Tuesday, December 02, 2008
This is your porn star on drugs
Awhile back, I posted about some videos that porn producer and notorious asshole Donny Long uploaded to YouTube starring the once-great and now extremely cracked out porn star Chasey Lain. Sadly, I have been up to my tits in bullshit lab work, and haven't had the time to follow up on what Chasey has been doing since she threatened to have her mafioso boyfriend kill Donny Long for not letting her bang the male talent with a tampon in (and EW, gross). Chasey drove off in her Rolls Royce, crack pipe ablaze, and I thought that might be the last of her. I was saddened, because what a tragic end to such a luminous career in sucking dick on camera for cash.
Thank goodness my Razzyphiles are picking up my slack. Today I received an e-mail with the subject line "Chasey Lain–from bad to worse!" from PackMan, a Razzyphile who has been diligently following this story in my stead (which, I should add, I really appreciate because nobody is more depressed about my lack of bloggery lately than myself, and I need all the help I can get). Attached were two photographs proving that even when you think someone has hit bottom, there's always a little further that they can fall. It also proves that I can scream "WHY, CHASEY, WHY?!" a little louder than I did when I saw her trying to negotiate the going rate for hardcore stills in fluent tweaker gibberish.
This right here is exactly why you shouldn't do drugs, especially those generally bought and sold in crystalline form. Chasey looks like what would result if one of the "Faces of Meth" procreated with something from a George A. Romero movie. She looks like she's more interested in eating brain than giving it, and trust that's not something I want to rub one off to. Chasey looked pretty beat before, but now she looks like the human equivalent of the residue that accumulates on the bottom of a crack pipe. I imagine she smells like a combination of anhydrous ammonia and a Porta-Potty on the last day of Burning Man that has been filled with an endless stream of unbathed, tripping-balls drunken hippies while sweltering in the hot desert sun for three days. Sister needs to be on "Intervention" AND "Extreme Makeover," not cavorting around industry functions with male talent that seemingly can't wait to escape her necrotic clutches before some of her coochie cooties get on his Pacers jersey.
Even more disturbing than Chasey's cadaveric appearance is the fact that she's apparently executing some kind of twisted revenge scheme posing here with Donny Long's personal archnemesis, ChristianXXX. ChristianXXX did a few gay titles in the past, and this has led to a vicious feud in which Donny Long has accused him of being a "tranny fucker" and discouraged other women from working for him due to "safety concerns" (because only gay dudes have STDs, right, Donny, you homophobe?). ChristianXXX has responded by attempting to fight him in a parking lot (Donny Long ran away) and authoring the world's most soporific porn blog about his workout routine and what he likes to order at Chili's. I've never had any problem with ChristianXXX myself because I don't really pay much attention to the male talent in porn unless the dude is gross (in which case I have to actively try to not look at him), and ChristianXXX seems generally well-groomed and unintrusive. However, he may have just jumped into gross-out territory with this ill-advised unholy anti-Donny Long alliance, if the above photos suggest that he did a scene with the decrepit remnants of what was once one of the hottest pieces of ass in the entire adult world. That's really too bad, because the other day I saw a clip of Christian banging Eva Angelina and it was pretty hot. Now I can't even watch it again, because the second his bald, Mr. Clean-looking ass shows up I'm going to conjure up images of Chasey's ghoulish visage. I don't even think the hotness that is Eva Angelina will be able to quell my compulsive and violent urge to vomit all over my computer screen, and that's saying a lot, because she's pretty hot.
And speaking of compulsive, violent urges, I have to stop now due to uncontrollable shuddering.
Labels: correspondence, drugs, gross, oh the horror, porn, Razzyphiles, sluts, tragedy
Thursday, July 31, 2008
How the mighty have fallen
Chasey Lain is a famous porn star from the 1990s. Even people who aren't total pervs like me and follow the smut industry to the point of reading porn blogs may have heard of Chasey Lain, because the Bloodhound Gang (of "you and me, baby, ain't nothin' but mammals so let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel" fame) had a song entitled "The Ballad of Chasey Lain." As you might imagine, that was an incredibly romantic love song featuring lines like "show 'em them titties", "as your biggest fan, I must demand that you let me eat your ass", "you've had a lotta dick, Chasey, but you ain't had mine," and "would you fuck me for blow?"
Well, it turns out that Chasey probably would. In fact, if a would-be paramour was fresh out of powder cocaine, she'd probably fuck the lucky guy for crack. Or meth. Or spray glue. While ten years ago, Chasey was a pretty hot piece of ass and plied her cinematic craft to make numerous rubworthy masterpieces (and some pretty boring couples-oriented boy-girl scenes too–and even though that link is to some seriously snoreworthy porn, mind clicking it at work). She was a Vivid contract girl and undoubtedly inspired a respectable amount of fan masturbation.
Unfortunately, the years have not been kind to Chasey, and she DOES NOT look like that anymore. In the past, there have been all sorts of rumors going on about her. She's been reported as dead several times, was involved with a boyfriend's murder, and has supposed links to the Russian mob. While thanks to her porn fortune or her rumored ties to organized crime, she drives a $250,000 Rolls Royce, recent evidence surfaced indicating that she has also picked up a raging drug habit and a bad case of busted crackwhore in the looks department.
The other week, Chasey went to shoot a scene with Donny Long, who is a dickhead director and producer notorious for shooting his mouth off to the adult industry blogs about people he hates. Most recently, he's been catching a lot of flack for getting into a feud with male talent ChristianXXX, and calling him a "tranny-fucker" and a big flaming 'mo. ChristianXXX is pissed because even though he did a few gay titles early in his career, he thinks (probably correctly) that Donny Long is hurting his industry reputation by telling young actresses that he'll give them AIDS and they shouldn't work with (ie: be anally reamed by) him. ChristianXXX has responded in the respectable way one would expect a porn star of his sophistication and elegance to: by saying that Donny Long literally stinks and whining about it on his blog. Because the porn "press" has nothing better to do than cover every bit of backstabbing trash talk, you can read all about their petty squabbles by searching either of their names on any given porn news site. It's all very mature, which is why I follow it. I'm hoping to pick up some pointers on professionalism from these classy guys.
Anyway, Donny Long was supposed to shoot a scene with Chasey Lain, and needless to say, she showed up acting like a full-on raging tweaker mess. Unfortunately for her, Donny Long just discovered YouTube, and shared the whole debacle with the world. Chasey shows up, dicks around, makes a zillion completely incoherent arguments about wanting "a handwritten contract" stipulating more money to shoot hardcore stills as well as video, claims she's going to wear a tampon throughout (GROSS), and eventually threatens to send her hit man boyfriend after Donny Long. At that point, Long fires her ("get your meth out of my studio, you fucking crack whore") and follows her out of his studio, where he captures her supposedly lighting up her crack pipe in the backseat. The videos are sort of long, but nonetheless worth watching, particularly if you're in a crappy mood and wondering if there's any way your life could get worse. Your life could be much, much worse. You could be Chasey Lain.
