Apple IIe computers, I would get a telegram from President Polk congratulating me on successfully fording the Dalles and making it safely to the Shangri-La that is the P-N-Dub--or "Oregon Territory" as they called it back in the days of yore. Then President Polk would wish me lots of luck on the homesteading tip and send his prayers that those members of my family who hadn't already died of broken arms, fever 'n' ague, or dysentery wouldn't get massacred by a band of pissed-off Klamath braves for stealing their land. So FUCK President's Day. I still have to work (although I'm going in late because it's a holiday! Take that, grad school!).
President's Day eclipses what should be a much more important and revered holiday: today is Andre "Dr. Dre" Young's 43rd birthday! Yeaaaaahhhh...hell, yeah!
I'm sure right now he's just sittin' in his living room, calm and collected, feelin' that gotta-get-mine perspective. I'm sure that all his friends are thus going to bring him some awesome birthday presents. Sadly, I'm broke and I don't live anywhere near the father of rap, so I can't stop by with a material expression of my long-running adoration. I had that poster for The Chronic in my dorm room at Smith for three years, and it was almost as prized a possession as my deer head. I also insisted that at least once a year, we find an excuse to run a picture of Dr. Dre in the Smith newspaper just because Dr. Dre is just fucking fantastic. And I can't even tell you how many times a well-placed blasting of "Bitches Ain't Shit but Hoes and Tricks" succeeded in pissing off the uptight feminazi types at Smith. Without him, we wouldn't have N.W.A. or any of its former members, Warren G, Snoop, Nate Dogg, Eminem (no loss there), or my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson. Without him, I wouldn't be able to break out choice quotes to honeys in bars like "gap teeth in my mouth so your dick's got to fit" or choice threats to my enemies like "don't even respect yo' ass, that's why it's time for the doctor to check yo' ass." Dr. Dre has helped me immensely throughout my life with his big money, big nuts, and his big, fat chronic sack.
Anyway, if I had the means, I'd get him the best birthday present ever. Dr. Dre is a great man and deserves to be celebrated far more than any douchebags like William Henry Harrison or Jimmy Carter or Chester A. Arthur or whoever. I wish I could show him an expression of my gratitude. However, since I don't have a VCR in the back of my (nonexistent) car that I ganked from the Slauson swap meet, and I don't even have his phone number to call him up and serenade him with "Deeeeeez nuuutz," I will have to be satisfied with wishing him a happy 43rd here on the internets. Happy birthday, Dr. Drizay! Hope you're catching bitches and those bitches aren't catching feelings.
President's Day eclipses what should be a much more important and revered holiday: today is Andre "Dr. Dre" Young's 43rd birthday! Yeaaaaahhhh...hell, yeah!
Anyway, if I had the means, I'd get him the best birthday present ever. Dr. Dre is a great man and deserves to be celebrated far more than any douchebags like William Henry Harrison or Jimmy Carter or Chester A. Arthur or whoever. I wish I could show him an expression of my gratitude. However, since I don't have a VCR in the back of my (nonexistent) car that I ganked from the Slauson swap meet, and I don't even have his phone number to call him up and serenade him with "Deeeeeez nuuutz," I will have to be satisfied with wishing him a happy 43rd here on the internets. Happy birthday, Dr. Drizay! Hope you're catching bitches and those bitches aren't catching feelings.
Labels: aging, Dumb Smith bitches, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, rap, Razzification
Friday, January 25, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Roberta McCain
Name: Roberta Wright McCain
DOB: February 7, 1912
Occupation: hot bitch who pops off at the mouth
Hometown: Muskogee, Oklahoma
Current residence: the campaign trail, seemingly, so she's probably snuggled up in her bunk on the Straight Talk Express somewhere near Boca Raton, Florida
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Roberta McCain is the hotness known as Senator John McCain's mother. The other day she went on C-SPAN to dish about how her baby boy's presidential campaign is faring, and had some choice words for his buddies over at the Grand Old Party when asked about how much support they were giving her son.
"I don't think he has any," said Roberta. "I don't know what the base of the Repub--maybe I don't know enough about it, but I've not seen any help whatsoever."
I love how she cut herself off. I get the feeling that she was about to finish that with "I don't know that the base of the Republican party is smoking" or "I don't know what the base of the Republic party thinks with, but it sure ain't their brains" or some other curmudgeonly old lady witticism, but thought better of it when she remembered that you can't be that blunt in politics, even if you are a nonagenarian. She learned this lesson the hard way when she shot her yapper off on MSNBC last November about Mitt Romney's handling of the 2002 Salt Lake City Olympics when Chris Matthews asked if she thought Romney had done much "heavy lifting for America," and suggested that Mormons were behind the ensuing bid scandals and budget deficits. Senator McCain was like, "MOOOOOOMMMM!" and then had to say that he liked Mormons just fine and wasn't blaming the angel Moroni (seriously, the main Mormon angel is named MORONI) for shady Olympics-related money matters. Check out this bitch in action. Not only does she call Mitt Romney "a Senator, uh, a Congressman, a Senat--WHATEVER," the look on Senator McCain's face is PRICELESS once she busts out "well, he's a Mormon, and the Mormons of Salt Lake City had caused that scandal." Chris Matthews can't stop laughing.
