Thursday, July 24, 2008
Daily Douchebag: former Senator John Edwards
DOB: June 10, 1953
Occupation: world-class hypocrite
Hometown: Seneca, South Carolina
Current residence: Most recently, it was the Beverly Hilton fleeing from National Enquirer reporters
Douchebaggery: I always thought John Edwards was a putz. He comes across as a real salesman, which means I automatically don't trust him one bit. Edwards just cracks that "aw, shucks" Southern boy smile of his and presumes it's disarming enough to distract people from what he is actually saying, and whether it is the truth or a lie. I don't like liars, and I especially don't like liars who think they're so fucking charming they get a pass on being dishonest. I derive more than a little schadenfreude when they get their comeuppance for being so.
Monday night, the National Enquirer was tipped off that Edwards was visiting his mistress and love child at the Beverly Hilton. Granted, it hasn't been proven that this is Edwards's mistress and love child, and in fact one of his campaign staffers took the paternity bullet for him when the Enquirer first reported the story last year, but his behavior certainly seems to suggest that something in the milk ain't clean. According to the story, Edwards showed up at the Beverly Hilton, avoided the lobby, and took a side staircase to his supposed mistress's room. Then, at 2:40 in the morning, he snuck out an elevator into the basement, where to his dismay, he was confronted by several reporters. He ran to the lobby, then ran back to the basement after he spotted a photographer, and eventually locked himself in a men's room until hotel security could escort him off the premises. There could be many explanations for this behavior, but none of them equate to a man who is just making an innocent to a female friend and her new baby...surreptitiously...in the middle of the night...with a great fear of the press finding out. It sounds to me a lot more like he got caught fucking his side broad and visiting his bastard than making a friendly social call.
I don't particularly care who John Edwards is hitting on the side. I certainly can't speak from a position of moral authority, considering I have banged plenty of dudes who were in relationships with other people. I once witnessed one of my paramours calling his girlfriend–at home with their baby–to tell her he was working late (until 2 a.m.) from a seedy motel right before he fucked me cross-eyed. Another time, one of my special girlfriends had a brief phone discussion about paying household bills with her live-in fiancé and explaining that she was too drunk to drive home while I ate her pussy. Yet another time I ran into this guy at a breakfast joint in Tacoma and met his lovely girlfriend of five years, a few days after he gave me a pearl necklace (not the jewelry) and a hideous rug burn on my ass from the vigorous dicking he delivered on my living room floor. My personal position on these people (unless they are dating one of my friends, in which case I won't touch it) is that they are responsible for their own affairs and the cheating aspect of fucking me is their business. Adultery is as old as the institution of marriage itself, and is hardly some new horrible offense that shocks everyone. However, when a public political figure is constantly invoking the image of his loyal, cancer-ridden wife and brood of children as evidence of his upstanding character, I take issue with his hypocrisy.
Even if you are a politician and thus obliged to cater to the people who actually think politicians aren't all a bunch of corrupt, lying assholes, don't spend all your time touting your familial devotion if you are busy impregnating other bitches during your down time. I don't presume to tell people how to wipe their ass, since I already know mine is just as shitty as everyone else's. John Edwards should have just stuck to telling everyone how he has triumphed for the little people via his mastery of civil torts and cut the "family man who stands by his wife while she gets her tits cut off" schtick. At least he probably wasn't impregnating opposing counsel in secret, and thus could have escaped exposure as the duplicitous bullshitter he truly is.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Douchebag, family matters, media whores, politics, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Jose Ortiz
DOB: 1979
Occupation: unabashed Hillary Clinton supporter
Hometown: Upper Providence Township, Pennsylvania
Current residence: Upper Providence Township jail
Douchebaggery: People usually feel very strongly about politics, and this year's presidential race is no exception. Anyone who has seen at least two seconds of cable news can tell you there is no shortage of pundits arguing vehemently about who is better for America: Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama. However, as far as I know, the guests on "Hardball" have yet to whip out the razors and start cutting each other up.
Unfortunately for Sean Shurelds, he did not have the calming influence of Chris Matthews to mediate dinner table discussion about the Democratic candidates with his brother-in-law Jose Ortiz. According to the police report on The Smoking Gun, Sean decided to mention that "Barack Obama was trashing Hillary." Although this has been mostly true in the primaries over the last month and Obama is going to put the nails in Hillary's coffin next Tuesday in Texas and Ohio, Jose didn't like hearing it because he is a member of the increasingly rare breed known as Hillary Clinton supporters. He sharply retorted that "Obama was not a realist." This continued and escalated into a full-on brawl, with choking, kicking, and face-punching. Eventually, Jose had enough of Obama's vision for change, and decided to really stick it to Barack Obama's supporters...literally. He stabbed Sean in the stomach and is now cooling his heels in the clink awaiting trial.
This reminds me of why a political discussion is not a good idea for the family dinner table. No good ever comes of it, and there are knives around when simple insults aren't doing the trick anymore. These dudes should have just settled it like Benzo and I do every time I rhapsodize about John McCain. Rather than stabbing me, Benzo just scribes a blog entry rattling off damning statistics about my Straight Talk Express-riding hotness and vigorously defending Obama. There is no need for knives or stabbing weapons of any sort, and thus Benzo and I can both still brag that we've never been arrested for felony assault or attempted murder. In fact, we can both still brag we've never been arrested for anything at all.
Probably the worst part of this political argument between Sean and Jose is that Jose is about to be disenfranchised due to his felony criminal record, and he can't even settle this in the most appropriate manner: by voting. Of course, he probably won't have a chance to vote Hillary since Obama's going to win the nomination, but he could have at least stuck it to Sean by voting for someone besides Obama. Now he won't even get the opportunity to vote for that loser Nader come November. In fact, he'll probably be either serving whatever time is part of his plea bargain or preparing for his criminal trial. What a fucking dumbass.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, family matters, overcompensation, politics
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
How do you tell your future mother-in-law to go suck a dick?
It all began about 15 years ago, when my future father-in-law decided to uproot his family from their home in Brooklyn and move to Putnam County, NY. At that time, the family could get a bigger bang for their buck as far as homes and property go by moving upstate. However, the area was sparsely populated so moving up there meant country living for the family. With no family, no friends, no job, no driving ability, husband at work, and kids at school, the matriarch of the family was left to her own devices. But instead of discovering the peen of a young Latino gardener, this desperate housewife discovered conservative talk radio. And that shit has become her whole life.
I don’t give a rat’s ass what my f.m.i.l.’s political leanings are because I am not fucking her nor marrying her. But all she ever does is talk about politics (and by talk I mean repeat whatever bullshit she heard on Fox News that day) and she expects everyone else to agree with her (and gets irate when they don’t). I bit my tongue for a long fucking time because I happen to love her son, Mr. T.
Having grown up with one of those Keith Olbermann loving liberal moms, I am accustomed to political discussions around the dinner table. But I am also accustomed to them remaining civil (mostly) and the opinions of others’ are typically respected or at least tolerated. At a recent dinner with Mr. T’s parents, f.m.i.l. pulls out some book by Ann Coulter and starts raving about it. I can’t fucking stomach Ann Coulter. I think she is a fucktard. She is incapable of defending her views and debating a point like an adult, so she resorts to name calling and ends up looking like a fucking idiot to me. And while I do have an eye for the ladies, looking at Skeletor/Marc Anthony in a blond wig doesn’t get me all hot and bothered. I couldn’t endure the idol worship any longer, so I said, “I can’t stand Ann Coulter”. I didn’t get an opportunity to explain why because f.m.i.l. quickly snapped, “Well I love her because she tells all the assholes where to go with themselves.”
All I kept thinking was, “did this bitch just call me an asshole?” I don’t agree with anything Ann Coulter says, so wouldn’t I be one of those aforementioned assholes she tells where to go? I mean f.m.i.l., who I’ve heard say some really dumb shit, is trying to call ME an asshole?! WTF? The good thing is, I didn’t slap that ho, so I didn’t go to jail. But I wanted to; in fact I still do. After we left, Mr. T was telling me to be cool and consider the source bla bla bla. But I don’t know if I can be gracious for much longer. So my only hope is to keep her quiet somehow. This is where the dick in her mouth comes in! I just need to figure out how to make this happen…
Note: Unlike Razzy, I suck at spelling and punctuation. Too bad. Like Razzy, I have big tits.
I don’t give a rat’s ass what my f.m.i.l.’s political leanings are because I am not fucking her nor marrying her. But all she ever does is talk about politics (and by talk I mean repeat whatever bullshit she heard on Fox News that day) and she expects everyone else to agree with her (and gets irate when they don’t). I bit my tongue for a long fucking time because I happen to love her son, Mr. T.
Having grown up with one of those Keith Olbermann loving liberal moms, I am accustomed to political discussions around the dinner table. But I am also accustomed to them remaining civil (mostly) and the opinions of others’ are typically respected or at least tolerated. At a recent dinner with Mr. T’s parents, f.m.i.l. pulls out some book by Ann Coulter and starts raving about it. I can’t fucking stomach Ann Coulter. I think she is a fucktard. She is incapable of defending her views and debating a point like an adult, so she resorts to name calling and ends up looking like a fucking idiot to me. And while I do have an eye for the ladies, looking at Skeletor/Marc Anthony in a blond wig doesn’t get me all hot and bothered. I couldn’t endure the idol worship any longer, so I said, “I can’t stand Ann Coulter”. I didn’t get an opportunity to explain why because f.m.i.l. quickly snapped, “Well I love her because she tells all the assholes where to go with themselves.”
All I kept thinking was, “did this bitch just call me an asshole?” I don’t agree with anything Ann Coulter says, so wouldn’t I be one of those aforementioned assholes she tells where to go? I mean f.m.i.l., who I’ve heard say some really dumb shit, is trying to call ME an asshole?! WTF? The good thing is, I didn’t slap that ho, so I didn’t go to jail. But I wanted to; in fact I still do. After we left, Mr. T was telling me to be cool and consider the source bla bla bla. But I don’t know if I can be gracious for much longer. So my only hope is to keep her quiet somehow. This is where the dick in her mouth comes in! I just need to figure out how to make this happen…
Note: Unlike Razzy, I suck at spelling and punctuation. Too bad. Like Razzy, I have big tits.