Labels: drugs, gross, oh the horror, porn, sluts, tragedy
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Jesus would upstage all of our bitch asses
There is this crackhead couple that lives in my building, and they both drive me insane. The dude--who perpetually has a gigantic, purulent, oozing sore on his lip that I'm convinced is a herpes lesion amalgamated with a festering pipe burn--is always trying to tell me how to handle my dogs, and the chick is always hitting on me. Both are missing many teeth, smell, lack basic hygiene skills, act sketchy, and are basically what you would expect to see if you looked up "crackhead" in the dictionary. They are always trying to talk to me, and while I know I should tell them "fuck off, crackies," I simultaneously realize that they are pathetic crack addicts and I should have a more Christian attitude towards them.
However, the more I think about it, the more the prospect of having a more Christian attitude pisses me off. Surely if I asked myself "what would Jesus do?" when faced with a babbling, dentally challenged woman bobbing up and down like a fighting cock on meth speaking nonsense about the legendary beauty of my blonde hair (a favorite topic of hers is adulation of my Helen of Troy-esque looks, which just goes to show you how fucking delusional she is), he would not tell her to fuck off. The Gospels are replete with tales of Jesus befriending lepers, whores, tax collectors, the possessed (AKA schizophrenic and otherwise mentally ill), the blind, the deaf, the dumb, the lame (and by that I mean crippled), and anyone else who was an outcast way back when in Caesar Augustus-ruled Israel. Supposedly I'm to be nice and accepting to the crackheads, and invite them back to my apartment for a grilled cheese and a beer.
However, "what would Jesus do?" is a pretty fucking unfair standard. Unlike me, Jesus had the ability to take care of the whole crack addiction problem with a snap of his damn divine fingers. He didn't have to worry about being robbed blind by the crackheads he invited home for a number of reasons. All he had to do was order that pesky lust for crack into a herd of pigs, send them trotting off a cliff, and problem solved (although I bet the pig farmer didn't much appreciate seeing his annual income run squealing into the Sea of Galilee). Since he could instantly cure almost any socially repugnant malady, it was no big deal for Jesus to clean their asses up and invite the freshly cured and probably extremely grateful crackheads to wherever.
Furthermore, Jesus didn't have to worry about being a gracious host once those recently Christianized crackheads came over, since he could also conveniently turn water into wine and bust loaves and fishes out of his ass whenever he felt like it. Even if the crackheads hadn't completely gotten rid of their old habits of stealing and freeloading, Jesus could basically replace anything they ran off with because he had son-of-God skills. In fact, I went to Catholic school for twelve years and I've done a lot of Bible-reading in my time, and I can't think of a single Gospel account in which Jesus buys ANYTHING. Every time he needed something, whether it was more hooch at a rowdy Canaan wedding, snacks for the faithful at the OG Billy Graham crusade, or a convenient storm to prove his awesomeness to his boys when they doubted him, Jesus could make it happen. I can't make that happen efficiently enough to allow crackheads into my house.
Actually, Jesus didn't have to worry about crackheads fucking up his house since he DIDN'T SEEM TO HAVE ONE. No matter what you saw in The Passion of the Caviezel (including the part where Jesus supposedly invented the modern table), the Gospels don't say a damn word about where the hell Jesus actually hung his sandals. From what Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John tell me, Jesus was a damn homeless wandering hippie. So he could bring home all the strays and degenerates he wanted, because it was SOMEONE ELSE'S HOUSE! What the hell is it to Jesus and his non-materialistic ass if the crackheads of 33 A.D.-era Galilee trash Lazarus and his sisters' house? It's not his crap they're going to jack or destroy. It's not his hard-earned fishing money that they're going to burn through like a pound of schwag at a Phish concert. And if anyone complains about that, Jesus will just be like, "Why don't you go ask the fucking Jewish elders what I do when people get uptight about money? Those Pharisees are still pissed that I cost them like ten trillion shekels over at the temple/public marketplace when I got my righteous outrage on! And by the way, how dope was that when I ran around overturning tables? You wish you were born from a virgin womb, bitches." In other words, Jesus is an ungrateful hippie who feels entitled to do everything just because he CHOSE to be poor. For that matter, he chose to be crucified just to make a point. That whole "why have you forsaken me?" nonsense on the cross was just for dramatic effect. TRUST! Attention whore.
Now I'm probably going to hell for all this shit-talking about Jesus, and I'd like to say for the record that Jesus is still my Lord and Savior and all that. Judging by the company he kept, he clearly loved the skanky types, and if he could cure leprosy, I bet he could cure a mean case of the herp too (and I'm not one of the 26% of New Yorkers who have herpes, but that doesn't mean I couldn't be someday). Plus, he died for my sins, and I've done a lot of sinning, so I appreciate his efforts to put me in one of the nice Bosch paintings as opposed to the ones where random demons are shitting out souls who hate on JC. However, suggesting that I ask myself what the fuck Jesus would do with the crackheads is irrelevant, because that fucking granola-ass hippie would probably work some divine magic that I simply cannot do. I'd love to have the whole city over and be like, "who wants chips and salsa?" and pass around plates of the same that never exhausted themselves. I'd love to run around singlehandedly curing infectious diseases with mud and some Messianic hocus-pocus. I'd love to respond to capital punishment by springing out of my tomb after three days and be like, "HA, suckers! I bet you wish you asked Pontius Pilate to crucify Barabbas! Kiss my resurrected ass!" However, I have to avoid getting killed because I can't just sleep it off and pop out of my shroud and ascend to heaven amidst a big show for my followers. Even if I could rise from the dead, I can't send the average Razzyphile's drunken stupor into a herd of pigs, so my followers would probably be too hung over to show up at my tomb before dawn after a couple days with herbs and spices or whatever.
In other words, quit asking me to apply what Jesus would do to my life, because I can't do 99% of it. Therefore, the next time one of those crackheads tells me I'm beautiful or they like my dogs, I'm going to do what Razzy would do. Specifically, I'm going to tell them, "Look, I hate you both! NEVER talk to me again!"
Labels: Dear God, drugs, NYC, Razzification
Friday, June 06, 2008
Columbia University Medical Center: where we put the "class" in grad school
Today one of my esteemed colleagues went to use the bathroom in the building where I work, and found this:
It seems that either one of the burgeoning yeast geneticists on her floor has picked up some of Dylan McKay's bad habits (and sheesh, you guys, I know grad school sucks but heroin is not the answer...booze is), or after hours our building full of science nerds is a haven for junkies. Considering that campus safety around here sucks so bad that my labmate SisterChristian once caught a Columbia rent-a-cop stealing from the kitchen on our floor, I wouldn't be surprised if the unsavory sorts that hang around the Columbia-Presbyterian hospital ER were allowed to come shoot up in the Hammer building ninth floor ladies room. But sheesh, the least they can do is chuck their dirty paraphernalia in one of the sharps containers that are ubiquitous in a building full of biomedical research labs.
What I am most curious about is what the dropper was for. I mean, okay, the syringe is clearly forinjecting drugs (or I guess it could possibly be for insulin, too). What the hell purpose does the dropper serve, though? The only thing I can think of is dripping water into your spoon to cook up your drugs with (that's how drugs are cooked up, right? I think I've seen people do that on episodes of "Intervention"). The only other illicit use I can think of is dripping laudanum tincture into a glass of water like that rich widow on "Deadwood," but since I haven't heard of anyone being addicted to laudanum anytime this century, somehow I doubt that was what it was used for.
