Friday, September 26, 2008
What would Ishtar do?
I am not the kind of girl who usually gets very emotionally attached to people I'm sleeping with. In fact, I usually treat many of the people–especially the fellas–I bang with something almost like contempt. I kick them out of my apartment and my life when I've finished using them for my own gratification, I resent them for liking me on occasions when they do, and I look for mistakes they make so that I can objectify and criticize them, and thus avoid any unpleasant emotional entanglements that might make me seem vulnerable, imperfect, or otherwise human. As LL Cool Jew explained to me the other day, "you're just allergic to the idea of being uncool, and you equate uncool with intimacy." I don't know if "uncool" is the right word, but she's definitely right about me fearing that in the course of sleeping with somebody, I might actually like them, develop some type of a–ahem–relationship with them, and let them get a look at my soft underbelly. Then usually the whole thing goes south somehow, and I'm living out my eponymous Rolling Stones song. My kisses still taste sweet and there ain't a woman that comes close to me, but Angie, ain't it time we said goodbye?
Okay, so maybe she looks like what would happen if someone combined essential elements of Goser the Gozerian, Marilyn Chambers, and an 80s aerobics instructor-by-day, stripper-by-night and airbrushed it on the side of a child molester van, but this is the kind of hooker-ass prostitute I can get behind with some sacrilegious worship when I need to get my bitch legs back. Any lady with such a seriously hot wardrobe, a battle lion, and a fighting force of knife-wielding courtesans with bad Ogilvie home perms can definitely perk me up when I'm feeling too emotional and sad about my love life. From now on, when life throws me a "boo hoo, things didn't go your way" kind of curve ball, fuck Jesus. I'm going to ask myself what Ishtar would do. WWID!
On occasions when I do wind up sleeping with someone I like, developing some sort of relationship with that person, and then fucking the whole thing up, like the Angie of the song I get a little sadness in my eyes. Okay, I get a lot of sadness in my eyes sometimes, because secretly I'm extremely sensitive and usually end up looking and feeling like a walking Morrissey song. In situations where someone clearly screws me over, I unleash Razzy in full force by going on a scotch-fueled bender in which I revenge-fuck half of New York as effigies of my offender and vow utter destruction (or at least drink-throwing and public humiliation) upon the hapless fool who squandered the rare blessing of seeing the soft, sweet, vulnerable side of me that I regard as a dirty secret. I validate every sucker who believes in astrology and embody the typical Scorpio, a fury of sex, war, passion, and vengeance. I make the person who hurt my feelings my sworn enemy, and vow to smote his ruin upon the mountainside. I will not rest until his ass is jobless, penniless, homeless, and hairless. Or, since those things are actually and unfortunately out of my power to effect, at least cause him some trouble in terms of getting laid in the future.
Then, there are the situations in which the other person is not the bad guy. These are the situations in which things fail due to circumstances beyond my or the other party's control, and I can't raise my battle standard and recoup my pride in righteous anger. These are the situations where failure just happens and it's unfortunate and shitty, but nobody is really to blame. These instances are more difficult for me to deal with, because without a target for relief in the form of directed rage, I instead feel the profound sadness of life just not being fair.
A lot of people turn to religion to make sense of such senseless scenarios, but I've found that Catholicism does little to console me. In fact, it makes me feel worse most of the time because I've landed squarely on the "whore" side of the Catholic virgin-whore dichotomy of femaleness, and am reaping the fruits of all the cautionary tales I was told about this as a little girl in school: emotionally damaged, rejected as "marriage material," unfit for motherhood, and reviled or pitied by the so-called "respectable" people of the world. Because both my inner rational thinker and my inner radical femi-nazi with "RIOT GRRL" written on her knuckles thinks this all an unfair bullshit construct designed to keep female sexuality and independence from interfering with the sexually frustrated patriarchy that makes the rules over in Rome, I don't think that dealing with relationship failures with Jesus is a very good solution for me. Jesus can handle business when it comes to the fate of my immortal soul, but he sucks ass at making me feel better about life's emotional disappointments. It's hard for me to put my emotions in the hands of a dude whose method of consoling skanks involves letting them wash his feet with their tears. That doesn't sound like it will be particularly helpful to me.
Thus, blasphemous though it may be, I have to turn to the pantheon of pagan deities for a little relief in the Angie-don't-you-weep department. Obviously this is something I'm going through now, and last night as I was mulling things over, I happened to be reading a book about sluts throughout history. I came across an account of the Babylonian goddess Ishtar (or Inanna, if you prefer Sumerian mythology). Ishtar was basically the skank ruler of the Babylonian pantheon, and she's my new hero. From what I can tell, she fucked her younger husband to death, went to the underworld to fetch him, got into the underworld by threatening to break in and unleash a zombie apocalypse upon the living, waltzed in stripping, got thrown into the Hell jail and tortured with some sort of apt slut punishment called "the sixty diseases," and was sprung when she put a halt to all sex on earth until her ass was freed. Then, when her resurrected husband was chilling back on earth and not missing her at all, she sent his sorry ass back to Hell! Another time, when some loser named Gilgamesh denied her, she set a bull on him, and that resulted in Gilgamesh and his asshole bros shaking the bull's leg at her in rage while she gathered her loyal army of prostitutes and mocked him with a big orgy. I mean, just look at this slag!
Labels: Dear God, for serious people, Razzification
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: nobody except maybe my mom (but not seriously, because...EW, it's my MOM!)
2008 has been a rough year for me. Some of it I've discussed here at length, like my legal drama. Some of it I have just alluded to, like my financial drama (okay, that's not so much "drama" as "stress induced by abject poverty"), my lab drama (nothing works), my health drama (quitting smoking), my mental health drama (chronic depression and the shrinks who fail to treat it), and my boy drama (a so-called "friend" telling me he could never date me because I'm a slut and a freak). However, all of it has been weighing heavily on me, and last night I approached what can best be described as a near-total nervous breakdown. Specifically, I was considering dropping out of school and running back to the P-N-Dub with my tail between my legs, and I spent three hours on the phone with my mom sobbing about it.
I very rarely open up like that and let it all out, especially to my mother. She gets really worried about me, and it pains me to cause her so much distress. Last night, for example, she was fretting over whether my current ill mood was her fault because she and my dad ran so hard with the "child prodigy" thing. When I was four, my precocious nature inspired my parents to take me to a psychologist, who tested my IQ and pronounced me an official genius. My mom told me that he said, "Your daughter is going to make a big mark on the world. There aren't very many people like her." As a result, my parents started me in school early, got me into piano lessons, bought me a computer so that I could write better, signed me up for the gifted program, and reminded me all the time how special and different I am. I excelled academically, but my lack of maturity and social ineptitude made it very difficult for me to find friends early in life. I always felt different. On one hand, I felt like I was better than everyone else. On the other, I felt helpless to fit in and feel accepted, because my insufferable egotism didn't exactly win me a lot of friends. Last night, my mom said that she worried that the reason I take on so much now and don't take good care of myself is because she and my father encouraged me to be The World's Greatest from the moment I left that psychologist's office with my genius card. I told her that I can't be The World's Greatest because that lofty title is held by one Robert Sylvester Kelly. She didn't get the joke. The truth is, I'm so obsessed with being good at everything and presenting an impervious, indefatigable, totally dominant face to the world that I fail to remember one very important thing: deep inside, I'm an extremely fragile, extremely sensitive, extremely vulnerable human being with flaws and limits, and my failure to recognize and respect that leads to my complete and total mental and physical exhaustion.
