Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: U.S. Army Spc. Jeremy Hall

Labels: Catholicism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dear God, defiance, hot dudes, legal drama, United States of Asskickery
Friday, June 27, 2008
Daily Douchebag: feeling bad

DOB: the dawn of humanity
Occupation: interfering with my Razzified life
Hometown: deep down inside
Current residence: ubiquitous
Douchebaggery: I've decided that one day was enough time to wallow in my abortion-related depression. Sitting around thinking about how bad you feel is not useful or healthy, and I hate it. Therefore, I limited myself to 24 hours of sitting around feeling sad. As of today, I'm patching up the holes in the levee holding back my Catholic guilt, self-loathing, and general woundedness, giving all of the above the finger, and going back to my normal routine of hating on idiots, getting laid, and being totally awesome in every way. Being sad and depressed totally sucks, and there's no sense sitting around being slowly suffocated when I could reclaim the self that I love. Next week is my friend Wmania's bachelorette party and wedding shower, and I plan to get seriously Razzified for several days (translation: really drunk, hopefully laid, and almost certainly photographed showing my tits and acting the fool with my bitches Wmania, LL Cool Jew, FalloniusMonk, Motherbucker, and ElCyd) in our nation's capital and save the sadness for my shrink. As FalloniusMonk put it, "I declare a fie on douchetardery! Fie, fie!" Depression is serious and lame, and my personal issues aren't going away, but that doesn't mean I have to let them monopolize my thoughts and crush my spirit. I am going to dust myself off and get right back into the saddle of awesomeness like the resilient, indomitable bitch I know I am. Fuck you, feeling bad!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, defiance, Razzification
Monday, March 17, 2008
Erin go Bragh Humbug
Labels: alcoholism, defiance, retard rage, scathing indictments
Friday, January 25, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Roberta McCain


DOB: February 7, 1912
Occupation: hot bitch who pops off at the mouth
Hometown: Muskogee, Oklahoma
Current residence: the campaign trail, seemingly, so she's probably snuggled up in her bunk on the Straight Talk Express somewhere near Boca Raton, Florida
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Roberta McCain is the hotness known as Senator John McCain's mother. The other day she went on C-SPAN to dish about how her baby boy's presidential campaign is faring, and had some choice words for his buddies over at the Grand Old Party when asked about how much support they were giving her son.
"I don't think he has any," said Roberta. "I don't know what the base of the Repub--maybe I don't know enough about it, but I've not seen any help whatsoever."
I love how she cut herself off. I get the feeling that she was about to finish that with "I don't know that the base of the Republican party is smoking" or "I don't know what the base of the Republic party thinks with, but it sure ain't their brains" or some other curmudgeonly old lady witticism, but thought better of it when she remembered that you can't be that blunt in politics, even if you are a nonagenarian. She learned this lesson the hard way when she shot her yapper off on MSNBC last November about Mitt Romney's handling of the 2002 Salt Lake City Olympics when Chris Matthews asked if she thought Romney had done much "heavy lifting for America," and suggested that Mormons were behind the ensuing bid scandals and budget deficits. Senator McCain was like, "MOOOOOOMMMM!" and then had to say that he liked Mormons just fine and wasn't blaming the angel Moroni (seriously, the main Mormon angel is named MORONI) for shady Olympics-related money matters. Check out this bitch in action. Not only does she call Mitt Romney "a Senator, uh, a Congressman, a Senat--WHATEVER," the look on Senator McCain's face is PRICELESS once she busts out "well, he's a Mormon, and the Mormons of Salt Lake City had caused that scandal." Chris Matthews can't stop laughing.
Anyway, back to her more recent C-SPAN interview. After demurely noting that the Republicans are a bunch of disloyal assholes who hate her son, Roberta then says, "Fuck it, I'm old, I'll say what I want!" Not really, but she says, that if McCain wins the nomination, "holding their nose they'll have to take him."
I love this broad. I think they should interview her every day. In past interviews, she has described herself as "too emotional," and you know she is not a bitch to trifle with. Even when John McCain returned from five years being hung on hooks from his broken arms and subjected to Deerhunter-like forms of psychological torture, she wouldn't take any crap from him. Apparently he unleashed a stream of profanity with regard to his captors, and Roberta responded that if he didn't shut up, "Johnny, I'm going to come over there and wash your mouth out with soap." Never mind that the whole washing one's mouth out threat is idle, since it creates more trouble than it solves as ingesting soap can cause diarrhea. I love that after five years living the real-life equivalent of a Missing in Action movie, John McCain's mother still won't abide by him dropping some f-bombs about the experience.
Roberta would be the world's best First Mother. You know she'd be his de facto top advisor. Last year on Mother's Day, Mom and Baby McCain went on "Meet the Press," where John said, "She is 95 years young, and is my most constant and frequent critic. And she will give me her advice and counsel quite often, and of course I love her and appreciate it." Translation: Roberta is in fucking charge. In addition to his power lesbian wife rocking her USMC and NAVY broaches, McCain is poised to put some fierce bitches in the White House if he wins. You know these ladies are really running the show:

Also, for everyone who is suggesting that John McCain is too old to be president, let me remind you that Roberta is a week shy of turning 96. She's still in overdrive and clearly has all her wits about her. Since genetics play a role in both longevity and age-related brain function, then I'm not thinking that McCain is going to croak or go senile while in office. He's going to keep rocking the house flanked by Roberta and Cindy, with Roberta wearing an impeccable Chanel suit and not giving a fuck if people don't like what she has to say. Roberta IS the Straight Talk Express. Go Team McCain!
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, defiance, hot chicks, intentional buffoonery, John McCain, media whores, Mitt Romney, politics, sluts
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Gayelle

Alias: Sapphysapphian
DOB: 2007
Occupation: the new, more confusing "lesbian"
Hometown: the galaxy of Gayelles
Current residence: the obscure internets
Douchebaggery: The dumb bitches who run sapphicchic.com have decided to create a website "built to catalyze a movement, a movement to define gay-females with an alternative-and-untainted-term; a new word, which is representative of an evolved society and a different time, an ultramodern and progressive one in which a free people, no longer support and or tolerate, the repressive attitudes and derogatory language that has become associated with words such as lesbian." Wait, how is "lesbian" associated with "repressive attitudes" and "derogatory language"? I like "lesbian" and all linguistic derivatives. Lesbian makes for some great language: lez, lesbo, lezbot, lezzie, lezbionic, leztastic, lesbadar, lezbollah, etc. I love the word "lesbian," and, despite the efforts of Rosie O'Donnell and every fat, crusty bitch who ever got her self-righteousness on at Smith's efforts to the contrary, I don't associate it with "repressive attitudes." I associate "lesbian" with hot girl-on-girl action! I definitely do NOT associate this "gayelle" crap with hot snatch-licking and hilarious word truncations. I associate "gayelle" with a bunch of hippie-dippy old dykes with nothing better to do than sit around drinking tea, deconstructing language, and inventing new things to get pissed about out of boredom Validating my suspicions are a series of essays, poems, and tedious short fiction about the genesis of the gayelle movement--if you can call a couple of fugly old bitches in batik skirts listening to Dar Williams and inventing new ways to be ridiculously pretentious about nothing a "movement."
