Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Not what fantasies are made of
On Saturday, my BFF LL Cool Jew took a quick break from her in-laws to have dumplings and drinks with me. While we were sitting at P.D. O'Hurley's slugging down Irish coffees, we heard some of the local fellas at the bar talking about how Plaxico Burress "shot himself in the foot."
"Did Plaxico Burress fucking shoot himself?" LL Cool Jew asked, alarmed, as much of her domestic peace hinges upon the Giants' fortunes.
"That can't be!" I said, myself alarmed not because of concerns about disrupting my marital bliss, but because Plaxico Burress has been stinking up my Fantasy roster all season. I immediately scanned the many televisions tuned into College Game Day on ESPN and assumed there would be something on the ticker about it. I did not see anything about Plaxico shooting himself, so I said, "Nah, dude, it would be all over ESPN if he had. They must mean figuratively, because of his attitude problems all year."
"I hope so," said LL Cool Jew, looking nervous about the prospect of attending the circus later that day with her husband BigBagel, brother-in-law, and father-in-law, all of whom are rabid Giants fans.
"Me too. That motherfucker is on my Fantasy team and I was hoping to trade him for a draft pick next year to someone who actually made the playoffs," I said. Unfortunately, despite my Fantasy team being the defending league champions and looking super hot on paper at the beginning of the season, most of my marquis players failed to do jack shit all season. The only silver lining is that, though Tha Razzies paralleled the exceptionally disappointing Seattle Seahawks, at least we won more than two fucking games all season. Therefore, I planned to trade Plax and all these underperforming douchebags for draft picks or better keepers and hope Tha Razzies have a bright season next year.
LL Cool Jew and I didn't see or hear anything further about Plax at the bar, so I forgot about it until I got home and noticed that she had texted me: "dewd, he DID shoot himself!" I immediately went to the trusty internets and realized that the moron was at some shitty club carrying the gun in his waistband with the fucking safety off, and, while his foot escaped unscathed, he shot himself through the thigh. I should add that Plax was not hanging out at some thugged-out shithole in Bed-Stuy or the South Bronx. He was at the Latin Quarter, located in the utterly non-dangerous Radisson Lexington Hotel in East Midtown, where the salsa band that played LL Cool Jew's wedding performs on Wednesday nights and guests enjoy Chef Ralph Mercado's tasty "LatAsian" creations with their bottle service. This is the kind of establishment where you are more likely to dodge spray-tanned bridge-and-tunnel types in pastel Kangol hats taking kamikaze shots than bullets. There is absolutely NO REASON WHATSOEVER, except for validating what an idiotic asshole you actually are, to pack heat at a place like this.
Furthermore, Plaxico told the lamest lie in the history of prevarication when he said he was actually shot at an Applebee's where he ate before he hit the club. I guess that sounds slightly better than "I accidentally shot myself because my gun WITH THE FUCKING SAFETY OFF started to fall out of my pants while I was holding a drink," but not by much.
LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's crew are not the only ones as outraged as myself at Plaxico's idiotic firearm skills. Thanks to the greatest newspaper in the history of print journalism, the New York Post, and its fellow tabloid the New York Daily News, I have spent the last three days being reminded of Tha Razzies' grim Fantasy reality every time I walk past a bodega or get on the subway (my favorite is the "GIANT IDIOT!" Post cover):
Now the Giants have suspended and banned Burress for the rest of the season, and are rumored to be getting out of the remainder of his $35 million dollar contract. It's bad enough that Plaxico might wind up booted from the New York Football Giants, since he'll probably go to the one team that, if Adam "Pac Man" Jones is any indication, welcomes violent criminals with open arms: the hateful Dallas Cowboys. At least if he goes to the Cowboys, I can probably trade him and watch media hilarity ensue as he tries to coexist with Terrell Owens's ego. A much worse scenario involves Plaxico's fate at 100 Centre Street, AKA the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse. New York City has some of the strictest gun control laws in the nation, and possession of an illegal, loaded firearm carries a 3 1/2 year mandatory minimum sentence. Which means that if Plaxico is convicted in spite of hiring celebrity gun charge lawyer extraordinaire Benjamin Brafman, my Fantasy team goes from disappointing to totally fucked. Thanks a lot, Plax.
