Thursday, June 11, 2009
Big ass LOL
The other day when Faheem "T-Pain" Najm posted photographs of his unique new diamond jewelry on his Facebook, he obviously neglected to upload the most hilarious shot of them all.
Yes, you're seeing that right. That's Taylor Swift, the Lolita of crossover pop country music, rocking the urban camo to seem more convincingly thugged out and aiming to steal Vanessa Hudgens's Ecko Red spokesmodel job. Taylor probably spent hours practicing her Ice Cube scowl in the mirror just so she could take her Kevin Federline game to the next level in this photo shoot. Apparently she and Teddy Pinnedherassdown are collaborating (cut to my friend HotLawyer exploding with excitement), which means that the world's burning curiosity to hear Taylor Swift sing through an autotuner will finally be satiated. FINALLY.
Seriously, I don't know who thought this was a good idea. I definitely blame this on the Henny.
Labels: celebrities, hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Monday, June 08, 2009
Who has the biggest chain I've seen thus far?
I'm friends with Faheem "T-Pain" Najm on Facebook, and he's probably one of my favorite Facebook friends. He updates his status all the time, and it's usually something hilarious. It's also nice to know that T-Pain can descend from the lofty peaks of the Tallahassee McMansion where he spends the days sipping Nuvo and Patron to dick around on Facebook when he's bored like the rest of us little people (ie: accompanying a link to the Adult Swim website with the commentary "full episode of aqua teen hunger force. fuck i am good.") Because of this I know all sorts of information about T-Pain, including that he named his most recent child Kaydnz Kodah (!) and he and his wife like to have orgies with strippers in Costa Rica. I'm not even kidding.
T-Pain also likes to post photos frequently, especially of the many custom products he commissions. Teddy Pinnedherassdown is a man of refined tastes, and he likes to bless the Facebook masses with visual evidence that he's a little more sophisticated than your average rappa ternt sanga. For example, this lovely and touching tribute to his late dear friend, the recently departed Roderick "Dolla" Burton II.
After all, anyone can send flowers or sympathy cards or make a charitable donation, but there's really not more of a sentimental memorial than airbrushing your one-hit wonder collaborator's image on the hood of your vintage Chevelle. Tallahassee Pain is nothing but class. He makes the Queen of England look like a stinking derelict begging for change on a freeway offramp in comparison.
Anyway, today I was pleased to see that T-Pain continues to set the standard for elegance with a recent piece of diamond jewelry he obviously made to dazzle the other social elites he clearly rubs elbows with on the regular. I knew something was going to be good when my news feed alerted me that T-Pain had prefaced a new photo on his wall with the declaration, "I told everybody I'm not playing no more anybody wanna try to out do me then we goin at it like next door neighbors. Believe dat." I believed dat, and immediately looked at the picture and was nearly blinded with the intensity of this ice. Seriously, get a sweater, because the man and his Louis Vuitton purses (see background in second picture) are more frozen than Antarctica:
Dayum, shawty snappin! All I want to know is whether or not this is causing any drama in T-Pain's relationship with pretend cocaine kingpin/former correctional officer William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts II, AKA the self-proclaimed biggest boss I've seen thus far. Previously, Rick Ross has prided himself on wearing the largest, most ridonkulous chains in the entire Sunshine State. Rick Ross is so serious about his extremely large jewelry that he was deeply insulted when one of his baby mamas and Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson accused him of renting his signature giant self-portrait yellow diamond pendant. However, his sometime collaborator, purported friend, and fellow Floridian T-Pain has clearly challenged him when making Facebook wall statements like "DUDES AND GIRLS I JUST WANNA GIVE A QUICK PREVIEW OF THE LAST CHAIN ULL EVER LIKE. IM SHUTTIN IT DOWN."
Them's fightin' words. I think the next logical course is for Rick Ross to pick up the "Big Ass Chain"-shaped gauntlet T-Pain has thrown and get something so large and absurd that he walks hunched over when he wears it. That would be quite the achievement, since Rick Ross is a pretty big fella with a great deal of heavy chain-rocking experience, and probably has the neck weightbearing capabilities of an Oregon Trail cart ox. Break out the candy-colored rocks and let's take this battle to the next level!
Labels: Facebook, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A veritable font of wisdom
Let me be the first to say that I loathe dudes who beat up chicks for ANY reason. My position on this is pretty firm. I don't give a fuck if the chick hits the dude first, or if she was sass-talking him, or if she pushed him, or what. The fact is that dudes are bigger than chicks and unless the bitch has a black belt, there's no way some big dude beats on an unarmed woman in self-defense. Period. And I think any bastard who does so is a fucking cowardly, pussified, punk-ass dickbag loser who rightfully deserves to spend some quality time in a prison shower learning some fucking humility. PERIOD. When it comes to wife-beaters, it's ALWAYS the abuser's fault no matter how provocative or maddening the lady was, and I say an emphatic "hang 'em high."
Khia continues with a lengthy stream of consciousness rant that puts The Sound and the Fury to shame in terms of its initial indecipherability. I had to reread it like four times before I realized she seems to express support for my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson in his feud with William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts, castigate former radio personality Stephanie "Porsche Foxx" Calhoun for her apparent culpability in a recent string of arsons plaguing Atlanta, and accusing current radio personality Wendy Williams of being transgendered, looking like both the Michelin man and "a OVER fed English bulldog," and having an extremely large neck. She also takes issue with Lisa Raye, the actress who is presently the First Lady of Turks and Caicos, at least until her ugly divorce to the islands' Premier is finalized. Khia seems to think that Lisa was trying to trap the "Count" governing the British territory into a "100 stack booty call" and she ought to flee, since "Turkish women aint got no respect for you Chile! They should have whooped your ass cause they don't play that hoe shit ova there!" I guess Khia is confused about the fact that Turkey is an entirely different place than Turks and Caicos, but since she's obviously putting all her energy into enlightening us as to who is a ho and why, I can forgive her for not brushing up on geography. After I got to the part where Khia advises Lisa Raye that "You will neva be Michelle Obama!!! Go back to the pole and the low budget ass films you know!!!", I couldn't take any more of my mind being blown and got back to work on the considerably less brilliant piece of prose that is my dissertation.
While I might view domestic violence as a very black and white issue, however, I defer to other wise scholars with more profound intellectual gifts than myself to address the shades of gray involved concerning this complex subject matter. For example, this pillar of wisdom:
Namely, the sage known as Khia, a brilliant lyricist who once wrote poetic lines such as "my neck, my back, lick my pussy and my crack" and now provides counsel to lost souls that look to Hood magazine for guidance. Not content to wait until someone asked for her take on the Rihanna-Chris Brown issue via a letter to her advice column in Hood, Khia took to her MySpace blog to describe the exact type of situations that may be appropriate for "Ike Turnering" a woman:
Nowwwwww… Let’s get started!!! What the HELL is really going on with these hoes getting knocked in they EYE?? Face crammed ALL in the STEERING wheel!!!! Now… Rihanna… If you got WARTS all on dat RAGEDY ass PUSSY.. SPREADING dat FUNKY MONKEY around….You needed dat ASS beat !!! Passing off diseases to my beautiful BLACK KINGS!! But if not… Chris Brown… You was DEAD ASS WRONG!!!!! First it was Gucci, then Rocko and now….. Chris Brown!!! Yall niggas aint gone keep Ike Turnering dese hoes cuz the industry getting ready to shut yall niggas DOWN!!! HELLLL…… Much shit as the Queen talk I don’t know nann nigga GONE hit ME in my eye…….Uhh-Uhh!!!!I did hear rumors that Rihanna may have infected Chris Brown with herpes that she got from banging Jay-Z. As a virologist, I would correct Khia that herpes lesions, which are caused by herpes simplex virus, are different both etiologically and morphologically from genital warts, which are caused by human papillomaviruses. I know nothing about whether or not Rihanna is, at the ripe old age of 21, in possession of a "RAGEDY ass PUSSY," and I disagree with Khia's stance that inadvertantly spreading any sort of "FUNKY MONKEY" around is justification for being beaten and bitten to disfigurement by one of Khia's beloved BLACK KINGS. I do agree that regardless of the RAGEDY ass condition of Rihanna's genitalia, Chris Brown is indeed DEAD ASS WRONG and he ought to cease and desist with the Ike Turnering, especially considering that Khia is correct about his career being basically over. I also thank her for advising me that Gucci Mane and Rocko are apparently wife beaters as well, so I will steer clear of them the next time I'm in Hotlanta (assuming they're anywhere near the Chili's at the airport, which is pretty much the only place in Atlanta I've ever popped bottles at).