Anyway, to make a long story short, my mother talked me out of dropping out of grad school unless that was really what I wanted. As much as I loathe grad school, that is not what I want to do, because I have no respect for quitters, and because I really do want to get my Ph.ake doctorate, so sorry, Columbia...you're stuck with my batshit crazy ass for another year (or less, God willing). I would probably never forgive myself for quitting, and there's already quite a lot that I don't forgive myself for. My mom told me that she can't imagine what it's like to be me, and have expectations for myself that few people burden themselves with with a simultaneous inability to relax those expectations at all.
Why am I telling you all this? Well, the conversation (and some recent kind comments encouraging me to take care of myself and move on from my past issues) brought to my attention that even Razzyphiles don't expect me to be full of useless bullshit all the time, and most of you will give me a break for not feeling like writing anything funny, or being exhausted, or generally showing some human weakness once in a while. Therefore, I wanted to explain why, in spite of waking up early as usual to surf the internets for something I could get excited about, I couldn't really think of anything I wanted to hit. Thanks to my mom's understanding and support, I feel a lot better about everything and I plan to get back in a more regular, cheerful frame of mind by stomping ass at pub trivia tonight with some of my peeps, but for now I feel too mentally beat to even get excited about the new line of 90210 nail polishes that are coming out (and duh, Kelly Taylor's color–along with mine–is TOTALLY cocksucker red). Thanks for your understanding and putting up with this super Smith girl post...I'm now about to go tap my reserves and get about the business of being back tomorrow in full motherfucking effect.
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, excuses, for serious people, Razzification
Friday, June 27, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my friends
DOB: various times throughout 1981
Occupation: history nerd, cable news producer, PR flunky
Hometown: San Francisco, CA; West Longbranch, NJ; Philadelphia, PA
Current residence: New Orleans, Louisiana and New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: The last couple of days I was feeling VERY un-Razzified on account of receiving one of the most personally mean "thanks but no thanks" sentiments in history, and I actually had to do something I rarely do: call my friends for emotional support (as opposed to the normal calling my friends to plan where we are drinking/watching Bev Niner). Usually I'm the one doling out all the moral support and making jokes to add some levity to someone else's personal crisis, but I am very thankful that on the rare occasions I'm feeling acutely down and in total crybaby mode, my friends are more than willing to return the favor at their inconvenience. The other night, JerseyGirl and Twathopper both dropped work obligations to rush up to Harlem and drink some brew dogs with me. Then, after listening to me blubber about my hurt feelings and reminded me how badass I am, encourage me to perform an open mic night rendition of my appalling 15-year-old lezzie poetry.
LL Cool Jew kept me on the phone for awhile, which was very kind of her considering she's fretting deeply because her husband is in civil war-torn and journalist-hating Sri Lanka right now, and because she got into a really awful car accident the day before. LL Cool Jew was so great with the scorned woman vitriol (her response to the guy who hurt my feelings–and more specifically the manner in which he hurt my feelings– was "I WANT HIM DEAD!"), that she actually called BigBagel in Sri Lanka to tell him about it, and when she told him that the "I don't want to go out for drinks within the context of a date because you're a big slut who talks about your abortion" schtick was presented in a "for your own good" sort of way, he responded, "Does this mean I get to tell that guy a few things for his own good?" In addition to rallying her family beneath the Razzy Apologist banner, she was also super sweet. After learning about the falling death and decapitation of my beloved St. Francis of Assisi idol, she promptly went straight on to a bunch of Catholic websites and, after noting that my people have the "trinkets-for-salvation" market cornered, purchased me a replacement.
Even hard-ass bitches like myself have their weak spots. One of mine starts with "A" and rhymes with "gabortion," and to have this brought up in the context it was the other day by a person purporting to be my "friend" was a complete shock to me. I've got a pretty thick skin, but hearing someone say that you are an undesirable person because of how you deal with your life's most significant problems is crushing and horrible. Most of the time, I can say "FUCK YOU, HATER!" and give the offending party a well-deserved douchebagging. On rare circumstances, though, somebody hits a really sensitive nerve, and I turn into a sobbing, self-loathing ball of jelly. Let's face it...I don't think I'm really fooling anyone for too long with the whole "I'm Razzy and you're not, so suck it!" attitude I present to the world. As LL Cool Jew once put it, "You keep all that sweetness so hidden away, but you don't need to feel bad when some of it sneaks out!" Deep down, I'm really just an emotionally vulnerable poetry-writing girl who uses my aggressive, no-bullshit, exceedingly honest demeanor as a shield against being hurt and feeling bad. When someone actually manages to penetrate my fomidable exterior and hits a tender spot, I need strong, loving friends to lean on until I regain my "fuck you" legs. I'm really lucky to have friends like LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, and Twathopper (as well as MillerTime, J-Sexy, HotLawyer, and Morrissey'sHair, who have all been patient enough to listen to me bitch about this situation at one point or another), who care about me and are ready and willing to show me how much when I really need it. Thanks, you guys, for helping me get my Razzification back. I love you and you are the best.
Labels: for serious people, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, Twathopper
Thursday, June 26, 2008
THE most embarrassing thing that I've ever done
Yesterday, I had one of the most upsetting instant message conversations of all time. To make a long and completely unnecessary story very short, I got a "no thanks, I'm not interested in you" in the form of talk about how my public discussion of my abortion makes this dude think I'm a totally unattractive and unlovable freak, and an itemized list of obvious problems with myself that this dude wanted no part of. Basically, it was the cruelest, most humiliating way of hearing "let's just be friends" of all time, and I was in a tremendously bad state afterwards. Don't get me wrong, I've certainly been in the position where a dude just wasn't feeling me, and sure, that makes you feel bad for about a week. Your ego is wounded and that sucks, but you get over it much sooner than later, and big fucking deal. It happens, and (especially when you're a narcissist like me) you get over it. However, I've never received a comprehensive summary of the human flaws I am most sensitive about as a means of saying "I'm just not feeling a re-do of the date we had almost a year ago." All I could do while discussing this–over IM–was try to save face and seem like I was merely embarrassed rather than profoundly hurt that this person actually thought that by telling me all about EVERYTHING that is wrong with me (to the point of quoting comments on this very blog saying that I'm too much of a slut to ever find a man who isn't a freak and then adding that such commenters "have my back") would be a kindness.
While this was actually pretty awful, I naturally acted like it was no big deal, and then called my friends in tears. The reason I talk about my abortion the way I do is because it is so unbelievably painful and difficult for me to deal with that the only way I know how to cope with it is to minimize its destructive power by making flippant jokes. Horrible things lose some of their sting when you can make fun of them. Being incredibly hurt by hearing that my sole coping mechanism for dealing with the worst thing that I've ever done is at the top of the list of reasons why I'm an undesirable freak is at least something that my friends can make fun of and thus help me deal with.
A couple of my friends came to my apartment to drink beers with me and discuss how awesome I am and how, while bringing up the fact that I talk about my abortion as a negative I somehow needed to hear about might be one of the coldest things they've ever heard of, we've all put ourselves out there and gotten burned BAD. Sometimes, this burning is in the stupidest, most humiliating, most vulnerability-exploiting way, and what can you do besides try to laugh about that? Everyone was talking about the most embarrassing thing they've ever done in these situations, and who had the most predictable bullshit embarrassing bad dating moves ever? Go figure...that was strictly in the realm of lesbian stories.