Labels: family matters, ILoveWhiteTrash, PWT, retard rage
Friday, December 14, 2007
Merry Pre-Christmas
I am probably going to be a little quiet on the blog front the next couple days because, like with everyone else, it's holiday party season and I have a number of engagements on my calendar. I also have to finish up some shit in lab, finish some shit for my job in the patent office, finish cleaning my apartment (sha), finish packing (which will be right after I start packing), and finish getting my dogs situated with their sitters. Then I have to haul my ass off to JFK and pray that the snowstorm doesn't delay me in returning to the land from whence I came: the verdant, overcast P-N-Dub.
I know that it will be difficult for you all to cope, but know that the blogging will probably be good once I am firmly entrenched in Puyallup with the keys to my mom's Honda Accord. Let's see, what happened last time I went home? Oh yeah...I had a threesome, LOTS of hot girl-on-girl, and got in trouble with my mother for exposing my breasts at the Crab Feed, the high school fundraiser I had returned home to attend. At Christmas, as an added bonus, all my crazy relatives come out of the woodwork to regale me with their hilarious political views (ie: my aunt's common-law boyfriend who informed us that Osama Bin Laden had been cloned because "everybody knows there were four Hitlers") and interrogations about when I'm going to marry juxtaposed with their hopes that my chosen Prince Charming isn't black, Latino, Catholic, Italian, Jewish, or anything other than Scandinavian Protestant. Thank God my parents don't mind when I drink heavily at these gatherings (they usually mind when I drink PERIOD), because those joyous events are the one time that they actually hit the sauce, just to make it through. Last year they served cosmopolitans and rye whiskey at the family Christmas party, and although I got an earful from my mom before the party for the slutty dress I was wearing, I managed to get so drunk that, later that evening in a bar, some crusty lezbot came up to me to advise me that my ass was being accidentally exposed on account of the aforementioned slutty dress and I responded, "So? My shit's fly!" Then I had another scotch, and wound up capping off the night by fucking a childhood friend. Ahhh...Christmas in the Northwest.
Anyway, stay tuned for ten days of P-N-Dub debauchery next week.
I know that it will be difficult for you all to cope, but know that the blogging will probably be good once I am firmly entrenched in Puyallup with the keys to my mom's Honda Accord. Let's see, what happened last time I went home? Oh yeah...I had a threesome, LOTS of hot girl-on-girl, and got in trouble with my mother for exposing my breasts at the Crab Feed, the high school fundraiser I had returned home to attend. At Christmas, as an added bonus, all my crazy relatives come out of the woodwork to regale me with their hilarious political views (ie: my aunt's common-law boyfriend who informed us that Osama Bin Laden had been cloned because "everybody knows there were four Hitlers") and interrogations about when I'm going to marry juxtaposed with their hopes that my chosen Prince Charming isn't black, Latino, Catholic, Italian, Jewish, or anything other than Scandinavian Protestant. Thank God my parents don't mind when I drink heavily at these gatherings (they usually mind when I drink PERIOD), because those joyous events are the one time that they actually hit the sauce, just to make it through. Last year they served cosmopolitans and rye whiskey at the family Christmas party, and although I got an earful from my mom before the party for the slutty dress I was wearing, I managed to get so drunk that, later that evening in a bar, some crusty lezbot came up to me to advise me that my ass was being accidentally exposed on account of the aforementioned slutty dress and I responded, "So? My shit's fly!" Then I had another scotch, and wound up capping off the night by fucking a childhood friend. Ahhh...Christmas in the Northwest.
Anyway, stay tuned for ten days of P-N-Dub debauchery next week.
Labels: family matters, P-N-Dub, Razzification
Thursday, August 30, 2007
My last will and testament
Yesterday, this was on the cover of the finest news publication in the history of print journalism:
Yes, Leona Helmsley left $12 million to her beloved Maltese, Trouble. Trouble helped Leona sell rooms at the Helmsley Hotel by appearing with her in ads extolling Leona's hospitality and dedication to customer service (and that must mean Trouble is damn near as old as Leona when she bit the big one), as well as living up to his name and his mistress's reputation by biting members of the Helmsley housekeeping staff.
In response to this story, Razzyphile El Cyd wanted to know what exactly what I would leave to my treasured mutts. I was just thinking about this because the other night, I had a dream that Chingy! went on tour with Lil' Boosie, and then when I tried to rescue him from the "tour bus" (in the dream it was a cinder block-worthy RV), he got run over and died. I was holding his squashed little Hutt body, looking into those freshly lifeless turbid little eyes, and woke up in tears. Luckily, it was just a dream and Chingy! was snoring away contentedly in his usual spot on my extra pillows, but it did remind me that in spite of all the bitching I do about him, I would be devastated if Chingy! passed on. Obviously if I were to croak, I'd want to ensure that my dogs could, like Trouble, continue living their lavish lives of luxury, so I figured I'd respond to El Cyd's request. Besides, it seems very responsible to have my affairs in order should I meet my untimely demise (you never know...between my haters, stalkers, drug-dealing neighbors, embittered former sex partners, alcoholism, smoking, and dangerous New Yorker habit of jaywalking whenever possible, it could happen).
Unfortunately, unlike Leona, I don't have a lot of spare millions laying around to bequeath to my pets. However, I do have a number of priceless items which my dogs would likely treasure. And by "treasure," I mean "find deliciously chewable." So, without further ado, allow me to order the affairs of my estate:
I, Razzy, a resident of New York, New York, being of sound and disposing mind and memory and over the age of eighteen (18) years or a member of the armed forces of the United States or a member of an auxiliary of the armed forces of the United States or a member of the maritime service of the United States, and not being actuated by any duress, menace, fraud, mistake, or undue influence, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will, hereby expressly revoking all Wills and Codicils previously made by me.
I. MARRIAGE AND CHILDREN
I am not married (thank God). I am a single parent and have the following children:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Date of Birth: October 8, 2001
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Date of Birth: June 3, 2003
II. EXECUTOR: Owing to her exceptional bond with my d-o-double g's, I appoint LL Cool Jew as Executor of this my Last Will and Testament and provide if this Executor is unable or unwilling to serve then I appoint MillerTime as alternate Executor, as she'll know what to do with all my old sex toys. My Executor shall be authorized to carry out all provisions of this Will and pay my just debts, obligations and funeral expenses.
III. GUARDIAN: In the event I shall die as the sole parent of minor children, then I appoint LL Cool Jew as Guardian of said minor children. If this named Guardian is unable or unwilling to serve, then I appoint Miss Corbutt as alternate Guardian for Caesar, and KatieScarlett as alternate Guardian for Chingy!
IV. SIMULTANEOUS DEATH OF BENEFICIARY: If any beneficiary of this Will, including any beneficiary of any trust established by this Will, shall die within 30 days of my death or prior to the distribution of my estate, I hereby declare that I shall be deemed to have survived such person.
V. BEQUESTS:
I will, give, and bequeath unto the dogs named below, if he or she survives me, the Property described below:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Relationship: biological dog
Property: all old Heineken bottle caps littering my desk and floor for the purposes of mastication and amusement, any and all Kongs which may be found under my bed, my comforter for frustrated or enthusiastic humping purposes, any and all partially consumed bones, rawhides, pig ears, or other animal skin-based dog treats which may surface in the course of the Augean stables-caliber cleanup of my apartment, all leftover Beneful, all the cheese and/or pepperoni and/or in my refrigerator, and all the flies that migrate in through my unscreened windows, which provide Caesar great joy as snapping-at targets.
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Relationship: adopted dog
Property: any and all dirty socks and/or underwear for licking and chewing, any and all remote controls, vibrators, houseplants, household electronics and appliances, CDs, DVDs (including both mainstream and pornographic films), cosmetics, computer and accessories (including flash drive, external DVR, and shitty-ass non-functional HP printer/copier/scanner) asthma inhalers, lighters, feminine hygiene products, Palmer's Cocoa Butter dispensers, stiletto heeled shoes, treasured heirloom crucifixes, wicker baskets shaped like Washington state, Glade plug-ins, digital cameras, or other priceless material for purposes of methodical destruction by snaggle-teeth or grotesquely abbreviated paws, the contents of my kitchen and bathroom garbage cans, and all the knick-knacks on my tchotchky shelf, particularly my Harry Potter replica wand, my Catholic priest Homie doll, and my statue of Kali, Hindu Goddess of Destruction.
Name: Dulcinea Cool Jew-Bagel
Address: New Orleans, Louisiana
Relationship: honorary god-Chihuahua
Property: my great-grandmother's hand-tied rag rug, her preferred indoor shitting spot.
Name: Kylee Razzy
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: niece
Property: all clean socks, for carrying around the house as suits her
Name: Stretch Fitz-MillerTime
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: step-dog
Property: my book of IQ tests, in the hopes that he may overcome his developmental disabilities and reach an acceptable level of cognition; my Seahawks 2005 NFC Championship blanket, in hopes that he will have a soft place to recover from head injuries sustained by running into walls
Name: Ilse Fitz-Neo
Address: New York, New York
Relationship: dogsittee
Property: nothing, for reasons that are known to her...okay, fine, it's because she's spoiled enough already and she already has acquired one of Caesar's rope chew toys
VI. ALL REMAINING PROPERTY; RESIDUARY CLAUSE: I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my parents Raz-Ma-Taz and Chicken, provided that my parents survives me. If my parents do not survive me, then I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my children per share, but if any child predeceases me, then his or her share will pass, per share, to his or her lineal descendants, natural or adopted, if any, who survive me; but if there are none, and there won't be, because they are neutered, then his or her share will lapse and pass equally as part of the shares of my other named children; but if none of my named children survives me or leaves a lineal descendant who survives me, then according to the order of intestate succession in the State of New York.
VII. ADDITIONAL POWERS OF THE EXECUTOR: My Executor shall have the following additional powers with respect to my estate, to be exercised from time to time at my Executor's discretion without further license or order of any court:
To take over my blog. No offense to my other contributors, but LL Cool Jew, you're the closest thing to me and I know you'll make sure the useless bullshit stays fresh and as free of grammatical and spelling errors as possible.
VIII. WAIVER OF BOND, INVENTORY, ACCOUNTING, REPORTING AND APPROVAL: My Executor and alternate Executor shall serve without any bond, and I hereby waive the necessity of preparing or filing any inventory, accounting, appraisal, reporting, approvals or final appraisement of my estate. I direct that no expert appraisal be made of my estate unless required by law.
IX. OPTIONAL PROVISIONS: I have placed my initials next to the provisions below that I adopt as part of this Will. Any unmarked provision is not adopted by me and is not a part of this Will.