Khia continues with a lengthy stream of consciousness rant that puts The Sound and the Fury to shame in terms of its initial indecipherability. I had to reread it like four times before I realized she seems to express support for my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson in his feud with William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts, castigate former radio personality Stephanie "Porsche Foxx" Calhoun for her apparent culpability in a recent string of arsons plaguing Atlanta, and accusing current radio personality Wendy Williams of being transgendered, looking like both the Michelin man and "a OVER fed English bulldog," and having an extremely large neck. She also takes issue with Lisa Raye, the actress who is presently the First Lady of Turks and Caicos, at least until her ugly divorce to the islands' Premier is finalized. Khia seems to think that Lisa was trying to trap the "Count" governing the British territory into a "100 stack booty call" and she ought to flee, since "Turkish women aint got no respect for you Chile! They should have whooped your ass cause they don't play that hoe shit ova there!" I guess Khia is confused about the fact that Turkey is an entirely different place than Turks and Caicos, but since she's obviously putting all her energy into enlightening us as to who is a ho and why, I can forgive her for not brushing up on geography. After I got to the part where Khia advises Lisa Raye that "You will neva be Michelle Obama!!! Go back to the pole and the low budget ass films you know!!!", I couldn't take any more of my mind being blown and got back to work on the considerably less brilliant piece of prose that is my dissertation.
If you are remotely interested in being completely astounded, I strongly suggest you get with Khia's MySpace blog. It reads like what would happen if a Cylon hybrid got out of her bathtub on the basestar, moved to the Suitcase City neighborhood of Tampa, and decided to see what it would be like if James Joyce started a MySpace feud with Trina and the entire population of Atlanta's hip-hop radio DJs (not that I know what a "Cylon hybrid" actually is...some nerd who watches some show that sounds something like "Gattlestar Balactica" came in and fucked with my computer, that's how that got there). Anyway, how could you not benefit from a woman who has had enough brushes with the Florida state department of corrections to warrant such a lovely mosaic of mug shots? Khia rules.
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, MySpace, rap
Monday, February 16, 2009
The biggest beef I've seen thus far
I always enjoy a nice entertaining public dispute between two rappers, particularly if the dispute is over something as stupid as who is more real, or to borrow some of the industry lingo, who keeps it more trill. I especially love it when the conflict over whose superior realness arises because one of the parties' feelings were hurt. Somehow exactly such an argument arose between one Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson and William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts II, and over the past week, it has gotten completely out of control. My boyfriend Curtis may have finally met his match in petty public multimedia squabbling.
Apparently, Rick Ross took a break from being the biggest boss that we've seen thus far to feeling sad about getting snubbed socially by Fitty when they crossed paths at the BET awards. Fitty didn't say hi or something, and this hurt Rick Ross's feelings. So instead of just getting over it because it's really not that big of a deal, Rick vented his frustrations about his wounded self-esteem via a diss track titled "Mafia Music," in which he suggested that 50 Cent burnt down his baby mama's house because he's a "jealous, stupid motherfucker." This comment did not go over well with 50.
Not one to back down from an argument, 50 responded with a song of his own entitled "Officer Ricky," reminding everyone that Rick Ross is actually a former Florida state corrections officer rather than some kind of criminal overlord trafficking huge quantities of cocaine in and out of Miami. Rick Ross was unimpressed by Fitty's work and gave him 24 hours to come up with something better. So Fitty went to Florida family court records and tracked down Tia Kemp, the mother of one of Rick Ross's children, who is currently embroiled in a bitter paternity/child support suit against him. After declaring on his website thisis50.com that he plans to "fuck up (Rick Ross's) life," took her shopping for fur coats in New York. In the course of their shopping spree/filming a video entitled "Curtis and Tia Go to the Furrier", Tia advised my man Curtis that Rick Ross is not exactly financially as established as he boasts in his songs. According to her, his jewelry is rented, his cars are leased, and he only makes $200,000 a year. I'm a little suspicious of Tia's story, though, because really...where do you rent jewelry like this?
Gigantic chains that feature either "RR" or "Carol City Cartel" spelled out in diamonds, or a yellow diamond portrait of Rick Ross seem like pretty personalized products. I can't imagine that Jacob the Jeweler just keeps a stash of those in case Rick Ross (or possibly Suge Knight) needs to rent one for a special occasion. In any event, true or not, Tia's writing a book about how poor and law-abiding Rick Ross allegedly is outside of his musical boasting, and plans to release it the same day as Rick's new album Deeper Than Rap. This inspired a rebuttal from the goddamn boss.
Rick Ross called up Miss Info to rant about how he was just glad his baby mama was making money, and adds that 50 Cent was a "parody of hip-hop." He also added that his Floridian friends down South don't take him seriously, and refer to him as "Curly" on account of his frequent antics. He tried to get the "Curly" sobriquet to take off by then releasing a song called "Kiss my Pinky Ring, Curly." Then he put out a video of him pouring out Formula 50 Vitamin Water, in a presumed tribute to a dead homie/implied threat of deadly retaliation for Fitty's myriad insults. Then he went back on the radio to say that 50's talent or lack thereof is actually resulting in the depreciation of Dr. Dre's music, and repeatedly refer to 50 Cent as a monkey. "I don't get sidelined with monkey talk," Rick Ross explained. At this point, Inga "Foxy Brown" Marchand took issue with an oblique reference Fitty made to her brief affair with Rick Ross ("the cop fucked a fox") and demanded he retract his insult lest she handle him "Brooklyn style." Since 50 isn't going to be working on Foxy's nails anytime soon, he's probably safe for now, but I wouldn't be surprised if there's a cell phone-throwing or bitch-slapping incident in the near future.
Meanwhile, 50 Cent was busy going on every radio show possible to insult Rick Ross's financial situation and general trilla status. In addition to tracking down Rick Ross's baby mama, he managed to track down fellow Carol City Cartel member DJ Khaled's actual mother and film her at work apparently sleeping on the job.
Rick Ross called up Miss Info to rant about how he was just glad his baby mama was making money, and adds that 50 Cent was a "parody of hip-hop." He also added that his Floridian friends down South don't take him seriously, and refer to him as "Curly" on account of his frequent antics. He tried to get the "Curly" sobriquet to take off by then releasing a song called "Kiss my Pinky Ring, Curly." Then he put out a video of him pouring out Formula 50 Vitamin Water, in a presumed tribute to a dead homie/implied threat of deadly retaliation for Fitty's myriad insults. Then he went back on the radio to say that 50's talent or lack thereof is actually resulting in the depreciation of Dr. Dre's music, and repeatedly refer to 50 Cent as a monkey. "I don't get sidelined with monkey talk," Rick Ross explained. At this point, Inga "Foxy Brown" Marchand took issue with an oblique reference Fitty made to her brief affair with Rick Ross ("the cop fucked a fox") and demanded he retract his insult lest she handle him "Brooklyn style." Since 50 isn't going to be working on Foxy's nails anytime soon, he's probably safe for now, but I wouldn't be surprised if there's a cell phone-throwing or bitch-slapping incident in the near future.
Meanwhile, 50 Cent was busy going on every radio show possible to insult Rick Ross's financial situation and general trilla status. In addition to tracking down Rick Ross's baby mama, he managed to track down fellow Carol City Cartel member DJ Khaled's actual mother and film her at work apparently sleeping on the job.
I was more puzzled by the fact that DJ Khaled's mom appears to work as...an inventory clerk at the Men's Wearhouse? I can't think of any other reason why she is in a room full of men's jackets sleeping at her computer. And why does she look like she's dressed like there's a blizzard outside. Doesn't she live in Miami? I wish Fitty would have explained some of this, but unfortunately he did not because he apparently had second thoughts about this approach and removed it from his website after a day. Some people agreed this was below-the-belt since DJ Khaled's mom has nothing to do with any of this and has not committed any transgressions besides sleeping on the job and giving birth to DJ Khaled, thus cursing us all with his annoying trademark "WE THE BEST!" proclamations at the beginning and end of every song he appears on.