Twathopper said something like, "At least you actually slept with this fuck once. And at least you didn't go give some bitch who wouldn't even fuck you their inaugural article in Runner's World framed as a gift!"
While that IS pretty lame, in fairness, Twathopper was putting up with six months of extreme mindfuckery, and she was new to the clam bake. Novice lesbians always do stupid shit like that, and I know from experience. This actually made Twathopper seem sane and normal, because memories of my incredibly annoying high school poetry-writing lesbian phase flooded in, and I was like, "I think I've actually done something even more embarrassing than that. Holy shit, I think I actually have some poetry."
I have a box of crap from yesteryear containing a bunch of random photographs and letters and that kind of thing. One of these random items was a poem I wrote on September 13, 1994 per the date stamp. "I think that myself at age 14 almost 15 was even worse," I said. It's true; I was the most RIDICULOUSLY UNCOOL, TOTALLY INSANE teenage lesbian at a Jesuit high school ever. There is nothing that will drive a highly cognitive, sexually confused pubescent girl nuts like a hefty dose of Catholic guilt and hormone-clouded thoughts of unrequited love. Poetry writing was the least of my problems. I actually did some light stalking, long letter-writing, and truck-egging (and how crazy teenage lesbian is that?) after my ex-girlfriend dumped me for this other girl in our class because she was the sole BDOC (big dyke on campus) in our high school and she basically could. Trust that I realized fifteen years ago how batshit crazy that sort of behavior is over someone not worth that much effort.
Anyway, I realized that even hearing that someone is not attracted to me because of how I've dealt with my most traumatic experience ever is nothing in terms of embarrassment when it comes to how I dealt with my high school lezzie drama. The poem I wrote is absolute proof, and it was actually educational, as I realized when I wrote this, I was still 14 and had obviously grown enamored with fucking my girlfriend. I swear it was when I was fifteen, and I remember the exact date (July 26, 1995) that I lost my virginity to a dude, but apparently I was hitting pussy when I was just 14 according to the date on the poem (*and OOPS, I was born November 17, 1978, so I was totally 15 when this was written...I just obviously suck hard at math, but I'm leaving it). That would be a lot more sexually precocious in an awesome way if it weren't for the UNBELIEVABLY LAME POETRY I WROTE! I couldn't even read this whole thing to my friends because I was so ashamed of it, and I'm certainly not printing the entire thing here now. I am probably more ashamed of this than ANYTHING I've ever done, and strictly because it's the most cloying, awful, totally pathetic teenage lesbian thing I've ever read. Here are some of the excerpts I can actually tolerate releasing to the internets-reading public, and...well, just uff da. UFF DA!
The window is cracked to our naked skin
And we would be cold but for the
Heat of the other woman's flesh.
The blankets, smell of old cigarettes, the keys
Why she loves me.
I mean, SERIOUSLY?!?! I WROTE THIS?!?!?! If I didn't know how incredibly psychotic and overwhelmingly lame I was as an insane faux-suicidal lesbian teenager, I wouldn't believe it myself. And it gets worse.
The act of marriage, sacred and unholy still
With another woman it is just dirt
White dirt and I know God is getting off
On it, that love I feel when her
Skin is plastered to mine with the
Exertion of what she gives for me
I may have had some sick Catholic issues and been in the midst of a sexuality crisis, but on the bright side, at least I was having apparently extremely hot lesbian sex (and by that, I mean mostly boobmashing with a sprinkle of clumsy fingerbanging and labia kissing). "Skin plastered to mine" and "Exertion of what she gives for me"? That sounds to me like some seriously sexy girl-on-girl, but this was obviously spoken by someone who was having sex for the first time. Now that I've had a considerable amount of experience on top of that, I recall that this bitch had no tits, and was constantly complaining that I wasn't hitting the right spot. Give me a break, I didn't even discover my own G-spot until I started fucking boys, and that was totally by accident. At least she apparently got the job done for me. ANYWAY! Back to the horrendous poetry. It really does make me feel better to take the worst times of my life and rag on them hard. How can I really take stuff like this seriously? I certainly cannot take it with the life-or-death gravity as I did when I wrote it.
And masked bitter envy in a cloak of
False and prefabricated guilt.
This is the tree of life up here
Hidden in the outdated closets and faded curtains
Swept back so we can gaze together
Out of the bright picture window and
Watch the light play pretty shapes on
Flattened stomachs, bare golden backs
Red-spotted breasts and long yellow hair.
God, she's so pretty.
Okay, now I am sufficiently embarrassed by this TOTAL doggerel (and yes, I know this particular poem doesn't rhyme and thus technically doesn't qualify as "doggerel," but I can't think of a better word that means "shitty fucking poetry") that I can't continue with the excerpts. This is truly the most horrifyingly shameful thing I've ever committed to paper, and while I'm mortified that I brought this into the world at all, I'm glad that I did for personal self-esteem reasons. From now on, every time I make some incredibly dumbass girl move and get emotionally bitch-slapped for it, I can just pick my original copy of "Forbidden" out of my "old shit" box and remind myself how much crazier I was fifteen years ago, and how I'm SO much better than all of that now. Lord knows my sex life with the ladies these days is a hell of a lot more Strap it On 5 than "God, she's so pretty," and there's certainly nothing I can do or say to any of my sexual partners that's crazier or more horribly shameful than what I wrote in 1994.
In the midst of an extremely hearty laugh, JerseyGirl was like, "Razzy, that poem really is cereally one of the most straight-up renarded things I've ever heard." Truly. And when things like this come up, where I am faced with the consequences of writing extremely personal, touchy things on the internets and having somebody misinterpret the kind of human being I am at my deep expense as a result, I can always rely on the fact that no matter what I do as an adult trying to deal with the complicated issues of life the best way I can, I'm never going to be as "cereally renarded" as I was when I was 14. And actually, that is greatly comforting. It's a huge relief to know that the lamest thing I've ever done has nothing to do with heavy shit like how I deal with my abortion and how other people respond to it. For the first time ever...thank you, inner poetry-writing retarded-ass lesbian. Thank you so fucking much.
Labels: crazies, for serious people, JerseyGirl, lezbollah, oh the horror, Razzification, Twathopper
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: nobody
So I'm in the midst of a rough patch, and while I'll probably be back to my old self by tomorrow, today I am just really not in the mood to hit anyone, unless you mean in the sense of punching them in the face. I am rarely as emotionally shaken up as I was yesterday, and without going into it too much, I am just not up to my usual standards. So rest assured I'll be back in better form tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll put up some lesbian poetry to mock and a better explanation of why I'm such a negative nancy today.
XOBJBS and thanks for understanding,
Razzy
Labels: excuses, for serious people, Razzification
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Daily Douchebag: the dumb boys I occasionally like
DOB: also no comment
Occupation: apart from tormenting my thoughts, no comment
Hometown: definitely no comment
Current residence: NO FUCKING COMMENT
Douchebaggery: Most of the time, my attitude about dating is "FUCK RELATIONSHIPS." My life has enough drama (legal threats and stalkers) and I am so busy with school and this blog that I generally think my life doesn't need the additional complication of maintaining a relationship. I spend a great deal of time convincing myself that relationships are akin to herpes: something to avoid at all costs lest it plague me for months to come. I'm pretty successful at doing so. A few years ago, LL Cool Jew asked people to submit songs that reminded them of me for a birthday mix CD, and THREE separate people suggested "Man Eater" by Hall and Oates. However, as much as I hate to damage my reputation as an unrepentant slut with a heart of stone, a supercharged libido, no sense of shame, and an ability to toss out former lovers like empty Heineken bottles, I'd be lying if I said I didn't occasionally like someone and actually want to date them. And by "date" I don't just mean "fuck and allow them to sleep over" but actually talking and getting to know each other and that sort of thing.
