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
K-Fed is Overfed
Every time I see a picture of Kevin Federline, I'm continually shocked that he manages to get even fatter. At first, I was like "Wow, K-Fed's packed on a little chunk. He's not going to get any backup dancing gigs looking like that." Then, I was like, "K-Fed could easily afford a personal trainer with the $30K a month from Brit Brit's coffers that he stacks each month." I thought to myself how sad it is that K-Fed would give up on his lifelong dream of being a complete mockery of a rap star just because he was busy cashing in on the child support and alimony gold mine and living's easy. Does the man have no dignity or self-respect?
Now I am actually wondering if he's really just a savvy businessman. K-Fed has gone beyond the one-too-many-meals-a-day-at-Popeye's level of fat and has exploded into the elite upper echelons of morbid obesity. I mean, the ground shakes when he approaches like it's fucking Jurassic Park. Seriously, I look at him, and I see one of the cave trolls from Lord of the Rings wearing a douched-up pair of D&G shades. Give the man a mace or a club and he's ready to fuck up some hobbits.
This can mean only one thing: he's angling for a show on TLC. He's got all the makings of a TLC star: a staggeringly astronomical body mass index score, too many children, a crazy ex-wife, and minor celebrity gleaned from basically just fucking around. It will be like "The 750-lb Man" meets "Jon and Kate Plus 8." Ratings gold!
(Yes, I'd watch it.)
Labels: celebrities, fat fucks, Kevin Federline
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Washington state ride or die
Those of you who are not addicted to the gossip internets may not be familiar with Katie Price, a sophisticated English lady who became famous posing topless for London's version of the New York Post. She got so famous showing her tits–sorry, I mean glamour modeling–that she decided to get a new set of modest F cups installed. Then she banged out a bunch of British footballers, starred in approximately 50 British reality shows, and married some boy bander named Peter Andre.
After spitting out some kids with Peter, things went south for the happy couple, and they split up. She has clearly tried to handle her public divorce with all the care and consideration of any celebrity mother of three concerned about making it as easy as possible on her children: by dumping the kids with her ex and heading to Ibiza to slut it up with her new (gay) boy toy.
I'd normally have approximately ZERO interest in this story if it weren't for the shirt her main homo is wearing. I could be mistaken due to the deep cleavage-baring scoop neck on that shirt, but I do believe it says "Washington State Riders."
I have been to Ibiza and I live in Washington state, and you frankly could not have two more incongruous places. I have no idea why this shirt was being peddled in Europe, much less represents something fashionable for Katie Price/Jordan's rebound queen to rock around Ibiza's many soap bubble clubs. This reminds me of the time I was in Belize and some local who had clearly never been off Ambergris Cay to mainland Belize, much less western Massachusetts, rode by on a beat up old Schwinn wearing a Smith College Biology shirt. Somehow I don't have a Smith College Biology shirt, and I graduated from Smith College with a fucking degree in biology, but a dude living in a corrugated metal shanty on an island off the coast of Belize with no paved roads and sporadic running water somehow managed to rock this fashion.
And I'm not even sure what the "Washington State Riders" are, but I'm equally indignant that somehow this shirt is hot in España but not in Washington state. I Googled "Washington State Riders" and found a bunch of stuff about motorcycles, although no group named exactly that. However, I could be wrong, but it looks like there's a horse on that lemon meringue pie of a top he's wearing. How do eurotrash fame whores know about some "riding" club in my home state that neither I or the internets are privy to?
Or maybe, squinting at it a little more, that's actually a picture of a rooster on his shirt. If that's the case, that makes a little more sense. I can understand why the Washington State (Cock) Riders club doesn't have much of an internet presence, being that we're a more discreet bunch of sluts (ha). I certainly believe that should Katie Price/Jordan's man get a model/acting gig in Seattle, he'll likewise join this club with a quickness.
Labels: celebrities, international intrigue, P-N-Dub, sluts, vulgar display of faggotry
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Big ass LOL
The other day when Faheem "T-Pain" Najm posted photographs of his unique new diamond jewelry on his Facebook, he obviously neglected to upload the most hilarious shot of them all.
Yes, you're seeing that right. That's Taylor Swift, the Lolita of crossover pop country music, rocking the urban camo to seem more convincingly thugged out and aiming to steal Vanessa Hudgens's Ecko Red spokesmodel job. Taylor probably spent hours practicing her Ice Cube scowl in the mirror just so she could take her Kevin Federline game to the next level in this photo shoot. Apparently she and Teddy Pinnedherassdown are collaborating (cut to my friend HotLawyer exploding with excitement), which means that the world's burning curiosity to hear Taylor Swift sing through an autotuner will finally be satiated. FINALLY.
Seriously, I don't know who thought this was a good idea. I definitely blame this on the Henny.
Labels: celebrities, hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
The Naomi-Wolf-Is-Smart Myth
I guess the editors at Harper's Bazaar decided to smarten up a cover full of pronouncements about summer's sexiest dresses and looking chic at any price by getting Naomi Wolf to write the latest installment in the canon of Angelina Jolie worship. Naomi Wolf raving about the Baby Collector's beauty in a fashion magazine is particularly awesome, considering Naomi Wolf made her name trashing the fashion and beauty industry for being a tool of the patriarchal hegemony meant to keep us ladies too busy being insecure.
In case you actually had some sort of life and desire for fun and not a bunch of feminist grousing in 1990, you may have missed Naomi Wolf's book The Beauty Myth. This book became notorious for heralding the birth of third-wave feminism, which is basically the idea that feminists need to start being really intellectually condescending about the same bullshit feminists have always been super bitchy about. All the women's studies types thought this was great except that hot bitch Camille Paglia, who started a beef because she thought (correctly) that The Beauty Myth made feminists seem really annoying and stupid due to the fact that Naomi Wolf is both. Naomi Wolf spends most of the book blabbing on about how our concept of beauty is all a giant patriarchal conspiracy designed to keep women in place and punish them for breaking free from male domination. Currently, I think Naomi Wolf needs to lighten the fuck up, but then again I may just be bitter that back in the day, her ideas and intellectual influence were largely responsible for THIS lamentable fashion misstep (and many, MANY like it):
Think of how many skanky titty shirts I could have purchased with the stacks I was dropping for ill-fitting fleece and bulky wool Cosby sweaters at Eddie Bauer and REI! Be assured that I was wearing a pair of dark brown suede Birkenstock clogs and a pair of Woolrich socks on my feet, to top off this ill-fitting and shapeless ensemble. Subverting the patriarchy Naomi Wolf-style is not a pretty sight and it barely got me laid. Thanks a lot, Naomi Wolf. Team Paglia.
