Tuesday, July 28, 2009
K-Fed is Overfed
Every time I see a picture of Kevin Federline, I'm continually shocked that he manages to get even fatter. At first, I was like "Wow, K-Fed's packed on a little chunk. He's not going to get any backup dancing gigs looking like that." Then, I was like, "K-Fed could easily afford a personal trainer with the $30K a month from Brit Brit's coffers that he stacks each month." I thought to myself how sad it is that K-Fed would give up on his lifelong dream of being a complete mockery of a rap star just because he was busy cashing in on the child support and alimony gold mine and living's easy. Does the man have no dignity or self-respect?
Now I am actually wondering if he's really just a savvy businessman. K-Fed has gone beyond the one-too-many-meals-a-day-at-Popeye's level of fat and has exploded into the elite upper echelons of morbid obesity. I mean, the ground shakes when he approaches like it's fucking Jurassic Park. Seriously, I look at him, and I see one of the cave trolls from Lord of the Rings wearing a douched-up pair of D&G shades. Give the man a mace or a club and he's ready to fuck up some hobbits.
This can mean only one thing: he's angling for a show on TLC. He's got all the makings of a TLC star: a staggeringly astronomical body mass index score, too many children, a crazy ex-wife, and minor celebrity gleaned from basically just fucking around. It will be like "The 750-lb Man" meets "Jon and Kate Plus 8." Ratings gold!
(Yes, I'd watch it.)
Labels: celebrities, fat fucks, Kevin Federline
Friday, December 12, 2008
This is why I don't eat fast food
I guess some chicks were fired from a KFC in California because one night when they were closing up, they thought it would be nice to unwind after a hard day at the fryer with a relaxing bubble bath. So like any resourceful pieces of trailer trash, they filled up the industrial dishwashing sink, stripped down to their Wal-Mart unmentionables, and hopped in. And just to make their friends all jelly, they took pictures of their spa day and posted them on MySpace. 
Not only did they impress their friends, they impressed the local media, who promptly featured the girls prominently on the nightly news. KFC fired them and claims it's going to retrain all their employees about how to properly sanitize equipment, but the damage is done. Granted, I haven't eaten KFC since I was in grade school because–with the notable exception of the divine ambrosia known as Taco Time–I think most fast food is shitty food prepared in a shitty way by shitty people. Now I am validated in my beliefs, as KFC is apparently staffed by flabby-armed teenagers who for some inexplicable reason would WANT to bathe in a dishwashing sink at a fast food place. I know a bath just doesn't feel as relaxing if there isn't random chicken bones, mashed potato smegma, and other Original Recipe detritus floating around in it, but somehow I manage to get by in the tub with just some bath salts and a beer (to drink, not bathe in, which would be a waste of beer and thus a mortal sin). Maybe my skin would be softer if I emerged from my ablutions with a thin sheen of rancid trans-fat from the Popcorn Chicken fryer, but I'm willing to stick with my Palmer's if only because smelling like lotion is considerably better than smelling like something off a dollar menu. In any event, I suspect my abstinence from KFC will continue for another several decades to come.
Labels: fat fucks, gross, oh the horror
Friday, October 24, 2008
Reaping the rewards of ragging on fat former classmates with shiteous blogs overexposed on the Facebooks
Over the last day or so, I've had a couple concerned Razzyphiles freak out because my site has inexplicably disappeared from the internets. I have no idea why this is going on, except it might be my karmic reward for telling this fat chick I went to high school with that her lame blog was boring and a waste of bandwidth after I got tired of being exhorted via Facebook to read the latest in her completely uneventful life (she's doing homework, her kid wants to go as some bitch from High School Musical for Halloween, etc.). My old buddy Morrissey'sHair told me that he had previously defriended her on MySpace for posting blog entries that he thought were racist and she consequently tried to start some sort of blood feud with him and his twin brother HotLawyer. When he told me this, and I consequently read a few posts in which she discussed her vaginal bleeding at length and how she was involved in some sort of MySpace messaging scandal with her deadbeat baby daddy, I decided to take some action. I called her fat (although "morbidly obese" is probably more accurate), and left a few now-deleted comments suggesting in a not particularly subtle way that she's a terrible writer and the blogosphere would be a better place if her fingers were chopped off so she could no longer type monotonous shit about her kid and how she dropped some Urban Studies night school class because learning about the constitutional issues affecting poor inner-city black people was just too fucking hard and how she's in charge of the Army wives' bake sale club or something. I forgot to mention that her husband is so ugly that he looks like a long-lost relative of Chingy! in head-to-toe camo (although to be fair, I've never met a hot chubby chaser), but I suppose if she ever draws my ire again, I can throw that in, along with my observation that he has bigger tits than I do.
As a result of all this mean-spirited bitchery, she Facebook-defriended me and wrote a post whining about how she can't write about her feelings without criticism from big cruel meanies like me (and by the way, welcome to the internets, chunks), but perhaps the fates didn't think that was punishment enough for me performing what I consider a service to the blog-reading public. Thus, I am paying for my evil ways by having sporadic connectivity to my infinitely superior, far more interesting source of useless bullshit. I'm now directing my antagonism toward my hosting provider to remind them that I don't pay a whopping $7 a month to deprive my loyal Razzyphiles of my literary hotness for even one second. So, if you can actually read this, know that I'm as on top of it like a hot guy after half a bottle of scotch.
Labels: computer incompetence, excuses, Facebook, fat fucks, Morrissey'sHair
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
I think I'll stick to the sit-on-my-ass-drinking-beer-and-occasionally-getting-laid workout plan
Today for some reason, Gmail's contextual ad serving software read all my football-related e-mails and decided that this would be a link I might click on:
Wow, I bet that's a grueling workout. I've always wondered how the last couple seasons former Seahawk Shaun Alexander has managed to be about as fleet-footed as a lame old cart-horse plodding along on its final journey to the glue factory. Seriously, he should rename himself "Boxer" after that Orwellian horse who found himself removed to "the knackers" or whatever thanks to this "football training and speed program." Thanks to Google's ads, I too can have the dragging, sputtering speed of the NFL's slowest unemployed former top-tier running back. The stack.com Shaun Alexander Workout is exactly what a stud tailback needs in order to follow a league MVP-caliber season with a year of mediocrity, a contract release, and headlines like these:
Wow, I bet that's a grueling workout. I've always wondered how the last couple seasons former Seahawk Shaun Alexander has managed to be about as fleet-footed as a lame old cart-horse plodding along on its final journey to the glue factory. Seriously, he should rename himself "Boxer" after that Orwellian horse who found himself removed to "the knackers" or whatever thanks to this "football training and speed program." Thanks to Google's ads, I too can have the dragging, sputtering speed of the NFL's slowest unemployed former top-tier running back. The stack.com Shaun Alexander Workout is exactly what a stud tailback needs in order to follow a league MVP-caliber season with a year of mediocrity, a contract release, and headlines like these:
From NFL.com:
From the Seattle Post-Intelligencer:
From CBSSports.com:
While it's nice that Shaun Alexander really wants a new job and is doing everything in his power to convince the sports reporters of the world that he's a hot commodity (right down to implying that he's going to sign with the Bengals and start answering to "tres siete"–groan), he has yet to make it official with any team. That's likely because the "Shaun Alexander Workout" has resulted in so much speed and agility that I could probably outrun and outcut him. In fact, I could do so while smoking a cigarette and eating a slice of pepperoni pizza.