Anyway, back to her more recent C-SPAN interview. After demurely noting that the Republicans are a bunch of disloyal assholes who hate her son, Roberta then says, "Fuck it, I'm old, I'll say what I want!" Not really, but she says, that if McCain wins the nomination, "holding their nose they'll have to take him."
I love this broad. I think they should interview her every day. In past interviews, she has described herself as "too emotional," and you know she is not a bitch to trifle with. Even when John McCain returned from five years being hung on hooks from his broken arms and subjected to Deerhunter-like forms of psychological torture, she wouldn't take any crap from him. Apparently he unleashed a stream of profanity with regard to his captors, and Roberta responded that if he didn't shut up, "Johnny, I'm going to come over there and wash your mouth out with soap." Never mind that the whole washing one's mouth out threat is idle, since it creates more trouble than it solves as ingesting soap can cause diarrhea. I love that after five years living the real-life equivalent of a Missing in Action movie, John McCain's mother still won't abide by him dropping some f-bombs about the experience.
Roberta would be the world's best First Mother. You know she'd be his de facto top advisor. Last year on Mother's Day, Mom and Baby McCain went on "Meet the Press," where John said, "She is 95 years young, and is my most constant and frequent critic. And she will give me her advice and counsel quite often, and of course I love her and appreciate it." Translation: Roberta is in fucking charge. In addition to his power lesbian wife rocking her USMC and NAVY broaches, McCain is poised to put some fierce bitches in the White House if he wins. You know these ladies are really running the show:
Also, for everyone who is suggesting that John McCain is too old to be president, let me remind you that Roberta is a week shy of turning 96. She's still in overdrive and clearly has all her wits about her. Since genetics play a role in both longevity and age-related brain function, then I'm not thinking that McCain is going to croak or go senile while in office. He's going to keep rocking the house flanked by Roberta and Cindy, with Roberta wearing an impeccable Chanel suit and not giving a fuck if people don't like what she has to say. Roberta IS the Straight Talk Express. Go Team McCain!
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, defiance, hot chicks, intentional buffoonery, John McCain, media whores, Mitt Romney, politics, sluts
Friday, January 11, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Madonna
DOB: August 16, 1958
Occupation: appallingly bad singer, even worse actress, baby thief, general thorn in the side of popular culture
Hometown: Bay City, Michigan
Current residence: London, England
Douchebaggery: InTouch Weekly reported yesterday that Madonna spends 10 grand a month on Kabbalah water, and this reminded me of exactly how much I hate Madonna. I LOATHE Madonna. I hate her the way Al Qaeda hates freedom and America, to the extent that hearing so much as five seconds from any Madonna song makes me want to strap on a belt of explosives and head straight for whoever has poor enough taste to pollute the environment with that screechy hag's musical stylings. Suicide bombing seems like a delightful alternative to that bitch's caterwauling.
Granted, there have been about ten minutes of my life where I sort of liked Madonna. When I was around ten and "Like a Prayer" came out, I liked the whole controversial Catholic school girl thing she was doing. Anything that made my polyester lloyd plaid jumper have an air of scandalous sexiness was cool with me, and Madonna really knew how to make Catholic imagery seem awesomely slutty. Even when I was a prepubescent little whippersnapper I appreciated Madonna's whole bad Catholic school girl thing. As I got older, I admired Madonna for her ability to reinvent herself, her strategic means of creating controversy, and her business savvy, even if her music wasn't my favorite thing in the world. And here ends the nice things I have to say about Madonna.
Madonna's singing voice sounds like a subway rat being tortured to death. For some reason, it was an unwritten rule that every lame bitch who went to Smith had to own a copy of The Immaculate Collection, and every time these uptight little fug muffins in their "Smith College: A Century of Women on Top" shirts would get drunk off half a shot of peach schnapps, they felt the need to crank the volume on the "Lucky Star." At my house at Smith, all the cool girls (like yours truly) lived on the second floor, where you could smoke in the hall, stay up all hours of the night carousing, have loud sex, and generally be a depraved college student. All the girls who couldn't hold their liquor, joined activist groups, claimed to be "allergic" to smoke, and liked getting offended more than anything else lived on the third floor. I always could tell the rare occasion that the third floor girls decided to unwind with a fuzzy navel because invariably I would hear the sounds of "Holiday" coupled with shrill giggling filtering down the stairwell to where I was probably taking bong hits, sucking down a PBR, and watching "Beverly Hills, 90210." Usually that was the cue for me to crank my trusty Dr. Dre CD. "Bitches Ain't Shit but Hoes and Tricks" was always an effective rebuttal to pajama-clad skanks having a Madonna dance party.