Labels: BigBagel, crime and punishment, Fantasia, guns, LL Cool Jew, NFL football, NYC, retard rage
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Ray Nagin...AGAIN
RAZZY Note: this was written by BigBagel, managing editor of our Hate-On-Ray-Nagin department here in the old RAZZY.org newsroom. He is so hardcore about hating on Ray Nagin that he lives in New Orleans just to keep an eye on him, and homeskillet has an actual Pulitzer for his reportage. Seriously, this is a PULITZER PRIZE-WINNING JOURNALIST writing for my website. That's how we roll here at RAZZY.org: nothing but the best. I expect to get my own Pulitzer as soon as they invent one for blogging.
Name: Clarence Ray Nagin (on the right, with Police Superintendent Warren Riley)
DOB: June 11, 1956
Occupation: 68th Mayor of the City of New Orleans, Louisiana
Hometown: New Orleans, Louisiana
Current residence: New Orleans, Louisiana
Douchebaggery: (Better question for Nagin: Non-douchebaggery? )
This is Monsieur Nagin’s second trip to douchebag lane, so I thought it best to switch things up a bit and make it a photo caption contest. There’s so many places to go with Nagin's fucktardedness, I’m gonna struggle to remain focused on the above photo. Mostly, dear fellow Razzyphiles, I felt that this photo was too precious for the whole world not to see.
And I’d like you to view and caption this photo in the following context: Even though NOLA is down about 40% from its pre-Katrina population, the city has recaptured the title of America’s "murder capital", according to the FBI. (By that, they mean most murders per capita.) The city recorded a total of 209 homicides in 2007. Now to do a bit of crude math for you all, that means there’s about .696 murders per 1,000 population, making New Orleans more dangerous than the countries of Colombia and South Africa, and more than twice as dangerous as Jam-Rock Jamaica!
http://www.nationmaster.com/graph/cri_mur_percap-crime-murders-per-capita
So you’re probably asking yourself, is Nagin worried? Can he speak to us here in Razzyland? He can, in his own words: "Do I worry about it? Somewhat. It's not good for us, but it also keeps the New Orleans brand out there, and it keeps people thinking about our needs and what we need to bring this community back. So it is kind of a two-edged sword."
I was just wondering to myself if I should put the above picture into it's true context….nah! Considering the stakes of the game Nagin’s playing and the number of opportunistic self-serving fuck-ups he’s committed, I don’t think he’s earned any benefit of the doubt anymore. So without further ado I’m gonna end this and skip to my favorite captions from the NOLA.com blog this photo first appeared on and some a caption from colleagues at work. I encourage you Razzyphiles out there to come up with your own.
My favorite (from a colleague): "God this brings back memories, huh Ray? Remember we used one of these in our first convenience store hold up back in '78, out on Crowder. Man, that white bitch was so scared, I thought she was going to crap her pants."
My (pathetic) attempt: “No, really, I ain’t fuckin’ playin. Gimmee yo’ goddamn money.”
My favorite from the blog it first appeared on: "OK, lets go find Marc Morial!!"
(Morial=previous mayor of NOLA.)
Another good one: “City leaders unveil new throws for next years' Mardi Gras.”
So what you got, people of Razzyland?
[RAZZY Note #2: LL Cool Jew sent me this take on it. It's my favorite:
So get down to business coming up with captions of your own. LL Cool Jew says that she'll give me alcohol if I help her win the leftover plastic Mardi Gras tiara that her co-workers are offering to the best entry in their office caption contest. And if you didn't have enough douchebaggery on Nagin, read the article that was originally attached to this picture in the Times-Picayune (favorite newspaper name ever). Nagin actually takes time out of his photo op to welcome the NBA All-Stars to the city. With an assault rifle playfully pointed at the superintendent of the NOPD. Nice.]
!!!First ever Daily Douchebag photo caption contest!!!