The motivation that inspired the creation of a new word, meaning gay and female, is a long-standing and persistent distaste for the word lesbian. The invention of “gayelle” is with the idea and hope that it will have a worldwide appeal, and ultimately, supersede the word lesbian; a suitable replacement is necessary for positive language and the healthy self-esteem of the gay-female-population.First off, "gayelle" does NOT have worldwide appeal. Gayelle doesn't do a damn thing for my self-esteem, and I don't know any lesbians who think it would be cooler to call themselves gayelles. I think "fagette" would have been a better choice, both because it doesn't sound--for lack of a better term--completely fucking gay, but it has a better ring to it. It's catchier.
The word lesbian is antiquated; it is not representative of modern times, and or, of persons with modern views. Lesbian does not sound cheerful and fun, nor does it mean merry, like the word gay does; rather, it sounds more like loner, loser, and less. Gay females deserve more, not less."Lesbian" may not sound cheerful or fun, but it doesn't sound like "loner, loser, and less" either. "Lesbian" makes me think of cunnilingus and hot naked tits, which makes me cheerful, sounds like fun, and implies great merrymaking. Gayelle sounds to me like "loner, loser, and less." It sounds like something a shut-in who is a loner on account of being a loser who gets less pussy than the average lesbian would come up with.
Moreover, the word lesbian is so frequently used derogatorily, that to be called a lesbian is almost tantamount to being called an offensive name. In a typical T.V.-sitcom scenario, a male character, oftentimes the lead, calls a female character who does not respond favorably to his overtures, “a lesbian,” in a disparaging tone and likewise demeanor, consistent with having the “f” word precede it as in, a “f-ing lesbian.” For this reason, especially, the word lesbian needs to be relegated to a definition that has derogatory implications, much like the words queer and faggot.Okay, dudes sometimes do call bitches lesbians when their seduction attempts fall flat, but PLEASE. These same dudes are the same ones who call guys fags right before they indiscriminately beat their asses while drunk. Trust that they won't be incorporating "gayelle" into their lexicon anytime soon, and even if they do, they'll still call you a "fucking gayelle" when you shoot down their clumsy offers of sexual congress. Which they won't give you, because you're a busted old, pucker-faced dyke with a mullet, hairy armpits, and one of those jean jackets with a corduroy collar. Fucking lesbians.
The definition of the word gay, proves that for whatever reasons, it is a term that has increasingly become associated specifically with homosexual men. Notwithstanding that, it is apparent that both genders want to reserve a word that distinguishes each from the other. Thus, it seems pragmatic to start anew by using gayelle, instead of lesbian or gay, to represent the gay-female-population.How is it pragmatic to ensure that people start adopting an entirely new made-up word? Wouldn't it just be easier to stick with lesbian? Gayelle sounds fucking stupid.
By choosing gayelle, the feminine factors in “the equation of who is gay and who is not” can reassert their interest in the word gay, as well as, assert a displeasure for the word lesbian. More importantly, however, to choose gayelle over lesbian, would demonstrate a form of action that, most assuredly, would be helpful in restoring the rightful dignity that belongs to the mothers, daughters, sisters, and friends, who have been victims of hatemongering and or a poorly-conceived joke, and or, a lack of sensitivity.Again, who is upset about the word lesbian? This is the first I've heard about the overall dissatisfaction with "lesbian." And nobody is reclaiming their lost dignity by answering to gayelle. In fact, on account of it sounding idiotic and being completely fabricated, it actually reduces whatever shreds of dignity any given humorless, uptight lesbian with a chip on her shoulder about semantics possesses.
Gayelle is the logical and reasonable alternative, in that, it contains the words gay and elle (the French pronoun for “she”). Gayelle is a word that has relevance to our time, and it’s easy to say, as in the gay-gayelle community. Unlike the capitalized form of Lesbian, which is defined “a native or inhabitant of Lesbos,” and “of or pertaining to Lesbos;” gayelle and the capitalized form Gayelle, in essence, have the same meaning.Because people often get very hung up when someone says "lesbian," as they're often confused as to whether or not you're talking about a muff diver or a Greek islander. I know that people often ask me to clarify which capitalization I would use if spelling it so they'll be able to properly distinguish what I'm talking about when I'm dishing about either box munchers or sexy locales in various classical tragedies and epics by Homer.
The choice is yours. Be hip and sapphic-chic with your preference for gayelle. Define this decade of the 21st-century with a new word and a new outlook. Go gayelle!In short, NO. I have no intention to "go gayelle." It's more sapphictarded than sapphic-chic. Sapphic chic means hot short haircuts, overly geometrical eyeglass frames, and tailored power suits, not invented words that smack of Francophilia. Even worse, I have no intention either of adopting these crusty lezbots' term for me. Apparently "bisexual" makes me sound like a hermaphrodite rather than a big perverted slut, so they've coined a new title that will ostensibly help my self-esteem: hipshe.
Hipshe? HIPSHE? The day I walk into a bar and proclaim to the assorted potential sex partners populating it, "I am Razzy, and I'm a HIPSHE! Who wants to party?" is the day that I may as well cloister myself in a convent, because I'm never getting laid again with that attitude.
A word that does not include the word “sex,” is more acceptable language for any, other than an intellectual conversation. The present vernacular “bisexual,” as a word meaning persons who are attracted to and act upon that attraction to persons of the same and opposite sex, is misuse of the word bisexual as defined, “of both sexes; hermaphrodite,” in Webster’s Dictionary, 1940.Why is not acceptable for my sexual orientation to be described using the word "sex"? That's what my bisexuality/hipsheness is all about: getting it ON! I know that I sound like an erudite, academic intellectual when I'm bragging about having threesomes, but I think that "sex" is acceptable to include in other conversations about my swinging both ways.