If any beneficiary to this Will is indebted to me at the time of my death, and the beneficiary evidences this debt by a valid Promissory Note payable to me, then such person's portion of my estate shall be diminished by the amount of such debt. ALR
Any and all debts of my estate shall first be paid from my residuary estate. Any debts on any real property bequeathed in this Will shall be assumed by the person to receive such real property and not paid by my Executor. ALR
I direct that my remains be cremated and that the ashes be manufactured into a fly-ass Lifegem to be mounted in a hot platinum setting according to the wishes of my Executor, who shall proceed to show-stop in the rocks on her wrist like pink lemonade made from my residual carbon. ALR
X. CONSTRUCTION: The term "testator" as used in this Will is deemed to include me as Testator or Testatrix. The pronouns used in this Will shall include, where appropriate, either gender or both, singular and plural.
XI. SEVERABILITY AND SURVIVAL: If any part of this Will is declared invalid, illegal, or inoperative for any reason, it is my intent that the remaining parts shall be effective and fully operative, and that any Court so interpreting this Will and any provision in it construe in favor of survival.
IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I, Razzy, hereby set my hand to this last Will, on each page of which I have placed my initials, on this 30th day of August, 2007 at my apartment in Sugar Hill, New York, State of New York.
That ought to do it. I'm glad I've now got that grown-up chore out of the way. Suze Orman, bless her lesbish, financially responsible heart, would be so proud of me. Now, if I can only figure out how to manage my investment portfolio (read: the Almond Roca can of change on my dresser), I'll have all my shit together.
In response to this story, Razzyphile El Cyd wanted to know what exactly what I would leave to my treasured mutts. I was just thinking about this because the other night, I had a dream that Chingy! went on tour with Lil' Boosie, and then when I tried to rescue him from the "tour bus" (in the dream it was a cinder block-worthy RV), he got run over and died. I was holding his squashed little Hutt body, looking into those freshly lifeless turbid little eyes, and woke up in tears. Luckily, it was just a dream and Chingy! was snoring away contentedly in his usual spot on my extra pillows, but it did remind me that in spite of all the bitching I do about him, I would be devastated if Chingy! passed on. Obviously if I were to croak, I'd want to ensure that my dogs could, like Trouble, continue living their lavish lives of luxury, so I figured I'd respond to El Cyd's request. Besides, it seems very responsible to have my affairs in order should I meet my untimely demise (you never know...between my haters, stalkers, drug-dealing neighbors, embittered former sex partners, alcoholism, smoking, and dangerous New Yorker habit of jaywalking whenever possible, it could happen).
Unfortunately, unlike Leona, I don't have a lot of spare millions laying around to bequeath to my pets. However, I do have a number of priceless items which my dogs would likely treasure. And by "treasure," I mean "find deliciously chewable." So, without further ado, allow me to order the affairs of my estate:
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF
RAZZY
RAZZY
I, Razzy, a resident of New York, New York, being of sound and disposing mind and memory and over the age of eighteen (18) years or a member of the armed forces of the United States or a member of an auxiliary of the armed forces of the United States or a member of the maritime service of the United States, and not being actuated by any duress, menace, fraud, mistake, or undue influence, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will, hereby expressly revoking all Wills and Codicils previously made by me.
I. MARRIAGE AND CHILDREN
I am not married (thank God). I am a single parent and have the following children:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Date of Birth: October 8, 2001
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Date of Birth: June 3, 2003
II. EXECUTOR: Owing to her exceptional bond with my d-o-double g's, I appoint LL Cool Jew as Executor of this my Last Will and Testament and provide if this Executor is unable or unwilling to serve then I appoint MillerTime as alternate Executor, as she'll know what to do with all my old sex toys. My Executor shall be authorized to carry out all provisions of this Will and pay my just debts, obligations and funeral expenses.
III. GUARDIAN: In the event I shall die as the sole parent of minor children, then I appoint LL Cool Jew as Guardian of said minor children. If this named Guardian is unable or unwilling to serve, then I appoint Miss Corbutt as alternate Guardian for Caesar, and KatieScarlett as alternate Guardian for Chingy!
IV. SIMULTANEOUS DEATH OF BENEFICIARY: If any beneficiary of this Will, including any beneficiary of any trust established by this Will, shall die within 30 days of my death or prior to the distribution of my estate, I hereby declare that I shall be deemed to have survived such person.
V. BEQUESTS:
I will, give, and bequeath unto the dogs named below, if he or she survives me, the Property described below:
Name: Caesar Gaius Octavian Augustus Rasmussen
Relationship: biological dog
Property: all old Heineken bottle caps littering my desk and floor for the purposes of mastication and amusement, any and all Kongs which may be found under my bed, my comforter for frustrated or enthusiastic humping purposes, any and all partially consumed bones, rawhides, pig ears, or other animal skin-based dog treats which may surface in the course of the Augean stables-caliber cleanup of my apartment, all leftover Beneful, all the cheese and/or pepperoni and/or in my refrigerator, and all the flies that migrate in through my unscreened windows, which provide Caesar great joy as snapping-at targets.
Name: Chingy! Chin-Chin Chongay Chong Rasmussen
Relationship: adopted dog
Property: any and all dirty socks and/or underwear for licking and chewing, any and all remote controls, vibrators, houseplants, household electronics and appliances, CDs, DVDs (including both mainstream and pornographic films), cosmetics, computer and accessories (including flash drive, external DVR, and shitty-ass non-functional HP printer/copier/scanner) asthma inhalers, lighters, feminine hygiene products, Palmer's Cocoa Butter dispensers, stiletto heeled shoes, treasured heirloom crucifixes, wicker baskets shaped like Washington state, Glade plug-ins, digital cameras, or other priceless material for purposes of methodical destruction by snaggle-teeth or grotesquely abbreviated paws, the contents of my kitchen and bathroom garbage cans, and all the knick-knacks on my tchotchky shelf, particularly my Harry Potter replica wand, my Catholic priest Homie doll, and my statue of Kali, Hindu Goddess of Destruction.
Name: Dulcinea Cool Jew-Bagel
Address: New Orleans, Louisiana
Relationship: honorary god-Chihuahua
Property: my great-grandmother's hand-tied rag rug, her preferred indoor shitting spot.
Name: Kylee Razzy
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: niece
Property: all clean socks, for carrying around the house as suits her
Name: Stretch Fitz-MillerTime
Address: Puyallup, Washington
Relationship: step-dog
Property: my book of IQ tests, in the hopes that he may overcome his developmental disabilities and reach an acceptable level of cognition; my Seahawks 2005 NFC Championship blanket, in hopes that he will have a soft place to recover from head injuries sustained by running into walls
Name: Ilse Fitz-Neo
Address: New York, New York
Relationship: dogsittee
Property: nothing, for reasons that are known to her...okay, fine, it's because she's spoiled enough already and she already has acquired one of Caesar's rope chew toys
VI. ALL REMAINING PROPERTY; RESIDUARY CLAUSE: I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my parents Raz-Ma-Taz and Chicken, provided that my parents survives me. If my parents do not survive me, then I give, devise, and bequeath all of the rest, residue, and remainder of my estate, of whatever kind and character, and wherever located, to my children per share, but if any child predeceases me, then his or her share will pass, per share, to his or her lineal descendants, natural or adopted, if any, who survive me; but if there are none, and there won't be, because they are neutered, then his or her share will lapse and pass equally as part of the shares of my other named children; but if none of my named children survives me or leaves a lineal descendant who survives me, then according to the order of intestate succession in the State of New York.
VII. ADDITIONAL POWERS OF THE EXECUTOR: My Executor shall have the following additional powers with respect to my estate, to be exercised from time to time at my Executor's discretion without further license or order of any court:
To take over my blog. No offense to my other contributors, but LL Cool Jew, you're the closest thing to me and I know you'll make sure the useless bullshit stays fresh and as free of grammatical and spelling errors as possible.
VIII. WAIVER OF BOND, INVENTORY, ACCOUNTING, REPORTING AND APPROVAL: My Executor and alternate Executor shall serve without any bond, and I hereby waive the necessity of preparing or filing any inventory, accounting, appraisal, reporting, approvals or final appraisement of my estate. I direct that no expert appraisal be made of my estate unless required by law.
IX. OPTIONAL PROVISIONS: I have placed my initials next to the provisions below that I adopt as part of this Will. Any unmarked provision is not adopted by me and is not a part of this Will.
If any beneficiary to this Will is indebted to me at the time of my death, and the beneficiary evidences this debt by a valid Promissory Note payable to me, then such person's portion of my estate shall be diminished by the amount of such debt. ALR
Any and all debts of my estate shall first be paid from my residuary estate. Any debts on any real property bequeathed in this Will shall be assumed by the person to receive such real property and not paid by my Executor. ALR
I direct that my remains be cremated and that the ashes be manufactured into a fly-ass Lifegem to be mounted in a hot platinum setting according to the wishes of my Executor, who shall proceed to show-stop in the rocks on her wrist like pink lemonade made from my residual carbon. ALR
X. CONSTRUCTION: The term "testator" as used in this Will is deemed to include me as Testator or Testatrix. The pronouns used in this Will shall include, where appropriate, either gender or both, singular and plural.
XI. SEVERABILITY AND SURVIVAL: If any part of this Will is declared invalid, illegal, or inoperative for any reason, it is my intent that the remaining parts shall be effective and fully operative, and that any Court so interpreting this Will and any provision in it construe in favor of survival.
IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I, Razzy, hereby set my hand to this last Will, on each page of which I have placed my initials, on this 30th day of August, 2007 at my apartment in Sugar Hill, New York, State of New York.
That ought to do it. I'm glad I've now got that grown-up chore out of the way. Suze Orman, bless her lesbish, financially responsible heart, would be so proud of me. Now, if I can only figure out how to manage my investment portfolio (read: the Almond Roca can of change on my dresser), I'll have all my shit together.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, family matters, intentional buffoonery, KatieScarlett, large exclamatory font, LL Cool Jew, MillerTime, Miss Corbutt, Razzification, the D
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Grandpa Ben would be proud
My Aunt Jesus once told me that my Grandpa Ben was rolling over in his grave in consternation about the content of my website. I have always doubted that, considering not even the cabalistic intrigue of the "Unsolved Mysteries" episode he was watching in his girlfriend's Puyallup double-wide on the night his soul journeyed up to Valhalla (or wherever the guys go who happen to die in a La-Z-Boy listening to the soothing gravelly sound of Robert Stack's voice rather than by being slain in glory on the battlefield) was sufficient to revive him. I think, though, that if he were to be resurrected and shown how to use the internet (which didn't exist when he died in 1991, and his ass did NOT use Prodigy) and waited for him to read my website through his one good eye, he'd at least be proud of my reminding the world of this unimpeachable fact:
NORWEGIANS HAVE BEEN KICKING DANISH ASS SINCE THE 11TH CENTURY AND CONTINUE TO DO SO TODAY!