Rick Ross responded with a video blog of his own implying that the members of the G-g-g-g Unit are g-g-g-gay and that 50 Cent takes steroids. The best part of the video is when 50 is depicted showering with Lloyd Banks and Tony Yayo with no penis, and a disclaimer pops up that informs the viewer, "This ain't a joke–steroids make ya junk smaller!" He also continued his simian-themed retorts, by noting that he is not frightened of Fitty's empty threats because he's "understanding the monkey," and started a website entitled thisiscurly.com where pictures of 50's son Marquise's head were photoshopped onto a monkey's body. Unfortunately, this coincided with the Smoking Gun releasing court transcripts in which Rick Ross's lawyer and a Miami Beach police officer who agreed that he had no gang affiliation or notable criminal reputation whatsoever.
Fitty has since put out a song entitled "Pimpin' Curly," and continues the absurd bloggery/vloggery. Currently on thisis50.com you can go watch a cartoon entitled "Officer Ricky: Everybody Hates Chris," which features Rick Ross arresting Chris Brown, followed by a bizarre sequence in which DJ Khaled accidentally ends up in Afghanistan and is blown up by Osama Bin Laden, and that is where this beef stands as of today. I'm sure Rick Ross is putting together another song and/or homemade cartoon criticizing 50. Personally, if I were him, I'd dig Jeffrey "Ja Rule" Atkins out of whatever obscurity he's wallowing in and get that classic beef going again. Either that, or he could flex his current event muscles and rip on the fact that currently 50 Cent is in the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela celebrating Hugo Chavez's recent election to dictator-for-life. I've never heard anyone involved in a rap beef imply that an adversary is a socialist who consorts with autocratic tyrants, and I think it's high time for such politically-themed hatery.
I also would like to suggest to 50 that he put his photoshop skills to good use with this magazine cover, which may be one of the most nauseating images I have ever seen. Whatever might be going on with Fitty allegedly taking steroids to bolster his muscled physique, I think it's safe to say that nobody suspects Rick Ross is doing the same thing. It's an honor for a rapper to appear on the cover of XXL magazine, but it seems less boastworthy when the title of the magazine also describes the size of the shirt said rapper so unfortunately discarded prior to the shoot.
Shudder. I don't see why Flo Rida couldn't have been the one to be sans shirt for this cover. Jesus, even the normally portly DJ Khaled looks well-built in comparison. I can only imagine the kind of fun 50 Cent could have with this. It would go well as the latest chapter in this whole ridiculous saga. Have at it, fellas! For the sake of my entertainment, I hope they never squash it.
Labels: 50 cent, Dirrty Dirrty, hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The greatest "youth mentor" ever
I got bored with the Eagles' wholesale massacre of the Cleveland Browns last night, so I flipped over to "Keyshia Cole: The Way it Is" on BET. In this episode, Keyshia was getting the key to the city of Oakland, California. In the course of this, she stopped by some non-profit dedicated to job training or something, before donating ten grand to their cause. I was surprised and delighted by the appearance of Oakland's most famous rapper, a certain Todd "Too $hort" Shaw. 
While seeing $hort Dog loitering around Oak-town would not in itself seem shocking, as that is the subject of most of his songs, he certainly has cultivated a novel persona for the sake of good PR. The show listed his occupation as "Rapper/Youth Mentor."
"Youth mentor?!" I thought. "Since when has $horty the Pimp been a youth mentor?" If Too $hort's entire lyrical catalog is any indication, the only thing he is qualified to mentor youth about is how aspiring pimps might break hoes. I guess he can also probably give them excellent tips on how to get blown on an extremely regular basis (as much of his music features a recurring "nuts-on-tonsils" theme), and how to evade the criminal justice system should his misadventures in fellatio result in the accidental death of the tragic woman allowing Too $hort and a host of other men to run a train on her face. Asking Too $hort to give Oakland's youth any sort of non-pimping advice besides "get a good lawyer, like Johnny Cochrane, swear to tell the truth: hell, no, I didn't pop him" might be a stretch. I suppose that Too $hort indirectly mentored some youth from a demographic he didn't expect (loud white girls at expensive New England women's colleges) in that he was one of my go-to guys for music that would piss off the uptight womynists I loved to offend for my own entertainment. However, since East Oakland is a long way from Smith College and I doubt that Youth UpRising is frequently disturbed by rallies or candlelight vigils protesting the patriarchal oppression of women, I can't imagine this is the kind of mentoring that Too $hort provides.
While seeing $hort Dog loitering around Oak-town would not in itself seem shocking, as that is the subject of most of his songs, he certainly has cultivated a novel persona for the sake of good PR. The show listed his occupation as "Rapper/Youth Mentor."
"Youth mentor?!" I thought. "Since when has $horty the Pimp been a youth mentor?" If Too $hort's entire lyrical catalog is any indication, the only thing he is qualified to mentor youth about is how aspiring pimps might break hoes. I guess he can also probably give them excellent tips on how to get blown on an extremely regular basis (as much of his music features a recurring "nuts-on-tonsils" theme), and how to evade the criminal justice system should his misadventures in fellatio result in the accidental death of the tragic woman allowing Too $hort and a host of other men to run a train on her face. Asking Too $hort to give Oakland's youth any sort of non-pimping advice besides "get a good lawyer, like Johnny Cochrane, swear to tell the truth: hell, no, I didn't pop him" might be a stretch. I suppose that Too $hort indirectly mentored some youth from a demographic he didn't expect (loud white girls at expensive New England women's colleges) in that he was one of my go-to guys for music that would piss off the uptight womynists I loved to offend for my own entertainment. However, since East Oakland is a long way from Smith College and I doubt that Youth UpRising is frequently disturbed by rallies or candlelight vigils protesting the patriarchal oppression of women, I can't imagine this is the kind of mentoring that Too $hort provides.
After watching a little longer, I was disappointed to gather that Too $hort isn't even giving pimping lessons of any sort. I didn't hear him say anything along the lines of "she looked kind of young but my dick can't tell" or "I just want to fuck you and cut, treat you like a trampy slut." In fact, the only instructional activities he mentioned were the beat-making and lyrics-writing workshops he leads. However, in spite of $hort Dog's failure to instruct aspiring youth in "puttin' fine-ass bitches on the streets in the hood, every year trade for a new Fleetwood," he does at least seem to be teaching the youth of Oakland how to have nothing but game coming out their mouths. I suppose this is more constructive than learning how to actually manage a flock of top notches, as Too $hort himself has ultimately selected a career as a musician rather than an actual pimp engaged in brokering prostitution services. Probably being a multi-platinum-selling rapper is a more sensible occupation than street pimp in terms of maintaining that California lifestyle that Too $hort lives.
I would just like to take a moment to recognize one of the finest pieces of mentoring Too $hort has engaged in. Okay, well, it's not so much "mentoring" as running down a laundry list of all the conquests who "throw that P" his way in his classic song "Cocktales." Sadly, because Sir Too $hort's language is so salty, classic lines like "Tina, Tina, the sperm cleaner" and "I go diggin' in them guts like a gardener, and if she scream, I'm-a fuck the bitch harder." At least the part with the girl named Angie in the song isn't edited, only because she shows up at Too $hort's house and simply states, "Do me, player." I can't recall ever banging Too $hort, but that nonetheless sounds about right. I see great things in store for Oakland's disadvantaged youth with a mentor like this.
Labels: hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Too $hort, TV
Monday, November 03, 2008
Me llamo es Sarah Palin
Just in time for the election, I've got what you were all undoubtedly waiting with bated breath all weekend to see: my Sarah Palin costume. As promised, I did dress up as Sarah Palin in a flag bikini. The bikini arrived at work just in time on Friday morning, and I eagerly tore open the package to shout "USA! U! S! A!" at my coworkers while modeling it over my clothes. Unfortunately, I realized that it wasn't quite the same stars-and-stripes design I expected. In fact, upon closer inspection, I realized with horror that the online flag bikini store fucked up my order and sent me a Puerto Rican flag bikini by mistake. Luckily, that turned out even better, because as numerous people at the party I attended pointed out, Sarah Palin probably thinks she can see Puerto Rico from Alaska. The bikini goes great with the giant Obama sign in the background.