I figure that if Shaun can sell a workout in spite of his failed NFL career, I might as well get on board. I love any kind of workout that leads to unfit slowness, and I'm always on board for a good old-fashioned improbable get-rich-quick scheme. So keep an eye out atop your Gmail for the "Razzy Workout." This consists of Heineken-to-mouth arm curls, aerobic television watching, and cardio-fucking. As an added bonus, I'll throw in some tips on how to boost metabolism (ie: give in to your unfettered rage at stupidity) and protein shake recipes (read: advanced fellatio techniques). Frankly, this is probably as if not more effective than Shaun's exercise regimen. Certainly it will at least allow you to make up stories about flirting with the Saints, Bengals, and Broncos to make your slow ass seem more employable like Shaun is doing. I think it's going to be a big hit.
Labels: exercise drama, fat fucks, intentional buffoonery, NFL football, Razzification, Seahawks
I know you're fat, but you don't need an umbrella that big
Dear New Yorker With the Giant Umbrella,
I know you're fat. I know that a lifetime of eating pizza slices and McDonald's and various iterations of halal street meat has given you the figure of Rosie O'Donnell after a particularly lazy week of couch surfing, but that does NOT mean you have to walk down the crowded New York City sidewalk on a rainy day with an umbrella roughly the size of an America's Cup yacht mainsail.
I also know that you may not be as accustomed to the rain as a native Pacific Northwesterner like myself. Let me assure you that should a stray drop of sky-water touch your dimpled flesh you will not melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. Trust that if you did, I would run around throwing water at your corpulent ass because I hate fat people and I especially hate fat people who carry around giant umbrellas, and your dissolution would be a boon to my general mood and demeanor.
Your umbrella is just as, if not more inconsiderate, than all the other annoying fat-person-in-New-York things you do. For example, huffing up the subway stairs at the pace of a weary snail, only to halt at the top and block all ascending and descending traffic in order to catch your breath, light a cigarette, and/or start catching up on your phone calls. Blocking the sole means of egress from a thoroughly populated and necessary conduit of urban life like the subway is bad enough, but throw a gigantic umbrella in the mix and you're supersizing your already massive oblivious dickheadishness. It's like being in the first scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark, except instead of being a hot adventurous Smith College archaeology professor trying to outrun a massive rolling boulder in an ancient South American temple because I want to brag about a priceless ancient golden idol, I'm an irritable Smith College graduate trying to circumvent a massive Rocawear-clad beach ball in a dirty subway staircase because I'm probably late getting to lab.
Even worse than the subway is when you walk down the street with your giant umbrella. It's like you are a traveling bubble occupying most of the sidewalk, since anyone not wanting to get their eyes gouged out by the edges of your umbrella has to give you a wide berth. This means that to avoid your umbrella, not only to we have to dash out of the way on what little sidewalk remains, but we have to usually drop our normal-sized umbrellas and get wet ourselves so that you may walk beneath your own portable fucking tent.
This is unacceptably selfish, antisocial behavior. What makes you think you are so special that you deserve to take up more than your allotted portion of the city sidewalk? You already DO take up more than I do on account of your obnoxious obesity. You shouldn't be rewarded for your sloth and lack of personal physical maintenance by being allowed to carry an umbrella the size of Queens and thus occupy even more precious public space. You should be mocked for your fatness and derided for your selfish choice of rain repelling equipment! You should be reviled by your fellow man for so callously gobbling up more than your share of sidewalk and forcing your neighbors literally into the gutter because your precious ass just HAS to carry a goddamned golf umbrella. You should be roundly disparaged for your poor displays of citizenship, not tolerated in spite of your obnoxious largesse.
Fat people with giant umbrellas take notice: from now on, I will not put up with your lack of consideration any longer. Henceforth, I plan to say things like "nice umbrella, Jumbo" and "hey, I think there's a little piece of your back cellulite that's getting wet" the next time I am trapped behind one of your mobile circus tents. I'm also going to give you a blast of extra super cunty face just to drive it home that I hate you and your stupid umbrella.
Cordially,
Razzy
Labels: assholes, fat fucks, NYC, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
May the fattest ass win
I don't watch "Dancing with the Stars" because dancing is dumb and stupid, especially that ballroom crap. I remember one time I was forced by some girls to watch Strictly Ballroom and I wanted to strictly murder everyone in the movie. Watching it with a bunch of has-beens (even totally awesome alumni from the greatest show in the history of television like Jennie "Kelly Taylor" Garth and Ian "Steve Sanders" Ziering) does nothing for me save elicit homicidal impulses, so I haven't watched more than five minutes of this show for the good of my fellow man.
In spite of my reaction to "Dancing with the So-Called 'Stars,'" a lot of people love this shitshow and thus even CNN writes articles about who is going to be on it. This season there's mostly a bunch of people I don't care about fitting the traditional DWTS archetypes. There's the gay ex-teen heartthrob (Lance Bass), the aging soap star (Susan Lucci), the failed vocational reality stars (Rocco DiSpirito), some comedian nobody's heard of (Jeffrey someone), old people you forgot were even alive (Cloris Leachman, Ted McGinley...although I have mad love for Frau Blücher and I'm glad she's keeping busy), random athletes (the hot-ass Misty May and the already forgotten Maurice Green), a retired NFL player (Warren Sapp), some former TV host/Maxim bikini slag (Brooke Burke), and some undeservedly famous slut (Kim Kardashian). I would like to know why of this entire crowd, Kim Kardashian's fat skank ass is getting the top billing when WARREN FUCKING SAPP is on it! For one thing, I doubt Warren Sapp will have the debonair grace that a classy guy like Jerry Rice brought to the show. For another, Warren Sapp is going to be the most entertaining contestant on DWTS of all fucking time.
I love Warren Sapp because he deserves a place of honor in the NFL's shit-talking hall of fame. This is a man who once claimed that opposing fans across the country were conspiring to poison his food to the point where he forced his friends to switch plates with him at restaurants. He once called Packers coach Mike Sherman "a lying shit-eating hound" and threatened to kick his ass. He incurred the rage of normally smiling (but nonetheless loathsome) Shitsburgh running back Jerome Bettis by skipping through a line of warming-up Steelers, and proceeded to do the same thing later to the Colts. He roughed up referees and then comparing them to slave masters. He's called out everyone from Jerramy Stevens to Michael Strahan to Brett Favre, and was one of the hardest-hitting defensive tackles in the NFL before he retired from the woeful Oakland Raiders at the end of last season with the comment, "It would've been real nice to retire with 100 sacks and all that, but I'm okay with 96.5. It's still triple digits, right?"
This also seems a good opportunity to address Warren Sapp's forays into the world of song-and-dance-related entertainment, specifically his role as Trina's philandering boyfriend in her video for "Da Baddest Bitch." Okay, so he may not have danced or done anything besides sit in his home theater and smoke a stogie watching game tape in the video, but conceivably one could dance to this song. The premise of this video asks us to believe that not only are Trina and Warren Sapp cohabitating, but that they use a Brett Favre Packers jersey for their doormat and have lots of cute pictures of them snuggling around the place for Trina to trash in response to his supposed infidelity. Given Trina's self-conferred title, it was decidedly unwise for Warren to supposedly cheat on her, thus prompting her to lay waste to all his prize possessions. Surely, however, Warren's collection of framed Buccaneers' jerseys are expendible when faced with the prospect of Trina's threats to "make you eat it with my period on." Frankly, I'd rather have a bioterrorism-inclined Eagles fan spit hep A on my porterhouse any day than earn my red wings with a hypercritical, Wedgwood china-throwing "curious bitch who took off to get broke off by the baby's dad."