As usual, something's rotten in the state of Denmark, or in this case, on a boat produced in the state of Denmark. Apparently the Sea Stallion, this replica Viking ship sailing from Denmark to Scotland to study "the seamanship of early Norsemen" got stalled in the North Sea due to calm weather conditions. Presumably the seamanship of early Norsemen was superior to the seamanship of extant Norsemen, especially Danish museum curators and history professors on summer break from the University of Copenhagen. They actually quit because of calm seas. I had no idea that Horse Latitudes existed up there, but apparently on either side of the equator isn't the only place you can experience a ship-stopping lack of wind. Since they were a bunch of unseaworthy wimps, the Danes running things decided to call for a tow to Scotland rather than just crack open a seal bladder full of gammeldansk and pass the time reading some Hans Christian Andersen or something while they waited for the breeze to pick up. I mean, jeez, it probably would have only taken a few days. It's not like they were subsisting on weevils and getting scorbutic.
In addition to their intolerance for pleasant, leisurely sailing conditions and their distaste for doing any actual rowing, Captain Carsten Fvid said that supposedly a couple sissy boys on the ship were also cold. Welcome to Scand-rock, bitches! Did you think you were going on a breadfruit mission to Tahiti or something and forget your Helly Hansen parkas? Some Vikings you are! Throw on a damn reindeer skin, nut up, and quit your bitching, you pussies! If the toughness of your modern sailors is any indication, it's no wonder Grendel busted into your Danish mead hall and went bowling with your ancestors' decapitated skulls without breaking a sweat. You all would have been wiped out if Beowulf didn't show up in the nick of time to save you with some clutch Goth barbarian asskickery.
This kind of quitting on a calm sea bullshit never would happen if Sig "The Hotness" Hansen was skippering the Sea Stallion instead of this Carsten Fvid jackass:
Unlike Carsten "The Boy Who Cried Hypothermia" Fvig, Sig wouldn't have allowed a little lack of wind or some nipply temperatures stop him from barking at the crew to man the oars and row that shit all the way to the North Pole. He'd just stoically zip up his Northwestern jacket and fire up a Marlboro with a contemptuous smirk on his face, holler at the crew to put their backs into it, and try to plot a course that would enable him to swing by the Bering Sea and fill the Sea Stallion's tanks with Red Gold. In fact, he probably wouldn't even have to get the crybaby Danish crew to row. Sig's presence probably generates such blistering heat that a hurricane would spontaneously form and provide the much-needed wind to blow him all the way to New York, much less Scotland. That's how Norwegian seamen do it. Leif Erikson (who was also Norwegian in spite of being born in Iceland...his father was Erik the Red, a Norwegian explorer, outlaw, and all around barbarian pimp who is singlehandedly credited with providing the genetic basis for the redheaded phenotype commonly observed in Ireland) did just that when he discovered North America and settled there with his hot wife Thorgunna around the time the original Sea Stallion was sinking to the bottom of the fjord at Roskilde in the mid 10-00's. Why did the Sea Stallion sink, you ask? Because the pussified Danes at the helm couldn't hold off a fierce fleet of bloodthirsty Norwegians, that's why! They didn't have cannons or gunpowder then, but I'm sure the turn-of-the-millenium Norwegian navy managed to find an effective way for bringing the hammer of Thor down upon those pathetic second-class Vikings. When will the History Channel make an hour-long "Viking Tech" show so that I can watch this sublime moment in my cultural history reenacted in low-budget CGI?
My grandfather might not be proud of my many drunken or depraved exploits (although he'd probably understand; when he died we took a stack of nudey mags as tall as the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree out of his house), but he'd be beaming with nationalistic pride at my Norwegian smack talking. Grandpa Ben had a clever bit of verse for belittling all of his Scandinavian rivals, such as "ten thousand Swedes ran through the weeds, chased by one Norwegian." I can't remember what he said about those fruitcakes from Denmark, but I know that he'd like ALL of what I just said. It would almost be enough to mitigate the sting of the Danes' electing a Prime Minister named Rasmussen (a move I'm pretty sure the Danish people conspired as a nation to make solely to besmirch my family name and piss me off). Here's to you, Grandpa Ben! If your surviving heirs hadn't thrown away your (completely rank from ten years of constant wear) Sons of Norway baseball cap after you passed on to the halls of Odin, I'd put it on and tip it to pay honor to our people's mighty history.
SKOAL! Stolt a bli Norsk!
NORWEGIANS HAVE BEEN KICKING DANISH ASS SINCE THE 11TH CENTURY AND CONTINUE TO DO SO TODAY!
As usual, something's rotten in the state of Denmark, or in this case, on a boat produced in the state of Denmark. Apparently the Sea Stallion, this replica Viking ship sailing from Denmark to Scotland to study "the seamanship of early Norsemen" got stalled in the North Sea due to calm weather conditions. Presumably the seamanship of early Norsemen was superior to the seamanship of extant Norsemen, especially Danish museum curators and history professors on summer break from the University of Copenhagen. They actually quit because of calm seas. I had no idea that Horse Latitudes existed up there, but apparently on either side of the equator isn't the only place you can experience a ship-stopping lack of wind. Since they were a bunch of unseaworthy wimps, the Danes running things decided to call for a tow to Scotland rather than just crack open a seal bladder full of gammeldansk and pass the time reading some Hans Christian Andersen or something while they waited for the breeze to pick up. I mean, jeez, it probably would have only taken a few days. It's not like they were subsisting on weevils and getting scorbutic.
In addition to their intolerance for pleasant, leisurely sailing conditions and their distaste for doing any actual rowing, Captain Carsten Fvid said that supposedly a couple sissy boys on the ship were also cold. Welcome to Scand-rock, bitches! Did you think you were going on a breadfruit mission to Tahiti or something and forget your Helly Hansen parkas? Some Vikings you are! Throw on a damn reindeer skin, nut up, and quit your bitching, you pussies! If the toughness of your modern sailors is any indication, it's no wonder Grendel busted into your Danish mead hall and went bowling with your ancestors' decapitated skulls without breaking a sweat. You all would have been wiped out if Beowulf didn't show up in the nick of time to save you with some clutch Goth barbarian asskickery.
This kind of quitting on a calm sea bullshit never would happen if Sig "The Hotness" Hansen was skippering the Sea Stallion instead of this Carsten Fvid jackass:
Unlike Carsten "The Boy Who Cried Hypothermia" Fvig, Sig wouldn't have allowed a little lack of wind or some nipply temperatures stop him from barking at the crew to man the oars and row that shit all the way to the North Pole. He'd just stoically zip up his Northwestern jacket and fire up a Marlboro with a contemptuous smirk on his face, holler at the crew to put their backs into it, and try to plot a course that would enable him to swing by the Bering Sea and fill the Sea Stallion's tanks with Red Gold. In fact, he probably wouldn't even have to get the crybaby Danish crew to row. Sig's presence probably generates such blistering heat that a hurricane would spontaneously form and provide the much-needed wind to blow him all the way to New York, much less Scotland. That's how Norwegian seamen do it. Leif Erikson (who was also Norwegian in spite of being born in Iceland...his father was Erik the Red, a Norwegian explorer, outlaw, and all around barbarian pimp who is singlehandedly credited with providing the genetic basis for the redheaded phenotype commonly observed in Ireland) did just that when he discovered North America and settled there with his hot wife Thorgunna around the time the original Sea Stallion was sinking to the bottom of the fjord at Roskilde in the mid 10-00's. Why did the Sea Stallion sink, you ask? Because the pussified Danes at the helm couldn't hold off a fierce fleet of bloodthirsty Norwegians, that's why! They didn't have cannons or gunpowder then, but I'm sure the turn-of-the-millenium Norwegian navy managed to find an effective way for bringing the hammer of Thor down upon those pathetic second-class Vikings. When will the History Channel make an hour-long "Viking Tech" show so that I can watch this sublime moment in my cultural history reenacted in low-budget CGI?
My grandfather might not be proud of my many drunken or depraved exploits (although he'd probably understand; when he died we took a stack of nudey mags as tall as the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree out of his house), but he'd be beaming with nationalistic pride at my Norwegian smack talking. Grandpa Ben had a clever bit of verse for belittling all of his Scandinavian rivals, such as "ten thousand Swedes ran through the weeds, chased by one Norwegian." I can't remember what he said about those fruitcakes from Denmark, but I know that he'd like ALL of what I just said. It would almost be enough to mitigate the sting of the Danes' electing a Prime Minister named Rasmussen (a move I'm pretty sure the Danish people conspired as a nation to make solely to besmirch my family name and piss me off). Here's to you, Grandpa Ben! If your surviving heirs hadn't thrown away your (completely rank from ten years of constant wear) Sons of Norway baseball cap after you passed on to the halls of Odin, I'd put it on and tip it to pay honor to our people's mighty history.
SKOAL! Stolt a bli Norsk!
Labels: Aunt Jesus, Deadliest Catch, epic geekery, family matters, History Channel, PWT, Razzification, seamen
Friday, May 11, 2007
Oops...
I need to get a laptop that I can actually tote around with me on trips (unlike the falling-apart laptop I currently have immobilized on my desk at home), because I just got a rather uncomfortable e-mail from my mother.
I think I've mentioned before that my parents hate my website, and refuse to read it. They love Angie a lot, but they want nothing--and I mean NOTHING--to do with Razzy. In fact, I wouldn't write half the shit I do, particularly concerning my sex life, if I thought my parents were actually going to read it. Since they actively do not read it, and would delete anything from it if one of my relatives (such as Aunt Jesus) e-mailed them any links containing "razzy.org" in the domain to point out the level of depravity to which I've sunk, I can rest easy knowing that I'm not going to get any shit about it from my folks.