Also as promised, I dressed my morbidly obese Pug Chingy! up as Sarah Palin's infant son Trig. Several people commented that it was one of the most offensive things anyone had ever seen, but nonetheless everyone laughed at it. Chingy! quickly proved his disdain for the extra large (yet still too small) Pull-Ups I put on him and in his typical fashion, proved to be far more ill-behaved and uncooperative than I've ever seen Trig Palin.
Another very un-Palin-esque behavior of Chingy!'s involved him going rogue and showing his undying love for pork barrel spending. Pork Barrel Spending is one of Chingy!'s very favorite Pugsitters, and she promptly removed the barrel and spent the evening cuddling with him and whispering sweet CHONGAYs into his stank, tarry little ears.
I'd show more pictures, but unfortunately our party host GayMan got very drunk (when I left the party at like 3 a.m., he had exhausted all the beer in the fridge and was resorting to Mike's Hard Lemonade). Despite the fact that he is a professional photographer, at this point all of his photos got awfully blurry. Additionally, you can tell that despite his name, GayMan is as hetero as they come. For evidence, take this photograph of me talking to my friend Moss, who dressed as what Governor Palin would classify as an Inuit.
Nice titty picture, GayMan. I should know; I am a connoisseur.
Anyway, CHONGAY CHONG, Sarah and Trig Palin costume! Oh, and if anyone needs a gently used Puerto Rican flag bikini, holler at your Alaskan governor.
Labels: alcoholism, CHONGAY CHONG, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, politics, spooktiness
Thursday, October 02, 2008
My night last night, by JerseyGirl
RAZZY Edit: This may look like it was posted by me, but is actually an e-mail I received last Friday morning from my friend JerseyGirl. She swore up and down she wanted to turn this into a blog posting of her own, but has been so busy with work that she hasn't gotten a chance. Plus, she's afraid to look at my website from work because her office is full of annoying snoops that read her computer over her shoulder and would maybe have a negative opinion of her professionalism if a picture of my tits popped up. Anyway, she asked me to retool her "high five me, bitches, because I'm a himalaya playa" e-mail as a post, which I'm only too glad to do since I've been seriously remiss in the useless bullshit production department this week. I wish I had a better excuse than lab is busting my balls...or it would be, if I had balls. You get the idea. Anyway, enjoy JerseyGirl's story about juggling her man-harem.
Okay -
As many of you know, I was supposed to go out with M.A. on a date. M.A. is my boyfriend from summer before college and 1st semester in college–we haven't spoken in ten years, and he found me on Facebook. Yesterday was so dreary and I hadn't washed my hair, so around 5 o'clock I said I had to work late and blew off the date. On my way home from work riding the short bus, I started listening to "Burning Up" by Madonna, and I started to get a little excited. So I decided to text M.C. with: "What are you doing tonite?"
Okay -
As many of you know, I was supposed to go out with M.A. on a date. M.A. is my boyfriend from summer before college and 1st semester in college–we haven't spoken in ten years, and he found me on Facebook. Yesterday was so dreary and I hadn't washed my hair, so around 5 o'clock I said I had to work late and blew off the date. On my way home from work riding the short bus, I started listening to "Burning Up" by Madonna, and I started to get a little excited. So I decided to text M.C. with: "What are you doing tonite?"
No response.
So I send another text: "Come over"
About 30 seconds later he writes me back telling me that he's at some movie premiere that wont be over till about 10, but he'll come over then. Sweet...I am so excited.
I chillax, drink a Molson Golden, take a shower, eat some Easy Mac, watch "The Office," drink a couple more MGs, and smoke a little when my phone rings about about 10:01. It's O.D. It's really noisy in the background and I ask him what's going on. He's at some event, he tells me, and wants to know what I'm doing. I ask him if this was a booty call and he starts dying laughing. He tells me he really wants to see me, and can he come over? I say no, I have to get up early for work tomorrow, sorry. Come meet me out on Friday. He agrees and asks me to send him more dirty pics to his BlackBerry.
About five minutes later my phone rings and it's this guy from college, D.J., who called me randomly 2 weeks ago after not being in touch for three years. We chatted briefly two weeks ago and since then he's called me at least two times. I finally call him back last night, and we start chatting, and he brings up that our mutual friend from college's wedding is this weekend. He then goes:
"That's sort of the reason I was calling, I was wondering what you were up to this weekend, and if maybe you wanted to go with me to the wedding."
Ummmmmmmm, guy, I haven't laid eyes on you in 3 years, are you straight up CRAZY right now? I respectfully decline, telling him I have my friend's engagement party (which I do), and hurriedly hang up the phone.
About a minute later I get a text from M.C. saying that he's having some stomach issues and might not be able to make it. So, I promptly text O.D. saying "I can't stop thinking about you." He writes back, "Want me to come over?" to which I respond "YES!" He says, "Okay give me about 30 minutes."
M.C. then calls me to tell me that he really wants to see me, but that he is having stomach issues and it's probably in everyone's best interest if he goes home. At first I'm like "Suuuure, no big deal! Some other time." As we're chatting, I get a text from O.D. saying, "I'm sorry to say it, but I think I'm too drunk to drive." Way to go, 40-year-old guy. So then I start pouting a little bit on the phone with M.C., trying my damnedest to make him come over. Alas, his stomach issues are too great. I hang up the phone dejected.
I text O.D. back "Ok wastoid." He writes back "Send me pictures," to which I write back "um no retard I want to get laid!" to which he responds "your gonna get it all on Friday." He is the WORST TEXTER EVER , I mean what does that even mean????
I snuggle into bed, lights out, all ready to pleasure myself courtesy of my Sharper Image back massager when my phone starts ringing. It's M.C.
"I've changed my mind … I'm coming over," he tells me.
Double crisis averted!!! I was about to go to bed alone, and I was also playing with fire by potentially inviting two guys over to my apartment at 11:30pm–not a good sitch at all. What's also not a good sitch at all is that O.D. bought a 12 pack of condoms a couple weeks ago, and we used 2 when we hung out. Now there's only 8 left. I hope he's not too good at math!!!!
M.C. and I fucked until the break of dawn and I feel ready to conquer the world today.
About 30 seconds later he writes me back telling me that he's at some movie premiere that wont be over till about 10, but he'll come over then. Sweet...I am so excited.
I chillax, drink a Molson Golden, take a shower, eat some Easy Mac, watch "The Office," drink a couple more MGs, and smoke a little when my phone rings about about 10:01. It's O.D. It's really noisy in the background and I ask him what's going on. He's at some event, he tells me, and wants to know what I'm doing. I ask him if this was a booty call and he starts dying laughing. He tells me he really wants to see me, and can he come over? I say no, I have to get up early for work tomorrow, sorry. Come meet me out on Friday. He agrees and asks me to send him more dirty pics to his BlackBerry.
About five minutes later my phone rings and it's this guy from college, D.J., who called me randomly 2 weeks ago after not being in touch for three years. We chatted briefly two weeks ago and since then he's called me at least two times. I finally call him back last night, and we start chatting, and he brings up that our mutual friend from college's wedding is this weekend. He then goes:
"That's sort of the reason I was calling, I was wondering what you were up to this weekend, and if maybe you wanted to go with me to the wedding."
Ummmmmmmm, guy, I haven't laid eyes on you in 3 years, are you straight up CRAZY right now? I respectfully decline, telling him I have my friend's engagement party (which I do), and hurriedly hang up the phone.
About a minute later I get a text from M.C. saying that he's having some stomach issues and might not be able to make it. So, I promptly text O.D. saying "I can't stop thinking about you." He writes back, "Want me to come over?" to which I respond "YES!" He says, "Okay give me about 30 minutes."
