Friday, September 11, 2009
Here's your 9/11 present
Okay, first off, I'm not even going to make excuses for being so absent and causing you all to feel such great pain and abandonment. I've somehow managed to acquire one these–ahem–boyfriends, and I've been busy getting laid constantly. Oh, and working a lot too. So I apologize, as I know the Razzyphiles have suffered great neglect and most of you were probably contemplating going the Sylvia Plath route. My bad, dudes.
Anyway, I am going to be better about blogging more regularly and I thought there's no better way to do so than by wishing you all a very merry 9/11. And apparently the terror squad (the muhajadeen catchers, not Fat Joe's rap cartel) decided to give us a present this year! They managed to nab the Taliban's PR guy, Muslim Khan, thus striking a terrible blow against the terrorists' ability to deliver do-it-yourself crazy anti-Western manifestos.
I can see why the loss of Muslim Khan is probably devastating to the Taliban's whole program, since he's done such a capital job of promoting them in the international press. I mean, what if people actually stop thinking that they are murderous, misogynistic terrorists with large teacup collections? Image management skills like Muslim Khan's are hard to come by, especially when you're wandering around Pakistan in some rattletrap convoy of assault rifles and RPGs, tea services, and Arabian night-style tents trying to find some permanent stronghold like a big troupe of militant jihadist Joads. So have fun looking like a bunch of total assholes on Al-Jazeera, stupid dumb Taliban guys! USA! U! S! A!
Labels: crime and punishment, excuses, international intrigue, terror, United States of Asskickery
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The real player-haters of Atlanta
In this economy, you can't blame a bitch for trying to hustle a little extra paper on the side. In Lawrenceville, Georgia, this hot construction worker (and certifiable clam digger...trust this) decided to help offset her mortgage payments by converting her home into a part-time business. Normally, this would be a triumph of the American spirit, a heartwarming pull-oneself-up-by-the-bootstraps type of tale. Unfortunately, a bunch of player-hating neighbors and police had something else to say. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution has the entire tragic story of how this bold young entrepreneur is being persecuted for building a successful cottage industry.
Since Constance Trahan didn't want to do something really degrading like sell Amway or crack to make ends meet, she decided to start peddling something even more American and to her liking: good, old-fashioned amateur pussy. According to police, evidence provided by a sign stating "1 dollar jello shots," a whiny-ass fun-hating neighbor, and some snitch busted on a minor possession charge was sufficient to arrest Connie for "keeping a disorderly house." Apparently that means she let a bunch of hoes shake their cakes for cash in her garage and basement and freely dispensed cocktails of grain alcohol and gelatin without the proper permits.
I fail to see why this should even be illegal, or at least illegal enough to merit a trip to the pokey. First off, if "keeping a disorderly house" is a crime, then it's damned lucky I don't live anywhere near Lawrenceville, Georgia, because I'd constantly run afoul of the law in that regard. Second, how can anyone blame a hard-working American like Constance cooking up a practical way to pay off her Home Depot charge account? Constance was providing a service that was clearly in demand by consumers at affordable prices. If you've ever been to a strip club, you know that you can't get anything there for $1, so those jello shots were definitely a bargain. I can only imagine that she was slinging lap dances at bargain basement, Big Lots-type prices. Too bad Constance's fun-killing communist neighbor couldn't be bothered with a simple pair of earplugs and decided to hate on the fact that Con was the baddest ass competitor in the DIY basement suburban Atlanta strip club game.
I thought we were supposed to celebrate ingenuity and can-do attitudes as key attributes to patriotism, facets of our national spirit as American as NASCAR and Budweiser. I guess all it takes is one freedom-hating dickbag of a neighbor filing a noise complaint to undermine the most cherished principles of American capitalism. Free Constance Trahan! Or, as I think she is free on bond, at least acquit her from this grossly unfair misdemeanor charge. First the government takes away your home strip club, then it's the rest of your freedoms! Tell the player-haters that all Americans should feel secure in their right to get their hustle on. USA! U! S! A!
Labels: capitalism, crime and punishment, nudity, stank vaginas
Friday, March 27, 2009
He won't be missing the salon
I was very sad to hear that Clifford "T.I." Harris was sentenced to a year and a day in prison today. Well, sad, but not surprised considering I've known that this was imminent ever since he was busted a while back on federal weapons charges for having two illegal automatic machine guns in his trunk. In any event, I'm disappointed that I'm going to have to wait a while before the self-proclaimed King of the South is available to film the sequel to the greatest urban trick roller skating battle movie of all time AKA the masterpiece known as ATL.
In spite of his legal troubles, T.I. has been financially very successful in the past few years. I imagine that he's grown accustomed to the material comforts that undoubtedly come with the large personal fortune he's amassed. Given that federal prison is not known for its lavish accommodations, I would wager that T.I. might have a difficult time adjusting to life without the luxuries he is used to. I can think of one thing he's not going to miss much, though: a regular appointment at the waxing salon.
Damn, T.I.! Who would have thought the little guy was such a damn Sasquatch below the belt (or, actually, above the belt given T.I.'s general style preferences)? Everywhere else he's as smooth as a silk Gucci swag rag, and under his drawers he's like fucking Homo neanderthalensis. I wouldn't have guessed he was rocking that kind of topiary. At least he won't have to worry about maintaining that once he's cooling his heels in the clink.
Labels: crime and punishment, hot dudes, rap
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Sparkly Volvo-driving vampire groupies vs. MS-13: Battle of the Wal-Mart
In today's hilarious news, it seems that Wal-Mart is trying to downplay rumors spread via text message that the rabid tween girls who planned to spend last night camped out waiting for the Twilight DVD to drop were at risk of being brutally killed as part of some sort of gang initiation. Given my opinion of the twelve-year-old girl's vampire-themed Book of Mormon, I was rooting for the bangers. Nothing would put the lid on all these crazy bitches in their puff-painted "Bite Me" shirts like some random gun violence.
Unfortunately, this was quite apparently a hoax, since rumors about how "three women are to be killed by a Mexican gang" were everywhere from Colorado to Wal-Mart's northern Arkansas homeland, and from what I can tell not a single Twilunatic was unceremoniously felled by a Latin King's bullet at a Wal-Mart Twilight DVD release party. Not that I'm pro-random murder, but Twilight actually drove me crazy enough that I might consider such a gang initiation a public service.
I was actually disappointed to hear that this was just another made-up gang story meant to frighten stupid people, like the Tacoma Mall ankle slasher. When I was in grade school, there were rumors that "gang members" would hide under your car and when you put your bags in your car, they would slash your ankle with a razor blade. When you reached down to see what went on, they'd get out and steal your shit, and maybe rape and/or murder you as well. Some of my crazy aunts actually believed this so resolutely that they carried around little flashlights to look under their cars with when they went to the mall. Of course, the ankle slashers were the ones who were also putting razor blades and broken glass in Halloween candy, sticking HIV-infected needles in the coin-return slots on pay phones, and dying after drinking Coke with a mouthful of Pop Rocks. Apparently, the ankle slashers have now moved on to baseless text threat-hoaxes against ugly fat tween girls who like pining away for glittery gay Mormon vampires. Bummer. I would rather people meet their untimely end via anti-Twilight gang violence than trampled to death by legions of rabid Christmas shoppers, but I guess that's just not the world we live in. Sigh.