That said, my mom can't actively avoid Razzification that she accidentally stumbles upon while paying bills. Unfortunately this is how she came across an incriminating photo I left on their computer while I was at their house last week. I downloaded this photo from an e-mail HotLawyer sent me, and intended to drag it to the trash once I'd uploaded it for this blog entry. I seemingly forgot to delete it, and my mother was not pleased. She wrote:
Hi Razzy-FYI-next time you're home & working on the computer please clean up your stuff before you leave. On my desktop there was a pic of you exposing your breasts, obviously in a public place. As a mom, it's difficult to see you behaving that way. I respect your accomplishments, but not this. I don't think Dad saw it, it's deleted.
God, I wish my dad did see it first, because he would have deleted it without so much as a word and gone back to playing online mah-jong. Then I wouldn't be about to get a sheaf of e-mails from my mom nagging me about how if I don't knock off the ribald antics, I might as well sew a big red letter A to my shirt and brace myself for the moralizing scorn of the community at large. I just sent a deeply apologetic e-mail back, but I doubt it will so much to stem the tide of concerned mothering I anticipate I'm about to experience.
Fuck.
I think I've mentioned before that my parents hate my website, and refuse to read it. They love Angie a lot, but they want nothing--and I mean NOTHING--to do with Razzy. In fact, I wouldn't write half the shit I do, particularly concerning my sex life, if I thought my parents were actually going to read it. Since they actively do not read it, and would delete anything from it if one of my relatives (such as Aunt Jesus) e-mailed them any links containing "razzy.org" in the domain to point out the level of depravity to which I've sunk, I can rest easy knowing that I'm not going to get any shit about it from my folks.
That said, my mom can't actively avoid Razzification that she accidentally stumbles upon while paying bills. Unfortunately this is how she came across an incriminating photo I left on their computer while I was at their house last week. I downloaded this photo from an e-mail HotLawyer sent me, and intended to drag it to the trash once I'd uploaded it for this blog entry. I seemingly forgot to delete it, and my mother was not pleased. She wrote:
Hi Razzy-FYI-next time you're home & working on the computer please clean up your stuff before you leave. On my desktop there was a pic of you exposing your breasts, obviously in a public place. As a mom, it's difficult to see you behaving that way. I respect your accomplishments, but not this. I don't think Dad saw it, it's deleted.
God, I wish my dad did see it first, because he would have deleted it without so much as a word and gone back to playing online mah-jong. Then I wouldn't be about to get a sheaf of e-mails from my mom nagging me about how if I don't knock off the ribald antics, I might as well sew a big red letter A to my shirt and brace myself for the moralizing scorn of the community at large. I just sent a deeply apologetic e-mail back, but I doubt it will so much to stem the tide of concerned mothering I anticipate I'm about to experience.
Fuck.
Labels: contrition, family matters, nudity, Razzification
Monday, March 12, 2007
Not on my watch
A landmark year, 2007, for many reasons, up to and including global warming/a first-time-in-a-long-motherfuckin-time Groundhound day winter-shortening self-sighting, and the extension of Daylight Saving Time that has threatened the functionality of Microsoft Office calendar tracking the nation over. As the new Y2K, I bow down to respect it by a) being late for work and b) reflecting on my own tender history with this crackpot way of asserting America's independence.
I don't care about DST. I'm late to everything so it doesn't fucking matter what time the clock says. I will find a way to arrive between 5 minutes and 2 hours after the time anything begins. It's a disease I inherited from my mother. I have great blood pressure, I help old people, my IQ can benchpress 350, I give alms to the poor so on and on, but I am categorically incapable of punctuality. So what.
One thing I did not inherit from aforementioned Mom, though, is a conspiracy theory gene that extends through her neurons to target and connect the most incredible nonsequitors of all time. And, you guessed it, one 'a them happens to be Daylight Saving Time, and [according to Momz] its sister conspiracy, the demon Algebra.
The first half of this theory is fairly familiar: Daylight Saving Time is a construct intended to maniuplate the physchology of we in the Land of the Free. Clocks are already contrived mechanisms to measure the exterior universal principle of Time, blah blah, and the government took a cue from Ben Franklin's noodling on the economy of time bending to create Summer Time. In World War II, we get a super boost with Double Daylight Saving Time and while the boys abroad fall back, the nation springs forward by two hours at home. I had not realized there was an inverse ratio of DST to conscription and/or consumer rationing, but there you have it. Lose husband/two pair hose/one pound butter, gain extra sunlight. Brilliant.
But this is nothing new. DST is at least a pain in the ass, and at best a Masonic-inspired attempt at control of the populace. Arizona bucks this system as the bullshit it is, just to make things interesting, but all in all, it's a liveable quirk of Western time management. Fine.
What's interesting, though, is that in the World According to Goober, the DST phenomenon is intimately interrelated to that bellweather of higher math, Algebra. The study of relation and quantity. A gift to we middle children of history from the great Arab nations of antiquity. In the deductive province of my mind, algebra's a gift horse, without which we don't make it to calculus, so we don't get, say, roads, binary systems, 7th grade math class crushes, so on and on. For Momz, though, it is the selfsame sinister stuff as our Wrinkle in Time known as "setting the clock back" - a construct introduced precisely to muddle the minds of the people about structure and numerical relationships. She has a particular trigger from LBJ on this count, as the architect of our deception: a seemingly well intentioned leader with secret back-room plans to confound our higher brain power with such trifles as Learning Math. Algebra, she postures, is a force-fit manner of arimethic that skews our world view and sends countless schoolchildren into a Sisyphusian battle against fake numbers with no productive end. The classic line to bridge these two ideas, in the standard dialogue is "And what is 'x'? No one could ever tell me what 'x' is - it's a system no one understands, but they masquerade as though they do. They set their clocks, they find 'x'. Mind control is what it is."
Confronting my mother on this topic is my favorite sport. I've heard it all before, but I set the trap when new people come over so they can witness it in the flesh. You start her on Daylight Saving Time and inside of five minutes, you've got Master Math coming at you like wildfire. Same in reverse. These ideas are organically bound in Momz' mind. My father studied math, just so you know, but he gave up about 20 years ago on trying to reason this one out. But I can't help myself. In a world of variables, this is an unflinching constant, a beacon in the shifting landscape: My Mom hates clocks and hates algebra, and so for her they are twin evils inflicted upon us/her by a malicious governing body.
And so. Exactly one hour late in getting ready, I tip my hat to Timeliness, Doing the Math - and my libertarian mother. Go 'head, girl, go 'head get down.
I don't care about DST. I'm late to everything so it doesn't fucking matter what time the clock says. I will find a way to arrive between 5 minutes and 2 hours after the time anything begins. It's a disease I inherited from my mother. I have great blood pressure, I help old people, my IQ can benchpress 350, I give alms to the poor so on and on, but I am categorically incapable of punctuality. So what.
One thing I did not inherit from aforementioned Mom, though, is a conspiracy theory gene that extends through her neurons to target and connect the most incredible nonsequitors of all time. And, you guessed it, one 'a them happens to be Daylight Saving Time, and [according to Momz] its sister conspiracy, the demon Algebra.
The first half of this theory is fairly familiar: Daylight Saving Time is a construct intended to maniuplate the physchology of we in the Land of the Free. Clocks are already contrived mechanisms to measure the exterior universal principle of Time, blah blah, and the government took a cue from Ben Franklin's noodling on the economy of time bending to create Summer Time. In World War II, we get a super boost with Double Daylight Saving Time and while the boys abroad fall back, the nation springs forward by two hours at home. I had not realized there was an inverse ratio of DST to conscription and/or consumer rationing, but there you have it. Lose husband/two pair hose/one pound butter, gain extra sunlight. Brilliant.
But this is nothing new. DST is at least a pain in the ass, and at best a Masonic-inspired attempt at control of the populace. Arizona bucks this system as the bullshit it is, just to make things interesting, but all in all, it's a liveable quirk of Western time management. Fine.
What's interesting, though, is that in the World According to Goober, the DST phenomenon is intimately interrelated to that bellweather of higher math, Algebra. The study of relation and quantity. A gift to we middle children of history from the great Arab nations of antiquity. In the deductive province of my mind, algebra's a gift horse, without which we don't make it to calculus, so we don't get, say, roads, binary systems, 7th grade math class crushes, so on and on. For Momz, though, it is the selfsame sinister stuff as our Wrinkle in Time known as "setting the clock back" - a construct introduced precisely to muddle the minds of the people about structure and numerical relationships. She has a particular trigger from LBJ on this count, as the architect of our deception: a seemingly well intentioned leader with secret back-room plans to confound our higher brain power with such trifles as Learning Math. Algebra, she postures, is a force-fit manner of arimethic that skews our world view and sends countless schoolchildren into a Sisyphusian battle against fake numbers with no productive end. The classic line to bridge these two ideas, in the standard dialogue is "And what is 'x'? No one could ever tell me what 'x' is - it's a system no one understands, but they masquerade as though they do. They set their clocks, they find 'x'. Mind control is what it is."
Confronting my mother on this topic is my favorite sport. I've heard it all before, but I set the trap when new people come over so they can witness it in the flesh. You start her on Daylight Saving Time and inside of five minutes, you've got Master Math coming at you like wildfire. Same in reverse. These ideas are organically bound in Momz' mind. My father studied math, just so you know, but he gave up about 20 years ago on trying to reason this one out. But I can't help myself. In a world of variables, this is an unflinching constant, a beacon in the shifting landscape: My Mom hates clocks and hates algebra, and so for her they are twin evils inflicted upon us/her by a malicious governing body.
And so. Exactly one hour late in getting ready, I tip my hat to Timeliness, Doing the Math - and my libertarian mother. Go 'head, girl, go 'head get down.
Labels: epidemic geekery, FalloniusMonk, family matters, hilarious shit, libertarians rule
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Yet another blow to my dreams of modeling
Because grad students make no money, I'm always on the lookout for some easy extra work to subsidize my alcoholism. My mother is also on the lookout on my behalf, because when extra work is hard to come by, she ends up arranging yet another specialty interest-free loan from the Bank of Razzy. She called me a while ago to tell me that she'd pimped out my services professionally to one of her friends.
My mother is an ultrasound technician by trade, and one of her favorite ultrasound-manufacturers is a company that is hilariously called Siemens (and yes, it's pronounced "semens".) I'm always making jokes to her about how she takes classes to improve her handling of Siemens probes and how she thinks every radiology department should have Siemens machines in them. I've covered this topic with her so much that at Christmas she actually dug out a t-shirt that says "You can't afford to gamble on your ultrasound purchase--INVEST IN SIEMENS."