M.C. then calls me to tell me that he really wants to see me, but that he is having stomach issues and it's probably in everyone's best interest if he goes home. At first I'm like "Suuuure, no big deal! Some other time." As we're chatting, I get a text from O.D. saying, "I'm sorry to say it, but I think I'm too drunk to drive." Way to go, 40-year-old guy. So then I start pouting a little bit on the phone with M.C., trying my damnedest to make him come over. Alas, his stomach issues are too great. I hang up the phone dejected.
I text O.D. back "Ok wastoid." He writes back "Send me pictures," to which I write back "um no retard I want to get laid!" to which he responds "your gonna get it all on Friday." He is the WORST TEXTER EVER , I mean what does that even mean????
I snuggle into bed, lights out, all ready to pleasure myself courtesy of my Sharper Image back massager when my phone starts ringing. It's M.C.
"I've changed my mind … I'm coming over," he tells me.
Double crisis averted!!! I was about to go to bed alone, and I was also playing with fire by potentially inviting two guys over to my apartment at 11:30pm–not a good sitch at all. What's also not a good sitch at all is that O.D. bought a 12 pack of condoms a couple weeks ago, and we used 2 when we hung out. Now there's only 8 left. I hope he's not too good at math!!!!
M.C. and I fucked until the break of dawn and I feel ready to conquer the world today.
XOBJBS,
JerseyGirl
Labels: hilarious shit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, sex, sluts
Monday, September 08, 2008
He's no Kells, but he can still make an entrance
I was busy with football yesterday for the most part, but that doesn't mean I couldn't take time at commercial to see what's going on over at the VMAs (answer: not much, but the legendary Ms. Britney Spears did manage to crush the competition in three categories with her "Piece of Me" video). There was a pretty awesome performance by Lil' Wayne and T-Pain (or "T-Wayne," as they've taken to calling their partnership), but otherwise I was more interested in laughing at the Bears helped the Colts break in their ugly new stadium by summarily kicking their bitch asses.
However, there was one notable exception to the general soporific boredom that was the VMAs, and that is Faheem "T-Pain" Najm's entrance. Apparently, the "rapper ternt sanga" and hair-in-mouth-hating world's most hilarious critic of Ray-J's penis ("the man got a huge meat on him...no homo, but the man is swangin'") decided to really continue with the circus ringmaster theme he's been cultivating as of late, and arrived on a T-Pain chain-wearing ELEPHANT surrounded by a cadre of midget clowns and slutty acrobat chicks.
Say what you will about Teddy Pinnedherassdown, like he can't actually sing without an auto-tuner, or his lyrics are ridiculous (they are), or that "mansion" doesn't really rhyme with "Wisconsin," or he can't properly spell "in love with,""drink," or "rapper turned singer," but you have to admit that the man can rock some ridiculously funny style. His chain-rocking elephant is considerably more awesome than one of those Kanye West sunglass-wearing Care Bear plushies and furries that preceded his troupe of skank carnies to the VMAs. In fact, I think any time you show up ANYWHERE cruising in a pachydermal whip you're going to win the awesomeness award, even if you are a fat guy from Tallahassee with nappy dreads and a fondness for garish satin top hats. T-Pain definitely wins.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Beauty-disadvantaged is the new ugly
I've never been to Australia, but judging by what I've learned from a spate of Foster's commercials and Mick "Crocodile" Dundee, it's a continent full of awesomely crazy people. Along with other traditional Aussie customs like drinking, barbecuing shrimp, and putting random water buffalo to sleep with some kind of Aboriginal hoodoo hand puppetry, outlandish craziness in all matters is a revered cultural tradition Down Under. That's why I loved reading the news about some mayor of a town called Mount Isa begging ugly women to come visit.
Mayor John Molony wants "beauty-disadvantaged women" to know that they're always welcome in his "bloke-heavy" Australian mining town.
"May I suggest if there are five blokes to every girl, we should find out where there are beauty-disadvantaged women and ask them to proceed to Mount Isa," Molony tells the Townsville Bulletin. "Quite often you will see walking down the street a lass who is not so attractive with a wide smile on her face. Whether it is recollection of something previous or anticipation for the next evening, there is a degree of happiness."
In other words, ugly chicks DEFINITELY get laid in Mount Isa, because all those miners are horny as hell and they'll take anything with three holes and two legs. Actually, I'm not sure the "two legs" part even fits into those standards. I bet the goat population in Mount Isa will be sitting pretty gingerly if Mayor Molony's plea for ugly bitches goes unanswered.
Mayor Molony seems like a dirty guy suggesting that the "beauty disadvantaged" among us head to Mount Isa just because the guys there are desperate to fuck any female in Genus Homo regardless of her facial severity, but he goes on to prove that he's not. Rather than just another bloke in a bloke-heavy mining encampment, he's a profound philosophical thinker who goes so far as citing a fairy tale which may or may not exist to prove the old adage that beauty isn't skin deep.
"Often those who are beauty-disadvantaged are unhappy with their lot. Some, in other places in Australia, need to proceed to Mount Isa where happiness awaits," he says. "And, really, beauty is only skin deep. Isn't there a fairy tale about an ugly duckling that evolves into a beautiful swan?"
Not surprisingly, the few women already in Mount Isa aren't responding to the Mayor's entreaty for more ugly bitches with "a wide smile" on their faces.
One woman tells the Brisbane Times "there just aren't top quality men here."Uh oh. I think the Mayor has stirred up a hornet's nest of trouble. I went to Smith College, and I know all about "beauty disadvantaged" women suffering from a dearth of "quality" sex partners who have caught the protesting bug. I used to blast Too $hort songs about treating fine-ass bitches like dirt and breaking hoes for scrilla at their candlelight vigils for sport. Those girls used to get so mad! Fun times.
Some of the city's women plan to hold a protest.
"It's offensive to women everywhere, let alone women in Mount Isa," Betty Kiernan, a member of the Far North Queensland parliament, tells the Bulletin.
Anyway, ugly, undersexed girls with a mission act like every cause–from encouraging recycling to calling for a protest of Domino's Pizza to petitioning for the residential dining serve to cease serving North African Vegetable Stew–is tantamount to stopping the genocide in Darfur. They will annoy you to death with their shrill, shrewish, inane harping, and will never rest their circular arguments until finally you're finally so bored and irritated with fighting them that you just throw up your hands in surrender and validate them and go get a drink or otherwise occupy your time more productively. The mayor of Mount Isa is about to learn this the hard way, because if there's any cause ugly girls rally for, it's being called "ugly." At Smith, I think these chicks would probably rather see the oceans' ecosystems destroyed by 19th century whaling practices or women's suffrage repealed than be called "ugly." I'm quite certain that the ladies of Mount Ida aren't all that different, judging by the magnitude of their response and their eagerness to commence protesting.
However, I do give the mayor props for his attempt at political correctness with the employ of the term "beauty disadvantaged." That's the kind of roundabout euphemism that usually spastic protestors use to obfuscate logical flaws with pseudo-intellectual excess vocabulary. I'd congratulate the mayor on his caginess for beating the pissed-off women at their own game if I thought it was remotely intentional. Sadly, I bet this poor mayor actually looks like Donk from Crocodile Dundee: a thick-necked, occasionally violent, grimy man with a smell like transmission fluid, Lucky Strike butts, and three years worth of sweat simmered under the unforgiving Queensland sun, a moonshine still behind the corrugated metal lean-to he calls home, and a smile that's more teeth than gums. He probably just wants to get laid so badly that he was hoping to haul a large catch of desperate ugly girls without offending them directly by casting aspersions regarding their appearance. Poor guy doesn't know what he's gotten himself into, but I'm pretty sure it's not going to be beauty-disadvantaged pussy.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, hilarious shit, international intrigue, sluts, you're ugly
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Like a cop car
The other day, J-Sexy and I were IMing about this girl I was jocking, and I quoted Faheem "T-Pain" Najm's masterpiece "Buy You a Drank" with respect to my seduction strategy. This got our chat going off on a whole other tangent concerning Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter's masterpiece about cop-suspect sex, "Mrs. Officer."
