Sunday, November 30, 2008
50 Cent and Lil Wayne's Thanksgiving wishes
I decided to check my RAZZY.org email for the first time in like three weeks, and was pleased to see Thanksgiving wishes from Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson, Christopher "Lloyd Banks" Lloyd, Marvin "Tony Yayo" Bernard, and the rest of the staff at thisis50.com, the official 50 Cent internets page of which I am a registered member. I signed up for thisis50.com so I could read the message boards, which one Razzyphile directed me to, describing them as "hilarious." The message boards involve a lot of arguing about whether or not The Game is a pussy, the sexually attractive aspects of various women, and whose mama has fellated who. Some folks in the forums also address larger issues such as the apocalypse ("the end of dayz...is it real?", "WAT IF JESUS WAS TO COME BACK RITE NOW...AND MURDERED ALL DESE RAPPERS???LYRICALLY!!!"), women's rights in the workplace ("WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT A CHICK THAT PUTS THAT WORK IN HARD LIKE A NIGGA?"), coastal educational and cultural disparities ("to all hataz of east coast rap pleaze and i mean pleaze go to school and complete it so u niggas can up grade yo mind. exspecailly some douth south catz im not sayn the south is wack") and current style trends in the world of urban fashion ("Why nigga's feel da need to wear tight shit?"). I am sure that all the G-g-g-g-unit's fans, despite their diverse interests and opinions, took a break from the debates raging on the thisis50.com forums to feel touched by Fitty's tender Thanksgiving greetings.
Well, it seems that warm Thanksgiving thoughts weren't shared by Curtis's colleagues to the south. New Orleanian Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter got together with his friend from Baton Rouge Torrence "Lil' Boosie" Hatch to perpetrate some mixtape hatery, which I immediately downloaded. I was surprised to hear the title track, "Louisianimal," was a diss on a gentleman the Lil's disparagingly refer to as "Two Quarters." On the basis of being "Lousianimals" these gentlemen proceed to unleash a barrage of promised thuggery. Lil' Wayne threatens to pour syrup in 50 Cent's signature grape-flavored "Formula 50" Vitamin Water, and threatens to sit around watching SportsCenter because his heart is even colder than his ice. He also insinuates he might just require the tattooing of yet another disingenuous teardrop representing yet another pretend murder victim, and promises to bisect 50 Cent, if he can ever get off his ass to demonstrate his more beastly Louisianimalian qualities.
I have no idea what 50 did to garner Weezy F Baby's ire, except maybe that he is helping his erstwhile collaborator Jeffrey "Ja Rule" Atkins perpetrate his infamous feud with my man Curtis. After all, in 2007 Tha Carter and Ja were both arrested on his-and-his gun charges after a concert in New York. Perhaps they vowed to fight each other's battles as they shared a cell at the Tombs. I don't really know what Lil' Wayne plans to do besides sit around drinking promethazine cough syrup to demonstrate his commitment to the wholesale destruction of 50 Cent. Certainly he's not doing anything with all those snakes and tarantulas and voodoo-ish whatnot on the mixtape artwork, unless Lil' Wayne defines voodoo as getting really, really, REALLY high and making a cameo in a LeBron James Nike commercial.
At least the 50 Cent apologists aren't letting this slide. When someone had the audacity to suggest that Lil' Wayne is talented and here to make fake beef with Fitty for years to come, a poster identified as G-Roc was quick to unleash his staunchly pro-Two Quarters opinion on the "undeducated" music lovers apparently fellating Lil' Wayne:
At least the 50 Cent apologists aren't letting this slide. When someone had the audacity to suggest that Lil' Wayne is talented and here to make fake beef with Fitty for years to come, a poster identified as G-Roc was quick to unleash his staunchly pro-Two Quarters opinion on the "undeducated" music lovers apparently fellating Lil' Wayne:
nigga shut ya bob marley bitch ass,lil wayne dick suckin ass up nigga, how many times i gotta tell ya bitch ass u a dick ridin mop head fuck, tight jeans wearin female ass nigga. how wayne dick taste nigga u suck dat shit too much fag, u dont da only nigga who dont know shit about hiphop dats why u comin in hear not knowing wat da fuck is goin in undeducated motherfucka, if u anit get no invatation i advise ur pussy mop head ass not to come in here bitch
I really hope that 50 Cent stops preparing holiday wishes for his website users and jumps into this himself, because I know he can do better than repeatedly calling Lil' Wayne and his fans "mop heads." 50 Cent and Lil' Wayne are two of my favorite rappers of all time, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than them releasing dueling diss tracks for the next five years. I can only imagine the aspersions Lil' Wayne will cast on 50's sexuality, and the insightful remarks about Lil' Wayne's tendency to make out and pose for homoerotic XXL covers with his adopted father Brian "Baby/Birdman" Williams, dressing in drag for album covers, and power bottom condom ads Fitty will make in return. At the very least, they can rag on each other's mugshots. Let the good time diss tracks roll.
Labels: 50 cent, celebrities, intentional buffoonery, Lil' Wayne, rap, vulgar display of faggotry
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
Saturday, September 27, 2008
The fourth annual slutty-ass ho Razzy Halloween costume
Every year, I come up with some extra-skanky Halloween costume. This started because the grad student Halloween party I attend annually offered a prize in 2005 for the "most naked" costume, and I intended to win this. I came up with "King Slut," which was basically a bunch of cheap gold jewelry, heavy eyeliner, a pharoah hat, and five rolls of gauze from Rite-Aid. Naturally, I walked out of that party savoring my prize of four cans of Tecate and a cheap ass-flask of Montezuma brand tequila. Victory is sweet.
While no prizes were offered in subsequent years, I continued my tradition of wearing costumes involving as little clothing as possible, because naked is my favorite way to be. Every year, however, I worry that I won't be able to come up with anything good and that I'll have to go with the Lady Godiva costume I've threatened for a while. Showing up completely nude except for a wig is a bit much even for me, so I put a great deal of pressure on myself to come up with something clever and almost naked instead. I've always managed to come up with something, and every year without fail I'm pleased when I get my platonic life partner J-Sexy to bellow, "You have outdone yourself again, Razzy, you scandolos ridicolos ho!"
Luckily, this year I've come up with something timely and relevant that will still allow me to march around in underwear and amuse everyone. This is probably the last year I will attend this grad school soiree, and in fact, it's probably the final year this soiree will even occur, since the fella who throws it is graduating within the next year too. I thus felt especially pressured to go out with a decisive bang. For a minute I thought about going as my new god of cultic worshipfulness Ishtar, but then I remembered that most people probably aren't that familiar with any of the ancient sex deities of the Fertile Crescent and wouldn't get it. Then will a little help from LL Cool Jew, I came up with the perfect costume. It's timely, recognizable, and best of all, allows me to run around in a bikini. With a gun, no less. Before I show you the inspiration for my costume, though, let's just take a walk down memory lane and review the costumes from Halloween parties past.
2005: King Slut
While not an actual historical figure, as I mentioned before, King Slut left that party with the alcoholic spoils of victory. I really did deserve the "most naked" prize. Five rolls of gauze actually don't go very far in terms of coverage.
2006: Kimberly "Lil' Kim" Jones at the 1999 VMAs
This costume was surprisingly difficult to put together. You have no idea how difficult it is to find purple pasties and a purple off-the-breast dress. I had to make that shit! It turned out well. I think people actually believed that like Lil' Kim, I had buffoons eatin' my pussy while I watch cartoons (I do in real life, except I watch football instead of cartoons). And if anyone has use for a purple wig, holler at your girl. I got the hook-up.
2007: Britney Spears at the 2007 VMAs
It's Britney, bitch! I was particularly proud of the attention to detail I lavished on this costume. I even left the Rite-Aid press-on nail off my right ring finger to accurately reflect the acrylic Brit-Brit snapped off during her memorably fucked-up performance of "Gimme More" and swung by the Washington Heights Starbucks for an appropriate beer container.
And, now without further ado...
2008: Governor Sarah Palin (R-AK) in her U! S! A! bikini
Okay, so this picture might be a fake, but as far as I'm concerned, Governor Palin took second place in the Miss Alaska pageant way back when because she wore a two-piece in the swimsuit competition, so it's accurate enough. I'm going to add a "Miss Wasilla" sash for a little extra authenticity. And, for some REAL extra authenticity, Governor Palin is going to be accompanied by her infant son Trig:
All I need is an American flag bikini, some glasses, a brown wig, a rifle, and a Chingy!-sized onesie. CHONGAY CHONG, Governor Palin Halloween costume!
Labels: Britney Spears, intentional buffoonery, Lil' Kim, nudity, United States of Asskickery
Thursday, September 11, 2008
HAPPY 9/11 EVERYBODY!!!!
Another 9/11 has come already?! Shit, and I forgot to hang stockings for Osama Bin Laden to fill with improvised explosive devices and box cutters when he drops down my chimney. Oh wait, wrong holiday. Oops.
Anyway, I tried to cobble together a festive 9/11 card for you all, and figured that there's not much that says "Fuck you, Al Qaeda!" than a reference to the current orgy of freedom known as ELECTION '08!!! Like all elections, this one is so far nothing but classy and honorable, with both candidates saying lovely things about each other. The latest demonstration of maturity and graciousness has been a debate over whether one candidate was just using an expression, or derisively calling the opposing team's vice presidential candidate a pig. I'm thinking it's probably just an expression, because if Obama REALLY wanted to insult Sarah Palin by comparing her to an animal, I can think of a worse one. So can LL Cool Jew, who Gchatted me this morning and wryly observed, "You can put lipstick on a pug, but it's still a pug."
Thus, in the spirit of the sophisticated American democratic process embodied by the current presidential race, Chingy! got all gussied up real faincy-like to wish you a blessed and joyous 9/11.
CHONGAY CHONG, 9/11! USA! U!S!A! U! S! A!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, intentional buffoonery, politics, terror, United States of Asskickery
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
I think I'll stick to the sit-on-my-ass-drinking-beer-and-occasionally-getting-laid workout plan
Today for some reason, Gmail's contextual ad serving software read all my football-related e-mails and decided that this would be a link I might click on:
Wow, I bet that's a grueling workout. I've always wondered how the last couple seasons former Seahawk Shaun Alexander has managed to be about as fleet-footed as a lame old cart-horse plodding along on its final journey to the glue factory. Seriously, he should rename himself "Boxer" after that Orwellian horse who found himself removed to "the knackers" or whatever thanks to this "football training and speed program." Thanks to Google's ads, I too can have the dragging, sputtering speed of the NFL's slowest unemployed former top-tier running back. The stack.com Shaun Alexander Workout is exactly what a stud tailback needs in order to follow a league MVP-caliber season with a year of mediocrity, a contract release, and headlines like these:
Wow, I bet that's a grueling workout. I've always wondered how the last couple seasons former Seahawk Shaun Alexander has managed to be about as fleet-footed as a lame old cart-horse plodding along on its final journey to the glue factory. Seriously, he should rename himself "Boxer" after that Orwellian horse who found himself removed to "the knackers" or whatever thanks to this "football training and speed program." Thanks to Google's ads, I too can have the dragging, sputtering speed of the NFL's slowest unemployed former top-tier running back. The stack.com Shaun Alexander Workout is exactly what a stud tailback needs in order to follow a league MVP-caliber season with a year of mediocrity, a contract release, and headlines like these:
From NFL.com:
From the Seattle Post-Intelligencer:
From CBSSports.com:
While it's nice that Shaun Alexander really wants a new job and is doing everything in his power to convince the sports reporters of the world that he's a hot commodity (right down to implying that he's going to sign with the Bengals and start answering to "tres siete"–groan), he has yet to make it official with any team. That's likely because the "Shaun Alexander Workout" has resulted in so much speed and agility that I could probably outrun and outcut him. In fact, I could do so while smoking a cigarette and eating a slice of pepperoni pizza.
I figure that if Shaun can sell a workout in spite of his failed NFL career, I might as well get on board. I love any kind of workout that leads to unfit slowness, and I'm always on board for a good old-fashioned improbable get-rich-quick scheme. So keep an eye out atop your Gmail for the "Razzy Workout." This consists of Heineken-to-mouth arm curls, aerobic television watching, and cardio-fucking. As an added bonus, I'll throw in some tips on how to boost metabolism (ie: give in to your unfettered rage at stupidity) and protein shake recipes (read: advanced fellatio techniques). Frankly, this is probably as if not more effective than Shaun's exercise regimen. Certainly it will at least allow you to make up stories about flirting with the Saints, Bengals, and Broncos to make your slow ass seem more employable like Shaun is doing. I think it's going to be a big hit.
Labels: exercise drama, fat fucks, intentional buffoonery, NFL football, Razzification, Seahawks
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Liveblogging 90210 2.0 or whatevs
I was just going to post my thoughts about last night's premiere episode of "90210" v2.0, which I gathered with my bitches to view at my friend JerseyGirl's house. However, while there, CorporateCard wanted to know why I wasn't "liveblogging" the episode. She works in cable news so she probably wants me to be a citizen reporter or whatever, because my coverage of a bunch of drunk girls watching a trashtastic CW TV show is definitely going to meet a serious need in the world of cable gonzo journalism. After the first scene, in which Ethan, AKA New Dylan McKay, is receiving a BJ from either David Silver/Kelly Taylor's half-sister or a chick who later turns out to be a major druggie, I decided that this wasn't a bad idea, if only to straighten out all the new Niner canon we'd have to absorb. We thought at first the head doctor was the drug chick and were unimpressed with her skills. She doesn't have much endurance in the fellatio department because, according to CorporateCard, "Her name is Poppy Pills. She doesn't have enough strength for blowjobs. She's a pill popper!"
Anyway, with that sort of shit going on, I figured that even if I didn't "liveblog" in the sense of immediately publishing my reportage, I could at least open up my laptop and record some of my thoughts for this morning. I didn't quite love the show as much as JerseyGirl (who announced the close of every commercial break with "OKAY YOU GUYS, QUIEEET, IT'S BACK ON!"), but I have to confess that I was pleasantly surprised by it. It wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been for a show that literally rips off the original Niner premise (Midwestern family–Rob "Kyle McBride from 'Melrose Place'" Estes and Lori "Aunt Becky from 'Full House'" Loughlin and their two similarly aged kids–move to Beverly Hills and try to fit in), and even though Rack pointed out that the New Brenda Walsh looks like a cheap Ali Lohan knockoff, the new Jim and Cindy Walsh are too hot for me to care much. JerseyGirl wouldn't stop raving about Rob Estes–or "Grant Show," as he was mistakenly called several times–being "like, the hottest dad EVER."
There were also enough appearances by former Niner characters to keep me watching. Apart from Brenda Walsh and Kelly Taylor returning to the show, Hannah Zuckerman-Vasquez (almost-bastard daughter of Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman and her cuckolded baby daddy Jesse Vasquez) is the anchor for the West Beverly TV news station ("Good morning, West Beverly High...and buenos dias") and Erin Silver, daughter of hot pieces Jackie Taylor and Mel Silver, DDS, is a main character. Some of the new characters are also awesome. I love Naomi, the slutty New Kelly Taylor, who looks like Jessie Spano with a dash of slutty-ass Lucinda Williams thrown in, and whose name is so reminiscent of the Elizabeth Berkeley's greatest role, Nomi, from Showgirls that I plan to refer to her as Nomi henceforth. Apparently Nomi is on the outs with Silver after spreading gossip that ruined Mel and Jackie's second marriage (as usual, because Mel Silver couldn't keep it in his pants around his dental hygienist staff). I also love the fact that New Brandon Walsh is black (he's adopted, as the dialogue immediately reveals to prevent any confusion that he may be the fruit of Rob Estes and Lori Loughlin's loins), because it's high time Niner added a little splash of diversity to the main cast. Also, Lucille Bluth from "Arrested Development" plays the washed-up, drunk ex-Skinemax actress of a grandmother, Tabitha. From the moment Tabitha steps onto the scene brandishing "an iced tea before noon...with a little Long Island in it," I know I'm going to love her.
By the next scene, she's dishing out advice on how to get back at lacrosse bullies. "Just grab onto those jewels and twist them, like a garbage bag," says Tabitha about ball-squeezing revenge for the possibly racial targeting of the New Brandon Walsh. Later her computer "freezes up" because she spills scotch on the keyboard and suggests that the lacrosse team terrorize their rivals by unleashing a horde of pigs on their pitch or whatever. When Rob Estes suggests she cut back on the boozing, she responds with a dismissive "oh PISH!"
I certainly can relate to Silver when she's confronted about her bloggity scandals by her big sister and West Beverly guidance counselor Kelly Taylor, who says, "What are we gonna do about this blog of yours? It does nothing but cause problems." I've seriously had the same conversation with my parents about a dozen times, after I've said something like, "So, uh, don't freak out or anything, Mom, but some chick tried to get me raped via Craigslist" or "So, uh, don't freak out or anything, Mom, but I just got served with a $25,000 defamation suit." Silver responds with, "That's what blogs are supposed to do. Cause problems." Thus far, I can relate to Silver. She's also exactly as hot as the offspring of the incomparable ex-coke snorting hot piece Jackie Taylor and horny oral surgeon Mel Silver should be.
The other teenagers (with the exception of Navid, the New Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman, who looks like some type of literary Criss Angel) are at least intriguing. The drug girl who may or may not be too Viked out to properly fellate the New Dylan is constantly "rollin' hard" (per JerseyGirl) and is constantly in debt to her dealer. She even bursts out in random snatches of druggie song in class and almost gets caught using in class by the New Gil Meyers ("Claim Benadryl," advised CorporateCard sagely). She also apparently is acting in Disney Channel shows to pay her mother's mortgage, but this isn't working out very well because she's usually too fucked up to follow through with her auditions. She's not too fucked up, however, to stand up for Silver's blog-skewering of Nomi (who was publicly humiliated by the New Dylan when he cheated on her) by screaming, "She wasn't rejected, BITCHLIPS!"
The show is not without its problems. As far as the New Brenda and New Brandon are concerned, there's entirely too much sexual tension between brother and sister. They're constantly having their Brenda-Brandon sibling counsels while laying in bed together.
"If you're gonna do it, at least have an Americana quilt underneath," said CorporateCard. "It takes the edge off the incest." There was always some tension between the Original Walshes, but these two new ones make Brenda and Brandon look perfectly tame. At least they're adopted, so if they do screw at some point, their potential offspring won't emerge with a flipper on its head. Then again, Grandma Tabitha just looked at the new Brenda and said, "Look at that ass...you could crack an egg on it." Maybe inappropriate sexual behavior runs in their family.
The new Brenda Walsh is also a whole lot of I don't care. Not only does she look like a misplaced Lohan sister, she shares the Original Brenda's predilection for ill-advised moral freakouts. In fact, at one point Nomi sees her at some party and says, "I didn't expect to see you here, what with all your morals and everything." However, she's no Brenda Walsh in terms of personal style or drama. As CorporateCard wisely noted, "She doesn't have the brains, she doesn't have the bodysuit...NO DEAL!"
In spite of the fact that she's a plain, boring pain in the ass aspiring to dethrone Drug Girl as the queen bee of the West Beverly theaterfag circuit, all the boys seem to like her. New Dylan is vying for her affection with some super-wealthy Bentley-driving douchebag who looks like a cross between Tom Cruise and that guy from "Smallville." Too bad the Original Dylan was a badass who won Brenda's heart by taking nips from airplane bottles of booze and smashing Bel Age Hotel flowerpots in rage. The New Dylan is a lacrosse stud (and since when was FUCKING LACROSSE a popular sport on the West Coast?), and he attempts to woo New Brenda by weaving tales of a mythical five-armed sea creature called a "pentapus." What in the "bitch, please" is that?
The new Gil Meyers also annoys me. He's ten times more interfering and morally self-righteous than the original Gil Meyers, English teacher and faculty advisor of the West Beverly Blaze. He also has already started dating Kelly Taylor after almost bungling it by referring to her four-year-old son as "baggage." Oh yeah, and did I mention Kelly Taylor has a son? I couldn't figure out if her baby daddy is Dylan or Brandon, because while we all thought it was Dylan's, a conversation with Brenda Walsh revealed that Brandon may be somewhat of a deadbeat dad, choosing to live in Belize rather than Beverly Hills with what remains of "the gang." In any event, Kelly Taylor has the little brat wearing CROCS, which is inexcusable, even on a toddler.
Anyway, overall, the new "90210" is hardly the original, but even if it doesn't measure up to the lofty standards set by the greatest show in the history of television, I can still roll with it on Tuesdays. I'd watch it just for Silver's blog-mediated revenge schemes. There was one hilarious number lampooning the public outing of New Dylan cheating on Nomi in which New Dylan says nothing but "I like lacrosse." Silver recognized her own genius.
"I think this may be my best blogisode ever," she notes. At that point JerseyGirl exhorted me to turn on my laptop's webcam and film our own "blogisode," which was a pale imitation of Silver's, to say the least. For one thing, I am no cinematographer, director, or any kind of editor while demonstrating proper blowjob technique on beer bottles via the computer webcam on my lap. For another, I have no idea how to make Flash animations. I could learn a few things from Silver, especially since her skills have netted her HALF A FUCKING MILLION UNIQUE HITS PER DAY!
Anyway, if you're really, really bored, here's our unbelievably shitty "blogisode." Haters can have a field day with my chin:
Labels: Bev Niner, CorporateCard, HillsYes, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, TV, Twathopper
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: all my Facebook friends coming out of the woodwork
DOB: various
Occupation: congratulating me
Hometown: various
Current residence: the internets
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I spent most of yesterday recovering from my hangover being totally amused on account of the emails I started receiving when "Razzy is now listed as engaged" hit everyone's Facebook news feeds. Several people realized it was a joke and sent me sarcastic congratulations. One of my virology friends even suggested some science-related bands that could play my lesbian wedding. Several others, however, did not and were utterly shocked. A guy who just joined my fantasy football league–who I have never even met but is friends with HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair and has undoubtedly heard about how I'm competing with him for title of their sluttiest friend–emailed me about our football league and added, "Are you engaged? WTF! That's not how players roll." To mitigate his disapproval, I agreed to marry him on Facebook when I break my engagement with Twathopper next week. Even my high school boyfriend frantically Facebook messaged me under the subject heading "you have got to be shitting!," saying "You're getting married? Congratulations!"
I get the feeling that once I start getting constantly in fake relationships, engagements, and marriages on Facebook, the not-really-close friends I have on Facebook are going to catch on that I'm just fucking around with Facebook's obnoxious relationship status news feed updates. However, in the meantime, I am really enjoying the response. First, even people who don't know me well are like, "IS THE WORLD ENDING? YOU are getting married?" As much as I hate to tarnish my reputation as a shameless skank, the truth is that I sometimes date people and just don't mention it here on this blog. I'm not planning on getting married anytime soon if ever, but in real life I'm not 100% trampy slut all the time, and I don't think it's THAT shocking that one day I might settle down, at least enough to fuck one person at a time. I'm a long way from that, but nonetheless it amuses me that my skankery has permeated even the most far-flung corners of my Facebook friend collections.
Anway, if you are my Facebook friend, brace yourself for lots of news feed action about an upcoming string of faux engagements and marriages. And if you refuse to believe that someone could be so cynical as to fake-engage someone on Facebook, Twathopper and I are registering at Home Depot so we might get some free swag out of it. We've got our eyes on a set of hers-and-hers toolbelts and measuring tapes, so if you're pulling for us, that would make a great fake Facebook engagement gift.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Facebook, intentional buffoonery
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my Facebook relationship status
DOB: today
Occupation: fuckery for the sake of it
Hometown: my imagination
Current residence: my Facebook page
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: The other night, JerseyGirl finally adjusted her Facebook status to reflect the fact that she broke up with her boyfriend Kodiak. Although it was a mutual breakup, it was still emotionally difficult to get used to the fact that they were no longer a couple and change their profiles accordingly. When JerseyGirl did, it showed up in everybody's news feed, and consequently she started getting a shitload of e-mails demanding to know the details of their separation.
"Dude, it felt like breaking up all over again!" JerseyGirl complained. This ushered in a tirade about Facebook keeping all your friends updated as to your every move. I concluded that I was going to go home and just remove a description of my relationship status altogether, so that in the event it does change, I don't have people pestering me about it. Sure enough, Facebook alerted my friends that I'm "no longer listed as single." I thus came home last night to the following e-mail from my friend Wmania:
From: Wmania (wmania@worlds3rdlargestprfirm.com)To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)Subject: dewdAre you no longer single???Who is the new guy or gal???????????
I laughed out loud. Facebook is really on point when it comes to helping friends stalk one another. Therefore, I decided to change my Facebook status to "engaged" and listed Twathopper as my fiancée. I think from now on I'm going to change my Facebook relationship status weekly just to bring the drama. Next week I'm going to break my engagement to Twathopper and marry JerseyGirl instead. I'm sure she'll get some interesting e-mails when "JerseyGirl and Razzy are now married" shows up in her friends' news feeds so soon after "JerseyGirl and Kodiak are no longer in a relationship" dropped.
And yeah, I know this is a pretty lame "Daily Dude," but last night was bar trivia night (where my team totally took first place), and Becky #1 from "Roseanne" was there. I therefore drank a lot and debated whether or not I should go talk to her (of course I didn't, although we did make one of the guys at our table give her a chair and she thanked us).
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Facebook, intentional buffoonery
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Workin for the Man: Today's Headlines in Business
Across the Big Apple, boredom reaches record-breaking levels. As the summer heat increases and fears for the economy compound, American business finds itself spiraling with even higher numbers of useless conference calls, canceled projects, strained communications and overall ennui.
Here are a few of the leading headlines from another hardworking, mind-numbing day of 9-to-5'ing.
Half-and-Half Shortage Strikes Exhausted Staff-base; 3 pm Slump Packs a Wallop; Freelancers Flee the Scene.
Outlook spazzed. Client Reschedules. Agency Scorned.
Fridge to Be Cleaned; Receptionist Sends Hostile Email. See "Lunch" on page 3
Smoke Break Interrupted by DNC Street Teams.
That Asshole Still Courting Lawsuit.
Scaffolding Removed; Passers-by No Longer Request Directions to Barnes & Noble.
Competing Tour Bus Ticket Vendors Target Same Overweight Family. Confusion Ensues.
Coworker Re-forwards Billy Dee Williams Smoothness Test; 5-bottle Smoothness Attained Once Again.
Popcorn Burned; Microwave Recovers in Seclusion. Office Coordinator Tracks Perp, Leades ID'd.
Toilet Paper Still Subject to Gravity, Sloth. See "Your Mom Doesn't Work Here So Clean Your Shit Up" on Page 7.
Rogue IM Interrupts Gchat Mid-keystroke - Male Art Director Accidentally Addressed as "Bandy-legged Snatch" in Chatting Misfire.
Thursday Drags; Life Passes.
Exact Change Required.
Here are a few of the leading headlines from another hardworking, mind-numbing day of 9-to-5'ing.
Half-and-Half Shortage Strikes Exhausted Staff-base; 3 pm Slump Packs a Wallop; Freelancers Flee the Scene.
Outlook spazzed. Client Reschedules. Agency Scorned.
Fridge to Be Cleaned; Receptionist Sends Hostile Email. See "Lunch" on page 3
Smoke Break Interrupted by DNC Street Teams.
That Asshole Still Courting Lawsuit.
Scaffolding Removed; Passers-by No Longer Request Directions to Barnes & Noble.
Competing Tour Bus Ticket Vendors Target Same Overweight Family. Confusion Ensues.
Coworker Re-forwards Billy Dee Williams Smoothness Test; 5-bottle Smoothness Attained Once Again.
Popcorn Burned; Microwave Recovers in Seclusion. Office Coordinator Tracks Perp, Leades ID'd.
Toilet Paper Still Subject to Gravity, Sloth. See "Your Mom Doesn't Work Here So Clean Your Shit Up" on Page 7.
Rogue IM Interrupts Gchat Mid-keystroke - Male Art Director Accidentally Addressed as "Bandy-legged Snatch" in Chatting Misfire.
Thursday Drags; Life Passes.
Exact Change Required.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, intentional buffoonery, Smeeberish
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, June 24, 2008
R. Kelly is NOT a terrorist
I get Google alerts for "R. Kelly," and as a result I've seen quite a bit of what's out there on the blogosphere about the R-uh in R&B. There are a lot of people making bad "Pied Piper" and/or golden shower-themed jokes, a lot of other people agitating for his ruination despite his acquittal, and a handful of people talking about how awesome he is (and I get links occasionally to my site which fall under that category heading). Also, I have seen a lot of comments on my site and other Kells-related blog posts concerning how stupid and depraved I must be to love an obvious pedophile...WHO WAS PROVEN NOT FUCKING GUILTY BY A JURY OF HIS PEERS. Needless to say, I'm getting pretty tired of hearing what Robert Sylvester Kelly calls "the devil mouths" going on about how he's a child molester that deserves to spend eternity in a Bosch painting.
I therefore can understand how Kells wound up saying some wack shit in an interview, as he is often prone to do, especially when frustrated. This is one reason why R. Kelly's handlers keep him safely in the Chocolate Factory composing masterpieces of mackadelic nightspot realness rather than shooting off his yap to the press. It works when he describes himself as a marching band or a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow in a song, but grandiose comparisons don't always work in interviews, as evidenced when the World's Greatest decided to compare his troubles with being demonized in the media to Al Qaeda's Greatest:
That's the finest rendition of our national anthem I've heard. It's even better than Lieutenant Frank Drebin performing it under the guise of Enrico Pallazzo before the Angels-Mariners game in The Naked Gun. If that doesn't make you shout a series of enthusiastic U!S!A!'s from the rooftops then I don't know what will. Kells loves America, and I STILL LOVE KELLS!
Osama Bin Laden is the only one who knows exactly what I'm going through. They can criticise you without even knowing you, and hate you when they don't even know you. All of a sudden, you're, like, the Bin Laden of America.While I see what Kells is trying to get at, I have to advise him that a comparison to the man who orchestrated 9/11 and whose sole ambition is to see all of us Western infidels (including Kells, no doubt) consumed in a fiery conflagration of divinely sanctioned jihadist wrath probably isn't going to win him a lot of sympathy points with his detractors. In fact, I think he may have just exacerbated the situation. I can already anticipate the "hey, quit sticking up for this creep!" comments, so I'm going to try (probably unsuccessfully), to head them off by posting empirical proof that R. Kelly loves America and actually has nothing in common with Osama Bin Laden save his negative media image:
That's the finest rendition of our national anthem I've heard. It's even better than Lieutenant Frank Drebin performing it under the guise of Enrico Pallazzo before the Angels-Mariners game in The Naked Gun. If that doesn't make you shout a series of enthusiastic U!S!A!'s from the rooftops then I don't know what will. Kells loves America, and I STILL LOVE KELLS!
Labels: intentional buffoonery, media whores, Robert Sylvester Kelly, terror
The Douche-Vinci Code
You know how that DaVinci Code trash revolved primarily around secret effeminate apostles and cryptic shapes that Leonardo supposedly included in The Last Supper? I always thought that, while Leonardo's fresco or whatever is indeed a masterpiece, the notion that this painting somehow spells out a conspiracy involving self-flagellating albino priests, the European artfag community, and Josh Christ himself's kids was an idea conceived by a pretentious museumgoing douchebag who watches too many of those retarded "Bible code" shows on the History Channel and thinks he's really smart. Well, it turns out that The DaVinci Code's interpretation of art history isn't the most asinine take on portraying the original celebration of the sacrament of the eucharist. The historic party that kicked off a little thang called the passion and death of Christ seems even more idiotic when viewed through the lens of a drunken Mary-Kate Olsen's Ashton Kutcher COOLPIX camera.
From left to right, behold the apostles of douchery. Two aren't included, because I can only assume that the flanking characters, Bartholomew and Simon the Zealot wanted their legacies dragged through no part of this shitshow. First we have whichever lameass Madden brother next to Nicole Richie, whose raised SmartWater can be interpreted as either "I'm pregnant! See? Not drinking," or "Tonight I'm doing ecstasy!," making them the douchiest James son of Alphaeus and Andrew in history. Then we have Judas Iscariot next to Nicole/Andrew, looking pissed as hell that Nicole's douche-ass baby daddy is about to fire up that Camel Light, while the Tony Romo and Steve O-looking Saints Peter and John are looking on in interest to see whether Judas Iscariot will bust some Good Charlotte ass. Then JC himself is at the head of the table, disguised as a crusty lezbot from the 80s rocking the lumberjack look . Then Thomas, James the Greater, and Philip, who appear to respectively be that guy who plays Chuck Bass on "Gossip Girl," Natasha Lyonne, and Eli Roth, add an extra degree of ennui-filled apostolic douchery to the ensemble. And finally, Matthew needs to trim that perm and realize that wearing sunglasses inside at a dark, flannel-themed dinner party is idiotic, and Jude Thaddeus is Mary-Kate Olsen's boyfriend so you know he's an asshole. I don't trust anyone who sticks his dick into what seems like a creature conceived by Henrik Ibsen.
Seriously, I WISH this was the last supper these fools would ever eat, because such a comprehensive collection of douchebags really just shouldn't be allowed to continue existing. I bet Leonardo and Galileo are up in heaven at their weekly "We hate The DaVinci Code" meeting fuming at this latest affront to Leonardo's masterworks. Seriously, Jesus and his twelve apostles you are NOT, Mary-Kate Olsen flannel party attendees!
Labels: artfaggotry, assholes, celebrities, intentional buffoonery
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Hottest Smith alumnae on the planet
It's that time of the quarter again! What time, you ask? Time for the new edition of the Smith Alumnae Quarterly! What do you mean, "I didn't go to Smith, I don't get the Smith Alumnae Quarterly?" You don't have to go to Smith to read the greatest magazine in the world! Who wouldn't want to read articles about subjects like a scrappy band of student activists creatively calling themselves "Coke Off Campus" rallied together on behalf of bottling plant employees in Colombia (seriously, they bottle COKE at sweatshops...in Colombia?) and India to ban Coca-Cola products from the Campus Center, or how some chick got a job at Google thanks to the all-powerful alumnae network (which, I should add, has yet to do shit for me besides give Tej Bindra my home address so she could conspire with her friends to get me raped by an inadvertent pervert on Craigslist)? This shit is more informative than the damn Economist!
Okay, I kid...I don't even get the SAQ anymore since I think they put me on probation after the Tej Offensive, which was started by Tej Bindra '07 calling me an assfuck and suggesting I get some Zoloft to treat my tendency to make fun of dumb SAQ articles about the dorm room she shared with her fellow flatchested Dar Williams aficionado. The last time I got a SAQ, I promptly douchebagged the entire magazine, and I think that was the last straw that broke the cameltoe's back. Presumably they booted me from the subscription list, because I haven't received a SAQ since. Oh well, who needs a SAQ to prove that she's got a "baccalaureum artibus" degree from Smith when she's got a fancy leather bound diploma--with seals and Latin and everything--tucked safely away in her bedside table with her vibrators, condoms, and lube?
