Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Calling in gay
Today is this "Day Without A Gay" protest, and I suppose that as an openly bisexual woman I should be calling in gay right now.
I guess this whole thing was dreamed up after a couple of homos read Lysistrata and noticed that the Day Without Immigrants got a lot of press attention. Specifically the "H8" that this jam is protesting is proposition 8, the California voter initiative banning gay marriage, and all the douchebag losers who support it under the pretense that civilization will crumble if gays are allowed to get married. I mean, if gays can get married then they will be TEACHING IN SCHOOLS that gays are equal citizens entitled to the same rights as everyone else! Furthermore, if perverts like the hommasekshuls can get hitched, so can anyone! People will start marrying their siblings! Or pets! As Dr. Peter Venkman once said, "Dogs and cats, living together...MASS HYSTERIA!" At least these are the dire consequences that the pro-prop 8 people are suggesting necessitate their attempts to strip the gays of their basic human rights. Anyone with half a brain can tell that proposition 8 is not about "protecting marriage" so much as providing homophobes with legal justification for discriminating against us.
I'm all for saying a great big "fuck you" to the intolerant dickbags that want to spend so much time trying to keep us queers from having the same basic civil rights as everybody else, but I'm just not sure "calling in gay" is the way to do so. For one thing, if I "call in gay," the only thing I'm interfering with is my own progress through graduate school. I have no idea if my PI (boss) knows that I'm bisexual, as I've never formally sat him down and said, "Oh, by the way, I like snatch sometimes." He certainly wouldn't care one way or the other, but he'd also probably be confused about why I was taking the day off even if I explained it. He knows how much work I have to do before I graduate, and since I'm not planning on marrying anyone of either gender anytime soon, the only thing I should be doing is a fuckload of mouse experiments. Although I'm pretty sure that here in fag-friendly New York I'm not in a state where I can be fired (or, more accurately, expelled) for my sexual orientation, I still can't really take the day off from lab to go volunteer somewhere. Also, I can't alternatively refuse to spend any money today. I spend as little money as possible anyway because I'm ridiculously poor, but I have to get coffee. That isn't an option.
I'd be happy to educate people about the Employment Non-Discrimination Act or contact Rep. Charles Rangel or Senators Schumer and Clinton (and Caroline Kennedy, if necessary) to voice my support for said bill, as the Day Without A Gay website suggests I should do in lieu of playing hooky for gay marriage. In spite of my selfish desire to go work today, and my generally cynical attitude about life, I do feel very strongly about gay rights and equality. Gays seem to be the one group that it's still legally and socially acceptable to withhold civil rights from, primarily because a bunch of religious types want to impose their beliefs on everyone else. Granted, these same religious types like to claim that gays are doing exactly that by fighting for marriage rights, although I would argue that according to the U.S. Constitution and judicial precedent, this fight is about rights that we already have on paper. In 1967, the Supreme Court invalidated laws against racial intermarriage in Loving v. Virginia, noting that marriage to the partner of a person's choosing is "one of the vital personal rights essential to the orderly pursuit of happiness." The last time I checked the Constitution, the "pursuit of happiness" was described as an "inalienable right." I interpret this as meaning that marriage to anybody–including someone of the same sex–is protected by the Constitution and any state laws prohibiting it should be invalid. Of course, I assume that until the Supreme Court throws down on this issue, that's all up for debate.
Although I'm not calling in gay today, I'd like to do something that for me is equally rare: encourage activism. Normally I think social activism is for hippies and annoying Smith girls, but I don't think these religious cocksuckers should get to decide which of my civil rights should be imposed upon because they don't want their children to learn tolerance in schools, or because they are somehow threatened by gays being afforded basic human rights. I resent being told that "protecting marriage" is somehow different and more admirable than "God Hates Fags," or that being gay is somehow undeserving of equal treatment under the law. My lazy ass is even going to write a letter to my elected representatives about it (although I will try to avoid using terms such as "cocksucker", "douchenozzle", or "dickbag" in my correspondence). If you can't call in gay, I strongly recommend you do the same.
Labels: assholes, lezbollah, politics, vulgar display of faggotry
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Making it rain Simpsons
I guess Adam née Pac Man Jones is really going out of his way to show that he has changed from his boozing, brawling, rainmaking, stripper-head-crushing, bouncer-paralyzing days. The other day he showed up at the (hateful, despicable) Cowboys' practice wearing a cozy, cute pair of Homer Simpson PJs under his practice shorts.
How could a guy with such cute jammies be capable of doing things like spitting in random women's faces, beating up valets and bouncers, smashing a stripper's head on the stage for having the audacity to pick up money he threw at her, and encouraging members of his entourage to exercise their trigger fingers? I guess that's what Pac Man–oh, I'm sorry, I meant ADAM–wants us all to think fresh on the heels of his most recent suspension for drunken violence (which, according to Commissioner Goodell, is really, seriously, no kidding his last chance to behave like a decent human being and keep his job for America's Most Loathsome Team). While this may have the unfortunate side effect of reducing the amount of intimidation he can project at opposing receivers, perhaps that is part of a clever strategy to lull them into a false sense of complacency.
I'm not fooled. In spite of Pac Man's adorable sleepwear/practice gear, I haven't forgotten that people have been paralyzed as a consequence of Pac Man not getting his way, and he primarily likes to direct his violent fits of rage at women who happen to be around. Back in Springfield, Homer Simpson is saying a colossal "d'oh!" that a dickbag like Pac Man Jones is sullying his eminent name and image.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, NFL football
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Unthanksgiving
At Thanksgiving, usually people spend a lot of time reflecting on all the fabulous things in their lives. Most people, no matter how hard-hearted or cynical, will at least take a few minutes to acknowledge the fact that it's great their houses haven't gone into foreclosure...yet, or that even if the Seahawks suck at least their number two favorite team the Titans are kicking ass, or that beer, dogs, and pepperoni pizza remain plentiful, or that or they got laid this month. I'm sure I'll have a misty little moment tomorrow when I've got my hand rammed up a giant Butterball's ass as I try to fill its body cavity with a tampon full of Pepperidge Farm stuffing. However, this year that moment will be brief because this year there are so many damn things to be pissed off and not one bit thankful about. In addition to obvious downers like the economy, the job market, my unnecessarily yet perpetually dramatic work environment, my Atlas-caliber workload, and the soul-manglingly depressing fact that I'm still in hell grad school, I've realized that this year, I'm more pissed off at the little things than usual.
Most Thanksgiving-time blog posts will be about the authors' gratitude for happy things like sugar cookies, Jesus and snow and free babysitters and other stuff Mormons like, watching Juno and Mamma Mia instead of dying of typhus in a concentration camp, the joys of making holiday feasts with semen, your ugly, breasticled husband, the inanity of Twittering, or tea, Byzantine costumes, and pussy, Hell, even Duff McKagan is blogging about how he's thankful for his wife, kids, friends, Seattle (which earns an eye-roll with a touch of side-eye from me), "Flight of the Conchords," and something Krist Novoselic wrote once about the '92 VMAs. Therefore, I thought I would take it upon myself to mention a few of the MANY things I am most certainly NOT pleased with, much less grateful for.
Peter Orszag's appointment as head of the Obama Office of Management and Budget
I have no idea what Orszag's job qualifications are to be America's top accountant other than he apparently passed the epic and invasive job application Obama was requiring prospective employees to fill out. One question the comprehensive vetting process missed, however, was "Is your haircut a variation on a nine-year-old boy twenty years ago?" Peter Orszag is like a halfassed Bob Saget impersonator rocking the same bowl-above, shaved-below look my brother rocked to the opening of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie in like 1990. If he can balance the budget in these trying times, then props to him, but he ought to celebrate with a new style. I hear they make some really fashionable toupeés these days.
Kanye West has a new album out
I've begrudgingly liked a few Kanye West songs in the last year or so, and this has disturbed me. Granted, they were mostly songs that also featured Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter, Clifford "T.I." Harris, or Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins, but still...normally I bear such a passionate hatred for Kanye West himself that this precludes me liking anything he's associated with. In fact, after admitting that I LOVED the "Lollipop" remix, I proceeded to convince myself that the "Kanye West" credit on the song was a misprint and it was really Faheem "T-Pain" Najm trying a new setting on his vocorder. Now that Kanye has a new album out, though, I get the feeling I'm going to be hearing a lot of Lil' Wayne, T.I., and Young Jeezy-free Kanye jams, and this doesn't bode well for 2009.
The 'Sprout is out
I've previously discussed my disdain for this blogger going by "Writersprout," because not only is her writing appallingly poor, she really pulled a head-job on my lesbian apprentice Twathopper. And I don't mean she gave Twathopper head; I mean this bitch dragged Twathopper to every open-mic night at every fucking intentionally dingy "performance space" in Williamsburg and the Lower East Side, probably while jabbering incessantly about jogging, subletting, and cupcakes, and then, after Twathopper went through all this pussy-grooming trouble, hooked up with some other bitches instead. People who manage to combine the world's most obnoxiously contrived personality with a track record of doing mean things to my friends are high up on my Enemy List. However despite my utter contempt for her, thanks to Writersprout I've had endless comic material for my friends' amusement, culminating in a recent blog I started paying homage to her upcoming graduate degree in popular fictional creative non-fiction (no joke) via a serious of riveting mystery stories. Sadly, before I could publish the first of the Brooklyn Cupcake Marathon Mysteries, Writersprout went and defaulted on her web hosting bill! How am I supposed to launch a parody Writersprout's insufferable, Roget-augmented wordsmithery when her site redirects to a "Error-Deadbeat Hosting Customer" page? You can still read her lame blog about subletting for fun, but it's just not the same. Thanks a lot, Writersprout, for so cruelly snatching away my dream to spend a lot of time ragging on you hard.