Razzy: i'm totally wearing that gray and black dress
Razzy: like a straight up SLIZUT
J-Sexy: hahaha
J-Sexy: that is a great dress
J-Sexy: wear heels too
Razzy:: i'll buy her a drank
Razzy: maybe we'll be in the bed like ooo ooo ooo ooo
J-Sexy: we-o-we-o-we
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: like a cop car
J-Sexy: like a cop car
J-Sexy: jinx
Razzy:: all she want me to do is fuck the police
J-Sexy: i am actually lol-ling
Razzy: i am too!
J-Sexy: i like lil wayne
Razzy: me too
J-Sexy: he is super funny
Razzy: i just turned that song on
Razzy: what an awesome song
J-Sexy: it is so silly
J-Sexy: my god
J-Sexy: amazing
Razzy: lil wayne and kells both love to make their women make car noises
J-Sexy: it's so odd
Razzy: i have personally never simulated a vehicle in the throes of passion
Razzy: i certainly have never emulated a cop car
Razzy: although maybe i should
J-Sexy: i routinely make a honking noise
J-Sexy: the men love it
Razzy: are you serious???
J-Sexy: of course not!
J-Sexy: ewwww
Razzy: i am seriously LOLing hard
Razzy: imagining you honking at your boyfriend!
J-Sexy: that would be so retarded
Razzy: rodney king baby, beat it like a cop
Razzy: i think the next time i get laid
Razzy: i'm going to make some vehicular noises
J-Sexy: do it!!
J-Sexy: you have to
Razzy: and see how it goes over
Razzy: i'll do a kells/lil wayne medley
Razzy: we-o we-o wee
Razzy: toot toot beep beep
J-Sexy: haha
J-Sexy: man, if the dude doesn't know this kinda music he will think that you are nuts
Razzy: which will be even more hilarious
J-Sexy: but if he does, what a laugh!
J-Sexy: either way it will be hilarious
J-Sexy: toot toot
Razzy: beep beep
J-Sexy: i dare you to
Razzy: i'm going to!
The last time I got laid, I forgot to get automotive on the lucky fella's ass while we were getting down. However, the next time I get some action, I am definitely going to break out the literal car talk and see how that works out. I have to make sure the lights are on so I can see the other party's expression, which I only assume will be a combination of shock, confusion, and amusement. Then the person will probably be like, "Why the hell are you making a siren noise?" and I'll be like, "DUH, you're making my body sing like a cop car!" Unless, of course, due to some miracle of fate the next visitor to my boudoir is either R. Kelly or Lil' Wayne, in which case they'll probably congratulate themselves on a job well done.
Labels: hilarious shit, J-Sexy, Lil' Wayne, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the Hip-Hop Magician
DOB: ???
Occupation: who the celebrities call for their kids' birthday parties
Hometown: Brooklyn, New York
Current residence: Brooklyn, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Because who doesn't want a "hip-hop magician" that all the celebrities hire for their kids' birthday parties? I certainly do, even though I'm not sure what "celebrities" these are. Somehow I can't really see Donald Trump, Kimora Lee Simmons, or Madonna being swayed by his ads (which are usually on during "I Love Money" and other similar trashtastic Vh1 reality shows), but I'd settle for hiring any "hip-hop" celebrity magician/clown who brings a magic show, balloon animals, games, a popcorn maker, a cotton candy machine, and a bouncy castle to all of his gigs. That's assuredly much better than what magicians usually bring, which if Criss Angel is any indication, includes trucker hats, body jewelry from Hot Topic, a soundtrack composed solely of Korn, Linkin Park, and Drowning Pool songs, and an insufferable sense of condescending superiority that is supposed to pass as mysterious intrigue. Frankly, I'm tempted to call 718-892-0760 just to see if I can afford his rates for my thesis defense party next year. That would be a welcome departure from the usual cheap champagne and Saigon Grill takeout selection that typically mark a grad student's passage from academic serfdom to a real job. I dare you not to want Uncle Majic to demonstrate his arts at your next special occasion after watching his video:
AD WIZARDS: Hip Hop Magician
As it turns out, I was wrong about the celebrities he's been hired by. I went to hiphopmagician.com and it turns out Kimora Lee Simmons DID book him for her kids' birthday party! He's also performed for the likes of Alan Houston, Wendy Williams, and Treach, as well as warmed up crowds for Mike Epps, Chris Rock, and Dave Chappelle. He claims that "the only thing that separates me from David Blaine is a few thousand dollars." I would argue that he's also separated from David Blaine by accomplishing a feat of illusion that no other magician has yet done: a mere glance at him doesn't make me hate him and wish for his violent death, as is the case with Mr. Blaine and his contemporaries in faux magical bullshit. In fact, even more miraculous and amazing is the fact that I actually LIKE the hip-hop magician and experience feelings of wanting him to perform for me rather than explode in a freak balloon animal accident. I'm not a celebrity, and I don't have kids, but nonetheless I want to call him for my birthday party anyway.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, magick is bullshit, ridiculous absurdity, TV
Monday, August 04, 2008
Makaveli in this
The other day I was hanging out with FalloniusMonk and we were talking about our usual nerdtastic selection of topics (ie: history, classical literature, office politics, and lesbian sex), when she suddenly got very excited and said, "Oh my God, DUDE, you have to see this!"
She dove into her hipster bag and whipped out a book. It was a copy of Niccolo Machiavelli's The Prince.
"Uh, dude, did you take a history class in high school? Because I've read that," I said. "Several times, in fact."
"NO, dude, I know you've read it. Look at the fucking picture on the front!"
At first I was like, "What? It's just the usual Penguin Classics appropriation of some random Botticelli portrait or something." For a minute I felt like I was playing some European history-oriented Renaissance painting version of Erotic Photo Hunt. Then FalloniusMonk shouted "WEST SIIIIIDE!" and I instantly realized what was going on. I've seen this hand gesture before:
Now I know why Tupac was so into calling himself "Makaveli" and frankly, why he probably picked up his first copy of The Prince from the prison library in his first place. Certainly the Westside Connection's designs on world domination are in keeping with Machiavelli's political theories, although I certainly wonder these days how O'Shea "Ice Cube" Jackson is going to accomplish that lofty goal via films like Are We There Yet? I can't really see it, but maybe it's how he reconciled the question as to whether it is better for a leader to be loved or feared. He's feared by studio gangstas, police, and Jerry Heller, and loved by children under the age of twelve. It's not really what springs to mind when I think of the word "Machiavellian," but I guess it works.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, librophilia, nerd alert, rap
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Just another day in the life of the goddamn boss
I have always had a somewhat suspicious view of thug rappers who brag about all the crimes they've committed and continue to commit in spite of being rich celebrities. I just don't believe that Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins is taking time out from recording club bangers with the likes of Usher and Christina Milian to cook crack in his microwave and sell it down at his local trap, any more than I believe that Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter and Brian "Birdman" Williams earned those teardrops tattooed on their faces by murdering a combined five people or I believe that Sean Kingston can show me about the slums of the city from which he got his surname without having his fat ass robbed of his ridonk Crayola crayon chain. Like the vast majority of people who listen to gangsta rappers and R&B thugs, I find all the macho posturing incredibly entertaining but not necessarily believable. It doesn't matter that Khaled "DJ Khaled" Khaled probably only has occasion to outrun DEA strike teams at 60 miles per hour in reverse in his Bentley for the sake of music videos rather than actual major league drug trafficking. I enjoy watching it and listening to it and it's fun.
However, the lack of veracity backing many of these dudes' claims to major case perpetrator status has not gone unnoticed, particularly by The Smoking Gun. A while back, they discovered that Aliuane "Akon" Thiam's claims of running a notorious interstate stolen car syndicate were inspired more by playing Grand Theft Auto than any actual personal experience. Now, they've followed up on a photo from MediaTakeOut concerning William "Rick Ross" Roberts's inflated criminal past.
In case you don't know who Rick Ross is, he's cornered the niche market of cocaine kingpin rap. His stage name was appropriated from a famous Los Angeles cocaine trafficker named Freeway Ricky Ross, and he routinely refers to himself as "the boss" and claims to run something called the "Carol City Cartel," as though he's some type of morbidly obese Floridian version of Pablo Escobar. This might seem kind of believable, since he always has a really menacing expression, he's always smoking a cigar, he pays a lot of lip service to staying trill (which means "keeping it real" with regard to thug exploits) and he looks like Suge Knight's long lost twin. I will, however, say that I think his intimidating air is somewhat mitigated by his absurd self-portrait yellow diamond pendant:
Anyway, I was a little suspicious of how Rick Ross managed to find the time to build an international drug trafficking operation when he was busy attending Albany State University on a football scholarship, so I wasn't terribly surprised when MediaTakeOut posted a picture featuring Rick Ross working at his first job after college...as an officer for the Florida Department of Corrections.
