Sunday, May 31, 2009
What happens to a dream deferred?
I don't know if Chingy! knows the answer to that, but he certainly knows a thing or two about what a raisin in the sun looks like.
CHONGAY CHONG, Langston Hughes!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style
Sunday, December 28, 2008
This shit had dog death written all over it...literally
The other day, my dog-hating friend J-Sexy asked if I planned to go see Marley and Me. Specifically, she asked, "Are you going to see that movie? It has one of those disgosting dogs you like in it." She was making fun of me, because recently I had been telling her about the plot to the world's most upsetting cartoon, The Plague Dogs, and started choking up about it. A few tears even leaked out. J-Sexy laughed at me, because she's evil like that.
Mark my words: I will never, EVER see this movie. TRUST.
"Hell to the no!" I responded. "That dog is obviously going to die and I cannot deal." Apart from the fact that Jennifer Aniston and Owen Wilson's very existence offends me and I wouldn't see a "dramedy" (AKA shitshow by definition) about these two fucktards enduring the trials and tribulations of domestic life, dog death is a movie theme that I simply cannot cope with. I still have bad dreams about Where the Red Fern Grows. I start to sniffle if anyone brings up White Fang, and don't even MENTION Old Yeller around me. I cried during I Am Legend when the dog died. Hell, I cried during the remake of The Hills Have Eyes when one of the dogs died!
A while later, LL Cool Jew and I were Gchatting about how much Will Smith's new stinkbomb Seven Pounds is going to suck because that's all Will Smith does, and the topic came up again:
LL Cool Jew: that 7 pounds thing just looks so sure-to-be-shiteous
LL Cool Jew: i wonder which is worse, that or marley and me?
LL Cool Jew: although the latter might be worse because i sense it involves dog death
LL Cool Jew: which is obviously unacceptable
LL Cool Jew: the dog will inevitably die
Razzy: i KNOW that it involves dog death
LL Cool Jew: there is a part in the trailer where owen wilson is sitting in a field with a very graybearded marley
Razzy: i don't like that one bit
LL Cool Jew: and says to himself, "dogs don't care if you're rich or poor..."
LL Cool Jew: which indicates - dog death.
Razzy: "immortal marley without those two d-bags" sounds like a much better movie
Razzy: dude, dogs always die in movies
Razzy: i don't know why i think otherwise
LL Cool Jew: no, no way will i subject myself to that
LL Cool Jew: crying at a jennifer aniston movie
LL Cool Jew: NO THANKS
Razzy: hell to the FUCKING NO!
LL Cool Jew: too humiliating
LL Cool Jew: almost as embarrassing as it was crying at a will smith movie (i am legend)
Razzy: dude i cried at that shit too!
Razzy: jerseygirl leaned over to her boyfriend and was like, "dude, check it out...RAZZY'S CRYING!!"
Razzy: then they laughed at me!
Razzy: i was like "that dog is so sweet and caesary!"
LL Cool Jew: um yes
LL Cool Jew: graphic scenes of doggie violence!!!!
LL Cool Jew: marley and me would be worse
LL Cool Jew: because it would be more along the lines of how our dogs are going to go
Razzy: i know, at least the dog in "i am legend" died in the line of duty
LL Cool Jew: old and infrim
LL Cool Jew: buh
Razzy: can. not. deal.
LL Cool Jew:i can't even think about it
Needless to say, I have not gone to see Marley and Me and I likely never will given the high probability of canine mortality. However, thanks to some intrepid soul who selflessly braved this cinematic disaster so as to save the rest of us, I now know that this was a wise decision based on an accurate hypothesis:
Labels: doggity style, LL Cool Jew, movies, oh the horror, tragedy
Thursday, December 04, 2008
CHONGingway
The other day, I looked over on the bed and caught my arrogant, obstinate, grotesquely fat Pug Chingy! actually doing something to better himself. My copy of The Sun Also Rises, my favorite book of all time, had fallen out of my bag onto my bed. Since I carry that book around the way some people carry Bibles, it's thoroughly broken-in and fell open to whatever page I'd stopped on most recently. Astonishingly, Chingy! actually pulled himself from his basal state of contemptuous torpor to see what all the fuss was about.
As Hemingway never writes "CHONGAY CHONG" once in the entire novel, Chingy! apparently didn't see anything of interest. He decided he had better things to do than reading about bullfighting aficionados or the tragic wound of Jake Barnes, and promptly passed out on the book.
CHONGAY CHONG, Ernest Hemingway!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, librophilia
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Sweet sobaka
I think Vladimir Putin is basically a total dipshit. For one thing, no matter how many absurd I-wish-I-was-Ernest-Hemingway pictures he takes of himself fly fishing, he seems like the kind of dude who would be in a movie from the 80s as some sort of evil, capitalism-decrying Communist party stalwart who couldn't be trusted and whose sole reason for existing is to wipe America off the map. Indeed, since the officer and a hot piece John McCain cannot say a sentence about Putin without including the words "KGB" or "apparatchik," that's obviously exactly what he is even though he appears different than the red-faced blusterers of Russian rulers past. He may not look like a giant vodka-swilling bear in a fur hat, and he might like to show off his skinny topless chest doing macho outdoorsy stuff, and he may have appointed a tiny Deep Purple-loving Ukrainian-independence suppressing lawyer as his successor, but that doesn't mean he's somehow different from any other asshole pinko motherfucker who would invade Colorado via fleets of innocent-looking Aeroflot jets and declare war on Patrick Swayze, Charlie Sheen, C. Thomas Howell, Jennifer Grey, and Lea Thompson.
However, I have now realized that Putin has one redeeming quality. While perusing the news stories from the other inferior excuses for countries that populate the world, I came across an article describing how Putin loves his doggy so much that he made her a special GPS tracker so she'll never get lost. Okay, the article just said he made her a GPS tracker and Putin disputed with his deputy prime minister whether or not his sweet dogger Koni liked the fact that "her free life is over," but still...I assume he outfitted his dog with a satellite tracker to keep Koni from getting lost and ending up in Siberia or something because he would be devastated by her absence.
A guy with a precious puppy like Koni here can't be completely evil. I'm cool with Putin from now on so long as he always appears in pictures with this doggity sweetness. In fact, just let Koni take over for Putin. If that bitch were calling the shots, Putin would have plenty of free time to pose for stomach-churning topless macho propaganda photos and everyone would want to get all diplomatic with Russia because Koni is SO FUCKING CUTE! The world would win. Koni for commisar!
Labels: assholes, doggity style, international intrigue, politics
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Happy 49th birthday to my firstborn!
Today I am sad because my beloved biological dog Caesar turns 49! Okay, he actually turns 7, but that's 49 in dog years. Apart from a few stray gray hairs around his sweet little muzzle, Caesar has hardly aged and is as roguishly handsome as he's always been. This is comforting to me because the thought of Caesar passing on soon (the average lifespan for German Shepherds and Rottweilers both is 10 years) to doggy heaven is one I find extraordinarily painful to contemplate. I'm getting all teary just thinking about it, and you can ask anyone who has made the mistake of mentioning Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows around me: dog mortality is a topic that I am emotionally VERY ill-equipped to handle. If I get all choked up just hearing the "Here, Yeller! Come back, Yeller! Best doggone dog in the West" song, you can imagine what happens when I consider the prospect of my own best doggone dog transcending this mortal coil. I've brought this dog from 5 pounds of fuzzy, blue-eyed, giant-pawed puppy cuteness to the 110 pounds of distinguished debonair canine that he is today, and he might as well be my fucking kid. I love this dog like a child, and I can't believe he's middle aged. Does this dog look like he's almost over-the-hill to you?