Kim Kardashian doesn't have a shot in hell. I might even have to break out my old Bucs #99 jersey to show my strength of conviction on this matter. ONWARD TO VICTORY, WARREN SAPP!
Warren Sapp was one of the most entertaining NFL players of all time, so I can't believe that Kim Kardashian is getting more press for being on DWTS. The only thing that bitch can bring as far as game is the fact that she's got a sex tape, she's ruined my boyfriend Reggie (Get in My) Bush with her syphilitic twat, and she's rocking the most famous ass implants in the world. Warren Sapp is not only a hilarious loudmouth, I'd take his monster gut over Kim's infamous posterior in any kind of contest any day.
Certainly Warren's gut is striking more fear into Philip Rivers than Skank Kardashian's ass is in Reggie Bush. Philip Rivers is doing some obviously frightened gladhanding and backing off like a bitch, while Reggie (Get in My) Bush is breaking out some halfhearted frat boy raise-the-roof moves to match the cell phone clipped to his belt loop in terms of douchebaggery. Warren is going to lay a blistering verbal smackdown on the Z-list ballroom set as he once did on the Packers offense, while Kim is merely going to back her bloated ass up and inspire her partner to apathetically surrender. In terms of a fat kid shimmy contest, my money's on Warren.
Kim Kardashian doesn't have a shot in hell. I might even have to break out my old Bucs #99 jersey to show my strength of conviction on this matter. ONWARD TO VICTORY, WARREN SAPP!
Labels: fat fucks, hot dudes, NFL football, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, sluts, Stealers suck
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Richard Cooey
DOB: 1967?
Occupation: death row inmate
Hometown: Akron, Ohio
Current residence: Southern Ohio Correctional Facility, Lucasville, Ohio
Douchebaggery: By all accounts, Richard Cooey's offenses go beyond mere douchebaggery to utter reprehensibility. In 1986, he was drinking beer with some high school buddies and dropping basketball-sized chunks of concrete off a freeway overpass onto random cars. When one of these concrete chunks disabled a car driven by two female students, this Larry the Cable Guy doppelganger and his fellow Bad Samaritans offered them assistance. Instead of a ride for help, Richard and one of his pals drove the women to a secluded area, took turns raping them, and then, when Richard used his friend's name by asking him to "put on the Bad Company tape" (because "Rock and Roll Fantasy" is apparently a great jam for committing rape at knifepoint), they murdered their victims by strangling and stabbing them. Richard was convicted and sentenced to death, and since then he's been squeezing every last drop of time out of the appellate process.
While his crimes are reason enough to warrant my total and eternal disdain, I further loathe Richard Cooey for his latest attempt to avoid the needle. Specifically, he's claiming that he's too fucking FAT to be executed! Apparently, his morbid obesity makes it difficult to find a vein, and this will violate his Eighth Amendment rights. I disagree with the death penalty, and apart from my philosophical issues regarding our judicial system's right to take a person's life no matter how reprehensible their crimes, I can't fathom how it's fair to execute a mentally retarded person but NOT some fat asshole. It's not like some person with diminished capacity can change, but a porky motherfucker like Richard Cooey can certainly be forced onto a damn treadmill and issued two Slim-Fasts and a sensible dinner from the prison mess.
How does one get fat in prison anyway? I've seen "Oz" and those MSNBC "Lockdown" shows. If there's one thing that prisons always have, it's a well-equipped weight room. Apparently Richard just sat on his progressively expanding ass during death row exercise hour, and stuffed his face at the Ohio taxpayers' expense. Now he's just as fat as many of his law-abiding fellow Ohioans, and is going to evade what their state considers justice because of his unabashed gluttony. In fact, if his sentence is commuted to life in prison, the people of Ohio will be paying his undoubtedly astronomical medical bills for the next however many years of his life.
I've gotten some shit in the past for being "size-ist." In fact, after I berated some Smith bitch for her obnoxious "big, beautiful blog," she went so far as to remove it from the internets altogether (the domain has since turned into a gateway to chubby chasing porn sites). The only time I can recall I've ever changed my mind about fucking a guy in the middle of sex was when I suddenly sobered up and realized that he was morbidly obese, and I haven't banged a truly fat dude since. Fat people just piss me off, because at the end of the day, they can do something about their condition, yet I'm the one who needs to amend my life to work around their personal choice. I don't like being told that I'm a discriminatory asshole because I don't like accommodating the slow motherfuckers waddling slowly up the subway stairs in front of me, or because I hate it when someone's cellulite rolls spill over my armrest into my airline seat, or because I resent having to wait at my corner bodega while a dude argues with the deli guy about why it costs more to put an additional half-pound of Boar's Head ham on his sandwich. I know that fat people are human beings too. They're LAZY human beings who would rather everyone else go out of their way to accommodate their choice not to make a few relatively simple lifestyle choices, and I reserve my right to be annoyed at their space-occupying, slowness, and lack of sex appeal.
Therefore, I don't give a damn if anyone thinks I'm insensitive, boorish, or "size-ist" for hating an entirely loathsome rapist murderer trying to avoid justice via obesity. If the prison doctor can't find a vein on Richard Cooley, I say fry his fat ass instead.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, fat fucks
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
A new item on the menu at Chez Chingy!
Last weekend, barbecue season started in St. Nicholas Park on account of the lovely weather and the beginning of summer. While I love summer and I love barbecues, I do not love when these things invade my local park. Barbecues in the park mean that there is often barbecue refuse around for my dogs to consume. This is very bad, because most of the refuse is chicken bones, which dogs aren't supposed to eat. Caesar is a notorious chicken bone hound, and he's extremely sneaky about it. Sometimes he'll act like he's sniffing something like he's going to piss on it, and the next thing I know, I hear crunching and realize that he's deftly scooped up some errant bone I didn't see. Then I have to pry Caesar's giant jaws open and try to fish the bone out of this throat before he swallows it. He is a smart dog, so he continues to refine his covert bone-consuming methods and I continue to fight a losing battle against his appetite for barbecue waste.
Caesar is so bad about consuming street food that I even made up new lyrics to the song "Soul Survivor" by Akon and Young Jeezy from several summers ago. Instead of singing, "If you're looking for me you can find me on the block disobeyin' the law...a real G, thoroughbred from the streets, pants saggin' with my gun in my drawers," I would sing "If you're looking for me you find me in the park disobeyin' my mom...real Caese, thoroughbred likes to eat, tail waggin' with some bones in my jaws." Yeah, I know it's corny, but anyone who has met Caesar knows how severely obsessed he is with eating discarded people food (usually chicken or rib bones, but also he enjoys crab claws/shells, squashed french fries, and licking candy wrappers), and the song is fitting.
Anyway, just because when we go to the park during barbecue season I have to keep a close eye on Caesar, that doesn't mean Chingy!'s fat ass doesn't get in trouble concerning his scavenging tastes. Chingy! is particularly bad, because rather than just eat food waste like Caesar does, he eats things that no other creature save flies, roaches, or rats are interested in. For example, I've caught him eating indigent diarrhea, decomposing squirrel carcasses, cicadas, and garbage. Even worse, sometimes he opts to vomit what he eats, usually on my clothing, bed, or some other treasured object that it's hard to clean rancid dog puke off of. Recently, I thought that maybe Chingy!'s park eating habits were improving. I caught him eating some acorns a while back, and I actually encouraged this, since acorns seem kind of healthy, and God knows Chingy! needs to lose weight.
This morning, however, I caught him chewing something and since there weren't any oak trees where we were, I had a bad feeling that it wasn't acorns. I wandered over to Chingy! to see what he was so busy chowing down on. Someone had emptied out their barbecue on the grass, and Chingy! was eating old, half-burned charcoal briquets. I yelled at him and pulled him away by his collar, and he sneezed black bits of charcoal rudely all over my feet and ankles, then tried to return to his pile of Kingsford. "Goddammit, NO! NO, CHONGAY, NO!" I admonished him repeatedly, and he continued to plant his little paws obstinately as he struggled to turn back to the pile of charcoal. Finally I quit fucking around with dragging him by the collar and leashed him back up. When we returned home, I noticed that the entire inside of his mouth looked like a fucking coal mine.
While I suppose that discarded barbecue charcoal is better than vagrant shit in terms of what Chingy! could be eating, I imagine that it's probably not very healthy, even for a garbage disposal of a dog like him. Besides, the idea of cleaning charcoal vomit out of my couch or duvet cover is not an appealing one. Chingy!'s achievements in foul culinary indulgences continue to ensure his reign as the most revolting dog in my household for some time to come.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, fat fucks, gross, oh the horror
Monday, May 05, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: 1980s Heart
Name: Ann Dustin Wilson and Nancy Lamoreaux Wilson (and a couple other random guys to play the instruments besides Ann and Nancy's respective flute and guitar)
DOB: 1950 and 1954
Occupation: perm connoisseurs, shoulder pad aficionados, rock stars
Hometown: Bellevue, Washington
Current residence: somewhere awesome
Actually, they were big hair chicks from the P-N-Dub, Bellevue, the snobby Seattle suburb where my friend G-Boner currently resides, to be exact. And they were AWESOME. I remember jamming to an almost continuous soundtrack of 80s Heart in my childhood, and I thought that shit rocked then. For one thing, they were one of the few really famous bands from the P-N-Dub. In fact, they may have been the ONLY famous musicians apart from Jimi Hendrix when I was a little kid from the pre-grunge P-N-Dub (as much as I'd like to think the nation was jamming to Sir Mix-a-Lot's incomparable Swass CD, I get the distinct impression it was just us Northwesterners). In any event, it was way better to brag that you came from the same region that produced those chicks who sang "Alone" and "All I Wanna Do is Make Love to You" (which, if you listen to the lyrics, is a twisted fucking song) than Robb Weller, self-proclaimed inventor of "The Wave" and host of the game show "Win, Lose, or Draw." For another, those bitches from Heart had awesome style.
In all their 80s videos, they look like they're rocking out on a set that can best be described as part Anne Rice, part Harlequin romance novel cover, part ladies night at the now-defunct Galaxy Lounge, a Puyallup hotspot down on the banks of its eponymous river by the Fred Meyer and Tiffany's Skating Rink. Nancy Wilson looks like she spent $39.99 on a spiral perm at Fantastic Sam's, and Ann Wilson looks like she picked her outfits at the Lane Bryant leather and lace clearance rack. They both look like women in Puyallup do now when they're getting all gussied up for a wild night out at the Emerald Queen Casino. In other words, they are a couple of hot-ass pieces of trash. I can even suspend my dislike of fat people to admire the zaftig Ann Wilson, both for her excellence in wardrobe and styling choices, and for her ability to belt out an almost Mariah Carey-esque range of notes. 80s Heart was the hotness.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, fat fucks, hot chicks, P-N-Dub
Friday, March 28, 2008
Daily Douchebag: the Los Angeles Times
DOB: 1881
Occupation: getting duped by corpulent imprisoned con artists
Hometown: Los Angeles, California
Current residence: same
Douchebaggery: On St. Patrick's Day, Pulitzer Prize-winning entertainment reporter Chuck Phillips went to press with a story suggesting that Sean "P. Diddy/Puffy/Diddy/whatever the hell he's calling himself now" Combs was involved in the shooting of Tupac Shakur at a New York City studio two years before his death. When the story went to press, Diddy vehemently denied any involvement in that incident. Since the story was based on several FBI interview reports, the world authority on making stories out of official documents, The Smoking Gun, decided to investigate.
It turns out that Chuck Phillips has been slacking on his pimping when it comes to establishing the authenticity of his sources. The four "302s" he used as sources were actually typed from the Allenwood Federal Penitentiary by this portly fellow, Jimmy Sabatino:
Even worse than Chuck Phillips's failure to do so much as Google "Jimmy Sabatino" is the fact that he missed that the FBI hasn't used typewriters such as the prison model used to create these "302s" in over 30 years, FBI agents generally have enough of a command of the written word to remember that i goes before e except after c, and the FBI didn't even investigate the Tupac-Biggie bullshit! For whatever reason, the federal investigation into the whole East Coast-West Coast rap feud was handled by the Secret Service. Yet Chuck Phillips just assumed that these 302s were typed by a federal agent inclined to incorporate phrases like "peice of shit" into his reports, apparently without raising an eyebrow.
Chuck believed all sorts of whoppers that Jimmy Sabatino told, including his claim that he was a "rodie" on a New Kids on the Block tour at age 15, his cultivation of Mark Wahlberg's rap career, he was shut out of money owed on Biggie's posthumous album Born Again for "creative consultant" work, he was a "person of interest" in the murder of Biggie despite being incarcerated in Miami, he negotiated a peace treaty on Diddy's behalf with Suge Knight, that he was rebuffed by Tupac the night of the shooting and subsequently "dealt with" Tupac for disrespecting him, and was the son of a high-ranking captain in the Colombo crime family.
Having recently become far more acquainted with defamation law than I ever anticipated, I am confident in saying that I have been a far more responsible journalist than Chuck Phillips. For one thing, I have never written anything that I didn't believe to be true based on reliable sources. For another, I would never present anything as fact that was based on such obviously suspicious material. And my website is hardly the LA Times. Rather, my blog purports to be "the ultimate source for useless bullshit," which should be considered a disclaimer that ANYTHING printed here should not be considered reliable news or anything besides my opinion and (feeble) attempts at being funny. Unless, of course, one considers "useless bullshit" to be their criteria for news that's fit to print. If guys like Chuck Phillips can get a Pulitzer for outstanding journalistic techniques like rehashing forged documents originating from a federal prison that are easily disproven by a simple Google search, I'd like to know when I can expect to receive that honor for my achievements in the field of bullshit generating. I'll have to work the funds for a new tschotschke shelf into my budget to display it and prevent Chingy! and Caesar from getting at it, as I imagine they would find that a Pulitzer makes for a most delicious chew toy. Then again, maybe I'm out of the running for this prestigious honor as, unlike Chuck, I have never actually recklessly disregarded the truth and committed defamation or libel. So much for my future lucrative career in blog-based journalism. Fuck...I guess I'm stuck with this science crap.
Labels: assholes, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, fat fucks, legal drama, media whores
Monday, March 24, 2008
Hoes make it rain on McCain
A bunch of fat chicks were out shopping for new muumuus at Lane Bryant and got to talking about how they could help out their favorite candidate, John McCain. Unfortunately, they came up with the worst idea ever: make a YouTube video that would "outdo" the one Obama Girl made. There's just one problem: Obama Girl was hot in an Eliot Spitzer-servicing prostitute kind of way, and these BBWs look like a pod of whales (one of which is a Depends-wearing grandma) in hideous stretch pants.