When this happens, it usually results in some type of disaster. The guys I tend to like are either assholes or not interested or both. Furthermore, I'm terribly incompetent at playing coy and hard-to-get and all the subtle girl crap you are supposed to do to attract a boy's mind as well as his penis. I usually try really hard to act like I don't care, which then leads the object of my affections to think I don't, which then frustrates me and finally causes me to say "DUH, IDIOT, I TOTALLY LIKE YOU!" or something similarly inappropriate and frightening, and scares the guy off permanently.
I'm not looking to get married, or even to have a serious boyfriend. I'm not desperate for companionship, but I also am not dedicated to my fortress of solitude. When I meet someone who I consider quality and who I think I am compatible with, I usually would just like to get to know them better and see what happens. However, I'm terrible at getting to know dudes better outside of the Biblical context. I'm so afraid that they will reject me as a person that when I'm in a position to initiate something beyond sex that I pay a lot of lip service to my cold-hearted emotionless skank qualities and unfortunately they usually buy it. One guy I liked a while back ended up being so put off by this routine that he avoided me and acted weird after we had sex, and then when I confronted him about it, he said he was not the type who sleeps around and wanted to ignore me forever, I said something along the lines of, "YOU ASSHOLE, I LIKED YOU!" and then he was wearing my scotch. I was so mortified by my behavior and handling of the situation that I wrote a big crybaby post about it and have avoided grad student parties ever since.
I am absolutely no good at all at liking people, which is why I'm currently pissed at myself for being in that condition now. Because I value the guy I like now as a person, I'm determined not to fuck it up with any drunken confessions and/or scotch-tossing, so I overcompensate by fronting hard like we are just friends. I figure that if moves are to be made, he needs to make them so I don't fuck the whole thing up irreparably with my incompetence. This has worked in terms of not scaring him off and maintaining our friendship, but I worry that he doesn't know I like him, and this in turn will prevent him from making any moves if he likes me in return. I've been told that I'm intimidating to guys, and presumably this contributes to the lack of move-making on his end and results in me being cockblocked by my own magnificent awesomeness. It's also possible that he's not that into me and just wants to be friends, but I don't know because I suck so righteously at the kind of feminine tricks that can tease this information out of a dude.
I was bitching to LL Cool Jew about this, and she gave me the most on-point analysis I've ever heard of why I have a hard time reeling in the dudes I consider keepers.
Razzy: i'm totally reverting to my dumb inner seventh grade girl and being retarded about liking dumb stupid dumb guy i like
LL Cool Jew: dumb guy you like
LL Cool Jew: another one who needs to get with the mufung program
Razzy: the dumb guy i like is being totally dumb
Razzy: i mean, i can't tell if he likes me
Razzy: every time i think he does
Razzy: then i am like, but he's talking to me about his other girlfriends or would-be girlfriends
LL Cool Jew: i know you know what i'm goign to tell you right now
Razzy: ignore this guy because he's dumb?
LL Cool Jew: you put yourself out there like you're not capable of tripping over a dude
LL Cool Jew: which puts you in the unfortunate position of having to overtly tell someone how you feel
Razzy: i know, and i hate that
LL Cool Jew: which can make you way more vulnerable than you might choose to become.
LL Cool Jew: and it can totz backfire
Razzy: it's a lot easier to just get drunk and fuck someone and ask questions later
Razzy: oh it HAS backfired
LL Cool Jew: i know it has
LL Cool Jew: what sucks is that when you like someone, you're not in love with them - at all
LL Cool Jew: you just like them
LL Cool Jew: and would like to be taken seriously by them
LL Cool Jew: but being in the position where you have to "profess your like"
LL Cool Jew: makes it seem like you care way more than you currently do
Razzy: and then i come across as scary or too aggressive
LL Cool Jew: exactly
Razzy: EXACTLY
LL Cool Jew: and then they get all awful like she's so into me, she's sweating me
LL Cool Jew: (aka stupid [dumb guy from LL's brief single period of yesteryear for 10 minutes])
LL Cool Jew: and you're like
LL Cool Jew: actually, i hate you
Razzy: YES
So, if anyone has any suggestions on how to resolve this situation without "professing my like," I'm all ears. This guy is smart, funny, cute, nerdy (which in my book means HOT), shares many interests, and I wish we could go on a date or whatever the fuck normal people do when they want to get to know each other better. He also gives me a lot of mixed signals and I can't tell if he isn't feeling it or is feeling it but doesn't want to initiate things for whatever reason (fear of rejection, he thinks I don't like him, he doesn't want to screw up our friendship, he's waiting for me to make a move, etc.). I'm not going to chase him around and make a fool out of myself, and I just want this feeling of embarrassed vulnerability to go away. I'm tired of feeling like a Morrissey song: full of self-doubt, neurotic, confused, and generally very un-Razzified. I hate liking dumb guys!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, for serious people, hot dudes, overcompensation
Thursday, May 22, 2008
My confession
I haven't received the sacrament of reconciliation in sixteen years. The grade school I went to forced us to confess prior to Christmas and Easter. Even the few non-Catholics had to go in and talk to the priest even if they couldn't write off their misdeeds with a few Hail Marys. Unfortunately, I hadn't really done any major sinning at that point so it was kind of an exercise in futility. I figured that merciful Christ would not damn me to the fires of Hell for fighting with my little brother or whatever small-time child's play sinning I repented. In high school, we had the option of going to either study hall or confession during Advent and Lent, and I only exercised the confession option once during my freshman year. After that I got on my unfortunate radical feminist jag, and rejected Catholicism for being too patriarchal. Well, and because there's no better way to perpetrate some rebellious teen angst than declaring oneself an atheist carpet muncher at your Jesuit high school. Anyway, the last time I went to confession was when I was thirteen my first semester of high school. I don't remember the sins I sought absolution for. After that, I opted for study hall and I have ever since.
Fast-forward to the present day, and I could assuredly benefit from some quality time with a priest in a confessional. I have done a hell of a lot of sinning since the last time I got my "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned" on. You could rephrase this to say that I've done a hell of a lot of premarital, extramarital, same sex, and/or group fucking since I was thirteen. The problem with me confessing these sins is that I'm not particularly sorry about most of them. Here and there, I regret times I've used sex to hurt people, or when I've handled sex so cavalierly and insensitively with someone that it fucked up my relationship with that person. However, I don't regret the fact that I stuck my face in a girl's crotch at fifteen and jumped on a dick at sixteen and have been doing that with gusto ever since.
There is, one thing, that I feel very, very bad about. I regret it deeply, and I feel that it is the greatest sin I've ever committed. I've alluded to it in the past, and tried to make light of it, but it is something that haunts me every day of my life. I need to confess it, but I'm still too much of a coward to hear what a priest might tell me. I think I'm afraid of being forgiven for it, because I don't know if I can ever let it go. Certainly a couple trips around the rosary will be insufficient penance. Since I'm too cowardly to seek the sacrament of reconciliation, I figure maybe I should confess this to the rest of the world. If I can give this up to the internets, maybe I'll be able to give this up to a man of the cloth and save my immortal soul from eternal damnation. Therefore, without further ado or pitiful showcases of my Catholic guilt, I'll just get on with the confessing.
In January 2004, after a Christmas vacation spent catching up with my stable of honeys in the P-N-Dub, I returned to New York. I noticed that my New Year's hangover never really quite went away in the sense that I began to experience nausea that became almost constant. At first, I attributed this to a stomach bug, since I am religious about taking my birth control pills on time and have been since the age of 16. When my monthly visitor did not arrive, however, I started to get a really bad feeling about the malady causing this. One night, my friend Miss Corbutt was hanging out at my apartment, and after a few drinks I finally articulated my secret fears to her.
"Dude, I think I might be pregnant."
"WHAT?!" she said.
"Well, I missed my period, and I'm throwing up all the time. I bought a pregnancy test, but I'm afraid to take it."
"It's going to be okay. Take the test first thing in the morning. I'll be here with you. In the meantime, have another beer."
So we drank and then went to bed, and then the next morning I braced myself. I knew I was pregnant. I didn't have to take the test to know it. Something was different with my body, and I could feel it. But even though I knew, I said a prayer that the test would prove this was all in my head. So I pissed on it and tried to hope that my instincts were wrong.
My instincts weren't wrong. I was indeed knocked up. I sat there, not knowing what to do. Miss Corbutt didn't ask what I was planning to do, or give me any advice. She just rubbed my back and told me everything was going to be okay. I told her that I just needed to think. She left me alone to do so.
I didn't really need to think. I knew what I had to do. The situation pretty much dictated what had to happen. I was in my first year of graduate school. I had classes and lab rotations. I didn't have time to become a single mother. I'd have to drop out of Columbia and probably move back to Puyallup. I'd become the unremarkable, economically and intellectually static woman I'd been working my whole life not to be. Add to it that on account of my brazen sluttiness, there were THREE candidates for Baby Daddy. I'm pretty sure I know which one it was, since Bachelor #1 had a serious case of whiskey dick, Bachelor #2 wore a condom and came down with prophylactic-induced erectile dysfunction, and Bachelor #3 gave me at least four cream pies. While I'd bet on Bachelor #3, I didn't really like the idea of involving him (especially since he was living with another woman) only to have the baby's paternity disproven upon its appearance. It would be pretty easy to tell whose kid it was once it came out, since Bachelor #1 was Arab, Bachelor #2 was white, and Bachelor #3 was black. It would be just my luck to have Bachelor #3 coaching me through delivery only to pop out a blonde-haired, blue-eyed baby. The only thing that could make that worse is Maury Povich popping in to declare, "Bachelor #3, you are NOT the father." Needless to say, I didn't feel I had any choice about what to do. I just couldn't bring myself to put the wheels in motion.
I called LL Cool Jew, who lived in Washington, DC at the time. She is steady and manages to combine practical here's-what-we-do actions with lots of compassion. Sometimes you need someone to tell you what to do and make the arrangements for you. I had done the same for her with regard to a bad breakup the year before, so I figured she would be able to do the same for me. I figured correctly.
"Hey, gurrrrrlllll," said LL Cool Jew.
"Dude, I'm pregnant," I said.
LL Cool Jew was quiet for a moment as she assumed a situation-appropriate sobriety. "Are you sure?"
"Tottlez, dude. I just took a test. What do I do?"
"Can you come down to DC in the next couple weekends?"
"Can I bring Caesar?" I asked.
"Duh."
"Yeah, sure."
"Let me call you right back," she said, getting off the phone. Five minutes later she called back.
"So, rent a car for weekend after next," she said. "I made an appointment for you."
"Great. I can't wait to see your and Wmania's new apartment," I said. I didn't know what else to say.
That was it. That was how I decided to have an abortion. I asked my friend to do it for me and acted like it was an excuse to check out LL Cool Jew and Wmania's new digs.
For the next week and a half, my morning sickness grew steadily worse. In fact, I'm not sure why it's even called "morning sickness" since I was afflicted with it at all hours of the day. I got in the habit of carrying a bottle of Pepto-Bismol with me everywhere I went. Some of my classmates at Columbia eventually began to inquire about my health. I told them I had a lingering case of stomach flu. One of my classmates eventually suggested that I see a doctor, since it wasn't right for such an ailment to persist, as we got into an elevator following another riveting Cell Membranes and Organelles class. "It's actually not a stomach flu," I said. "I'm pregnant."
There was a collective gasp from the elevator full of first-year grad students. I guess this is the kind of information you're supposed to hide and be ashamed of, but I have an almost compulsive need to be honest about myself. If I have no skeletons in my closet, nobody can ever hold anything over my head. Besides, I am an absolutely terrible liar. So I just came out with the truth. Then I felt sorry for shocking everyone else, so I comforted them. "Don't worry, I'm getting it taken care of next weekend." Everybody was still shocked, so I just tried to act as nonchalant and emotionally uninvolved as possible, like I'd just informed everyone I was going to the dermatologist to get a mole lasered off.
The time came, and I rented a car and loaded Caesar into it (this was pre-Chingy!), and drove to our nation's capital. LL Cool Jew, Wmania, and I drank wine and watched trash TV and made jokes about getting up early to be at the abortion clinic.
The next morning Wmania drove me to the clinic for my appointment at 8. It was in a suburban part of Maryland, in an unmarked, unassuming office building. "There's no sign," I observed. "Yeah, probably to keep the bombers away," said Wmania.
"That's comforting," I said. The waiting room was largely empty when I checked in.
"I'm here for an appointment to terminate my pregnancy," I said quietly, in the same tone of voice I'd use at a library or a funeral. I figured this was a somber occasion.
"Medical or surgical abortion?" said the receptionist loudly. My somber occasion was just another day at the office for her.
"Uhhh...what's the RU486 one? Medical, I guess," I said. The receptionist handed me some forms to fill out and said mechanically, "The purple form explains everything."
The purple form basically told me how the whole schtick was going to go down. They'd confirm my pregnancy, give me a shot of methotrexate in the ass to terminate my pregnancy, and after a week, I'd shove some misepristone pills in my cooch to induce a miscarriage of my dead fetus.
The waiting room started to fill up, and I waited and waited. Because the demand for the clinic's services apparently greatly exceeded its capacity to supply, they showed movies to help pass the time waiting. You might think that they'd show cheerful, lighthearted fare to lift the undoubtedly gloomy spirits of your average abortion clinic waiting room denizen, but you would be wrong. That morning they were showing Narc, an extremely violent movie about police corruption, drug dealing, torture, and murder. After a particularly lovely scene in which a dude blows his head off while taking a bong hit out of a loaded shotgun, Wmania said, "What the FUCK are we watching? Whoever put this movie in for this crowd was obviously smoking CRACK COCAINE." Whenever someone does something Wmania disapproves of, she always attributes it to the recent use of "crack cocaine."
Finally, they called me in. They wouldn't let Wmania come with me. I paid and made a lame joke about how, since I got airmiles for purchases made using my credit card, I should have abortions more often. The woman taking my payment did not laugh. Instead, she told me that I'd have to return afterward for a follow-up, and wanted to book the appointment then.
"How is February 14th?" she asked.
"Fine," I said. "It's going to be the most romantic Valentine's Day ever," I added. The woman again did not laugh. She sent me to a room for an ultrasound and then I had to piss in a cup for a pregnancy test. It took me an hour to produce a goddamn drop of urine. I attributed my urinary dysfunction to my constant vomiting. Finally, after I managed to piss, I was ushered into the gynecologist's examination room.
The doctor performed a pelvic exam on me. I remembered that she had the knobbiest knuckles I'd ever felt in my vagina. She brusquely advised me that I'd signed a form which legally obligated me to follow through with the abortion once I'd received my methotrexate, because otherwise I'd give birth to a deformed monster. I advised her that I was aware of that, and dropped a little science about methotrexate blocking proliferation of rapidly dividing cells by inhibiting dihydrofolate reductase. I told her she'd have to give me the methotrexate as an injection rather than a syrup, because I couldn't even keep water down. She told me to roll over and gave me a shot in the ass. Then she gave me a little packet of pills and told me to shove them up my vagina before bed in a week. She also gave me a prescription for Vicodin.
"Will I need this? Isn't this just going to be like a heavy period?" I asked.
"You might have some cramping," she said. "Just fill the prescription." Then, her clinical manner subsided and she squeezed my hand and shot me a kind, sympathetic expression. Even though her knuckles felt like ping pong balls, it was very comforting. "Make this as painless as possible for yourself," she said. "And avoid folic acid, it interferes with the methotrexate. But you already know that."
I left and Wmania escorted me out. I threw up in the parking lot. Wmania was very alarmed. "Holy shit, Razzy, pregnancy is like a disease to you!" When we got back to their apartment, I pointed out that the brochure the clinic gave me listed their phone number as 1-800-ABORTION. "Dude, I can't believe you fixed me up with this place by calling 1-800-ABORTION!" I said to LL Cool Jew.
"I did NOT call 1-800-ABORTION! They were the first clinic listed in the phone book, and it was a (202) number!"
"Whatever, you probably finished ordering new lenses from 1-800-CONTACTS and then figured you'd do the same for me by dialing 1-800-ABORTION," I teased her.
LL Cool Jew got rather indignant. "I SWEAR I did NOT dial 1-800-ABORTION!" I would have persisted in ragging on her, but I had to go throw up again.
After treating my nausea with a little medical marijuana, LL Cool Jew and Wmania took me out to lunch at Lauriol Plaza, which is the only place in Washington, DC I like at all. I'm a sucker for delicious fajitas. We ordered margaritas, and after a hilarious moment when Wmania decided to ask the non-English-speaking bus boy if they contained folic acid, resumed acting like my abortion was a great excuse for a weekend visit.
The next weekend, LL Cool Jew drove up to New York to keep me company for the actual fetus-purging part of the abortion. I was not in good shape. Despite my pregnancy being halted in its tracks by the methotrexate, I was still suffering from almost crippling nausea. I kept waking up in the night to vomit. In spite of my best efforts to joke about the situation ("Dude! Welcome to the party of the century!"), LL Cool Jew was extremely worried about me. She made sure the Vicodin was ready, she bought maxi-pads for me (trust that I am normally a tampon girl, but these are a no-no during an induced miscarriage), and she walked Caesar for me (a troublesome task given her penchant for five-inch stilettos and Caesar's tendency to pull hard on his leash). Finally, right before bed, I shoved the pills up my vadge, took a Vicodin, and went to bed.
Several hours later, I woke up feeling like my uterus was being rototilled. I tried to be stoic, but the pain was so severe that I started crying. I went into the bathroom so I wouldn't wake up LL Cool Jew. I sat on the toilet, where I realized that I was literally hemorrhaging. I was a fucking mess. Then I had to get off the toilet so that I could throw up into it. During this time, I bled on the floor. I started crying harder when I flushed because I realized that I had not only expelled my child into a toilet, I had puked on top of it and then unceremoniously sent it into the NYC sewer system. At this point, there was a quiet knock on the bathroom door. I'm not sure if my whimpering or my retching woke LL Cool Jew, but she was up and wanting to know if I was okay.
I tried to convince her that I was just fine and would be out in a minute, but failed. LL Cool Jew let herself in to find me wiping blood and chunks of fetus off the bathroom floor between dry heaves and sobs.
"Oh my fucking God, Razzy," she said. "You are NOT okay."
I was a complete mess. LL Cool Jew gave me another couple Vicodin and helped me back to bed. I think I managed to clean up most of the floor before her entrance, so there wasn't much for her to finish. I couldn't keep those Vicodin down. I spent the rest of the night writhing in pain. I felt like someone was wringing out my reproductive organs. LL Cool Jew stayed up with me, stroking my hair and feeling bad about not being able to help me more. Finally, I managed to fight back the urge to vomit long enough to let more pain meds kick in, and fell asleep for a couple hours.
The next day LL Cool Jew and I stayed in bed all day watching Lord of the Rings and eating pizza. I felt a little better. My friend KatieScarlett came over to visit. I was so exhausted and finally able to eat that I fell asleep early while KatieScarlett and LL Cool Jew got to know each other. They ended up dating for almost a year after that. Nothing kindles lesbian love like a mutual friend's abortion.
I figured that LL Cool Jew and KatieScarlett's relationship demonstrated that something good could come out of what was otherwise a horrible and traumatic experience. I resolved to finish off the whole abortion experience on a positive note, so when I went back to DC for my Valentine's Day follow-up confirming my now-empty uterus, LL Cool Jew and I decided that it would be really, really fun to go to Medieval Times for some post-abortion clinic faux jousting.
After the clinic, LL Cool Jew and I went to pick up Wmania from her boyfriend's apartment. She said she would meet us outside, because her then-boyfriend probably didn't want us traipsing around in his den of WASPiness and messing up his golf tee collection (and I'm not kidding...this d-bag from Connecticut actually collected tees from all the expensive golf courses he'd played at). When we arrived, Wmania and said boyfriend were clearly having some sort of fight, as they were standing aggressively opposed and gesturing wildly. LL Cool Jew and I pulled up, blasting "Night Train" by GNR, and I leaned out the window with a Parliament Light hanging out of my mouth and shouted, "Happy Valentine's Day, lovebirds! I just got done at the abortion clinic and I'm ready to drink some mead and watch some fucking jousting, so get your ass in my rental car, bitch!"
Wmania's lame boyfriend just stared at us, clearly offended into silence. He muttered a goodbye to Wmania, adjusted the collar of his polo shirt, and shuffled off to dust his golf tees or whatever. Wmania, LL Cool Jew, and I proceeded to have a great time drinking overpriced Bud Light and shouting about whatever fake knight our seating arrangements required us to support. On our way out, we took a picture in some fancy photo booth that put a picture of us in front a background that said "Bad Attitude." As is my custom, I exposed my right breast for the photo, and only realized upon exiting that there was a large screen outside the booth displaying the picture of my naked tit for everyone in the mall to see.
"Dude, we have to get out of here before we, like, get arrested for indecent exposure or something," Wmania cautioned.
We left and proceeded to spend a lot more time drinking and carousing and forgetting the entire reason for my trip to our nation's capital. However, any distraction from this event in my life is temporary. Not a day has passed since then that I haven't thought about it. It does not escape my notice that if I had made a different choice, I would have a four-year-old today. I have dreams about what my child would have looked like. I can't forgive myself for doing this, but I can't punish myself for it either. I regret it constantly, but in spite of that, I would do the same thing if I found out I was pregnant today.
Well over half of my friends have gone through the same thing. Often they call me when they have to, because everyone knows that I have had the same experience (since my favorite means of coping is to pretend it doesn't bother me and make irreverent jokes about it). It is heartbreaking for all of them. One of my friends undergoing a "medical" abortion called me during the week between the methotrexate and the misepristone, crying and saying over and over, "My baby is dying! I can feel it dying!" Another friend called after her abortion ended and said, "I feel like a terrible woman. I feel like Medea." After assuring her that references to infanticidal witches of Greek mythology will get her nowhere in terms of coping, I still felt like a shit because I still couldn't offer her any tips as to how to get this out of your system. If there is a way to move past this, I haven't discovered it. I still think about it all the time. I'm in therapy because of it. Even if I use the impersonal nomenclature (ie: "terminating a pregnancy") that makes an abortion sound like a simple medical procedure, I can't escape the part of me that thinks I killed my child. I can try to justify it by saying that I killed my bastard to save my own life, but this is not a simple thing to think about or put to rest.
The sad thing is that so many women have gone through this, and nobody talks about how complex the experience is. When people talk about abortion, the discussions tend to be political (either "abortion is murder" or "keep your laws off my body") and don't even come close to addressing what it's like to actually have an abortion. I'm sure women exist who think abortion is very casual and can have one without thinking about it at all, but everyone I know, obviously including myself, has not emerged from the clinic unscathed, undamaged, and without a significant measure of grief and remorse. While every woman I know, also including myself, believes she made the right decision, it is not easy living with it. And writing this all down and putting it on display for the internets and the world doesn't mitigate this burden, but at least it's not something I've got festering away secretly inside me anymore. I don't know if I'll ever find absolution or peace, but now that I've confessed, at least I can hope I'm on the right track. Besides, now you all know, and as GI Joe cartoons used to advise me, that's half the battle.
Labels: Catholicism, destroy all children, for serious people, LL Cool Jew, Miss Corbutt, Razzification, Wmania
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The eternal question
For years, man has pondered a great mystery, and I'm not talking about the meaning of life or whether God exists. I'm talking about WHO is the hotter douchebag in "Beverly Hills, 90210" season 4, Dan Rubin or Roy Randolph? Philosophers have debated this for centuries, and by "philosophers" I mean myself, JerseyGirl, and Twathopper, and by "centuries" I mean since last Friday.
Like most intensely complicated questions, there is no easy answer. Although I realize that a question of this magnitude is a lot to ponder, I now have to ask the internets to weigh in, because this debate is simply too great and intense to be addressed by a small consort of rabid Bev Niner fans. So, without further ado, take it away, internets:
WHO IS HOTTER: DAN RUBIN OR ROY RANDOLPH?
Dan Rubin
The son of a wealthy family from Encino, California, Dan Rubin was supplementing his undoubtedly meager English lit grad student stipend with free room and board as a residential advisor at California University's dorms. There he met freshman Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman, and, after a lot of lame debates about feminism and whether or not the Alpha Omega sorority is antisemitic, manages to take her V-card. Unfortunately, Dan Rubin invites Buzzkill to a party at his parents' house, where she falls decisively in love with bartending law student Jesse Vasquez and dumps Dan Rubin on his bike short-clad ass.
Pros:
- Smart and articulate (getting Ph.D in English lit)
- Nerdy Jew (this is fucking SMOKING hot in my book)
- Chivalrous (won't bang Buzzkill immediately when she tells him she's a virgin, because he wants it to be "special" for her)
- Skanky (doesn't need to be asked twice to go hit the sheets in the afternoon with his student)
Cons:
- Long hair
- Willing to fuck Buzzkill Zuckerman, indicating a severe lack of taste
- Wears spandex, a fabric no man has any business putting on unless he's either a gymnast or an American Gladiator (his hobby is bike-riding)
- Lives in freshman dorm even though he's probably pushing 30 (which might explain why he liked Buzzkill so much)
- Doesn't handle rejection well
- Possibly racist against Mexicans (although in fairness, this might just be him hating on Jesse Vasquez for stealing his bitch)
Roy Randolph
A sort-of prestigious director of various college theater productions, Roy Randolph cleverly pits Kelly Taylor, Brenda Walsh, and Laura Kingman against each other for the role of Maggie the Cat in Tennessee Williams's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Brenda is unhappy about Kelly's involvement, since she was the one who spent hours in the California University library periodicals section stalking Roy Randolph via microfiche. Kelly ultimately drops out, causing Roy Randolph to trumpet that he was gravely disappointed at her choice not to escape her "frivolous little life" by agreeing to a lead role on the infamous stage of California University's theater department. In the ensuing battle between Brenda and Laura, Brenda makes up for a poor audition performance by going over to Roy Randolph's crib and doing...the scene over again. However, everyone thinks Brenda slept with him because Roy Randolph is noted for banging all his leading ladies. Once Brenda gets over feeling like Kelly (ie: a big slut), she parlays her success with Roy Randolph into a one-way ticket to study drama in London and leave the world's greatest zip code for good.
Pros:
- Educated
- Famous enough to have had his picture in the paper
- Has a Harry Hamlin-meets-Viggo Mortensen thing going on
- He's in theater and is presumably not gay, judging by all the actress notches on his belt
- Smooth when it comes to bullshitting the ladies
Cons:
- Arrogant asshole (informs Kelly her life will be ruined if she doesn't participate in his dumb college play)
- Looks like one of the Three Musketeers in a bad print vest and an even worse print shirt
- Newspaper photographs of him WAY hotter than the real thing
- Long hair
- Bad theaterfag accent ("let go of your crrrrrrrrutch!")
So there you have the facts; now please help settle this debate once and for all by weighing in. Who is hotter, Dan Rubin or Roy Randolph? DISCUSS.
Labels: Bev Niner, for serious people, JerseyGirl, Twathopper
Monday, May 05, 2008
To be a baby daddy, or not to be...
Razzyphiles are a clever bunch of people. They know who gives the world's best advice, and it sure as shit ain't Dear Abby (or whoever replaced her now that she's dead). When the going gets tough, they come straight to the most reliable source for guidance since the Oracle at Delphi: YOURS TRULY. In fact, my reasoned judgment is so legendary that even Razzyphiles I don't know personally turn to me for major life decisions, as did The Mugu, who has been approached by a friend for a favor in the form of this e-mail:
Hi, Mugu.
Outside of pursuing a romantic relationship, I'd really like it if you would consider being the sperm donor for my child. It's a lot to ask, even as I tell you that your involvement in the child's life would not be required. Please take your time thinking about the implications and let me know your thoughts.
-Some chickNaturally, upon receiving this e-mail, he e-mailed me:
what am I supposed to do!?!?!?!?!?! She is a nice african american woman...I like her tremendously. I am also honored by the request. BUT!!!!.....Well, I don't mind blessing loyal readers with my insight and opinion, so I didn't require payment in the form of money or black magic against the (asshole sonofabitch bastard) Shitsburgh Stealers, although practitioners of the dark arts should feel free to do as much of that as they like. Much like Mother Teresa, I am satisfied knowing that I've done a kindness for my fellow man. I initially thought about saying "HELL NO!" but then realized that this is just because I hate kids and don't encourage anyone to have them. However, then I remembered that most people don't categorically loathe children and tried to reason accordingly. Here's the advice I gave him:
I cant tell my friends. You are a straight shooter, For your advice I will pay, or do voodoo against the SHitsburg Steelers.
O Razzy, what is a man with good genes and a high IQ to do?