Beyoncé is SASHA FIERCE
This wasn't cool when Garth Brooks did it, so I don't know why Beyoncé thinks she can get away with it. Apart from acquiring a name that sounds even MORE like some kind of tranny hooker, Sasha Fierce and Beyoncé are virtually indistinguishable. They both do the same kind of fat-ass-chunk-shaking dance moves, they both dress like they're on their way to a black-tie leotard formal with the upper crust spice magnates from Dune, and they both sing the same songs about how dumping assholes and buying your own jewelry are the hallmarks of female empowerment. Would Beyoncé/Sasha Fierce please proceed to get Aretha Franklin fat like LL Cool Jew has predicted she will, and stop bothering us with her wack repackaging of the same old bullshit.
Besides, there's only one R&B superstar who can pull off an alter-ego, and that's only in the context of a musical soap opera about adultery, gay preachers, elderly neighbors with erectile dysfunction, midget-cuckolded highway patrolmen, lesbian diner employees, and mysterious packages. In other words, the only person with the combined musical and acting chops to effect such a feat is none other than the legendary and incomparable ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY playing the Beretta-wielding Chicagoan Sylvester.
The 2008 Seahawks
The Seachickens are 2-9, and about to get a festive Thanksgiving ass-raping from Tony Romo and T.O. to commemorate Mike Holmgren's final season as coach. I don't think I need to elaborate further.
The 2008 Dallas Cowboys, Pittsburgh Steelers, New England Patriots, and Indianapolis Colts
I would hope that if my team is sucking stank Sasha Fierce balls, at least the teams I loathe would be too. Despite occasional flashes of glee I felt when I thought Tony Romo was out tampon shopping with Jessica Simpson for the season, or I realized that Ben Roethlisberger's abilities are embarrassingly overrated, or Tom Brady went down crying like a bitch in week 1, or Peyton Manning was going to be permanently overshadowed by his younger brother Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning, these assholes all seem to perservere. All are still in the running for their divisions (except maybe the Colts, but they've still got a very good shot at a wild card slot), and all are still existing solely to piss me off and perturb me. Oh, and did I mention the Cowboys are playing the Seahawks on Thanksgiving? I can only pray that Jessica Simpson shows up at the game and shines her Cowboys-disrupting energy full force on Texas Stadium during the game.
Now I have to go to work, but keep checking back. I am sure that all day I'm going to be thinking of stuff I'm NOT thankful for, so I'll update this list through the next couple days. In the meantime, if you are as depressed as I am with the state of the world today, I urge you to make like me and eat the pain away. Happy Unthanksgiving!
Labels: assholes, gluttony, NFL football, politics, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, rap, Robert Sylvester Kelly, Seahawks
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Sweet sobaka
I think Vladimir Putin is basically a total dipshit. For one thing, no matter how many absurd I-wish-I-was-Ernest-Hemingway pictures he takes of himself fly fishing, he seems like the kind of dude who would be in a movie from the 80s as some sort of evil, capitalism-decrying Communist party stalwart who couldn't be trusted and whose sole reason for existing is to wipe America off the map. Indeed, since the officer and a hot piece John McCain cannot say a sentence about Putin without including the words "KGB" or "apparatchik," that's obviously exactly what he is even though he appears different than the red-faced blusterers of Russian rulers past. He may not look like a giant vodka-swilling bear in a fur hat, and he might like to show off his skinny topless chest doing macho outdoorsy stuff, and he may have appointed a tiny Deep Purple-loving Ukrainian-independence suppressing lawyer as his successor, but that doesn't mean he's somehow different from any other asshole pinko motherfucker who would invade Colorado via fleets of innocent-looking Aeroflot jets and declare war on Patrick Swayze, Charlie Sheen, C. Thomas Howell, Jennifer Grey, and Lea Thompson.
However, I have now realized that Putin has one redeeming quality. While perusing the news stories from the other inferior excuses for countries that populate the world, I came across an article describing how Putin loves his doggy so much that he made her a special GPS tracker so she'll never get lost. Okay, the article just said he made her a GPS tracker and Putin disputed with his deputy prime minister whether or not his sweet dogger Koni liked the fact that "her free life is over," but still...I assume he outfitted his dog with a satellite tracker to keep Koni from getting lost and ending up in Siberia or something because he would be devastated by her absence.
A guy with a precious puppy like Koni here can't be completely evil. I'm cool with Putin from now on so long as he always appears in pictures with this doggity sweetness. In fact, just let Koni take over for Putin. If that bitch were calling the shots, Putin would have plenty of free time to pose for stomach-churning topless macho propaganda photos and everyone would want to get all diplomatic with Russia because Koni is SO FUCKING CUTE! The world would win. Koni for commisar!
Labels: assholes, doggity style, international intrigue, politics
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Once again, Cheese Sauce proves that his followers are the dumbest
I was reading the news today, and as usual it was all fucking bad. The economy is crumbling thanks to years and years of getting unapologetically sodomized by Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, who despite their friendly, folksy names sound like a couple of serious motherfucking bastards. I was just going to click over to the BBC to read about the collapse of the credit markets in Europe to add a little international flavor to my general feeling of dread and impending doom when I noticed a catchy title in a sidebar ad:
Wait...Time magazine's business writers have decided to blame GOD for the imminent Greater Depression about to swallow the entire civilized world? I can understand why people still solvent enough to enjoy luxuries like print magazines read The Economist these days instead of Time, because that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. It's not like God took a break from being omnipotent to moonlight as an unscrupulous broker at Countrywide. Rolling my eyes, I went to the article expecting to continue audibly scoffing at my laptop.
Instead of continuing to think about the author's stupidity, however, I was instead filled with annoyance and anger not at the author, but at those goddamned irritating evangelical Christians! Apparently, this bullshit is all their fault thanks to something called the "Prosperity gospel" that a bunch of them subscribe to. This is the notion that if you open your wallet to Christ so that your megachurch can buy a new IMAX screen for in-service laser shows praising Cheese-Sauce Crasst, you'll be rewarded by getting approved for a mortgage that you can't afford and will assuredly default on should the economy take a downturn–kind of like the precipitous faceplant it's doing now!
Granted, this policy isn't explicitly stated by most evangelical ministers. However, an expert interviewed for the article explained that this is spelled out in facile Jesus-flavored suggestions that even the most slow-witted Pentecostal Joe Sixpack can understand:
Granted, this policy isn't explicitly stated by most evangelical ministers. However, an expert interviewed for the article explained that this is spelled out in facile Jesus-flavored suggestions that even the most slow-witted Pentecostal Joe Sixpack can understand:
"The pastor's not gonna say, 'Go down to Wachovia and get a loan,' but I have heard, 'Even if you have a poor credit rating, God can still bless you — if you put some faith out there [that is, make a big donation to the church], you'll get that house or that car or that apartment.'"
The Catholic church was practicing the medieval equivalent of this back in the day, except instead of the faithful donating their cash for corrupt ministers to buy Mercedes to snort meth and bang underage boys in, the faithful donated their farthings for corrupt clergymen to maintain lavish residences for their mistresses and instead of being promised home ownership, they were promised a guaranteed spot in heaven. Eventually, even the feudal peasants (the Joe Sixpacks of their time) of the Middle Ages caught on that this was a bullshit scam, and hence Protestants exist at all. I'm just relieved that this time around the Catholics have nothing to do with all hell breaking loose. Luckily, we learned our lesson about the dangers of selling indulgences six centuries ago. Too bad these holy rolling heretics aren't up on their history, because if they had been maybe they wouldn't have tried to better their own financial situations via this Prosperity gospel bullshit and caused the global credit markets to fucking fail.
I am obviously a Christian being that I count myself among the O.G. Jesus worshipers. Since the most holy and apostolic JP Dos was running things over at the Holy See, I was encouraged that we'd finally gotten past doing globally destructive bullshit like starting centuries-long holy wars and torturing Jews, intellectuals, and anyone else who did things slightly differently. Unfortunately, it seems these evangelicals have picked up where we Catholics left off in the global shitshow department. All these evangelicals love to talk about how awesome the apocalypse is going to be, and how great it's going to be when Jesus returns. I wouldn't get too excited if I were them, because frankly, if I were Jesus, I'd be getting so sick of my followers perpetrating worldwide catastrophic disaster in my name that if I had to get off my ass and leave heaven because of it, I'd just wipe the troublesome losers off the map like John McCain wants to do with our nation's bad mortgages. So quit doing anything in Jesus's name except praying, because I don't want to get Armageddoned along with economically fucked thanks to the investment strategies of the fundamentalist devout.
Labels: assholes, capitalism, Catholicism, crazies, Dear God, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Avada kedavre! No, seriously, AVADA FUCKING KEDAVRE!
Okay, so I know that the "Avada kedavre" killing curse only works in Harry Potter, but frankly it's about as believable as the latest stunt epic douchebag David Blaine is pulling as far as "magic" is concerned. Besides, the prospect of eliminating him Voldemort-style in a rush of green light has never been more appealing. I wish that I could Avada kedavre David Blaine and get him to permanently cease and desist clogging up my news pages with tales of his latest exploits in pointlessness.
In the past, David Blaine has somehow managed to convince the public that swimming around in a giant breast implant, being frozen in a block of ice, and being trapped in a plexiglass box constitutes some sort of illusionist mystery. The reality is that David Blaine just likes to tell everyone there is something wizardly and enigmatic about doing uncomfortable things for a really long time when you wear eyeliner and black shirts. I have news for all the gullible morons who like to ooh and aah about David Blaine's so-called feats of amazement: his apparent high tolerance for repeated extended urethral catheterization doesn't indicate magic so much as a penis with impaired sensory capabilities. He's no Uncle Majic the Hip-Hop Magician, that's for damn sure.
His latest exercise in media whoring charlatanry, dramatically named the "Dive of Death," involves him hanging upside down in Central Park for two days. Apparently this means he could be at risk of high blood pressure, blindness, and a stroke. I'm hoping that all of the above will go down and result in David Blaine going on the permanent PUP list for magicians, but so far he's just dangling like a giant pretentious bullshit-spewing Robert Downey, Jr.-impersonating bat.
He's like a giant douchebag-shaped piñata, and his handlers were wise to suspend him six stories up. If he were within reach, I'd gladly start pummeling him, and that wouldn't end well, because instead of pouring out delicious candy, he'd likely unleash a giant shitstorm of loathsome assfuckery. Since I can't play Bludgeon-the-Fucktard, I will instead just root for a stroke. LET'S GO STROKE!
Labels: assholes, Harry Potter, magick is bullshit, NYC, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Friday, September 19, 2008
Please say the baby, NOT Talib Kweli
Yesterday when I was grousing about the Rock the Vote concert starring Talib Kweli and Solange (snicker), I almost immediately got the world's most easily predictable response:
WELL, HELLO THERE, GUY WHO LOOKS A LOT LIKE TALIB KWELI! It's nice to know that the search engines of the internets truly reflect Talib Kweli's most obnoxious consumer demographic. Too bad that one mere glance at the styling in this photo, from the tweed jacket-over-distressed hoodie-over-corduroy button-down to the unnecessary 1970s girl-nerd coke bottle glasses clutched in his well-manicured little paws makes me want to commence an orgy of murderous rage. I don't even have to listen to this whiny bitch open his PBR hole and start spewing "thoughtful" lyrics about society's woes to begin contemplating a homicidal spree throughout Williamsburg, DUMBO, and the Lower East Side.
I've been to a Talib Kweli concert, and the man is an amazing performer. I guess some people prefer the talentless styles of Lil Wayne and assorted other generic hip hop to talented flow and thoughtful lyrics. Talib Kweli is one of like two rappers working today that is worth a damn.Oh, really, Anonymous Rap Critic? Who's the other rapper working today who meets your lofty standards to qualify as "worth a damn?" I'm guessing you'll probably say Talib Kweli's butt buddy Mos Def. Know why? Because all you liberal arts-educated pseudointellectual hipster snobs are easier to predict than whether the sun will set in the fucking west this evening. Some fellow messenger bag-toting asshole brushed aside his asymmetrical bangs, readjusted his paper boy cap, and condescendingly gazed over the top of his Vice magazine through his boxy glasses to inform you at some point that listening to something like Lil' Wayne doesn't quite give you the same elitist cachet as listening to Talib Kweli bitch about the HIV epidemic or inherent racism in the justice system. Hipsters love Talib Kweli because of his "talented flow and thoughtful lyrics," which translates to "uses an occasional big word" and "raps about the news." Oh, and probably because some vintage shirt-wearing douchetard at New York Magazine probably told them that Talib Kweli is "socially conscious," which sounds to the average conformist vintage shirt-wearing douchetard like "trappings of intelligence." Talib Kweli has become so entrenched as the poster boy for hipster rap–oh, excuse me, I mean HIP-HOP–that guess whose picture popped up when I Googled "self-important hipster"????
So to calm down and prevent myself from doing anything I might regret (like violently claiming the lives of innocent hipsters), I'm going to just listen to something soothing. I'd rather listen to Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins, even though he thinks that shouting "jeah!," "daaaamn," "that's riiiiiiiight," or "let's get it!" constitutes "ad libbing." I'd rather listen to Todd "Too $hort" Shaw elevate misogyny to an art form. I'd rather listen to former corrections officer William "Rick Ross" Leonard make up outlandish fiction about his exploits as some kind of musically-inclined Floridian cocaine kingpin. I'd rather listen to Jose "Fat Joe" Cartagena make laughable claims about his sex life like "Lindsay Lohan...that's my O-jam." I'd rather listen to Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter say "unfuckinbelievable...Lil' Wayne's the president." That IS unfuckinbelievable, but it's also hilarious and thus entertaining. I'd rather hear Lil' Wayne jabbering about how he makes policewomen answer to "Mrs. Officer" and compels them to simulate sirens during intercourse "like a cop car." I like listening to music because it's ENTERTAINING, not because it makes me ponder all the problems of society, think deep, depressing thoughts, or feel intellectually superior because I only listen to HIP-HOP (not rap) that uses an occasional big word and has been called "socially conscious" by at least three different snotty critics. Talib Kweli and all his fans can lick my Lil' Wayne-listening twat.
Labels: assholes, Lil' Wayne, rap, retard rage, scathing indictments
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
I know you're fat, but you don't need an umbrella that big
Dear New Yorker With the Giant Umbrella,
I know you're fat. I know that a lifetime of eating pizza slices and McDonald's and various iterations of halal street meat has given you the figure of Rosie O'Donnell after a particularly lazy week of couch surfing, but that does NOT mean you have to walk down the crowded New York City sidewalk on a rainy day with an umbrella roughly the size of an America's Cup yacht mainsail.
I also know that you may not be as accustomed to the rain as a native Pacific Northwesterner like myself. Let me assure you that should a stray drop of sky-water touch your dimpled flesh you will not melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. Trust that if you did, I would run around throwing water at your corpulent ass because I hate fat people and I especially hate fat people who carry around giant umbrellas, and your dissolution would be a boon to my general mood and demeanor.
Your umbrella is just as, if not more inconsiderate, than all the other annoying fat-person-in-New-York things you do. For example, huffing up the subway stairs at the pace of a weary snail, only to halt at the top and block all ascending and descending traffic in order to catch your breath, light a cigarette, and/or start catching up on your phone calls. Blocking the sole means of egress from a thoroughly populated and necessary conduit of urban life like the subway is bad enough, but throw a gigantic umbrella in the mix and you're supersizing your already massive oblivious dickheadishness. It's like being in the first scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark, except instead of being a hot adventurous Smith College archaeology professor trying to outrun a massive rolling boulder in an ancient South American temple because I want to brag about a priceless ancient golden idol, I'm an irritable Smith College graduate trying to circumvent a massive Rocawear-clad beach ball in a dirty subway staircase because I'm probably late getting to lab.
Even worse than the subway is when you walk down the street with your giant umbrella. It's like you are a traveling bubble occupying most of the sidewalk, since anyone not wanting to get their eyes gouged out by the edges of your umbrella has to give you a wide berth. This means that to avoid your umbrella, not only to we have to dash out of the way on what little sidewalk remains, but we have to usually drop our normal-sized umbrellas and get wet ourselves so that you may walk beneath your own portable fucking tent.
This is unacceptably selfish, antisocial behavior. What makes you think you are so special that you deserve to take up more than your allotted portion of the city sidewalk? You already DO take up more than I do on account of your obnoxious obesity. You shouldn't be rewarded for your sloth and lack of personal physical maintenance by being allowed to carry an umbrella the size of Queens and thus occupy even more precious public space. You should be mocked for your fatness and derided for your selfish choice of rain repelling equipment! You should be reviled by your fellow man for so callously gobbling up more than your share of sidewalk and forcing your neighbors literally into the gutter because your precious ass just HAS to carry a goddamned golf umbrella. You should be roundly disparaged for your poor displays of citizenship, not tolerated in spite of your obnoxious largesse.
Fat people with giant umbrellas take notice: from now on, I will not put up with your lack of consideration any longer. Henceforth, I plan to say things like "nice umbrella, Jumbo" and "hey, I think there's a little piece of your back cellulite that's getting wet" the next time I am trapped behind one of your mobile circus tents. I'm also going to give you a blast of extra super cunty face just to drive it home that I hate you and your stupid umbrella.
Cordially,
Razzy
Labels: assholes, fat fucks, NYC, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Color me a wife-beater
How the mighty have fallen. Bryan Abrams, once the Jordan Knight or the Justin Timberlake of 90s boy band Color Me Badd, went from international "I Wanna Sex You Up" stardom to being a plain old wimmin' hittin' Okie redneck. Apparently he got wasted at some bar in Oklahoma City (probably Toby Keith's I Love This Bar and Grill), punched his girlfriend in the face, and started screaming "I'm-a kill you!" Prince Charming alert, ladies!
It's a good thing Bryan hadn't been drinking anything stronger than soda when he ran into Kelly Taylor at the Bel Age Hotel penthouse vending machine bank during the seminal "Things To Do On a Rainy Day" episode at the end of season two of the greatest show in the history of television, "Beverly Hills, 90210." Bryan's sobriety allowed him to resist beating Donna Martin's annoying ass to a pulp when he was supposed to be cheering her up after she caught her mom having a torrid extramarital affair during breaks at her "charity convention." Frankly, I'd be upset too if I was trying to stalk Color Me Badd and instead saw someone as simultaneously shrewish and gross as Felice Martin making out with some old married dude and making some sickening attempt at seduction along the lines of "I hope you saved room for dessert." I'm not sure that Color Me Badd paying for Peach Pit megaburgers with an acapella rendition of "I Adore Mi Amor" would be my ticket to a happier disposition, but it would be marginally better than an enraged, drunken member of Color Me Badd throwing back one too many Bud Lights while watching NASCAR and screaming death threats as he pops me in the face.
Then again, I wouldn't complain if Bryan slugged Brandon Walsh in the face for being a dumbass who wears a pencil behind his ear. Maybe they can bring Bryan and Jason Priestley back to the new series so that can happen. Think about it, CW!
Labels: assholes, Bev Niner, crime and punishment
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
The Matt Leinart of morbidly obese stank-ass dogs
I've been so busy laboring over Labor Day weekend that I've been missing lots of important news. I did manage to hear about Sarah Palin, but somehow I missed the fact that Chad Johnson legally changed his last name to Ocho Cinco! Such an oversight is inexcusable, so I resolved last night to catch up on much of the news I missed.
Another piece of news I missed thanks to my overworked state is the fact that Matt Leinart lost out on the starting job in Arizona to Kurt Warner. KURT FUCKING WARNER! I have a lengthy history of scoffing derisively at Kurt Warner, beginning in 2002 when I wasted my first round Fantasy draft pick on him, only to have him break his pinky and spend the rest of the season on the bench seeking solace in Jesus and pouting. I'm not sure what better says "first-round bust" than Kurt Warner's Chunky Soup-cursed, aged, Bible-thumping, power lesbian-controlled self is beating Leinart out for the number one slot in trading camp. Consequently, there are a few articles about boo-hoo, it's hard for young quarterbacks to adjust to playing at the professional level, and don't call Matt Leinart a first-round bust QUITE yet.
Even former Seahawk Trent Dilfer shows up in an article to make excuses for Leinart's lackluster performance so far, noting that he could never have won a Super Bowl with the Baltimore Ravens if he had listened to those critics. He omits the fact that his team ran roughshod in that Super Bowl thanks to total defensive domination that would have shut the Giants out if they hadn't gotten lucky on a kickoff return. The bulk of the Ravens' scoring in that game came from Jamal Lewis running the ball, long-yardage Matt Stover field goals, returned interceptions, and a stellar kickoff return to answer the Giants' sole return TD. Trent Dilfer won the Super Bowl by bringing the same mediocre offense he had been known for all season, so if I were Matt Leinart, I would encourage Trent Dilfer to cease and desist with the comparisons. The last time I checked, Ray Lewis, Tony Siragusa, and Sam Adams were not playing for the Cardinals, so unlike Dilfer, Leinart can't even pretend at greatness on the back of a more talented defense.
I've been calling Matt Leinart a first-round bust since he first blazed into the NFL, because at the very least I suspect Paris Hilton's crabs can wreak some serious havoc with a player's game, even if he is a product of the NFL-friendly USC system. Nonetheless, professional and amateur pundits alike have been defending Leinart as the future of the Arizona Cardinals. I can only hope that's true, because it's partly thanks to the Cards' perennial ineptitude that the mighty Seahawks have taken five straight division titles. The Cards' consistent ass-sucking has made the NFC West into the notoriously pathetic shitshow it is today, and any future in which Leinart is allowed to continue with his lack of offensive production is one I can eagerly anticipate. The Seahawks may have one of the hottest defenses in the NFL right now, but I'd be deluding myself if I made similar claims about their offense right now. We have no wide receivers, an unproven rookie tight end, a kicker controversy (which until now I had never fathomed would even exist), and an untested two-back (or three, depending on what happens with T.J. Duckett) running game that I'm frankly awfully nervous about. Nonetheless, our patchy offense is going to STILL destroy Arizona, because they can always be counted on to suck that bad. Thanks to Trent Dilfer comparing Leinart's weak arm strength to Joe Montana and Steve Young, there are still a lot of people who will doggedly expect Leinart to be a Hall of Fame quarterback someday, and this all but guarantees Arizona will be in the trash heap of the NFC for years to come. I disagree, and rather than a berth in the Hall of Fame, I expect Leinart will be known by the three I's: interceptions, injuries, and infections from Paris Hilton's herpetic cooze. The Cardinals have no hope. I look forward to this bright and cheerful future.
In all this contemplating Matt Leinart's already unremarkable career, however, I realized that he reminds me of something. At first, I couldn't think of what it is, but I knew it wasn't my jeep, my sound, my car, or my bank account (okay, maybe the bank account, since it's EMPTY). Then it hit me: Matt Leinart reminds me of my nefarious pug Chingy!
This similarity isn't because they really look alike, but essentially they are kindred spirits. Chingy! and Matt Leinart are both disgusting assholes. They both think they are hot shit, despite the fact that facts demonstrate otherwise. They are both useless in terms of making any meaningful contributions to their teams. They both stink, and I've never smelled Matt Leinart, but I have smelled eau de men's locker room, and I think it's a safe assumption that when he doesn't smell like sweaty jock straps, he submerges himself in Drakkar. Frankly, even if he smells like fresh baked cinnamon rolls all the time, his stats warrant the use of the term "stinks" so it all applies. They are both encouraged in their arrogance by fawning admirers who rave about how cute and wonderful and underrated they are and make excuses on their behalf. In fact, when they behave badly (by, say, eating homeless guy shit, vomiting up used tampons, ejaculating on my living room floor, or partying in a hot tub full of Arizona skanks instead of rehabbing one's shoulder), their admirers excuse and venerate it. If the aforementioned floor ejaculation incident hadn't motivated me to get Chingy! neutered, I'm certain that like Leinart he'd be fathering bastard Pug mixes all over my neighborhood.
I think I could go on all day about this, but unfortunately I now have to take Matt Leinart for a stroll around the park, where most likely he'll eat decomposing rodent, injure himself, or disdainfully wander off, forcing me to scale a hill or break into a construction site to retrieve him.
CHONGAY CHONG, Matt Leinart!
Labels: assholes, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, NFL football, retard rage
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Olympic gymsnatchtits judges
DOB: ???
Occupation: hating on America
Hometown: Australia, Russia, and China
Current residence: National Indoor Stadium, Beijing, China
Douchebaggery: Anyone who watched last night's uneven bars Olympic ladies gymsnatchtits individual medal competition knows that my barely legal girlfriend Nastia Liukin got screwed harder than me at an open bar nerd convention full of MIT graduates. She tied cheating thirteen-year-old He Kexin and wound up coming out behind courtesy of the new scoring system's wack tiebreaking rules. The undeservedly low score the Australian judge gave to Nastia fucked up her average, and she found herself with yet another silver medal in spite of earning the same score as her pubescent competition. That's right...they tied, and Nastia still lost. Thanks to the perpetually eloquent and informative Bela Karolyi ranting to Bob Costas about the scoring system afterward, this was due to "incompetence at the judging."
Similar issues with unfairly low scores posted by the Chinese and Russian judges screwed Alicia Sacramone out of a medal in the vaulting and almost fucked Nastia in the all-around. At least I expect the Russians and Chinese to play dirty when it comes to posting unfair gymsnatchtits scores reflecting an anti-American bias. Why the Australian judges have jumped enthusiastically into hating on Team USA is beyond me, but according to Valeri Liukin it's been this way for the past three world championships. Now I have a new reason not to go to Australia. Apart from the fact that Foster's sucks and they have horrifying spiders, they have American-screwing gymsnatchtits judges who are at best inexcusably inept and at worst flagrantly complicit in rigging the Chinese gold haul. Nastia was robbed, and to use the immortal words of Bev Niner's resident morally condescending slut Kelly Taylor, Australia is never again.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, international intrigue, Olympics, ranting
Monday, August 11, 2008
You may kiss the bride, or get pissed at the dickhead guest
On Saturday, I attended the wedding for two of my grad school buddies. They met in lab and are crazily in love and the event was generally a joyous one. Even a cynical old slut like myself is touched when two people are clearly devoted to each other and make it official. Besides, their wedding was not only perfect for them, it was a fun party on a lovely sunset cruise around Manhattan. One of their labmates served as their minister, they danced to Guns 'n' Roses, and there was an open bar with top shelf liquor. I enjoyed 99.9995% of the wedding.
The part of the wedding I did not enjoy, however, was the presence of That One Asshole who insists on being a bitch even at such a happy occasion. Every wedding, graduation, anniversary, or other happy life celebration usually includes That One Asshole. At my family gatherings, this is usually my Aunt Jesus, who likes to start fights about politics and/or religion. One year at my parents' annual Christmas open house, she started talking loudly about the sin of homosexuality in front of my cousin whose wife had recently left him for another woman. What purpose this served besides publicly humiliating my cousin–who was already devastated by the breakup of his almost twenty-year marriage–I have no idea, but that's how my Aunt Jesus rolls. Since she's constantly talking about what a fabulous Christian she is, I assume she learns that sort of behavior in church.
However, That One Asshole doesn't always come in the form of a fundamentalist Sean Hannity parrot. That One Asshole has many iterations, but their ultimate goal is always the same: to place their own need for overcompensation above all else, and rain on someone else's parade in the process. In the case of the wedding I attended, That One Asshole was one of the most insidious breeds of cocksucking dickheadishness in existence: a Columbia University graduate student.
The wedding took place on the top floor of this boat, which was a tight squeeze for all the guests. There were some folding chairs arranged in rows, and some benches along the wall behind tables. Because I boarded the boat early with my buddy NeisMan and his girlfriend NeisLady, we squeezed into the benches along the wall so people wouldn't have to squeeze past us later. That One Asshole sat in the folding chair across from the table in front of me. When he sat down, I thought he looked familiar, but couldn't place him. He gave me a weird look, and I figured he must have felt the same way, but didn't think much of it and spent the pre-ceremony time trying to give NeisLady tips on avoiding seasickness. Specifically, I was telling her not to look down. That turned into a conversation about how glass bottomed boat tours are the worst thing for anyone to do if prone to seasickness, and I told a brief anecdote about how I once saw a guy blow chunks on such a boat trip in Hawaii. Apparently That One Asshole was listening to our conversation, because he turned to me and said, "Do you think you can NOT talk about puking at a wedding?"
"Sorry," I said, somewhat irritated. I had not been talking particularly loudly. Since I know I am naturally louder than most people, I make a conscious effort to tone it down at events like weddings to avoid being That One Asshole myself. I don't want people to think I'm an embarrassment, so I go to great lengths to ensure that I'm not hollering about blow jobs and assfucking and who is a motherfucker and whatnot as a happy couple is about to exchange their vows. I also get really annoyed when this goes unnoticed. At a bridal shower I attended a while back, some of my friends were trying so hard to "handle" me that I almost went off about it. However, then I remembered that interrupting an event with a temper tantrum is also That One Asshole behavior, so I just sucked it up, gritted my teeth, reminded myself that my friends are humans who make mistakes too, and allowed myself to be managed like an unruly child, proving (at least to myself) that I can in fact be a mature adult when an occasion calls for it. That's why when this dude basically shushed me, I just smiled and changed the subject. Then the wedding started.
We all stood as the bride entered, and NeisLady's girlfriend whispered to me that she looked beautiful. I whispered back my agreement, as she did in fact look radiant and very happy. However, I was feeling less than radiant, because there was no room to stand behind the table we were seated at, and trying to awkwardly balance with hyperextended knees on a rocking boat in four-inch heels is extremely uncomfortable. When the minister grad student told us to be seated, I did so gratefully and whispered to NeisLady (who was suffering the same), "Thank God." That One Asshole glared at me and said loudly to his neighbor, "I could do without the COMMENTARY." Again, I'm not trying to be That One Asshole who bitches out another wedding guest during the ceremony, so I just smiled and turned my attention to the nuptials in progress.
That One Asshole continued to shoot me the evil eye throughout the ceremony for offenses such as digging out my Kleenex when I started tearing up. As embarrassing as it is, I almost always cry at weddings. I'm not sure why, but my emotions get the better of me when I see a couple who love each other expressing it so openly, and making a commitment as abiding and legally serious as marriage. This is probably because it seems like a convention of human society that I will most likely never participate in, and thus regard it as something special and rare. That One Asshole seemingly did not even tolerate this one weakness on my part, and expressed his disapproval by doing a lot of loud, exasperated sighing and eye rolling. When the ceremony ended, my friend G-Cat's girlfriend G-Kitten was crying too, so I went with her to the bar to be with more sympathetic company.
A while later during the pre-dinner drinks-and-hors d'oeuvres portion of the party, I was standing with my pals DulapVara and Carcass, as well as NeisMan, NeisLady, G-Cat, and G-Kitten on the rear deck of the boat taking in the scenery. At one point a Circle Line boat full of photo snapping tourists sailed by. While my normal instinct would be to flash my tits and/or give them the finger and shout "WELCOME TO FUCKIN' NEW YORK!," I just waved and blew kisses to be a good wedding guest (okay, I think I did do the middle finger/cussing thing a little later, but I made sure nobody was watching except my friends). Nonetheless, That One Asshole, standing on the other side of the deck smoking a cigarette, proceeded to continue his relentless mean-mugging. "Hey dudes," I said to my friends. "Who is that guy? The dude over there who keeps glaring at me."
"Why? You got him in your sights? Uh oh," said one of my wiseass friends.
"Very funny," I said. "No, I mean I guess he's good looking, but he seems to hate me for some reason. I know I've met him somewhere before."
"I think he's a grad student. From a lab on the Morningside campus. Biology department, I think," one of my friends said.
Hmmm. The bride is a member of the biology department, even though she works uptown at our campus with us. Then it hit me like a hard dick from the back. I suddenly remembered where I met That One Asshole.
At the bride and groom's engagement party many months earlier, I had been flirting with That One Asshole. By normal standards, he's pretty average looking, which means by grad school standards he's a veritable Adonis. At their engagement party, he was certainly the only guy in attendance I'd consider hooking up with. I remember sitting in the bedroom at this party with him discussing that very prospect and possibly making out a little bit (I don't remember, but considering my availability for sucking face, it's highly probable). However, the deal was killed when he informed me that he's into S&M, and he expected me to smack him around in the bedroom. He didn't just want me to do some playful spanking; he wanted me to punch him and put all my effort into beating the shit out of him. This was a problem for me.
I'm by no means a prude, but all that domination crap does nothing for me. I don't mind telling a dude he's my bitch, or tying him up, or ordering him to do things, but I'm not comfortable with the idea of physically abusing someone, even if they want me to. For another thing, the people who are really into this lifestyle are generally huge pains in the ass. One of my friends was hired to be a (non-sexual) dominatrix when she first moved to New York, as her "slave" promised this was good money for little more than slapping him around and making him do her chores. She figured this was a great way to get paid for relieving her stress and getting free maid services. Unfortunately, the guy was constantly pestering her to hit him harder and complained that she wasn't putting enough effort into enslaving him. When she tried to counter with "shut up like a good sub" sentiments, he still whined that she wasn't being sufficiently mean or dominant. Eventually she decided to make her money via more conventional means and do her own dishes, and told her slave to find a new mistress. Her story convinced me that the BDSM scene is something I really don't care to be a part of, simply because it sounds like a lot of really annoying work (not to mention a sizable financial investment in ball gags and nipple clamps and all that fetish crap that costs a fortune but seems to be requisite for that lifestyle). Thus, this guy's request that I go Ike Turner on his ass was unappealing as far as drunken post-party sex goes.
Luckily, I didn't even have to finish processing about my discomfort with his proposition, because this other guy who had been following me around like a dog all night came in and deftly cockblocked That One Asshole. This other guy was very nice, but he was literally a foot shorter than me (I'm 5'3"), and as much as my inner profound nerd loves Lord of the Rings, I'm not into fucking hobbits. Plus, he was not pathetically not picking up on my signals of disinterest (ie: constantly ditching him to talk to other people), as indicated by the fact that I was talking flirtatiously with That One Asshole and he stomped up, shoved his iPhone in my face, and said, "Hey, let's do the phone number thing!"
"The phone number thing?"
"Yeah, let's do it! Let's exchange phone numbers! Let's do that phone number thing!"
Poor guy. I evaded his request by telling him he could just send me a Facebook message, which he did, and which I ignored. I also decided to ditch That One Asshole and his face-punching demands by making a hasty escape from that party with my boys G-Cat, NeisMan, and Carcass. That might explain why he was so pissed at me at this wedding. He strikes me as very arrogant, and nothing pisses off a cocksure narcissist like being left in the condition that Lil' Kim describes as "stuck and left nekkid with a hard penis." Okay, I didn't leave him naked except in the figurative sense of having revealed his personal sexual fetish, but I'm pretty sure he was mad about his blue balls because guys usually are.
For the sake of a harmonious wedding and to seem like a gracious almost-former-hook up, when I realized That One Asshole was seated at the same table as G-Cat, G-Kitten, myself, and Carcass, I tried to make nice.
"Hey, dude!" I said. "How are you doing? I didn't get a chance to say hi earlier."
"Yes you did. You just chose to ignore me when I said 'hi' to you," he snipped. Oops. I hadn't heard him greet me.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't realize you said hi. It was completely unintentional." I then realized he didn't have a cocktail. "Can I get you a drink to make it up to you?" I asked.
"I'm not drinking," he said huffily. "I have to go to lab tomorrow."
"So do I," I said, raising my scotch. "That's not stopping me."
He gave me a withering look, so I decided that it was an opportune time to hit the buffet. I spent the rest of the meal talking with everyone else at the table, including one of his friends I'd never met before. His friend was a very jovial, chatty guy who got me going on one of my favorite topics: this very blog. That One Asshole piped in to say snottily that he had aspirations of being a science writer after getting Ph.ake doctored, but didn't know how to go about getting his foot in the door. So after dinner, I saw him on the yacht deck smoking, and went over to continue my attempts at friendliness.
"You know," I said. "If you are really serious about getting into writing, you might consider starting a blog. It's really easy to do, and it's great practice for me. Besides, then when you apply for jobs, you have a body of work you can refer to."
He seemed to lighten up a little bit, and asked me a little bit about my traffic and whatnot. I said, "Really, if I were to get a job as a science writer, I doubt I would refer them to my website. Most science journalists don't routinely incorporate words like 'cocksucker' and 'motherfucker' or anecdotal tales of anal sex into their prose, but it's useful to further develop my style and improve my writing. It's also pretty cathartic and helps keep me honest."
I then realized that I needed a refill on my hooch, so I excused myself. However, our small talk had gone so well I was considering that he might not be such an asshole as I first thought. Maybe he just took it really personally that I'd accidentally slighted him when he greeted me, and realized that it was not intentional. Maybe he was giving me the benefit of the doubt and rethinking his perception of my rudeness.
After the boat docked, most of my fellow alcoholics (including the bride and groom) decided to go get some drinks at the Boat Basin Café before it closed. Carcass and I walked from the dock there with That One Asshole, who was vacillating about whether or not he should go. He then demonstrated that he was not, in fact, over his assholishness, nor was it directed exclusively at me.
"It's getting late," he said. Carcass pointed out that it was barely 11 p.m., which by New York Saturday night standards is practically the afternoon in terms of its lateness. That One Asshole did not appreciate this reminder, and said condescendingly, "The Asian markets open in a couple hours."
The Asian markets? SO? I just don't believe that when he's not slaving away in lab or dreaming of one day writing feature pieces for Scientific American, That One Asshole is busy trading rice futures or whatever. Neither did Carcass, who decided to call him on his bullshit.
"Tomorrow is SUNDAY," Carcass said.
"It's Monday in Asia," That One Asshole said.
"Uh, no, it's not," Carcass added. That One Asshole rolled his eyes, made a scoffing sound, and ditched us. When we got to the Boat Basin Café, I wound up sitting at the same table as That One Asshole, who was nursing his beer and generally being quietly surly. His jovial friend from earlier was chatting with me, and somehow the topic of HIV came up and we had a good-natured scientific debate about it. The friend argued that men could only get HIV by having anal sex with a woman, because vaginal secretions have an insufficient viral load to transmit infection and men can only get the HIV by exposing their weiners to blood, and bleeding only occurs during anal sex. I was vehemently arguing that this was not true (it's not AT ALL true, so fellas, make sure you wrap it up).
"Vaginal secretions have as high a viral load as blood or semen, dude. Furthermore, don't believe that vaginas don't bleed, because I can assure you that they do," I said. "As both a virologist and a slut, I caution you: if you raw dog chicks vaginally, you do so at your own peril."
Before the friend could respond, That One Asshole chimed in.
"Don't you have any sense of decorum whatsoever?" he said in a scathing tone of voice. The table was immediately shocked into the uncomfortable silence that follows such an undeserved and pointed insult delivered as a reprimand. There was no mistaking it. That One Asshole felt such patent dislike for me that he was going to publicly dress me down for arguing my position in response to HIS friend's equally loud assertions about HIV transmission mediated by anal tearing during buttfucking in a virtually empty bar populated solely by drunk people.
"Apparently not," I said, glowering at him. Then I turned to his friend and said loudly, "Is there any particular reason that guy is such a fucking asshole?" The friend told me to ignore him. I said no problem, and excused myself to rejoin my boys at their table. They all commiserrated with me regarding this guy's dickishness, and added their own anecdotes of how he'd been an unmitigated dickhead throughout the course of the wedding. Since we were being kicked out of the bar by the closing staff, we elected to call it a night rather than continue drinking with That One Asshole. We may not have had to rise early to greet the opening Asian markets, but we did all have to go to lab the next day.
As someone whose apparent lack of decorum has now been publicly observed and who has the potential to be That One Asshole, I advise everyone with similar tendencies to rein it in at otherwise fun social occasions. Although I had a generally great time at my friends' wedding, and I wish them all the happiness in the world and a wonderful life together, That One Asshole is now going to mar my and other guests' memories of the occasion. If everyone with That One Asshole potential would resist the urge to satisfy those impulses, weddings would be happier occasions. Then again, most people who are not obviously insecure, overcompensating closet subs getting revenge on the random girl who declined to slap them around and then inadvertantly snubbed them by talking down to her and her friends, and can thus avoid being That One Asshole without my advice. However, if you are a self-important jerk trying desperately to impress people at an event celebrating someone else's achievement, acting like the bigger person is a better way to accomplish that than making pompous explanations for sobriety involving the Asian markets or your superior decorum. Nobody likes That One Asshole, so don't be him.
The part of the wedding I did not enjoy, however, was the presence of That One Asshole who insists on being a bitch even at such a happy occasion. Every wedding, graduation, anniversary, or other happy life celebration usually includes That One Asshole. At my family gatherings, this is usually my Aunt Jesus, who likes to start fights about politics and/or religion. One year at my parents' annual Christmas open house, she started talking loudly about the sin of homosexuality in front of my cousin whose wife had recently left him for another woman. What purpose this served besides publicly humiliating my cousin–who was already devastated by the breakup of his almost twenty-year marriage–I have no idea, but that's how my Aunt Jesus rolls. Since she's constantly talking about what a fabulous Christian she is, I assume she learns that sort of behavior in church.
However, That One Asshole doesn't always come in the form of a fundamentalist Sean Hannity parrot. That One Asshole has many iterations, but their ultimate goal is always the same: to place their own need for overcompensation above all else, and rain on someone else's parade in the process. In the case of the wedding I attended, That One Asshole was one of the most insidious breeds of cocksucking dickheadishness in existence: a Columbia University graduate student.
The wedding took place on the top floor of this boat, which was a tight squeeze for all the guests. There were some folding chairs arranged in rows, and some benches along the wall behind tables. Because I boarded the boat early with my buddy NeisMan and his girlfriend NeisLady, we squeezed into the benches along the wall so people wouldn't have to squeeze past us later. That One Asshole sat in the folding chair across from the table in front of me. When he sat down, I thought he looked familiar, but couldn't place him. He gave me a weird look, and I figured he must have felt the same way, but didn't think much of it and spent the pre-ceremony time trying to give NeisLady tips on avoiding seasickness. Specifically, I was telling her not to look down. That turned into a conversation about how glass bottomed boat tours are the worst thing for anyone to do if prone to seasickness, and I told a brief anecdote about how I once saw a guy blow chunks on such a boat trip in Hawaii. Apparently That One Asshole was listening to our conversation, because he turned to me and said, "Do you think you can NOT talk about puking at a wedding?"
"Sorry," I said, somewhat irritated. I had not been talking particularly loudly. Since I know I am naturally louder than most people, I make a conscious effort to tone it down at events like weddings to avoid being That One Asshole myself. I don't want people to think I'm an embarrassment, so I go to great lengths to ensure that I'm not hollering about blow jobs and assfucking and who is a motherfucker and whatnot as a happy couple is about to exchange their vows. I also get really annoyed when this goes unnoticed. At a bridal shower I attended a while back, some of my friends were trying so hard to "handle" me that I almost went off about it. However, then I remembered that interrupting an event with a temper tantrum is also That One Asshole behavior, so I just sucked it up, gritted my teeth, reminded myself that my friends are humans who make mistakes too, and allowed myself to be managed like an unruly child, proving (at least to myself) that I can in fact be a mature adult when an occasion calls for it. That's why when this dude basically shushed me, I just smiled and changed the subject. Then the wedding started.
We all stood as the bride entered, and NeisLady's girlfriend whispered to me that she looked beautiful. I whispered back my agreement, as she did in fact look radiant and very happy. However, I was feeling less than radiant, because there was no room to stand behind the table we were seated at, and trying to awkwardly balance with hyperextended knees on a rocking boat in four-inch heels is extremely uncomfortable. When the minister grad student told us to be seated, I did so gratefully and whispered to NeisLady (who was suffering the same), "Thank God." That One Asshole glared at me and said loudly to his neighbor, "I could do without the COMMENTARY." Again, I'm not trying to be That One Asshole who bitches out another wedding guest during the ceremony, so I just smiled and turned my attention to the nuptials in progress.
That One Asshole continued to shoot me the evil eye throughout the ceremony for offenses such as digging out my Kleenex when I started tearing up. As embarrassing as it is, I almost always cry at weddings. I'm not sure why, but my emotions get the better of me when I see a couple who love each other expressing it so openly, and making a commitment as abiding and legally serious as marriage. This is probably because it seems like a convention of human society that I will most likely never participate in, and thus regard it as something special and rare. That One Asshole seemingly did not even tolerate this one weakness on my part, and expressed his disapproval by doing a lot of loud, exasperated sighing and eye rolling. When the ceremony ended, my friend G-Cat's girlfriend G-Kitten was crying too, so I went with her to the bar to be with more sympathetic company.
A while later during the pre-dinner drinks-and-hors d'oeuvres portion of the party, I was standing with my pals DulapVara and Carcass, as well as NeisMan, NeisLady, G-Cat, and G-Kitten on the rear deck of the boat taking in the scenery. At one point a Circle Line boat full of photo snapping tourists sailed by. While my normal instinct would be to flash my tits and/or give them the finger and shout "WELCOME TO FUCKIN' NEW YORK!," I just waved and blew kisses to be a good wedding guest (okay, I think I did do the middle finger/cussing thing a little later, but I made sure nobody was watching except my friends). Nonetheless, That One Asshole, standing on the other side of the deck smoking a cigarette, proceeded to continue his relentless mean-mugging. "Hey dudes," I said to my friends. "Who is that guy? The dude over there who keeps glaring at me."
"Why? You got him in your sights? Uh oh," said one of my wiseass friends.
"Very funny," I said. "No, I mean I guess he's good looking, but he seems to hate me for some reason. I know I've met him somewhere before."
"I think he's a grad student. From a lab on the Morningside campus. Biology department, I think," one of my friends said.
Hmmm. The bride is a member of the biology department, even though she works uptown at our campus with us. Then it hit me like a hard dick from the back. I suddenly remembered where I met That One Asshole.
At the bride and groom's engagement party many months earlier, I had been flirting with That One Asshole. By normal standards, he's pretty average looking, which means by grad school standards he's a veritable Adonis. At their engagement party, he was certainly the only guy in attendance I'd consider hooking up with. I remember sitting in the bedroom at this party with him discussing that very prospect and possibly making out a little bit (I don't remember, but considering my availability for sucking face, it's highly probable). However, the deal was killed when he informed me that he's into S&M, and he expected me to smack him around in the bedroom. He didn't just want me to do some playful spanking; he wanted me to punch him and put all my effort into beating the shit out of him. This was a problem for me.
I'm by no means a prude, but all that domination crap does nothing for me. I don't mind telling a dude he's my bitch, or tying him up, or ordering him to do things, but I'm not comfortable with the idea of physically abusing someone, even if they want me to. For another thing, the people who are really into this lifestyle are generally huge pains in the ass. One of my friends was hired to be a (non-sexual) dominatrix when she first moved to New York, as her "slave" promised this was good money for little more than slapping him around and making him do her chores. She figured this was a great way to get paid for relieving her stress and getting free maid services. Unfortunately, the guy was constantly pestering her to hit him harder and complained that she wasn't putting enough effort into enslaving him. When she tried to counter with "shut up like a good sub" sentiments, he still whined that she wasn't being sufficiently mean or dominant. Eventually she decided to make her money via more conventional means and do her own dishes, and told her slave to find a new mistress. Her story convinced me that the BDSM scene is something I really don't care to be a part of, simply because it sounds like a lot of really annoying work (not to mention a sizable financial investment in ball gags and nipple clamps and all that fetish crap that costs a fortune but seems to be requisite for that lifestyle). Thus, this guy's request that I go Ike Turner on his ass was unappealing as far as drunken post-party sex goes.
Luckily, I didn't even have to finish processing about my discomfort with his proposition, because this other guy who had been following me around like a dog all night came in and deftly cockblocked That One Asshole. This other guy was very nice, but he was literally a foot shorter than me (I'm 5'3"), and as much as my inner profound nerd loves Lord of the Rings, I'm not into fucking hobbits. Plus, he was not pathetically not picking up on my signals of disinterest (ie: constantly ditching him to talk to other people), as indicated by the fact that I was talking flirtatiously with That One Asshole and he stomped up, shoved his iPhone in my face, and said, "Hey, let's do the phone number thing!"
"The phone number thing?"
"Yeah, let's do it! Let's exchange phone numbers! Let's do that phone number thing!"
Poor guy. I evaded his request by telling him he could just send me a Facebook message, which he did, and which I ignored. I also decided to ditch That One Asshole and his face-punching demands by making a hasty escape from that party with my boys G-Cat, NeisMan, and Carcass. That might explain why he was so pissed at me at this wedding. He strikes me as very arrogant, and nothing pisses off a cocksure narcissist like being left in the condition that Lil' Kim describes as "stuck and left nekkid with a hard penis." Okay, I didn't leave him naked except in the figurative sense of having revealed his personal sexual fetish, but I'm pretty sure he was mad about his blue balls because guys usually are.
For the sake of a harmonious wedding and to seem like a gracious almost-former-hook up, when I realized That One Asshole was seated at the same table as G-Cat, G-Kitten, myself, and Carcass, I tried to make nice.
"Hey, dude!" I said. "How are you doing? I didn't get a chance to say hi earlier."
"Yes you did. You just chose to ignore me when I said 'hi' to you," he snipped. Oops. I hadn't heard him greet me.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't realize you said hi. It was completely unintentional." I then realized he didn't have a cocktail. "Can I get you a drink to make it up to you?" I asked.
"I'm not drinking," he said huffily. "I have to go to lab tomorrow."
"So do I," I said, raising my scotch. "That's not stopping me."
He gave me a withering look, so I decided that it was an opportune time to hit the buffet. I spent the rest of the meal talking with everyone else at the table, including one of his friends I'd never met before. His friend was a very jovial, chatty guy who got me going on one of my favorite topics: this very blog. That One Asshole piped in to say snottily that he had aspirations of being a science writer after getting Ph.ake doctored, but didn't know how to go about getting his foot in the door. So after dinner, I saw him on the yacht deck smoking, and went over to continue my attempts at friendliness.
"You know," I said. "If you are really serious about getting into writing, you might consider starting a blog. It's really easy to do, and it's great practice for me. Besides, then when you apply for jobs, you have a body of work you can refer to."
He seemed to lighten up a little bit, and asked me a little bit about my traffic and whatnot. I said, "Really, if I were to get a job as a science writer, I doubt I would refer them to my website. Most science journalists don't routinely incorporate words like 'cocksucker' and 'motherfucker' or anecdotal tales of anal sex into their prose, but it's useful to further develop my style and improve my writing. It's also pretty cathartic and helps keep me honest."
I then realized that I needed a refill on my hooch, so I excused myself. However, our small talk had gone so well I was considering that he might not be such an asshole as I first thought. Maybe he just took it really personally that I'd accidentally slighted him when he greeted me, and realized that it was not intentional. Maybe he was giving me the benefit of the doubt and rethinking his perception of my rudeness.
After the boat docked, most of my fellow alcoholics (including the bride and groom) decided to go get some drinks at the Boat Basin Café before it closed. Carcass and I walked from the dock there with That One Asshole, who was vacillating about whether or not he should go. He then demonstrated that he was not, in fact, over his assholishness, nor was it directed exclusively at me.
"It's getting late," he said. Carcass pointed out that it was barely 11 p.m., which by New York Saturday night standards is practically the afternoon in terms of its lateness. That One Asshole did not appreciate this reminder, and said condescendingly, "The Asian markets open in a couple hours."
The Asian markets? SO? I just don't believe that when he's not slaving away in lab or dreaming of one day writing feature pieces for Scientific American, That One Asshole is busy trading rice futures or whatever. Neither did Carcass, who decided to call him on his bullshit.
"Tomorrow is SUNDAY," Carcass said.
"It's Monday in Asia," That One Asshole said.
"Uh, no, it's not," Carcass added. That One Asshole rolled his eyes, made a scoffing sound, and ditched us. When we got to the Boat Basin Café, I wound up sitting at the same table as That One Asshole, who was nursing his beer and generally being quietly surly. His jovial friend from earlier was chatting with me, and somehow the topic of HIV came up and we had a good-natured scientific debate about it. The friend argued that men could only get HIV by having anal sex with a woman, because vaginal secretions have an insufficient viral load to transmit infection and men can only get the HIV by exposing their weiners to blood, and bleeding only occurs during anal sex. I was vehemently arguing that this was not true (it's not AT ALL true, so fellas, make sure you wrap it up).
"Vaginal secretions have as high a viral load as blood or semen, dude. Furthermore, don't believe that vaginas don't bleed, because I can assure you that they do," I said. "As both a virologist and a slut, I caution you: if you raw dog chicks vaginally, you do so at your own peril."
Before the friend could respond, That One Asshole chimed in.
"Don't you have any sense of decorum whatsoever?" he said in a scathing tone of voice. The table was immediately shocked into the uncomfortable silence that follows such an undeserved and pointed insult delivered as a reprimand. There was no mistaking it. That One Asshole felt such patent dislike for me that he was going to publicly dress me down for arguing my position in response to HIS friend's equally loud assertions about HIV transmission mediated by anal tearing during buttfucking in a virtually empty bar populated solely by drunk people.
"Apparently not," I said, glowering at him. Then I turned to his friend and said loudly, "Is there any particular reason that guy is such a fucking asshole?" The friend told me to ignore him. I said no problem, and excused myself to rejoin my boys at their table. They all commiserrated with me regarding this guy's dickishness, and added their own anecdotes of how he'd been an unmitigated dickhead throughout the course of the wedding. Since we were being kicked out of the bar by the closing staff, we elected to call it a night rather than continue drinking with That One Asshole. We may not have had to rise early to greet the opening Asian markets, but we did all have to go to lab the next day.
As someone whose apparent lack of decorum has now been publicly observed and who has the potential to be That One Asshole, I advise everyone with similar tendencies to rein it in at otherwise fun social occasions. Although I had a generally great time at my friends' wedding, and I wish them all the happiness in the world and a wonderful life together, That One Asshole is now going to mar my and other guests' memories of the occasion. If everyone with That One Asshole potential would resist the urge to satisfy those impulses, weddings would be happier occasions. Then again, most people who are not obviously insecure, overcompensating closet subs getting revenge on the random girl who declined to slap them around and then inadvertantly snubbed them by talking down to her and her friends, and can thus avoid being That One Asshole without my advice. However, if you are a self-important jerk trying desperately to impress people at an event celebrating someone else's achievement, acting like the bigger person is a better way to accomplish that than making pompous explanations for sobriety involving the Asian markets or your superior decorum. Nobody likes That One Asshole, so don't be him.