As always, Columbia is everything one would expect a fine, fancy, Ivy League institution to be. We not only get paid the shittiest stipend of all the reputable New York City grad schools, have the worst housing, and boast the lowest morale among grad students in the biomedical sciences, we can at least brag that our research building bathrooms are cozy places for local indigent junkies to inject their probably HIV- and hepC-positive asses with illegal opiates. I hope I never graduate, because I just love the elegant, sophisticated, incredibly respectable atmosphere here at Columbia so fucking much. I never want to leave.
Labels: crime and punishment, drugs, fuck Columbia, grad school bullshit
Friday, May 30, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Wellbutrin XL
DOB: first synthesized in 1966, patented in 1974, FDA approved in 1985
Occupation: antidepressant, smoking cessation aid, hangover adjuvant
Hometown: GlaxoSmithKline manufacturing facility
Current residence: my medicine cabinet
Douchebaggery: My lame former shrink prescribed me Wellbutrin to aid in my smoking cessation efforts. I've taken Zyban (the name Wellbutrin is marketed under for smoking) in the past, and thought it worked pretty well. Plus, it didn't make me feel numb and emotionless like my brief post-abortion scrip Lexapro did, and I didn't experience any sexual side effects (obviously VERY important to me). Since I've been having trouble staying off the cancer sticks long-term, my shrink decided that long-term Wellbutrin therapy might help with both that and the stress issues which trigger relapses for me.
I don't know if I drank less when I took Zyban in the past or what, but in the past week I have had two completely incapacitating hangovers. Tuesday I couldn't even make it into work because I spent the whole day throwing up, and yesterday morning I spent lots of quality time clutching the toilet as well, and the afternoon experiencing the shakes so seriously that I could barely do any lab work. In both situations, I'd surely had lots to drink the night before, but not so much as to warrant such brutal after-effects. I'm an accomplished alcoholic, and it takes a LOT for me to suffer so tremendously.
Because I don't remember having such problems the last time I took Zyban, it didn't occur to me that Wellbutrin might be the culprit behind this until J-Sexy mentioned it.
"Razzy, you weren't even that drunk last night," she said yesterday as I picked green-faced at my steak at our post-doc's going-away lunch yesterday. "Do you think it might be because of your Wellbutrin?"
"But I took it before and I don't remember that happening," I said.
"Well, who knows? Maybe you drink more now, maybe you're older and it has different effects," she said.
Later she looked it up on the internets, and found some reported cases of people saying that Wellbutrin caused them to have significantly worse hangovers than they had when not taking it. That was all the convincing I needed to blame Wellbutrin for sending me into a miserable reverie of dry heaving after only 6 or 7 beers, which may sound like a lot to some people, but to me sounds like just the right amount for a barbecue on a school night. I'm a champion boozer, so a six pack is no big deal.
I'm going to stay on the Wellbutrin because quitting smoking is absolutely imperative. Smoking has made my childhood asthma return with a vengeance, and is something I can't afford to do health-wise or financially. I've been smoking for almost 20 years, and smoking a pack a day for almost 15 years. This has to stop now, so in my mind Wellbutrin isn't an option. However, I'm completely pissed that this might mean I have to cut down on my drinking too. While that's probably for the best from a hepatic perspective, it's going to really cramp my style to have people think I'm wussing out on my normal rock star-caliber alcoholism. Thanks for ruining my reputation, Wellbutrin.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, drugs, medical drama, smoking
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Daily Douchebag: boat
DOB: first synthesized in 1927, patented in 1952
Occupation: making bitches CRAZY
Hometown: the lab
Current residence: Ray J's hotel room
Douchebaggery: Yesterday LL Cool Jew posed a strange query to me:
LL Cool Jew: what's "club drug called boat", precious, eh?After a bit more research on the internets, I have come to the conclusion that "boat" is new slang for PCP. I had no idea people were still doing PCP. PCP, or "angel dust" as my grade school's visiting D.A.R.E. rep Officer Sokolik called it, seemed outdated even in the late 80s when my class received our drug education. In fact, when Rodney King was beaten for supposedly being on PCP, I was dubious even at age 13 that PCP was anything besides something for grown-ups to tell drug horror stories about. I've heard that being on PCP gave people super strength, made them impervious to pain, and made them insane, but I figured that as far as mind-altering psychosis-inducing drugs go, crack and (in my neck of the woods) crystal meth were realistically more popular with the hardcore drug set.
Razzy: club drug called boat? idk
Razzy: are you doing a crossword or something?
LL Cool Jew: no no
LL Cool Jew: i'm reading the celeb internets
LL Cool Jew: ray j was kicked out of a dc hotel for possession of marijuana "and a club drug called boat" ????????????????????
Razzy: per urban dictionary
Razzy: it means "1000 tabs of ecstasy"
Razzy: oh it also can mean "weed soaked in embalming fluid and laced with PCP. gives you scary ass trips. stay away from this shit, kids."
Razzy: per tupac, aka "trippin' on sherms"
LL Cool Jew: oh my
LL Cool Jew: LOL
LL Cool Jew: sherms
Certainly I've never seen anyone using PCP. Every once in awhile in college I'd hear an isolated report of someone freaking out after smoking pot and then attributing said freak-out to the weed being laced with PCP, but I'm pretty sure this was just a guess in most cases. I've managed to find a weed connection everywhere I've ever lived, but if I were inclined to do PCP, I would have absolutely no idea where to even get it. Certainly none of the dealers I've ever met trade in PCP. I guess now I know that in the extremely unlikely event that I decide to try PCP, I should ask around to see if anyone has a "boat" hookup. Given that most of my friends have real jobs and lives and that sort of thing, the most any of them ever do is smoke some weed from time to time and MAYBE indulge in some coke or some mushrooms every once in awhile. I don't expect that many (or ANY) of them would be able to score some angel dust. The only strategy I can think of that might work is to go exchange an egg at a random convenience store, find my way to an underground club, and look for the guy with the boat on his shirt. Okay, maybe that was an episode of "Beverly Hills, 90210," and maybe apart from Emily Valentine slipping it into an oblivious Brandon Walsh's Sprite, I've never heard of the drug U4EA much less it being sold by guys with large 4's on their shirts, but that goes to show you how in touch I am with any drug scene beyond the liberal arts college graduate pot scene.
I was always under the impression that as far as drugs go, PCP can make you especially psychotic and dissociative, and I'm annoyed that this is now making a comeback. If there's anything more aggravating than a bunch of fucked-up club kids, it's a bunch of them on some kind of hallucinogenic drug. I remember one time in college I went to this "rave" (as much as a party in the basement of a house at Smith College can be considered a "rave") and there were all these ugly girls wearing glo-sticks and baggy pants and dancing retardedly because they were all on ecstasy. The last thing I want to see when I go to a bar is a bunch of idiots having psychotic breaks because they overdid it in the "boat" department. I can just hope that PCP really does have the horrific consequences that Officer Sokolik warned us about back in 1988, and that these dumbasses start jumping out of windows believing they can fly and breaking into tiger enclosures at the zoo and other lethally stupid acts. The resurgence of PCP is the lamest thing I've ever heard of.