Anyway, now I have another reason to hate Naomi Wolf besides her indirect effect on my regrettable style choices in high school. She wrote this article for a fashion and beauty magazine about how stupid, obnoxious Angelina Jolie is the perfect woman, "bosomy and wasp-waisted, with that curtain of hair and those crazy pillowy lips, she is an obvious male sex fantasy." Naomi Wolf goes on to gush that through deft PR, image management, and Brad Pitt-fucking, Angelina has transcended the banality of being a mere mortal to achieve the status of female archetype. She also manages to work in an insinuation that the patriarchy killed Princess Di and that Angelina Jolie has become the dominant female "ego ideal." The entire article is one lengthy, excessively devoted fan letter bearing the nauseating title "Why Women Want Angelina Jolie's Life."
If Naomi Wolf could pull her clueless academic head out of her own ass, she might take note that I do NOT want Angelina Jolie's life, and I bet there are a lot of other women who don't either. Brad Pitt seems like an asshole with stupid tattoos, and I would hate all those kids running around. Not to mention that with all the media whoring Angelina so graciously includes her children in those brats are going to grow up to be absolute monsters. In approximately eight years, TRUST that Maddox Jolie-Pitt is going to be the Paris Hilton for the next generation: attention-seeking, disgustingly overindulged, and one of the most loathsome individuals on earth. No fucking thank you to being legally and morally responsible for unleashing that upon the Hollywood club scene and the world.
Even moreso than a brood of spoiled tyrants, I do not want a life where I'm constantly reminding everyone what a big hypocrite I am. I wouldn't want to bring a swarm of photographers to document me getting off a private jet to "help" starving refugees in Chad by merely standing in their presence and posing. I also wouldn't want to run around giving impassioned speeches against poverty and chastising everyone else in the world for not doing their part, and then go with my common-law dickbag movie star boyfriend to drop half a million dollars on a gold couch. In fairness, Angelina is more visible than me and can thus raise more awareness about important issues like poverty and civil upheaval in Chad and Sudan. I'd just like to know how much of that raised awareness has fixed things in Darfur. Angelina Jolie pretends to do shit when in reality she just promotes herself and her haughty-ass persona. Sorry, but I'd rather actually do shit and back up my haughtiness with substance rather than duplicitous media skankery.
Then again, I can see why Naomi Wolf appreciates Angelina Jolie's self-promoting fakery, since she's been using the same scam for years to get the academic types to think she's not an intellectual lightweight. She makes her name declaring that fashion, beauty, and the cult of female celebrity are forms of patriarchal subjugation, and then twenty years later she writes in a fashion magazine about how a female celebrity's beauty has entranced modern women everywhere, most certainly including herself. Naomi Wolf's scholarly credentials involve specializing in wrapping the same overbearing, tired whining about the patriarchy in a thin veneer of hypocritical bullshit and selling it to people stupider than her (like me aged 15). Feminism deserves better than this vapid slag telling us that Angelina Jolie is the best thing to happen to women since vibrators were invented. STFU, Naomi Wolf!
Labels: celebrities, feminazism, media whores, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
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
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
The deadliest night out
I should have been working on my thesis yesterday, but JerseyGirl called me up and said that I had to go out with her. I told her it was not a good time. I'm handing in my thesis this week.
"Razzy, I have a surprise celebrity for you to meet. And YOU HAVE TO COME. I would tell you to skip your wedding for this. You are going to cereally bug when you see who it is."
That was enough to pique my interest. "Who is it?"
"I'm not telling. But you are going to LOSE IT. I can't wait to see your face. You don't have a choice. You are coming out for drinks."
"Okay, fine, I'm coming. But seriously, who is it? Is it R. Kelly? I'm going to have a fucking heart attack if I have drinks with Kells. Is it Lil' Kim? Is it Lil' Wayne?!" Now I was not only sold on coming, I was determined to find out who I was meeting so I didn't act like a total asshole.
"Not telling. I'm going back to work. Just dress classy, but show a little cleave."
"It's not anyone from the New York Yankees, is it?" JerseyGirl is, unfortunately, a Yankees fan, so I worried that she might be bringing me to meet one of Satan's pinstriped minions just because I'm more into sports than most of our other girlfriends.
"I wouldn't pull strings so you could meet someone you hate! It's not a Yankee. But I'm not telling. See you at 8 sharp at the Time Warner Center tomorrow."
So I spent every spare moment yesterday pestering JerseyGirl and all our friends to whom she disclosed this mystery guest's identity about the matter. All I could ascertain was that it wasn't Chris Hansen or Geraldo. I figured that it probably wasn't Belladonna, since JerseyGirl doesn't watch porn and wouldn't know who that was, and probably wouldn't be meeting with her and a bunch of cable news producers. I also figured that it probably wasn't anyone from the cast of "Battlestar: Galactica," since she doesn't watch that, and I cried twice during the series finale neither do I. Despite wishful thinking, I also didn't think R. Kelly was the type who would personally attend such a function. And I knew Lil' Kim is currently in L.A. filming "Dancing With the Stars." So I settled on the notion that I was going to be meeting Morrissey, only because I've had a hard-on for him since I was a moody baby dyke, I'm definitely more into him than any of our other friends, and he was in town this past week.
I was thus really excited, and got to the Time Warner Center a little early. I decided I should eat something to calm my nerves, so I went to Whole Foods and got some fancy pizza. I was still so wound up that I could barely concentrate on mocking the people next to me in the cafeteria who were clearly on a first date at WHOLE FUCKING FOODS via text to JerseyGirl. Normally I have all sorts of scathing things to say about this unbelievably stupid practice, but all I could manage was a text reading "People who go on dates at Whole Foods are lame." JerseyGirl replied, "I know, ew. See you in 5."
So I went upstairs to meet her, and then we went to the bar. Nobody was there. "I'm meeting Morrissey, aren't I?"
"Razzy, SHUT UP. I'm not telling you. You'll see in a minute."