Anyway, there's a section in the back of the SAQ that you can send updates to about whatever the fuck you've been up to at Smith. Usually it's along the lines of "some dumb bitch from Talbot House got married" or "some dumb bitch from Chase House just had her second kid" or "some dumb bitch from Northrop House just got another master's degree." Luckily, my friends have JerseyGirl to send in our updates. JerseyGirl is on the board of the Smith College Club of New York, and while she's given up trying to get me to do things like attend Christmas tree lightings on Sundays during NFL season or go to $100-a-head art history lectures, she felt duty bound to report on how our little group of friends has been keeping busy. Unfortunately, she probably had one too many brewdogs before she sent off our update:
Go Pioneers!
Anyway, there's a section in the back of the SAQ that you can send updates to about whatever the fuck you've been up to at Smith. Usually it's along the lines of "some dumb bitch from Talbot House got married" or "some dumb bitch from Chase House just had her second kid" or "some dumb bitch from Northrop House just got another master's degree." Luckily, my friends have JerseyGirl to send in our updates. JerseyGirl is on the board of the Smith College Club of New York, and while she's given up trying to get me to do things like attend Christmas tree lightings on Sundays during NFL season or go to $100-a-head art history lectures, she felt duty bound to report on how our little group of friends has been keeping busy. Unfortunately, she probably had one too many brewdogs before she sent off our update:
JerseyGirl '02 is a television news producer in Manhattan. She was recently elected to the New York Smith club board of directors and organizes events and parties for the club. JerseyGirl hangs out with Razzy '00, FalloniusMonk '01, and Rack '01, during monthly 90210 parties and weekly get-togethers that include cooking and watching the awesomeness that is VH1 reality programming...JerseyGirl regularly sees lots of other Smithies in New York City, most of whom were at the wedding of LL Cool Jew '02 in April '07.This rules so hard. While everyone else was out getting married, procreating, or adding more letters behind their name, JerseyGirl announces that we've all been watching Bev Niner and "I Love New York." She seems embarrassed that she actually bragged to the SAQ that we're into "the awesomeness that is VH1 reality programming" instead of the typical boring Smith alumnae crap. I mean, I have gotten two master's degrees since Smith and by next year I'm going to make every motherfucker I meet call me "Doctor," but who cares about that? I'd certainly rather hear about how we loyally watch DVDs of the greatest show in the history of television and teach JerseyGirl how to make grilled cheese sandwiches during commercial breaks in "Flavor of Love 3" and "The Hills." Smith College must be so proud.
Go Pioneers!
Labels: Bev Niner, correspondence, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, I LOVE IT, I Love New York, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, Rack, The Hills, Vh1
Monday, June 16, 2008
Continue the smears
LL Cool Jew pointed out last week that Barack Obama has a site dedicated to correcting all the idiotic lies that "proven GOP sleazemeisters" in the media are making up about him entitled "Fight the Smears."
This site refutes claims that ignorant, racist morons believe about Barack Obama, like he is supposedly Muslim, is secretly not American, doesn't say the Pledge of Allegiance, Michelle Obama is racist, and other absurd nonsense like that.
Barack Obama got vocal cord implants which is why he sounds like a motivational speaker
I and the R. Kelly defense team told you that, per the now-infamous "Shaggy Defense," it wasn't Kells. You caught him on the counter? It wasn't Kells. You saw him bangin' on the sofa? It wasn't Kells. He even hit it in the shower? It wasn't Kells...it was BARACK OBAMA! Case closed!
This is fun and I could continue this all day, but I have to get to lab. Luckily, there's enough dumbasses out there to ensure that my new totally made-up charges will be discussed on cable news for the next week. I can just see the pundits on FOX News now, discussing how "a blogger charges that Obama may be the man in the R. Kelly sex tape" or "questions have come up on the blogosphere about Michelle Obama's possible adulterous leanings" or whatever. God bless the stupidity of the average American, because I'm going to be swimming in traffic and laughing all the way to the damn bank. I hope for change in my pocketses, and that's exactly what Barack Obama is going to give to me. Thank you, Senator Obama!
This site refutes claims that ignorant, racist morons believe about Barack Obama, like he is supposedly Muslim, is secretly not American, doesn't say the Pledge of Allegiance, Michelle Obama is racist, and other absurd nonsense like that.
LL Cool Jew: dude
LL Cool Jew: THIS
LL Cool Jew: is amazing
LL Cool Jew: http://my.barackobama.com/page/content/fightthesmearshome/
LL Cool Jew: i mean
LL Cool Jew: wow
Razzy: people are so dumb
LL Cool Jew: i bet my relatives are the ones saying this shit
LL Cool Jew: "Proven GOP sleazemeister "
Razzy: "Senator Obama was sworn in with a Koran"
Razzy: "Barack Obama won't say the pledge of allegiance"
LL Cool Jew: dude i'm totz looking at senator obama's birth certificate
LL Cool Jew: maybe we can open a credit card account in his name?
Razzy: YES!
Razzy: then i can go to wmania's wedding!
Razzy: courtesy of losing presidential candidate barack obama!
LL Cool Jew: damn. script too small.
Razzy: no SSN either
Razzy: :(
LL Cool Jew: View video of Barack leading The Pledge of Allegiance in the United States Senate
LL Cool Jew: is this boy scouts????
LL Cool Jew: Barack Obama Loves His Flag and His Country
Razzy: well i can't see him putting his hand over his heart!
Razzy: maybe i should insinuate on my website that he hates freedom and America
Razzy: and then Obama's site can call me a "proven GOP sleazemeister"
Razzy: and i'll get lots of traffic and thus money!
Yes, the anti-Obama smear campaign and its acceptance by the legions of idiots who will believe anything so long as it caters to their latent bigoted paranoia sounds to me like KA-CHING! Seriously, joining the ranks of "proven GOP sleazemeisters" is a golden opportunity to pick up some unique hits! GOP sleazemeisters do well these days, and as am I both voting for the hotness known as Senator John McCain (R-AZ) and I am a total breast-baring skank, I think I fit the bill for the titles of both "GOP" and "sleazemeister." So, without further ado, I'm going to fight Senator Barack Obama's efforts to clear his good name by making up even more ridiculous bullshit.
Barack Obama has a pointy pelvis and fucking him is really uncomfortable.
LL Cool Jew noted that this isn't necessarily a smear, because it's "probz true." I can assert that it is, because for whatever reason, tall, skinny guys usually have huge dicks and I've fucked a lot of them. However, that impressive weiner comes with a price: namely, afterward you feel like someone drilled holes into your hip sockets. Obama's got that going on for sure.
Barack Obama got vocal cord implants which is why he sounds like a motivational speaker
Every time someone tells me that Barack Obama is so inspirational, I just roll my eyes because his voice drives me nuts. However, the Obamaniacs think that he's the Pied Piper of Stump Speeches, so something's going on there. With the way he used to smoke like an Industrial Revolution-era textile mill, his real voice probably sounds like psychic Sylvia Browne from "The Montel Williams Show." In fact, check out Sylvia predicting political and economic happenings in 2007...I wonder if she actually IS Barack Obama in disguise without his vocal modifiers and with a bitchin' set of gel tips:
Michelle Obama loves white people...on the side
As long as it's cool for the GOP sleazemeisters to say that Michelle Obama gives speeches involving the term "whitey," we might as well just go the extra mile and say that she's fucking white people as well as disparaging them. Note the come-hither look she's throwing at Stephen Colbert. They're totally doing it.
A video exists of Michelle Obama having sex with Ray-J
LL Cool Jew came up with this one, as although she isn't a "GOP sleazemeister," she's even worse: an embittered Hillary supporter! After hearing T-Pain admit that "the man is swangin'" with regard to Ray-J's equipment, Michelle Obama answered affirmatively to his "Sexy Can I?" query. Ray-J likes those old cougars, anyway. Frankly, Michelle Obama is an upgrade from his previous MILF Whitney Houston. It's only a matter of time before Vivid releases "Michelle Obama Superstar" to the internets.
LL Cool Jew came up with this one, as although she isn't a "GOP sleazemeister," she's even worse: an embittered Hillary supporter! After hearing T-Pain admit that "the man is swangin'" with regard to Ray-J's equipment, Michelle Obama answered affirmatively to his "Sexy Can I?" query. Ray-J likes those old cougars, anyway. Frankly, Michelle Obama is an upgrade from his previous MILF Whitney Houston. It's only a matter of time before Vivid releases "Michelle Obama Superstar" to the internets.
There is a tape of Barack Obama asking anyone if they'll run to the deli and grab him a sandwich. The deli happens to be halal.
Duh, Obama is MUSLIM! Okay, maybe he's a fake-me-out Muslim, sort of like Ice Cube getting excited for his mama cooking the breakfast with no hog but otherwise observing no Islamic customs, but I think we all know what it means to eat at a halal deli...it means you're Muslim! And we all know that means "terrorist"! Oh crap, I ate an egg-and-cheese sandwich from my neighborhood halal deli the other day...fuck. Nevermind.
Duh, Obama is MUSLIM! Okay, maybe he's a fake-me-out Muslim, sort of like Ice Cube getting excited for his mama cooking the breakfast with no hog but otherwise observing no Islamic customs, but I think we all know what it means to eat at a halal deli...it means you're Muslim! And we all know that means "terrorist"! Oh crap, I ate an egg-and-cheese sandwich from my neighborhood halal deli the other day...fuck. Nevermind.
Barack Obama fucked Gina Gershon.
And who wants a President content with Bill Clinton's sloppy seconds? NOT ME, even if Gina Gershon is the greatest portrayer of lipstick lesbians in Hollywood history and star of two of Smith College's favorite movies ever, Bound and Showgirls. Speaking of Showgirls, I bet Nomy was way hotter in the sack than Barack.
And who wants a President content with Bill Clinton's sloppy seconds? NOT ME, even if Gina Gershon is the greatest portrayer of lipstick lesbians in Hollywood history and star of two of Smith College's favorite movies ever, Bound and Showgirls. Speaking of Showgirls, I bet Nomy was way hotter in the sack than Barack.
Barack Obama spends a lot of time playing "one-on-one" with his assistant Reggie Love.
Thanks to that dude who wrote that expose about "the DL," everyone knows what "poker night" is all about these days, and it's not just a spirited game of Texas Hold 'Em. They play "stud" and it's got nothing to do with cards. Since that's out now, the new down low lingo is "one on one." As in, one on one, I want to play that game tonight in the Daryl Hall/John Oates context. Translation: SODOMY!
Thanks to that dude who wrote that expose about "the DL," everyone knows what "poker night" is all about these days, and it's not just a spirited game of Texas Hold 'Em. They play "stud" and it's got nothing to do with cards. Since that's out now, the new down low lingo is "one on one." As in, one on one, I want to play that game tonight in the Daryl Hall/John Oates context. Translation: SODOMY!
Barack Obama claims his pets as dependents on his tax returns, which he won't release.
I don't even know if Barack Obama has pets, and supposedly he HAS released his tax returns, but trust that most of the folks reading the works of "proven GOP sleazemeisters" don't know that! And like they're going to read his tax returns anyway, except possibly to perpetrate some of the dumbest identity theft schemes in the history of crime.
I don't even know if Barack Obama has pets, and supposedly he HAS released his tax returns, but trust that most of the folks reading the works of "proven GOP sleazemeisters" don't know that! And like they're going to read his tax returns anyway, except possibly to perpetrate some of the dumbest identity theft schemes in the history of crime.
Barack Obama hates baseball, Bruce Springsteen, domestic lagers, and apple pie
Hey, if you'll believe that he agrees with his minister that AIDS and crack are government conspiracies and the traditional African outfit his grandfather gave him is evidence of his extreme Black Panther-style radicalism, you'll believe anything!
Hey, if you'll believe that he agrees with his minister that AIDS and crack are government conspiracies and the traditional African outfit his grandfather gave him is evidence of his extreme Black Panther-style radicalism, you'll believe anything!
Barack Obama loves belly dancing, Moroccan food, and reruns of "Sleeper Cell"
If you see this in someone's DVD collection, I think it's safe to go ahead and call "terrorist." In fact, if it weren't for my love of "Weeds" and "Dexter," I'd boycott Showtime altogether. Well, by "boycott" I mean I'd quit illegally downloading their shows, but same difference. Those "Sleeper Cell" terrorists are kind of hot, though. I think that guy on the right was in Resident Evil: Apocalypse, and I'd close my eyes, pretend he's American instead of an Islamist evildoer, and hit that hard. Oh, wait, he's Israeli in real life? Well, hell, that's still as un-American as BARACK HUSSEIN OSAMA!
If you see this in someone's DVD collection, I think it's safe to go ahead and call "terrorist." In fact, if it weren't for my love of "Weeds" and "Dexter," I'd boycott Showtime altogether. Well, by "boycott" I mean I'd quit illegally downloading their shows, but same difference. Those "Sleeper Cell" terrorists are kind of hot, though. I think that guy on the right was in Resident Evil: Apocalypse, and I'd close my eyes, pretend he's American instead of an Islamist evildoer, and hit that hard. Oh, wait, he's Israeli in real life? Well, hell, that's still as un-American as BARACK HUSSEIN OSAMA!
When Barack Obama saw Rachael Ray wearing Yasser Arafat's keffiyeh on TV, he went out and bought a shit-ton of Dunkin Donuts
Someone told me that after this commercial aired, Obama maxed out his credit card at Urban Outfitters buying keffiyehs for his entire staff because Rachael Ray's freedom-hating was so inspiring to him. He also started tossing around the idea of providing a lifetime supply of Munchkins for anyone who votes for his terror ticket. I'm glad his staff talked him down from that, because I might forsake John McCain if offered enough complimentary Dunkin Donuts swag. Their iced coffee is the chronic, even if it's the choice beverage of freedom-haters everywhere.
Someone told me that after this commercial aired, Obama maxed out his credit card at Urban Outfitters buying keffiyehs for his entire staff because Rachael Ray's freedom-hating was so inspiring to him. He also started tossing around the idea of providing a lifetime supply of Munchkins for anyone who votes for his terror ticket. I'm glad his staff talked him down from that, because I might forsake John McCain if offered enough complimentary Dunkin Donuts swag. Their iced coffee is the chronic, even if it's the choice beverage of freedom-haters everywhere.
Malia Obama will only play with Muslim Barbies
Not only does she play with Muslim Barbies, I bet she doesn't make all her Barbies lesbians like mine were (owing to a shortage of Ken dolls more than my latent girl-on-girl desires but ANYWAY...that's another story).
Not only does she play with Muslim Barbies, I bet she doesn't make all her Barbies lesbians like mine were (owing to a shortage of Ken dolls more than my latent girl-on-girl desires but ANYWAY...that's another story).
Barack Obama got the "Ba" added to his first name to make something hot-sounding like "Rack" sound more lame and terroristy, because those JIHADISTS HATE BOOBS AND WOMEN
He totally identified with Alfred Molina's wife-beating Iranian gynecologist from that movie, too. You know he did.
And speaking of misogyny, Barack Obama tried to get Reading Lolita in Tehran banned from public libraries because he thinks Iran rules.
And speaking of misogyny, Barack Obama tried to get Reading Lolita in Tehran banned from public libraries because he thinks Iran rules.
LL Cool Jew told me that he hates on The Kite Runner something serious, too.
In keeping with his Persophilia, Barack Obama reads Ahmadinejad's blog every day and believes the Holocaust is a myth. Moreover, he wants to reopen Buchenwald in Boca Raton, Florida.
In keeping with his Persophilia, Barack Obama reads Ahmadinejad's blog every day and believes the Holocaust is a myth. Moreover, he wants to reopen Buchenwald in Boca Raton, Florida.
I can't really fault him for the Ahmadinejad's blog-reading, because that shit is hilarious. However, the whole Holocaust myth business is pretty shady, as is that business about wanting to reopen concentration camps in the U.S. of A. LL Cool Jew told me that, and she's my resident Druish expert, so it's got to be one of the gravest true lies I'm advocating here. From there, it's just a short intellectual leap to OBAMA IS A NAZI! Yes, a terrorist Muslim Nazi! TRUST.
Barack Obama only ran for the U.S. Senate AFTER he was rejected by Hamas for suicide bombing detail.
Barack Obama only ran for the U.S. Senate AFTER he was rejected by Hamas for suicide bombing detail.
That's Obama in militant suicide bomber drag at his audition. He decided not to go the pretend woman route once he embarked on his career in U.S. politics, because all the people who will believe the bullshit I'm writing here now hate so hard on the gays. It was a wise move.
Barack Obama is actually the urinating man known only by the moniker "daddy" from the infamous sex tape that was the impetus for R. Kelly's child porn trial
Barack Obama is actually the urinating man known only by the moniker "daddy" from the infamous sex tape that was the impetus for R. Kelly's child porn trial
I and the R. Kelly defense team told you that, per the now-infamous "Shaggy Defense," it wasn't Kells. You caught him on the counter? It wasn't Kells. You saw him bangin' on the sofa? It wasn't Kells. He even hit it in the shower? It wasn't Kells...it was BARACK OBAMA! Case closed!
This is fun and I could continue this all day, but I have to get to lab. Luckily, there's enough dumbasses out there to ensure that my new totally made-up charges will be discussed on cable news for the next week. I can just see the pundits on FOX News now, discussing how "a blogger charges that Obama may be the man in the R. Kelly sex tape" or "questions have come up on the blogosphere about Michelle Obama's possible adulterous leanings" or whatever. God bless the stupidity of the average American, because I'm going to be swimming in traffic and laughing all the way to the damn bank. I hope for change in my pocketses, and that's exactly what Barack Obama is going to give to me. Thank you, Senator Obama!
Labels: Barack Obama, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, media whores, politics, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Desperately seeking a naked midget
I've done a lot of strange and crazy things in my time involving naked people. However, until now I have never been in a position where I needed to hire a midget stripper. Or a "little person," if that term is preferable. I can't say why, except that I need a midget in our nation's capital who is willing to sexily disrobe and hump an ass. I mean a donkey, you pervs! A stuffed donkey!
I did a little searching on the internets, and I found that here in New York there is an agency dedicated to midget strippers called "Dwarf Entertainment." Apparently stripping can be a lucrative career for little people, particularly those willing to dress like Elvis and then take it all off. Well, they BETTER take it all off. There's nothing that irks me more than a male stripper who doesn't take off the G-string. If I want to see a naked chest, I'll check out my own hot tits. I'm not paying a male stripper to see his muscle definition. If a dude wants me to show him the money, then he better show me his weiner.
Unfortunately, there is no equivalent service provider in Washington, DC. So if anyone has any clue where I might find someone who can fit the bill, holler at your girl.
Labels: intentional buffoonery, nudity
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Most hilarious Presidential biopic EVER
I usually don't like Oliver Stone movies. In fact, the only ones I can think of that I did like were Platoon and Born on the Fourth of July. Oh, I also liked Wall Street. I guess JFK had its moments, but I got bored and all I remember is that Kevin Bacon was some kind of gigolo butt boy for closeted homo politicians. I think. I would have liked Any Given Sunday if it weren't for the constant annoying presence of Jamie Foxx, and when I was in high school my ex-boyfriend was always listening to the Natural Born Killers soundtrack, but otherwise Oliver Stone can lick my twat. I would rather let Dick Cheney buttfuck me with a birdshot-loaded hunting rifle than watch that 9/11 movie he made, and if one of his movies doesn't have something to do with the Vietnam War or young Michael Douglas playing an asshole yuppie, I'm not really interested.
However, I can't fucking WAIT to see his new movie W., about none other than our current commander-in-chief. First, he cast Josh Brolin as Dubya, and I've had a hard-on for Brolin ever since he was the hottest Pony Express employee in the history of mail carriers on "The Young Riders."
Also, a script leaked to Cindy Adams of the peerless New York Post indicates that this movie is going to be absolutely fucking hilarious. Choice snippets of dialogue include:
- Bush to General Tommy Franks: "I don't want to fire no $2 million dollar missile at a $10 dollar empty tent and hit a camel in the ass."
- Bush on Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton: "My mother waddles faster than that lardass."
- Bush on Gitmo: "We'll move these terr'ists to Guantanamera."
- Bush on being corrected by Cheney that the place in Cuba is actually called "Guantanamo": "Vice, when we're in meetings, I want you to keep a lid on it. Keep your ego in check. Remember, I'm the president."
- Bush, Sr. to a college age Dubya: "You never kept your word once...you're only good for partying, chasing tail, driving drunk."
- Bush during his decision to go to war in Iraq: "Wolfowitz, got any Maalox on you? And trim your ear hairs while you're at it."
- Bush on Saddam Hussein: "Saddam's been dicking us around for 11 years. I told my father to get rid of the sucker."
- Bush to education reformers: "Rarely is the question asked, 'Is our children learning?'"
The Post has all sorts of other details about the film, including descriptions of scenes featuring Dick Cheney stepping in cow shit while visiting the ranch in Crawford and Bush eating his favorite meal (a bologna sandwich) in the White House. I would watch this movie just to see Brolin call Colin Powell "Balloonfoot" and bitch at him for not being more punctual. It sounds like it's going to be The Naked Gun of presidential biopics. Compared to films like All the President's Men (which I fell asleep during) and JFK (which, again, the only part I remember is Kevin Bacon's turn as a gay man-whore), this sounds like a rollicking good time. Props to Oliver Stone for striking comedy gold. Come opening day, I'm going to eat some "special" brownies and prepare to laugh until my stomach hurts.
Labels: hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, movies, politics, ridiculous absurdity
Friday, April 18, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Akon
Name: Aliuane Badara Thiam
DOB: April 30, 1973
Occupation: R&B singer, record producer, big old phony
Hometown: Dakar, Senegal
Current residence: Atlanta, Georgia
Douchebaggery: I never spent much time thinking about whether Akon's claims of being imprisoned for various crimes ranging from operating a car theft ring to illegal weapons possession to drug dealing were true. Akon has a nice voice and he sounds sweet when he sings "I wanna fuck you." I also figure that with a few exceptions, most of the dudes in R&B and hip-hop are embellishing a little when it comes to their criminal resumés. For example, when I hear R. Kelly singing the hook for Young Jeezy's "Go Getta," I don't believe for a second that Kells is"trapping all day." Robert Sylvester Kelly may be a R&B thug, but he's not taking a break from blessing the world with his mackadelic nightspot realness to sling crack on the street corner. And I believe Lil' Wayne a lot more when he says things like "hoes kiss the dick with no mistletoes" over "I put 'em in ya head and watch the holes bleed." In spite of his claims to the contrary, I don't think anyone actually believes that his tattooed teardrops represent three different lives that he's personally taken via homicidal means. The only crimes he's committed are the ones he's routinely arrested for: rolling around with pounds of weed (literally), smoking the same in public, and enough Vicodin to supply every prescription pill-popper on "Intervention" for life.
Akon, however, has apparently been doing a lot of talking about how critical his past record of illustrious criminal exploits have directly influenced his music. He even named his record label "Konvict" to demonstrate how critical his felonious history is to his art. A recent investigation by The Smoking Gun, however, raises some issues about Akon's personal credibility. As the author of the piece notes regarding his most recent album Konvicted, "Kontrived may have been a more accurate choice."
It seems Akon has made all sorts of claims in interviews, from being the "ringleader of a notorious car theft operation" specializing in exotic luxury vehicles to being a "champion" of prison fighting while doing a three-year sentence to "facing 75 years." With the exception of a solitary reporter at the Washington Post, the media largely accepted Akon's criminal autobiography as fact until The Smoking Gun did some fact-checking and declared Akon "James Frey with catchy hooks and an American Music Award."
In reality, Akon has only one felony conviction to his name (for gun possession), and apart from several months spent in the DeKalb jail for a stolen car charge he ended up getting three years probation for, he hasn't done any time. In fact, he conceived his son in the middle of his supposed term.
Akon has gone above and beyond to make himself seem like some kind of don of the urban underworld. Much like Vanilla Ice before him who made claims of being stabbed in the ass during a gang altercation, Akon presumably felt that this would enhance his marketability. He should have paid more attention to what happened to Vanilla Ice. The false claims of being grievously injured during a gang turf war were the nail in that idiot's coffin. Granted, Akon has produced far more in terms of hits than Vanilla Ice, but considering his outlandish fabrication of being a hardened criminal and maximum security prison veteran, I wonder how well his next album, Acquitted, will fare now that he's been outed as a total fake. Now nobody will ever be able to listen to lyrics like "you know my pedigree, street dealer used to move 'phetamines" without a sarcastic eye-roll. Then again, if nobody cares and Acquitted sells well, maybe I should think about marketing myself this way.
Here's my real autobiography:
I was born November 17, 1978 in Tacoma, Washington and raised in nearby Puyallup, in a house down the street from a trailer park and a mobile home dealership. I attended private Catholic school for twelve years. During this time my hobbies included writing, playing classical piano, and editing the school paper and literary magazine. I received a bachelor's degree in biological sciences from Smith College in 2000. I worked for a small biotechnology company in Seattle for three years and drove a '94 Honda Civic. I was then accepted into a Ph.D program at Columbia University, received two masters degrees, and expect to earn my doctorate in late 2008 or early 2009. I love dogs, beer, sex, and football. I have received only one criminal citation in my life (a misdemeanor "possession of drug paraphernalia" charge in South Dakota for having a pipe and half a joint in my car during a cross-country trek that amounted to no arrest and a fine of $250).
Here's my Akon autobiography:
I was born in 1985 in Tacoma and raised in a vile trailer park in Puyallup, where I began selling illegal firearms at a young age to my equally criminal neighbors. My aptitude in science led to a productive career in clandestine methamphetamine production, so I dropped out of school to pursue riches via the only option available: mastery of the drug trade. My shit was known as the purest tweak in all of Pierce County. After dominating the local market for meth and stunting around town in a stolen Mercedes MacLaren purchased at Akon's infamous chop shop, I set my sights higher. I expanded my portfolio of services to include illegal gun trafficking, money laundering, and interstate transportation of large quantities of marijuana. This backfired after an arrest in South Dakota landed me in maximum security federal prison for five years. While in prison, I was the head dyke in charge and quickly took control of the black market cigarette trade via my ability to beat everyone mercilessly. Upon my release, I migrated east to make a national name for myself amongst the heavy-hitting underground crime syndicates. In New York, I managed to use my prowess in the lab to sell black market illegal poliovirus and rhinovirus to terrorist and mercenary groups. I also began peddling illegal pornography, set up a bootlegging operation, and set up a combination pimping and dogfighting business catering to Michael Vick, Pac Man Jones, Tank Johnson, Ray Lewis, and some of the NFL's most notorious criminals. Today, I am considered a super-don and have several major crime families answering to me. I expect that soon I will be the world's most powerful criminal. And don't fuck with me, because I'm always walking around totally strapped.
Yeah, that's believable. I bet I'm about to get a lot more blog traffic now that I've decided to start marketing myself as a hardened felon with a lengthy rap sheet rather than an upwardly mobile science nerd with a Chopin fetish and a lot of letters bestowed by fancy schools that I can put after my name.
Labels: celebrities, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, Lil' Wayne, overcompensation, rap, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly, Young Jeezy
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Just say yes to abortion
I could really care less about the storied romance of Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson. Both are grade-A faux punk dipshits, and both have managed to corner the market on "ugh" (and other similar scoffing sounds) induction. Ashlee is an unremarkable moron and Pete Wentz jacks off to Morrissey posters. LOSERS! Unfortunately, since they got engaged (due to the fact that Ashlee is supposedly knocked up), I've been hearing far too much about them from my gossip internets.
Now Dlisted is reporting that Joe Simpson, Ashlee's creepy possibly incestuous father and media whore extraordinaire, is trying to shop Ashlee's baby pictures to the tabloids for a million clams. The tabloids are scoffing at this figure, rightfully acknowledging this as a possible publicity stunt intended to promote Ashlee's undoubtedly lame new album which drops next week. Here's Ashlee and Pete holding up a sign indicating the actual value (in Uzbek rubles) their baby pictures are worth to the media:
Besides, it's not like this kid is Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt and thus possibly the second coming of Helen of Troy. This kid is going to be an amalgam of fucking Fall Out Boy and Jessica Simpson's annoying little kid sis. I'd be shocked if this kid didn't pop out wearing a hoodie adorned with rhinestone skulls and too much eyeliner, and if I need to know what a runty emo poseur looks like, there are plenty of pictures of its parents, Joel and Benjy Madden, and Avril Lavigne circulating around the internets for free. I could give a shit less about some magazine putting Pete and Ashlee's douchebag spawn on its cover in a Ramones onesie culled from their Hot Topic baby registry.
If Ashlee and Pete really wanted to do something as antiestablishment as their personas attempt desperately to imply, I have a better idea. They'll get just as much (if not more) publicity for Ashlee's shitshow of a CD, and definitely stir up controversy. I think Ashlee should commemorate the Pope's visit to America by rounding up a camera crew and proceeding straight to her nearest Planned Parenthood. They'll stir the pro-life and pro-choice people alike into a frenzy, trigger plenty of media attention, and possibly even draw condemnation from the Vatican. The latter will get them into the international press. Ashlee's album will sell more than six copies. Furthermore, even pro-lifers will applaud their decision for not cursing the world with (possibly) the world's most contrived antichrist. Everybody wins!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, destroy all children, intentional buffoonery, media whores, ranting, retard rage
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Braids by Sisqo
Robert Sylvester Kelly AKA R. Kelly AKA the R-uh/Pied Piper/King of R&B AKA the World's Greatest has released a new single called "Hair Braider,"(go listen to it) and it should go without saying that I'm totally enamored with it. Kells has managed to apply his musical alchemy to a relatively leaden topic (coiffure and personal grooming) and transmute it into pure 24 karat gold. To celebrate this achievement, Kells went ahead and applied the Midas touch to his thematically apropos braids:
I'm not really sure how much I can tolerate this matching lamé coat-and-chunky braids combo. If Kells is, as the lyrics to "Hair Braider" suggest, indeed "doing (his) hair braider," he must not be doing a very good job to deserve this style. He looks like some kind of space age Pollyanna meets Liberace. Clearly he's not tipping her enough for the braiding/stripping services. Then again, perhaps coming out of the "booty shop" with this style is the peril of multitasking dirty sex and hairdressing in the middle of the night while really, really stoned. The point is that with this hair, R. Kelly should be a good foot shorter and running around Miami singing about chicks with "dumps like a truck" and his desire to catch a stray glimpse of that thong-tha-thong-thong-thong.
His hair braider apparently is proficient at many styles, from twist-ups to extensions, and he has many styles when it comes to sex positions, but I doubt both of their resumes when I look at R. Kelly's golden tresses. I'm not feeling R. Kelly the dandy metallic bleached blonde. It's time to go back to the zigzag braids that look like spaghetti in your natural black color, Kells.
His hair braider apparently is proficient at many styles, from twist-ups to extensions, and he has many styles when it comes to sex positions, but I doubt both of their resumes when I look at R. Kelly's golden tresses. I'm not feeling R. Kelly the dandy metallic bleached blonde. It's time to go back to the zigzag braids that look like spaghetti in your natural black color, Kells.
Labels: bleach blonde, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, overcompensation, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Friday, April 04, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: PRESIDENT John McCain YET AGAIN
DOB: blah blah blah
Occupation: comedian
Hometown: Coco Solo Naval Air Base, Panama Canal Zone (I never get tired of writing that)
Current residence: the YouTubes
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Simply put, this:
The video is like 12 minutes long, but you only need to watch the first ninety seconds (feel free to stream through the Joe Scarborough-acting-like-a-douchebag introduction). Specifically, you only need to watch the part where my boy Mac laughs about his take on the new season of "The Hills" ("that was pretty good, wadn't it?") and states that Heidi Montag is "a very talented actress." Stick around for bonus footage when he asks the guffawing formerly-of-the-eponymous-made-up-country Mr. Scarborough, "could I just mention Sylvester Stallone, Clint Eastwood, and Jon Voight...I've got them!" Wait...Jon Voight?!?!?!?! As in COACH BUD KILMER FROM VARSITY BLUES?!?!?!
If there was ever a solitary doubt that John McCain is my pick for commander-in-chief, this video just put that all to rest. He just ragged on Heidi, clapped in approval at his own joke, and then reminded everyone that the man who told James Van Der Beek "you're gonna be second string all your life, boy!" is sitting pretty aboard the Straight Talk Express. John McCain is absolutely the hotness. As Razzyphile L&L commented the other day regarding her intentions for congratulating him upon his ascent to the Oval Office, she'd "slither under that desk and give him the best Shania Twain he's ever had." I guess "Shania Twain" is Canadian for "head." I second that emotion!
The video is like 12 minutes long, but you only need to watch the first ninety seconds (feel free to stream through the Joe Scarborough-acting-like-a-douchebag introduction). Specifically, you only need to watch the part where my boy Mac laughs about his take on the new season of "The Hills" ("that was pretty good, wadn't it?") and states that Heidi Montag is "a very talented actress." Stick around for bonus footage when he asks the guffawing formerly-of-the-eponymous-made-up-country Mr. Scarborough, "could I just mention Sylvester Stallone, Clint Eastwood, and Jon Voight...I've got them!" Wait...Jon Voight?!?!?!?! As in COACH BUD KILMER FROM VARSITY BLUES?!?!?!
If there was ever a solitary doubt that John McCain is my pick for commander-in-chief, this video just put that all to rest. He just ragged on Heidi, clapped in approval at his own joke, and then reminded everyone that the man who told James Van Der Beek "you're gonna be second string all your life, boy!" is sitting pretty aboard the Straight Talk Express. John McCain is absolutely the hotness. As Razzyphile L&L commented the other day regarding her intentions for congratulating him upon his ascent to the Oval Office, she'd "slither under that desk and give him the best Shania Twain he's ever had." I guess "Shania Twain" is Canadian for "head." I second that emotion!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, intentional buffoonery, John McCain, politics, TV
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Last entry ever
Dear Razzyphiles, Haters, and Colleagues,
It's come to my attention that some people don't like my blog. In fact, they would rather read anything than useless bullshit written by a fat, ugly, batshit crazy whore. Because these people sometimes voluntarily come to my site anyway and I am completely insecure regarding what they think of me, I've realized that there's only one thing to do: hang it up.