Labels: assholes, Bev Niner, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, drugs
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Cristy from "Intervention"
DOB: 1983-ish
Occupation: meth addict, alcoholic, nudist
Hometown: Los Angeles, California?
Current residence: "with a friend" after serving 90 days in jail (she was given a choice between two years of treatment or jail, and she chose jail)
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Over the holiday weekend, I went to spend some tanning time with my buddy CorporateCard on the roof of her apartment building. After the sun went down and we exhausted a couple sixers, we went back to her apartment to spend some quality time with the old idiot box. Earlier we had been talking about the extremely depressing but nonetheless riveting TV show "Intervention," and CorporateCard told me there was one episode she had "perma-saved" on her DVR that I simply had to watch. This episode is the tragic tale of Cristy, a drunken tweaker who may be one of the most supremely fucked up people I've ever seen on "Intervention." That's saying a lot, considering that "Intervention" has the fucked up people market cornered.
As far as the insane tweakers and boozehounds on "Intervention" are concerned, Cristy is one of the worst. She lives in squalor and spends all day either stripping, attempting to hustle alcohol from dudes outside her local 7-11, smoking meth, and doing a lot of meth math. She literally sits on her bare mattress naked, climbs all over the furniture, and spends hours scribbling crazy equations. She has a shower full of empty Popov bottles and a tendency to climb all over her furniture. At one point, her sister comes over trying to persuade her to eat, and Cristy grabs a forkful of noodles before throwing the entire container across the room, scales her beat-up dresser, turns on her boom box, and starts wrestling her sister. Bitch is out of her mind crazy, and the kind of crazy that you can't stop watching.
I realize that addiction is a very sad thing. It's something I struggle with, although I thank Christ on the cross that I just got into cigarettes and not meth. Growing up in an area so ridden with meth that there was a special crossover episode of "Cops" and "America's Most Wanted" in which John Walsh rode around Puyallup, Parkland, and Spanaway with the Pierce County Sheriff's Department meth squad, I can say with certainty that meth is some seriously bad shit. I grew up hearing my mom tell stories about how they had to evacuate the hospital she worked in because some tweaker came in following a meth lab explosion and contaminated the entire ER with noxious chemicals emanating from his person. There was once a story in the Tacoma News Tribune about some toddler in Graham who was horribly injured after somehow falling into a bucket full of anhydrous ammonia. Also, as an avid fan of the greatest show in the history of television, "Beverly Hills, 90210," I remember how Dylan McKay barely saved David Silver from succumbing to meth addiction by convincing him to flush pounds of meth and a rainbow assortment of random sketchy pills moments prior to the police raiding the beach apartment ("You're on the ledge, Silver...don't jump.") I know well that meth is indeed a terrible thing and Cristy's addiction is obviously severe and tragic. However, it's also INCREDIBLY entertaining. I think this is the most laugh-out-loud funny episode of "Intervention" I've ever seen.
During her intervention (which Cristy refuses to participate in unless she's allowed to drink a 40 during it), Cristy's mom starts talking about how it breaks her heart that Cristy gets wasted and runs around naked, and Cristy responds with, "Oh my God, that's AWESOME, dude!" Then Ken, the interventionist and a former meth addict himself, tries to explain that everyone is there because they love Cristy and they just want her to get better. She responds, "Well, I also want a big pot of crystal meth but that's not gonna happen." Before anyone can even reply, she demands, "Why don't we have some music up in this mother?" And before anyone can even answer that, she says, "The thing is, everybody, I'm just on a permanent good one that none of you will ever get to experience."
Cristy's wrong there, because we do get to experience her "permanent good one," at least if you made the wise decision to permanently save her episode to your DVR like CorporateCard did. I really am not into hitting it with insane tweaker boozehounds, but I could hit this episode of "Intervention" over and over and over again. If you don't believe me, here's the riveting scene where Cristy starts tossing Cup O' Noodles all over her tweak den. Trust that you will enjoy:
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, drugs, sluts, TV
Friday, May 09, 2008
Head shop
Usually, if you want to purchase a "tobacco water pipe" for smoking weed, you swing by a head shop. It seems a couple dumbass kids in Texas misinterpreted the meaning of "head shop," because instead of just heading to the hippie part of town and coughing up some allowance money, they broke into a secluded old cemetary, dug up the skull of an 11-year-old boy, and converted it into a bong.
Pothead engineers always annoy the shit out of me. While I don't mind doing the occasional gravity hit (I mean, hypothetically, if I did drugs, which of course I don't), I don't see why people go through the trouble most of the time. That shit is messy, water gets everywhere, and while it does get you really stoned, so does smoking a regular old joint. Even dumber is the tendency of potheads to take great pride in converting various objects into bongs. I've never understood why you would spend a lot of time rigging something together when you can just buy a commercial bong that is more effective and doesn't drip bong water all over you. Granted, I may be prejudiced after a trip I took to Arizona my sophomore year of college to visit my friend G-Boner. We went to visit our high school friend Snake at the house he shared in Tucson with his hippie roommates. Upon arrival at their patchouli-scented hovel, one of them was like, "Dude, break out the chalice, man!"
"The chalice" turned out to be an Erlenmeyer filter flask connected to a bunch of dirty tubing with a bowl sticking out of a rubber stopper. These dirty hippies were too fucking lazy to change the water (which after months of heavy smoking resembled the LaBrea tar pits), and instead put CLOVES in it to offset the nastiness. Between the microbiological hazards of smoking through turbid clove-imbued bong water and the toxic hazards of using a device that had obviously been jacked from a University of Arizona chemistry lab, I was mentally imagining a whole host of pulmonary maladies I could get from getting high with "the chalice."
"Dude, nothing gets you high like the chalice," one of Snake's roommates proclaimed. "Yeah, nothing gets you bacterial pneumonia like it, either," I said bitchily. Those hippies didn't like me very much after that, but fuck them. I didn't like their smoking practices, and they didn't like my hygiene standards (probably because they failed to meet them). After that, I resolved to be permanently annoyed with stoners who spend their time crafting shoddily constructed homemade smoking paraphernalia.
I can only imagine how horrified I would be if some pothead broke out a bong made from a human skull. I didn't like a dirty filter flask, so trust that I wouldn't like an apparatus made out of potentially infectious biological material. I probably wouldn't like the kids who did this to begin with. Chances are, they idle their hours taking hits from the skull away listening to My Chemical Romance, applying eyeliner, sharpening their teeth, and modeling their trenchcoats for each other. Validating my theory that these kids are morons is the fact that they weren't even originally questioned by police for grave robbing or smoking weed. They were being questioned about a stolen debit card when one of them just volunteered to the cops that they dug up this poor kid's head and turned it into a bong. They skated on the debit card rap, but are currently being held on charges of abusing a corpse. Fucking morons.
Labels: crime and punishment, drugs, retard rage
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Pot shots in Georgia
Apparently some wiseass hippie candy manufacturer decided to start selling marijuana-flavored lollipops called "Pot Suckers" and "Kronic Kandy." I don't really see the point in this, since it would be a lot like drinking a Sharps or a Near Beer. Who wants to drink a virgin beer? I sure as hell don't, nor I am not sucking on any bong water-flavored blow pop unless it gets me high, and I'd be pissed as all hell to buy a bunch of Pot Suckers only to discover they were THC free. Talk about a buzzkill. I'd be almost as aggravated as I was the time my dumb college friend bought a $60 bag of oregano.