After you finish criticizing my woeful photography skills, you might see in Caesar's happy, goodfy face that he's still full of youthful spirit. Despite his advancing years, he continues to enjoy activities such as chasing sticks and squirrels, leaping joyfully around St. Nicholas Park like some kind of Alsatian-Bavarian gazelle, humping Chingy! into submission, snapping at flies, and barking out the window at the evil neighbors. He really hates those neighbors. They're always doing shady shit like walking around their apartment and adjusting their window blinds. They're up to something, and Caesar will never stop barking until he exposes them for all the nefarious existing that they do. This is Caesar's primary job, and he was up early at work even on his own birthday. He was also busy doing his secondary job, which is acting as a living pillow for his extremely hungover mommy to clutch desperately while trying to convince herself to get the fuck out of bed and go to lab.
Caesar is the best dog in the entire world, and I'm totally going to swing by a pizza place and bring him home a big slice of pepperoni (his favorite people food of all time) to celebrate. You only turn 49 in dog years once! Happy birthday, Caese!
Labels: aging, Caese Doggy Dogg, doggity style
Thursday, September 11, 2008
HAPPY 9/11 EVERYBODY!!!!
Another 9/11 has come already?! Shit, and I forgot to hang stockings for Osama Bin Laden to fill with improvised explosive devices and box cutters when he drops down my chimney. Oh wait, wrong holiday. Oops.
Anyway, I tried to cobble together a festive 9/11 card for you all, and figured that there's not much that says "Fuck you, Al Qaeda!" than a reference to the current orgy of freedom known as ELECTION '08!!! Like all elections, this one is so far nothing but classy and honorable, with both candidates saying lovely things about each other. The latest demonstration of maturity and graciousness has been a debate over whether one candidate was just using an expression, or derisively calling the opposing team's vice presidential candidate a pig. I'm thinking it's probably just an expression, because if Obama REALLY wanted to insult Sarah Palin by comparing her to an animal, I can think of a worse one. So can LL Cool Jew, who Gchatted me this morning and wryly observed, "You can put lipstick on a pug, but it's still a pug."
Thus, in the spirit of the sophisticated American democratic process embodied by the current presidential race, Chingy! got all gussied up real faincy-like to wish you a blessed and joyous 9/11.
CHONGAY CHONG, 9/11! USA! U!S!A! U! S! A!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, intentional buffoonery, politics, terror, United States of Asskickery
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
The Matt Leinart of morbidly obese stank-ass dogs
I've been so busy laboring over Labor Day weekend that I've been missing lots of important news. I did manage to hear about Sarah Palin, but somehow I missed the fact that Chad Johnson legally changed his last name to Ocho Cinco! Such an oversight is inexcusable, so I resolved last night to catch up on much of the news I missed.
Another piece of news I missed thanks to my overworked state is the fact that Matt Leinart lost out on the starting job in Arizona to Kurt Warner. KURT FUCKING WARNER! I have a lengthy history of scoffing derisively at Kurt Warner, beginning in 2002 when I wasted my first round Fantasy draft pick on him, only to have him break his pinky and spend the rest of the season on the bench seeking solace in Jesus and pouting. I'm not sure what better says "first-round bust" than Kurt Warner's Chunky Soup-cursed, aged, Bible-thumping, power lesbian-controlled self is beating Leinart out for the number one slot in trading camp. Consequently, there are a few articles about boo-hoo, it's hard for young quarterbacks to adjust to playing at the professional level, and don't call Matt Leinart a first-round bust QUITE yet.
Even former Seahawk Trent Dilfer shows up in an article to make excuses for Leinart's lackluster performance so far, noting that he could never have won a Super Bowl with the Baltimore Ravens if he had listened to those critics. He omits the fact that his team ran roughshod in that Super Bowl thanks to total defensive domination that would have shut the Giants out if they hadn't gotten lucky on a kickoff return. The bulk of the Ravens' scoring in that game came from Jamal Lewis running the ball, long-yardage Matt Stover field goals, returned interceptions, and a stellar kickoff return to answer the Giants' sole return TD. Trent Dilfer won the Super Bowl by bringing the same mediocre offense he had been known for all season, so if I were Matt Leinart, I would encourage Trent Dilfer to cease and desist with the comparisons. The last time I checked, Ray Lewis, Tony Siragusa, and Sam Adams were not playing for the Cardinals, so unlike Dilfer, Leinart can't even pretend at greatness on the back of a more talented defense.
I've been calling Matt Leinart a first-round bust since he first blazed into the NFL, because at the very least I suspect Paris Hilton's crabs can wreak some serious havoc with a player's game, even if he is a product of the NFL-friendly USC system. Nonetheless, professional and amateur pundits alike have been defending Leinart as the future of the Arizona Cardinals. I can only hope that's true, because it's partly thanks to the Cards' perennial ineptitude that the mighty Seahawks have taken five straight division titles. The Cards' consistent ass-sucking has made the NFC West into the notoriously pathetic shitshow it is today, and any future in which Leinart is allowed to continue with his lack of offensive production is one I can eagerly anticipate. The Seahawks may have one of the hottest defenses in the NFL right now, but I'd be deluding myself if I made similar claims about their offense right now. We have no wide receivers, an unproven rookie tight end, a kicker controversy (which until now I had never fathomed would even exist), and an untested two-back (or three, depending on what happens with T.J. Duckett) running game that I'm frankly awfully nervous about. Nonetheless, our patchy offense is going to STILL destroy Arizona, because they can always be counted on to suck that bad. Thanks to Trent Dilfer comparing Leinart's weak arm strength to Joe Montana and Steve Young, there are still a lot of people who will doggedly expect Leinart to be a Hall of Fame quarterback someday, and this all but guarantees Arizona will be in the trash heap of the NFC for years to come. I disagree, and rather than a berth in the Hall of Fame, I expect Leinart will be known by the three I's: interceptions, injuries, and infections from Paris Hilton's herpetic cooze. The Cardinals have no hope. I look forward to this bright and cheerful future.
In all this contemplating Matt Leinart's already unremarkable career, however, I realized that he reminds me of something. At first, I couldn't think of what it is, but I knew it wasn't my jeep, my sound, my car, or my bank account (okay, maybe the bank account, since it's EMPTY). Then it hit me: Matt Leinart reminds me of my nefarious pug Chingy!
This similarity isn't because they really look alike, but essentially they are kindred spirits. Chingy! and Matt Leinart are both disgusting assholes. They both think they are hot shit, despite the fact that facts demonstrate otherwise. They are both useless in terms of making any meaningful contributions to their teams. They both stink, and I've never smelled Matt Leinart, but I have smelled eau de men's locker room, and I think it's a safe assumption that when he doesn't smell like sweaty jock straps, he submerges himself in Drakkar. Frankly, even if he smells like fresh baked cinnamon rolls all the time, his stats warrant the use of the term "stinks" so it all applies. They are both encouraged in their arrogance by fawning admirers who rave about how cute and wonderful and underrated they are and make excuses on their behalf. In fact, when they behave badly (by, say, eating homeless guy shit, vomiting up used tampons, ejaculating on my living room floor, or partying in a hot tub full of Arizona skanks instead of rehabbing one's shoulder), their admirers excuse and venerate it. If the aforementioned floor ejaculation incident hadn't motivated me to get Chingy! neutered, I'm certain that like Leinart he'd be fathering bastard Pug mixes all over my neighborhood.