Labels: capitalism, crime and punishment, movies, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist
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, December 03, 2008
Not what fantasies are made of
On Saturday, my BFF LL Cool Jew took a quick break from her in-laws to have dumplings and drinks with me. While we were sitting at P.D. O'Hurley's slugging down Irish coffees, we heard some of the local fellas at the bar talking about how Plaxico Burress "shot himself in the foot."
"Did Plaxico Burress fucking shoot himself?" LL Cool Jew asked, alarmed, as much of her domestic peace hinges upon the Giants' fortunes.
"That can't be!" I said, myself alarmed not because of concerns about disrupting my marital bliss, but because Plaxico Burress has been stinking up my Fantasy roster all season. I immediately scanned the many televisions tuned into College Game Day on ESPN and assumed there would be something on the ticker about it. I did not see anything about Plaxico shooting himself, so I said, "Nah, dude, it would be all over ESPN if he had. They must mean figuratively, because of his attitude problems all year."
"I hope so," said LL Cool Jew, looking nervous about the prospect of attending the circus later that day with her husband BigBagel, brother-in-law, and father-in-law, all of whom are rabid Giants fans.
"Me too. That motherfucker is on my Fantasy team and I was hoping to trade him for a draft pick next year to someone who actually made the playoffs," I said. Unfortunately, despite my Fantasy team being the defending league champions and looking super hot on paper at the beginning of the season, most of my marquis players failed to do jack shit all season. The only silver lining is that, though Tha Razzies paralleled the exceptionally disappointing Seattle Seahawks, at least we won more than two fucking games all season. Therefore, I planned to trade Plax and all these underperforming douchebags for draft picks or better keepers and hope Tha Razzies have a bright season next year.
LL Cool Jew and I didn't see or hear anything further about Plax at the bar, so I forgot about it until I got home and noticed that she had texted me: "dewd, he DID shoot himself!" I immediately went to the trusty internets and realized that the moron was at some shitty club carrying the gun in his waistband with the fucking safety off, and, while his foot escaped unscathed, he shot himself through the thigh. I should add that Plax was not hanging out at some thugged-out shithole in Bed-Stuy or the South Bronx. He was at the Latin Quarter, located in the utterly non-dangerous Radisson Lexington Hotel in East Midtown, where the salsa band that played LL Cool Jew's wedding performs on Wednesday nights and guests enjoy Chef Ralph Mercado's tasty "LatAsian" creations with their bottle service. This is the kind of establishment where you are more likely to dodge spray-tanned bridge-and-tunnel types in pastel Kangol hats taking kamikaze shots than bullets. There is absolutely NO REASON WHATSOEVER, except for validating what an idiotic asshole you actually are, to pack heat at a place like this.
Furthermore, Plaxico told the lamest lie in the history of prevarication when he said he was actually shot at an Applebee's where he ate before he hit the club. I guess that sounds slightly better than "I accidentally shot myself because my gun WITH THE FUCKING SAFETY OFF started to fall out of my pants while I was holding a drink," but not by much.
LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's crew are not the only ones as outraged as myself at Plaxico's idiotic firearm skills. Thanks to the greatest newspaper in the history of print journalism, the New York Post, and its fellow tabloid the New York Daily News, I have spent the last three days being reminded of Tha Razzies' grim Fantasy reality every time I walk past a bodega or get on the subway (my favorite is the "GIANT IDIOT!" Post cover):
Now the Giants have suspended and banned Burress for the rest of the season, and are rumored to be getting out of the remainder of his $35 million dollar contract. It's bad enough that Plaxico might wind up booted from the New York Football Giants, since he'll probably go to the one team that, if Adam "Pac Man" Jones is any indication, welcomes violent criminals with open arms: the hateful Dallas Cowboys. At least if he goes to the Cowboys, I can probably trade him and watch media hilarity ensue as he tries to coexist with Terrell Owens's ego. A much worse scenario involves Plaxico's fate at 100 Centre Street, AKA the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse. New York City has some of the strictest gun control laws in the nation, and possession of an illegal, loaded firearm carries a 3 1/2 year mandatory minimum sentence. Which means that if Plaxico is convicted in spite of hiring celebrity gun charge lawyer extraordinaire Benjamin Brafman, my Fantasy team goes from disappointing to totally fucked. Thanks a lot, Plax.
Labels: BigBagel, crime and punishment, Fantasia, guns, LL Cool Jew, NFL football, NYC, retard rage
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Razzy Hater Orientation
The last few days, it has become clear to me that there are some novice Razzy Haters about, leaving some mean you're-fat kind of comments. I figured that, rather than just serving up a tall, frosty glass of my own special recipe haterade, I'd turn the other cheek and respond with a helpful guide to properly hating on me. I do plenty of hating, so it's only fair that I reap my karmic reward. Besides, I'm pretty good at hating, so those looking to impale me on my own sword could probably benefit from my talents and experience in this area. This is perfect for the Razzy Hater who aspires to the legendary status of such haters as the anonymous guy who once wrote that I'm "always the cum dumpster, never the bride." Please read this before you start leaving scathing comments, so that you can scorn me with all the vitriol a fat, ugly, old, totally unlovable diseased whore like me deserves.
On my victory in the Google game:
Be All the Hater You Can Be
To hate on me effectively, you first must understand the history of the anti-Razzy movement and the nature of the haters that came before. I've had many over the past few years, and while generally their comments hew to the you are fat/ugly/old/unmarried/fair-skinned/unemployed/slutty/poor line, those truly dedicated to humiliating me off the internets have employed numerous strategies to get their points across. In case those of you who just started hating would like to use one of these as a template for your anti-Razzy activities, here's a list of great pioneers in Razzy Hating.
The Addicted-to-Hating-Me Hater: This is the hater who finds one article they dislike and proceeds to read my site rabidly every single day looking for new excuses to leave comments reminding me that I'm fat, ugly, old, skanky, and unworthy of marriage. One of the most infamous of these was a guy I like to call "Harvard Jarhead." This guy first made his appearance known when I was discussing a popular Jamaican dance from 2007 called the "Dutty Wine." This asshole promptly established that he went to Harvard, he's a Marine preparing to serve our country, I'm fat, ugly, and stupid, and any "illiterate, impoverished third-world islander" (along with everywhere in South America, Africa, and Asia) cannot possibly have a culture worth appreciating. Then he complained about affirmative action devaluing his Ivy League education and offered to "bag a Haji" for me on his next tour of duty. When not crafting racist rants, being insufferably in love with his own sense of intellectual superiority, and bragging about being some sort of real-life Jack Bauer singlehandedly safeguarding American security via his role in the Marines, he would comment at least twice a week insulting my intelligence and demanding that I stop "wasting (his) time" writing my blog (and read any given post from September 2006...you'll see what I'm talking about). Because somehow in writing my blog, he was as compelled to read it constantly as he was to defend the freedoms my "tubby" ass takes for granted by killing "terrorists" overseas. I continued to force him to spend hours reading my blog and telling me my many shortcomings until duty called and he was shipped abroad to engage once more in his favorite activity short of reminding everyone that he went to Harvard: KILLING THEM ILLITERATE, UNEDUMACATED A-RABS, A-COURSE!
The Renamer Hater: Also known as the "Princess" Hater, in honor of the most memorable of this class. Some Masshole read one of the many Patriots-related douchebaggings I composed during the 2007 NFL season, concluded that I'm wicked retahded, and decided to advise me to "grow up, Princess," because "no one likes a bitch." This fool then became a regular reader, primarily for the purpose of reiterating that I should "go find a new sport," as my Seahawks allegiance proved that I "know shit about football," all with a condescending "Princess" thrown in somewhere. He then branched out from simply ragging on me about my woeful ignorance regarding the NFL/not sharing his desire to give Bill Belichick a sloppy blow job to the old tried-and-true target: my physique. He stuck around for a few months to tell me that I look like Tori Spelling and that I should hire the orange ex-manager of the legendary Ms. Britney Spears to promote my blog, all embellished with a derivative "Princess." However, the hypothesis that he was just trying to be complimentary by suggesting that I am the heir to some undefined throne is also quite valid.