Yes, I can no longer bear the strain of offending the sensibilities of the god-like personalities who come to this website and are confronted with the horrific reality of my repertoire of posts. Nobody deserves to read something on a personal blog that was penned by an old (almost 30!) skank with a busted face and a disgustingly obese body about her personal opinions, her revolting sex life (which is probably a lie, since most rational people would prefer fucking a herpetic sheep than a fugly bitch like yours truly), and her stupid, pathetic, insignificant, attention-whoring life. I can't believe I've inflicted such misery on so many innocent people, who came here expecting something actually useful, intelligent, or entertaining. I've seen the light, and I intend to live a life of righteousness. It seems that rather than useless bullshit mongering, I should be out hatemongering. I only hope that I can make up for all the wrongs (besides the aforementioned lack of physical attractiveness or intellect, I've also been one hell of a fag-enabler) I've perpetrated on my fellow man.
I've realized that the satanic spirit of mockery is alive and well in the world, and I have been its instrument for far too long. This wise man has pointed out to me that God hates America, vile land of the sodomite damned. It is the most ungrateful and the most arrogant, anti-God nation that ever existed. Luckily, I saw this video, and I have now converted to membership in the Westboro Baptist Church so that I may cease my godless bloggery and live a life that God does not categorically hate:
So I'm turning over a new leaf. I found Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior, and I plan to devote all my spare time and energy to hating fags, because that's the godly thing to do (DUH!). Also I'm giving up booze for its inherent Christ-hating faggotry, tearing up my Smith diploma AKA my BA from Dyke U, smashing the false idol known as my fag-broadcasting television, and ceasing my rabid support and love for President George W. Bush, the greatest fag-enabler of them all. If it weren't for fags, America wouldn't be the sodomite pillar of salt that it is today. In fact, if it weren't for fags, unsuspecting internets readers would never have had to endure modern terrors like the Iraq War, 9/11, or the sight of my naked breasts. Thus, if you want to read anything I've written in the future, you'll have to come to any given soldier's funeral that I'm picketing and take a gander at my "BURN IN HELL NAVY FAGS" sign (complete with buttfucking stick figures).
Anyway, if you want to know more about my newfound attempts at redemption via fag-hatred and plan to relocate to Topeka to be closer to my Prophet, the Rev. Fred Phelps, you should check out this web site.
Yours in fag-stomping for Christ,
Razzy
Labels: intentional buffoonery, Razzification, vulgar display of faggotry
Monday, March 31, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Ashton Kutcher's COOLPIX ad
DOB: March 25, 2008 (first air date)
Occupation: making me want to buy any camera BESIDES a Nikon COOLPIX Style Series
Hometown: probably the Kabbalah Center of Los Angeles (although I don't see a dumb red string around Ashton's wrist...maybe they Photoshopped it out?)
Current residence: my TV during episodes of "Rock of Love 2"
Douchebaggery: Nikon COOLPIX Style Series' recent ad campaign has managed to go where very few ad campaigns have before. Upon my first viewing of one of these ads, I immediately placed it in the elite class of commercials as those featuring Peyton Manning hawking MasterCards, the UPS Whiteboard Guy, and every campaign Old Navy has ever produced. This designation is reserved for the upper echelon of commercials that go beyond annoying to actually induce feelings of property-destroying rage. Yesterday I threw my remote control against the couch in disgust upon seeing this, and vowed never to buy any Nikon products ever, EVER again.
If you haven't seen this, Nikon is kind enough to provide a press release about this marketing campaign:
Taking place in trendy locales such as boutique hotels and upscale shopping destinations, the campaign highlights the exquisite styling, fashionable colors, simplicity and great performance of Nikon's Style series compact digital cameras....The television campaign spots, directed by Emmy award winner Brian Buckley, have Kutcher’s COOLPIX camera being discretely taken and passed around by numerous adoring fans who take several pictures with it before slipping it back into Ashton’s pocket. Ashton then notices some surprising pictures when he reviews the photos on his camera's LCD screen.Now, I'll distill out that PR product-branding crap and tell you about how this commercial really goes down. Ashton Kutcher is holding court at "the Chateau" (presumably Marmont) when he gets a call on his Blackberry. He leaves his man-purse unattended with his Nikon COOLPIX Style Series poking tantalizingly out of the side pocket for a trio of giggling skanks to ogle while he takes his call. As he's on the phone, the bitches immediately grab the camera and start taking pictures of themselves making stupid faces and laughing hysterically. They're so busy guffawing at their own silliness that you can't really hear them say "Oh, isn't Ashton Kutcher going to be surprised when he goes through his COOLPIX deleting pictures of Rumer Willis's chin and finds these *hilarious* pictures of us sticking our tongues out, making fish faces, and cracking up!" between high-pitched bursts of chortling, but you can easily imagine it. However, the joke's on them, because this is Ashton Kutcher, professional Hollywood prankster, and apparently you can't ever assume that getting punk'd isn't an option when he's around. Ashton is on the phone briefing an unknown accomplice that his quarry has taken the bait and Mission: Get Starfucking Social Climbers at the Chateau to Make Stupid Faces for my COOLPIX Camera is in full effect. "No! They don't know I know they're doing it," he reassures his co-conspirator that his identity as the instigator of this hilarious stunt remains concealed. Yes, there is layer upon layer of dramatic irony in this ad. Ashton then returns to collect his satchel just as the girls have replaced the camera and leave. On the way out he high-fives the valet to celebrate yet another successful caper and reassures him, "I'll send you copies." Then Ashton checks out the pictures. "OHHHH!" he shouts in a pathetic imitation of Andrew Dice Clay, apparently blown away by the scandalous hilarity of a girl taking cross-eyed self-portraits. Viewers are then advised to purchase a COOLPIX Style Series camera.
I'd like to know WHY exactly this should make me want to buy a COOLPIX camera. Because I'm an easily amused, purse-toting, metrosexual loser who gets off staging elaborate deceptive traps to obtain silly G-rated pictures of probable reality show rejects before I go home to bang Demi Moore(-ticia Adams)? NO! I don't want a camera that can be used to pull off pointless and completely annoying pranks. If Ashton really wanted to sell me a camera, he should quit acting cute, get wasted, and prove that the COOLPIX Style Series is durable enough to withstand being stepped on, dropped accidentally out of purse or pocket onto a sidewalk, run over by a cab, operated effectively while in the reverse piledriver position, or submerged in scotch or Heineken. Ashton Kutcher needs to go back to the celebrity oblivion he was dwelling in and stop ruining my consumer appetite for digital cameras.
I tried to find a video of this ad, but apparently everyone on the YouTubes has had better things to do than irritate the internets by posting this trash for public viewing. I did, however, find another ad from this campaign (the promised "upscale shopping destinations" version). It's equally aggravating, so if you need that extra something to go from really, really, REALLY pissed off to Michael Douglas-in-Falling Down-pissed off, feel free to torture yourself by clicking here. If you too survive that hellish experience, I think you'll agree that a boycott of all Nikon products is warranted on the basis of their commercials being so maddeningly awful. These commercials are so likely to inspire violent fury that they are a menace to public safety! Get them off the air. Just say no to Nikon!
Labels: assholes, capitalism, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, media whores, retard rage, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my breasts
DOB: November 17, 1978 (although they really didn't come into present form until sometime around 1993 or 1994)
Occupation: source of batshit craziness, popping out of my shirt, totally ruling
Hometown: Puyallup, Washington
Current residence: my chest, Sugar Hill, Harlem, New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Whether lauded or maligned, my tits are one of my best features. That's why I always put pictures of them up when I have nothing better to do. I don't have a particularly high opinion regarding my facial good looks. I'm not necessarily ugly, but I don't think I'm that pretty either. Facewise, I would rate my looks as more or less average. I could be more busted, but I could also be a lot more beautiful. My breasts, however, are fucking awesome, and the only people who have ever said otherwise are anonymous commenters on the internets who can't come up with anything better to hate on me about (these are usually the same haters who call me "fat" even though I'm a fucking size 4).
I've had a love-hate relationship with my cans throughout my life. I started school early, and I hit puberty late anyway, so I was the last girl in my class to develop breasts. There was this one kid who used to fold over his All Saints School uniform sweatshirt at nipple level, and run around saying, "Check it out, I've got bigger boobs than Razzy!" I remember in the fifth or sixth grade I felt so left out by my lack of development that I begged my mom to buy me a size AAA training bra just so I wouldn't be left out among all my friends in the grappling with puberty. On one occasion, I made the very ill-advised decision to stuff said training bra with Kleenex prior to going to a movie with some friends. After the movie, I went out to dinner with my family, and upon being seated my dad said, "Got a stuffy nose?" I was like, "Huh?" He said, "Because I see you packed some extra Kleenex," snatched a stray piece of tissue that was poking out of my collar, and blew his nose with it. I was mortified, my brother and dad were laughing hysterically, and my mother was fighting back laughter while trying to get pissed at my dad for embarrassing me. I was horrified at the time, but in hindsight I can hardly blame my father for cashing in on a golden joke-making opportunity.
I think because I spent so many years feeling insecure about my breasts (or lack thereof), that when I finally got them, I went overboard showing them off. I didn't realize that I had a decent rack until I was about to go to college, when enough boys had complimented them for me to take notice. Since then, I've been overcompensating for those many years of breastless agony by exposing them whenever and wherever possible. Since my tits are awesome, I consider it a service to my fellow man, and a fun party trick that's always good for a laugh. For going on fifteen years now, whenever there's a dull moment, I can always count on my fun bags to bring excitement, laughter, surprise, and general mirth. This weekend was no exception.
On Saturday, I attended a birthday party for my dear friend JerseyGirl. As there were several other hardcore Razzyphiles in attendance at the dinner beforehand (Rack, FalloniusMonk, HillsYes, Senioritis, Twathopper, Rack's boyfriend TheOldGuy, JerseyGirl's boyfriend Kodiak), at some point the topic of discussion came around to how stupid the editors of IvyGate are for thinking that breast-centric blog entries are actually an expression of "batshit" craziness. The general consensus was that any undergraduates who sneer at free photos of bare breasts should take a gander in the mirror before slinging around accusations of mental illness, because that in itself is a much surer measure of insanity. Kodiak thus declared that "every picture I take of you tonight is going to be of your boobs." He delivered. Yesterday, I got a text from JerseyGirl saying, "Dude, there's pictures of your tits all over Kodiak's Facebook." And indeed, half of the "JerseyGirl's Birthday!" photo album on Kodiak's Facebook is comprised of this:
I'm just amazed that none of these pictures include me pulling my top further down to immortalize some bare breast action as being an integral part of the celebrations commemorating JerseyGirl's 28th year of blessing the world with her presence. Bare or barely covered, though, my boobs were one of the reasons why it was, according to JerseyGirl, "OMG! Like the best JerseyGirl's 28th birthday Beirut party in the history of the world ever."
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, Kodiak, nudity, Razzification, Razzy Haters
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Whatten hell...?
Apparently Latin America doesn't have the market cornered on zany variety shows. I thought that there could be no three-hour exhibit of cars, stupid human tricks, marital counseling, skanky Fanta girl-esque chicks, singing contests, immigration tips, impromptu weddings, child custody battles, and sketch comedy more wack-tacular than the incomparable "Sabado Gigante." I once saw a hedge-clipping contest on that show once! Seriously, two guys with pruning shears raced each other to trim two long-ass hedges for the glory of being given $50 worth of "El mundo del ingles de Disney" products by the perennially suave hot Chilean Jew, Don Francisco.
I mean, "Whatten hell...?" It's this skinny dude crushing cans between his shoulder blades for no other reason except to drive the crowd wild and, seemingly, impress some cute girls. I love his assistant, who is a poor man's Seann William Scott rocking David Bowie's haircut from the movie Labyrinth. I also love the host of this show, who seemingly appropriated Peter Frampton's hair and Siegfried and Roy's wardrobe as his signature look. HOT.
Well, it seems Germany is giving the Spanish-speaking world a run for its dinero. They have a similar show called "Wetten, dass...?", which Wikipedia also tells me is the most successful television show in Europe. "Wetten, dass...?" means "Wanna bet...?" but watching a little of it, and I'm thinking it must also mean "What the hell...?", because that's the kind of reaction it elicits from me. See if you don't react the same way to THIS:
I mean, "Whatten hell...?" It's this skinny dude crushing cans between his shoulder blades for no other reason except to drive the crowd wild and, seemingly, impress some cute girls. I love his assistant, who is a poor man's Seann William Scott rocking David Bowie's haircut from the movie Labyrinth. I also love the host of this show, who seemingly appropriated Peter Frampton's hair and Siegfried and Roy's wardrobe as his signature look. HOT.
According to Wikipedia, the premise of this show is that ordinary people perform bizarre tasks (examples include igniting a pocket lighter with an excavator's shovel and pushing a car with a spear with tip resting on the contestant's throat), and celebrity guests place friendly wagers with each other regarding the outcome. Some celebrities who have been on this show include Heidi Klum, Grace Jones, Hugh Grant, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and...CURTIS "50 CENT" JACKSON AND ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY! Why did I not see a video of Fitty betting Kells over how many cans this skinny dude could crush between his scapulae and then trash-talking each other in German?? I need to see that! I'd watch that every morning before going to work!
They need to get a cable channel showing "Wetten, dass...?" over here stateside immediately. If this show can attract over 50% of the German-speaking viewer demographic In Germany, Austria, Liechtenstein, and Switzerland, there's no reason it can't pull some pretty big Nielsen ratings here in the States too. I don't even speak any German besides "bratwurst" and "schiesse" and "guten tag" and I would watch this. I have got to discuss this with my German friend Js and Ps and see if he can hook it up with details about how I might be able to get more "Wetten, dass...?" in my life. Maybe he has some DVDs or something.
Labels: I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, international intrigue, que magnifico, ridiculous absurdity, sehr gut, TV
Monday, March 24, 2008
Hoes make it rain on McCain
A bunch of fat chicks were out shopping for new muumuus at Lane Bryant and got to talking about how they could help out their favorite candidate, John McCain. Unfortunately, they came up with the worst idea ever: make a YouTube video that would "outdo" the one Obama Girl made. There's just one problem: Obama Girl was hot in an Eliot Spitzer-servicing prostitute kind of way, and these BBWs look like a pod of whales (one of which is a Depends-wearing grandma) in hideous stretch pants.
Actually, there are two problems. The second is that they relied on "It's Raining Men," aka # 4 on this list of the gayest songs ever, for inspiration. "It's Raining McCain" does little in the way of conjuring up images which aren't nauseating. I'm already voting for McCain, but if I were undecided, trust that a woman with three chins refreshingly splashing her face with John McCains wouldn't sway me into his camp. I couldn't even enjoy the sexy footage of young Vietnam-era McCain because of these trolls shimmying their cellulite in front of his American hero hotness. "I'm gonna go out and get myself absolutely JOHN MCCAIN!"?!?! PLEASE no more follow-up videos.
Labels: fat fucks, gross, intentional buffoonery, John McCain, politics, vulgar display of faggotry, you're ugly
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Razzy Madness
The last few weeks I've been so caught up in my legal drama (which has been discussed at length) and labwork (which has not, because nobody wants to read about boring science) that I totally forgot to make brackets or join a pool or make foolish wagers or anything to celebrate March Madness. Perhaps, as certain other website authors have suggested, I am indeed "batshit crazy," because the voices in my head were telling me that I'm black, handsome, I sing, plus I'm rich, and I'm a flirt. Oh wait, that was the R. Kelly jam I was rocking out to alleviate my stress. Whatever.
I'm also batshit crazy because I not only have naked pictures of myself on the internets, wear revealing Halloween costumes, replace actual content with either aforementioned naked pictures of myself or links to old posts on days when I'm feeling lazy, and think I could run a better presidential campaign than Hillary Clinton, but I would have picked Gonzaga to go all the way (as usual) and they already went down in the first round (also as usual) like me on hot honeys who reciprocate. I think there are few indications of insanity more obvious than consistently picking a team infamous for failing to meet expectations and making an early exit from the tournament just because a girl loves Catholics from the P-N-Dub and because Casey Calvary, Gonzaga's center circa 1999, went to her high school. Batshit crazy, indeed.
Anyway, since it's now too late to get my NCAA basketball on now that my life has calmed down, I just decided to celebrate my lunacy with a different set of tournament brackets. It's RAZZY MADNESS! Madness because I'm crazy...get it? It's time to pit great achievements in Razzification against one another in the ultimate display of extremely narcissistic batshit crazy useless bullshit. Behold, the brackets of awesomeness:
There will be some big upsets in this tourney (ie: Captain Sigurd Hansen declaring me the mighty F/V Northwestern's .1 fan on his MySpace blog destroying three legendary Razzified contenders), some expected victories (ie: my dogs, my tits, and my poisons of choice going to the Final Four), and some close ones (ie: hot girl-on-girl barely squeaking past Bev Niner, undoubtedly in an overtime buzzer-beater), but I don't think anyone will be surprised to see that I am picking my breasts to ultimately reign supreme. They are, after all, the primary piece of evidence as to my mental derangement. Said craziness is the source from whence all my useless bullshit springs, so naturally the tits will take it. Trust. So if you'll excuse me, I have to go provide some consolation to Johnnie Walker Black and Heineken for their impending defeat at the hands of the victorious breasts by drinking large quantities of both.
Labels: intentional buffoonery, internet domination, Razzification
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Helping hands
Enough with all the serious talk about my legal drama, it's time for what Robert Sylvester Kelly would deem REAL TALK. That means any subject raunchier and funnier than making bullshit attacks on my first amendment rights to free speech, and today that means HANDJOBS.
I was having the following conversation with one of my male friends the other day over Gchat, and somehow handjobs came up.
Razzy: who gives those anymore?This male love of handjobs was news to me. I can't remember the last time I jerked a dude off, or that a dude requested said sex act. Don't get me wrong, I grab my honeys' weiners all the time, but I rarely commit to an honest-to-goodness tugging sesh lasting more than a couple of minutes before I replace my hand with either my mouth or my vagina. In fact, the closest thing to a handjob I have performed not in prehistory was sending my college boyfriend Benzo a wax mold of my hand in the international sign for beating off to remind him of me while I was away doing an internship in California for the summer...of 1998. I always figured that guys could always do it better themselves than I ever could since they have had so much more practice spanking it than myself. Besides, I have a Catholic schoolgirl's blowjob abilities, and the popularity of that particular means of penis stimulation may have blinded me to the fact that handjobs are still in vogue.
Dude: LOL
Razzy: that's like a $5 hooker in a car
Dude: I love them actually
Razzy: i haven't wanked a guy in AGES
Razzy: i just go straight in with the BJ
Dude: you should go back to old school and start handing out (wink) the hj's
Razzy: maybe i should!
Razzy: i didn't realize they were such a fave with the fellas
Dude: they're awesome
Dude: when performed right
I've always thought handjobs were the province of inexperienced, nervous teenage girls and female serial killers selling their bodies from under overpasses on I-95. They seemed almost outdated to me, like some type of sexual albatross, relegated along with diaphragms, belted maxi-pads, and douching to the annals of sexual and reproductive history. Handjobs make me think of some greasy, bloated dude with a comb over and an unfortunate fetish for Old Spice in a 1985 Dodge Aries propositioning herpetic tweakers along South Tacoma Way, not the educated professionals that I prefer to have drunk sex with.
Clearly, I need to adjust my sexual strategies in the future. As an accomplished slut, I can't feel good about my prowess in the sack if I'm depriving the honeys of something so enjoyable. I think I'd better perform a little experiment to investigate the true demand for going "old school." I'll come right out of the gate with a handjob, and see if the guy likes it or not. If not, I'll find out if my technique is the problem, or if they just don't like handjobs. I'll then publish my findings on prevalence of handjob preference in a peer-reviewed journal (except by "journal" I mean "RAZZY.org," and by "peer-reviewed," I mean "totally not peer-reviewed unless you count Chingy! and Caesar occasionally sniffing at and/or shedding on my laptop").
Or you could save me a lot of trouble and a brutal case of carpal tunnel syndrome by just weighing in with some comments. TOPIC: Handjobs, yea or nay? Go.
Labels: intentional buffoonery, perversion, Razzification, sex, sluts, weiners
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Stick a fork in her
...because Hillary Clinton is DONE. Last night she went on "Saturday Night Live" in a desperate last-ditch attempt to court votes before Tuesday's primaries. This bitch will be withdrawing Tuesday night...TRUST!
Anyway, I guess I give some props to Senator Clinton for actually laughing at herself a little bit, but that's the only good thing I can say about this skit. "Saturday Night Live" is tanking harder than Hillary's bid for the Democratic nomination. They haven't had anything funny since the "Dick in a Box" song.
I didn't laugh once during this entire ordeal, and "ordeal" is an appropriate term, because I literally felt as though I was summoning reserves of courage I didn't know I had to endure the entire thing. Tim Russert and Brian Williams's actual debate coverage is more entertaining than this supposedly hilarious spoof on the same. I was hanging on to the hope that "okay, SOMETHING funny is going to happen...any time now...," only to have that hope dashed when the real Hillary Clinton came on and proceeded to make more lame jokes. At that point I just resigned myself to having lost nine minutes and 47 seconds of my life.
If there's anything worse than Hillary whining about being screwed over by the woman-hating media, it's watching her attempt pitifully to lampoon it as an excuse to say "Live from New York, it's SATURDAY NIGHT!" The only thing that could make me like this is if she follows it up with a campaign withdrawal speech on Tuesday along the lines of, "Live from Texas/Ohio, it's CONGRATULATIONS, SENATOR OBAMA!"
I am not amused.
Anyway, I guess I give some props to Senator Clinton for actually laughing at herself a little bit, but that's the only good thing I can say about this skit. "Saturday Night Live" is tanking harder than Hillary's bid for the Democratic nomination. They haven't had anything funny since the "Dick in a Box" song.
I didn't laugh once during this entire ordeal, and "ordeal" is an appropriate term, because I literally felt as though I was summoning reserves of courage I didn't know I had to endure the entire thing. Tim Russert and Brian Williams's actual debate coverage is more entertaining than this supposedly hilarious spoof on the same. I was hanging on to the hope that "okay, SOMETHING funny is going to happen...any time now...," only to have that hope dashed when the real Hillary Clinton came on and proceeded to make more lame jokes. At that point I just resigned myself to having lost nine minutes and 47 seconds of my life.
If there's anything worse than Hillary whining about being screwed over by the woman-hating media, it's watching her attempt pitifully to lampoon it as an excuse to say "Live from New York, it's SATURDAY NIGHT!" The only thing that could make me like this is if she follows it up with a campaign withdrawal speech on Tuesday along the lines of, "Live from Texas/Ohio, it's CONGRATULATIONS, SENATOR OBAMA!"
I am not amused.
Labels: Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, intentional buffoonery, media whores, politics, retard rage
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Nerds run the rap snacks game
TAFKAMA is on fire in the Razzification department these days. He remembered clearly the time that we were quaffing many Vitamin R tallboys at the bar by his apartment with our buddy Morrissey'sHair, who purchased a couple bags of Rap Snacks ("the official snack of hip-hop") for us to enjoy.
Unfortunately, we didn't really enjoy them. Both the YoungBloodZ Southern Crunk BBQ and the Murphy Lee Red Hot Ripletts were underwhelming, so we didn't finish them. Apparently, however, some people did like the YoungBloodZ flavor, or at least purported to in this amusing video (complete with the theme music from "Doogie Howser, M.D.")that TAFKAMA dug up:
I would be completely unsurprised if Rap Snacks was really run by a couple of nerds with duct taped glasses, because if there's one thing geeks can do well, it's create fictional personas that elevate their coolness via the internets. I've seen about ten million MySpace and Facebook pages belonging to people who I KNOW are huge geeks in real life that make themselves out to be player-ass pimps via their online profiles. In fact, one of them is writing this very blog post. So it's not much of a stretch to imagine that a bunch of mathlete "Battlestar Galactica" fans are the crunkdafied minds behind Rap Snacks.
And I wonder if it's true that the YoungBloodZ rap snacks have really been discontinued. I'm not surprised, because they were pretty fucking gross. The fact that Warren G Cheezie Nacho flavor hasn't been resurrected, however, is a crime. That flavor regulated.
Unfortunately, we didn't really enjoy them. Both the YoungBloodZ Southern Crunk BBQ and the Murphy Lee Red Hot Ripletts were underwhelming, so we didn't finish them. Apparently, however, some people did like the YoungBloodZ flavor, or at least purported to in this amusing video (complete with the theme music from "Doogie Howser, M.D.")that TAFKAMA dug up:
I would be completely unsurprised if Rap Snacks was really run by a couple of nerds with duct taped glasses, because if there's one thing geeks can do well, it's create fictional personas that elevate their coolness via the internets. I've seen about ten million MySpace and Facebook pages belonging to people who I KNOW are huge geeks in real life that make themselves out to be player-ass pimps via their online profiles. In fact, one of them is writing this very blog post. So it's not much of a stretch to imagine that a bunch of mathlete "Battlestar Galactica" fans are the crunkdafied minds behind Rap Snacks.
And I wonder if it's true that the YoungBloodZ rap snacks have really been discontinued. I'm not surprised, because they were pretty fucking gross. The fact that Warren G Cheezie Nacho flavor hasn't been resurrected, however, is a crime. That flavor regulated.
Labels: gluttony, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, Morrissey'sHair, Mullah AntoniHo, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
A gaggle of CHONGAY!s
You know how sometimes, when you're just about to wake up, you incorporate things from reality into the tail end of whatever dream you're having? This usually happens to me when my alarm starts going off, and I that horrible REE!-REE!-REE! alarm sound finds its way into my dream as a fire alarm or air raid siren or some other similarly disquieting noise, until I finally wake up and realize that it's something even more horrible: time to wake up. Well, this happened to me this morning, except I actually was jarred from slumber before my alarm went off. I dreamed I was gazing out my window in lab (dreaming about lab is a nightmare in itself) at saw flocks of Canadian geese practically blocking out the sun.
While some people might think that dreaming of migrating birds is pleasant, this was just as bad as amalgamating my clock radio with my sleeping subconscious. For starters, I'm from the P-N-Dub, and Canadian geese are as bad as fucking roaches. They're even meaner and more vicious than regular geese, and they shit EVERYWHERE. The Canadian geese situation is so severe in the P-N-Dub that there are literally Canadian goose death squads which go out with shotguns to thin the population enough to prevent them from taking over every golf course and public park in the entire Pacific Northwest. Generally, geese, swans, and other long-necked fowl in general are assholes. They honk and bite and will fuck you up if you get too close to them. Seeing the sky filled with geese reminds me more of a scene from The Birds than a pleasant experience. Furthermore, this dream reminded me of taking vertebrate biology in college. We were given several assignments to go out birdwatching and identify the various birds we saw flying around the Smith campus. I found these exercises so unbelievably boring that I'd usually just get stoned, sit by the pond, and make up sightings of birds from the Birds of Western Massachusetts handout the professor gave us. There is no joy in straining one's neck looking for a bunch of dumb birds flapping around, laying eggs, regurgitating vomit into their chicks' mouths, and whatever else dumb birds do to occupy their time.
Anyway, I woke up from this half-asleep dream to realize the source of inspiration for this geese-clouded nightmare. Guess what it was? OF COURSE it was Chingy!, softly honking with each contented snore right in my ear. That little SOB was probably dreaming about eating homeless guy shit in the park or something else he considers relaxing and fun. Truly, if there's anything more starkly terrifying than a swarm of Canadian geese invading Washington Heights, it's this:
Canadian geese got nothin' next to Chingy! when it comes to being fucking assholes. If I ever look out my lab window and see a sight like this, I'll just pray that these winged Chingy!s land in New Jersey, because that flying V would be more destructive and deadly than the Cloverfield monster if unleashed in the city.
CHONGAY CHONG, sweet dreams and migratory birds!
Canadian geese got nothin' next to Chingy! when it comes to being fucking assholes. If I ever look out my lab window and see a sight like this, I'll just pray that these winged Chingy!s land in New Jersey, because that flying V would be more destructive and deadly than the Cloverfield monster if unleashed in the city.
CHONGAY CHONG, sweet dreams and migratory birds!
Labels: assholes, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, intentional buffoonery, NYC, oh the horror, sexy delicious animals
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: plaintiff R.O.
RAZZY Note: This isn't R.O., as his identity is a mystery due to his minor status. Since I couldn't get a picture of the real deal, I just Googled "asshole kid" and this is one of the pictures that popped up.
Name: R.O.
DOB: 1996? (JESUS CHRIST, I am old...that's the year I graduated high school)
Occupation: expelled eighth grader, hilarious kid
Hometown: Parma, Ohio
Current residence: Parma, Ohio
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: OBVIOUSLY, I'm not trying to do the nasty with an eighth grader. In fact, if I were to even pretend I wanted to do such a thing, it would probably only be a clever ruse to meet hot predator catcher Chris Hansen. I've written this off as a strategy for meeting Chris, however, since he doesn't usually take the predators he catches out for a fancy dinner followed by dirty sex. Also, I generally hate children, so there's no way I have the capacity for even considering having sex with anyone under the age of 18. In fact, after disastrous rolls in the hay with some younger men (in their early twenties) recently, I'm not sure I ever want to sleep with anyone under the age of 30. However, my own immeasurable biases against younger people aside, I couldn't let this kid's hotness go unnoticed.
R.O. decided to get back at his mean middle school principal by posting a fake MySpace profile. In said profile, he describes the principal's interests as "giving students anal" and "jacking off in my office," claimed he "also fucked my assistant principal Heidi Zimmerman," listed his favorite movies as "gay porn," and claimed his heroes are "Michael Jackson, Adolf Hitler, Saddam Husain (sic), and my purple penatrater (sic)."
I have to say, this is pretty damn good material for an eighth grader. When I was in the eighth grade, there was no MySpace, but if there were, I doubt I'd come up with anything as good as saying my enemy's favorite TV show was "Boy Meets Dildo." The term "penetrator" wasn't even in my vocabulary. When I was in grade school, we had to sing a song that was obviously written by some extremely kiss-ass teacher to our principal on "Principal Appreciation Day" or some bullshit like that. It went a little something like this:
Mrs. Milam, she's our gal,
Her husband sells cars better than Cal (her husband owned a car dealership which competed fiercely with a rival Ford dealer owned by a local advertising media whore named Cal Worthington)
"Sorry to interrupt," we hear her say (a reference to her standard greeting over the school PA system)
And then she comes and makes our day.
The best my class could come up with was to change "her husband sells cars better than Cal" to "she's been sleeping in bed with Cal" and "then she comes and makes our day" to "then she comes and ruins our day." That's pretty pathetic that our attempts at satire merely implied Mrs. Milam was having an extramarital affair with Cal Worthington. We obviously missed an untapped gold mine of comedy related to her being a gay pedophile. Kids these days are growing up fast.
Even better is the fact that this kid got booted from school for this prank on grounds of "malicious harassment," and he's suing the school district! Thanks again to court documents posted at The Smoking Gun, I was able to determine that his lawyers are arguing that this MySpace profile "in any way disrupted school or that anyone had taken the content contained in the web site as a serious recitation of defendant Cook's personal characteristics or preferences or that anyone really believed the web site was crated (sic--don't you lawyers have spell check?) by defendant Cook." While normally I root enthusiastically against children, in this case, I'm hoping that this kid gets back into school and gets punitive damages. The "princeypal" should have given him an award for his precocious wit and encouraged his comic talents rather than booting him from school and disrupting his education. Besides, while I'm sure the principal isn't "giving anal to students," he's probably jacked off in his office before. Privacy enabling workplace masturbation is the number one benefit to having an office in the first place!
Furthermore, I applaud R.O. for standing up for his constitutional rights. I think it's bullshit that the principal wanted to trample all over R.O.'s first amendment rights just because it made him look like a homosexual pederast. R.O. shouldn't be denied a public education just for exercising his right to free speech. The last time I checked, the Bill of Rights didn't exclude juvenile jabs at one's principal's sex life. I'm surprised the ACLU isn't on this one. This could set important precedents for civil liberties. I say take it all the way to the Supreme Court!
Seriously, if R.O. wasn't anonymous, I'd offer him a coveted spot as a contributor on RAZZY.org, and that's something he could really brag about. You can ask any of the other occasional writers on here about how hard it is to get a Blogger invite from me. I require writing samples, a full and unabridged CV, and at least ten references...except by "writing samples" I mean an email demanding that I write about something I'm not in the mood to write about, by "full and unabridged CV" I mean that I know you somehow, and by "ten references" I mean we've gotten drunk together. Getting your fake Razzy name on the sidebar is a grueling process more arduous than getting into Harvard without a legacy admission. I've got a spot reserved for R.O. if he ever reveals his true identity.
Labels: armchair barristry, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, destroy all children, intentional buffoonery, kewlness, MySpace
Friday, February 22, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag AGAIN
DOB: August 1983 and September 15, 1986, respectively
Occupation: consummate media whores, masters of self-delusion
Hometown: Santa Monica, California and Crested Butte, Colorado, respectively
Current residence: West Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: JerseyGirl is on fire with the douchebagging. Yesterday she sent me the following article from In Touch Weekly along with the comment "DAILY DOUCHEBAGS?":
Spencer Pratt: Heidi is the Next MadonnaPrepping for worldwide fame? World tour? Who and the what now? At one point, I would have been embarrassed to admit that I watch "The Hills" and know all about Spencer and Heidi. However, then I realized that I'm by no means alone in doing so. There are plenty of other official, card-carrying grownups who get secretly excited when they flip over to MTV and hear Natasha Bedingfield singing about releasing inhibitions and feeling the rain on your skin. There are plenty of other losers who spend their time wondering about pointless bullshit like why Lauren Conrad has more wrinkles and crow's feet around her eyes than me despite being only 21, whether or not the ring Spencer gave Heidi for their now-defunct engagement was real (certainly the tits he gave her weren't), and whether Audrina is actually the dumbest human being employed at Epic Records, much less extant on the planet. All my fellow "Hills"-watching losers are undoubtedly thus reacting the same way to Spencer's assertions about the meteoric rise of Heidi Montag from obscurity: with a great deal of harsh and emphatic scoffing.
Reality show players-turned super couple Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt won’t settle for being a sideshow on The Hills. Wannabe pop star Heidi, 21, is prepping for worldwide fame as she moves forward from her homemade music video, “Higher,” to her next professionally mastered single, which is being recorded this month. “The next thing is to really focus on her new music and get her onstage and on a world tour,” Spencer, 24, who is also Heidi’s manager, tells In Touch. Although Heidi considers herself an original act, she plans to take performance cues from some of the world biggest superstars, like Britney Spears, Madonna and Michael Jackson, says Spencer.
“What we want for Heidi is for her to perform like they do,” Spencer reveals to In Touch. “She could have these huge, unbelievable, explosive performances, with pyrotechnics and lots of costume changes.
“Heidi isn’t going to let what people say stop her from being a huge star,” Spencer tells In Touch.