I think I could go on all day about this, but unfortunately I now have to take Matt Leinart for a stroll around the park, where most likely he'll eat decomposing rodent, injure himself, or disdainfully wander off, forcing me to scale a hill or break into a construction site to retrieve him.
CHONGAY CHONG, Matt Leinart!
Labels: assholes, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, NFL football, retard rage
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Sleeping with the enemy
I have always wondered when I take random pictures of me doing standard Razzified shit with my dogs why I always regard Chingy! with such an obvious expression of "what the fuck, asshole?!" I thought it was always due to his Too $hort-esque tendencies, or his cacophagic inclinations, or his starfish pant-stamping, or his overall rePUGnancy. However, now I've realized that this has taken a decidedly nationalistic tone. Why do I look so annoyed in the below picture? Because Chingy! is not on board with freedom.
Chingy! is not rooting for team USA. LL Cool Jew and I were texting yesterday about the TOTALLY CHEATING Chinese gymsnatchtits team, and she suggested that my morbidly obese dog is rooting for the enemy. In fairness, Pugs were sort of appropriated by the Dutch sometime around the end of the Dark Ages as far as breeding goes, but I'm willing to work with the "Chingy! is an asshole, and thus is rooting for the nation that originally bred his assholish, incorrigibly lazy kind" a millenium ago. Sure, Pugs have occupied a place in the footnotes of European history. Some Pug saved William of Orange's life from assassins in the sixteenth century and Empress Josephine used Pugs to deliver secret notes to Napoleon, but I assume these outlying events are entirely stochastic. Relying on a Pug to bark a warning is more ill-advised than relying on Al Gore to admit that freon-containing appliances are critical to a sound energy policy. Chingy! cannot be relied upon to do anything besides snore loudly, sleep constantly, eat indigent feces, and sneeze contemptuously when rebuked. I am hardly surprised that he is rooting for our national Olympic enemy China, especially when considering that the Chinese are known to violate human rights, suppress free speech, and cheat at gymsnatchtits.
.
Last night, this "Chongay is pro-Team China" theory gained some credence when this asshole not only woke from his typical deep slumber to wag his question mark for "March of the Volunteers." The idea that Chingy! would volunteer for any type of people's work is laughable; however, he apparently likes the pinko tunes enough to actually work his tail a bit to the beat. He also had this look on his face when I asked, "Hey CHONGAY, what do you think about the fact that your Olympic women's gymsnatchtits team won by faking their ages?"
CHONGAY CHONG, Team USA!!
.
Last night, this "Chongay is pro-Team China" theory gained some credence when this asshole not only woke from his typical deep slumber to wag his question mark for "March of the Volunteers." The idea that Chingy! would volunteer for any type of people's work is laughable; however, he apparently likes the pinko tunes enough to actually work his tail a bit to the beat. He also had this look on his face when I asked, "Hey CHONGAY, what do you think about the fact that your Olympic women's gymsnatchtits team won by faking their ages?"
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, Olympics, United States of Asskickery
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Daily Douchebag: dog haters
Name: ASSHOLES
DOB: whenever assholes are born
Occupation: hating on man's best friend
Hometown: wherever assholes come from
Current residence: Toronto, Canada and New York, New York
Douchebaggery: This past week, Razzyphile L&L e-mailed me to inform me of some very disturbing goings on at High Park in Toronto where she lives with her super cute French bulldog Lamont. Apparently, there is an area of the "off-leash" section currently being contested by various factions. The dog people want this to stay a dog area, while some bitch-ass environmentalist types have complained that the area is getting "trampled." The debate has grown very heated, and as a result, some sick bastard has decided to up the ante in favor of the dog haters: by leaving out bread soaked in antifreeze.
If you don't have dogs, then you may not know that antifreeze is one of the most famous dog poisons of all time next to chocolate. Supposedly antifreeze tastes sweet and dogs particularly like it, so every year there are some accidental dog deaths resulting from dogs licking antifreeze that spills from leaky radiators. However, for someone to leave out chunks of bread soaked in antifreeze in the off-leash area of Toronto's version of Central Park is nothing short of a cold-hearted attempt to murder unsuspecting pets. Already two dogs have died from eating the poisoned bread, and four are hospitalized. The detective charged with investigating has said she believes the dog assassin is motivated by the dispute.
I am always astounded at the lengths some people will go to in order to express their disdain for dogs. The other day I was at my local park in the informal "off-leash" area (translation: an area that nobody goes to where I illegally let my dogs run around), when some guy came up and said "Excuse me, lady, but there ARE leash laws." I took a look at him and realized he was just some fat motherfucker who had been sitting around the chess-playing enclosure several blocks away.
"Yeah, well, they're not bothering anyone here," I said, shrugging.
"There are CHILDREN in this park," he said. "We can't just have dogs running around when there's kids playing." I turned to look at my dogs. Caesar was sitting chewing on a stick, and Chingy! was sniffing a tree trunk/potential urine target like a wine connoisseur with a glass of vintage Cabernet. Likewise, I didn't see ANY children anywhere nearby.
"My dogs aren't bothering anyone," I reiterated slightly more defiantly. "And they are very friendly. They don't even pay attention to children."
The guy started getting pissed. "That doesn't matter! You need to leash those animals RIGHT NOW. There are children here!"
"Yeah, I get that," I said, starting to get pissed. Where does this motherfucker get off telling me that these absent children are supposed to be my concern? I HATE kids. I WISH my dogs would start harassing them rather than ignoring them in favor of sticks to chase and bushes to piss on. Furthermore, I can see in the distance that the chess area table this tubby fucker had just vacated was filled with dudes passing around a blunt. Apparently, my dogs not bothering anyone is a big threat to kids, but OPENLY SMOKING POT NEXT TO THE FUCKING PLAYGROUND is not. "Well, are you a cop? Are you going to write me a ticket?" I asked bitchily. I figured as long as he was busy getting high with his chess-playing friends, he wouldn't snitch. I figured wrong.
"I'm calling the cops, you fucking entitled white bitch!" he snarled at me, pulling out his cell phone.
I gave him a venomous eye-roll, and leashed my dogs. Not that the cops would come in a rapid manner for such a complaint, or actually get me in very much trouble, but in New York City a leash law violations isn't a ticket; it's a summons that you HAVE to go to court for. Not wanting to deal with that hassle and not wanting to ultimately pay $100 per dog, I figured I would just end our morning constitutional there. "Fine," I said in my bitchiest tone of voice. "We're leaving."
Unfortunately, even complying with his request didn't shut this fucker up. "YOU FUCKING BITCH, YOU THINK YOU OWN THE PARK?" he shouted at me. "YOU FUCKING ENTITLED PEOPLE WITH YOUR FUCKING DOGS! IT'S NOT YOUR FUCKING PARK!"
"Oh, really?" I snapped back. "I didn't realize it was actually YOUR park!"
"THERE ARE FUCKING KIDS PLAYING HERE! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE WITH YOUR FUCKING DOGS, YOU FUCKING WHITE BITCH!"