The You-Have-STDs-You-Slut Hater: I've had a couple people suggest that those lucky enough to sleep with me might catch a case of something besides feelings. One time I got sick and bitched about it, and some person decided my upper respiratory infection was the perfect excuse to spread a rumor that I actually was dying of AIDS. In fact, when my illness persisted the next day, the hater noted went from simply saying that I was obviously HIVed up to noting, "AZT: it's not just for orphans in Africa." Even when I wrote about getting a negative HIV test but having a hemorrhoid instead, this hater doggedly insisted on pursuing the "you have AIDS" hating route. Yes, I get it, I'm a big skanky ho and you wouldn't let my pestilent pussy anywhere near your gold-plated, germ-free cock. Now move on to telling me that I'm fat, ugly, or old!
The Scientifically Literate Hater: A specialized hater, this variety of anti-Razzy reader is someone employed in the field of science who, rather than commiserate over our shared miserable career experience, decides to bust on Columbia and/or my publication record. This is a pretty solid strategy, because not only is it a refreshing change from the usual insults to my physical appearance and/or intellect, I can't argue with opinions regarding Columbia's continued decline in prestige or academic quality or my publication record thus far. However, this should not be attempted by haters who are not fluent in biology, because I will own your bitch ass if you do. Trust. If you don't know how to use Pub-Med, I strongly advise picking a different strategy.
The Morally Superior Christian Hater: This is the hater who fronts like they are all into God and are coming from a position of moral superiority (doesn't swear, drink, have abortions, or watch porn), but really is just looking for an excuse to call me names. Someone named "love thy neighbor" expressed disapproval of the strong language I used while deconstructing Rita Cosby's humanity for ruining a "To Catch a Predator" afterparty: "You are a fine once to talk with your nice use of profanity. You are disgusting with your choice of words. Yuck!" Thank you for complimenting my nice fucking use of profanity. Though apparently it makes me unworthy to talk shit about Rita Cosby, I nonetheless strive to incorporate filthy gutter-mouthed trash talk seamlessly into my prose, and I'm glad my efforts are being acknowledged. There's a million more of these "you call yourself a Christian, yet you use extreme profanity and preach hate, you hypocritical slut!" on half the posts I've written about porn, so if you like reading self-righteous damnations, have at it.
The Bust a Hater Nut All Over Archive Pages Nobody Ever Reads Anymore Hater: Also known as the "Razzy Bailey" Hater. Occasionally, I get a hater who decides that leaving one comment simply isn't enough. This occurred most memorably when forgotten country singer Razzy Bailey took issue with my braggadocio concerning his imminent failure in remaining the "I'm Feeling Lucky" option in Google searches for "razzy." First I talked some shit about how I was gunning for Razzy Bailey's #1 Google search status, then I gloated when I toppled him in the PageRank popularity contest. Upon learning of his defeat at my hands, Razzy Bailey (or at least a rabid Razzy Bailey fan writing in from a Nashville IP address) vowed revenge and commenced a comment page blitzkrieg. Under the nom de plume "jomammasanallover," this hater started by writing that I "confused 'articulate jackass' with 'enlightened jackass.'" Unsatisfied with this zinger, Razzy "jomammasanallover" Bailey spent the next several days combing through my archives and leaving progressively more vitriolic comments. As he practiced, his skills improved considerably from debates over which type of intellectually elite jackass I am, and actually produced some first-rate hating:
On my victory in the Google game:
Yet I can skip over your drivel by searching with "razzy bailey". Seems to be very little additional effort to get to something substantive. Conversely, if I search with "razzy cunt", there you are, right on top as you should be. Things are right with the world.On this fat Smith girl whose blog I deemed a "big, beautiful shitshow":
"I am strongly considering never mentioning that I went to Smith again."On naked pictures my artfag friends took of me:
Welcome news would be that you intend to never mention anything ever again at all.
"The problem here is not only that she was painted liberally with the ugly stick, ... "
Got mirrors?
Fantastic! If I blow this up to 400% and crop away everything but the cooch, after a qt of Wild Turkey I can actually masturbate to the 3rd one down.On my overall physical appearance at my friend's wedding:
"You know it's a good party when you start the night looking like this"On my whining about Social Security:
God, now that's hilarious. You're particular brand of sarcasm keep us in stitches spunktrap.
Everything you spew says "I'm depressed". Got any news? Sounds like you won't be needing social security anyway. Perhaps you haven't paid much into SS because you don't work. See, the blog doesn't count. Is it Razzy, or Nazzdy?On my account of my own deflowering:
I think we've all grown a little and find ourselves more complete having read this. You vagina is the center of the known universe Nazzdy.I like that. I'll answer to Nazzdy. That's kind of fun and catchy, and illustrates jomammasanallover's general creative skill. Despite the fact that he apparently learned punctuating from "The Electric Company," he covers a variety of topics (I'm fat, ugly, unemployed, depressed, and a nasty slut to boot), he vividly illustrates his point with clever anecdotes about masturbation and Wild Turkey, and he even invents delightfully catchy derogatory nicknames for me like "spunktrap." Frankly, "spunktrap" is a word that I need to incorporate into my own vocabulary with more regularity. Because of his gift at hating, I was almost sad when I responded to one of these comments by pointing out that, as the IP address originated on Razzy Bailey-related posts and was coming from Nashville AKA Razzy Bailey's known city of residence, I suspected that jomammasanallover was indeed Razzy Bailey. After being outed, jomammasanallover never commented again and sadly, "Nazzdy" never quite caught on. This brings me to my next bit of advice regarding effective hating.
Don't Make It So Fucking Easy For Me To Figure Out Who You Are, Dumbass
If you're hating on me because I've mocked you personally, then pretending to be some random hater who just happened to decide to take up your cause in a rabidly pissed-off way isn't the most effective form of subterfuge. When I start getting a bunch of comments on a post I've written mocking one person in particular, and then those comments immediately spread to other posts and they all come from the same IP address originating from the very city where said mockee lives, it doesn't take me a very long time to deduce who is sending those comments my way. For example, last week I busted on a website that one of my high school classmates relentlessly promoted on Facebook. Every damn day I would log into Facebook and find another "This Dumb Bitch has posted a link" item in my news feed, coupled with her demands that I drop everything and read her banal-ass drivel. Finally, I got fed up and wrote a mean-spirited critique of her and her craptastic website. I suppose I could have been less critical of This Dumb Bitch's physical appearance, but as I've learned, that's life when you expose yourself personally on the internets for public consumption. Not everyone is going to like your material OR your appearance, and when you operate a personality-driven blog that you voluntarily post and encourage people to read, you had better prepare for some criticism.