When Spencer says things about Heidi like "huge, unbelievable, explosive performances" and "huge star," I really can't wait for next season of "The Hills" just to see Spencer making these kind of statements in real life (or at least meticulously scripted real life). If Heidi is the next Madonna, then I'm the next Jesus Christ, and hearing Spencer actually saying such hilarious absurdity would really be knee-slapping, gasping for breath, side-clutching, howling-with-laughter funny. That means that maybe we'll be lucky enough to see footage of Heidi in the studio laying down some tracks with Spencer producing, a musical collaboration on par with a cat in heat joining forces with screeching audio feedback to make a pop album. Any studio time with Heidi is going to make "The Ashlee Simpson Show" seem like a study in the making of a masterpiece on par with Beethoven's Ninth. Truly, Kevin Federline's album (which sold a whopping 16,000 copies) probably looks like a multi-platinum record compared to anything Heidi and Spencer could produce. A shit-throwing rhesus macaque could probably make a better record.
MARCH 24th--premiere of "The Hills" season four--cannot come fast enough.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, media whores, sluts, The Hills, TV
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Eat (dick) at Joe Delucci's
My favorite story from today's news comes to us from merry olde Englande, where some uptight slags decided to go have a nice dinner at Joe Delucci's, an Italian restaurant in Lichfield, Staffordshire.
Apparently, these ladies were unhappy with the service and complained. To make up for the poor dining experience, the staff comped them a free item on their tab. Unfortunately, this didn't go over too well, since the customers were not in the mood for a free order of "SUCK MY DICK FUCK FACE."
Anyone who has ever worked in a restaurant has dreamed of doing something like this. Back when I lived in Tacoma, I worked for a couple months as a cocktail waitress at this club/restaurant called Jazzbones. My roommate Miss Corbutt worked there, and they needed someone, and I figured a little extra money couldn't hurt. Besides, they were generous with the shift drinks, so it helped me cover some of my monumentally large alcohol expenditures. I figured, I hang out in bars all the time, so working in one can't be much different...right?
WRONG! Waiting tables is one of the most exhausting, dehumanizing experiences of all time. I once had to chase down an elderly couple who walked out on their tab, then got pissed at me for making them pay for their dinners and refused to tip me. I had the feeling they pulled this scam for free dinner routinely, because they were appalled that I had actually chased them down a block away from the restaurant. No WAY was their fucking artichoke dip and New York strips coming out of my tips. I guess looking like harmless old people usually worked to give them a head start when dining and dashing, and they needed all the head start they could get since they were old and any barely ambulatory waitress could easily pursue them on foot. They were surprised they hadn't gotten away with it, but not so surprised as to make it seem like I was really putting them out and thus not deserving of a gratuity.
Another time, this table of really, really, REALLY drunk, greasy guys who all looked like they were trying to simultaneously channel Tony Montana and Mohammed Atta spent the entire night sexually harassing me to a point where I was ready to smash each one in the head with the Coors Lights I brought them to wash down their fifty fucking tequila shots. Every time I would pass by they tried to pull me onto one of their laps and feel me up, slap me in the ass, or otherwise try to lecherously manhandle me. Finally, I cut them off, at which point they called me a "fucking cunt" and the bouncer a "fat fag" (clever), and then they walked out on their tab. The bartender had their credit card information, however, and not only did he charge their drinks to them, he told me to go ahead and give myself a 25% tip.
Still another time, this girl who went to my high school came in with her parents. This girl was a dumb, rich, spoiled snowboarder chick and we weren't friends, but were on friendly terms. One time I saw her at a party over Christmas when I was home my freshman year of college and she asked me how school was and where I was going. I told her, and she replied in the quintessential stoner drawl, "Smith?! That's who sponsors me, dude!", pointing to her Smith brand boarding goggles which she was inexplicably wearing at a nighttime keg party in Nick Falsetta's parents' garage. Anyway, that night at Jazzbones, her father took me aside and said that if I took care of them, he would take really good care of me. I obliged, and brought them over $100 worth of lemon drops and Woodford's on the rocks. When they left, the asshole tipped me FIFTY FUCKING CENTS. I'd honestly rather get no tip at all, because fifty cents is just insulting. Even worse, he handed me the tab book with its measly two quarters tucked inside with a patronizing, "That's for you, sweetheart." His daughter then said she had a great time, couldn't wait to come back, and we should, like, totally hang out or something. I resolved that if they ever came in again, I'd "trip" and dump a full tray of lemon drops all over them. Lucky for them, they never did, or at least not during my short tenure there.
There were numerous other similar incidents with bad customers that guaranteed my stint as a waitress would be short. I had another, normal job with business cards and a phone extension and a cubicle and a 401(k) and the works, so it's not like I needed Jazzbones to subsist. I just could not spend my weekend nights hauling ass for people that were determined to be unhappy or complain because they were fucking cheap and didn't want to pay for their meals or tip me. I had no interest in working myself to the bone just to be insulted or harassed. Most of the time, when people complained, it was about the food (which sucked), the service (either me, the bartender, or the kitchen, all of whom were perpetually slammed because the management didn't adequately staff the place), or the live music, and I would do whatever I could to placate them. I comped fucked-up orders and was always friendly and smiling (believe it or not, I actually have great customer service skills). Often, people who complained really did have a legitimate complaint, and I would just try to make it right. However, there were always those customers that complained for the sake of complaining, or tried to sneak out of paying their tab, or refused to tip for some bullshit reason (they didn't like me, they didn't like the food, or they didn't like having to pay a cover charge for whatever shiteous blues band was playing). Those are the people that I always fantasized about screaming something along the lines of "SUCK MY DICK, FUCK FACE!" to.
Therefore, props to the staff at Joe Delucci's for living out every restaurant workers' dream. I can only imagine that this table of bitches who received this profane bill completely deserved it. They probably came in and complained that it took too long to seat their ten-top, then probably changed their orders a zillion times, then probably bitched and moaned about everything from their service to the food, and then probably demanded a free meal. If the group's spokeswhore, Clare Watkins, is any indication, these hookers were a detestable bunch of perpetually unsatisfied shrews:
Apparently, these ladies were unhappy with the service and complained. To make up for the poor dining experience, the staff comped them a free item on their tab. Unfortunately, this didn't go over too well, since the customers were not in the mood for a free order of "SUCK MY DICK FUCK FACE."
WRONG! Waiting tables is one of the most exhausting, dehumanizing experiences of all time. I once had to chase down an elderly couple who walked out on their tab, then got pissed at me for making them pay for their dinners and refused to tip me. I had the feeling they pulled this scam for free dinner routinely, because they were appalled that I had actually chased them down a block away from the restaurant. No WAY was their fucking artichoke dip and New York strips coming out of my tips. I guess looking like harmless old people usually worked to give them a head start when dining and dashing, and they needed all the head start they could get since they were old and any barely ambulatory waitress could easily pursue them on foot. They were surprised they hadn't gotten away with it, but not so surprised as to make it seem like I was really putting them out and thus not deserving of a gratuity.
Another time, this table of really, really, REALLY drunk, greasy guys who all looked like they were trying to simultaneously channel Tony Montana and Mohammed Atta spent the entire night sexually harassing me to a point where I was ready to smash each one in the head with the Coors Lights I brought them to wash down their fifty fucking tequila shots. Every time I would pass by they tried to pull me onto one of their laps and feel me up, slap me in the ass, or otherwise try to lecherously manhandle me. Finally, I cut them off, at which point they called me a "fucking cunt" and the bouncer a "fat fag" (clever), and then they walked out on their tab. The bartender had their credit card information, however, and not only did he charge their drinks to them, he told me to go ahead and give myself a 25% tip.
Still another time, this girl who went to my high school came in with her parents. This girl was a dumb, rich, spoiled snowboarder chick and we weren't friends, but were on friendly terms. One time I saw her at a party over Christmas when I was home my freshman year of college and she asked me how school was and where I was going. I told her, and she replied in the quintessential stoner drawl, "Smith?! That's who sponsors me, dude!", pointing to her Smith brand boarding goggles which she was inexplicably wearing at a nighttime keg party in Nick Falsetta's parents' garage. Anyway, that night at Jazzbones, her father took me aside and said that if I took care of them, he would take really good care of me. I obliged, and brought them over $100 worth of lemon drops and Woodford's on the rocks. When they left, the asshole tipped me FIFTY FUCKING CENTS. I'd honestly rather get no tip at all, because fifty cents is just insulting. Even worse, he handed me the tab book with its measly two quarters tucked inside with a patronizing, "That's for you, sweetheart." His daughter then said she had a great time, couldn't wait to come back, and we should, like, totally hang out or something. I resolved that if they ever came in again, I'd "trip" and dump a full tray of lemon drops all over them. Lucky for them, they never did, or at least not during my short tenure there.
There were numerous other similar incidents with bad customers that guaranteed my stint as a waitress would be short. I had another, normal job with business cards and a phone extension and a cubicle and a 401(k) and the works, so it's not like I needed Jazzbones to subsist. I just could not spend my weekend nights hauling ass for people that were determined to be unhappy or complain because they were fucking cheap and didn't want to pay for their meals or tip me. I had no interest in working myself to the bone just to be insulted or harassed. Most of the time, when people complained, it was about the food (which sucked), the service (either me, the bartender, or the kitchen, all of whom were perpetually slammed because the management didn't adequately staff the place), or the live music, and I would do whatever I could to placate them. I comped fucked-up orders and was always friendly and smiling (believe it or not, I actually have great customer service skills). Often, people who complained really did have a legitimate complaint, and I would just try to make it right. However, there were always those customers that complained for the sake of complaining, or tried to sneak out of paying their tab, or refused to tip for some bullshit reason (they didn't like me, they didn't like the food, or they didn't like having to pay a cover charge for whatever shiteous blues band was playing). Those are the people that I always fantasized about screaming something along the lines of "SUCK MY DICK, FUCK FACE!" to.
Therefore, props to the staff at Joe Delucci's for living out every restaurant workers' dream. I can only imagine that this table of bitches who received this profane bill completely deserved it. They probably came in and complained that it took too long to seat their ten-top, then probably changed their orders a zillion times, then probably bitched and moaned about everything from their service to the food, and then probably demanded a free meal. If the group's spokeswhore, Clare Watkins, is any indication, these hookers were a detestable bunch of perpetually unsatisfied shrews:
"Ms Watkin said: "I couldn't believe it. The bill read 'fish cakes', which one of us had for a starter, and it was written right above it - absolutely disgusting language."She'd also like some compensation, huh? For what...pain and suffering? So maybe the service wasn't fabulous. It's not like these bitches actually starved waiting for their damn fish cakes. An order of "suck my dick, fuck face" would probably do these tramps some good. Good show, Joe Delucci's staff. Next time I make it across the pond, I'll be sure to make a detour through Staffordshire just to ensure that I commend them on a job well done. Maybe if any of them are cute I'll even suck their dicks like the fuck face I am! It would be the least I could do to show my appreciation.
"We actually booked the table for 8 o' clock in the evening, by the time they had taken our order it was quarter to nine and we didn't actually receive our food until quarter past 10."
She added: "I'd like a written apology from the restaurant and I'd also like some compensation.
"I think that the way that we've been spoken to is absolutely outrageous."
Labels: assholes, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, international intrigue
Monday, February 18, 2008
Criss Angel is a terrorist
I saw a picture of supreme douchebag musician Criss Angel on the gossip internets over the weekend, and I couldn't help but want to duck and cover in case he decided to suicide bomb me. Seriously, he is slowly becoming ever bit the terrorist I always thought him to be. With that beard, he looks like Abu Musab al-Zarqawi reincarnated as a Hot Topic employee rather than a terrorist insurgent.
This reiterates what I've always suspected about Criss Angel. He is a despicable human being who is waging a war against the American way by hoodwinking people into watching his shiteous Vegas magic act. I knew there was something untoward going on with Criss Angel, and now I know what that something is. He is a freedom-hating terrorist. It explains a lot. Now, the Department of Homeland Security just needs to slap those bedazzled handcuffs on his wrists and lock his ass away at Gitmo and hopefully prevent him from pulling off a magical Houdini-esque escape before his turn in the waterboarding room.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, Criss Angel, intentional buffoonery, terror
Thursday, February 14, 2008
She's a Slut Machine by Patrick Swayze
I've always had a soft spot for the song "She's Like the Wind" by Patrick Swayze. Partly this is because it's one of my go-to karaoke songs and partly this is because I'm a sucker for hokey love songs. I have more than one Richard Marx song on my iTunes (not ashamed!) and although I loathe the movie Dirty Dancing, I can jam to "Hungry Eyes" and "Time of my Life" from the soundtrack, as well as "She's Like the Wind." Maybe this is part of the natural progression of aging. I know as my father got older, he started listening to almost as much "warm" or "soft" radio favorites as badass hits by Bachman-Turner Overdrive. I wouldn't be surprised if my growing fondness for cheesy 80s love songs was merely a symptom of being my father's daughter.
Anyway, yesterday "She's Like the Wind" came on TV during a commercial for Pedigree dog food, and I had an epiphany. This is one of the dirtiest songs ever written! Sure, it seems like nice, inoffensive fare appropriate for elevators and offices, but if you listen to the lyrics, they only make sense if you view them in a sexual context. How could a woman be "like the wind" other than by BLOWING?
She's like the wind through my tree
Translation: she gives great head
She rides the night next to me
Translation: she can fuck all night long
She leads me through moonlight
Translation: 2 a.m. booty call
Only to burn me with the sun
Translation: she's in a cab back to her place before dawn
She's taken my heart
Translation: she fucked poor Patrick into a state of deep smit
But she doesn't know what she's done
Translation: she's a skank ho who can't swing monogamy
Feel her breath on my face
Translation: she's panting because she's on top and getting her cardio on
Her body close to me
Translation: we fuckin'
Can't look in her eyes
Translation: now we fuckin' doggystyle
She's out of my league
Translation: you can't turn a ho into a housewife
Just a fool to believe
Translation: Patrick is concerned he might be thinking with his heart rather than his dick
I have anything she needs
Translation: anything she needs besides his weiner
She's like the wind
Translation: just to reiterate, she gives incredible head
[Saxophone solo--to enhance the sexy atmosphere]
I look in the mirror and all I see
Translation: I'm Patrick Swayze, star of Dirty Dancing and Roadhouse. I'm hot.
Is a young old man with only a dream
Translation: Patrick is wondering if she'd be down to have a threesome, as that's always been one of his fantasies
Am I just fooling myself
Translation: can I make a ho into a housewife? Maybe...
That she'll stop the pain?
Translation: am I a sex addict?
Living without her
I'd go insane
Translation: Patrick hates celibacy and requires regular pussy, and doesn't have any back-up bitches in his stable
I don't think any of you will ever be able to listen to "She's Like the Wind" with the same innocent sense of "awwww, what a cheesy song" again. Now all you're going to be thinking about is Patrick Swayze receiving fellatio from some accomplished skank with a spiral perm and a lace bodysuit right out of Sheena Easton's closet, which may be one of the most simultaneously frightening and hilarious images I've ever had in my head.
While this song was Patrick Swayze's sole success in the music industry, I think he should get a Grammy two decades later for his masterful lyricism. Who knew that he was like the 80s pop ballad version of R. Kelly? Patrick Swayze is the Pied Piper of Sappy One-Hit Wonders. Well played, Swayze. I only wish I would have appreciated your subtle genius sooner.
Anyway, yesterday "She's Like the Wind" came on TV during a commercial for Pedigree dog food, and I had an epiphany. This is one of the dirtiest songs ever written! Sure, it seems like nice, inoffensive fare appropriate for elevators and offices, but if you listen to the lyrics, they only make sense if you view them in a sexual context. How could a woman be "like the wind" other than by BLOWING?
She's like the wind through my tree
Translation: she gives great head
She rides the night next to me
Translation: she can fuck all night long
She leads me through moonlight
Translation: 2 a.m. booty call
Only to burn me with the sun
Translation: she's in a cab back to her place before dawn
She's taken my heart
Translation: she fucked poor Patrick into a state of deep smit
But she doesn't know what she's done
Translation: she's a skank ho who can't swing monogamy
Feel her breath on my face
Translation: she's panting because she's on top and getting her cardio on
Her body close to me
Translation: we fuckin'
Can't look in her eyes
Translation: now we fuckin' doggystyle
She's out of my league
Translation: you can't turn a ho into a housewife
Just a fool to believe
Translation: Patrick is concerned he might be thinking with his heart rather than his dick
I have anything she needs
Translation: anything she needs besides his weiner
She's like the wind
Translation: just to reiterate, she gives incredible head
[Saxophone solo--to enhance the sexy atmosphere]
I look in the mirror and all I see
Translation: I'm Patrick Swayze, star of Dirty Dancing and Roadhouse. I'm hot.
Is a young old man with only a dream
Translation: Patrick is wondering if she'd be down to have a threesome, as that's always been one of his fantasies
Am I just fooling myself
Translation: can I make a ho into a housewife? Maybe...
That she'll stop the pain?
Translation: am I a sex addict?
Living without her
I'd go insane
Translation: Patrick hates celibacy and requires regular pussy, and doesn't have any back-up bitches in his stable
I don't think any of you will ever be able to listen to "She's Like the Wind" with the same innocent sense of "awwww, what a cheesy song" again. Now all you're going to be thinking about is Patrick Swayze receiving fellatio from some accomplished skank with a spiral perm and a lace bodysuit right out of Sheena Easton's closet, which may be one of the most simultaneously frightening and hilarious images I've ever had in my head.
While this song was Patrick Swayze's sole success in the music industry, I think he should get a Grammy two decades later for his masterful lyricism. Who knew that he was like the 80s pop ballad version of R. Kelly? Patrick Swayze is the Pied Piper of Sappy One-Hit Wonders. Well played, Swayze. I only wish I would have appreciated your subtle genius sooner.
Labels: hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, Razzification, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Kevin Federline
DOB: March 21, 1978
Occupation: father of the year, gold-digger of the century, public relations savant, true professional
Hometown: Fresno, California
Current residence: Santa Monica, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I certainly never, ever though I would write the words "Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Kevin Federline." However, then I caught a little bit of last night's "One Tree Hill." Yes, I've seen a few episodes of "One Tree Hill," and no, I'm not ashamed of that. "Battlestar Galactica" I am ashamed of. Not that I ever watch "Battlestar Galactica." I mean, I watched it one...a few...okay, more than ten times. However, any viewing of "Battlestar Galactica" I've ever done has been purely an accident. None of the other channels were working. Yeah...that's it. None of the other channels were working or I would have watched something--ANYTHING--before I watched a nerd clusterfuck like "Battlestar Galactica." Anyway, I've seen "One Tree Hill" a couple times and I don't feel the overriding need to explain those viewings away with a pack of lies. There's no shame in watching a show about the sex lives of short, clumsy basketball-playing teens and the cheerleaders who love them. Plus, the guy who played John Sears, KEG house nemesis of Steve Sanders, would-be pedophile, and all-around asshole jerk, from "90210" is on it! I can't be ashamed of watching any show that includes a former Kelly Taylor love interest in its cast. Now, if only "Battlestar Galactica" would cast a Bev Niner alum...by accident. ANYWAY. Last night I watched "One Tree Hill," and Kevin Federline was on.
On the show, K-Fed plays a Linkin Park-flavored punk rock rapper guy. Think David Silver meets Pete Wentz, except in an extremely incestuous North Carolina small town. He has some drama with this other girl from the main cast. She was in his band and he slept with her and her slut friend or something, so she quit. Then she had some words with K-Fed, he talked shit, and subsequently earned himself a knuckle sandwich. It doesn't get more satisfying than that.
This should get a fucking Emmy. I'd like to see TV come up with something better than Kevin Federline acting like the asshole we all expect him to be. He calls someone a retard, calls her skank friend out for leaving her granny panties in his bed (insert "oh, SNAP!" here), and then slaps skank friend on the ass. Then, just when K-Fed thinks he's a hot piece of despicable shit, "Skills" Taylor clocks him in the face for being a disrespectful prick! AWESOME!!! Besides, if you were paying close attention to Kevin's temples, you noticed that the CEO of Federation Records is rocking a buzz fauxhawk--with a receding hairline! That takes serious balls. The only way this could get better is if Brenda Walsh showed up in a leather jacket/leather vest/camel toe-exposing high-waisted jeans combo and shrieked, "Look, I hate you both! Never talk to me again!"
Kevin Federline, who was previously famous for his fecundity and hip-hop cracker style, has managed to reinvent himself as a master of the acting craft. He was born to play douchebag white trash punk rocker/rappers who get their fake Ed Hardy shirt-wearing asses beat on CW shows. The FedEx should just throw on his street rocker hoodie and wait for the professional accolades to roll in. This was truly the year's finest TV moment. James Lipton best clear his schedule, because I definitely sense that an episode of "Inside the Actors' Studio" reviewing the achievements of K-Fed is forthcoming. I can't wait until K-Fed regales the drama geeks with tales of how he prepared to deliver lines like, "The only reason people were clappin' is that I told 'em you were retarded." Genius.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, intentional buffoonery, Kevin Federline, TV
Friday, February 08, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Joanne Raine
DOB: 1989
Occupation: idiot teenager
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Darlington, United Kingdom
Douchebaggery: Like many teenagers, Joanne thought her relationship with her boyfriend was going to last forever. Therefore, she decided to drop 80 pounds sterling on a tattoo to commemorate her dedication to their legendary love affair. She decided on what she thought were Chinese characters that spelled her boyfriend's nickname, Roo.
As always occurs, the tattoo symbolizing their burning love was more permanent than the relationship. Joanne has since dumped Roo, and a fateful trip to her local City Wok informed her that her tattoo actually spells "supermarket." I've always thought that if I were a tattoo artist, my number one order of business would be learning how to spell "douchebag" in Chinese characters, so that I could tattoo that on every person requesting some dumb sentiment in Chinese. I guess at least one tattoo artist somewhere in England had this same idea, except with "supermarket" instead. I would have inked her with characters meaning "prat" or "wanker" or some other sufficiently British term for "asshole" or "douchebag," but whatever. I guess "supermarket" is still a pretty lame statement to be making with your body ink. On the bright side, at least Joanne's dumb ass isn't stuck with an indelible rendering of her ex-boyfriend's name on her stomach.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, sluts
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Cole Cosgrove
DOB: ???
Occupation: blogger, copy editor of the south Sound's finest paper, the Tacoma News Tribune
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Tacoma, Washington--City of Destiny
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Today I was catching up on my reading concerning what goes on in the beautiful P-N-Dub over at the TNT (that would be the Tacoma News Tribune) website. As usual, not a whole lot is going on. The Pierce County auditor (whose son--on an amusing aside--was best friends with this guy I was boning back in Tacompton and asked if they could run a train on me once...I said no, because he was fat) is leading a campaign for stiffer fines against owning vicious animals in response to several pitbull attacks in Spanaway, and the new Sumner street-sweeping machine led the funeral procession for a recently deceased street sweeper's funeral. I'm sure if I did some digging I could find some news about meth, but otherwise there's not a whole lot going on back in the area where I came up. So I was clicking around tribnet.com and found some blog called "Grit City: You'll Like Tacoma."
I decided to check it out because I already know that I like Tacoma, having gone to school there and lived there for many years, and "Grit City" is certainly an apt description of it. It's a lot more fitting than "America's Most Wired City", which was what Tacoma called itself a few years back because we had more internet wiring than anywhere else or something. Anyway, I was initially annoyed by the "Grit City" blog because I watched the dumb Super Bowl rap video that some tool with nothing better to do made (and which is NOT the "hottest thing outta Tacoma since Chihuly's glass left the furnace"...that would be me.) People making up stupid raps about football--especially while wearing a seriously outdated Darryl Jackson Seahawks road jersey--are not my cup of scotch. But I scrolled on through the blog to the next posting.
Apparently, some dude in Yakima restored a vintage sign touting Yakima as "the Palm Springs of Washington."
Anyway, the author Cole Cosgrove then wondered what Tacoma would compare itself to if it had a similar sign. He came up with the best analogy ever:
I have to give Cole Cosgrove props for pointing this out. Plus, if his thumbnail picture on the blog is any indication, he's kind of a hot piece, by Tacoma standards anyway. Unfortunately, his biography says he's married. Too bad, because with his cheerful good looks and razor-sharp insight, he'd have bitches at the West End or Hank's Tavern swooning and begging him to buy them a round or two of Rainiers. And you know he drinks Vitamin R like any upstanding "gritizen" because elsewhere on the Grit City blog I found this picture of him in his finest T-town regalia:
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarious shit, hot dudes, intentional buffoonery, P-N-Dub
Friday, January 25, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Roberta McCain
Name: Roberta Wright McCain
DOB: February 7, 1912
Occupation: hot bitch who pops off at the mouth
Hometown: Muskogee, Oklahoma
Current residence: the campaign trail, seemingly, so she's probably snuggled up in her bunk on the Straight Talk Express somewhere near Boca Raton, Florida
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Roberta McCain is the hotness known as Senator John McCain's mother. The other day she went on C-SPAN to dish about how her baby boy's presidential campaign is faring, and had some choice words for his buddies over at the Grand Old Party when asked about how much support they were giving her son.
"I don't think he has any," said Roberta. "I don't know what the base of the Repub--maybe I don't know enough about it, but I've not seen any help whatsoever."
I love how she cut herself off. I get the feeling that she was about to finish that with "I don't know that the base of the Republican party is smoking" or "I don't know what the base of the Republic party thinks with, but it sure ain't their brains" or some other curmudgeonly old lady witticism, but thought better of it when she remembered that you can't be that blunt in politics, even if you are a nonagenarian. She learned this lesson the hard way when she shot her yapper off on MSNBC last November about Mitt Romney's handling of the 2002 Salt Lake City Olympics when Chris Matthews asked if she thought Romney had done much "heavy lifting for America," and suggested that Mormons were behind the ensuing bid scandals and budget deficits. Senator McCain was like, "MOOOOOOMMMM!" and then had to say that he liked Mormons just fine and wasn't blaming the angel Moroni (seriously, the main Mormon angel is named MORONI) for shady Olympics-related money matters. Check out this bitch in action. Not only does she call Mitt Romney "a Senator, uh, a Congressman, a Senat--WHATEVER," the look on Senator McCain's face is PRICELESS once she busts out "well, he's a Mormon, and the Mormons of Salt Lake City had caused that scandal." Chris Matthews can't stop laughing.
Anyway, back to her more recent C-SPAN interview. After demurely noting that the Republicans are a bunch of disloyal assholes who hate her son, Roberta then says, "Fuck it, I'm old, I'll say what I want!" Not really, but she says, that if McCain wins the nomination, "holding their nose they'll have to take him."
I love this broad. I think they should interview her every day. In past interviews, she has described herself as "too emotional," and you know she is not a bitch to trifle with. Even when John McCain returned from five years being hung on hooks from his broken arms and subjected to Deerhunter-like forms of psychological torture, she wouldn't take any crap from him. Apparently he unleashed a stream of profanity with regard to his captors, and Roberta responded that if he didn't shut up, "Johnny, I'm going to come over there and wash your mouth out with soap." Never mind that the whole washing one's mouth out threat is idle, since it creates more trouble than it solves as ingesting soap can cause diarrhea. I love that after five years living the real-life equivalent of a Missing in Action movie, John McCain's mother still won't abide by him dropping some f-bombs about the experience.
Roberta would be the world's best First Mother. You know she'd be his de facto top advisor. Last year on Mother's Day, Mom and Baby McCain went on "Meet the Press," where John said, "She is 95 years young, and is my most constant and frequent critic. And she will give me her advice and counsel quite often, and of course I love her and appreciate it." Translation: Roberta is in fucking charge. In addition to his power lesbian wife rocking her USMC and NAVY broaches, McCain is poised to put some fierce bitches in the White House if he wins. You know these ladies are really running the show:
Also, for everyone who is suggesting that John McCain is too old to be president, let me remind you that Roberta is a week shy of turning 96. She's still in overdrive and clearly has all her wits about her. Since genetics play a role in both longevity and age-related brain function, then I'm not thinking that McCain is going to croak or go senile while in office. He's going to keep rocking the house flanked by Roberta and Cindy, with Roberta wearing an impeccable Chanel suit and not giving a fuck if people don't like what she has to say. Roberta IS the Straight Talk Express. Go Team McCain!
Labels: aging, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, defiance, hot chicks, intentional buffoonery, John McCain, media whores, Mitt Romney, politics, sluts
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: John Gibson
DOB: 1946
Occupation: FOX News talk show host, insensitive cad, sworn enemy of the British Broadcasting Corporation
Hometown: ???
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I used to watch FOX News a lot, because the people on it are so ridiculous. Between their whole Bush propagandist freedom schtick and their intentionally obnoxious, constantly editorializing personalities, I found FOX News to be completely hilarious. However, that got tired after awhile. You can only watch Sean Hannity and Ann Coulter giving each other palpable fuck-me eyes while spouting a steady stream of outrageous asshole gibberish for so long before you decide to see if Bravo is showing any episodes of "Project Runway" that you've seen five times already.
When I do watch FOX, I usually skip right past "The Big Story," because John Gibson is boring as well as boorish, and he looks like the villain in a bad Lifetime movie. I could see him playing a child-molesting stepfather or a date-raping corrupt city councilman opposite the survivor-victim female protagonist portrayed by Rena Sofer or Rebecca Gayheart. Every once in a while, Gibson produces some extreme assholery, like his crusade against those damn America-hating foreigners at the BBC or his wishing for "another 9/11" to galvanize support for Bush and the Iraq war. Most of the time, however, he creeps me out, so I don't watch his show, and I sure as shit don't listen to his radio program. Besides, I'm more into the hotness that is Shepard Smith.
Anyway, John Gibson had one of his rare moments of achievements in being a dick yesterday when he started going off on Heath Ledger. He mocked him with audio clips of the infamous "I don't know how to quit you" and came up with a few theories about why Heath Ledger made such an early departure from this mortal coil. This created some controversy, because apparently making fun of Heath Ledger is off-limits now that he's no longer with us, and because making fun of gay movie characters sounds like homophobia to idiots. Frankly, I would be more upset about the fact that the Reverend Fred Phelps is taking his "GOD HATES FAGS" signs down under to picket Heath's funeral because, according to Westboro Baptist Church spokeswhore Shirley Phelps-Roper, "he got on that big screen with a big, fat message: God is a liar and it’s OK to be gay." Their press release describes Brokeback Mountain as a "sordid, tacky bucket of slime seasoned with vomit" and "He (God) hates all persons having anything whatsoever to do with it." They also add, "Heath Ledger thought it was great fun defying God Almighty and His plain word; to wit: God Hates Fags! & Fag-Enablers!... Heath Ledger is now in Hell, and has begun serving his eternal sentence there - beside which, nothing else about Heath Ledger is relevant or consequential." Now once I got to the "seasoned with vomit" part I said, "A-HA! Homophobia alert!" Actually, that happened when I went to the URL godhatesfags.com. The Westboro Baptist Church thinks Heath is currently roasting over an eternal flame at the business end of a pitchfork for being a "fag-enabler," and I'm going to call a spade a spade and say that the Phelpses are indeed homophobic. I don't really think that making fun of scenes from Brokeback Mountain on a FOX News radio show necessarily is the same thing, but you can decide for yourself.
Perez Hilton is incensed about this--because he does SUCH a service for the gays by being the most annoying queen in the history of Manic Panic hair dye and other brightly colored accessories for plumage enhancement and outing every celebrity he can think of who MIGHT be hitting it on the same-sex tip because they don't deserve private lives--and provided this synopsis of Gibson's insensitive eulogizing of Heath Ledger:
Playing an audio clip of the iconic quote, 'I wish I knew how to quit you' from Ledger’s gay romance movie Brokeback Mountain, Gibson disdainfully quipped, 'Well, he found out how to quit you.' Laughing, Gibson then played another clip from Brokeback Mountain in which Ledger said, 'We’re dead,' followed by his own, mocking 'We’re dead' before playing the clip again."I think this is actually kind of funny, at least the part about John Edwards and speculation about Heath's portfolio taking a dive down on Wall Street. Tasteless, maybe, but COME ON. It's Heath Ledger! Who cares? I know Heath Ledger's death was surprising and a big tragedy and everyone is devastated and he was talented and blah blah blah, but this is Heath Ledger, not fucking JFK. Heath Ledger from 10 Things I Hate About You (filmed in Tacoma, WA!) and the appalling two hour movie rendition of a Medieval Times matinee jousting showcase known as A Knight's Tale. Okay, so Brokeback Mountain was fine, but still...Heath Ledger didn't end the damn Cold War or broker peace or invent a vaccine or get Africa out of debt or do anything besides convince everyone that he was a gay cowboy and not an Australian Johnny Depp wannabe hipster, knock up that chick from "Dawson's Creek," and move to Brooklyn. It's not like making a couple dumb splices of a memorable scene from Brokeback Mountain is the equivalent of making fun of Holocaust survivors or something really loathsome and inexcusable.
Gibson called Ledger a "weirdo" with a "serious drug problem" and suggested that Ledger killed himself because he had "a serious position in the (stock) market" or perhaps "watched the Clinton-Obama debate last night. I think he was an Edwards guy, cause he saw his Edwards guy was just completely irrelevant."
Besides, this is FOX NEWS! How can anyone get mad about something a FOX host says that is crass or offensive? That describes virtually ALL of their programming. John Gibson was just doing his damn job: reporting unsubstantiated sensationalist facts and being an asshole. I applaud him for having such a high standard for professionalism. I also am glad SOMEONE is trying to be funny about Heath Ledger, because if I have to read one more breaking story about how Heath Ledger liked his coffee or how he helped some dumbass change a tire once or how John Travolta had a huge hard-on for him, I'm going to go crazy. I get it. Heath Ledger was nice. It's sad that he's dead. That's a downer, so why not try to add some levity with a couple mean-spirited jokes? Good show, John Gibson. You may not have much class, but at least your black heart is in the right place.
Labels: assholes, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, intentional buffoonery, media whores, movies, people who died, TV, vulgar display of faggotry
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Live offensively a little
I was bored and engaging in a hobby of mine: perusing crazy Christian websites and amusing myself by making fun of them. I found myself back at an old favorite: Live Offensively, the site belonging to a "for-profit ministry" that makes shirts for kids that say "Porn is for Posers" and "Abortion is Mean" so that they can be the biggest assholes about loving Jesus as humanly possible.
I found myself on their "War Room" page reading inspirational stories from their "Ground Troops." Most of the stories are positively frightening personal accounts of how these future abortion clinic bombers alienate themselves from their peers with their radical, extremely judgmental practice of Christianity. Take, for example, Allison Havemann's "war stories":
I didn't want to miss out on any of the fun, so I went ahead and left my own posting. Okay, so maybe I stretched the truth a little in that I didn't actually get a "Porno is for Posers" shirt for Christmas, and I don't go to a public school, and I actually think porno is for winners, and I'm not a teenager, but whatever. It was fun crafting this thrilling little yarn about being a psycho Christian hatemonger in training, as well as uploading that vintage 1996 picture of me in full baby dyke regalia!