Anyway, Siemens apparently hires models for ultrasound conferences to demonstate their superior ultrasound equipment, and they pay like $150 an hour. My mom gave me some woman's name and insisted that I e-mail her to offer my services. After all, my mom has scanned me a zillion times (when I was a kid and she was getting some new certification, she would practice on me and my little brother), and knows that I'm comfortable with it. In the course of doing all these abdominal ultrasounds on me, she has established that I have a "textbook pancreas." It would be easy money for me to just lay there and let the Siemens people demonstrate on me. Since I was talking to my mother, I refrained from any cracks about how I'm also accustomed to having Siemens all over my torso. I told my mother, "What does this involve? Because with my luck I'll end up on the vagina machine."
"Oh, Razzy, I doubt they do public demonstrations of the transvaginal probe. Besides, that's usually for pregnant women....you aren't pregnant are you?"
"No! I just don't feel like having all the people at the ultrasound conference getting a weiner's eye view of my cooch and female plumbing."
"Razzy!" I don't know why my mother is shocked any more when I say shit like this.
"Well, I don't! I'll do abdominal, or vascular, or an echo, or even breast, but I don't want to spend the day in a pair of stirrups."
"Just e-mail the Siemens lady and find out if there are any modeling jobs available. I'm sure you won't have to do anything besides pull up your shirt."
So I e-mailed this woman and finally heard back from her about modeling. The response was negative. Last night I was talking to my mom on the phone, and the first question was not "How are you?" or "Are you busy?", but "Did you hear back from the Siemens people yet about modeling?"
"Yes, Mom. They e-mailed me back last Friday and rejected me."
"Why? Do they already have enough people? Did you tell them you're used to being scanned?"
"Yes, Mom, I totally sold myself. I said that I have no modesty or shame and that I am an old veteran of being ultrasounded for demonstrative purposes. I even bragged about my sexy pancreas."
"Well, what was the problem?"
"Gender discrimination. Not that it's surprising given their name, but Siemens is biased toward men. They only hire male models for their trade shows."
"I wonder why that is?"
"Probably so nobody has to see my offensive tits when they're trying to do show their Doppler heart valve thingies on their echocardiogram machine."
"Razzy! It is a conference of medical professionals. I don't think they find the sight of breasts offensive." She had a somewhat accusatory tone, like it was my ideas or uncouth behavior that discouraged Siemens from hiring women.
"Well, it wasn't my idea not to hire chicks. That's just their policy for this upcoming conference, anyway."
"What about other conferences besides the one coming up?" I could see where this was going. My mom wanted me to pester the Siemens model scout about future work.
"I don't know, Mom, she said she would keep me in mind," I replied. The Siemens rep had said that, but given that this is one of the greatest blowoff lines of all time, I wasn't particularly hopeful. "What else am I supposed to do? I'm not e-mailing her every day to ask if there's another conference coming up. She knows I'm interested and she has my contact information."
My mother sounded slightly crestfallen. I wonder if she thought that, in addition to me hitting her up for less extra cash, she'd be able to boast in her office break room that her daughter is a Siemens girl. I guess Siemens is the Prada of ultrasounds, and getting paid to let them image my internal organs is the equivalent of a runway show at fashion week in Milan.
"I'll tell you what, Mom. Next time I'm home I'll go into your office and you can scan me and we'll shoot a portfolio. Then I can get an agent, and hopefully I'll be America's Next Top Ultrasound Model."
"You're making fun of me, aren't you, Razzy?"
"Just a little. As you know, I use humor to disguise the pain of being rejected. I have to make jokes to compensate for my crushed spirit pursuant to having my dream of being a Siemens model cruelly snatched away."
"Stop it! I get it, I get it."
"Don't worry, Mom, I can make money on the side other ways. I have that part-time job as an technology analyst for the university's patent office, and any day now my website will take off."
"So anyway, what are you up to now?" she asked. The quickest way to initiate a subject change with my parents is to act like I'm about to start telling them about my website. My mom read it once in summer 2005, when it was basically nothing but a review of a 50 Cent album and a biography page, and there were too many "f-words" then. Fortunately, at that time she swore off reading it ever again, and now pretends like it doesn't exist, because I shudder to think what she would say if she decided to catch up on my blog archives.
In any event, I'm too short to model based on my external features and too female to model based on my internal features, so it looks like I must placate myself with dreams of what it would be like to use my legendary features selling Siemens machines while I toil away doing virology research. And on that note, I have to go to lab now.
My mother is an ultrasound technician by trade, and one of her favorite ultrasound-manufacturers is a company that is hilariously called Siemens (and yes, it's pronounced "semens".) I'm always making jokes to her about how she takes classes to improve her handling of Siemens probes and how she thinks every radiology department should have Siemens machines in them. I've covered this topic with her so much that at Christmas she actually dug out a t-shirt that says "You can't afford to gamble on your ultrasound purchase--INVEST IN SIEMENS."
Anyway, Siemens apparently hires models for ultrasound conferences to demonstate their superior ultrasound equipment, and they pay like $150 an hour. My mom gave me some woman's name and insisted that I e-mail her to offer my services. After all, my mom has scanned me a zillion times (when I was a kid and she was getting some new certification, she would practice on me and my little brother), and knows that I'm comfortable with it. In the course of doing all these abdominal ultrasounds on me, she has established that I have a "textbook pancreas." It would be easy money for me to just lay there and let the Siemens people demonstrate on me. Since I was talking to my mother, I refrained from any cracks about how I'm also accustomed to having Siemens all over my torso. I told my mother, "What does this involve? Because with my luck I'll end up on the vagina machine."
"Oh, Razzy, I doubt they do public demonstrations of the transvaginal probe. Besides, that's usually for pregnant women....you aren't pregnant are you?"
"No! I just don't feel like having all the people at the ultrasound conference getting a weiner's eye view of my cooch and female plumbing."
"Razzy!" I don't know why my mother is shocked any more when I say shit like this.
"Well, I don't! I'll do abdominal, or vascular, or an echo, or even breast, but I don't want to spend the day in a pair of stirrups."
"Just e-mail the Siemens lady and find out if there are any modeling jobs available. I'm sure you won't have to do anything besides pull up your shirt."
So I e-mailed this woman and finally heard back from her about modeling. The response was negative. Last night I was talking to my mom on the phone, and the first question was not "How are you?" or "Are you busy?", but "Did you hear back from the Siemens people yet about modeling?"
"Yes, Mom. They e-mailed me back last Friday and rejected me."
"Why? Do they already have enough people? Did you tell them you're used to being scanned?"
"Yes, Mom, I totally sold myself. I said that I have no modesty or shame and that I am an old veteran of being ultrasounded for demonstrative purposes. I even bragged about my sexy pancreas."
"Well, what was the problem?"
"Gender discrimination. Not that it's surprising given their name, but Siemens is biased toward men. They only hire male models for their trade shows."
"I wonder why that is?"
"Probably so nobody has to see my offensive tits when they're trying to do show their Doppler heart valve thingies on their echocardiogram machine."
"Razzy! It is a conference of medical professionals. I don't think they find the sight of breasts offensive." She had a somewhat accusatory tone, like it was my ideas or uncouth behavior that discouraged Siemens from hiring women.
"Well, it wasn't my idea not to hire chicks. That's just their policy for this upcoming conference, anyway."
"What about other conferences besides the one coming up?" I could see where this was going. My mom wanted me to pester the Siemens model scout about future work.
"I don't know, Mom, she said she would keep me in mind," I replied. The Siemens rep had said that, but given that this is one of the greatest blowoff lines of all time, I wasn't particularly hopeful. "What else am I supposed to do? I'm not e-mailing her every day to ask if there's another conference coming up. She knows I'm interested and she has my contact information."
My mother sounded slightly crestfallen. I wonder if she thought that, in addition to me hitting her up for less extra cash, she'd be able to boast in her office break room that her daughter is a Siemens girl. I guess Siemens is the Prada of ultrasounds, and getting paid to let them image my internal organs is the equivalent of a runway show at fashion week in Milan.
"I'll tell you what, Mom. Next time I'm home I'll go into your office and you can scan me and we'll shoot a portfolio. Then I can get an agent, and hopefully I'll be America's Next Top Ultrasound Model."
"You're making fun of me, aren't you, Razzy?"
"Just a little. As you know, I use humor to disguise the pain of being rejected. I have to make jokes to compensate for my crushed spirit pursuant to having my dream of being a Siemens model cruelly snatched away."
"Stop it! I get it, I get it."
"Don't worry, Mom, I can make money on the side other ways. I have that part-time job as an technology analyst for the university's patent office, and any day now my website will take off."
"So anyway, what are you up to now?" she asked. The quickest way to initiate a subject change with my parents is to act like I'm about to start telling them about my website. My mom read it once in summer 2005, when it was basically nothing but a review of a 50 Cent album and a biography page, and there were too many "f-words" then. Fortunately, at that time she swore off reading it ever again, and now pretends like it doesn't exist, because I shudder to think what she would say if she decided to catch up on my blog archives.
In any event, I'm too short to model based on my external features and too female to model based on my internal features, so it looks like I must placate myself with dreams of what it would be like to use my legendary features selling Siemens machines while I toil away doing virology research. And on that note, I have to go to lab now.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, family matters, science, vanity
Monday, December 25, 2006
Christmas with the Razzies
So today is Christ's birthday, and since this year I was naughty instead of nice (although to be truthful, naughty is nice in my view), Santa gave me a brutal head cold in my stocking, or more specifically, in my frontal sinuses. I suppose that this is my deserved reward for spending the past year taunting and mocking most of humanity, drinking with reckless abandon, publicly stripping, and fucking my friends. For the past two days I've been steadily depleting the entire supply of Puffs Plus and DayQuil in the greater South Hill/unincorporated Pierce County area on account of my sinuses being filled with what feels like enough cement to add an extra lane to I-5. This morning I got on the phone with my cousin, and I barely said "Merry Christmas" to her when she says, "God, you sound terrible. Do you have pneumonia or throat cancer or something?" On the bright side, it's very rare that I'm actually sick in the presence of my mom, and can thus garner sympathy and consequent waiting-upon.
In the spirit of the holiday, however, I figured I'd provide a little update about what else has gone on with me during this blessed and festive season. It hasn't all been boozing and lesbian sex...in fact, yesterday, I went to church! Despite praying for relief from my congestion and sore throat, God chose to ignore my pleas for healing and redemption. That's probably because my brother and I were too busy being assholes during mass to warrant any divine mercy of any sort.