Unfortunately, there are a lot of dumb people who feel that it is somehow their "right" not to be criticized, and This Dumb Bitch was no exception. Immediately, she deleted her blog from the internet and proceeded to get on the comment page and accuse me of offenses such as being a "schoolyard bully," being "pastey-white," and disgracing my high school's good name. When I was like, "Oh hey, This Dumb Bitch" back, the person predictably responded with "no, it's not This Dumb Bitch!" People always do this when trying to defend themselves anonymously. I'm not sure if it's because they're afraid to admit to standing up for themselves or they want to give the impression that they have an army of fellow supporters galvanized to take action against me in the form of anonymous comments, but either way, the commenter always denies any affiliation to the person in question. However, when the IP address is coming from the main suspect's last known residence like, oh, say, TACOMA, WASHINGTON, the main suspect has spent the day deleting her blog and Facebook-defriending other high school classmates peripherally associated with my website, and the commenter not only writes in a way that is stylistically IDENTICAL to the now-defunct blog but continually talks about the high school we both went to, I don't have to be Jessica Fucking Fletcher to realize that if I'm not dealing with This Dumb Bitch, I'm dealing with her husband, sister, or other close friend/family member. Oh, and did I mention that the hits coming from that TACOMA, WASHINGTON COMCAST IP ADDRESS look like this?
Guess what, This Dumb Bitch? No random person cares enough about your fat ass to defend you on my blog. Therefore, leaving comments expressing moral indignation coupled with calling me names on the page I wrote about you and pretending not to be you while simultaneously calling me fat on the Sarah Palin Halloween costume post I wrote isn't exactly a diabolically clever way to throw me off your trail. And speaking of the comments you left on the Sarah Palin post, let me get to my third tip.
Guess what, This Dumb Bitch? No random person cares enough about your fat ass to defend you on my blog. Therefore, leaving comments expressing moral indignation coupled with calling me names on the page I wrote about you and pretending not to be you while simultaneously calling me fat on the Sarah Palin Halloween costume post I wrote isn't exactly a diabolically clever way to throw me off your trail. And speaking of the comments you left on the Sarah Palin post, let me get to my third tip.
Don't Post My Fucking Name and Home Address
Yesterday, This Dumb Bitch and/or her co-conspirator left multiple comments on the Sarah Palin post which read:
Can we say... Muffin Top & Thunder Thighs. Looks like [MY FULL REAL NAME] of [MY HOME ADDRESS], with phone number [MY CELL PHONE NUMBER] needs to step on the treadmill.This Dumb Bitch attempted to post this multiple times before going through the mental gymnastics necessary to comprehend the boldfaced blurb underneath the comment window which reads: "Comment moderation has been enabled. All comments must be approved by the blog author." Then they left another comment (which I did approve) claiming that I only approve "self-serving comments" rather than ones that eviscerate me via fifth-grade affronts like "thunder thighs."
In a way, this is true, if you consider not wanting to GET FUCKING RAPED by some random psycho "self-serving." I'm more than happy to publish pages of comments pointing out the fact that I could lose 5 or 10 vanity pounds (although that's pretty rich, considering THIS is what This Dumb Bitch looks like), however derisively that sentiment may be phrased. However, after my past experience in which another dumb bitch I'd made fun of took an ad out on Craigslist casual encounters, impersonated me and said that I was up for some dirty sex, and SENT ONE OF THESE RANDOM DUDES TO MY FRONT DOOR EXPECTING TO HAVE SEX WITH ME, I'm understandably a little touchy about my personal information being distributed in a revenge-seeking context. I learned a lot from that experience. Most importantly, I learned that doing such a thing is a federal crime. If you willfully post information intended to send people to my home, you are basically an accessory to any crime I might be a victim of. Whatever I may have written about This Dumb Bitch to offend her, I NEVER posted anything that she didn't make publicly available on her own website, and as unattractive and boring a writer as she may be, I would never disclose her home address or try to set her up for actual bodily harm or criminal victimization. If she's such a fabulous example of what a Bellarmine graduate should be, then maybe she should stick to passive-aggressively implying that I'm a morally bereft loser and calling me names rather than angling to be an accessory to felony assault. If not because she's the decent human being she claims to be, then because being part of something like that could get your kid taken away from you, or could get you kicked out of the Army, or could land you in prison and generally ruin your life. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never show up to my house and rape or murder me, so I'd advise limiting future insults to trite bullshit like "thunder thighs" rather than a roadmap to my front door.
I hope this has been helpful for all you fledgling enemies of mine! Now that you've got the 411 regarding the hatred sitch here at RAZZY.org, by all means, have at it. Oh, and also, today is Election Day! Don't forget to vote.
Labels: crime and punishment, Facebook, P-N-Dub, Razzy Haters, sexual assault
Monday, October 27, 2008
LOL terror
I just read some article about the latest in military intelligence. Specifically, the Army noted that terrorists can use Twitter to orchestrate attacks, if the terrorists Twitter each other about police movements and whatever other logistical details these jackasses need to pay attention to when suicide bombing things or doing other freedom-hating activities. In fact, it's not even your typical Islamic jihadists who might Twitter their way to striking a blow against us infidels. All sorts of nefarious groups could Twitter their way to a terror attack:
"Twitter has also become a social activism tool for socialists, human rights groups, communists, vegetarians, anarchists, religious communities, atheists, political enthusiasts, hacktivists and others to communicate with each other and to send messages to broader audiences," the report said.
I don't use Twitter, but I figured that if evildoers like vegetarians, human rights groups, and all these other hippie types are using it to strike fear in the hearts of freedom-loving Americans everywhere, they're probably using Facebook too. So I checked it out and what do you know? Sure enough, Osama bin Laden is on Facebook and we're both members of the "New York, NY" network! I believe it's really his page, because only a truly depraved, morally bankrupt individual like the mastermind behind 9/11 could speak so highly about "Everybody Loves Raymond."
Yes, "i blow up cars with people in it :P" sounds pretty bin Laden-ish to me. Granted, I don't speak Arabic but from what I've seen of those Al-Jazeera cave videos, bin Laden is always like "zomg usa sux LOLz" while waving around an assault rifle. Besides, it seems pretty reasonable to assume that if the terrorists are using Twitter, they've discovered Facebook. In fact, this is correct, and they're so into it that Al-Qaeda has started a Facebook group! And they have like 40 more members than MY Facebook group (which you should obviously should join immediately if you have not done so yet). That's not cool. I like to think that there are far more Razzyphiles out there than America-hating terror cells waiting to strike at my beloved USA! U! S! A!
I don't know why the U.S. Army is so hung up on the possibility of Twitter terror when it's already thriving on Facebook. If I were them, I'd get off my hypothetical ass and hit the terrorists where it really hurts: their online social network. If my friends' attitude toward Facebook is any indication, bin Laden will be in a state of extreme agitation and confusion if he can't check his news feed to see who all of his terrorist buddies are making Facebook friends with, SuperPoke Ayman al-Zawahri, plant something in his friends' "green patches," take a quiz to determine which "Sex and the City" character he most resembles, or change his status to "Osama bin Laden is wishing this cave got Showtime :(" or "Osama bin Laden is AHAHAHAHA you gluttonous infidels, the world economy is collapsing lolZ u westernized whores." Cut off his Facebook, and cut off his terror network. USA! U! S! A!
Labels: crime and punishment, Facebook, terror, United States of Asskickery
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
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Don't hate the player; steal his bags
Tatum Bell is one of those running backs whose actual career in the National Football League parallels his career in virtually everyone's Fantasy league. Overblown news blurbs touting his potential (but never seen) abilities on-field result in his starting the season comfortably on someone's roster. Then, after his inability to do anything besides fumble the ball results in negligible offensive production, his ass is disgustedly and unceremoniously flung back to the mercy of the waiver wire.