I found myself on their "War Room" page reading inspirational stories from their "Ground Troops." Most of the stories are positively frightening personal accounts of how these future abortion clinic bombers alienate themselves from their peers with their radical, extremely judgmental practice of Christianity. Take, for example, Allison Havemann's "war stories":
I live on an all girls "Catholic campus". I put these words in quotation marks because Catholics are Christians and therefore should be living up to the standards that Christ has set before the church - but they aren't - at least at my school. I chose to go to this school in hopes of avoiding the perversions that run rampant at many colleges throughout the US thinking that an all girls school would be the way to go and I could focus on my studies and not be exposed to anything that might hinder my grades or my future marriage to my fiance. Well, thank GOD that I am protected by Jesus Christ! My dorm (and this is true for all other dorm buildings from what I have been told) is FULL OF SIN! While our school has a rule that male visitors have to be out by midnight, our school has no rule against female visitors. Our school has a VERY high lesbian population and does NOTHING to stop it because, really, what can they do? It's an all girls school! In my building, yelling, running up and down the halls and excess noise is the least of my concerns - I open my door (I have a private room) to the main hall way and what do I see?...girls kissing each other, half naked, drinking beer, and acting in ways Ive personally never seen before other than raunchy comercials for horrid videos. I complained to my RA and got basically a "sorry, what can I do about it?" response - so I decided to do something about it! I am known as the "Jesus Freak" on campus, so why not live up to that title? Now, my room is the first dorm on the first floor - so all the "action" takes place RIGHT outside my door on a nightly basis. SO....I asked God what He wanted me to do...and this is what I did with His guidance...I wrote down the plan for salvation, scriptures to save people, and quotes about what is sinful in the eyes of the Lord (fornication, homosexuality, being drunk, etc) and posted these scriptures (which I made colorful and BIG) ALL over my dorm room door. I figured - if they are going to sin outside my door, they are going to see God's response to it! I've annoyed some people by this, and my RA even said to take it down that it is offending people - well what do you think is offending me! The sin of these "women" in my dorm which no one will do anything about. I REFUSE to take down my scripture and I KNOW my rights as well. I have also been sliding tracts from Way of the Master under doors in my building and have made known my stance and place with the Lord Jesus. I REFUSE to let sin reign!God, what a party pooper. I'd be thanking Jesus if I opened my door to see a bunch of half-naked girls drinking beer and making out, not praying for him to bring judgment. No wonder everyone hates Allison. I'd be annoyed if I was trying to experiment with my sexuality and I kept being interrupted by big, colorful tracts on "The Way of the Master" being slid under my door. What a nosy bitch. And a stupid one, if she thought that going to a Catholic school would mean no oral sex and constant sobriety. Booze and head are the cornerstones of a Catholic education.
Since posting the scriptures and plan for salvation, the offensive activities have lessened although I am well aware that I am not liked by these girls...but who cares! I AM LOVED BY CHRIST!
Please pray for these girls in my building...its really disgusting what they are doing and I feel very sorry for them and pray for them constantly.
REFUSE TO LET SIN REIGN!
In His Service!
Allison
I didn't want to miss out on any of the fun, so I went ahead and left my own posting. Okay, so maybe I stretched the truth a little in that I didn't actually get a "Porno is for Posers" shirt for Christmas, and I don't go to a public school, and I actually think porno is for winners, and I'm not a teenager, but whatever. It was fun crafting this thrilling little yarn about being a psycho Christian hatemonger in training, as well as uploading that vintage 1996 picture of me in full baby dyke regalia!
Hai guys!I wonder if the people at Live Offensively will ever figure out that I'm actually a drunken, porn-watching, fornicating, snatch-licking, cocksucking, abortion-supporting, morally bereft bisexual slut in the evolution business (sort of) who hasn't received the sacrament of reconciliation from her local idol-worshipping priest in almost two decades. Probably not, because they're too busy trying to disprove Darwin, kill family planning clinic employees, inform fags about God's hatred, condemn everyone who disagrees with them, and generally strive to be as insufferably obnoxious and detestable as possible. But if they do, I hope they send me funny e-mail! And pray for me. Or prey for me. Whichevs.
I got one of the "Porno is for Posers" shirts for X-mas and proud to say that I made quite a statemint at school with it LOL! At first the other kids called me names like "Jesus freak" and stuff (and they always call me this because I don't keep quiet about pointing out which of them are homosexuals and fornicators and drug user s and sinners so they can repent before the Lord punishes them for their sins) but before you know it everyone was paying attention to it and talking about it and I could tell the Lord was at work!!!!!!!! :-)
Then I couldn't believe when I got sent to the principle's office and told my shirt was against the dress code cuz it is about porno. I said it was against porno and refused to take it off and started praying right then and there and I go to public school so this didnt go over to well! Then the principle called my mom to come get me and she told the principle we are gonna go right home and pray that Jesus forgives HIM for all his sin! My mom says shes gonna get me the abortion is mean shirt because that's not against the dress code.
I can't wait to get my abortion shirt and I'm gonna get one of the evolution shirts for when I have sicience class because I am not scared to stand up for Jesus Christ the LORD at my school, not shamed to show that I love God and I hate sin, I know the principle and the other kids will catch on before God punishes them for their sins! Please prey for me as I try to LIVE OFFENSIVELY!
Christ's love 4EVA!!!!!
Angie
Labels: assholes, crazies, Dear God, intentional buffoonery
Rug burned
Last night I checked my mail and received one of the weirdest pieces of junk mail I've ever gotten. I was about to throw away the envelope covered with what I assumed were interest rates and temporary favorable terms for some credit card that would be my utter fiscal destruction, until I looked a little closer.
The front read:
The letter inside explained more:
They may look like reject extras from a vintage Breck shampoo ad, but they put great stock in the prayer rug method of wealth acquisition. And speaking of the prayer rug, I finally found it. Apparently over at St. Matthew's, a piece of paper constitutes a "rug."
Unfortunately, no matter how long I stared, I couldn't make Jesus open his eyes. I attribute this to either the fact that my prayer rug is broken, or my complete inability to solve Magic Eye puzzles. It has to be that, because there's no way Jesus wouldn't open his eyes for me. If he could, he'd probably be winking at me. You know JC picked up some game hanging with all those hookers back in the day.
Anyway, since I still had my doubts about the efficacy of the prayer rug. I decided to do a little experiment. Although St. Matt's prides itself on its 57-year history, my faith is considerably older. In fact, my religion has approximately 1950 years on St. Matthew's Churches. Since I've been praying the Catholic way my whole life and have yet to be on my knees in a church full of material blessings, I figure this can serve as a negative control for religious devotion that breeds copious overnight wealth. Being Catholic hasn't gotten me a lot besides the ability to metabolize unholy amounts of alcohol and solid blow job techniques. Let's see if St. Matt's can do better. Time for the power of the prayer rug versus the power of the Holy See!
First, I said a full decade of Hail Marys using my trusty rosary. I would have said the whole rosary, but I was watching TV and I can't remember the damn Apostle's Creed. I suppose I could have looked it up, but let's face it: ten Hail Marys might as well be fifty plus some extra Our Fathers and Glory Bes. And nothing happened, anyway. For example, a slutty team of lipstick lesbian models and professional football players didn't show up with a check for a million dollars after rocking the beads off my rosary with the devout piety of my prayer.
Next, I decided to do this prayer rug meditation routine. I elected to kneel on it, which is a position that comes naturally for me. In fact, I decided to get really comfortable to ensure maximal transduction of energy between my prayer rug, St. Matt's church, and God. I figured that my assuming what is a relaxed and secure position for myself could only help my energy beam reach as far as Oklahoma. And heaven.
Unfortunately, after holding this pose for a few minutes, the only blessing I felt I had received was that my Heineken was still cold. I asked God to pretty much hook me up with lots of money, ice, and a fleet of whips to show-stop around town in, and wrapped it up. I got up to stretch, and was just about to dig my Bible from its burial site beneath books about seamen, infectious disease, serial killers, and classic mythology to put the prayer rug in. Upon my vacating the prayer rug, a new tenant moved promptly in:
Either Caesar has some blessings to request from upper management, or a major souce of variability has been introduced into my impeccably designed scientific experiment. The letter didn't say anything about whether or not it was okay for one's big, goofy dog to get in on the praying action. It's probably not. After all, "God sees."
Since Caesar decided to meddle with my comparative study of Catholic praying versus St. Matthew's Churches praying, it was basically irretrievably fucked, so I tossed aside the prayer rug and went back to beer drinking and TV-watching. I totally don't have a stamp to mail back the prayer rug or the money to sow a seed at St. Matthew's, but oh well. Hopefully God will find it in his heart to forgive me and hit me with a blast of holy blessing power (ie: a check with lots of zeroes).
Besides, I don't feel all THAT bad about not seeing the prayer rug method through to its completion and reaping the benefits. I'm not sure that 46 grand would have appeared out of thin air even if I had bothered to tuck my prayer rug into my New Testament. I decided to crack open the secret prophecy that I wasn't supposed to look at until the prayer rug was safely on its way back to Tulsa. In spite of the fact that lengthwise it was a damn novel, there were precious few predictions about my future in it. Basically, the only one I could see was "As you remain faithful in your seed sowing into my kingdom, surely you shall be blessed." In other words, I'll be blessed in a to-be-determined way after I hook St. Matt's up with some cold, hard cash. Obviously, that prophecy is WAY off.
I think I'll just stick to munching rugs rather than praying on them. That's more fun, anyway.
The front read:
YOUR HOME FIRST!Loans? Like there's a check inside? Like some church has decided to randomly loan me money? That seems legitimate. I was intrigued. I flipped over the envelope and read the back:
Sunday--January 2008
This very old church loans this to you, to bless someone connected with this home. Then, it must go to another family that desires God's blessings. See letter inside...
Dear Jesus,Hmmm...what is this "Saint Matthew's Churches" of Tulsa, Oklahoma? And why have they singled me out for the benefit of their prayer? I like the sound of this imminent financial blessing I'm about to receive. Plus, the liberal use of boldfacing certainly implies excitement. I better open this letter so that I get "the desires of my heart."
We pray that you will bless someone in this home spiritually, physically, & financially. And please dear Lord, bless the one who's hands open this letter. Make good changes in this one's life and give them the desires of their heart. We pray over and bless this letter in your Holy Name. Amen.
The letter inside explained more:
LET THIS BE THE BEST YEAR OF YOUR LIFE THROUGH FAITH AND PRAYER.GOD IS READY TO HELP YOU REACH YOUR DREAMS AND GOALS.
Dear...Someone Connected with This Address,Okay, I'll do that. If God is suddenly in the loan sharking-by-mail business, I'm curious to know more about his deal brokers at St. Matt's. And I am Someone Connected with This Address, in that I live here. I'll read on.
READ WHAT GOD IS DOING HERE AT SAINT MATTHEW'S CHURCH.
People just like you are writing to this 57-year-old church, telling us of all types of blessings since this church started praying with them. They are receiving divine help in the form of answered prayer. Some are seeing loved ones saved, and many of them are receiving spiritual, physical, and financial blessings of all types (III John 2, Philippians 4:19)--better jobs, raises in salaries, being able to buy and sell homes, buying new cars, and so on. Actually, these dear people are receiving so many blessings that it is impossible to mention them all in a letter. Read the enclosed brochure on how a Sister used the same type of Bible faith prayer rug that we are sending to you with this letter, and how she was blessed with $46,000.00! Now, we must talk to you about something we see, in the Holy Spirit, concerning you and your family's needs.FORTY SIX GRAND?! From God? Holy shit. Talk to me, St. Matt's.
GOD'S HOLY BLESSING POWER IS IN THE ENCLOSED ANOINTED PRAYER RUG OF FAITH WE ARE LOANING YOU TO USE!!!Jeez, this sounds really urgent...and confusing. Where is this rug they mentioned? And how does it work? I'm a little skeptical, since God hasn't seen fit to bless them with knowledge of how to properly place a comma. I also don't like the fact that I was just returning to my tenement for a relaxing evening with my good friend, Television, and now I'm all of a sudden on a TV-free, rigid 24 hour agenda involving God and some kind of special carpet. This better be worth it. I mean, I want something very wonderful to come to me, but the prospect of my harnessing "God's holy blessing power" with this fabled prayer rug is raising some red flags over in the Razzy Bullshit Detection Department.
WE MUST GIVE YOU THIS OPPORTUNITY FIRST...THEN IT MUST GO TO THE HOME OF ANOTHER DEAR FRIEND WHO NEEDS A BLESSING...You, or someone connected with this address, and another dear family are about to be blessed through this unusual, Bible Faith, Church, Prayer Rug, which we are placing in your care for these next 24 important hours. Because of any needs you are facing, we want you to use this Church Prayer Rug first, then we must pass it on to another dear friend of ours who also needs a blessing. As we pray for you and everyone connected with this address, WE FEEL THAT SOMETHING VERY WONDERFUL IS TRYING TO COME TO YOU.
When you use this Biblical Faith Church Prayer Rug, go into a room where you can be alone (just God and you). Turn off the television and radio and try to be by yourself when you kneel on this Holy Ghost, Bible Prayer Rug, or spread it over your knees. We want this Church Ministry, Prayer Rug to be touching both of your knees as you pray for the needs you are facing right now. It is going to be like you are kneeling before God All Mighty at the altar inside a great church of blessings. If you need more joy, peace, health, money, a new car, a new house, healing in family communication, or whatever, we as a very old (57 years) church, want to know about it. Check your prayer needs on page two of this letter. Talk to us. This power you and this church ministry are about to use works! (St. Matthew 18:19)Kneeling before "God All Mighty" in a church full of blessings sounds to me like a good night in a bar bathroom. If that is all it takes to get joy, peace, health, money, a new car, a new house, healing in family communication and whatever, I'm suddenly newly confident in my ability to put this Holy Ghost, Bible Prayer Rug to good use.
These next 24 important hours are crucial to you. Timing is important to God. After you kneel on this Church Prayer Rug, or place it over your knees, place it in a Bible, on Philippians 4:19. (If you don't have a Bible, it's okay--just slide it under your side of the bed, for tonight, if you can. If you can't do this, it is okay.) Leave It There No Longer Than Tonight Only! God sees. Then, in the morning it is a must that you get this unusual blessing Church Prayer Rug out of this house and back to us, here at the church's chapel prayer room, in faith. We must also have this letter back, with whatever you need prayer for, printed on page two. You must get this Bible Prayer Rug back to us so we can rush it onto another family that's in need of a blessing. Do this without fail. Please, do not break this flow of power between us.Okay, okay...this is complicated, but whatever. I actually even have a Bible.
Notice the face of Jesus on this Church Prayer Rug. When you first look, you will notice that His eyes are closed. If you relax and continue looking straight into His eyes, you will see His eyes slowly opening, and He will begin looking back at you. Jesus sees your needs (Philippians 4:19). Use this unusual, important, Church Prayer Rug for tonight only.Whoa, an interactive Jesus is on the prayer rug. That sounds trippy. How did they fit a prayer rug into a damn envelope? Hopefully this informative missive will inform me of that next.
Let us ask you: Would you like to have God's blessings upon your home, your family and your finances? Say, "Yes, Lord Jesus, I do need Your financial blessings upon me and my family's finances (Deuteronomy 28:6). Just put a mark by your needs below, telling us that you want prayer. Also, check any other needs you are facing. Pray about sowing a seed gift to the Lord's work. Give God your best seed and believe Him for His best blessing (St. Luke 6:38).Uh oh, this sounds like the catch in this whole deal. "Sowing a seed gift" actually means "open your wallet to the Lord," and that I don't do. Okay, I put a few ducats in the collection box at Mass, but that's about it. I don't just write checks to the church. If this whole "financial blessing" is conditional upon my monetary investment, then fuck a prayer rug!
Dear Jesus, help this one get their best seed to sow towards their coming harvest (Galatians 6:7). We pray in Thy Name. Amen.
Now, go and use this Church, Faith, Prayer Rug. The Lord is watching and waiting, by faith. You are about to enter the Holy Spirit of God right here in your home, through this faith exercise. Then, it is a must that you return it for another to use.Oooo! Secret prophecy?! Well, now I'm definitely going to do this prayer rug business and follow my faith, Holy Ghost instructions, if only to get the equivalent of a Jesus freak fortune cookie. I checked out the testimonials and I have to admit that they sound pretty convincing, at least if you're willing to assume these people from the 1970s are credible witnesses:
Friends of Jesus for 57 Years of Glorious Service!
Saint Matthew's Churches Bishops
P.S. Read your faith, Holy Ghost instructions on the enclosed, sealed prophecy, only after you have mailed this Prayer Rug back to the church.
They may look like reject extras from a vintage Breck shampoo ad, but they put great stock in the prayer rug method of wealth acquisition. And speaking of the prayer rug, I finally found it. Apparently over at St. Matthew's, a piece of paper constitutes a "rug."
Unfortunately, no matter how long I stared, I couldn't make Jesus open his eyes. I attribute this to either the fact that my prayer rug is broken, or my complete inability to solve Magic Eye puzzles. It has to be that, because there's no way Jesus wouldn't open his eyes for me. If he could, he'd probably be winking at me. You know JC picked up some game hanging with all those hookers back in the day.
Anyway, since I still had my doubts about the efficacy of the prayer rug. I decided to do a little experiment. Although St. Matt's prides itself on its 57-year history, my faith is considerably older. In fact, my religion has approximately 1950 years on St. Matthew's Churches. Since I've been praying the Catholic way my whole life and have yet to be on my knees in a church full of material blessings, I figure this can serve as a negative control for religious devotion that breeds copious overnight wealth. Being Catholic hasn't gotten me a lot besides the ability to metabolize unholy amounts of alcohol and solid blow job techniques. Let's see if St. Matt's can do better. Time for the power of the prayer rug versus the power of the Holy See!
First, I said a full decade of Hail Marys using my trusty rosary. I would have said the whole rosary, but I was watching TV and I can't remember the damn Apostle's Creed. I suppose I could have looked it up, but let's face it: ten Hail Marys might as well be fifty plus some extra Our Fathers and Glory Bes. And nothing happened, anyway. For example, a slutty team of lipstick lesbian models and professional football players didn't show up with a check for a million dollars after rocking the beads off my rosary with the devout piety of my prayer.
Next, I decided to do this prayer rug meditation routine. I elected to kneel on it, which is a position that comes naturally for me. In fact, I decided to get really comfortable to ensure maximal transduction of energy between my prayer rug, St. Matt's church, and God. I figured that my assuming what is a relaxed and secure position for myself could only help my energy beam reach as far as Oklahoma. And heaven.
Unfortunately, after holding this pose for a few minutes, the only blessing I felt I had received was that my Heineken was still cold. I asked God to pretty much hook me up with lots of money, ice, and a fleet of whips to show-stop around town in, and wrapped it up. I got up to stretch, and was just about to dig my Bible from its burial site beneath books about seamen, infectious disease, serial killers, and classic mythology to put the prayer rug in. Upon my vacating the prayer rug, a new tenant moved promptly in:
Either Caesar has some blessings to request from upper management, or a major souce of variability has been introduced into my impeccably designed scientific experiment. The letter didn't say anything about whether or not it was okay for one's big, goofy dog to get in on the praying action. It's probably not. After all, "God sees."
Since Caesar decided to meddle with my comparative study of Catholic praying versus St. Matthew's Churches praying, it was basically irretrievably fucked, so I tossed aside the prayer rug and went back to beer drinking and TV-watching. I totally don't have a stamp to mail back the prayer rug or the money to sow a seed at St. Matthew's, but oh well. Hopefully God will find it in his heart to forgive me and hit me with a blast of holy blessing power (ie: a check with lots of zeroes).
Besides, I don't feel all THAT bad about not seeing the prayer rug method through to its completion and reaping the benefits. I'm not sure that 46 grand would have appeared out of thin air even if I had bothered to tuck my prayer rug into my New Testament. I decided to crack open the secret prophecy that I wasn't supposed to look at until the prayer rug was safely on its way back to Tulsa. In spite of the fact that lengthwise it was a damn novel, there were precious few predictions about my future in it. Basically, the only one I could see was "As you remain faithful in your seed sowing into my kingdom, surely you shall be blessed." In other words, I'll be blessed in a to-be-determined way after I hook St. Matt's up with some cold, hard cash. Obviously, that prophecy is WAY off.
I think I'll just stick to munching rugs rather than praying on them. That's more fun, anyway.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, Catholicism, correspondence, Dear God, intentional buffoonery, Razzification
Daily Douchebag: Chidi Ogbuta
DOB: ???
Occupation: bridezilla
Current residence: Allen, Texas
Douchebaggery: I'm sure that Chidi Ogbuta is a nice enough person, but she is a great example of how fucking crazy bitches can get about their weddings. I may not be the type of girl who wastes a lot of time fantasizing about her "big day" (especially since in my fantasy world, my "big day" refers to the day that I buy my NFL team and not the day I get my MRS degree), but even if I were more marriage-minded, I doubt that I would do something like this.
Chidi has apparently always wanted a doll modeled in her own likeness, and she decided that, since she's not friends with Rack and thus isn't getting a "My Bitches" figurine anytime soon, she would go ahead and drop thousands of dollars on a wedding cake shaped like a life-sized replica of herself. It required her coordinating with a pastry chef and a head sculptor in two different states, which if you ask me is a lot of work just to imitate the hideously ugly bridal gown Chidi chose for her nuptials.
I do not understand why chicks go to such ridiculous, obviously expensive lengths for their narcissistic, pointless wedding fantasies. If I were getting married (sha), I'd be like, "Honey, let's go to the courthouse," have a cheap-ass civil ceremony, and spend all the thousands that would go toward a wedding on some fabulous vacation so I could consummate my marriage by boning my new husband in some exotic locale. Or buy a house. Or do something more constructive than waste money having edible replicas made of myself in a revolting dress to satisfy my own overpowering sense of bridal vanity. Because even though at the reception I'm sure the guests were either all, "Ooooh, cool cake!" or (my reaction) "That cake is creepy," like anyone really cares that much about the damn cake! In ten years, nobody is going to be reminiscing fondly about Chidi's cake. In fact, unless they got laid there, nobody is going to even remember anything about Chidi's wedding, except maybe that her bridal gown was totally butt. Given that, having that cake made just seems like an awful lot of trouble for a minimal return on what was probably a large investment.
Chidi is stupid, and she has bad taste in dresses. And pastries. But congratulations to her and her husband on their recent matrimony! I hope the relationship is more beautiful than the cake and/or the bride.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, gluttony, holy fucking matrimony, intentional buffoonery, sluts, vanity, you're ugly
Friday, December 21, 2007
GO DOLPHINS!
This Sunday, several epic battles will be decided via the greatest sport ever: football, and no, I don't mean bitch-ass soccer. First, I am going to get the $300 I justly deserve for laying waste to the other fools in the Columbia Ballers Fantasy League when I destroy the Js and the Ps in C-Ballers Bowl V. While that will be satisfying and while the cash will buy this alcoholic bitch a lot of Heineken, even more awesome will be when I win a little gentlemen's wager I made with my ex-boyfriend Benzo who is both a native of Assachusetts and a die-hard New England Patriots fan (like every other Pats supporter, he's been a hardcore fan since 2001). This wager concerns the impending epic week 16 battle between the 1-13 Miami Dolphins and the 14-0 Patriots:
I predicted that the Dolphins will beat the Patriots this Sunday, thus ensuring that they remain the only team in the Super Bowl era with a perfect record. I think this is even more likely now that Miami is coming off their first triumphant win of the season last week. They are primed and ready to keep the winning streak alive! Look at how fired up Joey Porter is in spite of his absolutely hideous countenance! He's ready to lay some bitches out in Foxborough. Benzo scoffed at me, as did every other New England-loving Masshole who heard of this. "Miami doesn't play well late in the season on the road," they say. "Ricky Williams is out," they say (because Ricky Williams has done SO much besides smoke pot, do yoga, and sit on his hippie ass the last few years...who cares?). "Cleo Lemon is starting," they say. I say "SO FUCKING WHAT?" back. Stranger things have happened in the NFL. My prediction about Jessica Simpson ruining Tony Romo was correct, and like the Dolphins, I'm gearing up for a big old winning streak!
Anyway, since the terms of this wager will be borne out on the blogosphere, here's what you all have to look forward to.
GO RAZZY!
If I win this bet, Benzo has to not only buy me large volumes of scotch, he will have to take a picture of himself holding one sign that says "PATRIOTS SUCK" and another that says one of the following (totally true) statements:
1. BELICHICK SUCKS DICK
2. BRADY SUCKS DICK
3. BOB KRAFT SUCKS DICK
4. PATRIOTS CHEAT
This picture will then be posted on this very blog, along with a lot of gloating sentiments from me. I tried to also make him wear a Yankees cap and stuff his junk between his legs Buffalo Bill-style as a revolting shot at the tuck rule, but he drew the line at doing those things. Oh well. I guess I'll take free scotch and the satisfaction of seeing Benzo implying that one of his Hatriot idols is exceptionally competent at fellatio.
GO BENZO!
If the Patriots win for Benzo, then I will take a picture of myself topless with "PATRIOTS RULE" written on my tits. I will also write a lengthy blog posting to accompany said photo extolling the Patriots' many virtues and discussing their excellent prospects for continued domination without any sarcasm. I will subsequently tolerate any comments from pro-Assachusetts bastards rubbing in how great the Patriots are. On that post, anyway.
But like that's going to happen. I'm already looking forward to the drinks Benzo will be buying me, as well as seeing his handsome rosy-cheeked visage holding a sign that says, "BELICHICK SUCKS DICK." Prepare to be owned, Benzo.
Anyway, since the terms of this wager will be borne out on the blogosphere, here's what you all have to look forward to.
GO RAZZY!
If I win this bet, Benzo has to not only buy me large volumes of scotch, he will have to take a picture of himself holding one sign that says "PATRIOTS SUCK" and another that says one of the following (totally true) statements:
1. BELICHICK SUCKS DICK
2. BRADY SUCKS DICK
3. BOB KRAFT SUCKS DICK
4. PATRIOTS CHEAT
This picture will then be posted on this very blog, along with a lot of gloating sentiments from me. I tried to also make him wear a Yankees cap and stuff his junk between his legs Buffalo Bill-style as a revolting shot at the tuck rule, but he drew the line at doing those things. Oh well. I guess I'll take free scotch and the satisfaction of seeing Benzo implying that one of his Hatriot idols is exceptionally competent at fellatio.
GO BENZO!
If the Patriots win for Benzo, then I will take a picture of myself topless with "PATRIOTS RULE" written on my tits. I will also write a lengthy blog posting to accompany said photo extolling the Patriots' many virtues and discussing their excellent prospects for continued domination without any sarcasm. I will subsequently tolerate any comments from pro-Assachusetts bastards rubbing in how great the Patriots are. On that post, anyway.
But like that's going to happen. I'm already looking forward to the drinks Benzo will be buying me, as well as seeing his handsome rosy-cheeked visage holding a sign that says, "BELICHICK SUCKS DICK." Prepare to be owned, Benzo.
Labels: Assachusetts, Benzo, comeuppance, Fantasia, fuck the Pats, intentional buffoonery, NFL football, Razzification
Monday, December 17, 2007
THE WORST PICK-UP LINE EVER
I love Christmastime. 'Tis the season to be merry and I really am pretty damn merry throughout the month of December! Over the weekend, to celebrate this merriment, a group of us went out drinking (what else). We were at this fun dive bar downtown, having a really great ole' time … until one total d-bag tried to ruin our fun-filled Saturday.
Kodiak and I were standing the bar, talking to another couple. The two guys went off to get more drinks, while Sarah and I stood there talking. Suddenly, our conversation was interrupted with:
"So … are you two sisters?" (This is not the worst pick-up line in the history of the world.)
This guy was not cute at all - in fact he was short and bald. Let's call him Short Bald Guy (SBG). So we decided to give him the cold shoulder by saying, "Um, noo," really snotty and then proceeding on with our conversation as if nothing had happened.
Well, this short little midget man was mighty perceptive, and picked up on our disinterest, and thus fired back:
"Hey, hey I'm the married one of the bunch, don't worry, I'm not trying to pick you up. But I've got my two friends with me and they're single."
Sarah responds to this idiotic backtracking by saying, "Did you not notice the two extremely tall men that were standing with us the whole time? They're our boyfriends."
"So? Ditch them. I guarantee you'd have a better time with my friends."
Now - this statement just really irks me. How the hell would this guy know, let alone GUARANTEE that I'm going to have a better time with two perfect strangers than with my boyfriend whom I love and have been dating for almost a year? But beyond that - when a lady tells a fella that she has a boyfriend, and that, um, he's with her at the bar, it's time to let that ship sail and move on to some other unsuspecting prey. Which is exactly what happened after I ended the conversation with:
"We're not interested. But thanks."
Sarah and I finally went back to our conversation, until we were interrupted again a few minutes later. But this time it was not by short, bald guy - it was by my friend HillsYes!
***A quick note about HillsYes! that will be important to the rest of this story. HillsYes! looks like the quintessential, blonde, California girl. She's so cute, and sweet and talks with a totally endearing valley-girl accent***
"I'm sorry to interrupt you guys, but I have to tell you something. You know that short, bald guy over there … well, I was talking to Liz and I guess I said something like 'Oh my Gahhhhhddd' in my valley-girl way, and that short, bald guy came over to me and said 'OH MY GAHHHHHHHDDDDDDD' and started making fun of the way I talk."
Ah, yes, this makes perfect sense. A short, bald guy pushing 40 decides that the best possible way to broach a conversation with this hot young thang is to insult her. Thank God Elliot, one of our friends, overheard this all and said in his very cute British accent, "Mate, if you're going to try to talk to a girl, you've got to come up with a better line than that." Yeah, no duh!
HillsYes! finished her story and I was infuriated. INFURIATED at what had just transpired. This rage was founded on many reasons, but mostly because HillsYes! is just the prettiest thing you've ever seen, not to mention one of the sweetest girls. Why did this stupid, short, bald guy have to ruin our holiday cheer?
I've also got a few drinks in me. Plus, my boyfriend's at the bar. As well as a few other very tall, big ready-to-kick-your-ass-if-you-insult-one-of-our-girls guy friends. I was untouchable and decided to seize the moment.
I marched myself right up to Short Bald Guy said to him, "So, why exactly did you think you're allowed to insult my friend? Because you're not."
To which SBG responded, "Hey I wasn't talking to you, so why don't you butt out of it?"
"Um, actually she's one of my best friends, so this is exactly my business. Secondly, where the hell did you get the idea that the best way to pick up a lady is by making fun of her?"
He really had no response to that one, so instead said something totally lame like how I was just pissed that he didn't try to pick me up.
To which I responded: "Well, first of all, yes you did. And more importantly, you're short and bald and that's really not my thing!"
Then I broke out into what Kodiak calls my "sex dance." Sometimes after we have sex, and I have a really good O (orgasm) I jump out of bed and do a little jig, sort of like a touchdown dance in the endzone. I'm just really excited that I've had an awesome O, so I do a little dance. Anyway, I did the sex dance right in his face, and then all of my friends screamed, "Ohhhhhhhh!!!!!" and we laughed and actually pointed in his face for about a full 60 seconds.
This was one of the most satisfying moments of my life, because SBG just stood there, completely dumbfounded, unable to believe that a woman had put him in his place, nonetheless in front of his two buddies. He looked so stupid, and so short and bald. It was awesome.
But this is my question to all you Razzy readers - WHY on God's earth would this man ever insult my beautiful friend? Is teasing really an acceptable method of hitting on a girl, past the age, of say, twelve? Why wouldn't he just go up to her and say, "Hey, come here often?" Or, "Wow, it's really cold outside," or "Hey- you're really pretty," or ANYTHING that is not a direct insult to the lady in question?
Can anybody out there answer this question for me?
Kodiak and I were standing the bar, talking to another couple. The two guys went off to get more drinks, while Sarah and I stood there talking. Suddenly, our conversation was interrupted with:
"So … are you two sisters?" (This is not the worst pick-up line in the history of the world.)
This guy was not cute at all - in fact he was short and bald. Let's call him Short Bald Guy (SBG). So we decided to give him the cold shoulder by saying, "Um, noo," really snotty and then proceeding on with our conversation as if nothing had happened.
Well, this short little midget man was mighty perceptive, and picked up on our disinterest, and thus fired back:
"Hey, hey I'm the married one of the bunch, don't worry, I'm not trying to pick you up. But I've got my two friends with me and they're single."
Sarah responds to this idiotic backtracking by saying, "Did you not notice the two extremely tall men that were standing with us the whole time? They're our boyfriends."
"So? Ditch them. I guarantee you'd have a better time with my friends."
Now - this statement just really irks me. How the hell would this guy know, let alone GUARANTEE that I'm going to have a better time with two perfect strangers than with my boyfriend whom I love and have been dating for almost a year? But beyond that - when a lady tells a fella that she has a boyfriend, and that, um, he's with her at the bar, it's time to let that ship sail and move on to some other unsuspecting prey. Which is exactly what happened after I ended the conversation with:
"We're not interested. But thanks."
Sarah and I finally went back to our conversation, until we were interrupted again a few minutes later. But this time it was not by short, bald guy - it was by my friend HillsYes!
***A quick note about HillsYes! that will be important to the rest of this story. HillsYes! looks like the quintessential, blonde, California girl. She's so cute, and sweet and talks with a totally endearing valley-girl accent***
"I'm sorry to interrupt you guys, but I have to tell you something. You know that short, bald guy over there … well, I was talking to Liz and I guess I said something like 'Oh my Gahhhhhddd' in my valley-girl way, and that short, bald guy came over to me and said 'OH MY GAHHHHHHHDDDDDDD' and started making fun of the way I talk."
Ah, yes, this makes perfect sense. A short, bald guy pushing 40 decides that the best possible way to broach a conversation with this hot young thang is to insult her. Thank God Elliot, one of our friends, overheard this all and said in his very cute British accent, "Mate, if you're going to try to talk to a girl, you've got to come up with a better line than that." Yeah, no duh!
HillsYes! finished her story and I was infuriated. INFURIATED at what had just transpired. This rage was founded on many reasons, but mostly because HillsYes! is just the prettiest thing you've ever seen, not to mention one of the sweetest girls. Why did this stupid, short, bald guy have to ruin our holiday cheer?