Actually, there are two problems. The second is that they relied on "It's Raining Men," aka # 4 on this list of the gayest songs ever, for inspiration. "It's Raining McCain" does little in the way of conjuring up images which aren't nauseating. I'm already voting for McCain, but if I were undecided, trust that a woman with three chins refreshingly splashing her face with John McCains wouldn't sway me into his camp. I couldn't even enjoy the sexy footage of young Vietnam-era McCain because of these trolls shimmying their cellulite in front of his American hero hotness. "I'm gonna go out and get myself absolutely JOHN MCCAIN!"?!?! PLEASE no more follow-up videos.
Labels: fat fucks, gross, intentional buffoonery, John McCain, politics, vulgar display of faggotry, you're ugly
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The Same Old Ugly-Ass Broad Kind of Ladies' Night
Yesterday, ElCyd Gchatted me about my disastrous run-in with Blu the morbidly obese bulldyke at the Cubby Hole this weekend, and we got to bitching about the lesbian scene in our respective cities:
ElCyd: even though my skinny dog-walker named Blue is clearly not the same "Blu" from this weekend, I feel compelled to apologize anyway.It's official: lesbians are the lamest party group in the universe. This is surprising because I know many lesbians who can tear it up, but I guess that's probably why those lesbians aren't crazily into the lezzie scene. A social scene doesn't get more abysmally, insufferably boring than this (at least, not without throwing in a performance by the Smiffenpoofs or some other caterwauling Smith College acapella group). Now I know what happened to all those girls at Smith who lived in one of the houses famed for extreme mousiness and overall fuggery (Morris, Lawrence, Albright, Baldwin, Hopkins, Hubbard, etc.). They are all sipping fuzzy navels at "A Different Kind of Ladies Night."
Razzy: LOL
ElCyd: for serious
Razzy: yeah "skinny" is NOT the adjective for old Blu
Razzy: ugh i was so annoyed
Razzy: never mind that there are only like 4 lesbian bars in nyc
Razzy: this is the only one that has chicks i'd even remotely CONSIDER effing at it
ElCyd: (a whopping 4 more than in dc)
Razzy: and this slut has to piss jamba juice all over my game
ElCyd: i was so irritated just reading it.
ElCyd: mostly because those are the only dykes in dc
Razzy: WHY are those crusty old bulldykes like that???
Razzy: it's SO common in that particular lezzie demographic!
ElCyd: they're the only ones who go out
ElCyd: at least regularly
Razzy: yeah because they're the only ones not all coupled up
ElCyd: although i'm surprised that you didn't roll to the shack.
Razzy: well, it's in brooklyn
ElCyd: you'd think there would be more femmes there trying to hit it
Razzy: and andro hipster lezzies annoy me too
ElCyd: right
Razzy: we'll probably go there some night when CasseeNova is around
Razzy: might as well see some familiar faces as long as i'm trekking all the way out to the slope
ElCyd: word.
ElCyd: i'm both fascinated and annoyed by hipster lezzies.
Razzy: i seriously can't believe there are no lez bars in DC
Razzy: DC gets lamer every time I hear something new about it
ElCyd: seriously
ElCyd: at least we have better and better food
Razzy: like, where do the ladies meet?
ElCyd: but that just makes us fat
Razzy: craigslist?
ElCyd: there's a rotating party - www.adkln.com
ElCyd: it's a once a week thing
ElCyd: and they have the regular "ladies night" festivities at the area bars
ElCyd: i mean, there's always Phase 1 or "the phase"
ElCyd: which is, i guess, a real deal lesbo bar
Razzy: hey they have one of these adkln things in NYC
ElCyd: but no one ever goes.
Razzy: these ladies night things
Razzy: oh
Razzy: dude the music on the website SUCKS
ElCyd: right?
ElCyd: fucking lame
Razzy: oh damn there's one tomorrow!
ElCyd: the chick who owns adkln has wanted to branch out
ElCyd: so it makes sense that they're in nyc
ElCyd: how does it look?
Razzy: well, i like the sound of "women, drinks specials, no cover"
Razzy: and there's a hottish ho on the site
ElCyd: look at the photos
ElCyd: it'll give you an idea of who goes
Razzy: ugh horsefaced girls playing ping pong
Razzy: annoying hipster dykes
Razzy: talking about teagan and sara
ElCyd: oh, ew.
ElCyd: gross
ElCyd: not that the scene in dc is better
ElCyd: but still
Razzy: jesus there is this one bitch
Razzy: who looks like she's going to eat me
Razzy: and not in a good way
ElCyd: omg
ElCyd: with the mutant teeth?
Razzy: YES
If you check out the photo gallery, you'll note two things:
1. Only about six lesbians go to these things
2. They're all BUTT-ASS UGLY
Take, for example, the prettiest girl there:
Nothing gets this low-rent Mandy Moore lookalike in the mood for some snatch-licking like a sexy game of PING-PONG. Not even beer pong? Losers.
There's also the aforementioned porker with "the mutant teeth." She's in a lot of the pictures, repping hard for the lezzie BBWs:
Again, Porky the Pie-Eater looks hungry, and even if I got drunk enough to mentally take 50 pounds off her, I'd be too scared she wouldn't think my goodies were a damn tuna melt or something. Back to the Old Country Buffet with you. You are not the one for me, fatty.
And of course there's a "Little Boy Lesbian" in attendance. These are the kind of lesbians who, for whatever reason, are taking style cues from Holden Caulfield. This one is sassing it up with a shirt encouraging me to "Avoid Temptation."
As tempted as I was by her lack of a figure, somehow I managed to avoid mentally ripping off her many layers of t-shirts and ravaging her in the boudoir of my mind.
Also, there's a Pixie Lesbo. You know this girl is totally a vegan.
Ugh, I can already imagine all the fairies and crystals and crap this bitch has stuck all over her apartment. She probably doesn't shave her pits, either. Gross.
Alert Macauley and Kieran! The Culkin brood is missing a baby dyke!
(In fairness, I can't bust too hard on this one because she kind of looks like me circa 1995. Give her a tattered copy of Arial and a Hole CD and she could be me).
And fresh from the pages of the Brothers Grimm comes this busted ball of frizz.
Sorry, honey, but I'm not into banging broads who look like they'll lure me to their gingerbread house and cook me into a stew.
Seven words: Smith College Science Fiction and Fantasy Society (SSFFS)
Back in my Smith days, SSFFS (pronounced like "Sisyphus") was my favorite club to bust on, because their office was next door to the newspaper where I worked. I was always hassling them. They'd complain we were blasting the Def Leppard too loudly, and I'd tell them they were reading their Robert Heinlein novels too loudly in response. Trust that this chick has a Philip K. Dick book stashed in her purse for the train ride home (alone) from ladies' night.
What lesbian party would be complete without a shiteous duo of armband tat-sporting fugly singer/songwriters clad head-to-toe in Urban Outfitters faux vintage casual wear? I can already hear the atonal Jewel covers full of lyrics about emotion and feelings drifting across the ping-pong tables.
"These hands are small, I know, but they are not yours, they are my own."