Well, it seems after learning that the Detroit Lions had replaced his useless ass with Rudi Johnson following yet another lackluster preseason, Tatum Bell was a little pissed off that he wasn't going to be allowed to consistently rack up negative yardage this year. Instead of getting together with (Central Washington University alum and former Seahawk) Jon Kitna for some serenity prayers about the situation, he decided to respond with all the grace and tact of an irascible third grader.
Tatum stole Rudi's bags and drove them to his girlfriend's house. I can just imagine Tatum Bell rubbing his hands sinuously, or perhaps stroking his goatee with a villainous air, saying, "Rudi Johnson, you may have taken my job, but I'm about to take your precious Perry Ellis boxer shorts! Mwahahahahaha."
Too bad for Tatum's diabolical scheme that the Lions have video surveillance in their team headquarters, and he was quickly pegged as the culprit. His girlfriend brought back the bags, after Tatum emptied them of Rudi's unmentionables, $200, and some credit cards. Rudi later claimed it was "real shyster, conniving stuff." I would disagree that the plot was actually pretty poorly conceived and may have even been a big misunderstanding, if you believe Tatum's feeble protests of "I ain't no thief." Rudi Johnson does not.
This all bodes ill for Tatum Bell. After being released by the Lions and painted as a petty underwear thief, I doubt he's going to get picked up by any other team anytime soon. There's also the matter of him being a totally shiteous running back. Shaun Alexander is going to find a home for 2008 before Tatum Bell's bitch ass does.
Labels: crime and punishment, NFL football, ridiculous absurdity, vengeance is sweet
Friday, August 29, 2008
Bob is no longer smiling
I knew this was coming several years ago when I first saw a commercial for this product called Enzyte, purported to provide "natural male enhancement." For a while, these ads featuring the creepy, "Black Hole Sun" videoesque Bob grinning maniacally about his Enzyte-improved penis were ubiquitous on television, particularly on cable news and sports broadcasts. I remember seeing these ads and scoffing, thinking to myself, "God, men are so fucking dumb about their weiners. Enzyte is bullshit."
Not for one second did I believe that Enzyte actually worked to make cocks bigger OR more functional. Since Enzyte was described by its manufacturer as a "nutraceutical" (a very scientastic way of saying "vitamin"), I doubted it contained any cGMP-specific phosphodiesterase 5 inhibitors capable of treating erectile dysfunction. A quick review of the label confirmed that while Enzyte is made primarily of B vitamins, some minerals, some random vaguely sexy-sounding plant extracts ("horny goat weed"), and oatmeal (Avena sativa), it contained no sildenafil whatsoever.
I can't fathom how these ingredients make a dick harder, much less physically larger. Penises get about as big as they're going to get during puberty, and short of surgery, medical science has yet to discover a way to get around the limitations of human development. Rest assured that if eating oatmeal gave dudes bigger dicks, Quaker would be a menu option at every restaurant all day long. Guys would eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Unlike the unscrupulous marketers touting Enzyte, however, the rolled oat industry has stuck with selling the cholesterol-lowering properties of their grain to the health conscious baby boomer and livestock feed bag markets, and refrained from touting their cereal as a means of "male enhancement," and this has turned out to be a wise move.
As it turns out, I wasn't the only one calling bullshit on Enzyte. Some federal regulators decided they would look into the suspicious claims made by Berkeley Premium Nutraceuticals, the company running the Enzyte con. They discovered that founder Steve Warshak scammed sexually insecure men out of over $100 million by selling them a crap product, manipulating credit card transactions, and refusing to honor returned or canceled orders. Federal prosecutors successfully managed to convict Warshak on 93 separate counts of fraud, conspiracy, and money laundering, ordered him and three other employees to forfeit $500 million, and sentenced his bitch ass to 25 years in prison.
I'd be more surprised that Warshak was able to get away with a scam of such proportions if I didn't know how absolutely ridiculous men can be when it comes to their cocks. Their entire sense of self can literally rise and fall with their sometimes annoyingly mercurial johnsons, and I'm not even talking about in the bedroom. Phallic obsession seems to pervade almost every aspect of male life. Once my little brother got dragged out to sea by a riptide and almost drowned on the Oregon Coast when he was around ten or eleven, and after being pulled out of the surf and treated for severe hypothermia on the beach, his main concern was the paramedics observing "shrinkage." He almost died, but he was more worried that the medical personnel treating him might have been unimpressed with his pubescent package. And for all the trouble I've gotten in for discussing my sex life openly, I can't count the number of times I heard men in work contexts using their dicks as analogies for their professional abilities and achievements. If a woman shows too much cleavage, wears too short of a skirt, or is sexually titillating in any way in many workplaces, she isn't taken seriously, but men have carte blanche to bring their pricks into any and all conversations because their penis obsession is such an irritatingly prevalent aspect of human culture.
When it comes to sex, penises can be even more aggravating, and I'm not even talking about the physical aspects of penile function. They can make the guys they are attached to complete pains in the ass. I'll compliment guys on their weiners when warranted, but often they seem to interpret "you have a nice dick that I like sitting on" as worshipful reverence. One of my ex-boyfriends took to his blog after our breakup and wouldn't get off the topic of how much I supposedly loved his fucking penis. Obviously during happier times, I enjoyed having sex with him, but no amount of awesome penis-having could make up for the fact that he was an asshole who treated me like shit and fully deserved the summary dumping I gave him. Just last night, a one-night stand from a while back wanted to know why I haven't made good on a promise I apparently made to write about his "beautiful cock." Simple: I forgot I drunkenly said I was going to do that, and while it was a hot one-nighter and his dick was just fine, it's not like I've been sitting around thinking about how fucking phenomenal his penis is. I had nice weiners before, and I've had nice weiners since, and while I like them, I'm not going to venerate any of them. News flash, fellas: your dicks do NOT make you Jesus, Vishnu, Zeus, Gozer the Gozerian, or any other kind of reverential deity. They are just dicks, and you all have them. Most of them are perfectly fine (in my storied history of sluttery, I've really only come across ONE penis that was unacceptably small), and while I like fucking them, they are not what I spend my time fretting about. I'm far more intrigued by the rare man who I admire for the head on his shoulders as much as the one between his legs.
The fall of the Enzyte empire should be a lesson to men everywhere about their penises. While clearly they have been a driving force in human civilization, they are a man's Achilles heel, as evidenced by the number of dudes who were duped by Enzyte's marketing trickery into plunking down their plastic for empty promises of assuaging perceived inadequacies in this area. The most surefire way to coax out a man's inner moron is to neg his precious pecker, which is what Berkeley Nutraceuticals did to the legions easily hoodwinked into buying their oatmeal vitamin pills. Most guys aren't hung like Lexington Steele, and women don't expect them to be. A dude with a regular-sized dong who doesn't spend all his time fretting about it is considerably more attractive than a fucking idiot willing to invest in a panacea for his own insecurities. Besides, if a guy wants to be a hit in the bedroom, he should just learn how to give decent head rather than waste his time trying to achieve the impossible by bulking up his dick with a placebo. Guys should realize that overcompensating stupidity is far less attractive than any variation of penis size. Get over your fucking dicks, dudes.
Labels: crime and punishment, overcompensation, retard rage, sex, weiners
Thursday, August 28, 2008
People are such prudes
I saw this article the other day and shook my head in disappointment:
BARTLETT, TN (WMC-TV) - Bartlett Grove Park sits in the middle of a subdivision. It's a favorite spot for children, and was recently the site of an adult website porno shoot.
The video clip we discovered begins innocently enough.
"I thought I'd come out for the day," says the "model."
She then exposes herself on the playground slide.Some garden variety exposure is pretty tame as far as "explicit pornography" is concerned. After watching the clip of the local news story, I gathered that this chick pretty much just flashes her twat at the camera from the top of the playground slide. It's not like Anabolic was shooting the latest installment in their Romantic Rectal Reaming series there. A brief flash of sloppily augmented breasts and her cooch are a far cry from doing a double anal ass-to-mouth scene with Vince Voyeur and Lexington Steele.
"She's definitely a tramp -- just nasty," parent Barbara Taylor said in reaction to the video.
Taylor had a typical reaction.
"I think it's disgusting," she said. "I think I'm not letting my kids go down that slide anymore."
Danny Berryhill is a Baptist minister who lives right across the street.
"I don't have the words," he said. "I'm a Baptist minister, and I have no words."
Action News 5 is not publicizing the the exact web-site the video appears on, but it's full of explicit pornography, and there's a promise to visit more public places.
Bartlett Police Capt. Tina Schaber said the girl in the video is clearly breaking a law.
"Public indecency right off the bat," she said.
Police got on the case after Action News 5 clued them in.
"I don't think this would be appropriate for an adult to see in a park -- much less a child," Schaber said.
According to Schaber, the model and those video-taping her could be charged with a number of other crimes.
"These days, who knows?" she said. "She could be over 18 -- she could be under 18."
Action News 5 was unable to locate the "model." She writes on the web-site that the pornographic shoot took place just last week.
A brief search of the internets turned up the identity of the "model," and as far as porn goes, my blog is more hardcore than the park spectacle perpetrated by "nasty tramp" calling herself Foxy Jacky. The extent of her inappropriate public indecency is primarily her giggling and doing stuff like this ("have a looksee at my hooters, y'all!"):
SCANDALOUS! I mean, there are some mildly more offensive shots of Foxy Jacky providing the camera with some intentional upskirt action, but nothing that would really warrant disinfecting the playground. Her site does have some uninspired whipped cream blowjob pictures and trite hardcore on it, but...yawn. All that seems to be done in the private confines of her apartment, and is nothing I haven't seen about 80,000 times from do-it-yourself adult cam entrepreneurs. Frankly, I find Foxy Jacky's poorly punctuated narrative of her adventures in indecent exposure more of an affront to my moral sensibilities than any of the actual public nudity:
August 26 - I am sure this update isn't going to go over too well with the local police but I don't care. I was called a tramp and a few other not so nice things last night by the local news station. All of this because I took a few naked pictures at a park how stupid. I made sure when I did it that there were no kids around and I didn't hurt anyony when I did it so I don't see a problem. Now the local police are talking about arresting me for doing this well here is another set in the public that I shot I hope you like it and I have lots more to put up soon lol. If you have no real crimes to investigate and need to meet a quota I guess there is not much I can do here is the link check it out.
Foxy Jacky accompanies this scathing polemic with new shots of her flashing her ossified snap-on clearance sale tits at an arcade. Her brand of boring gonzo nudity might lull me to sleep, but I do have to applaud her for continuing her subversive behavior despite threats of police intervention. Not only is she sticking it to authority, but she's demonstrating the marketing savvy to parlay her notoriety into at least two or three more foxyjacky.com subscribers. Maybe if she really takes advantage of her ability to shock Baptist ministers into silence, she might hit the big time (ie: a slot on the next iteration of "Rock of Love with Bret Michaels," since that seems the number one vehicle for cam whores and low-rent pro/am porn stars crossing over to the mainstream).
If I were a resident of Bartlett, Tennessee, I would consider providing a forum for a "tramp" to expose herself a better use of my tax dollars than recreational equipment for hateful children to play on. Certainly I'd rather see public space appropriated by blond chicks getting naked than kids running around getting dirty, making noise, and generally pissing me off. Foxy Jacky has actually done her community a service by getting uptight soccer moms to keep their brats at home and off the streets, not to mention silencing annoying preacher types. Clearly, these horribly offended parties are a bunch of lame prudes who spend way too much time judging other people, so if Foxy Jacky's briefly bared pussy is going to keep them locked up in their homes and churches, I say give that skank a key to the fucking city.
Labels: crime and punishment, destroy all children, nudity, porn, retard rage, sluts
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Daniel Henry Plant
Name: Daniel Henry Plant
DOB: ???
Occupation: bullshit excuse-employing pedophile
Hometown: the delightful (except by "delightful," I mean "redneck timber industry shithole") log-processing Oregon border town of Longview, Washington
Current residence: Clallam Bay Corrections Facility, Clallam Bay, Washington
Douchebaggery: HotLawyer was going about his daily business of reading Washington State Appellate Court decisions, found this gem, and requested a good old-fashioned douchebagging of the appellant. This appeal was made by one Mr. Daniel Henry Plant, a drunken creep who didn't agree with the jury of his peers that convicted him of first-degree child molestation. His appeal was denied, and to save you the trouble of deciphering the legalese about the case law for the basis of the appeal's failure, I will quickly translate: motherfucker used the most bullshit excuses of all time for trying to fingerbang a six-year-old.
According to the decision, Mr. Plant showed up at his friend's house after killing a few too many wine coolers. The friend agreed to let his wasted ass stay over, and invited him to climb into bed with her and her six-year-old daughter. Instead of quietly passing out in front of a movie, he started trying to convince the friend to fuck him and kept feeling up the little girl. Though the friend kept refusing what I'm sure were incredibly tempting offers of sexual congress, Mr. Plant didn't get the hint. He exposed himself and then, when it became apparent the friend wasn't interested in banging some dude with her daughter in bed with her, he turned his attention to the kid. The mother was alerted that something was up when her daughter told Plant "don't" in a serious manner, and threw back the covers. At that point, Plant withdrew his grabby hands guiltily from the girl's crotch, and the mother threw him out. The daughter then told her mother he'd been diddling her.
The girl explained that he touched her "pee" and that it was both unwelcome and painful. To add an extra shuddering jolt of revulsion, the police chick who investigated the case noticed that all his fingernails were sharpened to a point. As a sexually active adult with a thoroughly broken-in vagina, I can attest that long nails–much less ones intentionally honed into raptor-like talons–cause sufficient ouchiness to render digital action completely miserable and unpleasant. I can only imagine how this must have felt for an innocent six-year-old who had already suffered the misfortune of being molested by one of her brothers. In his defense, Plant first said he confused the kid with her mother, who in his mind was begging to have sex with his Blue Hawaiian-sodden self. When the investigator didn't believe that story, he said that he was just "testing" the kid to see if she had been molested...by molesting her. He told the investigator he was "just being professional," because certainly molesting children is used by law enforcement officials and child psychologists as an excellent litmus test for determining whether or not a child has already been sexually violated by a creepy kid-touching degenerate asshole. He then claimed that, while admittedly a poorly conceived plan to provide some sort of sick counseling to the girl, his judgment was impaired because he was drunk. He also claimed that his defense attorney didn't bring this up at trial, and thus had a legitimate appeal against his conviction.
I've done many ill-conceived things while under the influence. Granted, I can't recall a time when I was drunk on Bartles and Jaymes, but I've still done some pretty crazy and sometimes regrettable things. Nonetheless, I've never committed any kind of sexual assault, much less child molestation, no matter how drunk I got. I certainly never attempted to perform some type of perverted genital examination on the grounds of some mysterious "professional" interest. I call bullshit, and so did the appellate judges. They summarily rejected his appeal and sent him to experience the joys of keenly honed objects poking at his orifices in a Washington state prison. Except from what I understand about penitentiary life, sharpened toothbrush handles are more common than manicures, and the Clallam Bay commissary doesn't stock any fruit-flavored hooch to take the edge off.
I take my hat off to the appeals court for telling Daniel Plant's stank pedophile ass to take his shankings (in whatever form) like a man. Wine coolers, no matter how loathsome a beverage for anyone (much less a man) to be intoxicated on, are not magical juice that give a person a sudden desire to play doctor with a six-year-old. Blaming the eminent Misters Bartles and Jaymes for his own inherent nastiness is unfair and hardly grounds for an appeal. Send that bitch to prison, stick his name on the local Megan's Law list, and leave the Seagram's out of it!
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, gross, HotLawyer, kewlness, sexual assault
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Anthrax ROCKS
I received the following e-mail from a Razzyphile the other day:
Hey, Razzy
Thank you for the useless bullshit. You are definitely fulfilling a societal need.
I was hoping you could post about the anthrax dude who recently killed himself. You are an expert in the field and we razzyphiles would like to hear from you anything germane to our greater understanding of the entire incident.
PS great rack
I'm a recent law school grad but not admitted so I can't help legally yet.
I am always happy to accommodate requests to drop some science for an interested Razzyphile, particularly one who simultaneously compliments my tits, declares the demand for useless bullshit a "societal need," and might be able to potentially join my crack pro bono legal team of criminal defense and bankruptcy attorneys once he passes the bar exam. I'm also always especially happy to discuss this sexy Gram-positive spore-forming facultative anaerobe:
I've had a real scientific hard-on for Bacillus anthracis since I started studying microbiology. By all accounts, it's a hardy little survivor, which is what makes it a successful pathogen and a relatively efficient biological weapon. The above picture (which looks like a colored transmission electron micrograph) depicts B. anthracis in a state called vegetative growth, which is the type of growth most people imagine bacteria do in an Erlenmeyer flask or a petri dish of culture media. They divide by binary fission until they run out of nutrients or growth conditions become otherwise unfavorable. Most bacteria, like E. coli or Salmonella species, will proceed to die or at least stop dividing under conditions of nutrient deprivation, but B. anthracis can do something special. It can sporulate, meaning it changes into a dormant spore form, until it is again exposed to more favorable growth conditions. This is equivalent to watching TV and taking a nap on the couch when nothing good is on, to conserve your strength and attention for when something awesome like "I Love Money" or a rerun of Red Dawn merits waking up.
B. anthracis spores are extremely durable and can remain viable for decades in the soil, which is why livestock are most often afflicted with anthrax. The spores get from the earth into grazing animals' hair and basically hang out there. If they get into vulnerable areas of skin (via a cut or a mucosal surface like the eye), they germinate, and result in cutaneous anthrax. Generally the humans that get this are farmers, herders, slaughterhouse employees, and other people working with livestock. In both animals and humans, cutaneous anthrax presents as an ulcerating lesion that is usually pretty gross, but usually treatable with antibiotics and not fatal.
It's much more serious when the spores are inhaled and germinate in the lungs. Prior to the Cold War era of state-sponsored bioweapons programs, pulmonary anthrax was known as "Woolsorter's Disease," because it typically affected people who worked in places where animal hides were processed and resulted in high concentrations of airborne spores. However, when World War II came around, a number of countries (including the great U.S. of A., Great Britain, and the Soviet Union) decided to test the feasibility of using aerosolized anthrax spores as a biological weapon. They are naturally a great bioweapon because not only are the spores incredibly hardy, but pulmonary anthrax is not transmissible from person-to-person. Therefore, you can target an enemy efficiently without worrying about causing an epidemic. However, nobody ever used anthrax as a weapon in an actual war, partly because of the lasting effects. Gruinard Island, off the Scottish coast, was used by British scientists to test their anthrax bombs in the hopes of using them against Germany. They stopped developing anthrax as a weapon when they concluded that, while effective at killing their test sheep, the spores were so durable that they would render any German city attacked this way uninhabitable for years afterward. In fact, Gruinard Island was so heavily contaminated that it was quarantined for almost 50 years after these tests, until the Brits got sick of going back to test it all the time and bombed the whole place with 280 metric tons of formaldehyde.
The major world powers then signed a treaty in 1972 pledging not to develop new biological or chemical weapons. Apart from an incident in the Russian city of Sverdlovsk in 1979 when a number of factory workers across the street from a "vaccine plant" died from pulmonary anthrax (the Kremlin attributed the incident to contaminated meat, while Soviet defectors involved in the Soviet bioweapons program attributed it to a filter being left off an exhaust vent), no government has openly developed anthrax as a biological weapon. However, anthrax is still studied from both a basic research and a biodefense perspective, and there are certainly cultures of highly virulent B. anthracis growing in many research facilities all over the world.
For anyone with a basic knowledge of microbiological technique, weaponized anthrax is easy to make. In fact, if you can make homebrewed beer, you can make an anthrax weapon. Anthrax is not like Ebola virus, which is hard to get, harder to culture, and almost impossible to deliver to the intended targets. If you wanted to attack someone with Ebola, you'd have to go to Africa in the midst of an Ebola outbreak, somehow smuggle viable samples of virus through customs (and "samples" in this case would probably consist of bloody vomit or shit from an Ebola patient on ice), find a bunch of monkeys to covertly infect to grow more virus, and try to attack and inject infected tissues from these monkeys into my unfortunate victims since most strains of Ebola (at least the ones that infect humans) don't appear to be airborne. Since Ebola is a virus, it needs a host cell to grow in, and the virus particles alone are not stable for long at room temperature or when exposed to UV radiation (ie: sunlight). You can't just make some powdered Ebola and spray it all over people, and someone is bound to notice if you're running around attacking people with a syringe. There's about fifty ways that such a scheme would fail, and even if you somehow did manage to make some homegrown Ebola, it would be pretty fucking difficult to infect many people before your evil plot was discovered.
Anthrax is much easier to make. I could go dig up soil from a cow pasture in Oklahoma, culture anthrax bacilli from that, grow them in a fermentation tank which can be constructed from materials at my local hardware store, dry the culture, chop it into powder, and mail it to whoever I wanted. Even worse, pulmonary anthrax is usually deadly, because the initial symptoms aren't much different than a chest cold. Unlike other bacteria that cause pneumonia by growing to the point of taking over the lungs, pulmonary anthrax causes respiratory failure via a toxin the bacteria secrete. By the time it becomes apparent that a patient has pulmonary anthrax versus a more common respiratory pathogen, even getting rid of the bacteria with antibiotics doesn't get rid of the toxin, and then it's usually too late. Therefore, it's quite easy for someone with a rudimentary knowledge of microbiology to make a deadly, easily transportable terrorist weapon. Fortunately, most scientists (including myself) aren't looking to break into the bioterrorism business, and have serious ethical problems with biological weapons. Unfortunately, there are some who do not fit that description, which is where the recently suicide-d Dr. Bruce Ivins comes in.
In the wake of those anthrax mail attacks in 2001, the federal government obviously put a lot of effort into determining where that anthrax came from. Like people or any other living organism, anthrax from a lab is genetically distinct from anthrax in a podunk cow pasture somewhere, so the government was able to determine that it came from a virulent lab strain. In fact, it came from a strain that our own government uses to develop anthrax vaccines. That's why the government fucked up royally by running a colossally inept investigation of Dr. Steven Hatfill, the wrong anthrax scientist, who just collected a $5 million settlement from the federal government for the ruin it wrought on his career and his not-a-terrorist reputation.
As it turns out, it was more likely Dr. Bruce Ivins, who killed himself last week when he discovered that he was going to be indicted on capital murder charges for being the actual anthrax mailer. Dr. Ivins was involved in all sorts of sketchy activity, including renting post office boxes under assumed names, using his lab after-hours (although as a grad student, that seems like a perfectly normal workday in the slave labor culture of academic research), having a number of unreported anthrax spills, threatening to kill co-workers, frightening his shrink into getting a restraining order against him, and being strangely obsessed with the Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority at Princeton. He was also apparently a loner and a dick.
While anyone has reason to be skeptical of the FBI's largely circumstantial case against the late Dr. Ivins given their total shitshow of an investigation into the now-exonerated Dr. Hatfill, I can state from personal experience that science has been known to harbor some disturbed people that remind me of Dr. Ivins. Without specifically referring to anyone in particular, a person with a need to dominate, threaten, and harass his colleagues, has a troublesome and obsessive relationship with women, does not respond to reprimands or psychological treatment, and takes no personal responsibility for his actions is not unprecedented in the field of microbiology. Unfortunately, these kinds of mentally unstable people can simultaneously be good enough at their jobs to get access to dangerous pathogens, and sometimes the underlying craziness isn't recognized until it's too late.
Even worse, this personality type can sometimes combine the monstrous need to kill innocent people via anthrax with a desire for personal gain. Because these people are Ph.D scientists, they are obviously intelligent, and can sometimes engineer a situation to benefit financially from their own reprehensible crimes. For example, a person might be able to get away with being a scary, abusive, potentially violent asshole by threatening lawsuits or otherwise manipulating the legal system to get what they want along with a substantial cash award. In Dr. Ivins's case, his numerous patent claims over anthrax vaccine technology would provide a significant financial motive to create a nationwide panic about attacks with weaponized anthrax. Currently, the anthrax vaccine approved for use in the U.S. is primarily reserved for military personnel and the odd first-responder. If everyone in the country suddenly became hysterical over the prospect of a large-scale anthrax attack, the demand for a vaccine would increase logarithmically. Dr. Ivins stood to make millions of dollars personally from this kind of nationwide terror, and that can only be icing on the cake for acting out on his reprehensible misanthropic impulses.
Now, many people are probably wondering whether or not they should be afraid of future anthrax attacks since it's so easy to grow and distribute as a lethal bioweapon. I would say no. Sure, the possibility exists. So does the possibility of a flu pandemic as serious as the Spanish flu of 1918 that killed as many as 100 million people by some estimations. So does the possibility of some terrorist getting their hands on one of the few poorly secured smallpox samples, of an airborne strain of Ebola emerging, of all bacteria developing multiple antibiotic resistance, and so on. The Russians alone have a whole arsenal of Cold War-era biological weapons that could be procured on the black market and released, but I'm not laying awake worrying about dying from a terrorist attack of weaponized Soviet tularemia or glanders. The microbiological world is full of nasty (and fascinating) pathogens, and there are plenty of nasty human beings who would gladly facilitate their assault on us. However, I find it more productive to worry about the infectious problems we already have to contend with than the ones that may or may not decimate our civilization. I think it's much more practical and sensible to worry about getting HIV when I have incautious drunk sex with a fellow New York City resident than to fret that there's a slight chance some lunatic spiked my cable bill with anthrax spores. Hell, I'm even more worried that I might get herpes! I dodged that bullet one time when I ALMOST had unprotected sex with a guy who then advised me that he had it (because he is a decent and ENTIRELY admirable human being), and 20% of adults have the herp. As a microbiologist, I'd advise you all to think more about the scourges we already face than the hypothetical ones that might be.
Labels: correspondence, crime and punishment, epidemic geekery, nerd alert, Razzyphiles, science, terror, viruses rule
Daily Douchebag: Richard Cooey
DOB: 1967?
Occupation: death row inmate
Hometown: Akron, Ohio
Current residence: Southern Ohio Correctional Facility, Lucasville, Ohio
Douchebaggery: By all accounts, Richard Cooey's offenses go beyond mere douchebaggery to utter reprehensibility. In 1986, he was drinking beer with some high school buddies and dropping basketball-sized chunks of concrete off a freeway overpass onto random cars. When one of these concrete chunks disabled a car driven by two female students, this Larry the Cable Guy doppelganger and his fellow Bad Samaritans offered them assistance. Instead of a ride for help, Richard and one of his pals drove the women to a secluded area, took turns raping them, and then, when Richard used his friend's name by asking him to "put on the Bad Company tape" (because "Rock and Roll Fantasy" is apparently a great jam for committing rape at knifepoint), they murdered their victims by strangling and stabbing them. Richard was convicted and sentenced to death, and since then he's been squeezing every last drop of time out of the appellate process.
While his crimes are reason enough to warrant my total and eternal disdain, I further loathe Richard Cooey for his latest attempt to avoid the needle. Specifically, he's claiming that he's too fucking FAT to be executed! Apparently, his morbid obesity makes it difficult to find a vein, and this will violate his Eighth Amendment rights. I disagree with the death penalty, and apart from my philosophical issues regarding our judicial system's right to take a person's life no matter how reprehensible their crimes, I can't fathom how it's fair to execute a mentally retarded person but NOT some fat asshole. It's not like some person with diminished capacity can change, but a porky motherfucker like Richard Cooey can certainly be forced onto a damn treadmill and issued two Slim-Fasts and a sensible dinner from the prison mess.
How does one get fat in prison anyway? I've seen "Oz" and those MSNBC "Lockdown" shows. If there's one thing that prisons always have, it's a well-equipped weight room. Apparently Richard just sat on his progressively expanding ass during death row exercise hour, and stuffed his face at the Ohio taxpayers' expense. Now he's just as fat as many of his law-abiding fellow Ohioans, and is going to evade what their state considers justice because of his unabashed gluttony. In fact, if his sentence is commuted to life in prison, the people of Ohio will be paying his undoubtedly astronomical medical bills for the next however many years of his life.
I've gotten some shit in the past for being "size-ist." In fact, after I berated some Smith bitch for her obnoxious "big, beautiful blog," she went so far as to remove it from the internets altogether (the domain has since turned into a gateway to chubby chasing porn sites). The only time I can recall I've ever changed my mind about fucking a guy in the middle of sex was when I suddenly sobered up and realized that he was morbidly obese, and I haven't banged a truly fat dude since. Fat people just piss me off, because at the end of the day, they can do something about their condition, yet I'm the one who needs to amend my life to work around their personal choice. I don't like being told that I'm a discriminatory asshole because I don't like accommodating the slow motherfuckers waddling slowly up the subway stairs in front of me, or because I hate it when someone's cellulite rolls spill over my armrest into my airline seat, or because I resent having to wait at my corner bodega while a dude argues with the deli guy about why it costs more to put an additional half-pound of Boar's Head ham on his sandwich. I know that fat people are human beings too. They're LAZY human beings who would rather everyone else go out of their way to accommodate their choice not to make a few relatively simple lifestyle choices, and I reserve my right to be annoyed at their space-occupying, slowness, and lack of sex appeal.
Therefore, I don't give a damn if anyone thinks I'm insensitive, boorish, or "size-ist" for hating an entirely loathsome rapist murderer trying to avoid justice via obesity. If the prison doctor can't find a vein on Richard Cooley, I say fry his fat ass instead.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, fat fucks
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