I've also got a few drinks in me. Plus, my boyfriend's at the bar. As well as a few other very tall, big ready-to-kick-your-ass-if-you-insult-one-of-our-girls guy friends. I was untouchable and decided to seize the moment.
I marched myself right up to Short Bald Guy said to him, "So, why exactly did you think you're allowed to insult my friend? Because you're not."
To which SBG responded, "Hey I wasn't talking to you, so why don't you butt out of it?"
"Um, actually she's one of my best friends, so this is exactly my business. Secondly, where the hell did you get the idea that the best way to pick up a lady is by making fun of her?"
He really had no response to that one, so instead said something totally lame like how I was just pissed that he didn't try to pick me up.
To which I responded: "Well, first of all, yes you did. And more importantly, you're short and bald and that's really not my thing!"
Then I broke out into what Kodiak calls my "sex dance." Sometimes after we have sex, and I have a really good O (orgasm) I jump out of bed and do a little jig, sort of like a touchdown dance in the endzone. I'm just really excited that I've had an awesome O, so I do a little dance. Anyway, I did the sex dance right in his face, and then all of my friends screamed, "Ohhhhhhhh!!!!!" and we laughed and actually pointed in his face for about a full 60 seconds.
This was one of the most satisfying moments of my life, because SBG just stood there, completely dumbfounded, unable to believe that a woman had put him in his place, nonetheless in front of his two buddies. He looked so stupid, and so short and bald. It was awesome.
But this is my question to all you Razzy readers - WHY on God's earth would this man ever insult my beautiful friend? Is teasing really an acceptable method of hitting on a girl, past the age, of say, twelve? Why wouldn't he just go up to her and say, "Hey, come here often?" Or, "Wow, it's really cold outside," or "Hey- you're really pretty," or ANYTHING that is not a direct insult to the lady in question?
Can anybody out there answer this question for me?
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, vengeance is sweet, you're ugly
This is why MSNBC is the bronze medalist of cable news networks
My friend JerseyGirl works for MSNBC, and she'll be the first to say that their afternoon material is CRAP. Here is a classic example of their afternoon anchor, Contessa Brewer (and JerseyGirl swears up and down this is her real name), fucking up hilariously. This isn't quite as awesome as when Shepard Smith on America's most freedom-loving news channel said that Jennifer Lopez's block in the Bronx would rather give her a "curb job than a blow job," but it's nonetheless an excellent analysis of the race for the Democratic presidential nomination.
I guess that saying "Clinton and Obama are neck and neck" is just too trite and used, so Contessa decided to compare their "dead heat" to another body part.
Awesome. From now on, I predict that a lot of my lab meeting talks are going to involve discussing whether or not my data is "statestically" significant, and my fantasy football shit-talking will revolve around directing my detractors and opponents to look at various player "statesticles." In fact, the word "statistic" is dead to me. Dead!
I guess that saying "Clinton and Obama are neck and neck" is just too trite and used, so Contessa decided to compare their "dead heat" to another body part.
Awesome. From now on, I predict that a lot of my lab meeting talks are going to involve discussing whether or not my data is "statestically" significant, and my fantasy football shit-talking will revolve around directing my detractors and opponents to look at various player "statesticles." In fact, the word "statistic" is dead to me. Dead!
Labels: hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, media whores, politics, sluts, TV
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Razzy Haters
DOB: various
Occupation: sipping on the Haterade as they send me comments and e-mails
Hometown: from whence morons arise
Current residence: where morons live
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: As my traffic has increased, so has the quantity of e-mail and comments I receive, and I couldn't be happier about that. Surprisingly, I'm not so universally hated that the majority of my correspondence is negative. In fact, it's quite the contrary. I would estimate that 95% of the e-mail and comments I get are overwhelmingly positive and say something along the lines of "you're fucking hilarious" and/or "you're hot, put up more naked pictures." These e-mails warm my black, shriveled heart, and fill me with happy thoughts, and if you've sent me something along those lines and I haven't written you back, know that it's just because I'm really busy and not because I don't care and I don't appreciate your kudos. I appreciate you and your pro-Razzy sentiments VERY much!
However, the OTHER 5% of e-mails and comments also fill me with happy thoughts, even though that is not their intent. This correspondence is from the haters, and it makes one thing very apparent to me. I piss off stupid people. I'm not just saying that these people are stupid because their views don't jive with mine. In real life, I put up just fine with people whose opinions I don't agree with. I also don't think everyone who disagrees with me is a moron; in fact, just the opposite. I respect people who can defend their opinions, however divergent, with a compelling argument, and I think that if everyone agreed with everything I say the world would be a tremendously boring place. That said, the vast majority of people who write me to take issue with something I've posted do NOT have a particularly compelling argument. In fact, clever haterisms (ie my all-time favorite "always the cum dumpster, never the bride") are few and far between. It cheers me immensely to know that people who get pissed about stuff I've written on my personal blog have a heaping helping of stupidity to go along with their indignation and provide me with lots of fodder for mockery. Since it's been awhile that I've posted stuff from the haters, I might as well do so to illustrate how stupid these people generally are.
1. People who bombed the "reading comprehension" questions on their SAT verbal
Yesterday, I got the following comment on the post I wrote a couple weeks back Douchebagging Kanye West's mom:
speechless said...Well, speechless, before I respond, let me oblige your prediction, except with appropriate use of commas: fuck you, fuck that, fuck everything, fuck you, it's my blog, fuck, fuck, fuck, bitch, fuck. Okay, now that I've got that out of the way, let me explain more clearly how I really feel about your position. If you read this post carefully, you would notice that the first couple sentences of it went as follows: "As much as I hate Kanye West for being an insufferable, obnoxious asshole, I did feel bad when his mother died. I would be devastated if my mother passed long before her time, and I don't wish family tragedy on anyone, even an annoying egomaniacal sell-out like Kanye."
This is the only time that I'll ever pipe in.
This is horrible. Judging from your blog, you're going to respond somewhere along the lines of "fuck you fuck that fuck everything fuck you it's my blog, fuck fuck fuck bitch fuck", but I just had to say something.
This is somebody's dead mother that you're talking about, that you're referring to as a bitch. This is the mother of somebody who is mourning. I know you don't seem to have any respect for anyone, but empathy? Even a little bit? This is by far the most cruel thing you've said on this blog. Can't you at least stick to living people...?
I really hope Kanye doesn't read such posts from people like you. I don't know if you know what it's like to lose a parent, but it's the worst thing in the world, and I hope nobody does this to you when you lose a parent.
12/11/2007 5:26 PM
I spent the rest of the post trashing the media for its beatification of Donda West much more than I trashed Donda West herself, and if you think that's the most cruel thing I've ever written, you obviously haven't read my blog extensively. I mean, I've repeatedly wished for the Pope's death! I believe that I did acknowledge that I have some sympathy for Kanye (I can't have empathy since my parents are still alive and well and pretending my website doesn't exist), and I spent much more of my time complaining about the media coverage of Dr. West's passing than about Dr. West herself. So go back to junior high and learn how to intellectually process what you've read, speechless. And I'm terribly sorry about the loss of your parent, because my reading comprehension skills indicate that's probably where your speechlessness is coming from.
2. Crazy lunatics who think they are being extremely clever but just ramble nonsensically
From: Leif Williams (heirsign@sbcglobal.net)This started out promising, as this hater is implying that I'm institutionalized and have pulled some Sarah Conner from Terminator 2-type antics with the security there to get on Blogger and start bloviating for the masses. Extra points to Leif for commenting on my desperate desire for recognition beyond being a lowly science geek; that was most perceptive. However, then Leif gets a little carried away. Implying that I'm actually a M2F tranny is one of the oldest insults in the book, and...YAWN. Being called a "jewannabe" is a new one, but I'm not sure what it means or even if it's an insult. Does Leif think I wish I was Jewish? While I do tend to get on well with members of the tribe (judging by the sheer number of them I've befriended and/or fucked cross-eyed), and while I can eat my own weight in smoked fish, matzoh balls, latkes, and brisket, I am quite comfortable in my own skin. I was born Scandinavian-Irish, and raised Catholic, and that's just fine by me. My Catholic schooling has given me the reputation of being a big skank with solid fellatio skills (a deserved reputation), and I get to brag about being descended from marauding Vikings. That said, I doubt I'd be much different if I had been born and raised Jewish, except maybe I'd be better at managing my money. KIDDING! Also, what is a "186"? The only thing I could find about that in Wikipedia is that 186 A.D. marked the martyrdom of St. Apollonius and the birth of Roman Emperor Caracalla, as well as the year the Gauls staged an anti-tax revolt. Thanks to all the early 90s West Coast rap I've listened to, I know that "187" (ie: "it's 187 on a motherfuckin' cop") means murder, but I'm at a loss for what "186" means. Maybe "186" is police code for "anti-semitic fucktard sending rambling, incoherent e-mail to random bloggers."
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: Angie-o-gram (be still my heart)
Fuck me...clearly you've been stockpiling your meds and have gained access to an on line computer while the guard sleeps....the places the net takes us. I have no idea who you are, though (and rather obviously) your chest thumping blog quells in you some kind of wistful penchant to escape the truly anonymous misery to which you're afraid you'll forever remain ensconced. I thought you were pretty cute 'til I got the closeup pic and started wondering how sooooo much penis envy could emanated from a man who'd switched teams! Hmmm, go figure. I know, 186 pickin' on a jewannabe ain't right. OK brainiac, if you can get past the smolder of cranial singe as you dissect your Lionel Richie lyrics (or whatever you do to bone up on your cognitive skills), then maybe you'll again drop us pearls. Til then, we just fucking PINE baby! Love you always anyway-
Anyway, if this e-mail weren't from someone obviously crazy and/or wasted during its composition, I would take the time to point out that the only lyrics I've ever dissected on this site are those penned by the King/Pied Piper/R-uh of R&B, Robert Sylvester Kelly, not Lionel Richie. While I do love Lionel Richie to the point that LL Cool Jew once gave me a "Lionel Richie Fan Club" t-shirt, I think my readers already know about how awesome "Hello" and "Dancing on the Ceiling" are. What they could benefit from are breakdowns of lyrics like "you're gonna trip, gonna trip, gonna trip, gonna trip when I show you my love jones, babe...and make the room go black," and any heat generated in that process is due to overriding lust for R. Kells rather than "cranial singe." In fact, the only "cranial singe" I experienced was a result at trying to make sense of Leif's desperate and ultimately futile attempts at seeming erudite and articulate.
3. Bitchy tools who just WILL NOT STAND for posts I've written disparaging John Mayer
From: Sam Montague (samoose78@hotmail.com)Okay, so I may be so busy with my "main stream" metal bands of the late 80s to appreciate underground talent that NOBODY except true musical aficionados knows about like John Mayer. Maybe if I listened to more of this indie, not-at-all-mainstream (except for the Gap and Volkswagen commercials he stars in) musical genius known as John Mayer, I could appreciate that his work with a Fender Stratocaster makes Saul "Slash" Hudson look like a pussy and a hack. Then again, I take Sam's credentials as a guitar critic with a grain of salt since he can't even spell Jimi Hendrix's name properly. So, sorry, Sam, I stand by my opinion that John Mayer not only sucks, he is still the world's most unfuckable rock star. I guess we'll have to agree to disagree. And if Sam wants to question my musical credibility, I've been playing the piano since I was six (thus for TWENTY-THREE YEARS), and I probably could mop the floor with his ass in a musical theory contest. Just because John Mayer can incorporate a few used-ass blues riffs into his songs doesn't make him fucking Chopin or Brahms, and if he wants to knock my boys Frederic or Johann, we're going to have some problems. Problems like a slutty stiletto-heeled boot to Sam's nutsack kind of problems. Trust.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: response to article...read!
just responding about the article you posted about the singer/singwriter John Mayer. it is obvious that you are ill acquainted when it comes to the world of music. I am sure that the cliched, main-stream, bogan rock musicians such as Metallica and the "Original Guns 'n' Roses" can certainly act tough and play the part of a rock star, but they are nowhere near as musically talented as the great John Mayer. John mayer handles a strat in the same league as the past greats such as jimmy hendrix and stevie ray vaughan. he is a master at the guitar, and an overwhelmingly talented singer. He doesn't even have to try to play the past of a rockstar.... he is beyond that. He plays the guitar and sings because he loves doing it, and hes great at it.. he doesnt try to play the role of a rockster. with his mixture of blues and pop he is in a league of his own. and its nice of you to rip on him about his girlfriend.... although im pretty sure a little whiney bitching geek like yourself could pull much more attractive women than jessica simpson... right?? And heres a suggestion for you Razzy....... grow some fucking musical taste you insensitive wheener and fuck off.
And I do pull way hotter bitches than Jessica Simpson. Hotter dudes, too.
4. Haters who don't need--or are unable to adequately articulate--a reason
From: James Ryder (jamesryder49@yahoo.co.uk)Oh, okay, thanks, James. Good to know. Why, exactly? Despite several e-mails inquiring about how I achieved my pathetic state, James refused to elaborate. I came to the conclusion that this is probably because writing is not his strong suit. Just to see who was calling me pathetic, though, I went to the world's largest online moron clearinghouse: MySpace. Sure enough, James has a MySpace page which also contains a noticeable dearth of descriptive prose. I broke down in tears when I saw the angelic visage of the terse fellow calling me "pathetic." Tears of laughter!
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: [No Subject]
you are pathetic
5. Militant lesbian feminazis
From: Wanda Jennings (wandamonium@activist.com)Oh, I'm setting the gays back 200 years by making fun of Rosie O'Donnell being a hard-headed asshole and a shitty writer? How does that work, when I'm doing it on "a stupid blog that nobody reads anyway"? Sorry, Wanda, I didn't realize how much damage I was doing to the cause. I guess I'll go back to writing about clothes and my boyfriend. It will be a relief, because when I'm going off on whatever Razzified hotness I'm going off on any given day, I'm secretly resisting the overpowering urge to write instead about "normal hetero shit." Oh wait...I'm NOT STRAIGHT, so nevermind.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: stop it
i read your post about ro and boy you sure have a lot of nerve. straight girls like you need to stop it and stop it now. i hate when you say you are bi when you are not so you can impress guys and act like you have a leg to stand on when writing homophobic drivel like you do constantly. you are not bi or lesbian so stop pretending. its incredibly offensive to real lesbians and the queer community. i don't understand why people like you who are HETERO decide to be bisexual all of a sudden when its convenient for your stupid blog but it is degradory to all who suffer the daily struggle of being queer in a hetero world and we don't appreciate it. it negates what we go through every day when you say you are bi just to drag the name of someone who has struggled to fight for us and our rights through the mud or because you think boys will like you if you kiss some other straight girl once in a while. maybe you don't realize the damage you are doing but everyone who has ever been called a dyke or a fag would agree that all their strength and sacrifices are undone by your careless ranting about something you know nothing about. i warn you to go back to writing about clothes and your boyfriend and normal hetero shit pardon my french because you have no right to speak for us when it suits you. i won't leave you alone. i'm a strong lesbian woman and proud of it and we will not tolerate you setting us back 200 years just so you can write a stupid blog that nobody reads anyway. wanda
You know what is worse for the gays than someone being outright homophobic? Stupid dykes like Wanda who seem to think that because they have come out of the closet and braved adversity for being gay, they are the world's ultimate authority on sexuality. Case in point: Wanda, for telling me that I'm not really bisexual. She's got her mind made up that I only kiss girls so I can write about it on my blog. Actually, I hook up with them because it's hot, and because it gets me off, and I don't consider "kissing" and "fucking" to be the same thing unless Wanda is referring to the Lil' Kim lyric where she exhorts her partner to "kiss the lips with no teeth." While I'm sure the dudes who have participated in various threesomes I've had did enjoy watching me get it on with the other chick, I've had plenty of one-on-one girl sex too and liked it just as much (if not more) than when I've had a penis-bearing audience. And I don't need to be bisexual to attract men, because my hot rack does that well enough on its own. Wanda probably thinks of herself as very open-minded, but this e-mail indicates quite clearly that fundamentalists neo-conservatives don't have the market cornered on exclusionary, rigid, unrealistic attitudes about human sexuality that do more harm than good.
What Wanda really needs is to quit reading Rosie O'Donnell's lolcat blog, trim her rat tail, and buy a decent vibrator, because the one she's got is clearly not doing the job. I can only imagine that the reason some uptight dyke took it upon herself to dictate to me what my sexual orientation is and how I should behave accordingly is because she's a frigid bitch who spends far more time being enraged than enjoying the sexuality she carries like a damn battle standard. Fuck you, Wanda, and all your hypocritical militant lezbot bullshit too. Oh, and "degradory" isn't a word.
I have some more hate mail to rag on, but it's getting late and I have a busy day at the old laboratory, so I'll have to save that for another time. In the interim, however, let's all give thanks for the Razzy Haters! Their correspondence provides me with ample mirth and joy. Thank you for sharing your poorly conceived, badly punctuated, appallingly spelled, barely intelligible, inadequately reasoned, and generally idiotic thoughts on why I suck. This truly makes my day.
Labels: correspondence, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, feminazism, intentional buffoonery, John Mayer sucks, lezbollah, Razzy Haters, retard rage
Monday, December 03, 2007
Daily Douchebag: My alarm clock
DOB: 1996
Occupation: jarring me from pleasant dreams about hot lezzie sex
Hometown: Taiwan or China
Current residence: my bedside table
Douchebaggery: I have to give my alarm clock its due for being a trooper. I've had this bitch since college and it keeps on doggedly telling me the time. I am so familiar with its layout that I can practically reset the time while half-asleep with my face buried in a pillow. This clock is one of my treasured possessions, and I will probably use it until it dies of old age.
That said, I hate my alarm clock. I may be able to find the snooze button with my eyes closed on it, but that doesn't mean I like waking up in the morning. I have an elaborate alarm routine that I've honed and perfected throughout the years. First, I set the clock ahead without looking, so the clock is fast, but I'm not sure exactly HOW fast. It could be 15 minutes fast, it could be two hours fast, but I don't know, and that makes me get up. Then, I set the alarm to go off 54 minutes before I actually intend to get up, which allows me to hit snooze six times and thus gradually ease myself out of bed. This method is usually effective for getting me out of bed, although it's not a hit with the fellas I have over on school nights. My ex-boyfriend Benzo used to rant and rave about my snooze button addiction almost as much as he would about the son-of-a-bitch-bastard Yankees, because apparently hearing the alarm's nerve-grating "REE-REE-REE-REE" noise six times before waking up to have sex and watch reruns of last night's Sportscenter wasn't his idea of a pleasant way to wake up. It's not my idea of pleasant either, but it works, and sometimes you have to sacrifice comfort for efficacy.
However, sometimes the earlier alarm sounding time results in very undesirable effects, such as this morning. I was having a VERY vivid dream about having sex with this hot blonde girl. I don't know who this girl was or how she found her way into my subconscious, but she looked like a cross between Scarlett Johansson, Heidi Klum, and Briana Banks circa 2001. I had seen an ad for (the enraging and despicable monstrosity known as) The Nanny Diaries DVD before going to bed, and I watch a lot of both "Project Runway" and porn, so maybe that's how I imagined up this broad. Anyway, she was super hot and had huge, perfect breasts, and she was fucking the hell out of me with a strap on, and then...my ALARM went off. Not only was I distinctly disgruntled to realize that Scarlediana Johanssoklubanks had been replaced in my bed by a rank, snoring Pug, but I was pissed that if I hadn't been following my morning routine, I could have enjoyed this dream for another 54 minutes. Thanks a lot, alarm clock, for boxblocking me in a damn dream. Now I've got a killer case of the Mondays.
Labels: Benzo, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, lezbollah, perversion, Razzification, sluts
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Details magazine
DOB: ??
Occupation: giving men some bullshit ideas
Douchebaggery: I take back what I said a while back about Details being a useful men's magazine after seeing the above cover of their "Power and Influence" issue. While I certainly agree with a polemic against fake tits and I think all parents should ask themselves whether they are raising douchebag children, I simply cannot fathom why KEVIN FUCKING FEDERLINE is the poster boy for the world's 50 most influential men under 45. WHAT?
Okay, K-Fed looks like parent of the year compared to his ex-wife, but the kid-eating witch from "Hansel and Gretel" could probably seem more competent at child-rearing than the legendary Ms. Britney Spears. I wouldn't call that "influential," unless somehow men are all being influenced to not procreate wildly with meth-smoking, club-hopping, vadge-flashing, nappily beweaved trainwrecks. Even worse, K-Fed tied with Anna Nicole's twink baby daddy for number SEVEN on the list, right between fools defaulting on their mortgages and Muqtada al-Sadr! Granted, the whole list reads like it was put together by some thirteen-year-old asshole who decided to get high and pick bullshit names out of a hat. The top ten include:
1. Zac Efron, Shia LeBouef, and the Disney kids
2. The Surge (as in Iraq war troop surge)
3. Mark Zuckerberg (inventor of Facebook...I guess Tom from MySpace is obsolete)
4. The Bible Beaters (because they're all turning out to be homo-ass hypocrites, probably)
5. Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold (even after EIGHT FUCKING YEARS, the Trenchcoat Mafia influences countless Details readers...to shoot up their schools)
6. The Subprime Sucker/Mortgage Defaulter (WHAT?!)
7. Kevin Federline and Larry Birkhead
8. Muqtada al-Sadr
9. The word "faggot" (I'm not kidding...Details declares this word "forever young")
10. Howard Wolfson, polical consultant for Hillary Clinton (wait, Hill's consultant makes the list but no Barack Obama? I thought he would be #1! Details is apparently endorsing the Efron-LeBouef presidential ticket. High School Musical in the White House!)
Details should be taken out of print immediately for having such asinine ideas about "power and influence." The only dudes up there who seem to be in the right spot on the list are the Facebook guy and the neo-con Jesus freaks. The solitary thing I can think of in praise of this magazine is that they put K-Fed on the cover rather than Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold getting ready to shoot the fuck out of Columbine High School. Otherwise, this list is just mystifying. How are K-Fed and Larry Birkhead more influential than the head Shiite cleric in charge over in Iraq? Sorry, but I think that commanding an armed militia of religious warriors constitutes greater power and influence than dudes who hit the jackpot by knocking up rich white trash. Details just lost all credibility with me in spite of their campaigns against fake tits and douchebag children. The devil's in the Details!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, oh the horror, overcompensation, ridiculous absurdity
Monday, November 26, 2007
Razzy: Homemaker of the Year
I'm sure you're all wondering how my Thanksgiving went, because you were likely spending the holiday weekend agonizing about my lack of bloggery, as you all undoubtedly spend approximately 99.999999999% of your time thinking Razzy-filled thoughts. I know. But sorry, dudes, even beloved internet icons ("beloved internet icon"=loser with nothing better to do than live vicariously through her own blog) like myself need to take a couple days off from the grueling useless bullshit business sometimes. I actually had a lot of work. My buddy G-Cat and my newest labmate SisterChristian and I decided to host all the grad students who were away from their families for Thanksgiving. G-Cat provided his apartment, SisterChristian provided assistance, and I provided my vast culinary expertise. It was no small feat, as we ended up feeding around 20 people. I made two turkeys in two ovens in two different apartments, stuffing, five quarts of gravy, mashed potatoes, baked macaroni and cheese, three pies, yams, guacamole, and a turkey sculpture out of cheese logs.
Okay, I had some help with everything (except the work of art that is that turkey cheese sculpture, which I lovingly handcrafted myself), but I was basically the head chef and in charge of everything. I pulled it off, garnering rave reviews for my culinary skills.
"Razzy, I didn't think you were this domestic," said one of the orphan grad students attending our soiree.
"As far as wife skills go, I can fuck and I can cook, but I'm shit at cleaning," I explained.
"Two out of three ain't bad," he said (failing to credit Meat Loaf for the quote). I agree, and I think cleaning is the one thing you can get away with sucking at. You can always hire a maid, but men definitely like it better if you can bang the daylights out of them and then feed them a delicious meal. Too bad I'm not in the market for a MRS degree, because I'd be one hell of a capable wifey.
The one area, however, where my homemaking skills fall short is the fact that I do all this cooking looking like a hot trashtastic dyke, with my practical knotted hair, my wife-beater, and my toned upper arms. The fact that before G-Cat could come carve the turkey like the man of the house should, I decided to teach J-Sexy and SisterChristian how to do lesbian sex to it doesn't exactly paint me as a virtuous keeper of home and hearth:
Looks like I just shot to hell my chances of being declared the heir apparent to June Cleaver. Somehow I suspect the people who give out awards based on homemaking skills might frown on teaching bitches how to find a roasted piece of poultry's G-spot. Oh well. At least the turkey tasted good. Better than some snatches I've licked, that's for sure (just kidding, special girlfriends). Plenty to be thankful for anyway!
"Razzy, I didn't think you were this domestic," said one of the orphan grad students attending our soiree.
"As far as wife skills go, I can fuck and I can cook, but I'm shit at cleaning," I explained.
"Two out of three ain't bad," he said (failing to credit Meat Loaf for the quote). I agree, and I think cleaning is the one thing you can get away with sucking at. You can always hire a maid, but men definitely like it better if you can bang the daylights out of them and then feed them a delicious meal. Too bad I'm not in the market for a MRS degree, because I'd be one hell of a capable wifey.
The one area, however, where my homemaking skills fall short is the fact that I do all this cooking looking like a hot trashtastic dyke, with my practical knotted hair, my wife-beater, and my toned upper arms. The fact that before G-Cat could come carve the turkey like the man of the house should, I decided to teach J-Sexy and SisterChristian how to do lesbian sex to it doesn't exactly paint me as a virtuous keeper of home and hearth:
Labels: bestiality, gluttony, grad school bullshit, intentional buffoonery, J-Sexy, lezbollah, perversion, Razzification, SisterChristian
Internets to Chingy!: BA FAN!
Last year, LL Cool Jew and I tried to find a term that would serve as a Cantonese rebuke for my asshole Pug Chingy! since English reprimands didn't work. Chingy!'s original owners spoke Cantonese at home, so we thought this might work. Unfortunately, neither of us speak Cantonese. So I went to the internets and found that "ba fan" means "to disgustedly beat, row, or be rampant in defiance of authority." I felt that suited Chingy! and tried it out. It didn't work, and I've realized that being rampant in defiance of authority is Chingy!'s inherent nature. He's just an asshole, and there's nothing that can be done about that, so I might as well accept a lifetime of receiving contemptuous sneezes and exceedingly arrogant attitude from him.
It seems the internets have caught on, because while I was looking for some trash about Kanye West, I stumbled on this page. It seems to be one of those weird placeholder webpages that sometimes pop up in a Google search. They don't really have any content besides ads that make no sense, although this one made a hell of a lot of sense to me:
Since nobody has cared about Chingy the rapper since 2003, I can only assume that my dog's bad reputation has become so prevalent on the internets that even weird placeholder ad websites are taking a stand and saying "ba fan" to his rank fat ass.
I asked Chingy! for comment. Specifically, I said, "How does it feel to have websites describing their subject matter as 'against Chingy'? Even the internets think you're an asshole." His response?
Chingy! proceeded to snore loudly and kick me for disturbing his beauty sleep, or more aptly, his ugly as sin sleep.
CHONGAY CHONG, anti-Chingy! websites!
I asked Chingy! for comment. Specifically, I said, "How does it feel to have websites describing their subject matter as 'against Chingy'? Even the internets think you're an asshole." His response?
CHONGAY CHONG, anti-Chingy! websites!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, comeuppance, defiance, doggity style, fat fucks, gross, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Happy Kellsgiving!
Here in the glorious United States of Asskickery, the day after Thanksgiving is known as "Black Friday." From now on, for LL Cool Jew and myself anyway, it will be known as "Black, Handsome, Sings, Plus is Rich, and Is a Flirt Friday." Because that's the day we saw the mind-blowing awesomeness that is Robert Sylvester Kelly LIVE IN CONCERT ON LONG ISLAND!!!!!!!!--hold on, this isn't accurately conveying how I feel about this experience--!!!!!!!!!!****!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!****
The R. Kelly concert was every bit as unbelievable as you might imagine. Or maybe you wouldn't imagine it to be so eventful, since it's come to my attention that in spite of Kells attracting a new audience of despicable hipsters thanks to the IFC's embracing of "Trapped in the Closet," a lot of people still don't appreciate the genius of Robert Sylvester Kelly. However, as Kelefah Sanneh of the New York Times promised, it is indeed two and a half hours of "nothing but climax" and the incomparable King of R&B being "thrilling, hilarious, and downright mystifying, often all at once."
Even the trip to Long Island was thrilling, hilarious, and downright mystifying, because the dumbass morons who built the Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum DIDN'T BUILD IT ON THE LIRR. Who the fuck builds a stadium in a place where it is as difficult to reach by public transportation as possible? To get there, we had to take the LIRR to some godforsaken stop an hour from the city and then take a Nassau County bus. We made the train at the last minute and proceeded to get down to business acting like a couple of dumb kids, taking pictures of ourselves with what LL Cool Jew refers to as her "teenager phone" (due to its garish orange color and fancy pop-out texting keyboard and windows):
As we neared the Hempstead stop, it became apparent that all the other passengers were also going there for one reason: KELLS. Why the hell else would anyone go to Hempstead? I guess Hofstra is right by there, but our train was devoid of college kids. Instead there was this cute Haitian couple on a date to the Kells show with what seemed like one of their little brothers tagging along, all conversing excitedly in rapid French, and a drunk guy who offered us all pre-Kells swigs from his brown-bagged bottle of Remy.
Upon our arrival in Hempstead, we were relieved to see that the bus stop was indoors, since the N70 bus we had to take wasn't there. When it did arrive, everyone piled on, including a group of very excited women led by a gold-toothed vixen named Keyshia. After listening to her discuss with her friends who the hottest Keyshia would be at the show (her or Keyshia Cole), they proceeded to get everyone on the bus worked up. "The RRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" she was shouting with her friends, which prompted the unnaturally friendly bus driver to get on his intercom and say, "Who here is going to see the RRRRRRRRRR?" When that got a favorable reaction from the bus riders, he added, "Who is going home with the RRRRRRRRRR?"
Keyshia and her crew went berserk. "He's the R in R&B!" one of them exclaimed.
"I think you mean the R-uh in R&B," I corrected her.
"The R-uh! Hell yes!" they crowed, pouring more liquor into their coffee cups. They then proceeded to tell us about all the times they've seen R. Kelly live, and explained that the reason he was playing at such a bitch-to-get-to venue rather than Madison Square Garden was on account of a lawsuit relating to the collapse of the R. Kelly/Jay-Z Best of Both Worlds tour, when Kells cut a set short after seeing someone with a gun in the audience and was maced in the face by some of Jay-Z's people. Alas, it would have been much easier to take the A train a few stops from my crib to the Garden, but then we probably never would have met Keyshia et al and been so remarkably entertained.
When we arrived at the Coliseum stop, we realized we had to cross the Hempstead Turnpike and a gargantuan parking lot. There was no crosswalk, so we were hesitant to race across a six-lane highway, particularly LL Cool Jew, who was wearing one of her standard pairs of cripplingly high stiletto heels. However, Keyshia once again took charge, and announced, "Bus people! Follow me!" before barging right into the road. Luckily we all made it across, and LL Cool Jew was able to snap a picture of me behind a line of the aforementioned "bus people."
After getting to the coliseum and getting through the metal detectors which preceded the ticket takers ("they didn't have these when I came here to see J.T. and Christina Aguilera," noted LL Cool Jew dryly), we proceeded to get situated with Bud Lights in our nosebleed section seats and ignore J. Holiday's opening set. To pass the time until Robert Sylvester Kelly's grand entrance, we speculated on what type of awesomeness could happen. I mentioned that earlier in lab that day, J-Sexy had said to me, "What if you got to meet R. Kelly? Oh my GOD, how ridicolos would it be if you got to DO R. Kelly, Razzy?!?!" LL Cool Jew and I decided to explore that fantastic notion.
"So, if Kells wanted to double up with us, would BigBagel give you a pass?" I asked LL Cool Jew. Her married status generally eliminates the possibility of her having groupie sex, but you never know. Some couples have arrangements. Or so I've heard.
"No WAY," said LL Cool Jew. "You'd have to take it for the team. But just so you know, I'd HAVE TO WATCH." Wouldn't be the first time I've had sex with an audience, but that's another story.
"You'd be the one in the chair, then," I said. This is a reference to the lyric "one in the bed, one in the chair, one massage my toes while one braid my hair" from the R-uh in R&B's album moniker and ode to threesomes "Double Up."
"Yeah, you'd have to be the one on the bed. I'd be in the chair, on braiding detail," agreed LL Cool Jew.
Shortly thereafter, Keyshia Cole came on stage, and after LL Cool Jew and I agreed that she's got a banging body and a great voice but is nonetheless not Mary J. Blige, we were getting impatient for Kells. Both of us were relieved that Ne-yo had dropped out of the tour and thus our Kells-related gratification wouldn't be further delayed by live renditions of "Sexy Love."
Then, after Keyshia went off and there was some hurried stage rearrangement, the moment we waited for arrived. Kells! LL Cool Jew was clever enough to write down his TWO AND A HALF HOUR LONG SET LIST, to augment this very blog posting.
The Champ: For the opening song, Kells ran out in an entirely bedazzled hooded robe saying "The Champ" on the back, with a pair of matching disco ball sneaks. Kells's grand entrance was augmented by an impressive pyrotechnical display. This was followed by a medley of R. Kelly's contributions to his many great collaborations:
That's That Shit: If you're lookin' for some good sex, holler at a player.
Fuckin' You Tonight: Although Kells didn't sing my favorite song in the "I spend money on you, now time to put out" vein, "Don't You Say No," this hook from his collaboration with the legendary Notorious B.I.G. was nonetheless well-received.
Hotel: We in our throwbacks, this is for the ladies, we got room keys. Isn't everything for the ladies? Sadly, Kells did not don a Bears throwback jersey during the show, nor did he offer us a room key. Oh well. Next time.
Wonderful: Kells is at the top of the world and life's a pussy buffet.
So Sexy: Isn't he, though? Twista, however, is NOT, and fortunately, his corpulent ass was not around to
We Thuggin': Take my relief at Twista's absence and multiply it by ten thousand, and you have my feelings about Fat Joe not showing up to duet this one with Kells.
Gigolo: If only Kells were a male prostitute, I know where my next paycheck would be going.
Snake: Nothing--and I mean NOTHING--compares to hearing "I like the way you move your cho-cha, it makes me wanna get to know ya" sung live.
Thoia Thoing: Kells from Chi-town live is even better than Kells "Japan via satellite," whatever the hell that means. I told LL Cool Jew about how I sang this song once at a karaoke bar to great effect, because nothing spices up a lesbian birthday party like me attempting to do the "Thoia Thoing" dance while singing about being "butt-naked with sweat socks and house shoes." What are "house shoes," anyway? Slippers?