Well, I don't see anything wrong with passing along your genes. I mean, all you have to do is squirt in a cup and call it a day, right? Are you dating this chick? If so, I'd think very, VERY carefully about it. If you are romantically involved, there's no way that this will be as clinical as you being a "sperm donor." If not, then it just comes down to whether or not you are comfortable with the idea. It's okay if you're not. Being uncomfortable with an idea is as good and legitimate a reason as any for not doing something.It seems I didn't get the whole story. The Mugu has a girlfriend, one who judging by her affinity for wine isn't looking to get knocked up anytime soon (good for you, sister), and he advised me that he's a little nervous about how this would all go over on the homefront:
If you decide you are comfortable with it, then just make sure you have a lawyer drawing up legal documents addressing custody rights (ie: you waiving yours) and child support (ie: her waiving her claim to that) first.
Want me to ask the internets for you? Anonymously, of course (I'll remove your name, e-mail, etc.) Sometimes the Razzyphiles can provide great insight in terms of anonymous commentary.
Thanks RazzI think wine would certainly facilitate this proposal going over better with the missus. At least he'll get her honest reaction. I watched an episode of (the greatest show in the history of television) "Beverly Hills, 90210" this weekend, and when Clare Arnold and David Silver heard from the shitfaced LuAnn Pruit that her abusive troubadour son Ray cheated on Donna Martin with that (totally awesome) slut Valerie Malone, Clare noted, "In vino veritas." David replied, "You know I don't speak Spanish!" which made me laugh, but I digress. The point is that booze is like truth serum, so if he wants an honest response from his lady friend, there's no better way to get the full story on her thoughts than to bring it up while she's blitzed. However, I got to wondering why he doesn't just make a baby the old-fashioned way with his woman than the turkey baster way with some other chick. So I replied:
The problem is at 33 I kinda want one. I have never been 100% sure that I want a child. As I have gotten older, well, you know. Sometimes things change. A few years back I would have laughed boisterously in her face.
What am I supposed to tell my GF if I go ahead with this?!?!
me - so sweetheart did you have enough wine tonight?
gf- yes, 3 bottles was enough, was there something you wanted to tell me?
me- cough* you know that girl who called the other day.
gf- ya
me- well she wants me sperms
gf- (I have no idea how she would react) cringe*
Well, if you care about your girlfriend, you should discuss it with her first. Unless you can arrange to be an anonymous donor, in which case you probably would have to waive all rights to custody, etc.Realizing that this is quite the thorny problem, Mugu assented to having his would-be baby mama drama aired out online:
And if you want to have a kid, why not discuss that with your girlfriend?
Again, you want me to ask the internets for you?
Yes Razzy,So there you have it. All you wise advice-givers out there, please opine and help poor Mugu out. For one thing, if you don't, I'll look bad since he's gone through all trouble of licking at least one girl's ass in my honor. For another, I'm curious as to what other people have to say about this. Should Mugu share his genes with this woman? Should he tell his girlfriend if he does? Any of you lawyers out there know about what kind of documentation he needs to get in order? I've heard stories about women suing "anonymous" sperm donors for child support years after the fact, which to me would certainly argue against helping this lady out with some baby batter. What is a potential sperm donor to do? Holler back on the comments. Oh, and no need to send cock pictures. I currently have a surplus of those.
put my dirt on the internets. I would send you a cock shot but im at work.
As it stands she has already told me I can waive / sign off my rights. (altho I am not familiar wit my states laws regarding this.)
She does want me to be whatever part I can manage to play in the childs life.
fek, getting busy here.
thanks for taking the time to reply. I dont care what the haters say.
I will lick a girls ass in your honor tonite.
Labels: correspondence, destroy all children, for serious people, Razzyphiles, WWRD
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Patrick Swayze
Name: Patrick Wayne Swayze
DOB: August 18, 1952
Occupation: actor, dancer, hot piece
Hometown: Houston, Texas
Current residence: Van Nuys, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I was extremely distressed yesterday when I read on the gossip internets that Patrick Swayze has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and only has a few weeks to live. I initially responded with denial, thinking there was no way this could be true. However, a quick search of more legitimate news sources than Dlisted showed that sadly, he is indeed undergoing chemotherapy at Stanford and does indeed have pancreatic cancer, although he wouldn't confirm the short timeline the gossip pages gave him. That doesn't make me feel very optimistic, however, because pancreatic cancer is right up there with kidney cancer, lung cancer, and metastatic melanoma on the list of cancers you absolutely don't want to get. Pancreatic cancer has the highest fatality rate of any cancer, and has a median survival time of 3 to 6 months following diagnosis.
Although he hasn't been doing much lately, Patrick Swayze was in some of my favorite movies, and NO, I don't mean Dirty Dancing. I hate the movie Dirty Dancing with every cell of my body. When I was in grade school and slumber parties were the thing to do, all the girls in my class invariably wanted to watch either Dirty Dancing or Grease, and I'd take popping either film into the VCR as the cue to crawl into my sleeping bag and get some shut-eye. If I had my way, I'd put Baby in a damn corner and never let her come out. Better yet, fuck a corner; I'd persuade that chick there was either a dance contest or a cask of Amontillado sherry in my basement and brick her ass in for eternity so I could never be perturbed by her misadventures in learning how to mambo. The only thing good to come out of Dirty Dancing was Patrick's dirty sex song "She's Like the Wind." However, as much as Dirty Dancing was a cinematic travesty that every bitch on the planet save myself inexplicably loves, Patrick Swayze starred in some films that were fully robbed when they weren't nominated for Oscars. Those movies are, of course, Red Dawn and Road House.
I've gone off about Red Dawn on more than one occasion, but much like blow jobs or pizza, discussion of this brilliant film never goes out of style. In case you have somehow been deprived of this awesomeness, Red Dawn is a film from 1984 in which the Soviet Union invades the U.S. We'd all be calling each other "comrade" if it weren't for Patrick Swayze, the quarterback of a Colorado town's football team, who leads his pals Charlie Sheen, C. Thomas Howell, Jennifer Grey, and Lea Thompson in a resistance against the invading freedom-hating commies. Trust that you haven't lived until you've seen Patrick Swayze decked out in forest camo plotting guerilla acts of terror against the Russians or cradling C. Thomas Howell in his arms as he dies. I know that if I were a dying teenage insurgent, the last thing I'd want to see before succumbing to my mortal wounds would be Patrick Swayze's tear-streaked face, and the last thing I'd want to hear would be his dulcet voice singing "The Star Spangled Banner."
While I have not discussed my fondness for Road House to the extent I have Red Dawn, I now realize that is a gross oversight on my part. Road House totally rules. This movie is about a rough bar in Jasper, Missouri, where Patrick Swayze--with a fresh Ph.D in philosophy from NYU--seeks employment as a bouncer, or a "cooler" as it's known in the film. That right there is believable, because I don't know what the hell else you do with a doctorate in philosophy besides get a job as a bar. Although Swayze's character Dalton doesn't share much insight from his scholarly work during the film, we occasionally get hints that he's privy to a deeper level of existentialist understanding (such as when he's being tended to by the town doctor, and he refuses anasthetic, telling her "Pain don't hurt.") Otherwise, he mainly spends most of the movie kicking the asses of the various thugs working for the local Jasper crime boss. Actually, "kicking ass" is a misnomer, because his signature move is actually ripping out a man's throat with his bare hands. Let's just say that it is most inadvisable to tell a philosopher with expertise in manual trachea removal that you "used to fuck guys like you in prison." Man, Road House rules so hard.
Anyway, I'm going to pray to St. Jude to intercede with the big JC on Swayze's behalf, so he might recover and go on to rectify the wrong caused by the making of Road House 2: Last Call without him by completing the trilogy with Road House 3: After Hours in epic fashion. Get well, Patrick!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, for serious people, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, movies
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