Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Idea #11 for Bono's consideration: GO AWAY
Normally, the New York Times tends to piss me off with its overbearing erudition and pompous undertones. However, I read it anyway, if only because there's nothing more hilarious than reading the Grey Lady's attempts at making a review of a Soulja Boy Tell 'Em album excessively literary. I also like to supplement my knowledge of New York local news from the greatest publication in the history of print journalism (the NY Post, duh), because I miss New York and there's usually more interesting stuff going on there than in Seattle. And I like to bust on Maureen Dowd simply because she's so oblivious to her own stupidity, and her hair color is appalling.
Guess what? Noel Gallagher had a great idea for Bono back in 2007. Play "One" and shut the fuck up about Africa. That idea might be three years old, but it's still as timely as ever, now that Bono fancies himself the next Thomas L. Friedman and has taken it upon himself to encourage Times readers' participation in his dumb New Year's resolutions. Take a gander at this aberration and see if you want to follow the lead of a media whoring asshole so delusional he apparently thinks that egregiously making multiple self-referential "rock star" comments is self-deprecating.
There is one thing, however, that I truly cannot abide in the Times. On what seems like a quarterly basis, Bono decides to show the staff of the Times how a REAL pretentious tool does it, and writes some heavy-handed op/ed that makes me want to go on a destruction spree against any business that has ever allowed anything from the (failed) Product (RED) line to pollute its shelves.
I could see why Bono might have some credibility if, in spite of his insufferable tone, he actually came up with some "great" ideas. Bono's ideas are as stupid, self-important, and unnecessary as those ubiquitous D&G shades he's been wearing for the past 25 years. Let's review his top ten list of ways for dumbasses who think they are smart and globally conscious to achieve new levels of obnoxious hypocrisy, just like their rose bespectacled messiah.
1. Return of the Automobile as a Sexual Object. Apparently, most American cars from the past couple decades have been too fat and boxy for Bono's taste, and he's calling upon the powers that be in Detroit to start making cars he'd be willing to fuck. Which basically means he wants Steve Jobs to design a next-gen hybrid Ford Focus.
2. Intellectual Property Developers. While this "idea" is pretty vague, it actually means that Bono wants the internet to use China's model for suppressing dissention to keep people from illegally downloading U2 albums for free. He also blames internet service providers for "reverse Robin Hooding," stealing from the "poor" (AKA record labels and movie studios) by allowing file sharing networks to flourish in cyberspace. Though I've got no love for Comcast, Bono is about as sympathetic a victim to lost profits from downloaded music as Lars Ulrich was back in the Napster era. Loathsome as the idea of having U2 songs on my iTunes might be, I might just illegally download The Joshua Tree out of fucking spite.
3. An Equal Right to Pollute (and the Polluter-Pays Principle). Per Bonoconomics, a starving Ethiopian subsistence farmer can sell all the carbon they don't emit to "mild greens" in the developed world who want to pollute freely without a guilty conscience, and somehow this will reduce carbon emissions. That way, Bono can't take his private jet across the Atlantic to satisfy a craving for New York style pizza without first writing a check to some poor person in Africa. Because nothing assuages the shame of glaringly obvious hypocrisy like having a receipt to say you are paid in full.
4. A Person (Dr. William Li) and a Word (Angiogenesis). Bono explains that the study of angiogenesis (the formation of new blood vessels) and its role in tumor growth (tumors need a blood supply to grow and spread). How does Bono know so much about cancer? Well, admittedly he doesn't have a "medical pedigree," luckily his pal The Edge apparently does. Well, The Edge has given money to Dr. William Li, anyway, and he runs some foundation promoting the study of...angiogenesis. According to Dr. Li, studying the role of angiogenesis in malignancy is "the first medical revolution of the 21st century." That would be nice, if studying angiogenesis in cancer hadn't already been pioneered by the late Dr. Judah Folkman, who first proposed this notion in 1971, nearly 30 years before the advent of the 21st century. I guess Dr. Edge didn't review the historical literature while he was obtaining his medical degree from the University of Tax-Deductible Donations to Dr. Li's Foundation.
5. Matter Doesn't Matter. Although Bono humbly admitted his lack of knowledge in medicine, quantum physics is another MATTER entirely. Apparently, Bono once experienced quantum teleportation backstage in Berlin in the early 1990s (what a great joke, Bono, and thanks for reminding us again that you are a rock star!), and is thus qualified to comment on Dr. Anton Zeilinger's work in this field. Per Dr. Bono, "E=mc2 ends in a cosmic punchline," which is that Dr. Zeilinger is inventing a way to beam people up, and this means God is both a nerd and a Trekkie.