Yes, I'm sure that on his graduation day from prison guard school, the biggest boss that I've seen thus far was keeping it trill, indeed. To recapture some of that trillness, Rick Ross responded by claiming that these were Photoshopped, and that he's never worked keeping his colleagues in the drug-running industry confined in the clink. Unfortunately, The Smoking Gun decided to get in on the story, and they managed to dig up old personnel records for the same "William L. Roberts" in the photo above with the same social security number belonging to Rick Ross. I can see why he got out of the DoC business, since he was hardly able to blow 15 million in one week (one of his favorite hobbies according to his lyrics, although I would interject that it's not the most sensible financial planning strategy) making 23 grand a year as a corrections officer.
I can't hold it against Rick Ross too much for simply trying to stack that paper. And again, it's not like I really believed his criminal CV, since all you have to do to suspect him of not being quite the trilla he claims is watch one of his videos. For example, the video for "Speedin," which is one of my favorite Rick Ross jams because the hook is sung by a certain ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY. I defy you to watch this video and think that Rick Ross is entirely truthful about his legendary exploits in the criminal underworld:
I'm not sure what is more absurd, the notion that Rick Ross could actually escape the police by leaping off a Miami bridge and swimming to freedom (while callously leaving DJ Khaled in the Maybach with their slut masseurs to bribe the police), "Kells and Ross on the Hollywood scene" after engaging in some kind of Fast and the Furious-esque street racing, or Ross asking Kells to "meet me at the helipad" in order to evade pursuit by some law enforcement types. Hell, it might be completely ridiculous, but it sure is fun.
Labels: hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: male strippers
DOB: ???
Occupation: disrobing for cash
Hometown: ???
Current residence: in Brad's case, somewhere near Washington, DC
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: My friend LL Cool Jew is the matron of honor in our college buddy Wmania's wedding, so naturally she took it upon herself to organize the wedding shower and bachelorette party, and the latter means one thing: hiring some professional semi-nude entertainment. Since before she married BigBagel, LL Cool Jew was a lesbian, we took her to Scores for her bachelorette party and had her literally covered in writhing topless ladies for three hours. Wmania, despite being a Smith alumna herself, has previously shown minimal interest in those without a Y chromosome, so LL Cool Jew realized that to return the favor, she ought to get a male stripper.
Initially, we planned to get a midget stripper to hump a small donkey, because Wmania used to work for the Democrats and because a midget would probably make the somewhat prudish Wmania go into convulsions from the shock. However, we couldn't track down a midget, so we had to find a regular-sized sausage showoff. Thus, LL Cool Jew called Amazing Entertainment and hired some dude named Brad.
The night before the bachelorette party, Brad called LL Cool Jew to get an idea of his audience. "Well, some of the crowd might be a little...conservative," she explained.
"I appreciate your candor," Brad replied. "Would you do me a favor and ensure those ladies have a few cocktails before the appointed time?"
"Dude, he was really professional," remarked LL Cool Jew, after assuring him that we'd get the "conservative" ladies (specifically the bride-to-be) sufficiently liquored up prior to his performance. Later she noted that she was fascinated by her "first official transaction in the sex industry" (although I've seen that hooker stuffing bills into plenty a lady's G-string, so that's not entirely accurate). We were all looking forward to seeing the candor-loving Brad demonstrate his professional skills.
The next night we adorned Wmania in the typical bachelorette party crap, including the piece de resistance, a blinking penis tiara. We popped a case of champagne and between the eight of us, finished it in two hours like the champion alcoholics we are. Then, the gracious hostess admitted Brad, claiming he was her neighbor.
"Oh my God, DUDE," exclaimed Wmania. "I know what's going on here."
Brad actually wasn't that great looking. According to FalloniusMonk, he actually looked like a grotesquely swollen Kevin Bacon. However, he was indeed very nice and professional (before beginning he advised us that he has two rules: no video although still pictures are fine, and no punching him in the nuts). He also managed to lay Wmania on the floor and remove dollar bills from her ginormous rack with his teeth without her looking too exceptionally uncomfortable. While she didn't look as though she enjoyed Brad's attentions much, the rest of us were laughing. Naturally, when her turn was over and Brad asked who was next, she pointed right at me and said "RAZZY!"
I sat down on Brad's provided stepstool and while he gave me a lap dance, I whispered in his ear that I wasn't one of the conservative ladies LL Cool Jew had mentioned in her briefing the day before.
"Okay, then you want to do something crazy?" he asked.
"Sure, why not?" I said.
"Are you wearing panties?"
I thought for a minute. "Amazingly, I am," I replied.
"Are you scared of heights?"
"Nope."
"Okay, get ready to fly," he said. Then he grabbed my ass and did this:
I stuffed my entire wad of dollars into his G-string for giving me an extended face ride. Granted, I had a bunch of residual fake tanner and coconut oil on my thighs afterward, but it was well worth it just for the expression on Wmania's face while Brad twirled me around the room and tried to avoid hitting my head on any light fixtures.
Later, after Brad departed, the ladies were discussing it, and there were a lot of comments going around describing the experience of watching a jiggling beefcake as "gross" and "disgusting." I was surprised because, while not necessarily a sexy experience, I thought it was hilarious. Generally I think male strippers are pretty boring, because mainly all they do is waggle their thong-clad packages at you and give lame lap dances, they don't smell as nice as lady strippers, and there's usually some kind of oil on them which can stain clothing. However, I have to recognize a male stripper who incorporates a lot of sexually suggestive participatory acrobatics into his routine. I might dispute his website's claim of him being the embodiment of male perfection (on account of his not being a black doctor, a Jewish nerd, an MIT graduate, or a swarthy rogue), but I have to applaud his dedication to a lively and interactive performance. I almost always prefer female peelers, as they have breasts and are generally prettier than the generic beefcakes dominating the sausage-swanging circuit. Besides, male strippers never show their weiners, and I can look at a Calvin Klein ad if I want to see some well-defined pecs. However, when a male stripper can actually make up for his cock shyness and overcompensating muscles by inducing hysterical laughter, I have to give my wholehearted approval. Well played, Brad. I salute your professionalism.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, nudity, Wmania
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Talk ridiculously to me
The other day, I was Gchatting with Twathopper and she was telling me some of the more offensive things her ex-paramour Superlez pulled during their brief stint dating. Apparently, although Superlez didn't seem very interested in having real-life sex, she loved phone sex. Granted, this was the lamest phone sex ever, since she spent 99% of it telling Twathopper how cute she was and what she liked about her. In the brief times they actually managed some light physical coupling, Superlez apparently also liked to dirty talk. One time she started bossing Twathopper around about her "cunt," and while the C-bomb doesn't really bother me, it's not one of Twathopper's favorite words and she had to argue with Superlez about whether or not it turned her on. Another time, Superlez pulled one of the grossest, most off-putting instances of dirty talk I've ever heard. Whilst hovering over Twathopper, she said, "Feed me!"
"Uh...what?" Twathopper didn't know what she was talking about.
"Feed me!" repeated Superlez, who then began suckling on Twathopper's tits like some sort of demented baby from hell. This was such a huge turn-off that Twathopper–in spite of being hard-up for lezzie sex–stopped their hooking up in its tracks, because in her words "I'm not into baby fantasies and shit" as having "a grown woman suck on my tits like a fucking infant" was off-putting to say the least. As she put it, "equating the adult act of sex with children" is "not hot at all," and I couldn't agree more. For one thing, I hate kids, and for another...if there's one thing that doesn't go together it's HOT SEX and IMITATING CHILDREN. Another one of my friends was dating this guy a while back, and he used to baby talk all the time. It was mildly disturbing enough that he would routinely say things like "I wuv wu, sweetie-weetie" and stuff like that in front of her friends at bars and restaurants. In the bedroom he was even worse. He would say stuff to her like "Baby, will wu sucky wucky my cocky wocky?" When she told me about this, I thought that if any dude ever said something like that to me, my first response would be, "EW! Oh my GOD, NO! Never again!"
When it comes to dirty talk, there's a fine line between hot and creepy that clearly some people cross with flying leaps. I have certainly engaged in my fair share of dirty talk, but luckily I've never had anyone try to baby talk me in bed. I have, however, on many occasions had some sexy talk turn really fucking funny quickly. Obviously, I'm the kind of person who gets turned on by humor and laughing, so this isn't a problem except in the realm of phone sex. I am terrible at phone sex because I get about two lines deep and start cracking up. In the past I've tried a few times and haven't gotten farther than "...and then I pull your giant, hard cock out of your pants..." before I dissolve into giggles like the totally mature, sophisticated lady that I am. I'm a lot better at dirty talk when I'm actually getting it on, but even then I sometimes can't control myself if something surprisingly hilarious comes out.
For example, the guy who told me that I performed fellatio with a great deal of "flair" made me snicker on his dick, which could have turned into a very bad situation with my gag reflex had I been deep throating rather than doing some between-swallowing head work at that particular moment. I could not control the full belly-laugh that happened when this dude (who I apparently lured back to my web of sin and depavity with my incredibly seductive rendition of the Scorpions' "Wind of Change") blowing his load all over my ass shouted "DRAAAAIIINAGE!" Luckily he had a good sense of humor and wasn't put off by my clutching my side laughing at his money shot move. I've had some other instances of pretty hilarious dirty talk, as well. One of my former booty calls would always start fucking me and demand, "TELL ME ABOUT MY COCK!" I'd then proceed to come up with all sorts of outlandish stuff, like comparing his dick to a Johnsonville brat, telling him to buck like a raging stallion, and complimenting his ability to drill me like a Texas oil rig. Another dude I was dating would always ask me to "play with his chest," which was code for giving him vicious titty twisters. Seemingly pinching his nipples encouraged him to say incredibly ridiculous stuff along the lines of "I'm going to split you in half with my big black snake, girl" and "I'm fucking you so deep my dick's going to come out the top of your head." And yet another dude who was apparently really into artistic ejaculation techniques asked if I wanted some jewelry before giving me a pearl necklace. And yet another Mr. Right Now who I dated for a few months back in Seattle told me that my pussy tasted like the duck sauce Chinese restaurants give you to dip egg rolls in (I disagree...I think my pussy–like most pussy–tastes like a milder version of salt and vinegar potato chips).
I'm somewhat amazed, however, that I seem to have way more stories about this than most of my friends. This is in large part due to the fact that I'm the most open about my sluttery, and I seem to attract ridiculous sexual partners more than my friends. This makes sense, because I'll be the first to admit that I'm pretty ridiculous myself. I asked JerseyGirl, who has done enough silly drunk things to last a lifetime, and the best she could think of was that her boyfriend sometimes says how hot she is "in an 'i'mgonnablowmyloadanyminute' kind of way." I also asked this lovely girl I'll call Tits because she has the hottest natural rack I've ever seen in my life. Tits always has to leave everything early so she can fuck her boyfriend, and while she admitted to trying to convince her boyfriend to let her peg him (he declined), she couldn't think of anything funny that happened with her man. Since she then had to go fuck her boyfriend, I told her to get some dirty talk going on and report back. I have yet to be debriefed. At least FalloniusMonk proved to me that she shares my ability to attract the crazy dirty talk. One time, she was hooking up with some dude who "in the same breath" explained that he was a descendant of Mark Antony and wondered if they could still work together IF THEY WERE MARRIED! Because of their semi-work relationship and his obvious craziness, she elected to never hire him for freelance work again. Another time, "a crazy dyke" asked her if she liked fighter jets in the middle of sex. Sadly, FalloniusMonk did not indicate her love for F-16s by popping in "Highway to the Danger Zone" for the rest of their tryst. Then again, nobody ever accused Kenny Loggins of writing effective lesbian sex jams. Still another time, she fucked some girl in a church parking lot, and the girl asked if she thought Jesus was watching. Well, in Catholic school they taught me that Jesus is basically everywhere, so probably...but I can't imagine he'd be doing anything besides wanking it hard to some hot backseat girl-on-girl in the church parking lot. FalloniusMonk I'm sure came up with some similar don't-worry-about-Jesus-worry-about-lesbian-sex sentiment since she's a pro ho at closing the deal with the ladies, or as she puts it, "Can this just happen? Instead of the Katy Perry horseshit? This isn't about chapstick, it's about pussy!"
Anyway, while it's fun to hit the sheets and do a little dirty talk, in my experience it's actually seldom as dirty as it is either hilarious or creepy. I'm sure some of y'all have stories of your own, and I invite you to share. I suspect that there's a lot more silliness (or possibly creepiness) with the sexiness than sexiness alone. Share, bitches!
Labels: FalloniusMonk, gross, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, lezbollah, perversion, ridiculous absurdity, sex, Twathopper
Friday, May 30, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Harvey Korman
DOB: February 15, 1927
DOD: May 29, 2008
Occupation: actor, hot piece
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: a funeral home in Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Not being a necrophile, I'm not really interested in hitting it with Harvey's corpse. I am, however, interested in lauding his career, since he was in one of the greatest movies of all time: Mel Brooks's Western parody and masterpiece Blazing Saddles.
Blazing Saddles is probably one of the most politically incorrect movies I've ever seen, and it's awesome. I think it explains a lot concerning my inherent offensiveness level now that I grew up quoting lines like "Wait a minute while I whip it out" and "You said rape twice...I like rape." Nowadays, a movie like Blazing Saddles would probably never be made, because nobody not named Dave Chapelle could get away with dressing a black man in Klan robes and presenting this as humorous. Nor would modern day audiences find dialogue such as "Alright, we'll give land to the niggers and the chinks, but we don't want the Irish!" to be side-splittingly funny. The genius of Blazing Saddles lies in its script taking some of the most offensive, despicable societal customs (ie: flagrant racism and bigotry) and satirizing them in a manner that is completely and unabashedly hilarious. I've probably seen Blazing Saddles 50 times, and I still laugh out loud hard when I watch it.
Harvey Korman plays corrupt political boss Hedley Lamarr in this movie, and he's brilliant. I never saw any of Harvey Korman's other work (with the possible exception of his voice-overs in "Tom and Jerry" cartoons), but his work in Blazing Saddles alone is an achievement of the highest order. When he says florid lines like, "My mind is a raging torrent, flooding with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives" it's the perfect set-up for his henchman to say, "Goddammit, Mr. Lamarr, you use your tongue prettier than a $20 whore." Nobody else could call stampeding cattle through the Vatican "kinky" with quite the same panache as Harvey Korman. If you don't believe me, watch this classic scene:
My only regret is that I couldn't find one of my favorite clips on YouTube, specifically where Hedley Lamarr's hired muscle Taggart is explaining what he's going to do to the people of Rock Ridge who have failed to socially implode upon assigning them a black sheriff and thus are blocking his efforts at expanding the railroad ("unfortunately there is one thing standing between me and that property: the rightful owners").
My only regret is that I couldn't find one of my favorite clips on YouTube, specifically where Hedley Lamarr's hired muscle Taggart is explaining what he's going to do to the people of Rock Ridge who have failed to socially implode upon assigning them a black sheriff and thus are blocking his efforts at expanding the railroad ("unfortunately there is one thing standing between me and that property: the rightful owners").
Taggart: We'll work up a "number 6" on 'em.I salute Harvey Korman for his outstanding skills as a thespian, and hope that his soul has found repose being totally hysterically funny in the afterlife alongside Madeline Kahn's. Rest in hilarity, Harvey.
Lamarr: "Number 6?" I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that one.
Taggart: Well, that's where we go a-ridin' into town, a whampin' and whompin' every livin' thing that moves within an inch of its life. Except the women folks, of course.
Lamarr: You spare the women?
Taggart: Naw...we rape the shit out of 'em at the Number 6 dance later on!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, movies, people who died
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