To label those of the above-stated orientation with a word that is synonymous with a word to distinguish one who is born with an anomalous biological condition involving the reproductive organs, is tantamount to saying that one would have to be a freak of nature to feel that sort of mixed desire. For those reasons, the word “bisexual” is a tasteless choice, and it is unfit for use in this context and in our politically – correct – society.If these bitches are going to spend all their time coming up with new words to rectify the offenses caused by terms like "lesbian" and "bisexual," they might want to brush up on their punctuating. The use of commas in this material is so egregiously incorrect that it's impossible for me to regard the authors as any kind of linguistic experts. And if they suggest that "bisexual" implies "freak of nature," then why haven't they come up with a new, more acceptable term for being tranny? I mean, I don't think that being transgendered makes someone similar to the gear-shifting mechanism of a car, but that's what "tranny" means. By the same logic, transgendered persons should get a similarly stupid word as "gayelle" or "hipshe" to describe them!
Although bisexual is now defined “3. responsive to both sexes” in American Heritage College Dictionary, 3rd edition, it is nevertheless, necessary to find and adopt a suitable replacement. A well known name from antiquity, that has become associated with a woman’s desire for another woman, is Sappho. Therefore, a word or name that brings to mind the intriguing Sappho, seems a legitimate and likely candidate. The name Sapphy could be regarded as a modern and informal form of Sappho. Sapphian looks and sounds like it could mean “like Sappho.” And sapphysapphia is a combination, beautiful to say, but arguably, a bit lengthy for our sound bite – gigabite – world. On the other hand, the thirteen – letter – five – syllable sapphysapphia is made from only six different letters; in alphabetical order they make, ahipsy (a.hip.sy), which looks and sounds close to “a hip she,” hence the creation, hipshe.Wait, I thought antiquated terms were problematic--hence the issue with lesbian. So why are these bitches suddenly dropping this crap about Sappho? And "sapphysapphian" is not "beautiful to say" unless you consider fabricated redundancy lovely. It sounds like either a she-sells-seashells-down-by-the-seashore tongue twister or the invention of a snatch who thinks she's got Dr. Henry "Indiana" Jones's academic knowledge of antiquity because someone told her that Sappho liked to write poetry about sitting on bitches' faces. I'd rather be called switchyswitchhitter. It's equally cumbersome, but certainly more clear in its meaning.
Hipshe is a logical and practical choice with which to designate those females who have the capacity and moxy to act upon an attraction to those who are biologically similar to, as well as diametrically different from, themselves. Hipshe contains the words she and he, which makes it that much more apropos. What could be better and more hip that that?! Here’s to saying, bye bye to bisexual and thank you to sapphysapphia, from whence came the hip hipshe.I can think of about ten thousand things that could be better and more hip than hipshe. If there is any word that makes getting down with both my special girlfriends and the fellas sound impossibly lame rather than hot and sexy, it's "hipshe." Hipshe doesn't suggest I have "moxy." It suggests that I'm a pain in the ass shrew more concerned with the vernacular than scoring hot pieces. Hipshe is not "logical and practical." It's the condensed homophone of another stupid, fake word nobody has ever heard of before, and it is probably the quickest means to ensuring that people think you are anything but hip. I'm not thanking any bitch for cooking up "sapphysapphia" and "hipshe" and insisting that I use this instead of "bisexual." In fact, I'm telling these hos busy inventing movements that nobody cares to join that they can shut the fuck up about what is logical and practical (like removing references to sex from discussions about sexuality). I'd rather answer to "freak" than "hipshe." "Skank," "trollop," "slut," "bitchfoxly trull" (I don't really know what that means but I read it in a history book about early America in reference to New York prostitutes working the Bowery) and "ho" would also be acceptable.
The day I hear anyone slinging terms like gayelle and hipshe is the day that I decide to embrace asexuality. I would rather never have sex again with anyone (perish the thought) than identify as a hipshe. Luckily, I don't think most of the general public is going to be swayed by the pages of piss-poor poetry (I wrote better material than that when I was fifteen, and my collected works of teenaged verse read like some unholy combination of Sylvia Plath and a Bikini Kill song on Benadryl) or short fiction they include on the site to "excite and entertain" prospective proponents of gayelle and hipshe. Somehow I don't see gayelle being on the tip of every twat-licking tongue anytime soon. Don't go gayelle!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, defiance, feminazism, lezbollah, overcompensation, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sex, sluts
Monday, November 26, 2007
Internets to Chingy!: BA FAN!

I asked Chingy! for comment. Specifically, I said, "How does it feel to have websites describing their subject matter as 'against Chingy'? Even the internets think you're an asshole." His response?

CHONGAY CHONG, anti-Chingy! websites!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, comeuppance, defiance, doggity style, fat fucks, gross, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Anucha Brown Sanders

Name: Anucha Brown Sanders
DOB:????
Occupation: hot-ass marketing executive, former college basketball stud, recent millionaire
Hometown: ???
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Well, it looks like it is Civil Rights Day here at RAZZY.org, as since I just got done calling out a bunch of racists, I might as well laud a pro ho for standing up to a bunch of assholes whose dicks got in the way of her doing her job. Yesterday, a jury awarded Anucha Brown Sanders $11.6 million after deciding that she was sexually harassed by Isiah Thomas and then fired from her job as a Knicks executive when she complained (or as the sublime NY Post put it, it was an "$11M Kick in Harass." Now the Knicks organization owes her $8 million, and the head of Madison Square Garden is on the hook for $3 million of his own money for basically running things like a big old boys club.
I am not one to get all worked up about what some people consider harassment. For example, I call women (including myself) bitches, hos, cunts, whores, slags, tramps, twats, trollops, skanks, sluts, etc. on the regular. At work, I will call J-Sexy something like a "hooker ass prostitute" or a "dirty slut" and she'll respond by calling me a "disgosting whore" or something similar. But there's a difference between establishing a profanity-laden rapport with someone, and constantly using such terms in concert with coming on to them, especially when the person doing the name-calling and coming on happens to be your boss. This difference becomes even more apparent when you tell the person to stop because it's getting in the way of doing your job, and instead of being told, "Okay, no problem, and my apologies," you get unceremoniously canned for being a troublemaker. That's what happened to Anucha, and good for her for taking their asses to court, because it's hard enough for women.
I'm also not a "boo hoo, this glass ceiling is getting in my way" kind of bitch, but I have noticed that women have to put up with a lot of crap at work that men generally don't. It's usually not anything so appalling as having to swat off the advances of a powerful, bullying creep like Isiah Thomas and then being called a bitch-ass slut and fired for it, but it's annoying nonetheless. We used to get our lab coats cleaned by this company who employed a really nasty, lecherous dude named Hector to pick up and drop off linens. He would always come in, make a big show of calling every woman who crossed his path "sweetheart" or "baby," would stare unabashedly at your chest while speaking to you, make comments along the lines of "I'll be back next week to drop off a LOAD" or "I'd like to see you wearing only this coat" (I did NOT direct him to the Razzy-in-a-lab-coat stock photo on this website) in an overtly sexual tone of voice, and "accidentally" touch you or brush against you when you'd sign for deliveries. It's obviously nothing I'd consider suing over, but every time he'd make an appearance, J-Sexy and I would both cringe and try to make ourselves scarce because he was just a straight-up creep who apparently considered it good customer service to creep out every woman who crossed his path. One day I had enough, and as he was skulking down the hall toward our lab, I loudly said to J-Sexy, "Cover your tits, that pervy lab coat guy is on his way to make us feel uncomfortable." He obviously heard me, and was very cold and standoffish as he dropped off our coats. That was the last time any of our lab coats got cleaned, but I'd rather wear a virus-spattered frock any day than feel some demeaning asshole who I would never EVER remotely consider having sex with undressing me with his eyes in the course of a professional interaction. This type of small shit happens to bitches every day, and while most of it isn't worth the hassle of complaining about it, it lays the foundation for the occasional egregious situation where your boss fires you for wanting to actually just be a marketing executive rather than his fuck-toy bitch.
Therefore, I say props to Anucha for not standing for it. By all accounts except the dudes trying to cover up her retaliatory firing (so as not to be on the hook for $11.6 mil), she was a competent and able employee who didn't want to fuck Isiah Thomas, and that's all worthy of respect in my book. Or RE$PECT, as the venerable Post puts it. Thanks to Anucha, more employers will think twice about firing bitches who aren't into hitting that for incompetence, because the only time a bitch is derelict in her duties by not giving it up is if she's a prostitute. Since Anucha doesn't work at D&D Advertising or some other office from "Melrose Place," prostitute cannot be considered synonymous with marketing executive. Plus, Anucha was Northwest University's Athlete of the Decade in the 80s, and that's pretty hot too! Anucha rules.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, defiance, sportsmen, vengeance is sweet
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Why it's time to get my Mac on
Although I did protest that I still fuck plenty of boys too, that's kind of how I feel about becoming a Mac owner. I never thought I would join this club. For one thing, I'm from the P-N-Dub, and I feel a special fondness for Microsoft, much the way I feel about Boeing, Brown and Haley, or Starbucks. Mac owners are pretentious and annoying. Whenever Steve Jobs drops some piece of crap, sleekly designed new overpriced gadget, all the morons who line up outside to get the iPhone, or the new edition of Mac OS Tiger, or whatever won't shut up with their whole line of pompous "the Mac operating system is SO powerful" bullshit. Mac owners always act like they are some sort of superior class of human being because they have a computer based in UNIX or whatever.
Apple completely fosters this snottiness with their marketing strategy. They have those irritating "Hi, I'm a Mac, I'm a stuck-up ass clown because I come with a webcam" and "Hi, I'm a PC, and I'm fat, ugly, socially inept, virus-ridden, and prone to crashing" commercials. I don't care if Macs do come with webcams; it's not like I've forgotten that the Mac starred opposite Lindsay Lohan in Herbie: Fully Loaded. No amount of smug patronizing is going to distract me from the fact that he's a gangly, pube-stached fuckwit without an ounce of sex appeal and a serious small dick vibe. It's like the Apple marketing department asked (Canadian pick-up artist and general douchebag clusterfuck of stupid headwear and black nail polish) Mystery how to trick intellectually insecure people into buying Macs by incorporating a bunch of condescending "negs" into their ads. Lanky, insufferable assholes with pencil dicks are not what I want in a man OR a computer.

In spite of this, I'm still getting a MacBook, which is supposedly arriving next Wednesday or Thursday (at which point, I'll be back to my normal blogging routine...thanks for your patience, Razzyphiles). I am doing so primarily because I won't have to figure out how to configure a bunch of add-ons (as is generally necessary with a PC), and because my boss is hooking me up with a bunch of expensive software for Macs. I would be lying if I said that that I wasn't totally excited that one of those software pieces is the web design software that I use to manage my domain (RAZZY.org), and having it on my laptop means that I'll be able to take care of the rest of my site from home. My inability to do that on my old PC (God rest its noble soul) is the reason why everything on this site besides this blog is so horrendously neglected.
Mitigating the sting of becoming what I despise is the fact that the new generation of MacBooks can run Windows. I plan to run Windows whenever possible, and every time some Mac owner sees me on it and tries to engage me in an obnoxious celebration of our computers, I'm going to be like, "Fuck UNIX and Mac OS, I'm running Windows, bitch!" Just because I'm technically going to be among them doesn't mean I'm going to be like them. As excited as I am to get it and reinsert myself in the Matrix (aka the internets)...fuck a Mac and the people who worship them!
Labels: assholes, computer incompetence, defiance, internet domination, LL Cool Jew, nerd alert, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, Razzification, retard rage, scathing indictments
Sunday, July 01, 2007
I keep the LIRR interesting
Several weekends ago, J-Sexy and I were actually shushed by a stranger on the LIRR on our way back from Fire Island while we were animatedly making plans to go strap-on shopping (I'm embracing my newly remembered bisexuality and J-Sexy is into pegging dudes). Since we had spent the day sitting in the sun and consuming an entire bottle of Puerto Rican rum mixed with Hawaiian Punch, I was in no mood to be addressed in such a condescending, motherly manner by some stringy old broad who appointed herself the LIRR speech police. I said very loudly that I would talk about strap-ons whenever and wherever I fucking pleased, and no shrew-ass bitch was going to take away my constitutional right to discuss sex toys or any other subject matter. The lady just quietly muttered to her husband about how awful we were and then sullenly would glare our way from time to time until we got to Penn Station. Sticks and stones may break my bones, hooker, but reproachful looks will never hurt me (or shut me up).
Yesterday, a similar incident occurred as I went to the beach with my friend Rack and her boyfriend TheOldGuy. TheOldGuy, who is a cable news producer, was telling us about how he worked with a woman who produces a recurring special on MSNBC about transgendered persons. Rack then cut in to say that one of the persons being profiled for the show was some pre-op F2M tranny from Raleigh, NC (her hometown), and this person was planning to go by "Rack" after her reassignment surgery. "It's not like there's that many lezzies in Raleigh!" she fumed (Rack used to be a lot more girl-on-girl inclined). "The trashy sonofabitch probably met me back when he was only out as a garden variety butch dyke and stole my goddamn name! I'm sure of it! I bet he went to Smith too!" During this whole soliloquy, this floppy old woman was eagerly listening in. She practically had her hand cupped around her ear to hear better. We weren't paying much attention to her.
Then, TheOldGuy mentioned that this producer of the tranny show was having all sorts of problems with her sick husband. He said that the husband was in the hospital with some sort of mystery infection and wondered if it had something to do with their child's recent bout with scarlet fever. I said that his symptoms sounded more viral to me. Scarlet fever is caused by a bacteria called Streptococcus pyogenes, and in adults this usually causes strep throat or occasionally necrotizing fascitis, better known as "flesh-eating" bacteria. Then I started telling a story about this woman I used to work with who had contracted flesh-eating bacteria through an infected hair follicle on her labia, and ultimately had pounds of gangrenous flesh removed from her abdomen and thighs. At this point, the floppy old butted in and said, "Excuse me, can you change the subject? Your conversations is not very pleasant." I said something like, "Yeah, okay, whatever" and proceeded to continue talking about it. If the nosy, interfering twat doesn't like my conversation, then instead of asking me to switch topics she should mind her own damn business and STOP FUCKING EAVESDROPPING!
Apart from a few dirty looks from her and her equally disapproving friend (who resembled the mummified corpse of Hatshepsut rocking a fugly flowered tank top and a crappy, ineffective Nice'n'Easy gray-covering dye job), we had an uneventful remainder of our trip to Long Beach with no further disturbances from any overstepping hooker-ass prostitutes. At the beach we spent the day swimming, sunning, and swilling beer. Apart from Rack spraining her ankle, we had a capital time. In spite of being a little tired out after the beach, I was nonetheless capable of talking loudly on the train back. Fortunately, the crowd on this train was far more appreciative of my conversational talents.
Somehow Rack and I got to discussing R. Kelly and his supreme awesomeness. I was clarifying why he's fully deserving of the lofty title of "the king of R&B," and it's not just because he's black, handsome, he sings, plus he's rich and he's a flirt. I was arguing that R&B would indeed be in dire straits without the R-uh's superior lyrical abilities. I was going off about memorable lyrics in various classic Kells tunes, such as "You Remind Me of Something" ("you remind me of my jeep, I want to ride"), "Don't You Say No" ("I ain't spendin' no cash if you ain't spendin' that ass","you say you want first-class trips, well I want to work those first-class hips"), and "R&B Thug" ("Oooh, Kelly, you make me holla, keep on jumpin' like an Impala"). Rack was riveted. Then we began discussing the styling choices in the "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video, in which Robert Sylvester rocks a ridiculous, asymmetrical half-corn-row/half-afro puff hairstyle and let's Lil' Kim and her REALLY busted blonde weave grind all up on him. Then Rack asked about "Trapped In the Closet," and I explained that it was R-dot's brilliant attempt at musical urban soap operatic film noir. I then began summing up the TITC storyline, providing the entire train with entertainment for the remainder of the trip. When I got to the end of chapter 5, where R. Kelly's character Sylvester throws his suspiciously exuberant wife off his dick, pulls back the bedcovers, and finds the used condom left from her adulterous tryst with the chain-smoking cop that pulled him over on his way home, I paused. This prompted someone several rows of seats back on the train to call, "Is that the end? Please finish the story!"
I obliged. Occasionally there would be a crowd reaction to statements such as "and now, thankfully, I know that a gun is a much more effective weapon than a spatula" and "I think it's generally a bad idea to assume that R. Kelly would graciously accept being cuckolded," but I was typically oblivious to the fact that I was commanding everyone's undividing attention. By the time I'd summarized all twelve chapters and got to the, "then Kells whips out his trusty Beretta and the midget literally shits his pants in terror", there was laughter from eavesdroppers all around us. Once I concluded the thrilling tale, several rows of passengers applauded me for my storytelling prowess. "Dude, they're clapping for you, Razzy!" Rack said. Up until this point, I was unaware that everyone had been paying such close attention, but I was relieved to get an ovation instead of a lecture or a pointedly bitchy look. In the future, people listening to my booming voice should consider themselves lucky to get a free performance.
And since you surely are now intrigued, here are chapters 1-5 of Trapped In the Closet, just because Robert Sylvester Kelly is the dope shit:
Labels: assholes, defiance, free fucking speech, intentional buffoonery, MTA, NYC, Rack, Razzification, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
From the Smith College vault: Razzy makes a vegan cry
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: awesome
Another win for the omnivores!! I thought you as a scientist would
especially like this. Face it – vegetables are inferior! Take that
Smith College!
Attached was this article:
The New York TimesAs a scientist, I definitely appreciated this article for saying what I've said for a long time: veganism is unnatural. I especially liked the whole "Take that, Smith College!" quip LL Cool Jew threw in at the end. This reminded me of my ongoing battle with the vegans back in my Smith days.
May 21, 2007
Death by Veganism
By Nina Planck.
WHEN Crown Shakur died of starvation, he was 6 weeks old and weighed 3.5 pounds. His vegan parents, who fed him mainly soy milk and apple juice, were convicted in Atlanta recently of murder, involuntary manslaughter and cruelty. This particular calamity -- at least the third such conviction of vegan parents in four years -- may be largely due to ignorance. But it should prompt frank discussion about nutrition. I was once a vegan. But well before I became pregnant, I concluded that a vegan pregnancy was irresponsible. You cannot create and nourish a robust baby merely on foods from plants. Indigenous cuisines offer clues about what humans, naturally omnivorous, need to survive, reproduce and grow: traditional vegetarian diets, as in India, invariably include dairy and eggs for complete protein, essential fats and vitamins. There are no vegan societies for a simple reason: a vegan diet is not adequate in the long run.
Protein deficiency is one danger of a vegan diet for babies. Nutritionists used to speak of proteins as ''first class'' (from meat, fish, eggs and milk) and ''second class'' (from plants), but today this is considered denigrating to vegetarians. The fact remains, though, that humans prefer animal proteins and fats to cereals and tubers, because they contain all the essential amino acids needed for life in the right ratio. This is not true of plant proteins, which are inferior in quantity and quality -- even soy.
A vegan diet may lack vitamin B12, found only in animal foods; usable vitamins A and D, found in meat, fish, eggs and butter; and necessary minerals like calcium and zinc. When babies are deprived of all these nutrients, they will suffer from retarded growth, rickets and nerve damage.
Responsible vegan parents know that breast milk is ideal. It contains many necessary components, including cholesterol (which babies use to make nerve cells) and countless immune and growth factors. When breastfeeding isn't possible, soy milk and fruit juice, even in seemingly sufficient quantities, are not safe substitutes for a quality infant formula.
Yet even a breast-fed baby is at risk. Studies show that vegan breast milk lacks enough docosahexaenoic acid, or DHA, the omega-3 fat found in fatty fish. It is difficult to overstate the importance of DHA, vital as it is for eye and brain development.
A vegan diet is equally dangerous for weaned babies and toddlers, who need plenty of protein and calcium. Too often, vegans turn to soy, which actually inhibits growth and reduces absorption of protein and minerals. That's why health officials in Britain, Canada and other countries express caution about soy for babies. (Not here, though --perhaps because our farm policy is so soy-friendly.)
Historically, diet honored tradition: we ate the foods that our mothers, and their mothers, ate. Now, your neighbor or sibling may be a meat-eater or vegetarian, may ferment his foods or eat them raw. This fragmentation of the American menu reflects admirable diversity and tolerance, but food is more important than fashion. Though it's not politically correct to say so, all diets are not created equal. An adult who was well-nourished in utero and in infancy may choose to get by on a vegan diet, but babies are built from protein, calcium, cholesterol and fish oil. Children fed only plants will not get the precious things they need to live and grow.
My sophomore year at Smith, I was loading up on waffles and bacon in the dining room on one of my favorite Smith dining nights: breakfast for dinner. Smith's unique housing arrangement, like sororities without pledging, included the "perk" of family style dining, something you don't get at other snotty liberal arts colleges. This was definitely more a curse than a blessing, though, because Jordan House, where I lived, was assigned an absolutely horrible cook. He was also extremely sensitive to criticism, and once didn't speak to me for a week when I advised him that I never wanted to see him attempt General Tso's chicken ever again. Breakfast for dinner was one of the few meals he could do right, and as usual, I ate for a week, knowing that the food would not be this good again for some time.
I ended up sitting at my usual table, and there was this first year that one of my housemates had made friends with sitting with us. I barely knew her, but already had decided to dislike her. Immediately upon arrival she'd dyed her hair fuschia, and was really loud (even louder than me, but unlike me, she was not funny or interesting, and thus had nothing by which to redeem her booming voice). Furthermore, her name was Stephanie, but she went by Sassy. Sassy Spray, as a matter of fact. While that name would be good for a porn star or perhaps a hair styling product, on a wide-eyed Smith first year it served just to annoy me for being a stupid name. I found her MySpace, and although it's set to private, it looks like she still lives in Assachusetts all these years after Smith. I bet she still lives in Northampton...LOSER!

Anyway, Sassy was going off about how there was nothing for her to eat on breakfast for dinner night as even the vegetarian options were rife with eggs and dairy, and as I proceeded to tear my way through a pound of bacon, she was glaring at my meal with contempt and disgust. She switched from bitching about only eating corn flakes and soymilk to passive-aggressive anti-meat bullying. Ho didn't know who she was fucking with.
"I just feel so strongly for the animals," she said. "They have thoughts and feelings, and it's just not right to degrade them by manufacturing them and treating them as food. That slice of bacon was a living being at one time. I don't eat anything derived from the abuse of animals. A cheeseburger used to have a face, and I can't eat that in good conscience." Sassy eyed me beadily across the table as her friend, this girl in my year who was also vegan, looked on approvingly.
I popped another piece of bacon in my mouth. "Well, that's all well and good for you," I said. "But I love meat. I'm never going to stop eating meat. Slaughter the fucking cows!"
To my shock, Sassy's eyes began to fill with big crocodile tears. She let out a loud, choked sob and fled the table. Everyone around me was staring at me accusingly, like, "Way to go, Razzy, you asshole, you made her cry." One of my friends started pestering me to go apologize to her. I refused. Why should I apologize for stating my love for meat when she can off about veganism for hours? I find that as equally abhorrent as she found my pro-carnivorous stance. Finally, after the entire table turned against me and demanded that I go at least make sure "she was okay," as though I had scarred the dumb bitch for life, I wandered into the kitchen.
Sassy was bawling like a colicky baby to Sally, the dishwasher/food runner. Sally was a frightening woman, and she cornered me and demanded that I do something about Sassy's emotional distress. I said I was sorry that she took what I said so personally. It wasn't a real or sincere apology, and it shut everyone up who was demanding that I apologize, so I was okay with it. However, the whole incident was one of those Smith College moments of clarity, where you look around with a suddenly new perspective and say, "What the hell kind of crazy shitshow did I choose for college?"
That summer, I attended a family reunion, and wound up telling this story to one of my cousins, who is an avid hunter, card-carrying NRA man, and staunch Republican. He's also funny as hell and only about ten years older than me, so we have a good time deriding the world when we get together. I was telling him this story, knowing that unlike the ladies at Smith, he would praise me for it. He also had some sage wisdom and extremely awesome gifts for me.
"What you need," he advised, taking a swig of his beer. "Is something to keep those morons away. I suggest taxidermy."
"I don't have any taxidermy. You know how my dad is...he doesn't like hunting, so I don't know where I'd get any."
"Hell, I'll take you hunting if you want to go. But if you don't have time I'll just give you a head for your wall."
"What?! You'd part with one of your heads for my wall?"
"Sure, ever since I shot that cougar I haven't had enough wall space, and the old lady won't let me take down any paintings. Want it?"
"Hell yes!"
"Great. I'm telling you, hang it up and it will keep the vegans way in the hell away from you."
I picked up the deer head later that summer. As it turns out, it was the first deer he ever shot (I think he gave it away because it's only a six-pointer, which is pretty pussified as a trophy), and he gave me its pelt along with the head. The pelt has served me well as an accessory to various Halloween costumes I've worn over the years, including as a Viking cape and as a dress when I went as a caveman my first Halloween in NYC, where it nearly fell off and where I ended up making out with KatieScarlett and beating a guy with a stick at Avalon when he tried to grab me by my hair, early man-style. That pelt has seen some crazy times. The head, meanwhile, did its job. Sassy Spray moved out of our house and never bothered me again, and the vegans stayed well away from my animal murder decor. The head and pelt both have places of honor on my wall to this day. Take that, Smith College!
Labels: defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, LL Cool Jew, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sexy delicious animals, Smith College Vault
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Chingy! has no love
For whatever reason, he is almost always more enthusiastic about this at JFK than at Sea-Tac, and I can't figure out if it's because he loves New York or because he hates it. One thing is for certain, though, and that is that Chingy! seems to hate Queens. This is odd, because before I got him, he lived in Howard Beach, Queens, just a stone's throw from JFK (well, a stone's throw by outer borough terms, so a mile and a half.) Perhaps he associates it with a traumatic puppyhood. I noticed this distinctly manifested when we returned home from Christmas in the P-N-Dub, and there was a repeat performance as we headed for the Triborough Bridge yesterday.
I was too tired to suffer two hours on the trains, so we climbed into a cab. As we cruised down the Van Wyck, Chingy! sat on my lap and alternately dozed and gazed rapturously at me, at least until we reached Shea Stadium. Once the stadium came into view, he jumped up on the armrest and began barking at the stadium ferociously. The effect is actually hilarious, and my cab driver even took a break from chattering away on his bluetooth in Urdu for a minute to laugh at him as well. I had to restrain Chingy! once he started clawing on the window glass, presumably to leap from the cab and go regulate.