Double Up: It's like routine, player.
Tryin' To Get a Number: I somehow suspect that neither Kells nor Nelly have to try that hard.
Hook It Up: Anytime.
An old school rap song that I'm pretty sure was Big Daddy Kane's "Brooklyn Style": Unnecessary, but who knew Kells could rap?
TP-2: Imagine thousands of overweight people singing "I'm horny as hell" and "It's about to get real kinky." Yikes.
Strip For You: When R. Kelly followed "three knocks at the door, now, baby...trenchcoat hits the floor, now baby," with a simulated cunnilingus move with his tongue, all the ladies (translation: 80-90% of the audience) went insane.
"The Loneliest Tongue": I don't know if this is just something Kells made up for this concert, but nothing follows up a silhouetted striptease designed to keep the audience busy during a wardrobe change like an acapella ode to licking snatch. "I'm just a lonely tongue," crooned a close-up of Kells's mouth on the big screens, "Looking for some BODY to lick, looking for some BODY to nibble on." LL Cool Jew and I were speechless. For the rest of the night I preceded everything with, "Well, as I'm just a lonely tongue..."
Seems Like You're Ready: This song ushered in the moment we had anticipated from the Times review. Namely, when R. Kells describes how he won't keep things tame because the audience is ready in the form of having their hair done, nails done, toes done, car washed, and...SIX! HUN! DRED! DOLLAR! WEAVE! Granted, I suspect that most of the weaves I saw went for considerably less than $600, but nonetheless, the ladies in the audience rocking fake hair clearly touched it up in preparation for the hotness that is Kells.
Down Low (Remix): I wonder if Kells and Ronald "Mr. Biggs" Isley regret the title of this song given what being on the down low means these days in the modern urban lexicon.
When a Woman's Fed Up: Not a single one in the audience was fed up from what I could see, but at least one must have been, because she sent her date up by our section to smoke blunts in peace, well away from her. Blunt Guy spent the rest of the concert blowing trees, at least until he fell asleep. Lightweight.
Your Body's Callin': I could hear it calling me.
R&B Thug: YES! YES! YES! I actually got to hear Kells sing, "And when you leave up out my room, you'll be walkin' bow-legged" and "ooh, Kelly, you make me holla, keep on jumpin' like an Impala" LIVE. I can die now. Also, I should add that this was prefaced by Kells noting that "every woman wants a thug with some church in him." True that.
Feelin' On Yo Booty: Yet another classic. The only thing that would be better is if he took out half his impeccably-braided cornrows like in the hotness that is the video for this song.
Ignition (Remix): And not a single bitch in the audience was singing Dave Chapelle's "Piss on You" lyrics to this classic Kells jam.
Fiesta: It was, with my homie from the Midwest-a.
I Wish: LL Cool Jew went nuts, since this is her favorite Kells "serious" song. Mine is "The World's Greatest," which sadly was omitted from this performance.
Real Talk: Kells said, "You're not going to believe this, but I just got a phone call. Hold on just one second while I take care of this." He whips out a cell phone and before he even started in on the "I was at a club with who? GET THE FUCK OUT," LL Cool Jew and I turned to each other and said, "REAL TALK. See, girl."
Make It Rain: As noted before, Fat Joe mercifully did not show up to sing along and to get sexy alongside my beloved Robert Sylvester. Even more mercifully, R. Kelly did not start a riot by pulling a Pac Man Jones and actually "making it rain" on the hoes in the front row. Shit would have gotten crazy had he actually started chucking $100 bills around. However, LL Cool Jew and I did discuss how much more this could have kicked ass had Dwayne Carter, AKA Lil' Wayne AKA Weezy Fuckin' Baby AKA Tha Carter, showed up to do his "yeeeah, I'm in this bitch with the Terror" hook to the song. Sadly, he's probably in jail somewhere and thus indisposed.
I'm a Flirt: While this was awesome, LL Cool Jew and I were seriously lamenting the fact that T-Pain was absent on this tour. I think that if T-Pain and R. Kelly were to tour together, my head might explode with excitement.
The big screens then showed footage of all Kells's entertainer friends wishing him luck on tour, including T-Pain, Common, Fat Joe, Kanye West, Ciara, and Snoop Dogg.
N Luv Wit a Stripper (Remix): "I'm gonna go down on my knees and ask that ass to marry me." Exactly the type of proposal every stripper wants, especially when they have so much in common, as Kells points out ("she's a stripper, I'm a freak"). What woman could say no to a sexy man with lines like "you keep my donk on swole" and "I wanna stick it, I wanna kiss it, if I could I'd stick my whole damn head in it." That's being n luv wit a stripper, trust.
Kells then showed a hilarious segment intended to appease the dudes who had been dragged along to his show on their dates, about all the silly antics he gets up to while he's on tour. "Don't fall asleep, that's the rule," he explained, before showing the consequences of doing so, which primarily involve sticking objects (pen, tissue paper, paper clips) up the slumberer's nose. If he's feeling creative, he might squirt mustard on you, too. That Kells is such a zany prankster!
Go Getta: When I first heard Kells sing "Young Jeeeeeezzzzzzy" I was like, "WHERE THE HELL IS THE SNOWMAN?" I was so hoping he would jiggle out on stage to augment Kells with some ad libs. For all I know, he could have been backstage with his alleged (ex-?) girlfriend Keyshia Cole. Alas, it seems Young Jeezy was back at his Hotlanta trap or whatever, but Kells still sang about coming up out the club with a shitload-a women, so I was happy.
"Make It Purple Rain": I'm unclear as to whether Kells was lauding or mocking Prince or not, but in any event he better watch out. Prince is suing everyone who uses anything that even hints at being about Prince. He's been suing dumbasses putting their YouTube vlogs to the tune of "1999" and "I Feel For You" right and left, and while I would die of happiness and delight if Prince secured an injunction forbidding Smith College acapella groups from ever butchering "When Doves Cry" again, it would be truly sad if he shut down the "Double Up" tour for copyright infringement. Hopefully Kells's tour managers worked out a licensing deal beforehand.
Next to You: Snore. I totally forgot about this song that Kells did with Ciara, but this would have been better spent singing either "The World's Greatest," "Sex Me," or "Leave your Name," all sad omissions from the setlist.
Same Girl: Since Usher is off getting pegged by his tranny man-wife, Kells asked our side of the auditorium to sing Usher's part to this song. Luckily, LL Cool Jew, myself, and every other bitch there knew the words to this song by heart, and were only too happy to oblige by singing "did she go to Georgia Tech?", "does she work for TBS?," and "does she love some Waffle House?" at the proper time.
Put My T-Shirt On: This song was accompanied by a cadre of dudes carrying those t-shirt shooting guns that they used to have at Sonics games. During halftime, when the Squatch was doing a variety of gymnastically impressive, springboard-assisted dunks, dudes in Sonics sweatsuits would shoot team logo shirts into the stands at Key Arena. Apparently, Kells thought this would be a nice touch to augment a song about how he wants to bang his woman because she looks so hot in his t-shirt.
Freaky In the Club: Does Kells get anything else besides freaky in the club? I think not.
Kells's next wardrobe change was augmented by a video tribute to his musical idols: Marvin Gaye, Bob Marley, Tupac Shakur, Biggie, his kids, and HIMSELF. God, I love this man. LOVE HIM!
Let's Get it On: As we just learned, Marvin Gaye is one of Kells's idols, so we were unsurprised that he was singing this. In fact, Marvin Gaye's influence is pretty obvious, considering that with the exception of the odd serious or religious song, almost every song Kells has ever sung
I Wanna Sex You Up: No WAY! Shout out to Color Me Badd? REALLY?! I wonder if Kells really loves this song (thematically it's consistent with his repertoire) or if he just decided to sing it because he pre-funked for his concert by watching the seminal "Beverly Hills, 90210" episode where Donna catches her mom having an affair at the Bel Age Hotel while she's trying to meet Color Me Badd, who end up meeting Kelly, who convinces them to end the episode by cheering up Donna singing "I Adore Mi Amor" acapella to her at the Peach Pit over megaburgers with the gang. I'd be lying if I didn't say that the idea of Robert Sylvester Kelly preparing to bless us with his mackadelic nightspot realness by watching classic episodes of Bev Niner doesn't make me more than just a little bit wet.
Bump 'n' Grind (Old School Remix): Yes! I just heard Kells sing "show me some ID, before I get too deep" LIVE!
You Remind Me of Something: Morrissey'sHair told me that this is the official Razzy ringtone when I call him. It's because I remind him of his jeep, his sound, his car, and his bank account. OBVIOUSLY.
Bump 'n' Grind (Original): Like Tasti-D-Lite or multiple orgasms, you can never really have too much "Bump 'n' Grind." My mind's telling me no...actually no it's not. My mind is saying YES, YES, YES! KELLS!
Charlie Chaplin vaudeville sequence: Part of the show that falls under the heading of "downright mystifying." I don't know if Kells secretly loves silent film slapstick, but this was bizarre. It was even more bizarre in the context of a segue to what came next:
Beethoven's Fifth Symphony/laser light show: Ummm...I don't know if Kells was inspired by a trip to the Philharmonic or something, but I knew it was about to get real when Kells grabbed an oversized conductor's baton and the first dramatic chords of Beethoven's Fifth began echoing through the venue.
The Zoo: And thus began the beginning of the "extended jungle fantasia" that I was so eagerly anticipating. On an aside, LL Cool Jew does the funniest impression of the "ooo ooo ooo ooo aaa aaa aaa aaa" monkey noises from this song. I could listen to her do this all day.
Slow Wind: Finishing off the smoke machine-heavy, Kells-taken-prisoner-by-a-tribe-of-horny-video-vixen-Amazons jungle segment of the performance was J-Sexy's favorite song ever, topped off by a lengthy "You're a Jamaican queen...I'm an American king..." chorus. Beautiful. When I told J-Sexy that she hasn't lived until she's been exhorted by Kells to "put your voodoo on me, babe, kiss my lips and curse me, babe," she agreed that next time his tour comes around, she's getting a ticket.
Step In the Name of Love: An excuse to pull bitches out of the audience and force them to do the stepping dance in unison with R. Kelly. Steppin' is not just a dance, it's a culture, it's the way we live. As there were some big girls dragged up on stage, this was not only highly amusing, it's assured that indeed steppin' is what they eat, think, and breathe.
Happy People featuring extended TV theme medley: I don't know what the "Welcome Back, Kotter" theme song has to do with doubling up or happy people, but I'm not questioning Kells. It was a tremendous finale to a spectacular night. Actually, the most tremendous finale was when he announced that next year, he's blessing us with a new album, TP Fourth Quarter. Trust that I'm preordering that shit!
And speaking of happy people, here are two:
I don't even care that I look fat (because I'm American and I showed my patriotism by being gluttonous as hell on Thanksgiving...U!S!A! U!S!A!). All I know is that LL Cool Jew and I are sipping on the sizzurp (AKA $7 stadium plastic bottle Bud Light) and standing in front of a six-foot high airbrushed image of Kells chomping on a toothpick and looking hot as hell, because he's a player, homie, and that's a well-known factor.
The R. Kelly concert was every bit as unbelievable as you might imagine. Or maybe you wouldn't imagine it to be so eventful, since it's come to my attention that in spite of Kells attracting a new audience of despicable hipsters thanks to the IFC's embracing of "Trapped in the Closet," a lot of people still don't appreciate the genius of Robert Sylvester Kelly. However, as Kelefah Sanneh of the New York Times promised, it is indeed two and a half hours of "nothing but climax" and the incomparable King of R&B being "thrilling, hilarious, and downright mystifying, often all at once."
Even the trip to Long Island was thrilling, hilarious, and downright mystifying, because the dumbass morons who built the Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum DIDN'T BUILD IT ON THE LIRR. Who the fuck builds a stadium in a place where it is as difficult to reach by public transportation as possible? To get there, we had to take the LIRR to some godforsaken stop an hour from the city and then take a Nassau County bus. We made the train at the last minute and proceeded to get down to business acting like a couple of dumb kids, taking pictures of ourselves with what LL Cool Jew refers to as her "teenager phone" (due to its garish orange color and fancy pop-out texting keyboard and windows):
Upon our arrival in Hempstead, we were relieved to see that the bus stop was indoors, since the N70 bus we had to take wasn't there. When it did arrive, everyone piled on, including a group of very excited women led by a gold-toothed vixen named Keyshia. After listening to her discuss with her friends who the hottest Keyshia would be at the show (her or Keyshia Cole), they proceeded to get everyone on the bus worked up. "The RRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" she was shouting with her friends, which prompted the unnaturally friendly bus driver to get on his intercom and say, "Who here is going to see the RRRRRRRRRR?" When that got a favorable reaction from the bus riders, he added, "Who is going home with the RRRRRRRRRR?"
Keyshia and her crew went berserk. "He's the R in R&B!" one of them exclaimed.
"I think you mean the R-uh in R&B," I corrected her.
"The R-uh! Hell yes!" they crowed, pouring more liquor into their coffee cups. They then proceeded to tell us about all the times they've seen R. Kelly live, and explained that the reason he was playing at such a bitch-to-get-to venue rather than Madison Square Garden was on account of a lawsuit relating to the collapse of the R. Kelly/Jay-Z Best of Both Worlds tour, when Kells cut a set short after seeing someone with a gun in the audience and was maced in the face by some of Jay-Z's people. Alas, it would have been much easier to take the A train a few stops from my crib to the Garden, but then we probably never would have met Keyshia et al and been so remarkably entertained.
When we arrived at the Coliseum stop, we realized we had to cross the Hempstead Turnpike and a gargantuan parking lot. There was no crosswalk, so we were hesitant to race across a six-lane highway, particularly LL Cool Jew, who was wearing one of her standard pairs of cripplingly high stiletto heels. However, Keyshia once again took charge, and announced, "Bus people! Follow me!" before barging right into the road. Luckily we all made it across, and LL Cool Jew was able to snap a picture of me behind a line of the aforementioned "bus people."
"So, if Kells wanted to double up with us, would BigBagel give you a pass?" I asked LL Cool Jew. Her married status generally eliminates the possibility of her having groupie sex, but you never know. Some couples have arrangements. Or so I've heard.
"No WAY," said LL Cool Jew. "You'd have to take it for the team. But just so you know, I'd HAVE TO WATCH." Wouldn't be the first time I've had sex with an audience, but that's another story.
"You'd be the one in the chair, then," I said. This is a reference to the lyric "one in the bed, one in the chair, one massage my toes while one braid my hair" from the R-uh in R&B's album moniker and ode to threesomes "Double Up."
"Yeah, you'd have to be the one on the bed. I'd be in the chair, on braiding detail," agreed LL Cool Jew.
Shortly thereafter, Keyshia Cole came on stage, and after LL Cool Jew and I agreed that she's got a banging body and a great voice but is nonetheless not Mary J. Blige, we were getting impatient for Kells. Both of us were relieved that Ne-yo had dropped out of the tour and thus our Kells-related gratification wouldn't be further delayed by live renditions of "Sexy Love."
Then, after Keyshia went off and there was some hurried stage rearrangement, the moment we waited for arrived. Kells! LL Cool Jew was clever enough to write down his TWO AND A HALF HOUR LONG SET LIST, to augment this very blog posting.
The Champ: For the opening song, Kells ran out in an entirely bedazzled hooded robe saying "The Champ" on the back, with a pair of matching disco ball sneaks. Kells's grand entrance was augmented by an impressive pyrotechnical display. This was followed by a medley of R. Kelly's contributions to his many great collaborations:
That's That Shit: If you're lookin' for some good sex, holler at a player.
Fuckin' You Tonight: Although Kells didn't sing my favorite song in the "I spend money on you, now time to put out" vein, "Don't You Say No," this hook from his collaboration with the legendary Notorious B.I.G. was nonetheless well-received.
Hotel: We in our throwbacks, this is for the ladies, we got room keys. Isn't everything for the ladies? Sadly, Kells did not don a Bears throwback jersey during the show, nor did he offer us a room key. Oh well. Next time.
Wonderful: Kells is at the top of the world and life's a pussy buffet.
So Sexy: Isn't he, though? Twista, however, is NOT, and fortunately, his corpulent ass was not around to
We Thuggin': Take my relief at Twista's absence and multiply it by ten thousand, and you have my feelings about Fat Joe not showing up to duet this one with Kells.
Gigolo: If only Kells were a male prostitute, I know where my next paycheck would be going.
Snake: Nothing--and I mean NOTHING--compares to hearing "I like the way you move your cho-cha, it makes me wanna get to know ya" sung live.
Thoia Thoing: Kells from Chi-town live is even better than Kells "Japan via satellite," whatever the hell that means. I told LL Cool Jew about how I sang this song once at a karaoke bar to great effect, because nothing spices up a lesbian birthday party like me attempting to do the "Thoia Thoing" dance while singing about being "butt-naked with sweat socks and house shoes." What are "house shoes," anyway? Slippers?
Double Up: It's like routine, player.
Tryin' To Get a Number: I somehow suspect that neither Kells nor Nelly have to try that hard.
Hook It Up: Anytime.
An old school rap song that I'm pretty sure was Big Daddy Kane's "Brooklyn Style": Unnecessary, but who knew Kells could rap?
TP-2: Imagine thousands of overweight people singing "I'm horny as hell" and "It's about to get real kinky." Yikes.
Strip For You: When R. Kelly followed "three knocks at the door, now, baby...trenchcoat hits the floor, now baby," with a simulated cunnilingus move with his tongue, all the ladies (translation: 80-90% of the audience) went insane.
"The Loneliest Tongue": I don't know if this is just something Kells made up for this concert, but nothing follows up a silhouetted striptease designed to keep the audience busy during a wardrobe change like an acapella ode to licking snatch. "I'm just a lonely tongue," crooned a close-up of Kells's mouth on the big screens, "Looking for some BODY to lick, looking for some BODY to nibble on." LL Cool Jew and I were speechless. For the rest of the night I preceded everything with, "Well, as I'm just a lonely tongue..."
Seems Like You're Ready: This song ushered in the moment we had anticipated from the Times review. Namely, when R. Kells describes how he won't keep things tame because the audience is ready in the form of having their hair done, nails done, toes done, car washed, and...SIX! HUN! DRED! DOLLAR! WEAVE! Granted, I suspect that most of the weaves I saw went for considerably less than $600, but nonetheless, the ladies in the audience rocking fake hair clearly touched it up in preparation for the hotness that is Kells.
Down Low (Remix): I wonder if Kells and Ronald "Mr. Biggs" Isley regret the title of this song given what being on the down low means these days in the modern urban lexicon.
When a Woman's Fed Up: Not a single one in the audience was fed up from what I could see, but at least one must have been, because she sent her date up by our section to smoke blunts in peace, well away from her. Blunt Guy spent the rest of the concert blowing trees, at least until he fell asleep. Lightweight.
Your Body's Callin': I could hear it calling me.
R&B Thug: YES! YES! YES! I actually got to hear Kells sing, "And when you leave up out my room, you'll be walkin' bow-legged" and "ooh, Kelly, you make me holla, keep on jumpin' like an Impala" LIVE. I can die now. Also, I should add that this was prefaced by Kells noting that "every woman wants a thug with some church in him." True that.
Feelin' On Yo Booty: Yet another classic. The only thing that would be better is if he took out half his impeccably-braided cornrows like in the hotness that is the video for this song.
Ignition (Remix): And not a single bitch in the audience was singing Dave Chapelle's "Piss on You" lyrics to this classic Kells jam.
Fiesta: It was, with my homie from the Midwest-a.
I Wish: LL Cool Jew went nuts, since this is her favorite Kells "serious" song. Mine is "The World's Greatest," which sadly was omitted from this performance.
Real Talk: Kells said, "You're not going to believe this, but I just got a phone call. Hold on just one second while I take care of this." He whips out a cell phone and before he even started in on the "I was at a club with who? GET THE FUCK OUT," LL Cool Jew and I turned to each other and said, "REAL TALK. See, girl."
Make It Rain: As noted before, Fat Joe mercifully did not show up to sing along and to get sexy alongside my beloved Robert Sylvester. Even more mercifully, R. Kelly did not start a riot by pulling a Pac Man Jones and actually "making it rain" on the hoes in the front row. Shit would have gotten crazy had he actually started chucking $100 bills around. However, LL Cool Jew and I did discuss how much more this could have kicked ass had Dwayne Carter, AKA Lil' Wayne AKA Weezy Fuckin' Baby AKA Tha Carter, showed up to do his "yeeeah, I'm in this bitch with the Terror" hook to the song. Sadly, he's probably in jail somewhere and thus indisposed.
I'm a Flirt: While this was awesome, LL Cool Jew and I were seriously lamenting the fact that T-Pain was absent on this tour. I think that if T-Pain and R. Kelly were to tour together, my head might explode with excitement.
The big screens then showed footage of all Kells's entertainer friends wishing him luck on tour, including T-Pain, Common, Fat Joe, Kanye West, Ciara, and Snoop Dogg.
N Luv Wit a Stripper (Remix): "I'm gonna go down on my knees and ask that ass to marry me." Exactly the type of proposal every stripper wants, especially when they have so much in common, as Kells points out ("she's a stripper, I'm a freak"). What woman could say no to a sexy man with lines like "you keep my donk on swole" and "I wanna stick it, I wanna kiss it, if I could I'd stick my whole damn head in it." That's being n luv wit a stripper, trust.
Kells then showed a hilarious segment intended to appease the dudes who had been dragged along to his show on their dates, about all the silly antics he gets up to while he's on tour. "Don't fall asleep, that's the rule," he explained, before showing the consequences of doing so, which primarily involve sticking objects (pen, tissue paper, paper clips) up the slumberer's nose. If he's feeling creative, he might squirt mustard on you, too. That Kells is such a zany prankster!
Go Getta: When I first heard Kells sing "Young Jeeeeeezzzzzzy" I was like, "WHERE THE HELL IS THE SNOWMAN?" I was so hoping he would jiggle out on stage to augment Kells with some ad libs. For all I know, he could have been backstage with his alleged (ex-?) girlfriend Keyshia Cole. Alas, it seems Young Jeezy was back at his Hotlanta trap or whatever, but Kells still sang about coming up out the club with a shitload-a women, so I was happy.
"Make It Purple Rain": I'm unclear as to whether Kells was lauding or mocking Prince or not, but in any event he better watch out. Prince is suing everyone who uses anything that even hints at being about Prince. He's been suing dumbasses putting their YouTube vlogs to the tune of "1999" and "I Feel For You" right and left, and while I would die of happiness and delight if Prince secured an injunction forbidding Smith College acapella groups from ever butchering "When Doves Cry" again, it would be truly sad if he shut down the "Double Up" tour for copyright infringement. Hopefully Kells's tour managers worked out a licensing deal beforehand.
Next to You: Snore. I totally forgot about this song that Kells did with Ciara, but this would have been better spent singing either "The World's Greatest," "Sex Me," or "Leave your Name," all sad omissions from the setlist.
Same Girl: Since Usher is off getting pegged by his tranny man-wife, Kells asked our side of the auditorium to sing Usher's part to this song. Luckily, LL Cool Jew, myself, and every other bitch there knew the words to this song by heart, and were only too happy to oblige by singing "did she go to Georgia Tech?", "does she work for TBS?," and "does she love some Waffle House?" at the proper time.
Put My T-Shirt On: This song was accompanied by a cadre of dudes carrying those t-shirt shooting guns that they used to have at Sonics games. During halftime, when the Squatch was doing a variety of gymnastically impressive, springboard-assisted dunks, dudes in Sonics sweatsuits would shoot team logo shirts into the stands at Key Arena. Apparently, Kells thought this would be a nice touch to augment a song about how he wants to bang his woman because she looks so hot in his t-shirt.
Freaky In the Club: Does Kells get anything else besides freaky in the club? I think not.
Kells's next wardrobe change was augmented by a video tribute to his musical idols: Marvin Gaye, Bob Marley, Tupac Shakur, Biggie, his kids, and HIMSELF. God, I love this man. LOVE HIM!
Let's Get it On: As we just learned, Marvin Gaye is one of Kells's idols, so we were unsurprised that he was singing this. In fact, Marvin Gaye's influence is pretty obvious, considering that with the exception of the odd serious or religious song, almost every song Kells has ever sung
I Wanna Sex You Up: No WAY! Shout out to Color Me Badd? REALLY?! I wonder if Kells really loves this song (thematically it's consistent with his repertoire) or if he just decided to sing it because he pre-funked for his concert by watching the seminal "Beverly Hills, 90210" episode where Donna catches her mom having an affair at the Bel Age Hotel while she's trying to meet Color Me Badd, who end up meeting Kelly, who convinces them to end the episode by cheering up Donna singing "I Adore Mi Amor" acapella to her at the Peach Pit over megaburgers with the gang. I'd be lying if I didn't say that the idea of Robert Sylvester Kelly preparing to bless us with his mackadelic nightspot realness by watching classic episodes of Bev Niner doesn't make me more than just a little bit wet.
Bump 'n' Grind (Old School Remix): Yes! I just heard Kells sing "show me some ID, before I get too deep" LIVE!
You Remind Me of Something: Morrissey'sHair told me that this is the official Razzy ringtone when I call him. It's because I remind him of his jeep, his sound, his car, and his bank account. OBVIOUSLY.
Bump 'n' Grind (Original): Like Tasti-D-Lite or multiple orgasms, you can never really have too much "Bump 'n' Grind." My mind's telling me no...actually no it's not. My mind is saying YES, YES, YES! KELLS!
Charlie Chaplin vaudeville sequence: Part of the show that falls under the heading of "downright mystifying." I don't know if Kells secretly loves silent film slapstick, but this was bizarre. It was even more bizarre in the context of a segue to what came next:
Beethoven's Fifth Symphony/laser light show: Ummm...I don't know if Kells was inspired by a trip to the Philharmonic or something, but I knew it was about to get real when Kells grabbed an oversized conductor's baton and the first dramatic chords of Beethoven's Fifth began echoing through the venue.
The Zoo: And thus began the beginning of the "extended jungle fantasia" that I was so eagerly anticipating. On an aside, LL Cool Jew does the funniest impression of the "ooo ooo ooo ooo aaa aaa aaa aaa" monkey noises from this song. I could listen to her do this all day.
Slow Wind: Finishing off the smoke machine-heavy, Kells-taken-prisoner-by-a-tribe-of-horny-video-vixen-Amazons jungle segment of the performance was J-Sexy's favorite song ever, topped off by a lengthy "You're a Jamaican queen...I'm an American king..." chorus. Beautiful. When I told J-Sexy that she hasn't lived until she's been exhorted by Kells to "put your voodoo on me, babe, kiss my lips and curse me, babe," she agreed that next time his tour comes around, she's getting a ticket.
Step In the Name of Love: An excuse to pull bitches out of the audience and force them to do the stepping dance in unison with R. Kelly. Steppin' is not just a dance, it's a culture, it's the way we live. As there were some big girls dragged up on stage, this was not only highly amusing, it's assured that indeed steppin' is what they eat, think, and breathe.
Happy People featuring extended TV theme medley: I don't know what the "Welcome Back, Kotter" theme song has to do with doubling up or happy people, but I'm not questioning Kells. It was a tremendous finale to a spectacular night. Actually, the most tremendous finale was when he announced that next year, he's blessing us with a new album, TP Fourth Quarter. Trust that I'm preordering that shit!
And speaking of happy people, here are two:
Labels: hilarious shit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, rap, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
But George W. Bush IS a...
Not that I give a flying underwater scissor-style fuck about what Whoopi Goldberg says or does, because she annoys me and because Hell will look like the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea halfway to freaking Kamchatka in January before I pay much attention to anyone affiliated with the travesty known as "The View," but apparently she's in trouble because last year she called George W. Bush a cunt. Well she actually didn't even drop the big "C-word" that everyone seems to find so offensive. She just made the obvious vagina joke about Bush's last name and said something like "keep Bush where it belongs and out of the White House." This was all in support of John (LOSER) Kerry's pathetic attempt at obfuscating his way into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. For some reason, Whoopi is now getting heat for calling President Bush a cunt, and she's quick to remind everyone that she just made a play on his last name, and never uttered the dreaded "C U Next Tuesday."
Girls go crazy when you say "cunt"...except me, that is. I don't think "cunt" is all that bad of a word. It's just a synonym for vagina, so why is it any worse than "cooze" or "poon"? I actually think it has more zing old standbys like "pussy" and "twat," and I'll use it any day over lame cutesy euphemisms like "vajayjay." Frankly, there's other words (ie: "gash") that I think conjure up much grosser and more repugnant associations. But for some reason, it's been universally accepted that "cunt" is probably the worst thing you can call a woman. If you're a little pissed, you call a woman a bitch. If you're furious and want to establish that your ire is NO JOKE, you drop a c-bomb on that ho. That's like declaring a fucking blood feud. On those grounds, I don't understand why an avowed Bush-hater like Whoopi is saying, "Oh, I didn't call him a CUNT. I pointed out to the mentally slow, self-righteous rich assholes attending some lame Murder, DNC (what some of my wonk friends called their employer, the Democratic National Committee, circa 2003) $1000-a-plate fundraising dinner for Kerry that his name doubles as a coarse slang term for vagina. THAT'S VERY DIFFERENT! Calling the president a cunt would be SOOOOO INAPPROPRIATE. That would mean business. You know it's a joke because I just called him a Bush! Which he is! LOL! Watch more pointless discussion about my not using the c-word on 'The View.'"
Well, he's also a cunt. And if Whoopi doesn't have the stones to go there, lucky for everyone I do.
GEORGE W. BUSH IS A CUNT.
That said, vote libertarian.
Girls go crazy when you say "cunt"...except me, that is. I don't think "cunt" is all that bad of a word. It's just a synonym for vagina, so why is it any worse than "cooze" or "poon"? I actually think it has more zing old standbys like "pussy" and "twat," and I'll use it any day over lame cutesy euphemisms like "vajayjay." Frankly, there's other words (ie: "gash") that I think conjure up much grosser and more repugnant associations. But for some reason, it's been universally accepted that "cunt" is probably the worst thing you can call a woman. If you're a little pissed, you call a woman a bitch. If you're furious and want to establish that your ire is NO JOKE, you drop a c-bomb on that ho. That's like declaring a fucking blood feud. On those grounds, I don't understand why an avowed Bush-hater like Whoopi is saying, "Oh, I didn't call him a CUNT. I pointed out to the mentally slow, self-righteous rich assholes attending some lame Murder, DNC (what some of my wonk friends called their employer, the Democratic National Committee, circa 2003) $1000-a-plate fundraising dinner for Kerry that his name doubles as a coarse slang term for vagina. THAT'S VERY DIFFERENT! Calling the president a cunt would be SOOOOO INAPPROPRIATE. That would mean business. You know it's a joke because I just called him a Bush! Which he is! LOL! Watch more pointless discussion about my not using the c-word on 'The View.'"
Well, he's also a cunt. And if Whoopi doesn't have the stones to go there, lucky for everyone I do.
GEORGE W. BUSH IS A CUNT.
That said, vote libertarian.
Labels: celebrities, free fucking speech, intentional buffoonery, libertarians rule, overcompensation, politics, stank vaginas
Monday, November 12, 2007
Hunger strike update: no dead hippies yet
Last week I scribed a nice, satisfying polemic about the annoying undergrads who were going to go on a "hunger strike" in order to force Columbia's administration into acquiescing to their vague and open-ended demands. I've since been deleting e-mail after e-mail updating me as to the "success" of this protest, "success" being defined as a whopping FIVE students decided to starve themselves for their poorly elucidated principles. Yesterday I received yet another action update, and almost deleted it until I realized that it was a trove of between-the-lines information all supporting the sole, inescapable conclusion that I AM RIGHT THAT THESE TYPES OF PROTESTS ARE A FUCKING WASTE OF EVERYONE'S TIME:
1. Include more Alice Walker and Rita Mae Brown books in freshman English classes at Columbia, because bitches are tired of Beowulf and its patriarchal, misogynistic, white supremacist themes.
2. More money for Ethnic Studies, since it's underfunded. I mean, never mind that academic disciplines are underfunded ACROSS THE BOARD in the current climate, because Bush isn't the world's biggest fan of funding any kind of research that's got to do with evolution, or stem cells, or any type of artfaggotry. Aretha, Bryan, Emilie, Sam, and Victoria want a bigger library to sit around and organize pointless hunger strikes in, and if you don't have the money, Columbia, then you're RACIST!
3. Okay, it was pretty fucked up that Columbia didn't cooperate with the police investigating the Teacher's College noose incident, but I think they learned their lesson the hard way. The Post was all over that, and Columbia looked like sneaky assholes because of it. Chances are, the next time they'll be better about it.
4. Given the tone of the rhetoric, I'm thinking they are AGAINST the Manhattanville expansion, but in fairness, all they say for their fourth demand is that this is being voted on in December.
With four points of light like those, I can't understand why every self-involved asshole walking past their campus tent doesn't drop his or her iPod and jump on the hunger train too. I mean, those are some galvanizing meandering and confused points these people are making!
From: Christina Chen (satori.at.sunrise@gmail.com)Wait, one of the hunger strikers ended up in the fucking hospital? Good riddance! One down, four to go! I love how they make it sound like this bitch was rushed to the ICU, when really she probably was given an IV and a PowerBar, told that if she didn't want to be hypoglycemic, she should fucking eat something, and shooed out of the St. Luke's ER. Somehow, I am sure she'll be okay, too, since it takes more than a low blood sugar-induced dizzy spell two days after giving up food to keep an overprivileged bitch at an Ivy League school from succumbing to her mortal fragility. What she won't recover from so quickly is the fact that there seem to be a lot of people who agree with me that these hunger strikers are a bunch of despicable, self-righteous morons.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject:[sceg-body] Would your club like to take a support shift, sponsor a vigil, or sponsor a dormstorming session
Hello beautiful peoples,
Sorry for spamming you guys, I'll try to keep the flow of emails minimal! First of all, thank you for all your well wishes for Aretha's speedy recovery- we are very encouraged by the amount of progress that she has made since leaving St Luke's, and we are sure that she will be okay! And thank you for keeping Bryan, Emilie, Sam, and Victoria in your hearts - they are resilient, strong brother and sisters in the struggle, and your prayers and attendance at events are spiritually enriching to the souls of the hungry...your presence means more than words can convey!