6. Festival of Abraham. Are you tired of keeping track of which religious holidays your friends celebrate? Bono is, and furthermore, he has deduced that this is the source of all those unpleasant political problems in the Middle East. Thankfully, Bono has played concerts all over the world and has used his extensive worldliness to come up with a solution. Festivus! Actually, he wants to call it the "Festival of Abraham," after the ancient, pious horndog common to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Furthermore, being from Ireland and all, Bono knows that terrorists will be compelled to lay down their pipe bombs if bands play songs and get famous. Therefore, politicians can't participate in this inclusive, Mideast peace-brokering political holiday. Good thinking, Bono! Maybe U2 can calm down Hamas like they singlehandedly calmed down the IRA with songs like "Sunday Bloody Sunday"!
7. People Power and the Upside-Down Pyramid. Um...Hillary Clinton is saving Africa by meeting with local leaders instead of corrupt government officials in some kind of reverse pyramid scheme.
8. Taking the Fight to Rotavirus. I guess I can't complain that Bono is pro-childhood vaccination.
9. Viva la (Nonviolent) Revolucíon. Obama got elected, the Berlin Wall came down, and that poor Neda woman was killed in Iran. According to the Gospel of Bono, these things wouldn't have happened if not for Martin Luther King, Jr. and other peaceful protestors. Well, except that Neda mess, but Bono thinks that Ahmadinejad and his fellow tyrannical dictators (Kim Jong Il, dude in charge of Myanmar, etc.) will watch Gandhi and change their evil, oppressive, human rights-violating ways thanks to the commanding performance of Sir Ben Kingsley. I mean, the Berlin Wall came down thanks to the musical stylings of David Hasselhoff, so I guess anything's possible.
10. The World Cup Kicks Off the African Decade. Bono just watched Invictus, and he wants Nelson Mandela to attend the World Cup in South Africa. Oh, and for those of you who thought that they wouldn't build the stadiums in Pretoria or Cape Town or Johannesburg or wherevs? Suck some Afrikaner dick, fools, because they're ready for some hard core SOCCER down there. Bono saves the world again with his keen insights and unsurpassed understanding of the global community.
Seriously, Bono, the only thing you are any good for these days are annoying mobile device endorsements (although not that good, as U2's iPod commercial from five years ago singlehandedly discouraged me from getting an iPod until three months ago). There are many places for Bono's "great ideas": his Twitter, a U2 album liner, the trash, etc. The New York Times op/ed page is not one of them. If Bono wants to do anything for the new year, he should consider not writing any more columns. Now that is a "great idea" that I could celebrate. Slainte!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, I HATE Bono, media whores, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Screw U2, says Dublin. I heart Dublin, says me
I laughed scornfully today when I read an article about how U2's tour promoters were crying about being behind schedule on their European tour because their very own countrymen were fed up with their bullshit. Specifically, they were pissed that after three shows at Ireland's largest stadium, local residents were treated to some around-the-clock raucous related to dismantling their elaborate stage set-up. Therefore they decided to protest, and as a result, the "more than 50 trucks carrying much of the band's 390-ton stage, TV screens, lighting, and sound equipment missed their intended morning ferry." Consequently, the tour manager has noted, "It affects the tour schedule."
Oh, NO!!!! Now the rest of Europe might have to wait a day or two before they can plunk down their $250 to watch a gigantic Blackberry ad. Maybe Bono can do something about this. After all, he is singlehandedly solving Africa's poverty, political upheaval, and AIDS crises. However, when reached for comment after just stepping down from his private jet in Nice, France, Africa's savior sent his PR flunky out to throw down some bullshit about how the band feels "pure disappointment. It's just really put a damp squib (that is Irish for sponge, not a person with non-magical abilities born to wizarding stock) on something that was a fantastic experience and a fantastic show." He forgot to add, "It's treasonous for anyone of Irish heritage to disrupt, piss off, disappoint, mock, disparage, or otherwise speak in non-reverent tones about U2, and these freedom haters will be summarily labeled enemy combatants and sent to the Irish equivalent of Gitmo. Well, if such a thing existed anyway."
Clearly Bono, The Edge, and whatever other stupidly-named Irishmen are in U2 are devastated. However, Bono is mostly likely taking life's lemons and using them to make lemonade for those legions of starving, AIDS-ridden Africans he likes to lecture everyone about. Or maybe just being so incredibly disappointed that he can barely enjoy any of the earthly delights the French riviera has to offer. This is clearly what an extremely depressed megalomaniac with delusions of messianic grandeur looks like:
Poor Bono. I guess he'll have to drown his sorrows in a combination of sanctimonious lectures about the excesses of the developed world and some random Katy Perry-meets-Zoey Deschanel cooze. I mean, Bono knows hard times, and nothing is harder than depriving continental Europe of halfassed, corporate-retooled performances of "With or Without You" and "One." Oh, the humanity!