Then the special guests arrived. Morrissey was not among them, but I did see a familiar face. It was Captain Keith from the F/V Wizard on "Deadliest Catch!" And then, behind him, like a hero of Valhalla in the flesh, came the shining, Nordic godlike countenance of ***CAPTAIN SIG HANSEN OF THE F/V NORTHWESTERN***!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I was speechless for a minute, before I advised him that once on MySpace he linked to my blog and declared me his .1 fan. I was disappointed to learn that this wasn't actually him, but someone who runs his MySpace page for him, but who cares? I was meeting Sig in person and that's way better than a MySpace comment any day. He actually blushed when I told him that I once wrote that I was surprised he didn't melt the frozen sea spray off the Northwestern's rigging just by standing near it. He recovered, ordered an Absolut and Coke (aka "Norwegian champagne") and proceeded to match my Johnnie Walkers drink for drink.
I chatted Keith and his wife up for a while, and they were both very nice people. I learned that both Captain Keith and Sig think their wives have much more difficult jobs. I was very pleased to see that fame hadn't gone to any of their heads, and they were really cool, down-to-earth people. Sig was thrilled when I understood that "kukslikke" means "cocksucker" in Norwegian, and was impressed by my proficiency in swearing, which is at the advanced level of any given cowboy mining the Bering Sea for "red gold." Sig thought it was hilarious that I went brunette because my Sarah Palin Halloween costume was so successful. We commiserated about how lutefisk is gross, and I almost wept with joy when Sig told me that being a small girl wouldn't prohibit me from fishing myself. "Jake Harris is scrawnier than you," he told me. I didn't mention that I doubted I was tough enough to handle the extreme conditions or the frequent almost-dying part of the job. And of course I took pictures. This is what I look like when extremely happy on account of being flanked by two incredibly hot REAL MEN.
At the end of the night, there was nobody left but myself, Sig, and his handlers, and Sig wanted to go to another bar. I thought that was a capital idea. He wanted to go to some Irish bar that he got into a fistfight in during his last visit, although he couldn't remember anything about it except that it was around the corner from where he stayed last time, and the owner's name was Mickey. He finally called his brother Edgar (!!!!) to figure it out, and got the name. Unfortunately, his handlers advised us that he had an early morning, and it was not a good idea. So I just finished smoking the unfiltered Camel I bummed from Sig, and hopped in a cab so that I could go home and freak out about having just met Sig in person. The Discovery Channel guy told me to call him today about going out tonight instead, so I've got my fingers crossed that I'll get to witness Sig brawling with some local riffraff tonight. Or at least throw back a few more cocktails with him. If not, hopefully I'll at least get to see him at "CatchCon," which appropriately enough is the afternoon before the annual Crab Feed that I attend at my high school.
And on that note, I better get off cloud fucking nine and get some work done so I can (maybe) go raise hell with Sig tonight.
P.S. JerseyGirl, YOU FUCKING RULE! MAJOR FRIEND POINTS! *MAJOR!*
Labels: celebrities, Deadliest Catch, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, NYC, Razzification, TV
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
NOT FUCKING FAIR!!!!!!!!!!
Star magazine just advised me that Douchebag of the Geological Epoch John Mayer is planning to write a tell-all about his relationship with Jennifer Aniston.
I think it's now official that John Mayer is the worst human being in the world. Not because he's writing a tell-all, which I'm sure will be excellent reading should you ever find yourself having a hard time falling asleep. I can only imagine what sort of tawdry tales he can tell about how Jennifer Aniston's leathery old ass spends all her time being vain and obnoxious. I'm sure I will be blown away when John Mayer regales us with the scandalous details of how an aging TV actress desperate to sustain her own relevance spends all her time doing yoga with some $400-an-hour private instructor. NO FUCKING WAY, John Mayer! STOP THE FUCKING PRESS!!
Whoever is coughing up $10 mil for a titillating batch of "secrets" like that is paying about $10 million too much. John Mayer is thus an extreme asshole, as I can't imagine he pulled off such a deal without some sort of contract with Satan. I don't remotely understand how this pubestachioed cooing dove (FYI, that's a dude who makes "ooo, ooOOO" disturbingly feminine cooing sounds while he's banging you with as much gusto as the average tampon you insert during your monthly) managed to negotiate a $10 million dollar deal for revealing the most boringly obvious non-secrets in the world. I'm really hard pressed to think of anybody whose secrets I am less interested in than old Human Benadryl Aniston. You'd have to pay me to waste time reading what I already know, because I can tell you exactly what a day in Jennifer Aniston's life entails for free. Observe:
1. Wake up at 10 a.m.
2. Do combo bed/spray tan.
3. Do yoga for 3 hours.
4. Get hair and makeup done for 3 hours. Bitch at them when they fail to give historical props to the cultural importance of "the Rachel."
5. Consult astrologer.
6. Go somewhere expensive for dinner and get photographed by paparazzi.
**OPTIONAL** Do above with Courtney Cox Arquette, assuming you can accommodate her similarly uneventful schedule.
7. Go home.
**ALSO OPTIONAL** Fill out e-Harmony profile, stealing Match.com commercial line "I'm just a goof, looking for my ball," because she's the only one in the entire fucking world who thinks that's cute or sexy. Go to bed, hoping to find an inbox full of many matches based on deep compatibility.
8. Repeat.
I mean, I guess there's probably some whining about how she used to be married to Brad Pitt and is so unlucky in love or whatever in the mix too, but who cares? That shit is boring, and spiking in a little "taking John Mayer's douchenozzle in missionary with shirts on" does nothing to spice it up, unless "spice it up" actually means "simultaneously gross me out and bore the shit out of me." Unless John's "private photo album" includes shots of Jennifer Aniston taking a baseball bat up the ass like Belladonna, I can't see how it would be worth more than the digital camera it's stored in. Frankly, even then I couldn't be bothered. I certainly wouldn't pay $10 million for that, much less news that Jen accidentally confused John Mayer with Brad Pitt in bed. This is hardly surprising, considering that not only is Jen still famously bitter about how her man ditched her for the Baby Collector, but the aforementioned 10-years-ago's Sexiest Man Alive is almost as insufferably obnoxious as the loathsome Mr. Mayer. I would be hard pressed not to confuse them myself, and I'm an internets gossip junkie so addicted that I can tell the Olsen twins apart and know what Peaches Geldof looks like.
I am primarily outraged that John Mayer, who does not need $10 million as much as I do, is getting such a ridiculous book advance for a tell-all about something as soporific as his dalliance with this busted-ass catcher's mitt of a woman. Granted, I tried hard to get a book deal in the sense that I wrote emails to two or three j-school grads I know and talked about wanting to do so and thought really fervently that it would be awesome to get fame and fortune for being Razzy. However, even if I sent the world's most stellar pitch to every publisher in the entire world or actually made the slightest amount of meaningful effort, I wouldn't get a $10 million deal. Granted, I don't have the pre-existing literary chops of writing such profound statements as "I want to run through the halls of my high school," but hell...I've slept with a whole bunch of doctors and lawyers who will surely be important someday, as well as writers for a couple publications even my parents have heard of, and other totally not-famous-but-work-for-famous-places types of people. I even dated a waiter at a famous restaurant, porked a fella who placed 27,945th in the New York City marathon, and publicly dumped a guy who invented the chip that went into Motorola StarTac phones! We all had one of those in like 1999!!!! Okay, he didn't actually invent the chip, but he wrote the mathematical algorithms that made it work, so same difference...you still wouldn't have been able to use your notoriously unreliable flip-phones without him and his state school engineering degree, which has known my vagina. I'm a total star fucker, like John Mayer!
Plus, I've had threesomes and done some hot girl-on-girl stuff and even taken it up the butt with some of these not-famous-but-I-could-maybe-convince-you-they-peripherally-are-type people. I'm not going to write shit about someone's boring obsession with yoga or in-home hairstyling. I'll tell you how big their dick is and whether or not it's worth a sit and spin! Instead of giving you pictures of a couple uninspiring, vain twats walking around LA with giant sunglasses on, I'll give you some straight-up real talk. And I'd be happy with a $10,000 book deal, which is a bargain compared to paying $10 million for something that does what Lunesta can for a mere $30 co-pay. So, assuming Star has its facts straight (which is actually a big assumption), I'm willing to underbid John Mayer and write whoever is paying for this a far more interesting book. So don't pay this tard an AIG bonus worth of cash for his account on what it's like to stick your dick in the human equivalent of a couch. Give it to me instead, and get your money's worth.
Labels: celebrities, John Mayer sucks, librophilia, ranting, Razzification, retard rage, scathing indictments
Monday, January 26, 2009
...and STAY OUT of the World Economic Forum!
I just read an article about how this year's World Economic Forum at Davos, Switzerland is going to be short on the celebrities compared to years past. Instead, this year the party is going to feature a bunch of boring world leaders. Surely the people of Davos are going to be totally bummed that instead of Claudia Schiffer, an inexplicable attendee from years past, they are going to be rubbing elbows with hot pieces like these:
I'm not bummed, however, that something called the "World Economic Forum" is being attended by various presidents and prime ministers rather than a bunch of celebrity douchebags. In fact, I'm hardly surprised that the global economy is as fucked as it is considering that last year, the keynote speaker was the head of Lehman Brothers. Furthermore, years past have also seen the likes of these fucktards running around:
Yeah, I'm sure they made some really important contributions to this event. Angelina Jolie could talk about how best to steal orphans from developing countries to promote an image of saintliness, Brad Pitt could explain how a gold-plated couch is a sensible investment, and Bono can explain how to simultaneously maintain a smug, overly pious demeanor while lecturing people about poverty from behind his rose-colored designer sunglasses and run an AIDS charity into the ground. No wonder that with a bunch of self-righteous geniuses like these running the world economy we are currently as fucked as we are.
I'm not bummed, however, that something called the "World Economic Forum" is being attended by various presidents and prime ministers rather than a bunch of celebrity douchebags. In fact, I'm hardly surprised that the global economy is as fucked as it is considering that last year, the keynote speaker was the head of Lehman Brothers. Furthermore, years past have also seen the likes of these fucktards running around:
People who spend their time renting 32,000 square foot mansions while arrogantly lecturing the little people about doing their part should not be anywhere near a place where decisions are being made regarding the reinvigoration of the world's stalled credit markets. Bono should be excluded based on those dumb sunglasses alone. Yeah, we get it, asshole. Even when you are trying to show off what a big social conscience you have, you're still a rich rock star. An aging, obnoxious rock star who likes pink lenses, much like my one aunt who sold Mary Kay did in the 80s. However, Vladimir Putin, who is also known to play ridiculous dress-up, still has the decency and professionalism to show up for a fucking economic forum in a suit sans decorative eyewear. I suspect this is because Putin is famous for, oh, say, RUNNING RUSSIA WITH AN IRON FIST instead of singing inexplicable Spanish on iPod commercials. Not that I'm a big fan of Putin's autocratic stranglehold on the Russian government or his apparent desire to deprive former Soviet territories of their independence via carpet bombing, but he's certainly more qualified to sit in a meeting about the global economy than a dude whose primary achievement on the world political stage is being the most recognizable person in Ireland. Sorry, Bono, but while the whole world liked "With or Without You," writing the lyrical content of The Joshua Tree album doesn't give you the economic credentials to do anything besides interrupt, distract from, and generally disrupt the productivity of actually powerful people trying to stave off a global depression.
It's a little late, but better late than never in terms of booting these pompous, unqualified retards out of forums like these. Angela Merkel doesn't need to get Brangelina or Bono's two cents before she starts strategizing with Gordon Brown and Nicolas Sarkozy about how to save Europe's banks. Way to improve the World Economic Forum. Go Swiss bankers!
Labels: assholes, capitalism, celebrities, international intrigue, politics, retard rage
Sunday, November 30, 2008
50 Cent and Lil Wayne's Thanksgiving wishes
I decided to check my RAZZY.org email for the first time in like three weeks, and was pleased to see Thanksgiving wishes from Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson, Christopher "Lloyd Banks" Lloyd, Marvin "Tony Yayo" Bernard, and the rest of the staff at thisis50.com, the official 50 Cent internets page of which I am a registered member. I signed up for thisis50.com so I could read the message boards, which one Razzyphile directed me to, describing them as "hilarious." The message boards involve a lot of arguing about whether or not The Game is a pussy, the sexually attractive aspects of various women, and whose mama has fellated who. Some folks in the forums also address larger issues such as the apocalypse ("the end of dayz...is it real?", "WAT IF JESUS WAS TO COME BACK RITE NOW...AND MURDERED ALL DESE RAPPERS???LYRICALLY!!!"), women's rights in the workplace ("WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT A CHICK THAT PUTS THAT WORK IN HARD LIKE A NIGGA?"), coastal educational and cultural disparities ("to all hataz of east coast rap pleaze and i mean pleaze go to school and complete it so u niggas can up grade yo mind. exspecailly some douth south catz im not sayn the south is wack") and current style trends in the world of urban fashion ("Why nigga's feel da need to wear tight shit?"). I am sure that all the G-g-g-g-unit's fans, despite their diverse interests and opinions, took a break from the debates raging on the thisis50.com forums to feel touched by Fitty's tender Thanksgiving greetings.
Well, it seems that warm Thanksgiving thoughts weren't shared by Curtis's colleagues to the south. New Orleanian Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter got together with his friend from Baton Rouge Torrence "Lil' Boosie" Hatch to perpetrate some mixtape hatery, which I immediately downloaded. I was surprised to hear the title track, "Louisianimal," was a diss on a gentleman the Lil's disparagingly refer to as "Two Quarters." On the basis of being "Lousianimals" these gentlemen proceed to unleash a barrage of promised thuggery. Lil' Wayne threatens to pour syrup in 50 Cent's signature grape-flavored "Formula 50" Vitamin Water, and threatens to sit around watching SportsCenter because his heart is even colder than his ice. He also insinuates he might just require the tattooing of yet another disingenuous teardrop representing yet another pretend murder victim, and promises to bisect 50 Cent, if he can ever get off his ass to demonstrate his more beastly Louisianimalian qualities.
I have no idea what 50 did to garner Weezy F Baby's ire, except maybe that he is helping his erstwhile collaborator Jeffrey "Ja Rule" Atkins perpetrate his infamous feud with my man Curtis. After all, in 2007 Tha Carter and Ja were both arrested on his-and-his gun charges after a concert in New York. Perhaps they vowed to fight each other's battles as they shared a cell at the Tombs. I don't really know what Lil' Wayne plans to do besides sit around drinking promethazine cough syrup to demonstrate his commitment to the wholesale destruction of 50 Cent. Certainly he's not doing anything with all those snakes and tarantulas and voodoo-ish whatnot on the mixtape artwork, unless Lil' Wayne defines voodoo as getting really, really, REALLY high and making a cameo in a LeBron James Nike commercial.
At least the 50 Cent apologists aren't letting this slide. When someone had the audacity to suggest that Lil' Wayne is talented and here to make fake beef with Fitty for years to come, a poster identified as G-Roc was quick to unleash his staunchly pro-Two Quarters opinion on the "undeducated" music lovers apparently fellating Lil' Wayne:
At least the 50 Cent apologists aren't letting this slide. When someone had the audacity to suggest that Lil' Wayne is talented and here to make fake beef with Fitty for years to come, a poster identified as G-Roc was quick to unleash his staunchly pro-Two Quarters opinion on the "undeducated" music lovers apparently fellating Lil' Wayne:
nigga shut ya bob marley bitch ass,lil wayne dick suckin ass up nigga, how many times i gotta tell ya bitch ass u a dick ridin mop head fuck, tight jeans wearin female ass nigga. how wayne dick taste nigga u suck dat shit too much fag, u dont da only nigga who dont know shit about hiphop dats why u comin in hear not knowing wat da fuck is goin in undeducated motherfucka, if u anit get no invatation i advise ur pussy mop head ass not to come in here bitch
I really hope that 50 Cent stops preparing holiday wishes for his website users and jumps into this himself, because I know he can do better than repeatedly calling Lil' Wayne and his fans "mop heads." 50 Cent and Lil' Wayne are two of my favorite rappers of all time, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than them releasing dueling diss tracks for the next five years. I can only imagine the aspersions Lil' Wayne will cast on 50's sexuality, and the insightful remarks about Lil' Wayne's tendency to make out and pose for homoerotic XXL covers with his adopted father Brian "Baby/Birdman" Williams, dressing in drag for album covers, and power bottom condom ads Fitty will make in return. At the very least, they can rag on each other's mugshots. Let the good time diss tracks roll.
Labels: 50 cent, celebrities, intentional buffoonery, Lil' Wayne, rap, vulgar display of faggotry
Friday, November 14, 2008
Supreme Court rules 5-4 against Hayden Panettiere
I've never watched "Heroes," but that hasn't stopped me from hating Hayden Panettiere. First off, "Heroes" looks like a dumb show, and second, this dumb bitch was annoying me before she could vote. About a year ago, Hayden decided to get together with her whale-saving friends to make a failed attempt at disrupting a traditional Japanese long-pole dolphin hunt. LL Cool Jew's "low-simmer distaste...overboiled into full-fledged disgust" at this incident to the point that she actually took a moment to douchebag her. I proceeded to get even more irritated with her when she decided to open up her dicksucking hole during the democratic primaries and declare her allegiance for whichever candidate loves the whales. That irritation grew into a heartfelt deathwish once she started trashing my ancestral homeland. Now, Hayden has managed to piss off an even more august body of critics than myself and LL Cool Jew. Specifically, she has gotten on the bad side of these respectable titans of constitutional justice:
Yes, the other day, the United States Supreme Court ruled 5-4 against Hayden Panettiere. Okay, so of COURSE David Souter and Ruth Bader Ginsburg dissented entirely, but I can't trust a bitch who wears a doily around her neck anyway. And okay, FINE, they weren't exactly ruling against Hayden Panettiere so much as the Greenpeace hippie types trying to stop the Navy from playing with their underwater sonar equipment, but they basically said a big "fuck you" to echolocating whales off the coast of southern California. Assuming that Hayden's dumb ass decides to put down her elderly Japanese fisherman-disrupting surfboard and pick up a newspaper, she might recognize that it's not just a handful of rural folk from other cultures wreaking havoc on her beloved whales. It's the entire United States Navy, and her precious cetaceans aren't going to get in the way of the War on Terror.
Of course, Hayden is probably too busy showing off her coochie-cutter boxer briefs to Ellen Degeneres (adding further credence to LL Cool Jew's prophecy that Hayden's whale-loving ways doesn't mean she doesn't have a seat saved at the sushi bar, if you get my drift-net) to pay attention to the Supreme Court's decision that national security is more important than whales jabbering at each other in their John Tesh instrumental-esque language. I'm sure, however, once she realizes that our highest judicial body gave the finger to terrorist whalesong, she'll trade in those Ellen granny panties and taped-up strapless sweetheart top for an ugly sweatshirt demanding that everyone boycott the Navy along with Japanese, Norwegian, and Icelandic exports.
Therefore, before she catches on, I'm going to enjoy my last few remaining days of gloating-over-Hayden-Panettiere sentiment with a nice dolphin-unfriendly tuna melt. It's both a celebration of the Supreme Court owning her bitch ass and a salute to her latent lesbianism. Here's to you, Hayden...or as my whale-devouring Norwegian relatives would say, "Skoal!"
Labels: celebrities, fuck the planet, legal drama, lezbollah, media whores, retard rage, sluts
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Ask not for whom the bell tolls, Dallas Cowboys
...because thanks to your quarterback's love life, it tolls for fucking thee! As of last weekend, the Cowboys are no longer undefeated thanks to the Washington Anti-Native American Racial Slurs, and we all know who to thank. No, it's not the dynamic new offense brought to the Redskins by their new coach, Seahawks legend Jim Zorn (!). It's not the defensive upgrades the Redskins made by adding the likes of Jason Taylor to their roster. In fact, this Redskins victory has nothing to do with the Redskins at all. It doesn't even really have anything to do with the Cowboys directly, at least not with their game on the field.
No, Tony Romo's girlfriend AKA the Cowboys' bad luck charm showed up to work her nefarious magic on their record:
Though she's not wearing that loathsome pink jersey which originally cursed the Cowboys and drew the disdain of the highly opinionated Terrell Owens, it appears that Jessica showing up AT ALL is enough to usher in a Cowboys loss. I sincerely hope that Jessica shows up for every Cowboys game for the rest of the season because a 3-14 Cowboys season is something that will always make me smile contentedly. Please continue standing by your man, Sloppy Tits.
Labels: celebrities, media whores, NFL football, sluts
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
And may we officially welcome you to the clam bake, Linds
Well over a year ago, my BFF LL Cool Jew astutely observed Lindsay Lohan's Smith College hat and postulated that indeed she had pulled up a seat at the sushi bar with clam-digging DJ Samantha Ronson. I concurred that Lindsay Lohan had most likely decided that she liked her tacos pink, and spent all the time since highlighting evidence (like dispatching missives from rehab signed "Lindsay Ronson" and making out on random yachts on the French riviera and talking marriage) supporting our theory.
Of course, we weren't the only ones promoting this hypothesis. The buzz about Samantha Ronson getting face-deep in Lohan's firecrotch really exploded when scenes like this started occurring regularly, contradicting Fat Joe's (unbelievable and totally nast) claim that Lindsay Lohan is his "O-jam":
However, the other night Sam called into "Loveline" to talk about how DJ AM's face has melted off, and because like any good lesbian couple these two may as well be conjoined, Linds was listening in and snagged the phone at one point. She then confirmed that indeed they moved Sam's turntables into Lindsay's condo many menses ago and have been delighting in their season tickets to the Sparks ever since. LL Cool Jew and I immediately took to bragging about how we SO called it.
LL Cool Jew: lezlo confirms relationship!!!
Razzy: i know i saw
Razzy: i mean, so anticlimactic
Razzy: like "i hope dj am gets better. duh we're gay"
LL Cool Jew: LOL
Razzy: but let's be real
Razzy: WE knew she had a reserved table at the sushi bar the day she donned that smith college hat!
LL Cool Jew: i love how their nine-month relationship counts as "a very long time" in Lohan Years
Razzy: 9 months?
Razzy: haven't they been having tacos for two for like 3 years?
Razzy: you first spotted that smith hat in like 2005 or 2006!
Razzy: oh nevermind, that was may 2007
LL Cool Jew: TOTALLY!
Razzy: according to my blog date
Razzy: so one year at least!
LL Cool Jew: we should crow about that for the rest of our lives
Now it is even more official than our respective Smith College diplomas: LL Cool Jew and I have lesbadar beyond reproach, and we can spot a pair of boobmashers long before the story hits the mainstream press. Our gayelle detection skills are more precise than an atomic fucking clock. Seriously, we can pick a Birkenstock jock out of a crowd from a mile away even if she's wearing a sickeningly expensive pair of Louboutins and a set of cocksucker leggings instead of something sensible and shapeless. I suspect that LL Cool Jew is correct when she notes that we should crow about how on point we are when it comes to picking muff divers out of a lineup for the rest of our lives. I have no doubt that we will.
Labels: celebrities, lezbollah, LL Cool Jew, media whores, sluts
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Tori Spelling AGAIN
DOB: May 16, 1973
Occupation: reality TV whore, deluded former Donna Martin
Hometown: Beverly Hills, California
Current residence: Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: The gossip internets informed me yesterday that Tori Spelling pulled out of the new "90210" series yesterday in a huff because she was going to make less money per episode than fellow OG Bev Niner alums Jennie Garth and Shannen Doherty. Apparently Tori feels that her dedication to theatercraft (primarily Lifetime movies and a series of appalling reality shows detailing her marriage to that fug Canadian guy) since turning in her Donna Martin midriff-baring baby tees merits more than $10-20K per appearance. She demanded the $30-50K per episode that Kelly Taylor and Brenda Walsh are getting and the producers refused, so she told them something along the lines of, "Have it your way, CW. Let's just see how your little '90210' remake fares without Donna Martin uglying up every episode. Those new kids aren't going to be shopping at Now Wear This anytime soon! Dean and I are just going to take our hellspawn and film more of the unwatchable minutiae of our stomach-churning married life for the Oxygen network! That'll learn you!"
Good thinking, Tori. I'm sure that the loathsome "Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood" is going to be WAY better for your career. Undoubtedly the handful of obese Bichon Frise-stroking fags and gunt-laden housewives watching Oxygen are a far more powerful demographic than the "Gossip Girl" audience. And I'm sure that myself and all my Bev Niner-obsessed friends will really, really miss not having to listen to Donna Martin blaming her constant abject stupidity on dyslexia or vacillate about losing her virginity. I'm already composing an angry missive to the brass at CW, except said correspondence is mainly complaining that they didn't get rid of your ridiculous ass soon enough.
I would be on board with a Donna Martin return on one condition: her character only was involved in absurd situations like the unintentionally hilarious scene where she is discovered by a model scout in Paris thanks to her seductive pastry-eating skills.
While I did shout "Je suis American, and if you don't like it, too bad!" at Alain Bernard the other night during the Olympics, providing accidental comedy was Tori Spelling's primary contribution to the original Bev Niner. Unless Donna Martin was going to return to wear physically restricting prom dresses and Halloween costumes, get drunk off three sips of champagne at prom, catch David Silver banging Babyface's manager in a limo, get slapped around by her loser boyfriend Ray Pruit in Palm Springs, almost die in a brush fire trying to rescue a baby deer, save herself from certain rape by Garrett Slant by calling David Silver "Dave," deliver weather forecasts that match her belly shirt, fight off her stalker Evan Potter by feigning a passionate kiss, and develop a pain pill-and-merlot addiction, I am not interested in seeing any more of Donna Martin. When Donna wasn't doing something completely ludicrous and idiotic, she was basically a waste of space. I would way rather see Kelly Taylor resume her slutty boyfriend-stealing ways and Brenda Walsh open a can of hysterically self-righteous bitchery all over anyone who crosses her path, be it the aforementioned boyfriend-stealing Kelly Taylor or a group of researchers studying sudden infant death syndrome in cats.
Tori Spelling needs a reality check as to her status in the pantheon of Bev Niner greatness. There's a reason why she was always toward the bottom of the credits. In the first few seasons, she even came behind Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman in terms of billing. She only moved up the ranks when the likes of Joe E. Tata, Vincent Young, and Daniel Cosgrove joined the cast. Poorly played, Tori. Poorly played, indeed.
Labels: Bev Niner, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, media whores, sluts, TV
Friday, July 25, 2008
Daily Douchebag: John Mayer and Pete Wentz
DOB: October 16, 1977 and June 5, 1979
Occupation: apparently, collaborating as a united douchebag front
Hometown: Bridgeport, Connecticut and Wilmette, Illinois
Current residence: some fucking restaurant in Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: Has the seventh seal been broken? Because with the world's most prominent douchebags flocking together, I'm actually praying that the apocalypse is imminent. So maybe nothing happened except the world's undisputed largest douchebag of all time John Mayer got together with Pete Wentz to have a mini douchebag convention/latently homoerotic lunch date. I can just imagine what kind of conversation they had: while going over Pete Wentz's "truckload of big, bold, colorful ideas" and deconstructing the word "douchebag," they had a scintillating discussion about John Mayer's allegedly giant penis and how Pete Wentz cooks up trite Lower East Side bar concepts while whacking off to Morrissey posters. Then they probably exchanged delightful (and by "delightful," I actually mean "nauseating") tales about what it's like to fuck Jennifer Aniston and Ashlee Simpson.
I really wish I was in Los Angeles to crash this little party, because I would have strolled right in and advised them that sleeve tattoos and "guyliner" does not a rock star make. Yes, so Vince Neil circa 1984 (HOT) may have rocked that look, but trust that bitch didn't use a hair straightener back in the day. He was too busy helping Nikki Sixx mainline Jack Daniels, singing "Shout at the Devil," and passing groupies around with his bandmates in between eyeliner applications. Man, Mötley Crüe rocked so hard back in the day. That's why when myself and some fellow drunk-ass sluts made an amateur porn in college we used the Too Fast For Love album as the soundtrack rather than any John Mayer or Pete Wentz-esque musical explorations of sensitivity. I can't think of anything either John Mayer or Pete Wentz have ever produced that inspires me to instruct my very excited boyfriend to film me having three-way oral with a couple of my hot girlfriends. ANYWAY! John Mayer and Pete Wentz aren't getting up to any of that badassery, and appropriating anything from either's repertoire would make me a lot more likely to murder my friends and put them out of their misery rather than lick their twats.
I mean, do you need anything besides a brief glance at these two tards to be thoroughly convinced of their despicable natures? Pete Wentz is busy flipping his sleeveless hoodie and showing off the clear-framed Vuarnets that make him look like even more of an asshole hipster and John Mayer is busy straightening his man-pris and scrunching his hair. They probably spent the time talking about names for the impending Wentz-Simpson spawn and comparing what perfumes they favor. What a couple of straight-up fucktards.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, John Mayer sucks, retard rage, small penises
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Douche-Vinci Code
You know how that DaVinci Code trash revolved primarily around secret effeminate apostles and cryptic shapes that Leonardo supposedly included in The Last Supper? I always thought that, while Leonardo's fresco or whatever is indeed a masterpiece, the notion that this painting somehow spells out a conspiracy involving self-flagellating albino priests, the European artfag community, and Josh Christ himself's kids was an idea conceived by a pretentious museumgoing douchebag who watches too many of those retarded "Bible code" shows on the History Channel and thinks he's really smart. Well, it turns out that The DaVinci Code's interpretation of art history isn't the most asinine take on portraying the original celebration of the sacrament of the eucharist. The historic party that kicked off a little thang called the passion and death of Christ seems even more idiotic when viewed through the lens of a drunken Mary-Kate Olsen's Ashton Kutcher COOLPIX camera.
From left to right, behold the apostles of douchery. Two aren't included, because I can only assume that the flanking characters, Bartholomew and Simon the Zealot wanted their legacies dragged through no part of this shitshow. First we have whichever lameass Madden brother next to Nicole Richie, whose raised SmartWater can be interpreted as either "I'm pregnant! See? Not drinking," or "Tonight I'm doing ecstasy!," making them the douchiest James son of Alphaeus and Andrew in history. Then we have Judas Iscariot next to Nicole/Andrew, looking pissed as hell that Nicole's douche-ass baby daddy is about to fire up that Camel Light, while the Tony Romo and Steve O-looking Saints Peter and John are looking on in interest to see whether Judas Iscariot will bust some Good Charlotte ass. Then JC himself is at the head of the table, disguised as a crusty lezbot from the 80s rocking the lumberjack look . Then Thomas, James the Greater, and Philip, who appear to respectively be that guy who plays Chuck Bass on "Gossip Girl," Natasha Lyonne, and Eli Roth, add an extra degree of ennui-filled apostolic douchery to the ensemble. And finally, Matthew needs to trim that perm and realize that wearing sunglasses inside at a dark, flannel-themed dinner party is idiotic, and Jude Thaddeus is Mary-Kate Olsen's boyfriend so you know he's an asshole. I don't trust anyone who sticks his dick into what seems like a creature conceived by Henrik Ibsen.
Seriously, I WISH this was the last supper these fools would ever eat, because such a comprehensive collection of douchebags really just shouldn't be allowed to continue existing. I bet Leonardo and Galileo are up in heaven at their weekly "We hate The DaVinci Code" meeting fuming at this latest affront to Leonardo's masterworks. Seriously, Jesus and his twelve apostles you are NOT, Mary-Kate Olsen flannel party attendees!
Labels: artfaggotry, assholes, celebrities, intentional buffoonery
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Katherine Heigl AGAIN
DOB: November 24, 1978
Occupation: soon-to-be former star of the despicable shitshow known as "Grey's Anatomy"
Hometown: New Canaan, Connecticut
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: Today Katherine Heigl gets her second douchebagging, and joins such two-time d-bag luminaries as Jessica Simpson, the New England Patriots, John Mayer and his dick, and Hulk Hogan's asshole kid. Previously I took issue with the fact that Katherine Heigl wouldn't shut her big facehole complaining about how her character on "Gay's Shitnatomy" was an adulterous ho and Knocked Up--the film which arguably gave her a movie career--was sexist. I realized yesterday that I had not fully exorcised my hatred for Katherine Heigl the first time around after CorporateCard sent me a link to this article from Gawker about how the writers of "Grey's Anatomy" hate her so much they've given her shit material, and I was discussing this with former "Gay's" fan JerseyGirl:
Razzy: here's something to entertain youAnd there you have it. Even JerseyGirl--a girl who once made a famously unsuccessful effort to convince me that a Christmas tree lighting at some old Smith alumna's Park Avenue penthouse was a better use of my Sunday than watching week 14 of hot NFL action--has no love for Katherine Heigl. If JerseyGirl, who is the exact kind of woman in the demographic Katherine Heigl is trying to appeal to (namely, bitches who do things like get tickets to special screenings of Music and Lyrics and send me invitations to Facebook applications like "What Sex and the City character are you?") hates Katherine Heigl for being an intolerable snatch, then Dr. Izzie Skankface or whatever better deflate her ego a little bit. If Katherine Heigl wants to continue movie career that has thus far given her the idea she's too good for the shitshow that made her famous, she should stop doing things like withdrawing herself from Emmy consideration and blaming the writers and otherwise making herself look like the world's most unlikable ingrate. Granted, I'd rather let one of my neighborhood crackheads buttfuck me with a splintery broom handle than watch 27 Dresses as it lacks the three elements of a truly great film (murder, explosions, and people getting fucked), but I've been told that some women enjoy romantic comedies about being a bridesmaid, and those women don't like whining shrews who take their success for granted.
Razzy: http://gawker.com/tag/theories/?i=396286&t=is-katherine-heigl-being-sabotaged-by-greys-anatomy-writers
Razzy: katherine heigl is such a slag
JerseyGirl: that is so funny/true
JerseyGirl: i hate her
Razzy: she is just awful
Razzy: she strikes me as the world's biggest biatch
Razzy: i hope that she gets fired from "grey's anatomy" and winds up working the straight-to-dvd circuit hard
Razzy: ideally she would not even appeal to types like you, who like shit like "gay's shitnatomy" and "27 dresses"
JerseyGirl: i used to watch grey's the first couple seasons when it was good - but her character is INSUFFERABLE
JerseyGirl: like awful
JerseyGirl: she is the WORST
Razzy:: dude as you know i was never into grey's anatomy
Razzy: and i used to be okay with katherine heigl because she had a hot rack
Razzy: but once she started getting "famous" for her dumb character
Razzy: and i got a look at her personality
Razzy: i was like
Razzy: NO. THANK. YOU.
Razzy: FAIL, Katherine Heigl!
JerseyGirl: haha cereally
JerseyGirl: she just llooks so annoying
Razzy: she always looks like she's about to start bitching at whoever crosses her path
Razzy: like i can just hear what a nasal, whiny nag she is
Razzy: every time i see her picture i can almost hear her bossing me around
JerseyGirl: i know... me too. she sux
I enjoy all these theories about how Katherine Heigl is engaging the "Grey's Anatomy" writers in a game of media whore cat-and-mouse, pretending to withdraw from Emmy consideration as some grand magnanimous gesture to the other actresses in the field, while the writers are leaking stories about how they supposedly made her character suck just because she's an obnoxious cow and they hate her. It sounds to me like Katherine Heigl wants to be fired so she can continue trying desperately to be the next Julia Roberts, which I am completely unsupportive of, as the world could do without the original Julia Roberts. I say to the writers of "Grey's Anatomy" (who I also hate, simply because they are partially responsible for the existence of "Grey's Anatomy") to keep her there. The longer Katherine Heigl is on "Grey's Anatomy," the longer my local theater can show awesome movies like AVP: Requiem (SO underrated) instead of 27 Dresses and other movies about dumb, socially inept women looking for a boyfriend or whatever. If I want to see shit about some girl lacking the skills to get the one guy she really secretly likes while her friends all couple up around her, I'll look in the fucking mirror! I like myself a whole lot better than Katherine Heigl, and I'm funnier too.
I hope that Katherine Heigl's movie career goes the way of David Caruso's when she inevitably leaves "Grey's Anatomy" amidst a great deal of bad blood. I can't wait for her to be unemployed with nary a script to review because the movie-watching public is so seriously over her, while "Gay's Shitnatomy" skyrockets in the ratings coincident with her departure. Hell, I will even watch that trash just to stick it to Katherine Heigl, and considering that merely catching a glimpse of Patrick Dempsey in a set of surgical scrubs makes me wish I owned a handgun, that's saying a lot. Katherine Heigl is the biggest cunt ever recorded on film, and I hope that her career tanks so hard that in a couple years the only work she can get is a stint on "Celebrity Rehab." Seriously, even Tori Spelling Lifetime movies are too good for this detestable bitch.
Labels: celebrities, Daily Douchebag, Grey's Anatomy, media whores, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
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