I have no idea why he seems to hate Shea Stadium so much, but since he's now done this twice, there must be something about it that really gets him all Puggish. Maybe Chingy! isn't a Mets fan, or maybe he strongly disapproves of building a new stadium for them to play in. Or maybe he strongly supports the new stadium because he hates Shea. It also could be because those spaceship-thingies from the World's Fair that were used in the movie Men In Black are there, and he's sick of people on the street pointing at him and saying shit like, "Hey! Men In Black dog!" I know I am fucking sick of that myself, so it's possible that Chingy! is expressing his displeasure by directing it towards a site where a pivotal scene from that movie was filmed. Unlike my usual response to the Men In Black reference ("Yeah, I'd like to see Tommy Lee Jones try to shake down his fat ass for information"), maybe Chingy!'s is expressed as rage toward anything affiliated with the film. I hope that's the truth, because that would mean that Chingy! might viciously attack Will Smith if he ever sees him in person, and forget my day, that would make my fucking life.
In any event, I ultimately had to restrain Chingy! and put him on the cab floor, where he checked the handy map of NYC and saw that we were headed back to our humble abode in Manhattan. This seemed to put him at peace. Well, either that, or the knowledge that once again he'd really told Shea Stadium what's what, and how.


CHONGAY CHONG, Queens!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, defiance, doggity style, NYC, ridiculous absurdity
Sunday, March 25, 2007
In my dreams
People often give me a lot of grief when I quit smoking, and this makes quitting more challenging. "Yeah, right," some will say, because I've tried quitting so many times before and failed. Others will joke about taking bets as to how long it will be before I'm back on the cancer sticks. Still others will get annoyed with me, because they no longer have me as a smoking buddy, and smokers LOVE company. It helps reinforce denial and, in the current climate that demonizes smokers to a certain degree, it makes people feel better about themselves in spite of their smoking. At least, this is how I feel when I'm smoking and one of my butt buddies quits, and the behavior of a few of my friends when I quit validates this. One time I quit smoking and one friend was shocked when I told her she couldn't smoke in my car anymore. "Are you fucking serious?" she asked. I relented because she made such a fuss, and I was smoking again by the end of the night. In 2005, when I fell off the wagon after 9 months of nicotine sobriety, another friend said, "Dude, I'm so glad you're back on the dark side." My judgment gets questioned when I quit, and I get praised when I relapse...how fucked up is that? Nobody cheers when recovering heroin addicts start shooting up again after rehab. I don't appreciate this sort of attitude, because it trivializes what has been a very miserable struggle for me over the past five years (when I really started thinking seriously about going smoke-free) and makes quitting even more difficult for me than it already is.
I smoked my first cigarette at age eleven, and became a regular smoker at 13. I've been smoking cigarettes for over half my life. I am severely addicted, and it is well documented that nicotine is as addictive as heroin or cocaine. I have a lot of smoker friends who refute this. Some of them say things like, "I never smoke at work," or "I only smoke when I'm drinking." Maybe so, but that doesn't mean you're not just as much of a fucking addict as me. Try to NOT smoke when you're drinking sometime. Some of these same friends have been saying that they're going to quit by a certain age or year or major event, and those milestones have come and gone and they're still smoking. In spite of my getting occasionally irritated with my smoker friends, I keep it mostly to myself, because I don't ever want to be the type of nonsmoker that runs around preaching at people. They'll confront this demon when they're good and ready, and it's not my job to be a self-righteous asshole and lecture them all about it. For one thing, it's not like they've never heard that smoking damages your health. For another, you can only quit when you really, REALLY want to, so saying patronizing shit like "don't you know that's bad for you?" or passive-aggressively coughing and/or dramatically fanning smoke away is pointless and fucking rude. I used to smoke like an industrial revolution-era textile mill, so acting all of a sudden like smoking is the most horrible thing a person can do is hypocritical and worthy of scorn. I'm not going to be that party-killing asshole. Unfortunately, though, the close link to smoking and socializing in my group of friends makes hanging out with them particularly challenging sometimes.
I went to see 300 with FalloniusMonk and Rack last week, and after the movie, they both promptly lit right up. As I stated before, I have no interest in lecturing them; FalloniusMonk in particular will have none of that, as she's one of the most defiantly proud smokers I've ever met and often states that it's all good because I'm going to cure cancer (for the record, dude, I've been out of the cancer biz for four years now...so unless they make a cigarette that gives you colds or polio, I can't help with that). She won't for one second tolerate any of that condescending, bossy, you-should-quit bullshit and I wouldn't dare run any of that by her even if I felt inclined to do so. However, it's still fucking hard to stand there and watch them take drag after drag, when I want to take just one SO FUCKING BAD. I tried to hang with them, telling myself that I'll have to get desensitized to seeing other people smoke, but I just couldn't take it. I said, "Okay-dudes-see-ya-later-I-gotta-catch-the-train-bye," and scurried off before I could freak out. I know they understand that it's just what I have to do.
However, while being around my smoking friends can be a challenge for me, NOTHING has been as difficult as sleeping. Yes, that's right...sleeping. It's not that I'm having trouble sleeping so much as I'm having trouble with my dreams. In order to not smoke and function as an only marginally psychopathic crazy bitch while I quit as opposed to a totally emotionally unstable maniac, I am on the patch. The patch is a pain in the ass, because it itches like crazy and falls off in the presence of the Palmer's Cocoa Butter Formula I have to slather on myself by the gallon to mitigate the itching, and because a side-effect is crazy, vivid dreams. In the past I've experienced a variety of disturbing nicotine-induced dreams in which I had dirty but romantic Thorn Birds-style sex with Archbishop of New York Edward Cardinal Egan, got a job teaching biology at Smith (about as close to hell as I can imagine), was accosted by Chris Hansen for internet perversion, married my high school boyfriend (sorry, THAT'S actually about as close to hell as I can imagine), was violently attacked by my lab mice, and ate my brother's dog. However, the most recurrent disturbing dreams I have are of me smoking. Last night I dreamt I was at my parent's house and their fridge was full of half-opened Parliament Light packs. I kept asking my mom to throw them away because they were so tempting, and she said she was keeping them fresh for someone else who might want them since I didn't need them anymore. I was begging her to throw them away and she was telling me not to be so wasteful. Then I smoked one, my mother started yelling at me that I was weak and pathetic, and I woke up.