Clearly Bono, The Edge, and whatever other stupidly-named Irishmen are in U2 are devastated. However, Bono is mostly likely taking life's lemons and using them to make lemonade for those legions of starving, AIDS-ridden Africans he likes to lecture everyone about. Or maybe just being so incredibly disappointed that he can barely enjoy any of the earthly delights the French riviera has to offer. This is clearly what an extremely depressed megalomaniac with delusions of messianic grandeur looks like:
Poor Bono. I guess he'll have to drown his sorrows in a combination of sanctimonious lectures about the excesses of the developed world and some random Katy Perry-meets-Zoey Deschanel cooze. I mean, Bono knows hard times, and nothing is harder than depriving continental Europe of halfassed, corporate-retooled performances of "With or Without You" and "One." Oh, the humanity!
In other news, I still totally hate the shit out of U2. The protestors in Dublin get a Razzy Medal of Service to Humanity for disrupting the well-greased wheels of dickbaggery. Well played, Croke Park neighborhood coalitions.
Labels: assholes, international intrigue, media whores, retard rage, scathing indictments
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Read the Bible: Jesus was very pro-whore
Yesterday HotLawyer sent me a link to a local news story from the intellectual backwater and hallowed site of white supremacist history known as Whidbey Island. Of course, megachurch evangelical Christianity has seduced many of Whidbey's native yokels, and not much goes on there, so the hard-hitting journalists over at the Whidbey News-Times decided to write a story showcasing exactly what a bunch of lameasses these people are.
Never been kissed: Bride-to-be waits for her wedding day
When Todd Ritter is told to kiss the bride at the altar this July in front of 277 of their closest friends and family, people will understand if it’s a little clumsy.
It will be the couple’s very first kiss.
“I’m wondering, will I be a good kisser? Do I know what I’m doing? I’m nervous, but excited,” says Rachel Welch, 21, who is marrying 23-year-old Ritter in Oak Harbor.
The couple instated a “no-kissing” policy, to keep things from getting out of hand before marriage. Welch decided at age 14 to save kissing for someone special, and hoped that her first lip-lock would shortly follow “I do.”
Personally, I think this kind of bullshit is actually very anti-Christian. If you read the Gospels, you'll notice that Jesus is kissing all over everyone on the regular. He kisses babies, lepers, homeless dudes, and whores, and doesn't think twice about it. The skankiest prostitutes in all of Galilee were JC's roll dogs, and one would think that such a devout couple of youth ministers would have at least considered that before instituting such a rigid policy. Especially since, judging by their chattiness regarding their Eskimo kissing, chaperone policies, and foot massaging, they apparently have no problem being media whores. They even gave the Whidbey News-Times a frightening, look-we're-scary-super-Christians picture in which you can practically hear them condemning evolution and elaborating on how gay marriage and anyone who helps it become legal is going to burn in eternal damnation.
And since I have been kissed before–on numerous parts of my body and usually as a prelude to getting my sinful nonmarital fuck on–let me explain to Rachel and Todd exactly how lame their marriage is going to be thanks to their policy of extreme abstinence. Since neither of them have any idea what they are doing and are probably taking pointers from the Michael W. Smith "I Will Be Here for You" video, their first heavy makeout sesh is going to be nothing short of disgusting. Todd looks like one of those guys who thinks that hot tongue kissing involves licking and slobbering all over every part of your face except your mouth, so I hope Rachel enjoys a good spit shine. And as far as Rachel is concerned, if Todd thinks that once he's made an honest uptight prude out of her it's going to be all hot legit Christian sex, he's gravely mistaken. Bitches don't go from Eskimo kisses and love letters to blowjobs and anal overnight, and Rachel strikes me as the type who won't put out on her wedding night. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if both of them are so abysmally bad at sex that they wind up doing it as infrequently as possible. After all, who even needs a sex life when you have the rapture to look forward to?
This is why I always fuck on the first date. I'm not going to invest my time and emotion in someone without giving them a test drive and making sure they are competent at turning me out. As a result of this policy, if I ever do get married, please believe that my future spouse will be a tiger in the sack and will likewise benefit from my extensive experience in this area. I also take umbrage with Todd's assertion that Rachel's no-kissing purity vow is an indicator of her "awesome" self-respect, thus implying that sleeping around means I don't respect myself. I have an awesome amount of respect for myself (you can't fancy yourself the most awesome human being on earth EVER without having a healthy amount of self-esteem), and I can't think of any better way to demonstrate that than by giving myself the gift of plenty of varied hot ass. I think it's actually disrespectful to yourself and your partner not to be the best lay you can be, especially if you're about to take vows promising to never hit the sheets with anyone else ever again. It's a sacred duty to your future spouse to get out there and practice on as much strange as possible before you limit genital privileges to just one person. Then again, since neither Todd nor Rachel have any basis for comparison, maybe they won't even know what they are missing when they are rutting clumsily away at one another with the lights off and their shirts on. Ignorance is bliss for the abstinent purity ring set, I guess.