Well, the state of Georgia decided to take action, not because selling pot-themed shit that doesn't do the job is false advertising, but because these products supposedly encourage kids to smoke pot. A bill proposed by the ironically named state Senator Doug Stoner prevents businesses from selling Kronic Kandy to customers under 18. I don't know why any kid would be compelled to buy products that aren't the "real 'deal,'" but I guess Georgia decided that the potential stupidity of its children exceeds the Pot Suckers manufacturers' right to name their products whatever the fuck they want. Protecting kids from their own stupidity regarding faux drug-products is a nationwide trend. New York took similar action in response to the manufacturer of an energy drink called "Cocaine," which is now apparently being sold as "Insert Name Here" energy drink because idiot kids might buy it thinking it actually contained cocaine alkaloids rather than a heart-stoppingly massive amount of caffeine (three times the amount of Red Bull! Note to self: obtain Insert Name Here/Cocaine energy drink).
I think that the only law Georgia has any business passing is one that states products purporting to be pot-flavored should contain actual pot. I realize that these products would be technically illegal, but at least they would be truthfully labeled. Such legislation would protect me, as a consumer, from the danger of succumbing to my own hopeful stoner stupidity and blowing my hard-earned cash on Kronic Kandy.
Labels: destroy all children, drugs, politics
Monday, April 21, 2008
Daily Douchebag: whoever came up with the term "420"
DOB: the 60s?
Occupation: making potheads sound dumb
Hometown: per Wikipedia, San Rafael, California
Current residence: pervasive and ubiquitous
Douchebaggery: I have always been annoyed by the whole "420" thing. I like smoking pot as much as the next liberal arts college graduate, but I hate the way that lame-ass hippies have overrun pot culture. Hippies have no taste in anything, and they've managed to inexorably link the most infuriatingly bad music and slang terminology imaginable to an activity that I find enjoyable and relaxing (or would, if it weren't illegal).
Yesterday, LL Cool Jew and I were chatting on the phone, and she mentioned that she had to spend her Sunday going to some conference because her boss had to attend a damn Widespread Panic concert. "Widespread Panic gets three fucking hours on stage at this festival!" she fumed. "THREE HOURS! Al Green doesn't even get three hours!"
"It's because they need all that time to do their lame extended jam sessions," I said. "So that a bunch of unbathed losers can all flail around aimlessly until they pass out. This shit did not die with the break-up of Phish."
"Ugh," said LL Cool Jew. "You know, I don't think I've ever heard a single Phish song, but I already know that I don't like them. I heard that one Grateful Dead song with the skeletons dancing around in the video. Oh, and I heard that one about driving that train or whatever, but I don't think I've ever heard anything by Phish."
"Consider yourself fortunate," I said. "I have heard a Phish song, and it was like being tortured with B.O.-smelling hippie thumbscrews. All those bands sound the same: SUCK-ASS. I don't care if it's the Dead, Phish, Widespread Panic, or the String Cheese Incident, they are all total ass-sucking crap."
"The String Cheese Incident!" said LL Cool Jew indignantly. "I mean, really? What the fuck is that?"
"It probably was named after one of the unemployed dipshits in it was crashing on someone's couch and they got stoned and ate the last string cheese in the fridge. I can just imagine this going down: 'Man, nobody's name was on that string cheese and I had the munchies bad, dude.'"
"Oy vey," said LL Cool Jew. I could imagine her shaking her head in disapproval and turning up the Mariah Carey to drown out unpleasant thoughts of hippie jam bands.
To hear fans of bands like Phish, Widespread Panic, and the String Cheese Incident talk, these bands give Mozart a run for his money in terms of artistic musical genius. It's just another example of hippies coming up with the lamest excuses imaginable to do drugs. Who needs the excuse? It's a hell of a lot easier and considerably more tolerable to just skip the shitty jam session and get high.
420 is as lame as your average stank hippie jam band in terms of marijuana culture. In college, I used to get so irritated with this one girl who, if you were visiting in the late afternoon, would make you wait to start smoking until her clock hit 4:20 exactly because "dude, it's like really bad luck." What? Says who? Some nameless stoner who knows a friend of your friend? Fuck that. That's worthy of an exaggerated eye roll prior to sparking up at 4:17 and risking bad luck, because if I'm hanging around all these aggravatingly superstitious potheads my luck is poor already. I won't ride in cars with these 420-obsessed people because cruising around with a "420 24/7" or "Highway 420" bumper sticker on your car is like asking to get pulled over and arrested. Frankly, I think that advertising your possibly DUI status invites far more bad luck than getting high slightly before the clock strikes "4:20," especially since a popular rumor ascribes the origins of "420" to police radio code for a weed bust.
There's no need for 420 and I'm glad April 20th is now over. If you want to smoke pot, just smoke some pot and cut the annoying 420 bullshit. Don't e-mail me "Happy 420" wishes or leave animated gifs of big pot leaves as comments on my MySpace page. Quit making all of us stoners look stupid.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, drugs, retard rage
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Hillmon Arnold
Name: Hillmon Arnold
DOB: 1986?
Occupation: bread dealer
Hometown: ?
Current residence: Duval County Jail, Jacksonville, Florida
Douchebaggery: While trying to make some extra money to support his crack habit, Hillmon Arnold came up with an ingenious plan. He realized that, living in Florida, he was surrounded by an untapped natural resource: easily hoodwinked old people on a fixed income in the market for a hookup. Unfortunately for the elderly residents of the Golden Retreat Center who might be interested in spending their Social Security checks on some crack, Hillmon was hardly a Trap Star on par with Young Jeezy.
Rather than sell these old folks crack made from actual cocaine, Hillmon decided to save the real drugs for himself and peddle balled-up pieces of bread. Presumably he was betting that none of the geriatric crack fiends at this nursing home wouldn't retaliate with lethal force upon realizing they were trying to spark up slices of Wonder Bread. I would assume that the average Floridian nursing home resident isn't rolling around strapped, but then again, I also assumed there wasn't much of a market for crack in this demographic.
Hillmon was caught skulking around the nursing home parking lot, and in an example of what NOT to do if you're trying to be a successful criminal, took off once he got an eyeful of the cops. Upon being captured, Hillmon promptly confessed not only to being a crackhead himself, but to his underhanded scheme to fund his own habit by selling his counterfeit product to the unsuspecting (and probably senile) old people. Not surprisingly, Hillmon is currently cooling his heels in the clink as he is unable to pay his $50,000 bail.
While I would applaud Hillmon from an entrepreneurial perspective for finding and dominating a niche market, I instead must chastize him for his completely unscrupulous business practices. Selling crack to people in a nursing home is bad enough, but selling fraudulent crack? Fucking rude. When I was living in San Francisco for the summer between my sophomore and junior year of college, my usual weed connection was dry so a friend and I headed to Haight-Ashbury to buy some from the hippies on the street. I hated this because buying drugs on the street sucks. Hippies annoy me in general for not only their music, their hygiene, and their styling choices, but also for their conduct during business transactions. They aren't very sneaky about it, and undoubtedly some of them were undercover cops. In the words of Gollum, "Risky, precious, too risky!"
Luckily I never got arrested, and I had managed to successfully procure weed in this manner previously. Usually you just had to loiter around and maybe stop into a head shop and soon some asshole with dreadlocks in a bong water-and-B.O.-smelling sweatshirt would come up and indiscreetly query if you were interested in purchasing some greens. On this particular occasion, however, my friend struck up a conversation with this extremely sketchy guy who appeared even more homeless than the average dirty hippie on Haight Street. The next thing I knew, my friend was strolling around the corner with this guy and with our money, and when she returned, she was very excited.
"Dude, this shit looks hella dank. The guy said it's this special Italian shit," she said excitedly.
"Let's check this out," I said, suspicious. I've heard pot called by all kinds of names and characterized as originating from any number of places: British Columbia, Panama, Thailand, Washington/Oregon (P-N-Dub represent!), Acapulco, Cambodia, India, Jamaica, Maui, Pakistan, etc., but I had never heard of any "special Italian shit."
We got into my car and I examined the purchase more closely. I smelled it and discovered to my extreme chagrin that it was indeed Italian, it just wasn't marijuana.
"Dude, this is fucking oregano!"
"No way!" said my friend. "But it looks just like herb!"
"Yeah, because it IS a fucking herb! This shit came right out of a Spice Islands jar! You just spent $60 on spaghetti ingredients!"
"Oh...fuck," said my friend. "Well, look on the bright side, at least we didn't get arrested." This bitch is no longer my friend. Back at Smith she went somewhat nuts, took advantage of my generosity with cigarettes, and stole a bunch of shit from me. I should have known she was bad news the moment she was so easily hoodwinked by a sketchy homeless dude. Actually, she's no longer a she, but that's another story. I just hope she makes a better man than a woman, because she was a dumb-ass bitch. And by the way, if you're reading this, Ethan neé Abby, you owe me a fleece jacket, a pack of Zig-Zag rolling papers, and a Smiths The Queen is Dead CD!
Suffice to say, people who sell fake drugs suck for a variety of reasons. People who sell fake drugs to senile old people in nursing home parking lots are even worse than people who sell fake drugs to dumb 19-year-old summer interns attending expensive East Coast liberal arts women's colleges. There's a special place in hell for Hillmon Arnold.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, drugs
Monday, February 18, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Vikki Lizzi
DOB: ???--probably the late 60s/early 70s
Occupation: enabler, drug addict, failed singer
Hometown: San Francisco, California
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Anyone who, like me, has succumbed to the trainwreck otherwise known as "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew" knows that Jeff Conaway, star of Grease, "Taxi," and a previous installment of "Celebrity Fit Club," is a fucking mess. He is severely addicted to opiate painkillers, and when he's not screaming, drooling, seizing, whimpering, or exploding with rage, he's threatening to leave rehab because of some drama with his girlfriend Vikki.
Dr. Drew has already noted that Vikki is bad news for Jeff's tenuous grasp of sobriety, because she is the world's biggest enabler. She's apparently known for slipping him drugs in rehab, and on her first visit brought Norco (Vicodin/Tylenol) into the facility. On her next visit, she pulled a Lohan and brought a squirt bottle filled with vodka, which she encouraged Jeff to drink (he did, and drama ensued). When Dr. Drew sat them both down for a counseling session, she said that the booze was part of a plot conceived by Jeff to get her to show up drunk to visit rehab, so that she could be diagnosed with alcoholism and admitted to the facility to keep him company. She complained that she didn't want to get rid of the booze around her house because she needs it for "migraines." Too bad it doesn't help with the case of the alcoholic/narcotic painkiller face bloat she's suffering something serious. Anyway, Jezebel has a clip of this bitch being a totally ridiculous piece of work from the last episode.
Anyway, in addition to Vikki's determination to thwart Jeff's recovery, she is apparently a Renaissance woman of the theater. She is an actress and singer, and per her IMDB resume, she's a master of the performing arts. She can sing "club/freestyle, hip hop, and tap" dancing, and has mastered Bronx, Cockney, British, and Texan accents. Clearly she is a star force to be reckoned with. Normally, I wouldn't like Vikki because she's scary-looking, and because I don't think that trying to facilitate one's own addiction by sabotaging one's partner's recovery is very admirable. However, that was before I saw video footage of Vikki plying her craft.
Prior to Jeff's addiction taking a turn for the worst but after his legendary appearances haranguing at Harvey the ex-Marine drill sergeant on "Celebrity Fit Club," Jeff and Vikki attended the "Fox Reality Remix Awards." I had no idea such an award show existed, but luckily for the employment prospects of host Kennedy, it apparently does to provide a forum for the reality omega-list to showcase their many talents. In Jeff and Vikki's case, this was to perform a piece entitled "Krazee". Yes, that's their spelling, not mine. They're just "krazee" enough to fuck with conventional spellings. And the performance is indeed krazee. It's like a low-rent version of something Ice-T and CoCo would put together, right down to the end where Jeff rips off Vikki's pants and shows her nana to the assembled celebreality glitterazzi:
I truly can't wait until "Celebrity Rehab 2," because you know Vikki's going to get a turn. This krazee bitch needs her own turn in the Vh1 spotlight. Good times ahead.
Labels: assholes, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, drugs, sluts, TV, Vh1
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Natalee Holloway
DOB: October 21, 1986
DOD: May 30, 2005 (probably)
Occupation: dead drunk bitch
Hometown: Clinton, Mississippi
Current residence: unknown, but probably at the bottom of the ocean somewhere
Douchebaggery: Right in time for your Mardi Gras festivities, here comes a cautionary tale about why you shouldn't be a completely stupid drunk bitch. Last night there was nothing on TV so I watched that "20/20" trash where they had Joran Van Der Sloot getting high and talking to some undercover Aruban reporter about the night Natalee Holloway disappeared. Around two years ago, this Natalee bitch's disappearance in Aruba was big news, so if you missed it, you must have been on Oceanic flight 815 or something, because you couldn't turn on cable news without hearing about it. Basically, Natalee was a senior in high school who went to party in Aruba and disappeared. This Joran dude, the son of an Aruban judge, was arrested but then released, and he fled to Holland. He apparently hung out with her before she vanished. They got F-16s to fly around Aruba looking for her (and how a fighter jet makes a good search-and-rescue vehicle, I don't know...according to Top Gun, they're more useful for shooting down Russian MIGs, but I don't want to tell the Dutch navy how to do its job), and never found squat. Basically, Natalee Holloway is dead and gone.
Well, this moron Joran decided to tell his pot-smoking reporter friend all about the night Natalee disappeared, and confirmed what we already knew: Natalee is dead and Joran is a big asshole. He claimed that he did some body shots off Natalee, and then treated her to some shots of 151. Then they took off to have sex, and she didn't want to go to her hotel (because her overbearing mother was there), so they hit the beach. They got it on, and then she proceeded to overdose on one of the many drugs she did (I believe cocaine and ecstasy were both mentioned). Being a gentleman, Joran walked to a nearby pay phone so as not to make an incriminating call from his cell, hollered at one of his friends with a boat, and hitched a ride home while said friend dumped Natalee's body into the ocean. Man, I bet the Dutch and Aruban girls are lining up to go on a date with Joran. He's a prince.