Labels: assholes, grad school bullshit, holy fucking matrimony, NYC, retard rage, scathing indictments
Daily Douchebag: Alain Bernard
DOB: May 1, 1983
Occupation: Olympic swimmer, un-backing-up shit talker
Hometown: Aubagne, France
Current residence: the ignonimy of defeat, Beijing, China
Douchebaggery: I have spent so much time rooting against China that I've forgotten that there are plenty of other countries whose asses I'd like America to summarily kick, as well. One of the leaders among my most-hated foreign nations is France. Apart from producing some solid wine, cheese, pepper steak, baguettes, inspiration for my boy Chopin to compose some of his greatest piano works, and part of the backdrop for my favorite Hemingway novel, France leads Europe in the garnering of my disdain. I can't stand the snotty, entitled attitude that the French are famous for, and nothing brings out my inner uncouth asshole redneck American like a Frenchman waxing on about how culturally superior his country is. One time, back when I lived in Seattle, I was at this pretentious bar with a couple of my coworkers and was making fun of how another colleague used to show off his high school French–or at least his over-the-top French accent–whenever he called one of our collaborators in France.
"And zen, Docteur So-and-So, yeu will spectratype ze T cells, oui? J'adore yeur deft analeesees of our samples, cheri," I was saying, while my coworkers laughed. The guy sitting next to us at the bar overheard, and butted in.
"I am Française," he said bitchily. "Zis ees exactly why we zink Americaines are steupeed eediots." He gave me a look like, "DAMN, I just owned you, Americaine swine!" Bad idea.
"Oh, really? Well, if you don't like it, none of us will stop you from going back to France. In fact, that would be preferable, since that way we won't have to endure your rude butting in to our conversation."
The French guy just glared at me and rolled his eyes. I wasn't having it. Time to break out my favorite anti-French insult. It's clichéd, but like blue jeans, Coca-Cola, or blow jobs, it never goes out of style.
"Don't give me that 'oh, you crude American' eye roll, Pierre. If it weren't for us, your ass would be speaking German right now." At that point the French guy decided he'd had enough, and promptly began ignoring us. I started telling obnoxious French jokes loudly to my coworker friends, who were enjoying the whole spectacle. "Why are French tanks equipped with rearview mirrors? So they can see the battle," I said. French guy settled his tab and left shortly thereafter. I win again and as usual!
Anyway, very few things satisfy me more than putting an overconfident Frenchman in his place, and I'm glad the U.S. men's Olympic swimming team could do just that. Apparently, one of the few things France is good at besides insufferable condescension is men's swimming. As I would expect from an athlete originating in the country where the word "douche" originated, one of the guys from Team France decided to dismissively shit-talk Team USA's prospects in the 4x100 m relay. "The Americans?" said French swimmer Alain Bernard. "We're going to smash them. That's what we came here for." That's some serious dick-swinging being done by a lead singer-of-Coldplay-looking man who has to rely on a shark tattoo to butch himself up.
Alain should have taken some lessons from other incidences of "we will crush you" shit-talking that backfired hard. Once Roy Williams of the Detroit Lions foolishly vowed to crush the Chicago Bears after they opened the season losing 9-6 to the Seahawks, after adding, "it was stupid how close we were to putting forty points on the board." The vaunted 2006 Lions went on to lose 34-6 to Chicago. In another incident, then-Seahawks tight-end Jerramy Stevens made some comments prior to Super Bowl XL, saying, "It's going to be a sad day when (Jerome Bettis) doesn't walk off the field with that trophy." To this day, I blame Jerramy Stevens's hubris almost as much as I blame Bill Leavy's heavily Steeler-biased officiating for a day that lives in infamy with 12th Men everywhere. There are countless instances of some player firing off his mouth and then getting spanked for it when it matters, and if Alain Bernard weren't so busy looking down his elitist French nose at Team USA, he might have considered that prior to giving our guys some motivation.
Not only did Team USA take the gold in the 4x100 relay, they completely owned Alain Bernard and his compatriots in the process. It appeared that going into the final 100 meters, France was winning. Luckily Jason Lezak wasn't about to let Alain Bernard or the French-held world record in this event get in his way. He made up America's lost time and kicked Alain Bernard's ass in the final 50 meters and set a world record for relay split swimming in the process. To add extra sweetness to the victory, the record Lezak broke was Bernard's. Suck on that, Alain Bernard and France. USA! U! S! A! U! S! A!
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, Olympics, overcompensation, sportsmen, United States of Asskickery
Friday, August 08, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Brett Favre AGAIN
DOB: October 10, 1969
Occupation: brand spanking OLD New York Jets quarterback
Hometown: Kiln, Mississippi
Current residence: house hunting somewhere around the Meadowlands
Douchebaggery: While I loved some of the plot twists in the whole sordid scandal concerning Brett Favre's unretirement (like the Machiavellian schemes of the Minnesota Vikings to flirt with Brett Favre on the sly using a Packers-issued cell phone and the Packers' subsequent desperate attempts to give him a $20 million pension if only he'd stay back home on his tractor), I am incredibly unhappy with the ultimate outcome. I'm tired of Brett Favre. I'm tired of hearing commentators rave about his "gunslinger mentality" and his stupid consecutive starting record. I was so glad last March when made my entire spring by announcing that he was leaving professional football amidst a deluge of man tears. I was weeping tears of joy.
Unfortunately, my delirious ecstasy regarding the No Favre League was fleeting. Brett changed his mind within a few short months, and the next thing I know, I'm waking up to THIS on the covers (front and back) of my local papers:
The media frenzy of reporting on every last bit of minutiae concerned Favre's initiation into Gang Green is nothing, however, compared to the marketing onslaught already in full force. I found THIS in my e-mail inbox within two hours of the announcement that he was coming to the Meadowlands, primarily to annoy me but also apparently to replace the perenially dismal Chad Pennington and supposedly save the Jets from yet another year of crushing failure.
Since when have I been a Jets fan? I can't recall a single time I've given a rat's ass about the Jets except to curse Laveranues Coles viciously with every breath two years ago when he proved to be one of the most lackluster receivers ever to start for my usually awesome Fantasy team. Since 99.99999% of my NFLshop.com purchases have been Seahawks paraphernalia, I can only assume that NFLshop.com thought I would be interested because my mailing address is in New York. Then again, I know that NFLshop.com really needs to step up its consumer targeting practices, since they had the audacity to send me a catalog of Pittsburgh Steelers Super Bowl XL commemorative regalia. I wouldn't even wipe my ass with a Terrible Towel, and the one pair of Steelers underwear I own (purchased on sale a good 5 years prior to the travesty occurring at Ford Field in 2006) is strictly reserved for period use only. I don't want to see anything from those assholes in my inbox, save maybe an announcement declaring that neon green Deion Branch receiver gloves are half off.
Brett Favre's only been here one day, and already I'm over it. I am praying to St. Sebastian (patron saint of athletes) that Brett Favre breaks his pinky in week 1 and spends the rest of the season being crucified Chad Pennington style by the New York media for being a pussy.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, NFL football, retard rage
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Katy Perry
Name: Katheryn Hudson
DOB: October 25, 1984
Occupation: dumbass
Hometown: Santa Barbara, California
Current residence: Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: When I was visiting my friend LL Cool Jew a while back in New Orleans, we were driving around and there was a commercial on the rap station (which in the Crescent City is basically an all-Lil' Wayne channel). "Let's listen to the teenager station!" she said, and changed the channel. Then that "I Kissed a Girl" song came on the radio. LL Cool Jew stopped compulsively twirling her hair and a look of horror came on her face as she listened to the lyrics.
"You're my experimental game?" LL Cool Jew asked. "Is this for fucking real?"
"Dude, this is like the #1 download on iTunes, and it has been for a while," I said.
"It's not what good girls do? I hope my boyfriend don't mind it?!" LL Cool Jew continued, looking progressively more disgusted. "I didn't know exploitive faux lesbianism was the new rebellion!"
"Go figure, dude," I said. "Thanks to Tila Tequila, all the dumb bitches on MySpace are now aware that making out with chicks is a great way to get guys' attention."
LL Cool Jew continued to shake her head with a look of stern disapproval on her face (thank God she didn't hear Katy Perry's OTHER song, "Ur So Gay"), and cleansed our musical palette by switching back to the Lil' Wayne channel. She's also not the first of my friends to find Katy Perry's ode to dyke-to-be-liked offensive. FalloniusMonk summed it up perfectly. "Enough of this Katy Perry horseshit. This isn't about Chapstick. It's about pussy."
I think that myself and all my friends with an ounce of gayness are deeply annoyed that a former gospel singer like Katy Perry has appropriated lesbianism as some kind of cheap ploy for attention. Although I generally bust on lezzies regularly and act very cavalier about my predilection for some hot girl-on-girl, being (partially) gay is still a struggle sometimes. When I was trying to cope with being a lesbian teenager in Catholic school, I read a lot of (Smith alumna) Sylvia Plath and filled about fifty notebooks with appalling poetry and spent a lot of time crying. I felt like a freak and my psychotic ex-girlfriend did little to make coming to terms with my sexuality any easier. Even as an adult, it took me a long time to admit to being bisexual, and sometimes that is still difficult to explain to people. Hearing Katy Perry sing about it like it's a fucking trucker hat or a vintage t-shirt or some other lame edgy hipster accessory makes me want to smack a bitch for her audacity.
What I think is even more irksome is the fact that all the kiddies have latched onto Katy Perry's "Look at me, I made out with some random chick" schtick like it's some kind of anthem for nonconformist rebellion. An entire generation of Ramones shirt-wearing emo assholes now think that dyk