Labels: assholes, Dear God, HotLawyer, media whores, retard rage, sex, sluts
Monday, June 01, 2009
Will the real Slim Shady please sit the fuck down?
Last night the MTV Movie Awards were on, and it was basically a big snorefest, except for this choice moment:
Having Sacha Baron Cohen's junk in my face would be a sublime experience. He's swarthy, hot, and hilarious, plus he's like 10 feet tall so I'd wager he's packing. Should SBC–as himself, Brüno, or anyone else–ever descend from above like a flamboyant, ridiculous angel, my response would be similar to Eminem's "Are you fuckin' serious?" However, my response would NOT be in the vein of the humorless crybaby attitude exhibited by Mr. Mathers. I would be shocked at being in such great luck as to be blessed with a live closeup of SBC's business end, not demonstrating that I'm the asshole who can't take a joke.
Eminem is really one to get pissed off about this, considering that his signature videos mock many of his colleagues in the entertainment industry. Speaking from experience, if you dish it out, you'd better learn to take it because you will get it. He should have learned this in 2002 when he stormed out of the VMA's because Triumph the Insult Comic Dog ragged on him. Eminem's apparent steadfast inability to accept a little criticism continues to support my suspicions about his diminutive penis size. Also supporting my Eminem small weiner theory is his knee-jerk homophobia, and I do mean PHOBIA, since the mere proximity of Brüno's crotch sent him running from the theater.
As he's trying desperately to claw his way back from obese complacency to cultural relevance, he should be glad for the association with a hot movie that's about to drop and will most likely be very successful. Hell, considering the state of his career's stagnation, he should be glad he even got an invitation to the MTV Movie Awards, whether his seat came with surprise SBC ass or not. Being on the radio for the first time in four years with that forgettable "Crack a Bottle" song does not restore the kind of celebrity gravitas excusing being a whiny, insecure bitch who can't take a joke. Can Eminem's comeback just fail and send him back to Detroit to verbally abuse his immediate family members, get fat again, and generally drink a tall glass of bitch, shut your trap? Because his very presence just reminds me of how over him current popular culture ought to be. Please, Eminem, make like your song and LOSE YOURSELF...in obscurity.
Labels: assholes, ranting, rap, retard rage, TV
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Look at this fucking Seattle asshole
This past weekend, my roll dog TAFKAMA persuaded me to attend the Northwest Folklife festival. Well, actually, TAFKAMA's girlfriend persuaded me, because TAFKAMA was almost as unenthused about the prospect as myself. The last time I went to Folklife (in 1997), it was pouring rain and the marijuana enthusiasts I was cavorting with insisted that we take shelter in this gigantic lean-to built of random tarps, garbage bags, and 2x4s stuck haphazardly into the muddy grass. I was surrounded by unbathed assholes in homemade clothes made of wet, moldy-smelling hemp trying to spread their scabies and mooch from my stash. It was like being in a sauna scented with patchouli, compost, and B.O., complete with a drum circle and stupid bitches on too many hallucinogens trying to dance. To make matters worse, my cousin dropped acid, and was apparently tripping balls when the structural integrity of this refugee camp for people who don't bathe or shave their armpits by choice began to collapse. One of the supports came loose in the mud, striking my cousin in the head and inspiring a proufoundly disturbing freakout on my cousin's part. I spent the rest of the night trying to keep him from getting arrested and/or sent to the hospital. I did not like Folklife then, and I didn't suppose that I'd like it now.
For those of you unfamiliar with Seattle's busy municipal festival schedule, Folklife is a big clusterfuck of crafts, fair foods, performance art, and music held on Memorial Day weekend at the Seattle Center. There's a bunch of free music shows, an Elephant ear stand, plenty of skateboarding and hacky sacking, and ample space for every random hippie craft peddler in the Northwest to hawk the ugliest sea glass jewelry and pewter salmon-shaped belt buckles money can buy. Basically, this event is a bug light for people that I inherently loathe. However, since I'm a glass half-full type of bitch, I decided to make the best of it and cope in my own way: by making fun of everyone! And since there was no way I could keep track of all the many people to mock by virtue of their great numbers, I brought my camera.
Behold, the multitudes of Seattle and their strange musical instruments, their asinine tattoos, and their unfortunate style choices. The Emerald City at its finest.
Bag pimpin'. Seriously, bagpipes and Scottish bullshit in general is apparently SO HOT right now with the antiestablishment set. It's like everyone watched Highlander, remembered that Sean Connery decapitating bitches is badass, and traded in their anarchy shirts for kilts.
Seattle couture alert! I knew it was only a matter of time before I stumbled across some sexpot capable of combining civil liberty, work freebies, and a bare chest. Who IS this ravishing rogue in the ACLU fleece vest with nothing underneath?! And what better way to exercise one's most basic civil liberty than to ask some passing hottie if you can bum a smoke off her?! Free speech, motherfucker!
And on the Third Day, after Jesus rose from the dead in fulfillment of the scriptures, he hired Artie Lang as a bodyguard and restyled himself as a safari photographer and avid drum circle participant.
"So guys, Ken says we should meet him and Skipper over at the Cha Cha later."
Axl Rose, is that you?
All of the boys and all of the girls are NOT dying to If You Seek THIS DUDE.
Milk may do a body good, but it sure as shit isn't doing anything for this Blossom's-dad/Patrick Duffy hybrid's ugly face.
It was a challenge for me to stay away from these tantalizing specimens. Effeminate Joey Ramone and Firecrotch Paul Westerberg and their gang of merry MMORPG-playing virgins were about 10,000 degrees of sizzling hot sex. I can only assume that they weren't swarmed with every legwarmer-wearing, shaggy-haired slag at the music festival because they burned them with their scorching hotness.
And what have we here? Why, it's one of Seattle's most eligible bachelors looking single and ready to mingle, as he's dressed to impress. This low rent Layne Staley donned his finest fedora, bandit-style neck kerchief, and Iron Maiden muscle shirt, grabbed a latte, and put out the vibe. No word on whether he managed to score.
Apparently today's generation of skater punks are easily bewitched by trick yo-yo-ing. Or maybe the guy on the right is just considering his next career move, since festival roving yo-yo performer is probably one of the good-paying jobs that actually does start after he gets up.
These guys look like they are either the last remnants of the Manson Family or about to attempt to sell me cunt and whiskey at the Gem Saloon in Deadwood. And please believe that whichever comparison is more apt, their band still sucked extraordinarily.
Here I captured a quiet, reflective moment in which this young, wallet chain-bearing man and his black widow forearm tat discreetly pour a PBR (of COURSE) into a Steamers soda cup. He stares off into the distance as he ponders who he will bum his next cigarette from.
This fat Fred Durst-looking dude came by with his busted Andy Samberg-looking friend and actually asked me to take his picture. Well, he made a comment about me taking pictures of the crowd, I asked if he'd like his picture taken, and he answered in the affirmative. He was like "Make sure you e-mail that to fatfreddurstlookingdudeorwhatevs@google.com." I responded, "Actually, just go to my website. I'm reporting on this event for RAZZY.org. That's R-A-Z-Z-Y dot ORG! Check it, Big Guy!"
"Dude, as long as you're up, can you get me some curly fries? I'm busy practicing my I'm-in-denial-that-I-should-buy-tank-tops-at-Lane-Bryant squat. And texting."
TAFKAMA managed to find a pair of sunglasses even stupider and with more tines than the ones he was wearing. He indicated his excitement by rapidly pumping his fists. The forks actually work on him.
I can't think of a less appealing offer than a complimentary hug from this aspiring vagrant/jelly bracelet aficionado. Except maybe what was on the other side of this cardboard placard: "DONATIONS OF CASH AND CIG'S ACCEPTED."
Local artists: because if you roll with the socks-and-Tevas set, you can never have enough pictures of the Cascades or the Columbia River hanging around your yert.
Real men wear shirts covered with a jaunty Scottish terrier pattern when singing atonal renditions of "Blowin' In the Wind" for spare change.
A little bit grungy, a little bit metrosexual. Seriously, are those punk hipster man-pris that he's wearing? God, no wonder the best asymmetrically-coiffed pussy he could get has such an extreme FUPA that for a second I thought she might have a little retro style-mixing, hygiene-eschewing bun in the oven.
Whatever this grouchy chick in the green is bitching about, I probably agree with her, since I can't imagine she's hating on anything besides her friend's poor hairstyle choices. I can practically smell that unwashed cat-scratching post lounging across from her radiating a foul vapor of fermenting armpit sweat and rancid nag champa from through my computer screen.
This lady right here is a common variety of Seattle craftswoman. She probably drives an Outback or a CRV, she always eats weird shit like sunflower seed butter and muesli and yak yogurt for lunch, and she has a REI platinum card, which she probably used to buy an REI fanny pack. She likes to camp, hike, recycle, and wear unattractive cowboy hats. She actually buys and listens to CDs of Andean flute players. She's got a closet full of ponchos and you know that homegirl rocks denim jackets with corduroy collars in the fall. She lives on a farm in Issaquah and likely owns horses. If you look in the mirror behind her, you can see me, and my expression pretty much says it all.
Behold, the genesis of a Craigslist "missed connection."
"ZOMG, I can't believe that guy is wearing a HOLLISTER shirt! Who wears Hollister shirts? They're like so unoriginal, not at all like the Vuarnet shades and terrorist scarf I'm rocking. What a total conformist follower."
This guy's grave expression lets the world know that he wants to be taken extremely seriously.
Miley Cyrus hearts recycling.
Jamie-Lynn Spears, what are you doing here?!
I was unaware that the band Insane Clown Posse was still around and had actively practicing fans. In fact, I had forgotten about Insane Clown Posse's very existence. When pressed, I vaguely remember that they made shiteous rap metal and used to hose each other down homoerotically with bottles of some weird Detroit-specific brand of soda. However, the ICP faithful–which the internets inform me are called "juggaloes" on account of their clown-themed tomfoolery and their attempt to associate themselves with male prostitutes–were out in full makeup and regalia at Folklife.
I'd be hard-pressed to come up with anything that screams "I AM A HUGE LOSER" more resoundingly than being a rabid, publicly out Juggalo. I can't fathom why anyone would embrace a culture based on shitty music, clown makeup, hatchets, fat people, and being stuck in 1998. These guys make World of Warcraft-playing shut-ins look like the world's most eligible bachelors in comparison. I could probably beat up these bitch-asses. FAIL.
In spite of what these ladies' shirts profess, it would really be more accurate to say they are "Keeping It Round." I am sad I didn't get a chance to see these gals' square dancing skills in action, because I always love me a large elephant stampede.
Ah, the innocence of girlhood! Nothing warms my heart more than seeing a young lass as refined as this. I nostalgically hearken back to my own days as a dewy-eyed maiden of ten or eleven, when I'd put on my favorite marijuana leaf-kerchief and go essential oil and dried herb shopping. Alas, if only I were a child again!
I'm calling it now: these people are from Puyallup, and came up to Seattle for this. If not from Puyallup, they are from somewhere nearby, like Graham, Spanaway, Pacific, Fife, Orting, or maybe Auburn or Kent. They're talking about how great it is to travel to the BIG CITY for this faincy outside-type party, even if Slipknot isn't playing.
And yep, she's definitely from down south. That's a meth country tramp stamp if I've ever seen one. Please believe I'll probably see this bitch at the Roadhouse one of these days.
When Robert Sylvester Kelly announced at the beginning of the song "Hotel" that "we in our throwbacks" in the hopes that the ladies would get the hint that "we got room keys," this was probably not the image he was trying to evoke.
Here's another entry into the "Most Stomach Churning Outfit" contest. I can only hope that Laura Ingalls Wilder is suggesting to Muffin Top that playing a stick with a long string on it is a great workout.
What's most frightening about the Brangelina of Folklife is that he's pushing a stroller. Apparently, they have reproduced. God help us all.
Every time a shitty improv jam band plays, a moronic skank in Rainbow Brite legwarmers gets her wings.
"I know the Weezer Tribute Band is playing on a stage around here somewhere."
"Dude, know what would be awesome? Let's skate down to Seattle Center and shop for some local salmon and/or thunderbird totem folk art."
Trust a veteran penis aficionado on this: homeskillet's ear-butt plugs are bigger than his dick. So is that American Spirit he's sucking on, for that matter.
When I was in grade school, my music teacher Mrs. Knudsen made us all play the recorder. In particular, she wrote this one shitty recorder song that went along with this Native American myth about the Whale in the Sky. Because I had played piano for five or six years at that point, I was completely unimpressed with her lame four-note interpretation of "Whale in the Sky." Even worse, she made half the class play it, and half the class sing these asinine lyrics she wrote for it, most of which consisted of repeating "WHA-ALE IN THE SKYYYYYYYY." Thanks to that incompetent recorder composer, every time I see someone playing a recorder, I immediately hear that shit in my head. It was like the Lady Gaga of grade school: something that gets in your head and despite your hatred for it, won't get out. Anyway, I saw this dude, and immediately thought, "WHA-ALE IN THE SKYYYYYYYYYYY."
And finally, TAFKAMA demonstrates how we managed to get through. He has these awesome hypercolor cups that make Vitamin R look like perfectly legal, innocuous strawberry lemonade. Said cups were very useful once my vodka ran out.
I think that from now on, when I go to a stupid event in Seattle, I'm going to bring my camera. This city is really like a horn of plenty brimming with people for me to rag on. A veritable scornucopia. Stay tuned, and if you live here, watch out.
Labels: assholes, goddamn Seattle, P-N-Dub, TAFKAMA
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
This is a threat?
You'd think that with all the important stories in today's news (new ho shooting to dethrone Ruth Bader Ginsberg as hottest bitch on the Supreme Court, prop 8 sadly stands, economic collapse, etc.), CNN could come up with a better use of their journalistic resources than THIS FUCKING STORY:
I've really had it with bitches who fall for this fucktard's antics. Ashton Kutcher is a snake oil charlatan with no talent save that of being inexplicably tolerable to stupid people. Everything about this motherfucker is despicable, and I don't know why people haven't recognized that since the late 90s or whenever "That '70s Show" was on. I basically hated him from the moment I gazed upon his guffawing, trucker hatted visage. A quick review of his CV reminds me that he came on the scene playing a dumb, lazy, unemployable stoner, then morphed into an annoying pest playing contrived pranks on people. Then he was mistaken for a celebrity anyone cares about by fucking and marrying Demi Moore. Then he became disgustingly overappreciative of his own value, made two years' worth of absolutely terrible films, and obnoxiously embraced Kabbalah. Now he's become my own personal multimedia gadfly, goading me with a deft combination of COOLPIX camera ads and self-aggrandizing pretensions that I should care about how this knuckle-dragger's Twitter habits influence his fickle relationship with his own media whorishness. Big deal: more assholes follow Ashton's Twitter feed than CNN's. He probably has more Facebook friends too. WHO CARES?! Larry King, please explain why you cluttered up your valuable primetime cable news space with this asshole's Twattery. It takes the average person about 30 seconds to not feel sorry for Ashton Kutcher being impaled upon his own proverbial e-sword. I'm losing approximately NO sleep knowing that Ashton worrying that someone might intrude upon and irritate him via the very media conduit he has used to torment the entertainment industry-consuming public for the past decade. Karma's a bitch, and so are you, Kutcher!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, internet domination, ranting, retard rage, TV
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Excuse me, but WHAT, BITCH NAMED KATE GOSSELIN?!?!?!?!
I am a glutton for punishment, and I really couldn't help myself. I went to the gossip internets and read more completely unsubstantiated, totally unreliable, and most likely false bullshit about the entirely loathsome "Jon and Kate Plus 8" family drama. It seems that there isn't much going on with real famous people, because the Gosselin parents are being thoroughly owned for their incompetence at media whorecraft. I could pretend that I'm the level of classy that stops after one glass of Franzia and takes the high road about obviously obnoxious twats, but let's be real about it: my new life goal apart from professional success and landing lots of hot ass is that THE GOSSELINS MUST BE STOPPED. I don't want to see them or hear about them and their gigantic litter of brats any longer, and I'm more than content to see the tides turn against them so severely that they are uniformly hated by the world and thus fade into the obscurity where they belong.
I'm clearly not the only one. The esteemed journalists at Us Weekly are obviously feeling me. The only thing they fail to point out is that she looked like a massive cunt even when she was just "a mom". She looks like the kind of mom who would force you to drink milk, eat raisins, and say unfamiliar Protestant prayers when you went over to hang out with her kids. This one girl I was friends with in sixth grade had a mom who did that, and she looked just like pre-monster Kate Gosselin. I bet if fleeting reality fame/infamy hadn't come her way, Kate Gosselin would have presumptuously overparented other people's children and decorated with God's eyes, framed needlepoint, and gingham-patterned geese just like Mrs. Gesch.
And due to their highly competent reportage, Us Weekly has managed to distill everything I hate about Kate Gosselin into a quick blurb, courtesy of a probably misappropriated quote from an obscure Associated Press features brief published in 2005:
Kate Gosselin said she feels society has a responsibility to help with the children, since modern medicine promotes the use of fertility drugs, which can lead to multiple births.
Kate Gosselin ought to get down on her knees and thank OctoMom's shameless social parasitism for distracting everyone from the fact that she is the true pioneer of egregious, infuriating media gaffes. However, Kate is finally getting the credit she deserves for her equally obnoxious attitude about subverting nature to achieve such a massive brood and then passing the responsibility off on the rest of us, and that's not going to translate into great "Jon and Kate Plus 8" ratings. Much like a predatory lender or American auto executive, it's a bad time to be a money hungry not-actually-that-famous reality star with eight mouths to feed and a broke-ass equally subfamous stump of a man who may or may not be banging some lesbian fifth grade teacher on the side. Probably because HOW *DARE* YOU BLAME SOCIETY FOR YOUR OWN VAIN BABY-OBSESSED CRAZY BITCH PSYCHOSIS THAT MY TAX DOLLARS SUBSIDIZE YOU FUCKING STUPID UGLY SELF-RIGHTEOUS TROLLOP-ASS CYPRESS MOSS-ESQUE-LABIA-HAVING PROSTITUTE!!!!
I would like to go around telling everyone that society has an obligation to support me because it encourages me to rule their faces off, but for reasons of not seeming like a delusional lunatic, I refrain from doing so. The vast majority of the society that supposedly encouraged Kate to take fertility drugs certainly won't embrace an annoying, shrewish, totally unendearing frigid nagfest pompously informing them that they need to pick up the tab for her own manifest selfishness. As someone who works in the field of "modern medicine" and an avowed child hater, I assuredly did not encourage Kate Gosselin or anyone else to take fertility drugs, and I strongly resent the implication that this bitch did so at my behest rather than her own arrogant desire to overbreed. And her suggestion that somehow I need to shoulder the burden of her own bad decisions makes me want to kill a bitch.
Kate's about to learn the hard way that it doesn't pay to be a mega cunt (literally and figuratively) with a detestable reproductive history and a fucking HORRIBLE Rosie O'Donnell circa 2002-meets-rabid Old Yeller's raised hackles haircut. People are going to quit that bitch and her show's going to get canceled, and she can go back to firing nannies and emasculating her husband without having a television audience to detest her. As far as I'm concerned, that joyous moment can't come soon enough. Down with the Gosselins!
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Jon and Kate Plus HATE
An ill wind blows. Lately, every time I go onto the internets for some celebitchery, I am confronted with the unattractive visage of Jon and/or Kate Gosselin. Even worse, I'm confronted with headlines suggesting that one or both of them has been getting freaky with their busted asses...and not with each other. Either I have to picture Jon's fugly pedophile eyes humping drunkenly on some bitch with low self-esteem who thinks he's a celebrity, or I have to picture Kate's haircut doing ANYTHING sexy, which is about as titillating as the notion of watching two rabid prairie dogs mating.
For those of you who may be unfamiliar with this fugly little pair, they are the stars of the TLC reality show "Jon and Kate Plus 8." This show is basically about these two IVF junkies who wound up churning out a set of sextuplets to go with their twins, and all the consequent grossness that ensues. I watched this show once, and in that hilarious installation all eight kids had rotavirus or some kind of nasty gastrointestinal virus. As much as I love watching eight toddlers simultaneously shitting their pants and puking everywhere, I almost immediately flipped the channel to something more classy and palatable, like "Rock of Love Bus." Hey, I'd WAY rather watch drunken strippers and porn stars fall off a pole and puke on Bret Michaels during the "White Trash Olympics" or whatever than watch 60 minutes of this:
I am never going to get into a show about two assclowns whose own outrageous vanity compelled them to bring not one or two but EIGHT bratty kids into the world. I hate kids, and watching eight of them raise hell while these two make annoying commentary (or more accurately, while Kate bitches incessantly in an obnoxious, authoritarian "I'm a MOM!" tone at Jon) is not my idea of must see TV. So while I'm laughing internally that their heavily marketed marriage is falling apart per the gossip internets, I also can't fathom for the life of me why I have to hear unpleasant tales about these two getting some strange on the side.
I can't really blame Jon for straying from his marital bed. I'd probably want to screw faux lesbian kindergarten teachers too, if I had to fight with this harpy about getting some on the regular.
The prospect of Kate's stretch marks alone should be considered a mitigating factor in Jon's adultery. And you know this bitch hasn't given him a BJ in ten years (if ever.) Instead, she uses her mouth to constantly berate and belittle him, so I can understand how a frustrated little fella like Jon might eventually get frustrated and look for a less fortified, non-industrial strength vagina to scribble on with his golf pencil. I don't blame him for making like the Ying Yang Twins and deciding that he's sick and tired of listenin' at ya naggin'. In these pictures from the past weekend, you can almost hear Kate's shrewish bossing-around.
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
The only thing I'm curious about is why anyone would want to fuck either of these tools. As discussed previously, Kate's naked torso probably looks like a leather hobo bag that got dropped on the subway tracks and run over by a speeding A train and her hair looks like the nexus of a lesbian book club and a tragic Flowbee accident. And for any dumb chick who thinks she's star fucking on Jon, should I remind her that he has EIGHT CHILDREN? That means not only will you have to put up with eight uncontrollable monsters every other weekend, but he will always be broke and trying desperately to keep up with his child support. Any self-respecting skank will not settle for Z-list fame and no fortune, especially when he's a stumpy, easily dominated pussy. In the wise words of Lil' Kim, I'll pass; the dick is trash.
The moral of this story is that kids don't guarantee a happy marriage or a happy family, so don't have eight of them. That will take an already fragile and ill-advised marriage and turn it into fucking around and miserable birthdays. In fifteen years, please believe these kids are going to go on the "Jon and Kate Plus 8 E! True Hollywood Story" to describe in graphic detail how much they loathe their reality whore parents for forcing them to publicly perpetuate their sham of a marriage. Just throw in the towel, Jon and Kate, for your kids' sake and for those of us who don't want your fertile asses cluttering up their gossip pages.
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, media whores, oh the horror, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
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