(winner will bask in eternal glory)
(winner will bask in eternal glory)
Name: Clarence Ray Nagin (on the right, with Police Superintendent Warren Riley)
DOB: June 11, 1956
Occupation: 68th Mayor of the City of New Orleans, Louisiana
Hometown: New Orleans, Louisiana
Current residence: New Orleans, Louisiana
Douchebaggery: (Better question for Nagin: Non-douchebaggery? )
This is Monsieur Nagin’s second trip to douchebag lane, so I thought it best to switch things up a bit and make it a photo caption contest. There’s so many places to go with Nagin's fucktardedness, I’m gonna struggle to remain focused on the above photo. Mostly, dear fellow Razzyphiles, I felt that this photo was too precious for the whole world not to see.
http://www.nationmaster.com/graph/cri_mur_percap-crime-murders-per-capita
So you’re probably asking yourself, is Nagin worried? Can he speak to us here in Razzyland? He can, in his own words: "Do I worry about it? Somewhat. It's not good for us, but it also keeps the New Orleans brand out there, and it keeps people thinking about our needs and what we need to bring this community back. So it is kind of a two-edged sword."
I was just wondering to myself if I should put the above picture into it's true context….nah! Considering the stakes of the game Nagin’s playing and the number of opportunistic self-serving fuck-ups he’s committed, I don’t think he’s earned any benefit of the doubt anymore. So without further ado I’m gonna end this and skip to my favorite captions from the NOLA.com blog this photo first appeared on and some a caption from colleagues at work. I encourage you Razzyphiles out there to come up with your own.
My favorite (from a colleague): "God this brings back memories, huh Ray? Remember we used one of these in our first convenience store hold up back in '78, out on Crowder. Man, that white bitch was so scared, I thought she was going to crap her pants."
My (pathetic) attempt: “No, really, I ain’t fuckin’ playin. Gimmee yo’ goddamn money.”
My favorite from the blog it first appeared on: "OK, lets go find Marc Morial!!"
(Morial=previous mayor of NOLA.)
Another good one: “City leaders unveil new throws for next years' Mardi Gras.”
So what you got, people of Razzyland?
[RAZZY Note #2: LL Cool Jew sent me this take on it. It's my favorite:
Labels: BigBagel, Daily Douchebag, Dirrty Dirrty, guns, LL Cool Jew, politics
Monday, October 15, 2007
T.I. back in his old cell
Yesterday I was just doing my morning internet news cruise when I saw this shocking (and by "shocking", I mean only mildly surprising) breaking story from CNN:
Also, T.I.'s lawyer is either really good or really bad, since he claims to be unaware T.I. is a convicted felon. He must have been too busy catching up on T.I.'s work in the cinema as a misunderstood trick roller skater from the wrong side of the tracks in ATL to do a Google search on T.I., which turns up lots of blurbs detailing his illustrious history with the law like him getting sentenced to three years at the expense of the Cobb County taxpayers for a 1998 drug conviction, getting extradited to Florida, and so on. T.I. filmed one of his videos IN PRISON, for God's sake! How does his own lawyer plead ignorance with regard to his client's notorious criminal record? Either this attorney is incompetent or is trying to pull a risky yet clever ruse, in which he argues that T.I.'s felony record is a figment of everyone else's imagination. Maybe such a trick is what he means to orchestrate when he says he is confident the legal system will work in T.I.'s favor.
He'd really better be, because from what I understand, federal gun charges usually mean lots of hard time, and T.I. might talk tough, but he's actually a little guy. I don't think he's going to hold up so well once he and his pretty little ass get shipped off to the federal penitentiary, especially if he gets stuck with guys who are devoted fans of Lil' Flip and the Clover G'z, T.I.'s longtime archnemeses. Lil' Flip and crew have made a number of assertions suggestive that T.I.'s heterosexuality is dubious at best. While this is probably untrue, as T.I. has fathered a veritable gaggle of illegitimate children, it's those kinds of reputations that can really hurt a diminuitive little fella like T.I. around the cell block.
Anyway, I wish T.I. the best, but I'm hopeful that he'll evade these charges to return to the studio and produce music discussing his self-appointed monarchical reign over the southeastern United States, his silly battles between his two alter egos T.I. and T.I.P., and how he leaves semen in women's pretty faces and makes them kiss they patnas with it in they faces. I'm sure this whole thing was a big misunderstanding, anyway. If you've ever heard T.I. in an interview, then you know he may be one of the most mumbling, unintelligible men ever to speak. His failure to properly enunciate every word coming out of his mouth almost guarantees the jury will be trying so hard to understand the bizarre, foreign-sounding dialect of English in which he communicates that they won't pay attention to any of the facts of the case. God willing, anyway.
ATLANTA, Georgia (CNN) -- Rapper T.I. was arrested on federal gun charges just hours before he was scheduled to perform at the BET Hip Hop Awards, according to federal authorities.This article is just hilarious to me for a couple reasons. For starters, I love how the person at CNN wrote this has obviously NEVER listened to a T.I. song. His music may be "built around the drug culture," and his second album might be called Trap Muzik, but I've never heard that term used to describe his music as a distinctive style. And kudos to CNN for doing some hard-hitting reporting over at urbandictionary.com and defining the term "trap" for those readers not in the know. I'd put money on the fact that the reporter who cranked out this report had no idea what "trap" meant prior to getting this assignment. Furthermore, anyone with enough knowledge of T.I.'s music knows that he's constantly talking about his "choppers." That doesn't mean motorcycles, kitchen accessories, or helicopters; in the context of a T.I. song, this refers to an automatic weapon. Therefore, it's not really a shocker that T.I. got nailed by ATF agents for doing what he brags about doing in almost every song aside from having Ecstasy-fueled orgies with multiethnic video hos and selling cocaine: purchasing illegal machine guns and silencers for them. Silencers? Really? Is he planning on moonlighting as a hit man or something? Why does T.I. need silencers? Whatever...unlike T.I., I don't know all about things like keys by the three and loaded fo-fos on the low, so I'll just wait until the trial to see how T.I. explains his purchases.
T.I., whose real name is Clifford Harris, was arrested without incident in midtown Atlanta.
The entertainer, whose real name is Clifford Harris, was arrested in a federal sting Saturday after his bodyguard-turned-informant delivered three machine guns and two silencers to the hip-hop star, according to a Justice Department statement.
Authorities said that Harris, 27, provided the bodyguard $12,000 to buy the weapons, which Harris is not allowed to own because he is a convicted felon. Court documents said Harris was convicted on felony drug charges in 1998, and a federal affidavit said he has been arrested on gun charges in the past.
However, one of his attorneys, Dwight Thomas, said he was not aware Harris was a convicted felon and that "a number of people" live in Harris' suburban Atlanta home. Thomas added there were "two sides to every story -- sometimes three" and he was confident the legal system would work in Harris' favor.
The entertainer was taken into custody about 2:30 p.m. ET Saturday in Atlanta, where the BET award show was filmed.
Harris, the show's top nominee, was up for nine awards, including CD of the year and lyricist of the year. He also was scheduled to perform, along with fellow rap stars Common, Nelly and Kanye West.
The show went on without the self-proclaimed "King of the South," whose car and College Park, Georgia, home were searched following his arrest.
Authorities said they found three more firearms in the car in which Harris drove to pick up the machine guns and silencers, "including one loaded gun tucked between the driver's seat where Harris had been sitting and the center console."
At his home, authorities found six other guns, five of them loaded, in his bedroom closet.
"Machine guns pose a serious danger to the community, which is why they are so carefully regulated," said David Nahmias, U.S. attorney for the Northern District of Georgia.
"The last place machine guns should be is in the hands of a convicted felon, who cannot legally possess any kind of firearm. This convicted felon allegedly was trying to add several machine guns to an already large and entirely illegal arsenal of guns."
The sting came after Harris' bodyguard was arrested purchasing the machine guns and silencers from an undercover Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives agent Wednesday, according to the Justice Department statement. The bodyguard then agreed to cooperate with the ATF, the statement said.
The guns were not registered on the National Firearms Registration and Transfer Record as required by law. The bodyguard -- who has worked for Harris since July -- told authorities he had bought about nine guns for the rap star in the past, the statement said.
On Wednesday, authorities said, Harris arranged for the bodyguard to pick up $12,000 in cash from a bank to buy the guns. After his arrest, the bodyguard made phone calls to Harris, which authorities recorded, the statement said.
Harris was supposed to pick up the guns after meeting the bodyguard in a shopping center parking lot in midtown Atlanta. Authorities arrested Harris there without incident, the Justice Department statement said.
Court documents in the case show Harris was convicted on felony drug charges in Cobb County, Georgia, in 1998 and sentenced to seven years' probation. "Harris has additional arrests and at least one probation violation for unlawfully possessing firearms," according to an affidavit.
Harris' music is built around the drug culture and is known as "trap musik," the name of Harris' second album. A "trap" is Southern slang for a drug house.
Harris will be held in federal custody over the weekend and will appear Monday before a magistrate judge, the Justice Department statement said.
Harris soon will appear in the movie "American Gangster," starring Denzel Washington and Russell Crowe. The film is set to open November 2.
Also, T.I.'s lawyer is either really good or really bad, since he claims to be unaware T.I. is a convicted felon. He must have been too busy catching up on T.I.'s work in the cinema as a misunderstood trick roller skater from the wrong side of the tracks in ATL to do a Google search on T.I., which turns up lots of blurbs detailing his illustrious history with the law like him getting sentenced to three years at the expense of the Cobb County taxpayers for a 1998 drug conviction, getting extradited to Florida, and so on. T.I. filmed one of his videos IN PRISON, for God's sake! How does his own lawyer plead ignorance with regard to his client's notorious criminal record? Either this attorney is incompetent or is trying to pull a risky yet clever ruse, in which he argues that T.I.'s felony record is a figment of everyone else's imagination. Maybe such a trick is what he means to orchestrate when he says he is confident the legal system will work in T.I.'s favor.
He'd really better be, because from what I understand, federal gun charges usually mean lots of hard time, and T.I. might talk tough, but he's actually a little guy. I don't think he's going to hold up so well once he and his pretty little ass get shipped off to the federal penitentiary, especially if he gets stuck with guys who are devoted fans of Lil' Flip and the Clover G'z, T.I.'s longtime archnemeses. Lil' Flip and crew have made a number of assertions suggestive that T.I.'s heterosexuality is dubious at best. While this is probably untrue, as T.I. has fathered a veritable gaggle of illegitimate children, it's those kinds of reputations that can really hurt a diminuitive little fella like T.I. around the cell block.
Anyway, I wish T.I. the best, but I'm hopeful that he'll evade these charges to return to the studio and produce music discussing his self-appointed monarchical reign over the southeastern United States, his silly battles between his two alter egos T.I. and T.I.P., and how he leaves semen in women's pretty faces and makes them kiss they patnas with it in they faces. I'm sure this whole thing was a big misunderstanding, anyway. If you've ever heard T.I. in an interview, then you know he may be one of the most mumbling, unintelligible men ever to speak. His failure to properly enunciate every word coming out of his mouth almost guarantees the jury will be trying so hard to understand the bizarre, foreign-sounding dialect of English in which he communicates that they won't pay attention to any of the facts of the case. God willing, anyway.
Labels: crime and punishment, guns, rap
Monday, July 23, 2007
Lil' Wayne's in this bitch with the Terror...
...except by "this bitch" he means "New York City Jail", and by "the Terror", he means erstwhile Terror Squad collaborator Jeffrey "Ja Rule" Atkins. Yesterday, Dwayne "Lil' Wayne/Weezy F Baby/Tha Carter" Carter was busted for burning some trees outside his tour bus on the Upper West Side. Upon closer investigation by arresting officers, he was also found to be carrying a .40-caliber handgun. Ja Rule, on the other hand, got busted for speeding, but was also found to be packing a Sig Sauer. Both of these gentlemen spent some quality time at the expense of the New York City taxpayers as a result.
Once again, I'm stunned by the stupidity of the average rapper. Lil' Wayne, a man who has lyrics such as "seat way back, listening to Anita Baker, ridin' by myself, smokin' weed by da acre" and "I see she wearin' them jeans that show her butt-crack, my girls can't wear that, why? That's where my stash at," should know that the police may be reasonably suspicious that he's in possession of a class D substance. Furthermore, he CONSTANTLY looks like he's one toke away from a vegetative state:
Like cops aren't suspicious of this guy. You could probably get high if you smoked his fingernail clippings. Everything about him--from his chronically bloodshot eyes to his tattooed teardrops (and has he REALLY killed two people? I doubt it)--screams "arrest me." You'd think that by now he'd have learned to keep his tweeds on the low!
Why didn't he just keep it inside the tour bus? Lil' Wayne gets busted for possession in almost every town he's in, so one would think that at this point, he'd let one of his people carry his shit for him. Or better yet, he'd stuff it down one of "his girls'" ass cracks. And he should definitely not just stand outside on 61st and Columbus for all the people bringing their kids home from the park to pass by. If he doesn't like snitching, then he should be a little more discreet about his illegal activities in a family neighborhood/snitch central. And WHY doesn't he just get a fucking permit for his damn gun? It can't be that hard...he's from the South, home of loose gun control laws! Lil' Wayne is dumb.
*This news update brought to you by LL Cool Jew and Morrissey'sHair, who are both unusually interested in all thangs Dwayne Carter.
Once again, I'm stunned by the stupidity of the average rapper. Lil' Wayne, a man who has lyrics such as "seat way back, listening to Anita Baker, ridin' by myself, smokin' weed by da acre" and "I see she wearin' them jeans that show her butt-crack, my girls can't wear that, why? That's where my stash at," should know that the police may be reasonably suspicious that he's in possession of a class D substance. Furthermore, he CONSTANTLY looks like he's one toke away from a vegetative state:
Like cops aren't suspicious of this guy. You could probably get high if you smoked his fingernail clippings. Everything about him--from his chronically bloodshot eyes to his tattooed teardrops (and has he REALLY killed two people? I doubt it)--screams "arrest me." You'd think that by now he'd have learned to keep his tweeds on the low!
Why didn't he just keep it inside the tour bus? Lil' Wayne gets busted for possession in almost every town he's in, so one would think that at this point, he'd let one of his people carry his shit for him. Or better yet, he'd stuff it down one of "his girls'" ass cracks. And he should definitely not just stand outside on 61st and Columbus for all the people bringing their kids home from the park to pass by. If he doesn't like snitching, then he should be a little more discreet about his illegal activities in a family neighborhood/snitch central. And WHY doesn't he just get a fucking permit for his damn gun? It can't be that hard...he's from the South, home of loose gun control laws! Lil' Wayne is dumb.
*This news update brought to you by LL Cool Jew and Morrissey'sHair, who are both unusually interested in all thangs Dwayne Carter.
Labels: crime and punishment, drugs, guns, Lil' Wayne, LL Cool Jew, Morrissey'sHair, NYC, rap
Monday, February 05, 2007
Out of our cold, dead hands
My buddy FalloniusMonk is from South Carolina and I'm from Puyallup, places known respectively for worshipping a team called the "Fighting Gamecocks" and for its dominance in the West Coast homebrewed meth trade, so we are both are own special brand of regional redneck. We might come off as city girls, being that we both live in Gotham, and have our fancy-sounding jobs (she's a creative director at a marketing company and even though I consider my job slavery--or at least indentured servitude--saying that you are in "The Coordinated Doctoral Program in the Biomedical Sciences" at an Ivy League school sounds pretty glamorous and elite). However, our trappings of being cosmopolitan and sophisticated belie our deeply ingrained PWT sensibilities, and neither of us have forgotten that we come from places where Toby Keith gets lots of airplay, people are considered successful if they own a double-wide, and mullets never go out of style. Therefore, there are only a couple things we love as much as God and country: swill, fuckin', and guns.
FalloniusMonk called me in the later phases of the whole Tej Bindra debacle, at the point where I was firing off letters to Smith deans, hanging with the dedicated detectives of the elite squad known as the 3-0 precinct gold shields, and writing reports for the FBI. I was a mess: drinking my courage, sleeping fitfully, and generally freaking out.
"What you need, Razzy," she said wisely. "Is a gun."
"I know," I said. "I've already thought about that. But handgun licenses take a while to get in New York, and they're mad expensive."
"What about a rifle or a shotgun?"
"I thought of that, too, but dude, I haven't shot a gun since I was fucking G-Boner's cousin J and he took me out to their field to tag beer cans with his .22."
"That's easily rectified, Razzy. We're going to the motherfucking rifle range. It's like riding a bike...you never really forget how."
I was thrilled with this plan. So after the madness of traveling and the holidays died down, we made it a New Year's resolution to get our firearms on stat. Therefore, weekend before last, we went to the Westside Pistol Range and experienced what their website calls "the excitement of firing a .22-caliber rifle."
We arrived and started chatting away with the range staff who gave us acrid cups of "range brew" coffee and forms to sign verifying that we are not felons, not wanted, not impersonating law enforcement officers, and hadn't used any drugs or alcohol (thatyear month week day). We were clean, sober, of good legal standing, and ready to shoot the shit out of some targets. Then we took a quick class on how to properly load our Ruger 1022s, operate the bolt and safety, hold the gun, aim, and fire. The instructor cautioned me that my "low-cut blouse" (aka titty shirt) was putting me at a great risk for getting a burn from a shell casing should it happen to pop down my cleavage. I saucily informed him that I could hardly blame the shell casing for wanting to get in there, and would consider it a necessary but unavoidable risk, and my knockers would take it like a man. Then came the awesomeness. I am fairly certain that, given my personality and intolerance for bullshit, NOBODY wants to fuck with this:
Okay, so the glasses and ear protection aren't exactly sexy, but whatever...that big old gun sure is! FalloniusMonk and I took turns documenting the good times with her camera, and how exceptionally good we look while firing our guns.
We had so much fun that after we shot off our complimentary fifty rounds, FalloniusMonk bought us each another box of bullets and we consulted on the action so far while loading our magazines. FalloniusMonk is way faster than me at loading, so she gave me a wink and helped my slow ass finish up with my ammo.
My slowness at loading magazines didn't deter me from announcing that on our next trip, we would shoot the 9-mil rifle, because it uses WAY bigger bullets ("manstoppers", as the instructor called them), is louder, and is the gun equivalent of a bigger dick. FalloniusMonk heartily concurred, and then made my day when she showed me that she'd acquired some duck and pig targets, which I promptly compared to my dog. "I'm going to kill the fuck out of that Chingy!-looking pig," I vowed.
I did. It was a good day to be a target duck, because I hardly shot any of them at all, but the pigs I ultimately filled with lead. "I'm bringing home the bacon!" I shouted. FalloniusMonk declared that my new "bang bang" name was "Angie Oakley." I thought that was generous of her, because truth be told, I wasn't exactly a sharpshooter (although I did manage to hit the bullseye a few times).
Probably the most hilarious part of the day was when FalloniusMonk managed to capture on film an extremely rare occurrence. Despite my many professions that I am terrible at housework, she managed to obtain definitive photographic evidence that I am capable of operating the device used to sweep shit off the floor known as a broom.
It's fitting that the only time I can be compelled to use one of these domestic contraptions is to sweep up my spent shells. FalloniusMonk didn't mind it so much, considering it the necessary conclusion to a job well done.
The guys at the range loved us, and we assured them we would return. They suggested we should bring LL Cool Jew there for her bachelorette party, and FalloniusMonk and I tried to keep a straight face wondering how that would go over with a posse of liberal-ass Smith alumnae. We graciously informed them that since liquor is an integral part of her bachelorette party, the gun range wouldn't be an appropriate venue for a bunch of boozed-up bitches, but thanked them for the idea nonetheless. Then we went and had lunch at this bizarre little bistro where a dude who looked like the bastard child of Andy Warhol and Johnny Cash ("Johnny Warhol") tortured us with his acoustic guitar and covers of old Beatles tunes.
"Too bad they didn't let us take the Rugers with us," I told FalloniusMonk after he launched into his earsplitting rendition of "Norwegian Wood." She laughed and ordered us "an apertif" of some weird Czech liquor she used to drink during her semester in Prague, and then we went out for scotch. All in all, it was about as close as I get to a perfect day short of Reggie (Get In My) Bush showing up with a rare steak and the intent of sexually working me for ten hours straight. Needless to say, this is the look of a happy Razzy:
Second amendment, baby! I'm going to treat myself to a NRA membership (and now only partly because it's an asshole thing to do and because they have awesome complimentary bumper stickers). Next stop for FalloniusMonk and myself: One Police Plaza, where we're going to submit our applications for a handgun license. Watch out, haters, because from now on, I'm going to be packing heat.
FalloniusMonk called me in the later phases of the whole Tej Bindra debacle, at the point where I was firing off letters to Smith deans, hanging with the dedicated detectives of the elite squad known as the 3-0 precinct gold shields, and writing reports for the FBI. I was a mess: drinking my courage, sleeping fitfully, and generally freaking out.
"What you need, Razzy," she said wisely. "Is a gun."
"I know," I said. "I've already thought about that. But handgun licenses take a while to get in New York, and they're mad expensive."
"What about a rifle or a shotgun?"
"I thought of that, too, but dude, I haven't shot a gun since I was fucking G-Boner's cousin J and he took me out to their field to tag beer cans with his .22."
"That's easily rectified, Razzy. We're going to the motherfucking rifle range. It's like riding a bike...you never really forget how."
I was thrilled with this plan. So after the madness of traveling and the holidays died down, we made it a New Year's resolution to get our firearms on stat. Therefore, weekend before last, we went to the Westside Pistol Range and experienced what their website calls "the excitement of firing a .22-caliber rifle."
We arrived and started chatting away with the range staff who gave us acrid cups of "range brew" coffee and forms to sign verifying that we are not felons, not wanted, not impersonating law enforcement officers, and hadn't used any drugs or alcohol (that
Okay, so the glasses and ear protection aren't exactly sexy, but whatever...that big old gun sure is! FalloniusMonk and I took turns documenting the good times with her camera, and how exceptionally good we look while firing our guns.
We had so much fun that after we shot off our complimentary fifty rounds, FalloniusMonk bought us each another box of bullets and we consulted on the action so far while loading our magazines. FalloniusMonk is way faster than me at loading, so she gave me a wink and helped my slow ass finish up with my ammo.
My slowness at loading magazines didn't deter me from announcing that on our next trip, we would shoot the 9-mil rifle, because it uses WAY bigger bullets ("manstoppers", as the instructor called them), is louder, and is the gun equivalent of a bigger dick. FalloniusMonk heartily concurred, and then made my day when she showed me that she'd acquired some duck and pig targets, which I promptly compared to my dog. "I'm going to kill the fuck out of that Chingy!-looking pig," I vowed.
I did. It was a good day to be a target duck, because I hardly shot any of them at all, but the pigs I ultimately filled with lead. "I'm bringing home the bacon!" I shouted. FalloniusMonk declared that my new "bang bang" name was "Angie Oakley." I thought that was generous of her, because truth be told, I wasn't exactly a sharpshooter (although I did manage to hit the bullseye a few times).
Probably the most hilarious part of the day was when FalloniusMonk managed to capture on film an extremely rare occurrence. Despite my many professions that I am terrible at housework, she managed to obtain definitive photographic evidence that I am capable of operating the device used to sweep shit off the floor known as a broom.
It's fitting that the only time I can be compelled to use one of these domestic contraptions is to sweep up my spent shells. FalloniusMonk didn't mind it so much, considering it the necessary conclusion to a job well done.
The guys at the range loved us, and we assured them we would return. They suggested we should bring LL Cool Jew there for her bachelorette party, and FalloniusMonk and I tried to keep a straight face wondering how that would go over with a posse of liberal-ass Smith alumnae. We graciously informed them that since liquor is an integral part of her bachelorette party, the gun range wouldn't be an appropriate venue for a bunch of boozed-up bitches, but thanked them for the idea nonetheless. Then we went and had lunch at this bizarre little bistro where a dude who looked like the bastard child of Andy Warhol and Johnny Cash ("Johnny Warhol") tortured us with his acoustic guitar and covers of old Beatles tunes.
"Too bad they didn't let us take the Rugers with us," I told FalloniusMonk after he launched into his earsplitting rendition of "Norwegian Wood." She laughed and ordered us "an apertif" of some weird Czech liquor she used to drink during her semester in Prague, and then we went out for scotch. All in all, it was about as close as I get to a perfect day short of Reggie (Get In My) Bush showing up with a rare steak and the intent of sexually working me for ten hours straight. Needless to say, this is the look of a happy Razzy:
Second amendment, baby! I'm going to treat myself to a NRA membership (and now only partly because it's an asshole thing to do and because they have awesome complimentary bumper stickers). Next stop for FalloniusMonk and myself: One Police Plaza, where we're going to submit our applications for a handgun license. Watch out, haters, because from now on, I'm going to be packing heat.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, guns, I LOVE IT, PWT, Razzification
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