Although Joran is clearly a douchebag of the highest order, I have a grudge against Natalee, as well. For one thing, I got really sick of hearing her mother whine to Geraldo and Rita Cosby for months about what a good girl her precious daughter was, and how she'd never do something like drink or use drugs or fuck random Dutch nationals while on a party vacation with her friends. For another, Natalee was clearly dumb as a box of rocks. It is never advisable to do a bunch of drugs and 151 shots in a foreign country and go fuck a stranger in a secluded place, especially when the stranger looks like this:
So thanks, Natalee Holloway, for getting your dumb ass all over the news via your exemplary stupidity. If her mother weren't such a ruckus-raising shrew, Natalee should get a damn Darwin award for apparently ignoring all her D.A.R.E. classes and mixing 151 with coke and ecstasy and having the world's shittiest taste in men.
On that note, happy Mardi Gras, everyone! Make sure you drink heavily and show your titties!
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, drugs, sluts
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Lil' Wayne returns to the pokey
Yet again, Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter has run afoul of the law. Just several short months after his last bust for possession of guns and/or drugs, his tour bus was cruising through Arizona when he was stopped at a Border Patrol checkpoint. The dogs sniffed what turned out to be a quarter pound of weed (just a QP? That's probably like two days' supply for Tha Carter...he smokes a LOT), an ounce of cocaine (Young Jeezy's tip of keeping one's "o's rolled up in duct tape with some dirty ass clothes" doesn't fool the canine units), 41 grams of ecstasy (I guess Weezy Fuckin' Baby and Baby like to roll when they have "poker night" over at Cash Money Records), and a variety of paraphernalia (presumably rolled-up dollar bills and Lil' Wayne's glass three-footer). Needless to say, those haters arrested him. The Carter will have his day in court to determine if he's going to face charges tomorrow. In the meantime, we have yet another priceless Lil' Wayne mugshot to enjoy!
Lil' Wayne should seriously consider releasing a coffee table book of his mugshots, because he has a lot of them and they are all works of art. He always mastered assuming an expression of placid dourness. Somehow he manages to say, "well, this right here is some bullshit" while maintaining a stoic, dazed dignity. I think someone's been listening to Tyra dispense advice on "smiling with his eyes" on "America's Next Top Model!" Weezy is truly a deep soul. I always learn something new about Lil' Wayne from every shoot with a police photographer. For example, I never noticed that fleur-de-lis tat on his cheek, but it makes sense, as he is a player from the 'Nolia.
I also offer my congratulations on yet another illustrious achievement for Wayne's CV. Way to keep that rap sheet active and popping, dude! Mad props.
I also offer my congratulations on yet another illustrious achievement for Wayne's CV. Way to keep that rap sheet active and popping, dude! Mad props.
Labels: crime and punishment, drugs, hot dudes, Lil' Wayne
Friday, January 04, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Britney Spears AGAIN
DOB: December 2, 1981
Occupation: special needs
Hometown: Kentwood, Louisiana
Current residence: psychiatric ward, Cedars-Sinai Hospital, Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: BECAUSE IT FINALLY HAS HAPPENED! Britney really went crazy. Not just shave her head crazy. Not just fuck a paparazzo crazy. Not just five Frappuccinos a day crazy. Not bare feet in a gas station bathroom crazy, bad wig crazy, or buy a new puppy mill dog crazy. She went full-on insane, refused to return her kids to K-Fed, locked her court-appointed monitor out of the house, locked herself in a room with Jayden James, and was finally hauled away to the "special needs" ward of the hospital in an ambulance. She's being kept in the hospital for 72 hours, and then is going to be booked on as-yet-undisclosed charges. I predict kidnapping and possession/use of methamphetamine.
I honestly don't really know why I'm so infatuated with Britney's drama, but I never get tired of her lunatic antics. In anyone else's case, this sort of thing would be sad, but with Britney it's more riveting than "who shot J.R.?" circa 1984. She obviously went nuts when she saw that K-Fed spent New Year's Eve partying with Paris Hilton at some club in Vegas at what must have been the douchiest party in North America, and went straight for the crystal to calm herself down. Or a fresh bottle of Jenkem. Either that or she was pissed that Jamie-Lynn's teen pregnancy has been stealing all her tabloid thunder as of late and she knew she really had to take the crazy up a few notches to get the spotlight squarely back on her.
In any event, I continue to love the legendary Ms. Britney Spears. She entertains me now even more than she ever did as a musician/pop star, and I must confess that then she entertained me a LOT. If this is how she's starting out the New Year, 2008 is shaping up to be a great one. So now, bring on the mugshot and the charges! It's Britney's year, bitch!
Labels: Britney Spears, celebrities, crazies, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, drugs, Kevin Federline
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Barry Bonds got with "the program"
I was hanging out with JerseyGirl the other day watching the freshly dropped "Beverly Hills, 90210" season 3 DVDs, and we got to discussing our favorite Peach Pit regular Steve Sanders's proficiency as David Silver's manager. Season 3 is awesome because it really showcases young David Silver's burgeoning abilities as a rapper, culminating in the great moment at the homecoming dance when he singlehandedly dispels racial tensions between West Beverly and Compton High via his hip-hop skills. JerseyGirl pointed out that Steve Sanders probably had good connections which would help him as a talent manager, as his mother is the famous Samantha Sanders, beloved TV mom and star of "The Hartley House." Then she wondered what his father did.
"Rush Sanders? He was an investor of some kind. He owned part of the Peach Pit After Dark for a while." I said.
"I don't even remember Rush Sanders," said JerseyGirl.
"Oh my GOD, really? He wasn't on the show very often, but when he was it was quality. Dude, don't you remember the father-son golf tournament at Rush's country club where they played against Barry Bonds and his dad?"
"Barry Bonds, like steroid Barry Bonds?"
"Yes, dude!" I couldn't believe JerseyGirl forgot this episode, as she (like me) should have an honorary doctorate in Bev Niner lore. It was one of the finer celebrity athlete guest appearances on Niner, in the same class as when Steve Young showed up at the Walsh house to play a little two-hand touch with the gang on Thanksgiving. I remembered Barry Bonds wearing one of the most hideous shirts in the history of patterned fabric (eclipsed only by the appalling cardigan sweater Rush wears to the links).
Ironically, the moral of the entire episode was that cheaters never prosper, because Rush was using some kind of weighted illegal golf ball and it wasn't sitting well with Steve. In fact, at one point Rush says in defense of his "superballs" something along the lines of, "Well, those Bondses would do it to us!"
This episode was from a later season of Niner--maybe season 5 or 6--that hasn't dropped on DVD yet so I had to pray that it was on YouTube. THANK GOD.