As if her repertoire of music didn't suck hard enough (and I'm not even going to MENTION what I think about Madonna's various film roles), I have ZERO patience for the persona that Madonna has evolved into. When I said two paragraphs back that I admire Madonna's ability to reinvent herself, I DO NOT admire that the personality she has settled on these days is a pompous, obnoxious cult member who fancies herself to be some kind of great international humanitarian. Madonna has gone to Israel, Malawi, and now India to basically walk around looking down her nose at everyone, posing for photo ops, and shooting her big mouth off about her thoughts on all the world's problems. Newsflash, Madonna: it takes more than a badly faked British accent to make a great statesman, and while I'm sure you think it gives you lots of diplomatic credibility, it's not going to broker peace between Israel and Palestine or halt the AIDS epidemic or whatever topic you feel like delivering a pedantic lecture about today. Furthermore, it's just insulting to be condescended to about how I'm not doing enough to correct the impoverished conditions of the country you bought your most recent child from by a woman whose monthly water bill is five figures. SHUT UP!
Also, as long as I am on the topic of Madonna's insincere fakery, I may as well break this news to her: YOU ARE NOT JEWISH! Kabbalah is basically some old Jewish book that a bunch of charlatans built a fake religion around to siphon money from idiot celebrities via the sale of overpriced pieces of red string and tap water going for $5 a bottle. It's Jew-flavored Scientology. I think people can practice whatever religion they want to (even made-up ones), but Kabbalah is a crock and a repository for assholes like Madonna who want a custom faith that allows them to speak from a platform of spiritual authority and superiority to facilitate their being even bigger assholes. I'm not impressed by her devotion to being a self-indulgent demagogue.
Madonna turns fifty this year, and thank God she's advancing into old age. While I don't expect her to gain enough wisdom from age to sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up, I can at least celebrate the fact that she's that much closer to her death, an event which will mark a truly joyous occasion and a victory for humanity. Fuck Madonna.
Labels: aging, assholes, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, international intrigue, retard rage, sluts
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Robert Sylvester Kelly
DOB: January 8, 1967--Kells is 41 today!
Occupation: Pied Piper/R-uh/King of R&B, player, baller, R&B thug, sexasaurus, Mr. Entertainment, angel, Capricorn, champ, a mountain, tall tree, swift wind sweeping the country, river down in the valley, vision that can see clearly, that star up in the sky, that mountain peak up high, that little bit of hope when my back's against the ropes, giant, eagle, lion down in the jungle, a marching band, the people, helping hand, and hero...in other words, the world's greatest.
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: with them playerette flirters in the Chi
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Don't go to work, today, people, because it's a national holiday! You may recall from Robert Sylvester Kelly's masterpiece of song "The Greatest Sex" that he promises "inside of your walls there will dwell a Capricorn"...well, that's a reference to the chronological placement of his birthday, which is today!!! Yes, Kells turns 41 today!
I don't know why this wasn't all over the news last night. Every time I turn on the news I'm seeing a bunch of trash about the New Hampshire primaries, and nothing about this hallowed occasion. I'm sorry but I don't care how badly Obama is kicking Hillary Clinton in the twat when it's R. Kelly's special day! (However, I have suddenly decided to now support Barack Obama because he is a Senator from the state that blessed us with Robert Sylvester Kelly's mackadelic nightspot realness. It seems I have found new criteria for my political loyalties: affiliation, however remote, with R. Kelly will get you my vote).
It's pretty much a crime that all of America isn't at least having a national moment of silence to show appropriate awestruck reverence on this important day. R. Kelly is an American treasure, and frankly, I'm getting a little tired of that obvious fact being overlooked. Every time I bring up Kells, I hear the same boring disparagements: he's a child molester and he pisses on people. Robert, you did this, Kells, I heard you did that. Blah blah blah. First of all, Kells is going to walk on those child porn charges. I have already done a crack armchair legal analysis of the case and determined that the prosecution will not even come close to proving that R-dot is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. And no, I'm not a lawyer, but my friend Morrissey'sHair is, and he said I did a good job. R. Kelly is going to be found NOT FUCKING GUILTY, and then I'll be accepting all the haters' apologies for their unfair and libelous attacks on Kells's character in his stead.
I think I need to get to work lobbying Congress for a day off work and bank closures today, because not recognizing January 8 as a high holy day is inexcusable. And by "high holy day" I mean "at a club with some other bitches, sittin' in VIP, smokin' and drinkin' and kickin' it," and not fucking with any jealous no-man-having-ass hoes anyway. America needs to pay tribute to its greatest living artist, and I think that our nation would be receptive to a holiday traditionally celebrated by suspending the rules at one's crib, getting butt-naked in sweat socks and house shoes, and stocking one's cooler with a hundred bottles of Cris. This could be bigger than Thanksgiving. Okay, that might be a stretch...but it could at least be bigger than Arbor Day. Write your congressman and demand that January 8 be declared National Robert Sylvester Kelly Day now!
And happy birthday, Kells! Here's hoping that whatever dizzy-legged chicks that you double up with do a bang-up job massaging your toes and braiding your hair today.
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, Robert Sylvester Kelly