I'm not going to even attempt reasoning or shouting at someone whose argument revolves around the fact that I'm acting "entitled," I'm white, I'm a bitch, and there are allegedly children in the vicinity who can be somehow damaged by my dogs. Sure, my dogs were in violation of the leash law, but as I said, they weren't anywhere near him, his blunt-smoking chess friends, or any children. I always try to stay away from other people in the park when letting my dogs run around to be respectful of the fact that not everyone is dog-crazy, and to avoid such conflicts. Furthermore, there are a ton of people who let their dogs run around in this area, and to my knowledge no problems have occurred related to dog bites or anything of that ilk. This guy just hates dogs, so he decided to shamble halfway across the park to bark orders at me, threaten police involvement, and inexplicably bring my racial phenotype and supposed sense of entitlement to unleash my dogs in an unused green space into the matter. All I can say to a dude like that is "FUCK YOU, HATER!"
I can't understand where dog haters come from, because dogs make my life wonderful. Sure, they're a pain in the ass, but at the end of the day, my dogs are fantastic companions who bring a great deal of joy into my life and I love them dearly (even Chingy!). I can understand how someone like J-Sexy, who is a "tidy" person according to her, doesn't want to own dogs because of the problems with hair and slobber and poop-scooping that comes with the territory. Even she understands, though, how deeply dog owners bond with their pets and love them as members of their family. However, I cannot understand why anyone would go out of their way to ensure that my dogs have to stay on a leash in spite of not threatening or harassing anyone, much less resort to poisoning dogs for the crime of trampling grass in the course of exercising and playing. There is something inherently wrong with a person who hates a sweet, loving, completely innocent dog's existence so much that they would conspire to kill them with antifreeze-soaked bread (as well as any other unfortunate animals in the area, such as the raccoons that have died as collateral damage). Between the racist leash law snitch in my park and the underground dog murderer in Canada, dog hating is on the rise. I can only assume this means that the contemporary human condition is in even worse shape than I originally thought.
And on that depressing note, I'm going to go walk my dogs OFF-LEASH. Illegally. Fuck the dog haters.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Douchebag, doggity style, Razzyphiles
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Daily Douchebag: gravity
Name: gravity
DOB: the beginning of time, although I guess we didn't really all get it until Sir Isaac Newton dropped Principia in 1687
Occupation: ruining my statuary
Hometown: I don't think gravity actually has a hometown
Current residence: wreaking havoc in my apartment
Douchebaggery: Yesterday was one of the roughest days I've had in quite some time and the last thing I need are other bullshit things happening to make me feel worse. However, nonetheless dumb stupid dumb gravity decided to take the opportunity to kick me while I'm down. I've always hated gravity. Granted, I like the fact that gravity exists and makes life on earth possible, but otherwise it can lick my twat. Back in college, my advisor made me take physics as she was grooming me for the illustrious career in biomedical research I have today and this somehow might be useful. Too bad not only has physics proved entirely useless to me as a grad student, but even then I questioned its value. I took physics my senior year, and Smith's class was not only calculus-based bullshit at 9 a.m., but it was one of those classes where they don't just say something like "Newton's second law is F=ma, now here's some problems to do." They instead give you the problems first and expect you to deduce Newton's laws yourself. Needless to say, I considered my alternate morning routine of waking up, watching last night's SportsCenter while fucking my boyfriend, then kissing him goodbye, taking bong hits, and watching "Beverly Hills, 90210" reruns instead of class was a much better use of my time than doing a bunch of roundabout math to accomplish what Sir Isaac Newton did years before. My regular class-skipping turned out really badly when I ended up taking one test that involved three-dimensional vector calculus and I had no fucking clue how to do that. It was literally the only time I've ever stared down at a test and had no idea whatsoever how to even give the appearance of comprehending the material. That physics class represents the only D I've ever gotten in my academic career, and I don't regret it one bit, because I think I got way more benefit from having morning sex and watching Bev Niner than learning math that I'm never, EVER going to have to do as a microbiologist.
Anyway, I thought my days of even thinking about gravity were long past until this morning. After a few hours of fitful drunk sleep, I woke up and went to go to the bathroom. I felt something sharp in my foot. "Ouch! FUCK!" Then I looked down to see that I stepped on a piece of broken glass, and there were similar pieces of glass everywhere. It wasn't the glass you would normally expect to see either (ie: from a Heineken bottle); it was ceramic. "What the...?" I said, then my eyes traveled to a dreadful sight: the dismembered, headless torso of St. Francis of Assisi. The little shelf St. Francis was sitting on above a doorframe came loose, and thus at some point it all crashed to the floor. Much like almost all of the super Catholic shit that makes an integral part of my apartment's decor, my statue of St. Francis belonged to my grandmother, and he is a saint that I feel particularly close to. For one thing, he is the patron saint of animals, and I liked the idea of St. Francis sitting around keeping an eye on Caese and Chingy! while I'm not home. For another, if you ask my Protestant aunts, we Catholics are big on the idol-worshipping. While technically I don't WORSHIP St. Francis so much as ask him to intercede with Josh Christ on my behalf, nonetheless having one of my household gods smashed by evil gravity is not a great way to start the day. I picked up all the bigger pieces (including the one I pulled out of my foot) in the vain hope that I might be able to piece St. Francis back together like Humpty Dumpty, but I still can't find his head.
So thanks a lot, gravity, for shattering a graven image of a totally undeserving Catholic saint. If gravity had a soul, I think we know where it would be: in HELL!
Labels: Catholicism, Daily Douchebag, doggity style, fuck math, science
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
OS X is a fucking pussy
I should rename this website "HatingOnApple Blog" after this week. I thought that between my rants about Coldplay, the Apple Store, and the Genius Bar and TAFKAMA's indictment of the entire brand, the topic of anti-Apple sentiments had been thoroughly explored. However, today while rejoicing in the return of my computer and simultaneously Gchatting with LL Cool Jew, I remembered one other thing I totally despise about being a Mac user.
LL Cool Jew: is it [my freshly repaired computer] working yet?I'm hardly surprised that the Mac marketers in charge of selling new versions of OS X are cat people. I hate cats, and I distrust the motives of people who prefer cats over dogs. Dogs are a species of animal that overflows with loyalty, love, and usefulness, while cats don't give a shit about humans and would probably eat their owners if they could. Choosing cats over dogs signifies a major personality flaw to me. So once again, even though I have my computer back and am happy with its freshly functioning brand new hard drive and keyboard with a working "control" and "øptíön" key, I have to express my stern disapproval for the way those assholes do things in Cupertino. Stupid cat-named operating system-running Macs!
Razzy: yes precious!
Razzy: thank god
Razzy: but i can't transfer my stewpid files
LL Cool Jew: woohoo!
Razzy: from my backup thang
LL Cool Jew: you techie
Razzy: because the "Tiger" OS X that I have now has a stupid inept "Migration Asst"
Razzy: before i used the "Leopard" OS X
LL Cool Jew: tiger
LL Cool Jew: leopard?
Razzy: but i can't install that trash until my PI [boss] gets back from vacation
LL Cool Jew: what is this, kung fu panda?