It's certainly fitting that Barry Bonds would be battling against Steve Sanders, since both of them have had their trouble with performance enhancing substances. In season two, Steve got mixed up with steroids while a member of the West Beverly track team. Instead of "the cream" or "the clear," they were on something called "the program." Naturally Brandon joins the track team as the least conspicuous undercover reporter in the history of investigative journalism and spends most of his tenure there delivering sanctimonious lectures on the dangers of drugs, while Steve undergoes some truly hilarious roid rage mood swings (I believe he punches a locker and calls someone a "butthead"). I'm sure Brandon would have gotten the Pulitzer for his shocking expose if only he could have gotten somebody's mistress to come forward to tell tales of "program"-induced bacne.
And OF COURSE Barry Bonds, then as now, acts like a total asshole throughout the episode. Barry taunts Steve's golf game ("maybe you want to hit it for him, Rush"), then laughs at his misforutne when he promptly slices his drive into the deep rough. Like the classy guy he is, Barry responds to a spat Steve and Rush get into by asking, "Can you work out your family problems some other time? We've got a tournament to win."
The best part is when Barry Bonds asks Rush, "You got some kind of secret weapon?" While on the episode it was his magic balls, one knows that Barry once asked Greg Anderson of BALCO Laboratories the same question and got with "the program." Once again, "Beverly Hills, 90210" proves to be just as relevant now as when it aired back in the twilight of the twentieth century. Bev Niner is the best show ever! PERIOD! You all need to make like Steve Sanders and Barry Bonds and get with the program.
"Rush Sanders? He was an investor of some kind. He owned part of the Peach Pit After Dark for a while." I said.
"I don't even remember Rush Sanders," said JerseyGirl.
"Oh my GOD, really? He wasn't on the show very often, but when he was it was quality. Dude, don't you remember the father-son golf tournament at Rush's country club where they played against Barry Bonds and his dad?"
"Barry Bonds, like steroid Barry Bonds?"
"Yes, dude!" I couldn't believe JerseyGirl forgot this episode, as she (like me) should have an honorary doctorate in Bev Niner lore. It was one of the finer celebrity athlete guest appearances on Niner, in the same class as when Steve Young showed up at the Walsh house to play a little two-hand touch with the gang on Thanksgiving. I remembered Barry Bonds wearing one of the most hideous shirts in the history of patterned fabric (eclipsed only by the appalling cardigan sweater Rush wears to the links).
It's certainly fitting that Barry Bonds would be battling against Steve Sanders, since both of them have had their trouble with performance enhancing substances. In season two, Steve got mixed up with steroids while a member of the West Beverly track team. Instead of "the cream" or "the clear," they were on something called "the program." Naturally Brandon joins the track team as the least conspicuous undercover reporter in the history of investigative journalism and spends most of his tenure there delivering sanctimonious lectures on the dangers of drugs, while Steve undergoes some truly hilarious roid rage mood swings (I believe he punches a locker and calls someone a "butthead"). I'm sure Brandon would have gotten the Pulitzer for his shocking expose if only he could have gotten somebody's mistress to come forward to tell tales of "program"-induced bacne.
And OF COURSE Barry Bonds, then as now, acts like a total asshole throughout the episode. Barry taunts Steve's golf game ("maybe you want to hit it for him, Rush"), then laughs at his misforutne when he promptly slices his drive into the deep rough. Like the classy guy he is, Barry responds to a spat Steve and Rush get into by asking, "Can you work out your family problems some other time? We've got a tournament to win."
The best part is when Barry Bonds asks Rush, "You got some kind of secret weapon?" While on the episode it was his magic balls, one knows that Barry once asked Greg Anderson of BALCO Laboratories the same question and got with "the program." Once again, "Beverly Hills, 90210" proves to be just as relevant now as when it aired back in the twilight of the twentieth century. Bev Niner is the best show ever! PERIOD! You all need to make like Steve Sanders and Barry Bonds and get with the program.
Labels: Bev Niner, drugs, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, sportsmen, TV
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Pourin' out for Pourin' Up
Sadly, Chad "Pimp C" Butler passed away two days ago from as-yet-undisclosed causes. His mom says he died in his sleep, which makes me think "codeine and promethazine overdose," but I'm down to make a friendly wager on this matter if you have another idea. My thoughts are that 33-year-old dudes don't just up and die for no reason, and given that he was a man from the South who noted in "Big Pimpin'" (while helping Jay-Z make Grey Goose vodka rain all over the tits of a veritable army of bikini-clad video hoes) that he's "keepin' lean up in his cup." Other notable Houston-based rappers (ie: DJ Screw) have died from overdoing their Jolly Rancher-Sprite-prescription cough syrup-vodka concoctions, so my money's on the sizzurp.
Anyway, it's sad that the world was deprived of this great artist at such a young age. Pimp C's fans have already crafted beautiful and moving tributes to his memory, and to help his longtime partner Bernard "Bun B" Freeman cope with his loss. I know it hurts, but stay trill!
To keep his memory alive, I will conclude this memorial with a few lines that Pimp C penned himself. Pimpalation will always be proceeding so long as we cherish Pimp C's contribution within our hearts. Bow your head and take a moment to reflect.
Anyway, it's sad that the world was deprived of this great artist at such a young age. Pimp C's fans have already crafted beautiful and moving tributes to his memory, and to help his longtime partner Bernard "Bun B" Freeman cope with his loss. I know it hurts, but stay trill!
To keep his memory alive, I will conclude this memorial with a few lines that Pimp C penned himself. Pimpalation will always be proceeding so long as we cherish Pimp C's contribution within our hearts. Bow your head and take a moment to reflect.
Smokin out, pourin up, puttin dick up in yo slutFather-Son-Holy Spirit, Amen.
All my car got leather and wood, in my hood we call it buck
I'm smokin out, pourin up, keep it lean up in my cup
All my car got leather and wood, in my hood we call it buck
Labels: drugs, people who died, rap, tragedy
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Amy Winehouse
DOB: September 14, 1983
Occupation: junkie, neo-soul singer
Hometown: Southgate, London, England
Current residence: Camden, London, England
Douchebaggery: I'm well aware of Amy's triple negative response to the prospect of going to rehab, but I suspect Amy has also said "no, no, no" to showering and eating. This bitch is such a fucking unbelievable mess it's not even funny. For obvious reasons, the gossip internets are all over this trainwreck and I can't even see what's going on with my favorite piece of PWT (the legendary Ms. Britney Spears, of course) without getting a glimpse of this hooker's nappy bird's nest beehive, disgusting anorexic junkie figure, and blood-spattered ballet flats. I'm so sick of it! Amy Winehouse needs to end up dead, dead, dead from an overdose, overdose, overdose already, because I want to hear nothing more about her.
Every day, it's a new depressingly disturbing story about Amy Winehouse ingesting enough illegal substances to knock out a mastodon and causing some sort of trouble. However, Amy Winehouse trouble isn't entertaining trouble. It's not like when, say, Itneybray Earsspay starts rambling crazily at the paparazzi or runs over a cop's foot on her way out of the Malibu Starbucks parking lot or something. It's usually some sort of blood-spattered domestic brawl with her junkie justice-perverting (seriously, that's what the British courts call "witness tampering") husband, and it's sad rather than morbidly entertaining.
The other thing about Amy Winehouse is that she's supposedly so "talented." Everyone always laments that she's throwing her talent away with the substance abuse. So fine, her singing voice might be okay, but just because it