This is about the twentieth dream I've had since quitting about smoking, and these dreams are so vivid, that I wake up wracked with guilt for relapsing once again. It's not that these dreams are otherwise believable; the notions that my mother's frugality would extend to stocking the fridge with P-Funks or that she would ever under any circumstances scream at me that I'm weak and pathetic are ridiculous, but the smoking part feels SO REAL. I really believe that I smoked upon awakening. Eventually I become more fully alert and realize that I only cheated in my dreams, and I'm still right with Jesus as far as my Lenten vow is concerned, but this is driving me crazy. I can learn to deal with being around smokers, because it's something I'm going to have to learn to cope with if I'm going to stay smoke-free and keep 90% of my friends (and I love them dearly whether they smoke or not, so that's not even an option), but being tormented with relapse every night is getting to be a bit much. I'd frankly rather live on Elm Street and have Freddy chasing me around every night in my subconscious than be confronted with pack after shiteous pack of Parliaments. Christ, does this ever get any easier???
Labels: defiance, FalloniusMonk, Razzification, smoking
Monday, March 05, 2007
Here's the beef
1. People disputing or encouraging incorporation of various Hot Jews on the list
2. People telling me they love the site because X blog posting was hilarious
3. People telling me they hate the site because X blog posting was offensive
4. People taking issue with the extended coverage of 50 Cent on my "rap beefs" page
Today I received an e-mail from the latter category. These "rap beefs" e-mails are always pretty similar in that, after sifting through a sea of misspellings and aberrant punctuation, I glean that the author is trying to prove to me that my boyfriend Curtis Jackson is insincere, untalented, and a snitch because either Jadakiss/the Game/Fat Joe/Nas beat him in a mythical rap battle that may or may not have happened. In particular, the Jadakiss supporters are especially feisty, and I'm often about this close to reminding them that despite having all sorts of "realness" attributed to him by his fans, he did appear on the aural abortion known as "Jenny from the Block". When your ass appears in a video where the main storyline includes Ben Affleck pumping gas into his and J-Lo's Bentley, I think you should lose a few points for street credibility, but whatever.
In any event, these e-mails are all usually really indignant, question my taste in music and my intellect, and demand that I change it. Then there's some sort of vaguely threatening sign-off, such as "quit suckin fiddys dick bitch" or "i dare u 2 respond u probly a chickenhead snitch just like 50 u fuckin fag". I always respond, inform the e-mailer that my website contains MY opinion, and if they think something different should be on the internet, they should start their own fucking website. I also typically make a choice remark or two about their literacy. Today's e-mail was no exception, although, judging from the e-mail address, this hater is Canadian:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Peta Pemberton (nakitap@shaw.ca)
Subject: This is from Tony Vedovato
I'm sayen that your fucken veiw on the beefs are wack I think you need
to get of 50's dick and you sound like a fag Fat Joe Jadakiss and
especially the mothafucken game ripped 50 to peices he is a snitch he
does live in conneticut haven you ever seen stop snitchin stop lien,
shit if you have the balls email me back justify your faggy ass reviews
Okay, Tony Vedovato/Peta Pemberton (and by the way, don't BOTH of those names sound like comic book characters?), no problem. I'll e-mail your ass back AND post your correspondence on my website.
To: Peta Pemberton (nakitap@shaw.ca)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: RE: This is from Tony Vedovato
Well, I don't "have the balls" because I'm not male (and I think my status as a female
likewise answers your charges that I am a gay man), but certainly I have the courage to
respond via e-mail to your assertion that my opinions are "wack." I can justify my
"faggy ass reviews" quite easily and succinctly: it's my website, and they're my
opinions. If you wish to figuratively fellate Fat Joe, Jadakiss, and "especially the
mothafucken Game" and talk shit about my boyfriend Curtis, then I suggest starting your
own online monument to useless bullshit, because I don't change my opinions based on
getting partially incomprehensible e-mails (ie: I have no idea what a "lien" has to do in
relation to snitching, but somehow I suspect it's not the legal freezing of an account or
property to secure payment of a debt).
Another opinion I have is that you need to come up with a more diverse array of insults
than simply the several variations of "fag" you use here. I would also strongly suggest
a review of basic grammar and spelling, starting with "i before e except after c."
Those are my "fucken veiws".
Razzy
I can't wait to see if Peta/Tony likewise has the requisite balls to respond. Man, I love me a good e-mail freestyle battle.
Labels: 50 cent, correspondence, defiance, grammar gestapo, rap, Razzy Haters, retard rage, scathing indictments
Friday, February 16, 2007
Moderation is back in full motherfuckin' effect
This morning, I opened my e-mail and was alerted that the latter had occurred, funnily enough, on the comment page of the Rose and Olive post. It seems the hatemongering Razzy impersonator is back at it after several months of silence, although that person is now employing the moniker "Razzy III" instead of just plain old "Razzy". Clever. Anyway, I didn't even finish reading the bullshit about how I've been off with the retired Nazis "incinerating Jews in Argentina" before I deleted it and turned comment moderation back on.
So hopefully Razzy III will find something better to do than craft these idiotic missives, so I don't have to sit around approving comments on the grounds that they don't contain references to "porch monkeys" and the like. Anyways, bear with me. I'll approve everything so long as it's not written by "Razzy III", even if you're calling me a big, fat, ugly, mentally challenged slut or whatever else, and hopefully Razzy III will crawl back under his/her rock and be otherwise occupied.
Oh, and Razzy III, I have your IP address. So be warned: if you persist in cluttering up my comment pages with your bullshit, I will eventually find out who you are. Then I'll be happy to post your personal information right alongside the text of some of your more choice comments. They're deleted, but I still have the comment e-mail alerts Blogger sent me. I figured I would save them in the hopes that I'd figure out who you are and out you for being a bigot and, I might add, a pussy for choosing to share that side of you with the world via anonymous blog comments. Man up, bitch, and take credit for either your own fucked-up worldview or for whatever it is about me that compels you to occupy your time in this way. I am shameless and I am ruthless, so feel free to continue trying my patience. I will destroy you.
Labels: assholes, crazies, defiance, oh the horror, Razzy Haters, retard rage
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Cellmates
Just to reiterate that I'm not going to let criminal threats force me into submission, I figured I'd share some of KatieScarlett's artwork with you. She went to art school after Smith, and you can see here that she knows what she's doing when it comes to Photoshop. Her brilliant work is a window into the future. Sadly, I doubt that Tej's cell at the federal penitentiary will have a balcony like her current crib at Smith:
[Image removed at the request of the copyright holder, and too fucking bad, because that image was FUNNY. Don't think I've caved to any poorly conceived extortion attempts, though...I'm just not one to fuck with copyright law and I can't afford to license the shit.]
KatieScarlett rewlz and is so kewl, LOL!
Labels: crime and punishment, defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, KatieScarlett, Razzy Haters, Tej Offensive