Razzy: dude another thing to hate about apple
Razzy: they name their various versions of OS X after large jungle catsRazzy: OS 10.1 is "cheetah" or "puma"
Razzy: OS 10.2 is "jaguar"
Razzy: OS 10.3 is "panther"
Razzy: OS 10.4 is "tiger"
Razzy: OS 10.5 is "leopard"
LL Cool Jew: wiggity wack
LL Cool Jew: could they just make One that works?
Razzy: and OS 10.6 is gonna be "snow leopard"
Razzy: SERIOUSLY
LL Cool Jew: i hate how they come out with a better thing every year
Razzy: actually OS X works fine
LL Cool Jew: you can never have teh coolest gadget
Razzy: but this computer is built out of fucking recycled 6-pack rings
Razzy: luckily, my PI is a big Mac ho
Razzy: so i get all the updates without paying
Razzy: but the whole feline theme is definitely another "check minus" against Apple
LL Cool Jew: they should name them after doggers! :)
LL Cool Jew: 10.3 the pugRazzy: YES! CHONGAY!
LL Cool Jew: 10.7 the lhasa apso
LL Cool Jew: 10.8 the dingo
Razzy: although 10.3 would be the laziest operating system ever
LL Cool Jew: 10.9 THE D [the D=LL Cool Jew's perpetually terrified longhaired Chihuahua]Razzy: and THAT would offer NO protection against viruses and spyware
Razzy: and the computer would urinate on you when it crashes
LL Cool Jew: ooooooo
Razzy: that e-mail was RELLAY scaray
LL Cool Jew: the d would be the kewtest operating system ever.
Labels: Apple sucks, CHONGAY CHONG, computer incompetence, doggity style, LL Cool Jew, the D
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
A new item on the menu at Chez Chingy!
Last weekend, barbecue season started in St. Nicholas Park on account of the lovely weather and the beginning of summer. While I love summer and I love barbecues, I do not love when these things invade my local park. Barbecues in the park mean that there is often barbecue refuse around for my dogs to consume. This is very bad, because most of the refuse is chicken bones, which dogs aren't supposed to eat. Caesar is a notorious chicken bone hound, and he's extremely sneaky about it. Sometimes he'll act like he's sniffing something like he's going to piss on it, and the next thing I know, I hear crunching and realize that he's deftly scooped up some errant bone I didn't see. Then I have to pry Caesar's giant jaws open and try to fish the bone out of this throat before he swallows it. He is a smart dog, so he continues to refine his covert bone-consuming methods and I continue to fight a losing battle against his appetite for barbecue waste.
Caesar is so bad about consuming street food that I even made up new lyrics to the song "Soul Survivor" by Akon and Young Jeezy from several summers ago. Instead of singing, "If you're looking for me you can find me on the block disobeyin' the law...a real G, thoroughbred from the streets, pants saggin' with my gun in my drawers," I would sing "If you're looking for me you find me in the park disobeyin' my mom...real Caese, thoroughbred likes to eat, tail waggin' with some bones in my jaws." Yeah, I know it's corny, but anyone who has met Caesar knows how severely obsessed he is with eating discarded people food (usually chicken or rib bones, but also he enjoys crab claws/shells, squashed french fries, and licking candy wrappers), and the song is fitting.
Anyway, just because when we go to the park during barbecue season I have to keep a close eye on Caesar, that doesn't mean Chingy!'s fat ass doesn't get in trouble concerning his scavenging tastes. Chingy! is particularly bad, because rather than just eat food waste like Caesar does, he eats things that no other creature save flies, roaches, or rats are interested in. For example, I've caught him eating indigent diarrhea, decomposing squirrel carcasses, cicadas, and garbage. Even worse, sometimes he opts to vomit what he eats, usually on my clothing, bed, or some other treasured object that it's hard to clean rancid dog puke off of. Recently, I thought that maybe Chingy!'s park eating habits were improving. I caught him eating some acorns a while back, and I actually encouraged this, since acorns seem kind of healthy, and God knows Chingy! needs to lose weight.
This morning, however, I caught him chewing something and since there weren't any oak trees where we were, I had a bad feeling that it wasn't acorns. I wandered over to Chingy! to see what he was so busy chowing down on. Someone had emptied out their barbecue on the grass, and Chingy! was eating old, half-burned charcoal briquets. I yelled at him and pulled him away by his collar, and he sneezed black bits of charcoal rudely all over my feet and ankles, then tried to return to his pile of Kingsford. "Goddammit, NO! NO, CHONGAY, NO!" I admonished him repeatedly, and he continued to plant his little paws obstinately as he struggled to turn back to the pile of charcoal. Finally I quit fucking around with dragging him by the collar and leashed him back up. When we returned home, I noticed that the entire inside of his mouth looked like a fucking coal mine.
While I suppose that discarded barbecue charcoal is better than vagrant shit in terms of what Chingy! could be eating, I imagine that it's probably not very healthy, even for a garbage disposal of a dog like him. Besides, the idea of cleaning charcoal vomit out of my couch or duvet cover is not an appealing one. Chingy!'s achievements in foul culinary indulgences continue to ensure his reign as the most revolting dog in my household for some time to come.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, fat fucks, gross, oh the horror
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Beverly Hills Chihuahua
DOB: September 26, 2008
Occupation: 50% warrior, 50% lover, 100% chihuahua
Hometown: Walt Disney Studios
Current residence: during previews at a theater near you
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Normally kids movies are something I avoid like the plague, since I hate both children and the cutesy storylines that appeal to them. Furthermore, any movie with a talking animal (especially where said talking animal plays an integral role bastardizing the culture and history of a magnificent ancient civilization like the Aztecs) gets a big thumbs down in my book. I also generally avoid movies starring dogs, because there's almost always at least one dog death, and I can't handle that emotionally. I started crying during I Am Legend, and not just because it was a godawful time-squandering piece of trash, but because I just couldn't tolerate watching Will Smith strangle his sweet Caesar-y German Shepherd. I can't even talk about Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows without choking up, and you had better believe that I unplugged the damn TV within watching the first 10 minutes of Amores Perros. In every respect, Beverly Hills Chihuahua seems like the kind of movie I would hate for myriad reasons, which is why I'm so shocked that I kind of want to see it.
Part of the reason for this may be due to the fact that when LL Cool Jew and I were roommates in 2005, I lived with her little long-haired Chihuahua, Dulcinea. Although Dulcinea (aka "the D") is not without her challenges (in particular, frequent medical problems, a tendency to urinate uncontrollably when startled or terror-stricken, and a sneaky habit of furtively shitting on various furniture and/or carpets), she is a very, very sweet, funny little dog and I am extremely fond of her. Obviously, LL Cool Jew is too, since she went and got ANOTHER long-haired wawa, Sergio, to keep the D company. Even if you hate dogs, you can't say that these two aren't pretty fucking cute:
LL Cool Jew told me that when she recently saw the trailer in the theater, she embarrassed her husband BigBagel because she actually started clapping delightedly. While I don't think I'd get so excited as to burst into raucous applauding, I wouldn't be embarrassed by LL's enthusiasm. If she's in New York when that shit drops, I'll go see Beverly Hills Chihuahua with her, even if it means sitting in a theater full of hateful children. After watching the trailer, I'm convinced that this movie might not make me homicidally crazed. In fact, in spite of the fact that it has none of the three elements I consider critical to a good movie (murder, explosions, people getting fucked), and many of the elements I consider terrible (possible dog death, musical numbers, shameless revisionist history) I think I might actually like it.
It's at least got to be more exciting than Beverly Hills CHONGAY, which would be approximately ninety minutes of this:
It's at least got to be more exciting than Beverly Hills CHONGAY, which would be approximately ninety minutes of this:
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, destroy all children, doggity style, LL Cool Jew, movies, the D
Saturday, May 03, 2008
The Call of CthONGAY!
I've gotten a few e-mails, comments, and the like asserting that my work in lab is "Lovecraftian." Since–ahem–I am a nerd, I know what this means, and I just don't think it's true. I'm not overwhelmingly ashamed to admit that I've read a few of the short stories penned by one Howard Phillips Lovecraft, and I guess they're okay. Most of them are about someone going nuts because they find out they are either related to or get a glimpse of these gross gods (they all mostly look like slugs, salamanders, octopi, lizards, roaches, puddles of goop, or some combination thereof) from other planets and dimensions. Granted, H.P. writes in a style as old-fashioned and pretentious as you would expect from an overcompensating xenophobe closet homo, and I get a little tired of the whole insanity-is-the-price-of-enlightenment theme, but if not for H.P. Lovecraft, we wouldn't be able to reliably buy Stephen King novels at any airport gift shop or laugh at Tom Cruise for being a dumb alien-worshiping Scientologist. So, kudos to H.P. Lovecraft.
However, while dripping cold virus into a mouse's nose, then gassing said mouse, cutting it up, and making smoothies out of its lungs sounds gross to the layperson, these techniques are pretty routine. Lots of people do similar stuff in the lab, and (with a few exceptions) their sanity remains intact. The only way my thesis project is going to drive me crazy is via boredom or frustration, not my stumbling upon its bizarre connection to slimy space deities. Hopefully nothing I do has anything to do with space-type SciFi nerd stuff. It's not like I'm one of these geeks who watches "Battlestar Galactica" or anything. Okay, MAYBE someone broke into my apartment and held my eyes open and forced me to watch last night's new episode with a gun to my head, but I was thinking about how I'm a badass who doesn't watch stuff like that EVER and not about how the crew of Lt. Kara "Starbuck" Thrace's Earth-seeking garbage ship or whatever were planning a mutiny. I mean, I don't know how I just wrote that...it just slipped out. It was an accident, I tell you, an accident! I DON'T watch "Battlestar Galactica" and I'm amazed you would think such a thing. ANYWAY! Back to H.P. Lovecraft and my thesis project. Talking about microbiology and the Cthulhu Mythos is totally going to make me seem substantially less dorky.
Per Lovecraft: Loathsomeness waits and dreams in the deep, and decay spreads over the tottering cities of men. A time will come - but I must not and cannot think!
Truly, the thought of Cthulhu rising up and grossing everyone out to death is a terrible one. Too bad Chingy! is already extant and doing just that. Chingy! may not telepathically communicate with the strange cults that secretly worship him to encourage his rising, but he has a sect of devoted followers nonetheless. As Chingy!'s human minder, I have been cursed with the status of high priestess in this cult, and let me say that only doom and sorrow awaits humanity upon spending some time with Chingy!, his bad attitude, and the ungodly smells that he produces. The idea of Chingy! waking up and taking on the world Cthulhu style is a grim one, indeed.
Per Lovecraft: from some undetermined point below had come a voice that was not a voice; a chaotic sensation which only fancy could transmute into sound, but which he attempted to render by the almost unpronounceable jumble of letters: "Cthulhu fhtagn."
I got to thinking about whether there is anything in my life that could qualify as "Lovecraftian," and frankly, only one thing springs to mind. This thing is disgusting, a source of unearthly horror and nastiness, and routinely drives me mad:
Yes, Lovecraftian horror at its most disgusting is alive and well in the form of Chingy! He is like Lovecraft's space god head-bitch-in-charge Cthulhu, who is basically a telepathic undersea Kraken with a lot of scales and tentacles destined to bring apocalypse with his awakening and subsequent move to dry land, in many ways. Observe the striking comparisons:
Chingy!
Cthulhu
Still not convinced? I'll just break out my analytical skills then.
1. Chingy! and Cthulhu spend most of their time asleep
Per Lovecraft: In his house at R'lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.
R'lyeh is where Cthulhu lives under the sea, and while Chingy! has never been to Lovecraft's version of Atlantis, he assuredly spends 99.99999% of his time "dreaming." And snoring. I assume that with all those tentacles on his face, Cthulhu is a snorer.
2. They're both disgusting, in manner and appearance.
Per Lovecraft: a sort of monster...of a form which only a diseased fancy could conceive. If I say that my somewhat extravagant imagination yielded simultaneous pictures of an octopus, a dragon, and a human caricature, I shall not be unfaithful to the spirit of the thing. A pulpy, tentacled head surmounted a grotesque and scaly body with rudimentary wings.
While Chingy! doesn't have scales or tentacles, and the thought of him possessing any kind of flight machinery is laughable given his sheer massiveness, but certainly his head could be described as "pulpy" and his body "grotesque."
3. Activity on either Cthulhu or Chingy!'s part yields tragic consequences for any humankind caught in the crossfire
Per Lovecraft: Loathsomeness waits and dreams in the deep, and decay spreads over the tottering cities of men. A time will come - but I must not and cannot think!
Truly, the thought of Cthulhu rising up and grossing everyone out to death is a terrible one. Too bad Chingy! is already extant and doing just that. Chingy! may not telepathically communicate with the strange cults that secretly worship him to encourage his rising, but he has a sect of devoted followers nonetheless. As Chingy!'s human minder, I have been cursed with the status of high priestess in this cult, and let me say that only doom and sorrow awaits humanity upon spending some time with Chingy!, his bad attitude, and the ungodly smells that he produces. The idea of Chingy! waking up and taking on the world Cthulhu style is a grim one, indeed.
4. Both emit revolting noises that defy conventional spelling.
Per Lovecraft: from some undetermined point below had come a voice that was not a voice; a chaotic sensation which only fancy could transmute into sound, but which he attempted to render by the almost unpronounceable jumble of letters: "Cthulhu fhtagn."
As I'm writing this, Chingy! is fast asleep on one of his many personal sofas (thanks to his devoted cult/dogsitters, he has like three personal beds to choose from, as well as a neverending selection of carob-chip and sandwich cookies from the Petco treat bar), and I'm pretty sure he's making a sound that could be characterized as "Cthulhu fhtagn." Either that, or "Cthulhu fhtagn" is an alternate spelling of CHONGAY CHONG!
5. Both emit revolting smells in addition to the aforementioned revolting noises.
Per Lovecraft: The odour rising from the newly opened depths was intolerable, and at length the quick-eared Hawkins thought he heard a nasty, slopping sound down there. Everyone listened, and everyone was listening still when It lumbered slobberingly into sight...There was a bursting as of an exploding bladder, a slushy nastiness as of a cloven sunfish, a stench as of a thousand opened graves, and a sound that the chronicler could not put on paper.
A thousand opened graves? More like ONE opened pug's mouth first thing in the morning. And don't get me started on the smells Chingy! can produce not associated with his breath. They are so disgusting as to defy prosaic description, although I would wager that "intolerable" and "slushy nastiness" give you an idea of what Chingy! is capable of.
6. The reality of Chingy! and Cthulhu are both capable of inducing insanity
Per Lovecraft: this test of my own sanity, wherein is pieced together that which I hope may never be pieced together again. I have looked upon all that the universe has to hold of horror, and even the skies of spring and the flowers of summer must ever afterward be poison to me.
While Chingy! hasn't managed to fully ruin my appreciation for spring skies or summer flowers, he assuredly has driven me to the edge of reason with his tendencies to eat shit (literally), ejaculate on my apartment floor (thus prompting his neutering), and his love for destroying all of my prized personal possessions. If this dog isn't a test of my own sanity, I don't know what is.
Why Chingy! doesn't have a place in Lovecraft's pantheon of revolting gods, I'll never know. I guess not even Lovecraft's twisted mind could conceive of something so frightening and abhorrent as this beastly dog. Either that, or it was the one vision that finally did H.P. in before he could write a heavy-handed story about it.
CHONGAY CHONG, H.P. Lovecraft!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, epic geekery, gross, librophilia, nerd alert
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Where my Jews at?
To those Razzyphiles who are members of the tribe, I wish to extend my fondest, warmest, gushiest Passover wishes to you and your families. I meant to pass this along last Saturday, but being the ignorant, self-involved shikse that I am, I forgot. Besides, I was distracted by the Pope being here in NYC, and if you ask my Aunt Jesus anyway, we Catholics worship our Papal Lord atop his throne at the Holy See (along with all those idolatrous saints). So please forgive my tardiness in giving a shout-out to God's chosen people.
To make up for my lateness, I thought I would share Passover greetings sent to me by one of my Razzyphiles, L&L. The second "L" in L&L's name stands for "Lamont," her (fucking adorable) French bulldog. If Lamont lived in NYC rather than Canada, I suspect he and Chingy! would become fast friends on the basis of their mutual disgusting stankness, and the fact that Lamont pulls shit like this:
Well, L&L appropriated Lamont to celebrate Passover via some cute-ass Photoshopping, and I thought I would share in celebration. L'chaim, Jewish Razzyphiles!
Labels: Dear God, doggity style, Razzyphiles
Friday, March 28, 2008
Doggystyle glamour shots
It's been awhile since I've reminded you all what a pair of awesome dogs I have. Okay, CAESAR is awesome, and Chingy! is more along the lines of awesomely gross, but you get the idea. Last night the dogs were being especially cute so I took a couple pictures of them as they were occupying most of my bed.
I then decided to take some individual shots, primarily because I am always insecure on Caesar's behalf. Chingy!, being a generally bad dog who constantly disobeys, stinks, engages in shockingly revolting behavior (eating homeless guy shit, stamping ass prints on my friends' white pants, crapping on my kitchen floor immediately after being taken for a walk just to be a dick, unprovokedly ejaculating on my living room floor, etc.), has made it his life's mission to destroy every last bit of personal property I own, and yet somehow has still managed to command legions of fans (seriously, I once got FAN MAIL ADDRESSED TO CHINGY!), seems to get most of the attention here on RAZZY.org. Poor Caesar, who is a generally well-behaved, useful (at least in terms of stick-chasing and barking at the neighbors he inherently harbors deep distrust towards), and devastatingly handsome dog, gets way less press on this blog by virtue of his good dog status than that asshole Chingy!, so I figured I should take some shots of Caesar being adorable so he could claim his share of the love. Lord knows Caesar is more deserving, and last night he was giving some good dog face:
Because I am secretly a softhearted wimp (don't tell anyone, I don't want my reputation as a batshit crazy skank bitch ruined), I told Chingy! that I'd take a picture of him too. He was being a diva, though, and decided that as long as I'm going to call him an asshole, he would oblige by living up to the title:
If giving the camera a glimpse of his Eye of Sauron (a great eye, lidless, wreathed in flame) doesn't define class and elegance, I don't know what does.
CHONGAY CHONG, Caesar pictures!
[RAZZY Update: As if he knows I'm writing shit about him, Chingy! just came up, sneezed on me, and try to lay down on my MacBook keyboard. Fucking asshole!]
Labels: assholes, Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
A gaggle of CHONGAY!s
You know how sometimes, when you're just about to wake up, you incorporate things from reality into the tail end of whatever dream you're having? This usually happens to me when my alarm starts going off, and I that horrible REE!-REE!-REE! alarm sound finds its way into my dream as a fire alarm or air raid siren or some other similarly disquieting noise, until I finally wake up and realize that it's something even more horrible: time to wake up. Well, this happened to me this morning, except I actually was jarred from slumber before my alarm went off. I dreamed I was gazing out my window in lab (dreaming about lab is a nightmare in itself) at saw flocks of Canadian geese practically blocking out the sun.
While some people might think that dreaming of migrating birds is pleasant, this was just as bad as amalgamating my clock radio with my sleeping subconscious. For starters, I'm from the P-N-Dub, and Canadian geese are as bad as fucking roaches. They're even meaner and more vicious than regular geese, and they shit EVERYWHERE. The Canadian geese situation is so severe in the P-N-Dub that there are literally Canadian goose death squads which go out with shotguns to thin the population enough to prevent them from taking over every golf course and public park in the entire Pacific Northwest. Generally, geese, swans, and other long-necked fowl in general are assholes. They honk and bite and will fuck you up if you get too close to them. Seeing the sky filled with geese reminds me more of a scene from The Birds than a pleasant experience. Furthermore, this dream reminded me of taking vertebrate biology in college. We were given several assignments to go out birdwatching and identify the various birds we saw flying around the Smith campus. I found these exercises so unbelievably boring that I'd usually just get stoned, sit by the pond, and make up sightings of birds from the Birds of Western Massachusetts handout the professor gave us. There is no joy in straining one's neck looking for a bunch of dumb birds flapping around, laying eggs, regurgitating vomit into their chicks' mouths, and whatever else dumb birds do to occupy their time.
Anyway, I woke up from this half-asleep dream to realize the source of inspiration for this geese-clouded nightmare. Guess what it was? OF COURSE it was Chingy!, softly honking with each contented snore right in my ear. That little SOB was probably dreaming about eating homeless guy shit in the park or something else he considers relaxing and fun. Truly, if there's anything more starkly terrifying than a swarm of Canadian geese invading Washington Heights, it's this:
Canadian geese got nothin' next to Chingy! when it comes to being fucking assholes. If I ever look out my lab window and see a sight like this, I'll just pray that these winged Chingy!s land in New Jersey, because that flying V would be more destructive and deadly than the Cloverfield monster if unleashed in the city.
CHONGAY CHONG, sweet dreams and migratory birds!
Canadian geese got nothin' next to Chingy! when it comes to being fucking assholes. If I ever look out my lab window and see a sight like this, I'll just pray that these winged Chingy!s land in New Jersey, because that flying V would be more destructive and deadly than the Cloverfield monster if unleashed in the city.
CHONGAY CHONG, sweet dreams and migratory birds!
Labels: assholes, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, intentional buffoonery, NYC, oh the horror, sexy delicious animals
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Like Tupac said...
...you need a Pug in your life. Okay, maybe Tupac actually said "thug" instead of "Pug," but since Chingy! crawled up next to me and started snoring louder than the unmuffled Husqvarna chainsaw that spent several years during my childhood as my father's favorite power tool, I figured that he was being his usual attention-whore self and wanted me to take his picture with my MacBook webcam.
Apparently some people think this disgusting creature is cute. Okay, just MAYBE I think Chingy! is okay sometimes, and just maybe every once in a while he does something touching that makes me pet him and croon sweet CHONGAY CHONGs into his rank, tarry little ears, and just maybe I'd be devastated if anything ever happened to him, so I guess I can humor his request to show off his ugly mug here on this blog for the amusement of all you Chingy!philes out there.
Besides, Chingy! is in a posing mood, and it's probably because a new cycle of "America's Next Top Model" premieres tonight. I think ANTM exhausted its supply of potential top models long ago, because Chingy! is frankly better looking than 90% of the girls they've casted on the last few cycles. Now that I think of it, it would be awesome if Chingy! wound up on ANTM. I'd love to watch him leave anus prints all over the judging runway and sneeze contemptuously at Tyra while she instructs him on the finer points of "smiling with his eyes" and being "so wrong he's right." Besides, they always need a plus-sized model on there to prompt a few discussions with Tyra about maintaining a healthy body image, and I have no doubt that Chingy! is sufficiently portly to fall squarely in the Lane Bryant category. In fact, they could even replace Tyra's annoying ass with Chingy! The show would probably score record ratings, and if anyone knows how to displace sentiments of disgust and revulsion with a disarmingly photogenic ability to work the camera, it's Chingy!.
CHONGAY CHONG, Top Model!
Besides, Chingy! is in a posing mood, and it's probably because a new cycle of "America's Next Top Model" premieres tonight. I think ANTM exhausted its supply of potential top models long ago, because Chingy! is frankly better looking than 90% of the girls they've casted on the last few cycles. Now that I think of it, it would be awesome if Chingy! wound up on ANTM. I'd love to watch him leave anus prints all over the judging runway and sneeze contemptuously at Tyra while she instructs him on the finer points of "smiling with his eyes" and being "so wrong he's right." Besides, they always need a plus-sized model on there to prompt a few discussions with Tyra about maintaining a healthy body image, and I have no doubt that Chingy! is sufficiently portly to fall squarely in the Lane Bryant category. In fact, they could even replace Tyra's annoying ass with Chingy! The show would probably score record ratings, and if anyone knows how to displace sentiments of disgust and revulsion with a disarmingly photogenic ability to work the camera, it's Chingy!.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, media whores
Thursday, February 14, 2008
The Deadliest Pug
Yesterday it was very rainy, so I decided to deck Chingy! out in some weather-appropriate gear that one of his dogsitters bought for him. As if Chingy! isn't enough of an asshole, every time he goes to stay with one of his dogsitters, he returns with giant bags of treats, rawhides, bones (which are invariably appropriated by Caesar), personal furniture, toys, and doggity outerwear. I decided to see how Chingy! would like his rain slicker. As one might predict, Chingy! had zero interest in wearing this outfit out in the rain, and upon my putting it on him, returned to his previous position sleeping on my bed.
Somehow, I can't see Chingy! mining the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea for "red gold" like the ballsy crab fisherman of "Deadliest Catch." Chingy! is a far cry from the hotness that is Captain Sig Hansen, and he'd make for the laziest, least mobile, most useless greenhorn ever to set foot aboard the mighty F/V Northwestern. The only thing Chingy! would probably do right is the traditional Norwegian ritual of eating raw cod hearts to invoke favor with the gods of crabbing, and that's solely because Chingy! is known to love consuming disgusting shit. The only practical purpose I can see him serving on a boat is as ballast. His ass would be summarily fired, if he didn't get washed overboard first. Hell, even the Gorton's fisherman would probably fire him for sloth and incompetence, and the Gorton's fisherman is a made-up dude on a box of processed fish sticks.
CHONGAY CHONG, rain slicker!
CHONGAY CHONG, rain slicker!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, Deadliest Catch, doggity style, fat fucks, hilarious shit, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Neo
DOB: February 11, 1979
Occupation: grad student, dog lover
Hometown: Bristol, Rhode Island
Current residence: Washington Heights, New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Yesterday I got so hot and bothered by Brad Paisley that I pulled a serious bad friend move...I neglected to bestow "Daily Dude I Want to Hit" honors to my dear friend Neo on her birthday. Bad Razzy, bad! So I'm rectifying this oversight immediately.
Neo was my first grad school friend. We lived in the same Columbia building and one day realized that we both smoked cigarettes. During our first year of grad school, we'd hang out at one of our apartments and drink the cases of wine I'd blow my stipend checks on and chain-smoke Parliaments (although she later switched to Camels, and now she's smoke-free). She's got great mother hen instincts, so when I would procrastinate and not start doing a take-home exam we'd been given a week to complete until the night before, she'd show up unannounced at my apartment with coffee and words of encouragement. Then when the exam was over, we'd watch "Sex and the City" DVDs until we came down from all the coffee and the Red Bull.
Although I eventually had to bail out of that building on account of my excess of dogs and get a bigger place, Neo and I are still good buddies. She dogsits Caesar for me when I go out of town, and even likes Chingy! (sort of). We hang out a lot and bitch about grad school. Whenever she starts talking about her thesis project, I have no idea what the fuck she's having issues with because she does NMR, and that's a level of hardcore biochemistry that I NEVER aspire to undestand. Neo is a math whiz and spends all day setting up complicated calculus-looking algorithms and writing computer programs, and the second she starts talking about matrices and peaks and whatnot, I am totally lost. She, on the other hand, earnestly puts all her effort into learning what my project is about, even when I'm not in the mood. When we first got to grad school, I spent many a drunken night drawing diagrams of various immunological processes for her (I used to be in the T cell-slanging business before I came to grad school and got into the picornavirus game), and she was a dedicated student. Even though it has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with her work, she can still explain VDJ recombination as the basis for specific adaptive immunity like a fucking pro because she is so genuinely interested in learning.
Neo and I disagree on a whole lot of things. We have radically different political views. She loves conspiracy theories and buys all the 9/11-was-an-inside-job crap, and we've had crazy arguments about it. However, then we can always find a meeting of the minds when we trade books about Genghis Khan or mutinies aboard 19th century Nantucket whaleboats. Then we eat some pork chops and watch "The Simpsons" and bond over the crappy psychiatric care we've received at the hands of Columbia University. Both of us saw the same drug-pushing shrink, and no matter what we're arguing about, we can always commiserate about how he would grab his Lexapro prescription pad and his Lexapro pen and insist we take Lexapro. We can laugh about our loser ex-boyfriends and people we hate in grad school. We always find common ground in spite of our many differences. We didn't even get into a fight when we watched the AFC Championship game this year and I was hollering about the Chargers (Neo is a Patriots fan). I commended her on a far superior drawing of Pat Patriot on her bar placemat-turned-impromptu cheering sign than the Chargers lightning bolt I drew on mine, and she complimented my franchise Fantasy running back LaDanian "Not to be Confused with Lawrence Taylor" Tomlinson for his Robocop-esque shaded helmet visor, and then we ate nachos and drank Bud Light and had a grand time.
Neo's a hot piece, and I'm so glad we ran into each other that fateful day we were both getting our nicotine fix prior to a first-year biochemistry class. She's a good friend and I'm honored to have spent last night sucking down red wine and spicy sausages at her birthday party. Happy day after your birthday, Neo! Love you so.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, doggity style, grad school bullshit, Neo
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