My brother, Lil' Tevie, is in many ways my polar opposite. He is quiet and reserved, he doesn't really drink much, and he actually likes and gets along with children (he's a P.E. teacher). However, in one way, my brother is VERY much like me in that he is hilarious and will make fun of everything and everybody. Normally, my family goes to the 10:30 p.m. mass on Christmas Eve, but this year we elected to go at 5 p.m. That's because my mom let it slip that the priest is a smoker, and therefore keeps mass blissfully short so he can get outside and feed his addiction. "Let's go to his mass," I insisted.
"But it's the childrens' mass," said my mom. She knows I hate kids.
"I don't care. If it's short, and it means not going all the way to Eatonville for the 10:30 mass, I say it's childrens' mass all the way."
"I second that," said Lil' Tevie.
Unfortunately, we forgot that mass coincided with the end of the Seahawks game, and my mom huffed off to find a seat in the church while my dad, brother, and I listened to the extremely upsetting "And Rivers completes a 37-yard pass to the end zone...touchdown San Diego!" Fuck!
Anyway, we went inside and located my mom, and no sooner had Lil' Tevie and I sat down between our parents than we started making fun of people. "Mullet alert!" said Lil' Tevie, pointing.
"Is that a man or a woman? I really can't tell. Too bad we're not Muslims, then we'd have to see which side of the mosque it would sit on." I responded, once I'd zeroed in on the person Lil' Tevie was mocking. The person was morbidly obese, as well as wearing a very gender neutral sweatsuit.
"It's Pat," said Lil' Tevie. "Check out that lady over there. Nice fanny pack!"
"Don't be mean, it has a Christmas tree on it! Obviously she picked that out especially for the holidays." I said, then spied a man with a beard, bald head, and slightly tinted wire-framed glasses. "Hey, don't look now, Teves, but I think that's the BTK killer!"
Lil' Tevie started snickering and my mom turned and glared at us both. "Am I going to have to separate you two?" she asked. We both then looked slightly humbled. It's embarrassing to be in your mid-to-late-twenties and have your mother threaten to separate you for bad behavior in the house of the Lord.
"As long as there's no air-humpers in front of us, we'll be fine," Lil' Tevie said. Several years before, there was a kid standing in front of us who spent the entire mass rocking back and forth from the fulcrum of his pelvis, and Lil' Tevie had deemed him "the air-humper." On that occasion, Lil' Tevie made this proclamation at the moment when the priest was consecrating the host. The priest had barely said, "Do this in memory of me," and was mid-way through a reverent bow to the eucharist when I burst out laughing...loudly. My mother didn't approve, but nonetheless she couldn't suppress a giggle in memory of the air-humper. "Well, just try to be quiet. And stop comparing people in church to serial killers, Razzy!"
Then mass started, and since it was the childrens' mass, the priest had barely started speaking when there was a pounding at the doors of the church. The pounding was all part of this hokey "there's no room at the inn and my wife and newborn baby and I need a place to stay" Nativity skit. Once the couple playing Mary and Joseph walked in with their baby, Lil' Tevie leaned over to me and said, "Okay, we made room for you and your stupid kid, now shut up so we can get on with mass."
"Dude, Mary is totally NOT a virgin," I said to Lil' Tevie. "Nor is she fifteen. That bitch is like 35!"
"She's not a carpenter's wife, either. Look at that rock on her finger!" Lil' Tevie was very observant. Mary's engagement band contained at least a two-karat stone.
Fortunately, once Mary, Joseph, and the non-Jesus Baby Jesus got settled, the priest rolled through the mass. They even skipped doing a second reading and went straight to the gospel after the responsorial psalm. Unfortunately, though, the homily was geared toward the younger parishioners.
"What's this?" asked the priest, waving around some type of plush puppet.
"It looks like that guy from Total Recall who was in the dude's stomach!" Lil' Tevie whispered to me.
"Quaiiiid. Start the reactorrrr! Free Mars!" I replied. We started laughing. My mom shot us a death stare.
"It's a turtle!" she hissed at us. "Quit talking in church, you two!"
Lil' Tevie astutely pointed out two deaf kids across the aisle who were busy conversing furiously during the homily in sign language. "They get to talk in church."
"Yeah, it's not fair," I added. "I wish we were deaf, Tevie."
My mother glared at us again. Fortunately, she got so sick of our bullshit that she hustled us out after the first verse of "What Child is This?" that closed out the mass. "I'm NEVER letting you two sit next to each other in church! Is it too much to ask for you two to not be total wiseasses for just one hour once a year? I almost liked it better when Razzy used to fake sick so she wouldn't have to go!"
"But Mom," I protested. "I am sick this year. I couldn't be quiet, because I had to keep blowing my nose!"
That distracted my mom, and she went back into "oh, you poor thing" mode. She patted my dad on the arm. "Taz, stop at this Walgreen's so we can get your daughter some more Kleenex." Lil' Tevie gave me a silent high-five for ceasing the litany of "why can't you behave yourselves in church, you are adults now" complaints by referencing my infirm, cold-having status. Operation Be-Assholes-In-Church-And-Evade-Mom-Problems was successful once again!
And that is how we Razzies roll around holiday time. It's a combination of mockery, bitchery, and, since tonight following dinner my relatives democratically decided to watch RoboCop unedited on Encore immediately followed by "Engineering an Empire: The Byzantines", total awesomeness, as well. Christmas with my family, and especially my brother, totally rules.
In the spirit of the holiday, however, I figured I'd provide a little update about what else has gone on with me during this blessed and festive season. It hasn't all been boozing and lesbian sex...in fact, yesterday, I went to church! Despite praying for relief from my congestion and sore throat, God chose to ignore my pleas for healing and redemption. That's probably because my brother and I were too busy being assholes during mass to warrant any divine mercy of any sort.
My brother, Lil' Tevie, is in many ways my polar opposite. He is quiet and reserved, he doesn't really drink much, and he actually likes and gets along with children (he's a P.E. teacher). However, in one way, my brother is VERY much like me in that he is hilarious and will make fun of everything and everybody. Normally, my family goes to the 10:30 p.m. mass on Christmas Eve, but this year we elected to go at 5 p.m. That's because my mom let it slip that the priest is a smoker, and therefore keeps mass blissfully short so he can get outside and feed his addiction. "Let's go to his mass," I insisted.
"But it's the childrens' mass," said my mom. She knows I hate kids.
"I don't care. If it's short, and it means not going all the way to Eatonville for the 10:30 mass, I say it's childrens' mass all the way."
"I second that," said Lil' Tevie.
Unfortunately, we forgot that mass coincided with the end of the Seahawks game, and my mom huffed off to find a seat in the church while my dad, brother, and I listened to the extremely upsetting "And Rivers completes a 37-yard pass to the end zone...touchdown San Diego!" Fuck!
Anyway, we went inside and located my mom, and no sooner had Lil' Tevie and I sat down between our parents than we started making fun of people. "Mullet alert!" said Lil' Tevie, pointing.
"Is that a man or a woman? I really can't tell. Too bad we're not Muslims, then we'd have to see which side of the mosque it would sit on." I responded, once I'd zeroed in on the person Lil' Tevie was mocking. The person was morbidly obese, as well as wearing a very gender neutral sweatsuit.
"It's Pat," said Lil' Tevie. "Check out that lady over there. Nice fanny pack!"
"Don't be mean, it has a Christmas tree on it! Obviously she picked that out especially for the holidays." I said, then spied a man with a beard, bald head, and slightly tinted wire-framed glasses. "Hey, don't look now, Teves, but I think that's the BTK killer!"
Lil' Tevie started snickering and my mom turned and glared at us both. "Am I going to have to separate you two?" she asked. We both then looked slightly humbled. It's embarrassing to be in your mid-to-late-twenties and have your mother threaten to separate you for bad behavior in the house of the Lord.
"As long as there's no air-humpers in front of us, we'll be fine," Lil' Tevie said. Several years before, there was a kid standing in front of us who spent the entire mass rocking back and forth from the fulcrum of his pelvis, and Lil' Tevie had deemed him "the air-humper." On that occasion, Lil' Tevie made this proclamation at the moment when the priest was consecrating the host. The priest had barely said, "Do this in memory of me," and was mid-way through a reverent bow to the eucharist when I burst out laughing...loudly. My mother didn't approve, but nonetheless she couldn't suppress a giggle in memory of the air-humper. "Well, just try to be quiet. And stop comparing people in church to serial killers, Razzy!"
Then mass started, and since it was the childrens' mass, the priest had barely started speaking when there was a pounding at the doors of the church. The pounding was all part of this hokey "there's no room at the inn and my wife and newborn baby and I need a place to stay" Nativity skit. Once the couple playing Mary and Joseph walked in with their baby, Lil' Tevie leaned over to me and said, "Okay, we made room for you and your stupid kid, now shut up so we can get on with mass."
"Dude, Mary is totally NOT a virgin," I said to Lil' Tevie. "Nor is she fifteen. That bitch is like 35!"
"She's not a carpenter's wife, either. Look at that rock on her finger!" Lil' Tevie was very observant. Mary's engagement band contained at least a two-karat stone.
Fortunately, once Mary, Joseph, and the non-Jesus Baby Jesus got settled, the priest rolled through the mass. They even skipped doing a second reading and went straight to the gospel after the responsorial psalm. Unfortunately, though, the homily was geared toward the younger parishioners.
"What's this?" asked the priest, waving around some type of plush puppet.
"It looks like that guy from Total Recall who was in the dude's stomach!" Lil' Tevie whispered to me.
"Quaiiiid. Start the reactorrrr! Free Mars!" I replied. We started laughing. My mom shot us a death stare.
"It's a turtle!" she hissed at us. "Quit talking in church, you two!"
Lil' Tevie astutely pointed out two deaf kids across the aisle who were busy conversing furiously during the homily in sign language. "They get to talk in church."
"Yeah, it's not fair," I added. "I wish we were deaf, Tevie."
My mother glared at us again. Fortunately, she got so sick of our bullshit that she hustled us out after the first verse of "What Child is This?" that closed out the mass. "I'm NEVER letting you two sit next to each other in church! Is it too much to ask for you two to not be total wiseasses for just one hour once a year? I almost liked it better when Razzy used to fake sick so she wouldn't have to go!"
"But Mom," I protested. "I am sick this year. I couldn't be quiet, because I had to keep blowing my nose!"
That distracted my mom, and she went back into "oh, you poor thing" mode. She patted my dad on the arm. "Taz, stop at this Walgreen's so we can get your daughter some more Kleenex." Lil' Tevie gave me a silent high-five for ceasing the litany of "why can't you behave yourselves in church, you are adults now" complaints by referencing my infirm, cold-having status. Operation Be-Assholes-In-Church-And-Evade-Mom-Problems was successful once again!
And that is how we Razzies roll around holiday time. It's a combination of mockery, bitchery, and, since tonight following dinner my relatives democratically decided to watch RoboCop unedited on Encore immediately followed by "Engineering an Empire: The Byzantines", total awesomeness, as well. Christmas with my family, and especially my brother, totally rules.
Labels: Catholicism, family matters, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
An awkward conversation
I just answered the phone at my parents' house, and unfortunately, it was my Aunt Jesus. Needless to say, it was a very stiff, awkward, and unpleasant conversation.
Aunt Jesus: "Razzy? You're home?"
Razzy: "Yes."
:::silence:::
Aunt Jesus: "Where's your mom?"
Razzy: "Work."
:::silence:::
Razzy (not aloud): fuck you, you crazy bitch
Aunt Jesus: "Where's your dad?"
Razzy: "Out."
Aunt Jesus: "Oh. Will you have him call me?"
Razzy: "Yes. Goodbye." Click.
She wanted me to tell my dad that my great uncle is in town and wants to see him. This great uncle is a charming man who once treated me to a delightful tirade on how the "japs" are conspiring to take over the world via fuel-efficient cars and home electronics, presumably due to a desire for vengeance after we "bombed the daylights" out of them in WWII. My argument that they're just capitalists engaging in good old-fashioned, American free trade fell on deaf ears.
I really can't think of a better way to spend the weekend than with Aunt Jesus AND my racist uncle. That sounds like a super fun AWESOME party.
Aunt Jesus: "Razzy? You're home?"
Razzy: "Yes."
:::silence:::
Aunt Jesus: "Where's your mom?"
Razzy: "Work."
:::silence:::
Razzy (not aloud): fuck you, you crazy bitch
Aunt Jesus: "Where's your dad?"
Razzy: "Out."
Aunt Jesus: "Oh. Will you have him call me?"
Razzy: "Yes. Goodbye." Click.
She wanted me to tell my dad that my great uncle is in town and wants to see him. This great uncle is a charming man who once treated me to a delightful tirade on how the "japs" are conspiring to take over the world via fuel-efficient cars and home electronics, presumably due to a desire for vengeance after we "bombed the daylights" out of them in WWII. My argument that they're just capitalists engaging in good old-fashioned, American free trade fell on deaf ears.
I really can't think of a better way to spend the weekend than with Aunt Jesus AND my racist uncle. That sounds like a super fun AWESOME party.
Labels: Aunt Jesus, crazies, family matters, Razzy Haters
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
I am now officially a guest in my own home
After last night's many beers, a couple solid rolls in the sack with Ken Lay, and negligible sleep, I managed to haul my sorry ass on a JFK-bound A train at 5:30 a.m. and get on a flight to Seattle. My brother Lil' Tevie picked me up, took me to Taco Time (first order of business, obviously), then brought me back to my parents' house. I realized quickly that my parents' mission to strip my former bedroom of all my personal touches, thus transforming it into the "guest room" or the "computer room" is almost complete.
They got rid of the Barbie I hung in effigy with a rosary from my ceiling (which I thought a very clever way to show my disgust for both Catholicism and the patriarchy when I was 14). They got rid of the conduct referral I kept on my bulletin board that my 8th grade P.E. teacher gave me for hitting Kent Slagle on the head with a rolled-up poster for the Presidential Fitness Challenge and subsequently being "inappropriately disrespectful to an authority figure." I hated that teacher so much, and the feeling was mutual: he later kicked me out of class for "inciting a riot", which was actually a peaceful sit-in designed to get him to let our class play floor hockey without protective gear, an activity that he'd previously banned on account of rampant high-sticking. They got rid of my "A Woman Needs a Man Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle" bumper sticker (although that's no loss). They also got rid of the heinous gray carpet that I picked when my parents unwisely allowed me to decorate my own room at the age of ten and replaced it with wood. My mom then filled up the closet with her work clothes and other random shit she never wears. My room is no longer "my room." When my dad got home today, after hugging me and saying hello, the first thing he said was "how do you like what we did with the guest room?"
"The guest room?! Dad, that's my room!"
"That was your room. You don't actually plan on ever moving back in, do you?" He gave me a look that said "please, dear God, no." While I have a great relationship with both my parents, it is predicated on one important fact: we do not live under the same roof. As they frown on some of my lifestyle choices, like heavy drinking, shouting curse words, and fucking random strangers, it is best that I limit time under the same roof with them to brief visits home. The last time I lived with them for any length of time was the dark period between graduating college and getting my first job slinging T-cells. At the end of those two and a half months, my parents could not wait to help me move out.
"Don't worry, Dad. I think it's HIGHLY unlikely I'll ever be back here except for visits." He looked relieved. "But Dad, why did you have to get rid of all my stuff? Couldn't you have left something for old time's sake, like a monument to the wayward daughter who once lived here?"
"What, like that Barbie?" he scoffed. "Relax, we kept a few things we thought you might want, anyway."
He directed me to the bulletin board, where this Far Side page-a-day calendar entry from four years ago hung, with alterations made by my dear mother so that I could showcase her opinion of me in my cubicle at work:
Thanks a lot, Mom. I'm glad that every guest who stays at my parents' house will get to see my mother making jokes about me being a geek.
My dad then pointed out that they also kept this book, a real gem that was given to me in high school when I was at the height of my obnoxious, uber-feminist stage by a couple of wisenheimers who thought they could get a rise out of me with it.
By obnoxious, I mean that I was the type of person who felt that all references to God in the Bible using the pronoun "He" should be changed to "He/She" to prevent women from being excluded. No WONDER I couldn't get a date for my junior prom. Anyway, I was sitting in AP US History or something when this book was delivered to me in class. I opened it up, and found this inscription:
Then I turned to see HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair snickering at me and knew instantly that they were my "Right Wing Pals" behind this. Back in our high school days they were super right wing and even founded our school's young Republican club, which was called (shit you not) the Grand Old Party Posse, and distributed shirts with Reagan's picture on them. Now, they're both so liberal they practically qualify as socialists, and I vote Republican. Anyway, when my mom was cleaning out my closet she found this book and decided that it would be a terrific historical relic to display in the space formerly known as Razzy's room. This is my legacy: a Far Side comic altered by my mother to indicate that I'm a nerd, and a Rush Limbaugh book entitled See I Told You So. Thanks a lot, Mom and Dad, for these small attempts to preserve my spirit in a room that now admittedly looks much less like a psychotic lesbian member of the Trenchcoat Mafia lives there. You've done a bang-up job with my old place.
They got rid of the Barbie I hung in effigy with a rosary from my ceiling (which I thought a very clever way to show my disgust for both Catholicism and the patriarchy when I was 14). They got rid of the conduct referral I kept on my bulletin board that my 8th grade P.E. teacher gave me for hitting Kent Slagle on the head with a rolled-up poster for the Presidential Fitness Challenge and subsequently being "inappropriately disrespectful to an authority figure." I hated that teacher so much, and the feeling was mutual: he later kicked me out of class for "inciting a riot", which was actually a peaceful sit-in designed to get him to let our class play floor hockey without protective gear, an activity that he'd previously banned on account of rampant high-sticking. They got rid of my "A Woman Needs a Man Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle" bumper sticker (although that's no loss). They also got rid of the heinous gray carpet that I picked when my parents unwisely allowed me to decorate my own room at the age of ten and replaced it with wood. My mom then filled up the closet with her work clothes and other random shit she never wears. My room is no longer "my room." When my dad got home today, after hugging me and saying hello, the first thing he said was "how do you like what we did with the guest room?"
"The guest room?! Dad, that's my room!"
"That was your room. You don't actually plan on ever moving back in, do you?" He gave me a look that said "please, dear God, no." While I have a great relationship with both my parents, it is predicated on one important fact: we do not live under the same roof. As they frown on some of my lifestyle choices, like heavy drinking, shouting curse words, and fucking random strangers, it is best that I limit time under the same roof with them to brief visits home. The last time I lived with them for any length of time was the dark period between graduating college and getting my first job slinging T-cells. At the end of those two and a half months, my parents could not wait to help me move out.
"Don't worry, Dad. I think it's HIGHLY unlikely I'll ever be back here except for visits." He looked relieved. "But Dad, why did you have to get rid of all my stuff? Couldn't you have left something for old time's sake, like a monument to the wayward daughter who once lived here?"
"What, like that Barbie?" he scoffed. "Relax, we kept a few things we thought you might want, anyway."
He directed me to the bulletin board, where this Far Side page-a-day calendar entry from four years ago hung, with alterations made by my dear mother so that I could showcase her opinion of me in my cubicle at work:
Thanks a lot, Mom. I'm glad that every guest who stays at my parents' house will get to see my mother making jokes about me being a geek.
My dad then pointed out that they also kept this book, a real gem that was given to me in high school when I was at the height of my obnoxious, uber-feminist stage by a couple of wisenheimers who thought they could get a rise out of me with it.
By obnoxious, I mean that I was the type of person who felt that all references to God in the Bible using the pronoun "He" should be changed to "He/She" to prevent women from being excluded. No WONDER I couldn't get a date for my junior prom. Anyway, I was sitting in AP US History or something when this book was delivered to me in class. I opened it up, and found this inscription:
Then I turned to see HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair snickering at me and knew instantly that they were my "Right Wing Pals" behind this. Back in our high school days they were super right wing and even founded our school's young Republican club, which was called (shit you not) the Grand Old Party Posse, and distributed shirts with Reagan's picture on them. Now, they're both so liberal they practically qualify as socialists, and I vote Republican. Anyway, when my mom was cleaning out my closet she found this book and decided that it would be a terrific historical relic to display in the space formerly known as Razzy's room. This is my legacy: a Far Side comic altered by my mother to indicate that I'm a nerd, and a Rush Limbaugh book entitled See I Told You So. Thanks a lot, Mom and Dad, for these small attempts to preserve my spirit in a room that now admittedly looks much less like a psychotic lesbian member of the Trenchcoat Mafia lives there. You've done a bang-up job with my old place.
Labels: aging, family matters, HotLawyer, Morrissey'sHair, P-N-Dub
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