I don't see how this is a "different kind of ladies' night," because from what I can tell, this looks like every lame Smith party I ever went to. All they need is a teapot, a Subaru, and a "Smith College 1875-1975: A Century of Women on Top" shirt and we may as well be in Northampton, Assachusetts. It's the same old busted girls with no life and terrible taste in what makes a social gathering fun: carousing, hollering, showing your tits, drinking more than one non-fruit-flavored beer, making out with people, and generally causing a ruckus. Go back to your lame fucking nonprofit jobs and call me when you actually DO have a different kind of ladies night (specifically, when "different" means there will be hot chicks and a decent party!)
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, ElCyd, fat fucks, lezbollah, sluts, you're ugly
Monday, March 10, 2008
Daily Douchebag: fat ugly overbearing lesbians who call me "Britney"
RAZZY Note: this isn't the fat, ugly, overbearing lesbian I am particularly annoyed with, but it's the closest approximation I could find with a Google search for "fat ugly lesbian." This is Daphne Wright, a deaf lezzie who murdered some chick that was hitting on her girlfriend. Currently the South Dakota Supreme Court is deciding whether or not to put her on death row, because it might be cruel and unusual to execute someone who can't hear.
DOB: ???-mid-70s-???
Occupation: hitting on me via insults, being pushy and obnoxious, clitblocking me with the cute femme chicks at the Cubby Hole
Hometown: the Bronx, New York, New York
Current residence: cruising for bitches in the Village of the West
Douchebaggery: As I mentioned last week, I spent Saturday night at the lezzie bar trying to get some pussy for my honey-loving protegee Twathopper. She didn't manage to score any gash, but she did chat up a few ladies quite comfortably and didn't run away from any of them in terror, so I think the night was overall a success. Unfortunately, I didn't have as much luck in the comfortable chatting with the cute girls department.
The night started off very promising. We ate some delicious sushi, and got a few saketinis in the tank to bolster Twathopper's courage for rubbing elbows with the fingerbangity set, and set out for the West Village buoyant with optimism. Although it took forever to get a drink and the bar was crowded enough to warrant negative attention from the fire marshal, we started off by flirting with a couple of relatively pretty lipstick chicks. Sadly, those girls left to go clubbing, so we stepped out to smoke a cigarette, where I was set upon by a fat, hideously ugly butch dyke named Blu.
After showing off her pocketful of Jamba Juice gift cards, Blu managed to get a few minutes of our time by offering us a blunt, which I will neither confirm nor deny we smoked. During this time she regaled us with her opinion on my looks. Apparently in Blu's estimation, I was the hottest girl in the bar. This would have been better coming from someone not more busted than a '79 Pacer with no muffler. I'm not kidding when I say that Blu looked like a bald cupcake in an ill-fitting Akademks sweatshirt. Thus we headed back inside, but were unable to shake Blu. Blu insisted on introducing me to all her ugly butch friends...as BRITNEY.
"My name is ANGIE," I insisted.
"Okay, Britney."
"Don't call me Britney!"
"Why? Britney's hot, Britney."
Is this 2002? Because the last time I checked, the legendary Ms. Britney Spears has been looking a whole lot more like a stray bitch in whelp than the hot piece of ass she once was six years ago. As much as I love Britney, I don't consider being compared to her a compliment. Not to mention I don't have a weave with rats nesting in it, I wasn't wearing torn fishnets, I don't rock the Lee Press-On nails, and I've never been accused of giving off a persistent odor of yesterday's Taco Bell. I was also wearing the standard Razzy uniform (jeans, high heeled boots, and a V-neck titty shirt) rather than my Halloween costume, so these dykes' insistence on referring to me as "Britney" was really, REALLY pissing me off.
"My name is not Britney," I finally said to Blu's main wingbutch. "My name is ANGIE, and I don't like being called Britney."
"But you're blonde," said Wingbutch. "Blu always goes for you little blonde white girls."
Ohhhh, I see. Because Blu has a racial fetish, I'm supposed to just answer to "Britney" like a good dumb blonde. Sorry, bitches, but I don't accomodate insults just because your fat ugly ass wants to play with a Barbie.
"Well, that's fine," I said to Wingbutch. "And I may be blonde, but I'm not a dumb fucking bitch. I'm getting a Ph.D at Columbia. In SCIENCE. And my NAME IS ANGIE."
At least Twathopper was spending this time flirting with a cute chick. I'm glad at least one of us wasn't having her game irreparably tainted by this posse of overbearing, pushy, possessive harpie lumberjacks. When she took a break from her mark, I was like, "Dude, we have to get outside and smoke. NOW."
We escaped outside for a minute, until Blu caught on and came out to find me.
"You're not LEAVING, are you, Britney?"
"PLEASE stop calling me Britney," I said, exasperated.
"Look, you've got to call me, Britney. I'm not like these other girls. I want to get to know YOU. I'm all about YOU."
"How about you start by calling me by my real name?"
Blu ignored this. "I am into having a relationship with YOU. It's all about YOU. The sex is secondary, it's about the relationship with YOU."
"Well, that's where we've got a problem. I do chicks, not relationships. The sex is PRIMARY for me." I thought to myself this was yet another piece of evidence validating my theory that only hideous people think sex is unimportant.
"Oh, I'll change that."
"Yeah, sure. You know, the guys I hook up with aren't trying to wife me. They also call me Angie."
"Oh...you're BI, Britney?"
"Yeah," I said defiantly. "I play both sides of the ball."
"I'll change that."
"Whatevs. Later, Blu." Twathopper and I rushed off into a cab. I was totally pissed. My well of potential pussy had been completely poisoned by Blu and her disrespectful, entitled insistence on being the worst girlfriend ever.
What the fuck is up with these big, burly old butches? They can be worse than men in terms of objectifying and diminishing chicks they set their sights on. Blu didn't listen to a goddamn word I said and just tried to bully her way into my snatch. In spite of her lame sales pitch about being interested in knowing me, she couldn't even address me by my actual name. I can think of very few times I've ever been so minimized by someone who wanted to get in my pants. I've fucked frat boys in bathrooms who treated me with greater humanity and kindness. I guess Blu has to count on manipulating the insecurities of her targets, because she's not scoring pussy based on her utterly unfuckable fat ugliness. However, I am not insecure, and I won't be suckered into getting head from a morbidly obese asshole because of inept attempts to strip me of my identity and possess me. Find some other bitch to spend your Jamba Juice gift cards on. Blu wishes she could kiss my hot ass.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, fat fucks, lezbollah, NYC, sex, Twathopper
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Leonora Epstein
Name: Leonora Epstein
DOB: August 30, 1985
Occupation: "sex" blogger (sex in quotes because she rarely seems to have any) and web assistant at Cosmopolitan magazine
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Yesterday, Jersey Girl sent me an e-mail:
From: JerseyGirl--Smith '02 (jgirl@thirdmostwatchedcablenewsnetwork.com)I checked it out, and indeed JerseyGirl was right. This blog features Leo Epstein (Smith '07 and classmate of the loathsome Tej Bindra)--a 22-year-old whippersnapper working as some kind of editorial assistant at my favorite magazine Cosmopolitan--blogs about her attempts to transform from a "socially awkward" dowdy Smith girl with an unflattering haircut and bad skin into some kind of cheap young wannabe "Sex and the City" character. This transformation involves her learning how to apply eyeliner (in fairness, I suck at this too), dress sluttier, and string guys along without sex for as many dates as possible. This is even worse than when the now-defunct Jane magazine cast a wide net seeking a dude willing to bone this 29-year-old virgin (Smith '99), because she was desperate to get some dick before she turned 30. I thought that showcase of the standard fugliness, social ineptitude, and severely undersexed loserliness common among Smith grads was some of the worst press my fair alma mater could get in terms of the overall fuckability of its alumnae. Now, thanks to Leo, I know I was wrong.
To: Razzy--Smith '00 (razzy@razzy.org)
Omg dude, check out this link - it's an article about a Smith grad who is now blogging for Cosmo. It makes me embarrased that I went to smith
According to Leo's blog anyway, most of her metamorphosis into a vapid, shoe-obsessed, Cosmo-reading cocktease consists of her dating ugly dudes and refusing to fuck them. This doesn't sit well with ladies like myself and JerseyGirl. If you ask JerseyGirl about how she and her boyfriend Kodiak got together, she'll say something along the lines of "I hit that shit the first night...what, what!" Then she does a little guidette fist pump. As I didn't grow up on the Jersey Shore, I omit the fist pump, but my policy is the same with guys: I always fuck on the first date. It's a good way to get the lay of the land (so to speak) and see if he's a jackhammerer, a shoulder-pusher, a pencil-dick, a one-pump chump, a chapstick, or otherwise problematic between the sheets. Besides, if he doesn't "respect me in the morning" or call me back or whatever, than fuck him. Coming straight out the gate fucking is a useful way to screen out assholes and/or the impotent/inadequately penised, and it hasn't failed me yet. Therefore, I can't relate to bitches like Leo who go with the opposite strategy: withhold as long as possible.
I could barely get through the first few posts in which she talks about her lame boyfriend Josh. After initially complaining that Josh is too old (32) and wondering if it was "immoral" to date other people while she's letting this asshole who SHE ISN'T EVEN FUCKING buy her dinner and bore her to death, she finally gets drunk and booty texts him.
...after 3 glasses of merlot...on a whim I texted Josh, "Is it bad that I want to drunk text you right now?"Who the hell reiterates in a drunken "come over and hook up with me" text that they'll keep things PG-13, and this is a selling point? I'd be like, "yeah, no thanks, son...I'm going to call up my NC-17 rated booty call. I can touch my own fucking tits. You can either bring your dick or nothing at all." I mean, I'm sure that Josh is trying to get laid, so he has to promise he'll back off at second base in order to persuade her to make things "O-tastic" (lamest descriptive term ever, and how is PG-13 "O-tastic", unless Leo's the luckiest bitch in the world and can achieve climax during tedious foreplay), which I'm guessing means Josh did a little light fingerbanging. Unfortunately, this dumb slag learned the hard way why she should have saved herself a whole lot of time and trouble by giving old Joshie a test drive at their first meeting, because a couple of posts later, she's singing a different tune:
I shut my phone and the minutes rolled by. Crrraaaap! Bad bad bad bad BAD idea! He had probably read it and decided he would never call me again. But then, sure enough: "Haha! I see dinner with the parents is going well."
We exchanged a few more texts which pretty openly and honestly debated the idea of him coming over. Being the gentleman that Josh is, he reiterated that it was a short walk, up to me, and he would keep things PG-13. At that point, I was pretty much set on having him come over.
In the half an hour before Josh would come over to my place, I madly raced around my apartment, lighting candles, making the bed, and picking up dirty towels off the floor. It must have distracted me from how nervous I was, because when I had a moment to breathe before the buzzer rang, I noticed that my heart was racing...and not just from cleaning so quickly. But, when Josh appeared at my door, gave me a huge smile, cupped my face in his hands and slowly kissed me, I melted....
In the interest of reserving some aspect of privacy, I won't go into the details of the evening. Overall, though, it was a fun time. Nothing too serious.
But I will just say that...it was O-tastic!
So I know I said things with Josh the other night were O-tastic. Which is true. Except for that we didn’t have sex. So, when we finally “did the grown-up,” recently well…things were less than stellar (and actually, there were two attempts in there because we had two dates in the past week). I’m not sure I understand why. I mean, everything up until the sex was fine, but when we finally got to it…Let’s just say that if there are any crickets in New York City, I could hear them chirping.I love how in the course of this "sex" blog, the only sex that ever seems to happen was this fabled New Year's one night stand and the post-"O-tastic" letdown that was Josh, yet Leo is a fucking tough critic. I'm sure the sex DID suck, since Leo strikes me as not only an inexperienced former Smith ex-LUG (lesbian until graduation), but as one of those quiet types in the sack. I don't care if a partner isn't as noisy as myself (that's a tough act to follow...it's been done, but rarely), but there's nothing worse than banging someone who just lays there and acts like they may as well be getting their shoes shined. Not to mention that I'm sure she's the type who turns off all the lights and is generally too insecure about her body to do anything but rut uninspiredly from a static and supine position. Zzzzzzzzzz.
I have to say, it’s kind of a bummer. Even though I wanted to keep things casual with him, I came to see that he had a lot of potential. He was a gentleman and a half, he was smart, funny, and I was attracted to him.
Of course, I’ve been thinking about this non-stop since I’ve last seen him, and I’ve given it a lot of thought. So it’s not like I’m just writing him off. I even poked around in our sex articles and found “When Everything’s Great but the Sex," but the fact that I didn’t even want to picture myself acting out the article’s suggestions was a fair clue that things with Josh just weren’t meant to be.
Now just how to let him down lightly? Seeing as “you’re bad in bed” and “you’re too old for me” are both offensive excuses. There’s the good old “this just isn’t working for me”, but I do kind of feel like I owe Josh some respect. I casually asked Christie today for some advice and she wasn’t much help, as she jokingly suggested, “You could sleep with him again and say the wrong name in bed. That would get rid of him. Maybe say it before you guys actually get too far into things, just so you don’t have to do it with him again.” (She was totally kidding, by the way).
I am so bad at confrontation (ummm…remember a little New Year’s post when I couldn’t just politely ask my one night stand to leave but instead had to lie to his face to get him to out of my house?), so this is starting to make me nervous. I know deep down, though, that I should learn from this experience, end the relationship (or flirtation, or whatever it was!) the right way.
Except that Christie’s suggestion is starting to look more and more appealing….
And how fucking pathetic do you have to be to spend all your time concocting elaborate schemes to let Josh down easy? First off, Josh is ten years her senior, so I'm sure he can mentally wrap his mind around that he won't be growing old watching his beloved Leo's upper arms get progressively fatter and more wobbly. Somehow I think Josh, an apparently smart, funny, financially independent single man in New York City, will manage to go on with his life sans Leo's immature, acne-spotted ass. As Josh is an adult who has probably been rejected by hotter chicks than Leo, if she really wanted to do the next kiss on Josh's list a favor, she'd tell him that he needs to bone up on his bedroom skills. I mean, giving some constructive advice that will help Josh in the long run is certainly more respectful than pulling some shady sexual trickery to make a guy dump you because you're too much of a pussy to just sever ties yourself. As is, she'll probably just get vacillate endlessly about what to do, then just never call him back. Then she'll treat the internets to a series of interminable blog entries whining about her feelings concerning the fact that she never gets any ass and doesn't have a boyfriend. Loser.
As always, Smith College proves that its reputation as a depository for sexually frustrated, annoying, pudgy girls will persist indefinitely. I may as well resign myself to accepting the fact that I should just skate over that aspect of my education. "I went to grad school at Columbia"--a statement which in my mind conjures images of pain, suffering, and torture on par with something produced by Hieronymous Bosch--sounds downright sexy compared to "I went to Smith," which conjures images of small tits and large guts nagging me for something. No thanks.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Dumb Smith bitches, fat fucks, JerseyGirl, retard rage, sex, Sex and the City, sluts, you're ugly
Thursday, February 14, 2008
The Deadliest Pug
Yesterday it was very rainy, so I decided to deck Chingy! out in some weather-appropriate gear that one of his dogsitters bought for him. As if Chingy! isn't enough of an asshole, every time he goes to stay with one of his dogsitters, he returns with giant bags of treats, rawhides, bones (which are invariably appropriated by Caesar), personal furniture, toys, and doggity outerwear. I decided to see how Chingy! would like his rain slicker. As one might predict, Chingy! had zero interest in wearing this outfit out in the rain, and upon my putting it on him, returned to his previous position sleeping on my bed.
Somehow, I can't see Chingy! mining the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea for "red gold" like the ballsy crab fisherman of "Deadliest Catch." Chingy! is a far cry from the hotness that is Captain Sig Hansen, and he'd make for the laziest, least mobile, most useless greenhorn ever to set foot aboard the mighty F/V Northwestern. The only thing Chingy! would probably do right is the traditional Norwegian ritual of eating raw cod hearts to invoke favor with the gods of crabbing, and that's solely because Chingy! is known to love consuming disgusting shit. The only practical purpose I can see him serving on a boat is as ballast. His ass would be summarily fired, if he didn't get washed overboard first. Hell, even the Gorton's fisherman would probably fire him for sloth and incompetence, and the Gorton's fisherman is a made-up dude on a box of processed fish sticks.
CHONGAY CHONG, rain slicker!
CHONGAY CHONG, rain slicker!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, Deadliest Catch, doggity style, fat fucks, hilarious shit, ridiculous absurdity
Friday, January 18, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Paul Soto
DOB: 1967
Occupation: collecting disability benefits and reminiscing fondly about his days as one of New York's finest
Hometown: ????
Current residence: New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Paul Soto was employed as a New York City police officer until 2005. That is when his weight ballooned to a massive 500 pounds (on a guy who stands 5'7"). Initially his bosses put him on desk duty since he could no longer chase criminals around. Later, he retired with a disability pension. As he was getting ready to retire, he went to see a doctor about his bum knee, and stumbled on a pallet near the doctor's office. As a result of the injury, he applied for higher-paying accidental disability pension. When the disability board denied his claim, he sued. As it turns out, the judge didn't buy any of this "knee injury" bullshit and sided with the disability board! From the greatest newspaper in the history of the printed word, the New York Post:
HE'S BIIIG BLUEAn article in the Daily News notes the humorous fact that Soto's neighbors refer to him as "Policia Gordo" and have to carry his groceries for him due to his limited mobility and respiratory problems.
QUARTER-TON COP LOSES
By DAREH GREGORIAN, MURRAY WEISS and LUCY CARNE
January 17, 2008 -- He weighs more than 500 pounds, but that wasn't enough to tip the scales of justice for ex-cop Paul Soto.
The rotund retiree lost his legal argument that it was a line-of-duty fall outside a doctor's office that cost him his NYPD career. A judge says it was actually his "morbid obesity."
"There's no dispute that [Soto] is physically incapable of performing his duties as a police officer. He is morbidly obese, suffers from narcolepsy and is hypertensive," Manhattan Supreme Court Justice Judith Gische wrote in her decision made public yesterday.
"Mr. Soto was put on desk duty for his own safety," and "was not any less able to perform his duties after the fall than he was before it."
"We're disappointed," said Soto's lawyer, Philip Seelig, who'd been fighting to get his client a big-bucks accidental disability pension from the department.
He currently receives ordinary disability retirement benefits, which pay an officer a taxable pension of half his salary. An accidental disability retirement pays a nontaxable pension of three-fourths his salary.
Seelig said his corpulent client's career came to an end in March 2005, when "he was trying to navigate around a pallet" outside of an NYPD doctor's office, fell and hurt his knee.
The pension board didn't swallow that argument, noting that he had earlier put in retirement papers claiming disabilities related to "morbid obesity."
They blamed the problems with his knee on his excessive weight - a finding Seelig said was "arbitrary and capricious." Gische found the board had weighed all the facts.
When Soto joined the force in 1993, Gische found, he weighed approximately 250 pounds. He is now 40, 5-foot-7 and over 500 pounds.
A former colleague at the 6th Precinct said Soto's gun belt was an incredible 6 feet long, and his bosses would order him to take walks around the stationhouse for his own good. They would also have other officers shadow him to make sure he didn't pick up food along the way, he said.
Another former co-worker said he was "a sweetheart of a guy" who always got Christmas gifts for the stationhouse, including a TV for the lounge. "The job was his whole family," he said.
At his East Houston Street apartment building, neighbors called him big-hearted.
"He's a very nice guy. He gives everybody chocolate at Christmas," said Natalie Nuñez, 16.
Sha right. Policia Gordo's neighbors might think he's nice enough because he thanks them after they tote around his undoubtedly large load of groceries into his apartment and gives them Christmas chocolate, but I've got his number. Paul Soto is the kind of guy who would sneak around the stationhouse eating all day instead of working on any actual law enforcement, and then when his weight ballooned, barely injure himself to get a better pension. Then, when the pension powers that be were like, "Uh, dude, you were already on your way to the knee doctor when this happened to deal with the fact that your knee was fucked up due to the crushing weight of your body," he decided to squander even more precious taxpayer money on a crybaby lawsuit.
What I take issue with is that never once does Policia Gordo suggest that maybe he could rejoin his beloved brothers in blue by LOSING WEIGHT. Instead, he feels entitled to additional benefits because somehow his morbid obesity isn't his responsibility. Because Policia Gordo had nothing to do with his body weight literally doubling since joined the force in 1993, even though he demonstrated so little self-control that other cops had to babysit him to prevent him from stuffing his face all day long. Frankly, I'm glad that a man with such a woeful ability to restrain his impulses has hung up his storied six-foot gun belt. If Policia Gordo wanted to really stay with his "family" at the 6th precinct, he could have done what the rest of us would do: join a gym, diet, and take off that extra weight. I'm sure there were other officers who would go with him to hit the weights and do some cardio. Getting fat is not an accident; it's the result of decisions the fat person makes. In Policia Gordo's case, these were decisions to make passes at the stationhouse donut box and let himself blow up like the damn Hindenburg, and then tried to blame a knee injury caused by his own mammoth size on the NYPD doctor who had some random pallet sitting around outside his office. If there's one thing New York City (and anywhere, for that matter) needs less of, it's cops who refuse to be held accountable for their own choices.
Policia Gordo just needs to sit in his apartment and get back to his stack of Totino's pizzas, and be glad that morbid obesity is considered a "disability" worthy of pension benefits at all. I don't like the idea that I am so heavily taxed (New York has a CITY income tax, as well as state and federal), and these steep taxes are levied to pay the salaries and disability benefits of lazy, culpability-dodging lardasses like Policia Gordo just because they can't say no to a meatball sub. That's bullshit.
I'm glad that Policia Gordo is still on half-salary pension benefits, because maybe now he'll be forced on the poverty diet. I can attest that a diet of bagels, kimchi ramen, cheese pizza slices, Dominican skirt steak, and Heineken works wonders for losing those pesky 10 vanity pounds. Granted, Policia Gordo would still have about 240 pounds more to go before he could fit back into his uniform blues, but every little bit is something.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, fat fucks, large exclamatory font, NYC, oh the horror
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