That said...those who stand against us think that they can dampen our spirits by beating us down. We are getting attacked by bad press (and lacking press as well), drunk passerbys knocking stuff over at our tent sites, hecklers shouting egregious things like "mmm I want a nice juicy burger right now", Columbia administration officials giving negotiators blank stares at a meeting when we reported Aretha's rushing to St. Luke's Hospital because of low blood sugar, and perhaps the biggest blow to our our faith in our peers, and a terrible thing to see from our fellow students; anti-strikers websites that have propped up and counter-rallies with racist, homophobic, and xenophobic rhetoric being held right by our tents in public.Oh, boo hoo! You guys are so PERSECUTED! Drunk people are knocking over your bongo drums as they're staggering back to their dorms from the local bars, hecklers are making fun of you for thinking you're Gandhi, and the administration doesn't care that one of your number came down with a self-imposed and completely NON-LIFE THREATENING condition. Also, I wonder if my blog is one of the websites that has "propped up" to spew "racist, homophobic, and xenophobic rhetoric." I don't think I'm racist or xenophobic (although these people are the types who regard opinions contrary to theirs as "racist" regardless of whether or not they actually are), and any homophobic rhetoric I've used is allowable on account of the fact that I'm a Smith College graduate who licks snatch and can therefore say "fag" and "dyke" to my heart's content. I am not against the hunger strikers because I'm pro-racism or whatever else; I'm against the hunger strikers because they're morons, and I don't support stupidity even when it's cloaked in the trappings of patronizing social consciousness. Hey, maybe you'd have more supporters if you assholes could clearly articulate your demands...?
But as Bryan has said, we cannot confuse those who are simply weak-willed and prejudiced, with those who we can potentially reach and educate about our demands. That said, we ABSOLUTELY NEED folks to help us do outreach... there's a lot of misconceptions floating out there right now about what our demands are, and we need to address them.Okay...SO ADDRESS THEM, already!
And just to reiterate, our demands are rooted in a campus in which 1) our core education reinforces the norms of a system that marginalizes people of color, people of faith, queer folks and other groups; 2) Ethnic Studies programs in which we learn about the histories of our own communities (most of which was founded after the 1996 hunger strike led by Latino, Asian American, Black, and American students for Ethnic studies) are under-resourced and swept aside by this university; 3) the administrative organization of our university right now does not allow adequate/ prompt responses to hate crimes, such as t he noose that was hung on a black professor's door at TC; 4) an official expansion / eviction plan that will displace 5000 residents of West Harlem and will be voted on early December, a plan that bulldozes entire communities in Harlem and uproots real people.In other words, your demands are as follows:
1. Include more Alice Walker and Rita Mae Brown books in freshman English classes at Columbia, because bitches are tired of Beowulf and its patriarchal, misogynistic, white supremacist themes.
2. More money for Ethnic Studies, since it's underfunded. I mean, never mind that academic disciplines are underfunded ACROSS THE BOARD in the current climate, because Bush isn't the world's biggest fan of funding any kind of research that's got to do with evolution, or stem cells, or any type of artfaggotry. Aretha, Bryan, Emilie, Sam, and Victoria want a bigger library to sit around and organize pointless hunger strikes in, and if you don't have the money, Columbia, then you're RACIST!
3. Okay, it was pretty fucked up that Columbia didn't cooperate with the police investigating the Teacher's College noose incident, but I think they learned their lesson the hard way. The Post was all over that, and Columbia looked like sneaky assholes because of it. Chances are, the next time they'll be better about it.
4. Given the tone of the rhetoric, I'm thinking they are AGAINST the Manhattanville expansion, but in fairness, all they say for their fourth demand is that this is being voted on in December.
With four points of light like those, I can't understand why every self-involved asshole walking past their campus tent doesn't drop his or her iPod and jump on the hunger train too. I mean, those are some galvanizing meandering and confused points these people are making!
People who stand against us, people who are not conscious of the history of student and community struggle, think that they can dismiss us because they see a handful of people camped outside the tents and assume there's only a few of us who feel like shit needs to change. A lot of us are overextended right now and haven't been able to go into people's dorms, circulate petitions, and do support outside and we need to show that all of us, we who number in the hundreds, maybe even thousands, want to see change happen in this university. Nevermind the haters - we got people power and it's time for us to use it...and show folks that we're able to back shit up with concrete demands in their dorms, in their classes, and outside in the cold! We've been telling individuals what they can do to help, but hey! your club can ::I hate to tell you this, Christina, but nobody thinks they can dismiss you because they assume there's only a few who feel that "shit needs to change." People dismiss you because your cause is poorly articulated, you come across as a bunch of preachy, humorless assholes, and if people don't agree with you wholeheartedly then you either call them "weak-willed and prejudiced" or imply that they are ignorant and uncouth. The fact is, most people would agree that Columbia could benefit from expanding its curriculum, providing better funding to many departments including Ethnic Studies, SHOULD cooperate with the police in investigating campus hate crimes, and should be ethical and transparent with regard to the Manhattanville expansion. However, you do such a pathetic job of explaining your action items and such an impressive job alienating and marginalizing people who might not agree but would be open to a dialogue about it that nobody WANTS to ride your loser train, Christina. Nobody gives an inverted piledriver fuck that one of your attention whore hippie friends came down with the deadly and insidious condition known as low blood sugar from her half-assed attempt at protest by starvation, and chances are 99% of the "beautiful peoples" on your e-mail list delete your lame manifesto/newsletters the second they grace their inboxes. Congratulations. You've managed to make four reasonable and sound demands seem petty, retarded, pointless, and annoying. Keep up the good work...maybe you'll do us all a favor and STARVE TO DEATH!
1) Sponsor a vigil, like the wonderful folks at LUCHA are doing tomorrow by emailing sam.rennebohm@gmail.com
2) Take a support shift, in which representatives of your club can sign up for by emailing crystalktang@gmail.com
3) Sponsor a dormstorming session by emailing me at satori.at.sunrise@gmail.com
4) Join the solidarity listserve to get running updates on the conditions of the strikers and on what the support team needs - email heiroku@gmail.com
DO IT!!!!
love,
Christina
Labels: grad school bullshit, intentional buffoonery, overcompensation, ranting, Razzification, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, scathing indictments
$hort Dog on Dog
While catching up on celebrity gossip occurring while I was on my deathbed, I was pleased to see that the incomparable Todd "Too $hort" Shaw, looking as dapper as always, took a breather from breakin' hoes, gettin' head, and otherwise dominating the East Bay's player-ass pimp scene to tell TMZ his thoughts on Duane "Dog" Chapman's career-ending racial tirade. In case you missed it, Chapman, star of the now-canceled "Dog the Bounty Hunter," went off on a "n-word"-laden rant about his son's black girlfriend. The son taped this rant, and sent it off to the National Enquirer. In spite of Dog coming up with some of the lamest excuses EVER ("I thought I was black because people called me white trash"...WHAT?) to cover his ass, A&E said "aloha" to him, his corpulent wife Beth, and his cadre of redneck Polynesian cousins and offspring who assist him in his bounty hunting and bail bond business. Never again will the American viewing audience get to see Beth clutching a pustule-covered meth addict prostitute who skipped on a $500 bond to her gargantuan breasts and praying for her well-being outside the Da Kine Bail Bonds office.
Too $hort does understand how offensive statements can be taken out of context, though, and I was surprised to see that he handled this with the diplomatic skill of the man employed in the oldest profession for going on twenty years. This is a man, after all, who once said chivalrous things like, "I know you're starvin', bitch, what you gon' eat? Just cause I picked you up I guess you waitin' on me. It ain't gonna be that, you shoulda ate or bought your ass a plate, cause on this date we just fuckin' till it's late." In fact, if you want to see some real tact in terms of interpersonal relations and the art of negotiation, you should just look up all the lyrics to "Coming Up $hort" and witness a master of political correctness working his magic.
Anyway, I can't embed the footage of Too $hort talking about Dog because TMZ is hardcore about hoarding their precious videos, so you'll have to click on this link and suffer through an annoying Pantene commercial before you can witness the legendary Mr. Shaw discussing Dog's mishaps, but it's worth it. Too $hort is a fucking font of wisdom.
"Gay bashin' and racial hatin' and all that stuff...it's just not good times for that in the media right now." You can say that again. Luckily for $hort Dog, there has yet to be a media backlash against calling a prostitute (or any woman, for that matter) a "beeyotch" if she gets out of line!
Too $hort continues, "It's like the word bitch or the word fuck...it has several meanings, one can be really, really negative and the other can be really, really positive. I fuckin' hate you or I fuckin' love you, you know." Is it possible for Too $hort to use the word "bitch" in a negative way? Because his career is built almost entirely on his distinctive use of that word, and I would say that any simple word which makes a man millions of dollars, earns him a spot as a mentor on "Celebrity Rap Superstar," and establishes him as THE quintessential East Oakland player-ass pimp is entirely positive.
While Too $hort does note that in Dog's case, "it was very derogatory the way he was spittin' that word out...REPEATEDLY," he says he isn't all that offended because it was just "hateful jokes" and "because I throw the word 'hoes' around a lot myself." And "beeyotch," and the "N-word", and "fuck," and virtually every other profanity one can imagine. Way not to throw stones, $hort Dog!
Can I just take a minute to say how awesome it is that Too $hort is popping up all over MTV and the internets these days? I hadn't heard so much as a feeble "beeyotch" out of him in the last five years, and all of a sudden he's teaching Girl Next Door #3 "oral exercises" and opining on F-list reality show stars' media gaffes! I have newfound faith in humanity. First, it seems that this year everyone and their mother finally realized how fucking unbelievably awesome Robert Sylvester Kelly is, and now they're rediscovering Too $hort as well. If this keeps up, I see civilization entering a damn Golden Age. Seriously, this blossoming appreciation for true art makes all those Renaissance dudes look like a bunch of posing, pathetic hacks. Leonardo, Michaelangelo, and all those other Ninja Turtle namesakes can open wide, because Too $hort is about to stick his dick in their talentless mouths! There is hope for our world yet.
Anyway, I can't embed the footage of Too $hort talking about Dog because TMZ is hardcore about hoarding their precious videos, so you'll have to click on this link and suffer through an annoying Pantene commercial before you can witness the legendary Mr. Shaw discussing Dog's mishaps, but it's worth it. Too $hort is a fucking font of wisdom.
"Gay bashin' and racial hatin' and all that stuff...it's just not good times for that in the media right now." You can say that again. Luckily for $hort Dog, there has yet to be a media backlash against calling a prostitute (or any woman, for that matter) a "beeyotch" if she gets out of line!
Too $hort continues, "It's like the word bitch or the word fuck...it has several meanings, one can be really, really negative and the other can be really, really positive. I fuckin' hate you or I fuckin' love you, you know." Is it possible for Too $hort to use the word "bitch" in a negative way? Because his career is built almost entirely on his distinctive use of that word, and I would say that any simple word which makes a man millions of dollars, earns him a spot as a mentor on "Celebrity Rap Superstar," and establishes him as THE quintessential East Oakland player-ass pimp is entirely positive.
While Too $hort does note that in Dog's case, "it was very derogatory the way he was spittin' that word out...REPEATEDLY," he says he isn't all that offended because it was just "hateful jokes" and "because I throw the word 'hoes' around a lot myself." And "beeyotch," and the "N-word", and "fuck," and virtually every other profanity one can imagine. Way not to throw stones, $hort Dog!
Can I just take a minute to say how awesome it is that Too $hort is popping up all over MTV and the internets these days? I hadn't heard so much as a feeble "beeyotch" out of him in the last five years, and all of a sudden he's teaching Girl Next Door #3 "oral exercises" and opining on F-list reality show stars' media gaffes! I have newfound faith in humanity. First, it seems that this year everyone and their mother finally realized how fucking unbelievably awesome Robert Sylvester Kelly is, and now they're rediscovering Too $hort as well. If this keeps up, I see civilization entering a damn Golden Age. Seriously, this blossoming appreciation for true art makes all those Renaissance dudes look like a bunch of posing, pathetic hacks. Leonardo, Michaelangelo, and all those other Ninja Turtle namesakes can open wide, because Too $hort is about to stick his dick in their talentless mouths! There is hope for our world yet.
Labels: celebrities, free fucking speech, intentional buffoonery, rap, Robert Sylvester Kelly, Too $hort, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Team Britney
DOB: ???
Occupation: staging the most worthwhile, important, astonishingly courageous protests of all time
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Hollywood Walk of Fame circa the "Britney Spears" star, Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: These yokels are my new heroes. They might look like friendlier, poly-blend Jay Jacobs shirt-wearing versions of the mutant cannibals from The Hills Have Eyes, but they are out there--rain or shine--delivering their brave message of hope that some justice will be done for the mother of the year, the legendary Ms. Britney Spears. This is an epic struggle for all we hold dear as Americans: namely, the right to pop out a couple of brats in quick succession so that you can utilize them as cigarette AKA "lollipop" runners, hostages in high-speed red-light-running car chases with the paparazzi, and two great reasons to create a media circus at Los Angeles family court. It's the sacred institution of motherhood, y'all! Team Britney appreciates how seriously Brit-Brit takes her maternal responsibilities, and they're here to stop the gross injustices being unfairly committed against her by the evil, pro-Federline court system.
I mean, so what if, on the same night that these dedicated activists took to the street to right the wrongs in Britney's custody battle, Britney failed a drug test? It was a false positive! I'm sure she ate a poppyseed bagel or something the day of the test...everyone knows that shit can fuck up a piss test. It's not like that "I Got Five on It" song where one of the Luniz relates the tale of a knowingly failed drug test: "I got to take a whiz test to my PO, I know I failed, cuz I done smoked major weed, bro." In Brit's case, it was obviously a BIG MISTAKE! Similarly, all of her driving-related debacles--from traffic violations to hit-and-runs--aren't her fault. Surely she would be a better driver if she didn't have the paparazzi in her face every minute. Granted, she wouldn't have to deal with that if she didn't get on the phone with X17 or whatever to give them a heads up every time she goes on a Starbucks run, but STILL. None of this shit is Britney's fault. She's been Ms. American Dream since she was 17, don't matter if she step on the scene or sneak away to the Philippines...they're still going to put her derriere in a magazine. Well, that's what the lyrics to her magnum opus of the "woe is me"-themed song, "Piece of Me," state anyway. She's just Ms. Bad Media Karma coping with another day and another drama, simply because she don't see no harm in workin' and bein' a mama. I'm not certain Brit-Brit understands that "karma" implies you've somehow earned such media treatment by racking up a history of bad acts yourself, but her point gets through. How can you blame a hard-working, struggling, toiling single mom for being a victim of circumstance?
That's why I applaud these brave protestors for forgoing their jobs (and thus jeopardizing lucrative careers at establishments such as TGIFriday's, Wal-Mart, and Circuit City) to brave the frigid Hollywood weather to stand against the unjust and shabby disparaging of Britney's parenting skills, which along with her weave-choosing and manicure-maintaining skills, are beyond reproach. Children may be starving, the AIDS epidemic may be out of control, Chad and Sudan may be getting their genocide on, and the war in Iraq may be laying the groundwork for Armageddon, but those are all issues Team Britney can live with. However, don't expect them to just sit idly by when her ability to expose SPF and JJ to massive clouds of secondhand Marb Light and meth smoke is being threatened! These are true activists with a cause worth fighting for. Go wash down a 7-Layer Burrito with a venti caramel Frappuccino to show your solidarity!
Labels: Britney Spears, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, drugs, intentional buffoonery, media whores, PWT
Friday, November 09, 2007
"Endangered" means the job isn't finished
I am currently so fucking sick that I feel like I should be living in those leper caves from Ben-Hur. Fortunately I'm not showing any symptoms of leprosy--or "Hansen's disease" as it's called now to mitigate the social stigma of "leprosy"--but I nonetheless feel like ass and I wouldn't get pissed if Jesus showed up to offer me some water or a quick cure. In the absence of my Lord and Savior, I am turning instead to DayQuil, but it only makes me feel marginally less shitty and also makes me slightly crazed. I attribute both illness and craziness to the fact that last night, I didn't feel like drinking at all. I had three beers in my fridge and I just sneered at them as I wolfed down my chicken noodle soup, drank some water, and went to bed at 10.
Anyway, to help facilitate my recovery, LL Cool Jew took over blogging responsibilities from me for today, thus allowing me to sleep in (until 7:30---so luxurious!). However, when I read her thing about Hayden Panettiere, I couldn't really stay completely silent today. The whole thing reminded me of how annoyed I get with endangered species. I mean, yeah, okay, it sucks if animals go extinct, but some endangered species are total assholes. Polar bears will straight maul and eat your ass to thank you for your conservation efforts. Talk about a bunch of fucking ingrates! If that's the attitude they're going to have, then I say fuck them! They'd make nice rugs for Lil' Kim to skankily crouch on.
Similarly, dolphins, who are ubiquitous enough in nature and at trashy resorts to be called "water dogs" by Chance from "I Love New York" while he tried to beat them away from New York's weave during their visit to "Playacar," Mexico, are more tourist attractions than anything else. I sincerely doubt that the odd Japanese fisherman spearing one with a long pole to make what is undoubtedly a delicious piece of cetacean sashimi is threatening their existence. Also, if my experience swimming with endangered sea creatures is any indication, they'd take a fucking bite out of your chunks at the first opportunity.
A couple years ago, LL Cool Jew, J-Sexy, Neo, and myself went to Belize for vacation. Belize has the second largest barrier reef in the world, so of course we went snorkeling to check out the local sea life. We had purchased underwater cameras to document the experience. Well, there were these turtles there that were endangered, and the snorkeling guide told us to avoid them. I had been told the same thing about the endangered turtles when I went scuba diving in Hawaii some years before, but those turtles were super friendly, and even if you tried to avoid them, they would swim up by you and you could pet them. I figured that when this turtle swam up to me in Belize, he just wanted to mug for the camera:
I should have known by that malevolent, determined expression on this turtle's face that he was actually in attack mode. He continued to swim at me aggressively, and I decided to turn tail and start swimming away. And do you know what that endangered asshole did? HE BIT ME IN THE ASS!
These unflattering pictures of me don't really do the bite justice. Within two days, I had a giant bruise that covered the whole of my ass cheek. It looked like I had suffered a serious spanking by a right-handed dominatrix. The guy running the snorkel boat told me I was lucky I hadn't lost a chunk of my ass. Apparently a tourist the week before had a piece taken out of his leg by one of these asshole turtles and had to be airlifted to a hospital for massive stitching and a blood transfusion. The reason for avoiding the turtles is not only their endangered status, but because they're haters who bite people and severely injure them for no good reason except to ruin some tropical vacations. The only reason I manage to save my (gorgeous) fat ass is that when the turtle bit down, I kicked it hard in the neck and it let go, enabling me to swim away. Luckily I could swim before I could ride a bike, and thus could outstrip that stupid asshole before he could get another beakful of my fine posterior.
No wonder they're endangered. They're fucking assholes! I was just swimming around, looking at the pretty fish and coral and whatnot, and this turtle bites me for taking its fucking picture. It's hard to feel bad about a species being threatened when they themselves are biting unwitting swimmers' asses unprovoked. I say chop that bitch up and stew it with some Japanese dolphin. Man, I bet that would make for a tasty soup. Good riddance, you bastard ass-biters.
Anyway, to help facilitate my recovery, LL Cool Jew took over blogging responsibilities from me for today, thus allowing me to sleep in (until 7:30---so luxurious!). However, when I read her thing about Hayden Panettiere, I couldn't really stay completely silent today. The whole thing reminded me of how annoyed I get with endangered species. I mean, yeah, okay, it sucks if animals go extinct, but some endangered species are total assholes. Polar bears will straight maul and eat your ass to thank you for your conservation efforts. Talk about a bunch of fucking ingrates! If that's the attitude they're going to have, then I say fuck them! They'd make nice rugs for Lil' Kim to skankily crouch on.
A couple years ago, LL Cool Jew, J-Sexy, Neo, and myself went to Belize for vacation. Belize has the second largest barrier reef in the world, so of course we went snorkeling to check out the local sea life. We had purchased underwater cameras to document the experience. Well, there were these turtles there that were endangered, and the snorkeling guide told us to avoid them. I had been told the same thing about the endangered turtles when I went scuba diving in Hawaii some years before, but those turtles were super friendly, and even if you tried to avoid them, they would swim up by you and you could pet them. I figured that when this turtle swam up to me in Belize, he just wanted to mug for the camera:
No wonder they're endangered. They're fucking assholes! I was just swimming around, looking at the pretty fish and coral and whatnot, and this turtle bites me for taking its fucking picture. It's hard to feel bad about a species being threatened when they themselves are biting unwitting swimmers' asses unprovoked. I say chop that bitch up and stew it with some Japanese dolphin. Man, I bet that would make for a tasty soup. Good riddance, you bastard ass-biters.
Labels: assholes, intentional buffoonery, sexy delicious animals
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Not the best strategy for quelling those pesky gay rumors
I assumed the reason for the delay in releasing Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter's latest album had something to do with his epic criminal record. It seems like every day I'm getting a text from Morrissey'sHair, who for whatever reason is my primary source of Lil' Wayne-related tips, about Weezy F Baby running afoul of the law yet again, usually for either possessing weed and/or Vicodin and/or illegal firearms, or violation of probation for one of the aforementioned outstanding charges. I figured that he was spending so much time in jail and court and his lawyers' offices in various states that he didn't have time to get in the studio and finish laying down all the tracks for Tha Carter: Volume III.
I guess he finally got around to it, because the proposed cover is being leaked on the internets, and all I have to say is...whoa. I've had some questions about Lil' Wayne's sexuality in the past, particularly regarding his relationship with his adopted "daddy" Brian "Baby/Birdman" Williams, based on homoerotic XXL magazine covers and candid photos of them making out. This is not doing a damn thing to dispel my suspicions that Lil' Wayne knows his way around a boys' poker night:
I'm glad Tha Carter is experimenting with his look a little, but if he keeps up this gender bending stuff, people are going to suspect that he is indeed what he once characterized in "Go DJ" as "them homo niggas gettin' AIDS in the ass." I'm not sure why he fears God, unless he's concerned that Fred Phelps is right and God hates fags. In any event, I'm not sure the right way to cope with one's fear of God is to get one's Foxy Brown drag face on. I do know one thing for sure, though...I am SO buying Tha Carter: Volume III, if only to listen for hints about the special relationship Tha Carter shares with Birdman. I imagine Lil' Wayne gets his face made up all purty and Birdman makes those "brrrrrr" pigeon noises to get each other in the mood, and I hope there are some oblique references to this on his new album. Weezy Fuckin' Baby, indeed.
I guess he finally got around to it, because the proposed cover is being leaked on the internets, and all I have to say is...whoa. I've had some questions about Lil' Wayne's sexuality in the past, particularly regarding his relationship with his adopted "daddy" Brian "Baby/Birdman" Williams, based on homoerotic XXL magazine covers and candid photos of them making out. This is not doing a damn thing to dispel my suspicions that Lil' Wayne knows his way around a boys' poker night:
Labels: hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, Lil' Wayne, Morrissey'sHair, rap, vulgar display of faggotry
Friday, November 02, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Whoever writes Britney Spears songs
Occupation: should be POET LAUREATES!!!!!
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Another Britney Spears Friday dawns bright and beautiful! TGIBSF! And to celebrate, I'm totally listening to Blackout, which I'm not ashamed to say I actually BOUGHT. I paid $11.99 for it! I probably should have just gotten it illegally, but I'm too lazy to sift through P2P networks for a decent copy, and I like the idea that Britney is currently sucking down her cut of my iTunes profits in the form of a venti caramel Frap.
Anyway, I LOVE Blackout. Here's a quick rundown:
"Break the Ice": From what I can tell, this is a tale about how Britney simultaneously dispels the awkwardness between herself and the random stranger she's hooking up with while dealing with his erection problems. I'm serious. After a lot of talk about "rising to the occasion," Brit threatens her paramour: "I'm-a hit defrost on you." Translation: let's smoke some crystal, y'all!
"Everybody": Imagine if Britney huffed some glue with her favorite country cousins, grabbed a Eurhythmics "Sweet Dreams" CD, and tried to use Garage Band to make a dance jam about grinding. If Puyallup had clubs, this is what would be the DJ would be bumping.
"Freakshow": This is basically a summary of Britney's party philosophy. I love it when Brit-Brit appropriates rappish-sounding language into her songs. "Christian hot, Bugatti whips, hope the new designer fits," she notes. And when it doesn't, Brit-Brit will grab a hideous print mumu from her local Lane Bryant, glue in some hideous tracks, and hit the town. Methinks the VIP section at Hyde is going to need a delousing tomorrow.
"Get Back": This song starts with "The One and Only...BRITNEY!" AKA, the legendary Ms. Britney Spears! We know! "Eyes on my waist...Feel you better think fast. Got that kind of body make you wanna spend cash." WHAT? Spend cash on a Jenny Craig or Nutrisystem membership or tumescent liposuction, maybe. And speaking as someone who now has to lose the Britney bulge now that Halloween is over, I can't imagine my spare tire is going to make anyone want to spend any cash for anything except some pitying weight loss solutions for me.
"Get Naked (I Got a Plan)": Man, this entire CD involves Danja and Britney making a bunch of gross simulated sex noises that sound like a combination between belching and an asthma attack. I've gotta love any song, though, in which Britney sings, "I'm crazy as a motherfucker, bet on that, man." SO TRUE!
"Gimme More": we all know about this song. "It's Britney, bitch"...need I say more?
"Heaven on Earth": Britney's ode to her fantasy man/soul mate, a man who makes her "fall off the edge of my mind." That's putting it poetically.
"Hot as Ice": "To see your foolishness and fuckery, and handlin' my business, holler if you hear me, can I get a witness?" I don't know how this has anything to do with being "cold as fire" and "hot as ice," but it makes sense as a way of handling one's business in the face of foolishness and fuckery.
"Ooh Ooh Baby": "I can feel you deep inside"...EWWW! The idea of Britney feeling anything deep inside is pretty nast. I imagine her vadge looks like the inside of an old man's ear.
"Perfect Lover": Another gross one. "Every time you touch me there..." Brit croons. She omits the next logical verse, which is, "You get a killer case of warts." Even worse, she includes the musical money shot: "You're fillin' me up!" YUCK!
"Piece of Me": a tirade about the intrusions of the paparazzi on her arm. Includes classic lines such as "Don't matter if step on the scene or sneak away to the Philippines, they still gonna put pictures of my derriere in a magazine." Talk about a bunch of spin doctors. They replaced "hairless snatch" with "derriere" and "gas station bathroom and Starbucks" with "step on the scene" and "Philippines." This song has convinced me that Britney's public image is not so much because she's a crazy, cracked-out redneck lunatic with a meth problem and the spending habits of some trailer park welfare mama who just won the lottery, but that she's just misunderstood on account of being "Miss Bad Media Karma" provoked because the paparazzi are "hopin' I'll resort to some havoc" and "end up settlin' in court." Don't people usually settle OUT of court? Isn't the whole point of settling to avoid going to court? Britney's songwriters are not just expert reputation managers; they are legal geniuses, as well.
"Radar": Something about how she likes a man with "the Midas touch." Like K-Fed. Riiiiiight.
"Toy Soldier": No, it's not a remake of Martika's classic, although that would rule too.
Oh man, Blackout is such a hot piece of trash, it's truly worthy of the artist performing it. LOVE IT. Go get it and keep Brit-Brit stank tits-deep in frappucinos and Marb lights!
Labels: Britney Spears, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, PWT, sluts
Daily Douchebag: Rush Propst
DOB: ???
Occupation: high school football coach; jack of all illicit trades
Hometown: Ohatatchee, Alabama
Current residence: Hoover, Alabama
Douchebaggery: I had no idea who Rush Propst was until yesterday when I got this frantic e-mail from LL Cool Jew:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandists.org)I read the article and I still really had no idea why this Rush Propst dude was famous. As I get older, my MTV watching has waned over the years. In fact, the other day someone asserted that "TRL" had since been canceled, and I couldn't say for sure whether or not this was true. In fact, I'm so old that I'm still mentally living in the era where Carson Daly hosted that trash and "Bugaboo" by Destiny's Child was topping the countdown. I do watch some MTV trash every so often. "Laguna Beach" had its moments, and there have been some priceless fucking episodes of "True Life," and I'm torn between being proud and horrified of the fact that I watch "The Hills" from time to time. However, I feel almost too dated to really get into MTV like I used to, which is a shame, because apparently I miss things that I should by all accounts love. One of these things is "Two-a-Days: Hoover High."
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: PLEASE blog this. PLEASE?
http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1573178/20071031/id_0.jhtml
Apparently this show follows the Hoover High Buccaneers and the ins and outs of playing for a crazy high school football team. LL Cool Jew was kind enough to give me the rundown, since she's so into MTV that she still watches those "Real World vs. Road Rules Challenge: The Inferno"-type shows:
LL Cool Jew: hayNeedless to say, I'm eagerly anticipating receipt of my "Two-a-Days" box set, if only because anything that's like "Varsity Blues: the Reality Series" has the potential to be the greatest TV show ever. In case you somehow missed the mind-blowing awesomeness that is Varsity Blues, you should know that it is not only the single finest demonstration of the craft by James Van Der Beek AKA Dawson of his eponymous creek, it's truly one of the finest cinematic offerings of ALL TIME, if only to listen to Jon "Coach Bud Kilmer" Voight shriek at Dawson's character Johnny "The Mox" Moxon stuff like "You are the GODDAMN DUMBEST SMART KID I KNOW!" The Mox's intelligence is demonstrated by him smuggling a copy of Slaughterhouse Five into his playbook for a little sideline reading. Apparently Coach Kilmer is not a Vonnegut fan, because he catches The Mox doing this and says, "Pull something like this again and I'll cut your ass, boy!" In West Canaan, Texas, the only reading players on the fabled Coyotes should be doing is of the Bible, so they can craft memorable variations on the 23rd Psalm like "yea, though I may walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no faggots from Bingville." Man, Varsity Blues rules so hard.
Razzy: haaaayyyy
LL Cool Jew: HAAAAY
LL Cool Jew: did you read about coach propst
LL Cool Jew: sorry to be a pest
LL Cool Jew: but it's so funny
Razzy: yes
Razzy: i love his look
Razzy: such a coach
LL Cool Jew: i know!
Razzy: he's like jon voight in varsity blues
Razzy: except worse!
LL Cool Jew: he SO DOES!
LL Cool Jew: it's so unsurprising that he forced the teachers to give his players good grades
Razzy: i know
Razzy: you know he just walked up to them and just got all beefy and up in their face
LL Cool Jew: and was like
LL Cool Jew: "you know everyone in hoover alabama wants to do what's right for the hoover buccaneers"
LL Cool Jew: god i loved that show
LL Cool Jew: guess what
Razzy: i never saw it!
Razzy: what?
LL Cool Jew: god hates fags
LL Cool Jew: :D
LL Cool Jew: oh
LL Cool Jew: my god
LL Cool Jew: angie
LL Cool Jew: you
LL Cool Jew: have
LL Cool Jew: to get with two-a-days
LL Cool Jew: it
LL Cool Jew: is the greatest
LL Cool Jew: show
LL Cool Jew: ever
Razzy: oh i know
Razzy: every time i go to church, jesus is like
Razzy: "get out, you fucking dyke"
LL Cool Jew: and you're like, "is that a new prayer? i don't know that one"
Razzy: "and i'm like, 'wait, i thought you only hated FAGS...you never said anything about slutty bisexuals'"
LL Cool Jew: hey
LL Cool Jew: send me the address where you receive packages
LL Cool Jew: i am sending you the two-a-days box set
LL Cool Jew: you have to watch it
LL Cool Jew: it's your birthday present
Razzy: are you serious?
LL Cool Jew: YES
LL Cool Jew: i think i might die if i can't share this moment in pop culture infamy with you
Razzy: aight i'll email it
LL Cool Jew: you don't understand dude
LL Cool Jew: you will love it
Razzy: i am sure
LL Cool Jew: the rush propst resignation is HUGE
Razzy: i bet
LL Cool Jew (5 minutes later after more discussion about how god hates fags): btw, two-a-days is en route
LL Cool Jew: you
LL Cool Jew: will
LL Cool Jew: DIE
Razzy: i can't wait!
LL Cool Jew: it will really grant you insight into my mississippi experience.
Razzy: i really can't wait!
LL Cool Jew: you know the premise right
Razzy: yeah, high school football
Razzy: right?
LL Cool Jew: it's the life of the hoover high school buccaneers
LL Cool Jew: the five-time-straight holder of the high school national championship
LL Cool Jew: the whole town is completely obsessed
LL Cool Jew: it's friday night lights on steroids
LL Cool Jew: and the show focuses on like five of the players and their girlfriends on the cheerleading squad and their insane families
LL Cool Jew: and, of course, rush propst
LL Cool Jew: the craziest, zaniest, most cartoonish high school football coach imaginable
Razzy: sweet, it's like "varsity blues" meets "laguna beach" by way of the deep dirrty
LL Cool Jew: who amassed a 108-15 record
Razzy: i can't wait
LL Cool Jew: YES!
LL Cool Jew: you will die at the haircuts
LL Cool Jew: if you haven't finished it already we'll watch some after kells
LL Cool Jew: (kells)
Razzy: TOTALLY
Razzy: (kells back atcha)
Anyway, I guess after tearing it up on "Two-a-Days," this Rush Propst character, much like Coach Kilmer, was found out for his less-than-savory Machiavellian efforts to win at all costs. While Coach Kilmer was sent slinking away in disgrace by The Mox for his teleological attitude toward unethical cortisone shots for temporarily repairing injured joints, Rush Propst, however, went out with a bang. After a 45-minute press conference/public apology delivered in full Buccaneers regalia, the public knew that Propst had spied on other teams a la Bill Belichick, played ineligible players in other games, forced teachers to change players' grades, pulled some dodgy financial shenanigans, and had an affair which resulted in a bastard child which resulted in him supporting a second family in another town. Okay, he denied everything except his bastard, but come on...the other stuff is probably true as well. And all the while, he was starring in a reality show on MTV and hubristically believing his ass wouldn't get caught. I'm actually not sure whether I should applaud or condemn him. One thing is for sure, though, and that is that I cannot fucking WAIT to get my "Two-a-Days" DVDs from LL Cool Jew.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, correspondence, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, movies, sportsmen, TV
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Britney Spears
DOB: December 2, 1981
Occupation: trainwreck
Hometown: Kentwood, Louisiana
Current residence: Malibu, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: While Britney is a Cheeto dust-encrusted, bloated, meth-addled shadow of the hot piece of ass she once was, it's Halloween, and she was my muse this year! So even though she'd have to convince me to do her entire supply of meth to hit that fatness (although not like I should talk, see below), I have to salute Britney for her inspiring me to spend all of the Halloween party I went to this weekend doing Britney-type stuff that was the epitome of well-mannered, decent, ladylike behavior and typical of what people can expect from me and the mother of the year out in California. You know, using a deft combination of Starbucks and macrobrewed beer to round out my waistline and attract lesbian interest:
