Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Calling in gay
Today is this "Day Without A Gay" protest, and I suppose that as an openly bisexual woman I should be calling in gay right now.
I guess this whole thing was dreamed up after a couple of homos read Lysistrata and noticed that the Day Without Immigrants got a lot of press attention. Specifically the "H8" that this jam is protesting is proposition 8, the California voter initiative banning gay marriage, and all the douchebag losers who support it under the pretense that civilization will crumble if gays are allowed to get married. I mean, if gays can get married then they will be TEACHING IN SCHOOLS that gays are equal citizens entitled to the same rights as everyone else! Furthermore, if perverts like the hommasekshuls can get hitched, so can anyone! People will start marrying their siblings! Or pets! As Dr. Peter Venkman once said, "Dogs and cats, living together...MASS HYSTERIA!" At least these are the dire consequences that the pro-prop 8 people are suggesting necessitate their attempts to strip the gays of their basic human rights. Anyone with half a brain can tell that proposition 8 is not about "protecting marriage" so much as providing homophobes with legal justification for discriminating against us.
I'm all for saying a great big "fuck you" to the intolerant dickbags that want to spend so much time trying to keep us queers from having the same basic civil rights as everybody else, but I'm just not sure "calling in gay" is the way to do so. For one thing, if I "call in gay," the only thing I'm interfering with is my own progress through graduate school. I have no idea if my PI (boss) knows that I'm bisexual, as I've never formally sat him down and said, "Oh, by the way, I like snatch sometimes." He certainly wouldn't care one way or the other, but he'd also probably be confused about why I was taking the day off even if I explained it. He knows how much work I have to do before I graduate, and since I'm not planning on marrying anyone of either gender anytime soon, the only thing I should be doing is a fuckload of mouse experiments. Although I'm pretty sure that here in fag-friendly New York I'm not in a state where I can be fired (or, more accurately, expelled) for my sexual orientation, I still can't really take the day off from lab to go volunteer somewhere. Also, I can't alternatively refuse to spend any money today. I spend as little money as possible anyway because I'm ridiculously poor, but I have to get coffee. That isn't an option.
I'd be happy to educate people about the Employment Non-Discrimination Act or contact Rep. Charles Rangel or Senators Schumer and Clinton (and Caroline Kennedy, if necessary) to voice my support for said bill, as the Day Without A Gay website suggests I should do in lieu of playing hooky for gay marriage. In spite of my selfish desire to go work today, and my generally cynical attitude about life, I do feel very strongly about gay rights and equality. Gays seem to be the one group that it's still legally and socially acceptable to withhold civil rights from, primarily because a bunch of religious types want to impose their beliefs on everyone else. Granted, these same religious types like to claim that gays are doing exactly that by fighting for marriage rights, although I would argue that according to the U.S. Constitution and judicial precedent, this fight is about rights that we already have on paper. In 1967, the Supreme Court invalidated laws against racial intermarriage in Loving v. Virginia, noting that marriage to the partner of a person's choosing is "one of the vital personal rights essential to the orderly pursuit of happiness." The last time I checked the Constitution, the "pursuit of happiness" was described as an "inalienable right." I interpret this as meaning that marriage to anybody–including someone of the same sex–is protected by the Constitution and any state laws prohibiting it should be invalid. Of course, I assume that until the Supreme Court throws down on this issue, that's all up for debate.
Although I'm not calling in gay today, I'd like to do something that for me is equally rare: encourage activism. Normally I think social activism is for hippies and annoying Smith girls, but I don't think these religious cocksuckers should get to decide which of my civil rights should be imposed upon because they don't want their children to learn tolerance in schools, or because they are somehow threatened by gays being afforded basic human rights. I resent being told that "protecting marriage" is somehow different and more admirable than "God Hates Fags," or that being gay is somehow undeserving of equal treatment under the law. My lazy ass is even going to write a letter to my elected representatives about it (although I will try to avoid using terms such as "cocksucker", "douchenozzle", or "dickbag" in my correspondence). If you can't call in gay, I strongly recommend you do the same.
Labels: assholes, lezbollah, politics, vulgar display of faggotry
Friday, November 14, 2008
Supreme Court rules 5-4 against Hayden Panettiere
I've never watched "Heroes," but that hasn't stopped me from hating Hayden Panettiere. First off, "Heroes" looks like a dumb show, and second, this dumb bitch was annoying me before she could vote. About a year ago, Hayden decided to get together with her whale-saving friends to make a failed attempt at disrupting a traditional Japanese long-pole dolphin hunt. LL Cool Jew's "low-simmer distaste...overboiled into full-fledged disgust" at this incident to the point that she actually took a moment to douchebag her. I proceeded to get even more irritated with her when she decided to open up her dicksucking hole during the democratic primaries and declare her allegiance for whichever candidate loves the whales. That irritation grew into a heartfelt deathwish once she started trashing my ancestral homeland. Now, Hayden has managed to piss off an even more august body of critics than myself and LL Cool Jew. Specifically, she has gotten on the bad side of these respectable titans of constitutional justice:
Yes, the other day, the United States Supreme Court ruled 5-4 against Hayden Panettiere. Okay, so of COURSE David Souter and Ruth Bader Ginsburg dissented entirely, but I can't trust a bitch who wears a doily around her neck anyway. And okay, FINE, they weren't exactly ruling against Hayden Panettiere so much as the Greenpeace hippie types trying to stop the Navy from playing with their underwater sonar equipment, but they basically said a big "fuck you" to echolocating whales off the coast of southern California. Assuming that Hayden's dumb ass decides to put down her elderly Japanese fisherman-disrupting surfboard and pick up a newspaper, she might recognize that it's not just a handful of rural folk from other cultures wreaking havoc on her beloved whales. It's the entire United States Navy, and her precious cetaceans aren't going to get in the way of the War on Terror.
Of course, Hayden is probably too busy showing off her coochie-cutter boxer briefs to Ellen Degeneres (adding further credence to LL Cool Jew's prophecy that Hayden's whale-loving ways doesn't mean she doesn't have a seat saved at the sushi bar, if you get my drift-net) to pay attention to the Supreme Court's decision that national security is more important than whales jabbering at each other in their John Tesh instrumental-esque language. I'm sure, however, once she realizes that our highest judicial body gave the finger to terrorist whalesong, she'll trade in those Ellen granny panties and taped-up strapless sweetheart top for an ugly sweatshirt demanding that everyone boycott the Navy along with Japanese, Norwegian, and Icelandic exports.
Therefore, before she catches on, I'm going to enjoy my last few remaining days of gloating-over-Hayden-Panettiere sentiment with a nice dolphin-unfriendly tuna melt. It's both a celebration of the Supreme Court owning her bitch ass and a salute to her latent lesbianism. Here's to you, Hayden...or as my whale-devouring Norwegian relatives would say, "Skoal!"
Labels: celebrities, fuck the planet, legal drama, lezbollah, media whores, retard rage, sluts
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
And may we officially welcome you to the clam bake, Linds
Well over a year ago, my BFF LL Cool Jew astutely observed Lindsay Lohan's Smith College hat and postulated that indeed she had pulled up a seat at the sushi bar with clam-digging DJ Samantha Ronson. I concurred that Lindsay Lohan had most likely decided that she liked her tacos pink, and spent all the time since highlighting evidence (like dispatching missives from rehab signed "Lindsay Ronson" and making out on random yachts on the French riviera and talking marriage) supporting our theory.
Of course, we weren't the only ones promoting this hypothesis. The buzz about Samantha Ronson getting face-deep in Lohan's firecrotch really exploded when scenes like this started occurring regularly, contradicting Fat Joe's (unbelievable and totally nast) claim that Lindsay Lohan is his "O-jam":
However, the other night Sam called into "Loveline" to talk about how DJ AM's face has melted off, and because like any good lesbian couple these two may as well be conjoined, Linds was listening in and snagged the phone at one point. She then confirmed that indeed they moved Sam's turntables into Lindsay's condo many menses ago and have been delighting in their season tickets to the Sparks ever since. LL Cool Jew and I immediately took to bragging about how we SO called it.
LL Cool Jew: lezlo confirms relationship!!!
Razzy: i know i saw
Razzy: i mean, so anticlimactic
Razzy: like "i hope dj am gets better. duh we're gay"
LL Cool Jew: LOL
Razzy: but let's be real
Razzy: WE knew she had a reserved table at the sushi bar the day she donned that smith college hat!
LL Cool Jew: i love how their nine-month relationship counts as "a very long time" in Lohan Years
Razzy: 9 months?
Razzy: haven't they been having tacos for two for like 3 years?
Razzy: you first spotted that smith hat in like 2005 or 2006!
Razzy: oh nevermind, that was may 2007
LL Cool Jew: TOTALLY!
Razzy: according to my blog date
Razzy: so one year at least!
LL Cool Jew: we should crow about that for the rest of our lives
Now it is even more official than our respective Smith College diplomas: LL Cool Jew and I have lesbadar beyond reproach, and we can spot a pair of boobmashers long before the story hits the mainstream press. Our gayelle detection skills are more precise than an atomic fucking clock. Seriously, we can pick a Birkenstock jock out of a crowd from a mile away even if she's wearing a sickeningly expensive pair of Louboutins and a set of cocksucker leggings instead of something sensible and shapeless. I suspect that LL Cool Jew is correct when she notes that we should crow about how on point we are when it comes to picking muff divers out of a lineup for the rest of our lives. I have no doubt that we will.
Labels: celebrities, lezbollah, LL Cool Jew, media whores, sluts
Friday, September 12, 2008
This is why internet dating is for losers
I have a firm and unimpeachable policy against internet dating. Partly this is because after acquiring a zillion unsolicited rejects from Friendster a few years back, I realized that the majority of people trolling for dates online are hideous degenerates I wouldn't want to stand next to on the subway, much less meet under romantic pretexts. Validating this is my now-passé MySpace account, the inbox of which is regularly filled with tempting solicitations like these:
Uh, "muah" to you too. Consider that a kiss OFF. Why, indeed.
Is that a hint, Justin? You want me to Yahoo messenger you? Sorry, but apart from my oft-referenced beauty, I am not sure how much I'd have to chat about with a fella whose handle is "Sweeetdicwilly." Usually because guys who imply they answer to a name like that usually have a dic/willy that is anything but "sweeet."
Well, that's a nice sentiment. I cute and good looking. I also, unfortunately for this dude, have an annoying habit of expecting my correspondents to use punctuation. I am indeed a "very chill cool person" but I'm somewhat of an intellectual elitist in the sense that I expect my paramours to have mastered the basics of second grade grammar.
This is in reference to the picture of me straddling a male stripper's face. I'd like to remind Fat Joe here that the gentleman in that photograph was paid to do that. Although I can't see what Joe looks like from the neck down, I am willing to wager that he doesn't quite have the physique of Brad the Butterface Stripper and thus can't get into that line of work. Keep wishing, Joe.
Well, I don't get 200 e-mails like that a day, but I have banged a few lawyers here and there. In fact, it would probably benefit my cause to bang a lawyer with some expertise in online free speech and defamation law, given some of my history with crazy dickheads and the civil court system. However, given that this message completely failed to persuade me to MySpace him back, I can't imagine that this guy would do much to persuade a judge or jury on my behalf in court. Not to mention I've never met a fuckworthy guy of any profession who essentially begged me to return his social networking message. PASS.
I'm the sexiest woman on all of MySpace? Even sexier than Tila Tequila? NO WAY! Too bad that given that overcompensating muscly topless photo of George, I'm willing to bet that he has THE smallest penis on this whole damn site! Wow!!!
Ah, yes, you've got to love the guys trying to fix up a threesome on MySpace. They're the ones who figure that dropping a few keywords like "naughty" and "curious" are a surefire method to get any bisexual chick into their pants. And even though this guy looks like a bizarre amalgam of a fisherman from "Deadliest Catch" and a contestant on "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," I just can't be persuaded to go "play with" anyone who doesn't know that "a lot" is TWO WORDS. Besides, like I'm going to the Bronx. I broke up with a guy once because he moved to the Bronx. Well, that, and he had weird nipples, didn't know how to use a condom, and said "cummed" instead of "came" (which REALLY bothered me for some reason), but the dealbreaker was the ride to the end of the D train I'd have to take to see him. Fuck that.
Apparently not. But that's probably because I don't e-flirt with small children.
Well, thank God. I am glad that my looking good in all of my pictures is something to laugh out loud about.
Uh, "muah" to you too. Consider that a kiss OFF. Why, indeed.
Is that a hint, Justin? You want me to Yahoo messenger you? Sorry, but apart from my oft-referenced beauty, I am not sure how much I'd have to chat about with a fella whose handle is "Sweeetdicwilly." Usually because guys who imply they answer to a name like that usually have a dic/willy that is anything but "sweeet."
Well, that's a nice sentiment. I cute and good looking. I also, unfortunately for this dude, have an annoying habit of expecting my correspondents to use punctuation. I am indeed a "very chill cool person" but I'm somewhat of an intellectual elitist in the sense that I expect my paramours to have mastered the basics of second grade grammar.
This is in reference to the picture of me straddling a male stripper's face. I'd like to remind Fat Joe here that the gentleman in that photograph was paid to do that. Although I can't see what Joe looks like from the neck down, I am willing to wager that he doesn't quite have the physique of Brad the Butterface Stripper and thus can't get into that line of work. Keep wishing, Joe.
Well, I don't get 200 e-mails like that a day, but I have banged a few lawyers here and there. In fact, it would probably benefit my cause to bang a lawyer with some expertise in online free speech and defamation law, given some of my history with crazy dickheads and the civil court system. However, given that this message completely failed to persuade me to MySpace him back, I can't imagine that this guy would do much to persuade a judge or jury on my behalf in court. Not to mention I've never met a fuckworthy guy of any profession who essentially begged me to return his social networking message. PASS.
I'm the sexiest woman on all of MySpace? Even sexier than Tila Tequila? NO WAY! Too bad that given that overcompensating muscly topless photo of George, I'm willing to bet that he has THE smallest penis on this whole damn site! Wow!!!
Ah, yes, you've got to love the guys trying to fix up a threesome on MySpace. They're the ones who figure that dropping a few keywords like "naughty" and "curious" are a surefire method to get any bisexual chick into their pants. And even though this guy looks like a bizarre amalgam of a fisherman from "Deadliest Catch" and a contestant on "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," I just can't be persuaded to go "play with" anyone who doesn't know that "a lot" is TWO WORDS. Besides, like I'm going to the Bronx. I broke up with a guy once because he moved to the Bronx. Well, that, and he had weird nipples, didn't know how to use a condom, and said "cummed" instead of "came" (which REALLY bothered me for some reason), but the dealbreaker was the ride to the end of the D train I'd have to take to see him. Fuck that.
Apparently not. But that's probably because I don't e-flirt with small children.
Well, thank God. I am glad that my looking good in all of my pictures is something to laugh out loud about.
Man, if I had a dollar for every time someone on MySpace saluted me with "hey sexy," I'd be a very rich woman. Clearly all the Razzy Haters who like to tell me that I'm fat, old, or ugly haven't been spending enough time perusing my MySpace profile.
Anyway, between the random propositioning on MySpace and the rejects of yore from Friendster, I pretty much decided that if this is the kind of dating scene that materializes without even trying, I can't even imagine the kind of freaks that are on actual dating sites. This supposition has been verified by every friend I know who has tried online dating. Sure, a few of my friends have met the occasional awesome person this way, but they had to kiss a LOT of proverbial frogs first. I've heard all sorts of stories. One of my friends met someone who was actually a porn producer recruiting new talent. Another friend met someone who claimed that he "didn't like fun." My lesbian apprentice Twathopper has made one disastrous crazy bitch acquaintance after another thanks to her forays into online dating. In fact, the only time she met a chick who WASN'T crazy, they became platonic friends and I ended up banging her. Otherwise, Twathopper has racked up a resumé full of lunatics, but this didn't stop her from going online with a fresh sense of hope that maybe–just MAYBE–this time she might meet a nice, normal girl who was down to watch some female singer/songwriters performing live indie folk music and not cause her too much trouble.
Unfortunately, she didn't get past signing in to Match.com before being repelled by the twats on there. She first found this profile, and I think it identifies the exact problem with online dating: a complete lack of touch with reality on the part of the people engaged in this activity.
Yes, how can I make myself look attractive for all the lonely single lesbians on Match.com? I KNOW! I'll style myself like I just walked off a box of Massengill and give myself the most obnoxiously pretentious screen name possible. Nothing turns on the ladies more than a recently douched "artsysociologis" who has conquered that not-so-fresh feeling.
Once again, I firmly espouse my strong "internet dating is for losers" stance. If you want to get laid, just suck it up like a normal, socially functional human being and go get drunk at a bar!
Labels: gross, lezbollah, MySpace, oh the horror, real-life rejects, sluts
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Daily Douchebag: dumb dyke-alike lesbians offended by me
DOB: looked to me like around 1984
Occupation: getting offended
Hometown: probably somewhere in the Midwest that allowed them to develop such massive chips on their shoulders
Current residence: I'm going to take a wild guess and say Park Slope, Brooklyn, New York
Douchebaggery: The other night, I attended my usual Tuesday night bar trivia (where my team took the top prize for the second week in a row–HOLLA!). Next to our barside table, a pair of lesbians had bellied up to play trivia with the bartender's assistance. I took one look at these bitches and knew I wasn't going to like them. I obviously had no problem with the fact that they're gay, as I've got my own reserved seat at the sushi bar. I knew I wouldn't like them because of the type of lesbian they both were, which I know well from Smith College. They both looked like they were having a Hoegaarden to prefunk for a Dolores O'Riordan impersonator convention and were regarding everyone with the same insufferably condescending expression, as if any moment they were about to break out with a furious passive-voice tirade about everyone else's heteronormative ideals. They were the kind of dykes who act like they invented lesbianism, and treat their queerness as their sole distinguishing trait. They were so into clubbing everyone over the head with their politicized muff-diving inclinations that their trivia team was even cleverly named "The Lesbians."
After destroying The Lesbians at trivia, we turned our attention to Olympic women's gymsnatchtits. I started going off about my desire to do the nasty with Nastia Liukin, and discussed her merits versus LL Cool Jew's designated crush Alicia Sacramone. When these ladies both fucked up their floor routines, I said something like, "Don't worry, ladies, you can find comfort by sticking your faces in each other's twats back at the athlete's village." At this point, Lesbian #1 leaned over to me and demanded, "Excuse me, but are you a lesbian?" I could tell that she was about to call me a homophobe if I answered in the negative.
"I'm bisexual," I said bitchily. "WHY?"
Lesbian #1 didn't give any answer for demanding to know my sexual orientation prior to bitching at me for making assumptions about Alicia Sacramone's pussy-eating predilections. Instead, she turned to Lesbian #2 and exchanged a flurry of scathing whispers. They were probably thrown, as on one hand, they couldn't call me a homophobe since I just freely admitted that I eat at the clam bake. On the other, they probably didn't consider me a wholly legitimate gay person since I allow evil men to pollute my sacred female space with their patriarchal penises. I shrugged and went back to addressing the Sapphic sexual practices of Team USA, after underscoring my bisexuality by making out with CuteClothes for their viewing pleasure (and my personal gratification...CuteClothes is a hot-ass bitch.)
The Lesbians settled their tab and prepared to leave. As they were stomping out, Lesbian #2 said (while walking quickly past) to me, "Just so you know, what you were saying was, like, really offensive." Then she tried to keep walking.
Oh no the bitch didn't just try to give me an ambulatory dressing-down! I wasn't having that, so I said, "No, HOLD UP, bitch. You don't get to just walk away from that. That offends ME. What the fuck business do you have being offended by what I'm saying? I wasn't even talking to you!"
"You can't just talk about whether those women are lesbians. You have no right to discuss lesbian issues in a straight bar!"
I don't have the right to discuss lesbian issues in a straight bar? Last time I checked the Bill of Rights, there weren't any exceptions to the First Amendment specifying that, especially considering these twats wore their lesbianism like a damn power suit. "That's pretty awesome coming from a bitch who named her trivia team 'The Lesbians'!" I retorted.
"That's different," she said. "We were being funny!"
"And I wasn't?" Sha right. I'm way funnier than these humorless cunts. "I see...only YOU and your dyke-alike are allowed to talk about gay chicks in this 'straight bar.' That makes a lot of sense. You're not only dumb, you're also a hypocrite! That offends ME."
This didn't go over well. Probably my use of the word "dyke," pointing out her hypocrisy, and implying that she wasn't smart all combined to make this professionally angry bitch REALLY mad. She unleashed a torrent of roundabout "like, that is so wrong" gender politics babble, and eventually implied that since I was sitting at a table of three other heterosexual chicks and one dude, I was not in a position to discuss the taboo topic of hot girl-on-girl.
"Really? A table full of straight girls, huh?" I turned to my table. "Ladies, raise your hand if you are gay." I thrust my hand in the air, and was joined in asserting my enthusiasm for pussy by CuteClothes and Twathopper. "See, I have more lesbians in my entourage than you do. I guess nobody told us we aren't allowed to mention it here in this 'straight bar.'"
Lesbian #2 couldn't argue with our numbers, so she instead changed the subject to the fact that she thinks I'm a chauvinist pig. "You were talking about those women like OBJECTS. Sexuality is a very powerful and complex blah blah blah blah...and you were just, like, CHEAPENING it. That's just what men do!"
I was about to snap back that I love men and she would hardly be the first to point out my many masculine qualities, but at that point the bartender told us to break it up. "Alright, Sappho, back to Brooklyn with you," I said. "We can continue this next week if you deign to leave the Isle of Lesbos for these straighter pastures so we can kick your flat ass in trivia again."
"Oh, WE'LL BE BACK!" she shot at me, and grabbed her girlfriend and stormed out.
"I look forward to it!" I shouted after her. I really do look forward to her return. I used to get in arguments with uppity women's studies lesbians who needed to be taken down a peg all the time back at Smith, and it's been too long since I've had a good old-fashioned Razzy Crude Cussout versus Queer Studies Gibberish smackdown. Please come back to the Joshua Tree next Tuesday so I can own you again, Tegan and Sara!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, lezbollah, ranting, retard rage
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Katy Perry
Name: Katheryn Hudson
DOB: October 25, 1984
Occupation: dumbass
Hometown: Santa Barbara, California
Current residence: Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: When I was visiting my friend LL Cool Jew a while back in New Orleans, we were driving around and there was a commercial on the rap station (which in the Crescent City is basically an all-Lil' Wayne channel). "Let's listen to the teenager station!" she said, and changed the channel. Then that "I Kissed a Girl" song came on the radio. LL Cool Jew stopped compulsively twirling her hair and a look of horror came on her face as she listened to the lyrics.
"You're my experimental game?" LL Cool Jew asked. "Is this for fucking real?"
"Dude, this is like the #1 download on iTunes, and it has been for a while," I said.
"It's not what good girls do? I hope my boyfriend don't mind it?!" LL Cool Jew continued, looking progressively more disgusted. "I didn't know exploitive faux lesbianism was the new rebellion!"
"Go figure, dude," I said. "Thanks to Tila Tequila, all the dumb bitches on MySpace are now aware that making out with chicks is a great way to get guys' attention."
LL Cool Jew continued to shake her head with a look of stern disapproval on her face (thank God she didn't hear Katy Perry's OTHER song, "Ur So Gay"), and cleansed our musical palette by switching back to the Lil' Wayne channel. She's also not the first of my friends to find Katy Perry's ode to dyke-to-be-liked offensive. FalloniusMonk summed it up perfectly. "Enough of this Katy Perry horseshit. This isn't about Chapstick. It's about pussy."
I think that myself and all my friends with an ounce of gayness are deeply annoyed that a former gospel singer like Katy Perry has appropriated lesbianism as some kind of cheap ploy for attention. Although I generally bust on lezzies regularly and act very cavalier about my predilection for some hot girl-on-girl, being (partially) gay is still a struggle sometimes. When I was trying to cope with being a lesbian teenager in Catholic school, I read a lot of (Smith alumna) Sylvia Plath and filled about fifty notebooks with appalling poetry and spent a lot of time crying. I felt like a freak and my psychotic ex-girlfriend did little to make coming to terms with my sexuality any easier. Even as an adult, it took me a long time to admit to being bisexual, and sometimes that is still difficult to explain to people. Hearing Katy Perry sing about it like it's a fucking trucker hat or a vintage t-shirt or some other lame edgy hipster accessory makes me want to smack a bitch for her audacity.
What I think is even more irksome is the fact that all the kiddies have latched onto Katy Perry's "Look at me, I made out with some random chick" schtick like it's some kind of anthem for nonconformist rebellion. An entire generation of Ramones shirt-wearing emo assholes now think that dyking out is tantamount to Manic Panic hair dye or studded belts in terms of showing their boyfriends how fucking original and countercultural they are. Memo to Katy Perry: you are not Kathleen Hanna, and you're not doing lesbians any favors with your bullshit. You are a disingenuous, fake-ass bitch, and you make it harder for those of us who not only like kissing girls, but like fucking them too. Furthermore, you haven't discovered anything new or groundbreaking. You've just popularized what pornographers have known for years. Most guys like watching girls hook up with other girls. It's not novel or unique, and it only serves to teach the knuckle-dragging fucktards who listen to Z100 that it's acceptable to trivialize lesbianism for the sake of obnoxious attention whoredom.
I have no problem with people experimenting sexually, or talking about it. What I do have a problem with is Katy Perry taking decades of struggles for gay rights and reducing it to the MTV audience's equivalent of a wrestling gimmick. Until she writes a song called "I Ate a Pussy," Katy Perry needs to go back to shopping at Hot Topic and shut the fuck up.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, lezbollah, retard rage, sluts
Monday, August 04, 2008
Twathopper dodges an ugly fake-lesbian bullet
My lesbian apprentice Twathopper has had a terrible time meeting decent girls, and initially I attributed this to her fishing in the most stagnant, appalling of all online dating sites: nerve.com. This has netted her boring cupcake-baking marathon bloggers, cancer-faking professional babysitters, and militant lesbians into feigned lactation play. However, she's asked me a million times about how she's supposed to meet "normal" lesbians if NOT on the internets, because it's not like there's a bunch of girls running around the bars with signs reading "Hello, My Name is Lesbian." Her visits to lesbian bars have been disastrous. First, she went to Cattyshack with a straight couple, and "straight-up cereally bugged" and fled when a cute girl approached her. Then, I told her that maybe it would be better if she didn't have an audience, and took her to Cubby Hole with me. I assured her I wouldn't be all "let's watch Twathopper hit on girls" because I would be too busy hitting on girls myself, and at the very least she could follow my lead. Unfortunately, both our trips to the Cubby Hole ended badly. The first started off promising, with me chatting up a couple semi-hot chicks about "The L Word" (which I've never seen, and which normally would make me roll my eyes and say "how predictable," but I can bullshit about lesbian chic to set a good example and possibly get laid myself), but ultimately turned frightening and resulted in a terrified escape from a pushy bulldyke who locked me in her sights and proceeded to assault me with Jamba Juice giftcards. The second time was after Pride, where, while I was being invited to join some skank at an orgy-at-sea, Twathopper was feeling sad and depressed. I declined the offer to join a bacchanal on the Hudson and took my little apprentice home for pizza and Bev Niner.
Therefore, I told Twathopper that if the bar scene isn't going to work for her, she has to meet lesbians the same way everyone else meets people: through friends, at parties, at work, at work events, or wherever else you might be able to socially network in life. "Don't you know any lesbians?" she asked. "You did go to Smith College!"
"Yes, of course I know lesbians, dude," I said. "The problem is, they're all coupled up! You know how the lezzies roll. Most of the time it's first date, then cohabitate."
I spent a while racking my brain trying to think of some hot single lesbians who Twathopper hadn't already met, and couldn't think of any. I figured it couldn't hurt to throw out a wide net, so I asked another dude I was friends with at the time. I used to call him DanRubin on this site, but he was really mean to me and no longer deserves a Bev Niner-based Razzy name. Since I think he's a total fucking asshole because he hurt my feelings, made me cry, and inspired my breaking out some old lesbian poetry, I'm going to instead refer to him as "Minuteman." Not only did he go to UMass, but this is an accurate description of his manly prowess or lack thereof in the bedroom. At the time, however, he and I were still friends and we were IM-ing, and considering he was always trying to have threesomes (and failing, since I know from experience that a fella needs more than three thrusts' worth of stamina to please one woman, much less two), I thought he might at least know some ladies who had considered the idea of banging a girl. At any rate, I figured it didn't hurt to ask:
Razzy: dude do you know any cute lesbians who are looking to be set up on a date?
Minuteman: nope
Razzy: doh
Minuteman: i know a kinda geeky girl who's curious to experiment with girls
Razzy: hmmm
Razzy: this is not for me by the way
Razzy: my lesbian trainee is having trouble meeting other lesbians
Razzy: is that the girl you were trying to have a threesome with?
Minuteman: yeah
Minuteman: she was down but the other girl chickened out
Razzy: loser
Razzy: well my friend loves tori amos and solstice-ass shit like that
Razzy: she just came out as a lesbian
Razzy: but she has yet to close the deal
Razzy: i have given her advice and advice and advice
Razzy: i even instructed her step-by-step on "how-to" perform oral on a chick
Razzy: but she lets these dumb broads she goes out with spend all their time talking about their feelings
Razzy: so i'm trying to get her laid
Minuteman: nice
Razzy: and i don't do mercy fucks so i'm not going to handle it myself
Minuteman: can you see this profile
Minuteman: [some bitch's Facebook profile with a pic featuring this Brobdingnagian girl in boxy hipster glasses posing with a shorter girl sporting an absolutely ginormous set of tits]
Razzy: yes
Minuteman: the girl in the glasses is the wanna be lesbian
Razzy: hmmmm
Razzy: and jesus, she's tall
Razzy: the shorter girl has a hot rack
Minuteman: i agree
Razzy: i guess the glasses girl isn't ugly
Minuteman: she has a sweet body and is very horny
Minuteman: i like both those qualities
Razzy: yes those are both admirable
Razzy: she does appear to have a hot bod
Razzy: well, does she want to go hang out with a trainee lesbian to experiment with?
Minuteman: i told my wanna be lesbian friend that your friend would contact her through facebook if interested
Razzy: what?!
Razzy: oh shit, i don't know how that will work
Razzy: i'll have to give twathopper a real pep talk
Razzy: half her problem is nerves
Razzy: is your friend down?
Minuteman: she's in training too
Minuteman: it'll be fun
Razzy: i'm trying to write a letter right now
Razzy: for twathopper to send this broad
Razzy: ugh in spite of trying to convince twathopper this sounds like a great idea
Razzy: i NEVER cold call pussy like this on facebook
Minuteman: do you want her real email address
Razzy: no that's even creepier
Minuteman: word
Razzy: what do you think of this:
Razzy:"This may seem kind of weird since we've never met, but to make a long story short, my friend Razzy was talking to her friend Minuteman, and they seemed to think we might get along. I don't usually do this, but do you want to test this theory over drinks sometime?"
Minuteman: perfect
Razzy: it's not creepy or weird?
Minuteman: A. is there a way to do this that isn't creepy or weird
Razzy: i know
Minuteman: B. Who cares? it's not us
As it turned out, Twathopper finally mustered the gumption to Facebook message this chick amidst a lot of "OMGOMGOMGOMGs" sent my way on Gchat. Naturally, the finely-tuned snippet of game I lent her worked, at least at first. This chick agreed to meet her, and it turns out that she and Twathopper had some professional interests in common. Twathopper does PR, and at the time, one of her clients was a luggage company. This chick wrote for a luggage magazine or something, so they exchanged a few flirtatious e-mails and actually agreed to get together and discuss baggage on their first date. If that's not lesbian romance, I don't know what is.
Unfortunately, like most straight "curious" girls without an enthusiastic guy around to hassle them, BaggageBitch decided that lesbianism was more the stuff of fantasies for her. She sent Twathopper an e-mail the day of their much-anticipated date, and claimed that she broke her toe and was immobilized. Twathopper and I both suspected that what actually broke was more likely her nerve. We both said, "Fuck that cowardly wannabe dyke and the one-pump chump Minuteman dick she rode in on!" and directed our energies elsewhere. Eventually, Twathopper did get laid, and she's currently scouting several prospects for further conversation about Ingrid Michaelson/advanced muff diver certification.
Well, as it turns out, Twathopper lucked out big time. On Friday night, Twathopper was going to the Yankees game, and sent me the following text: "Dude i walked past that baggagebitch chick on the way 2 the game: She totes recognized me. Haha. It's totes kewl she pussied out: Trust!"
I snickered. BaggageBitch wouldn't be the first person on Facebook to have a profile picture that makes her look way more attractive than she is in real life. I responded: "Ew was she butt?"
Twathopper replied: "Kinda. I mean not butt ug but not cute."
It's pathetic enough to be one of those girls that is always giving lip service to wanting to bang chicks and then backs out when an opportunity presents itself. It's even worse when the chick you ditched on a blind date sees you and thinks you are too ugly (or at least insufficiently cute) to hit anyway. No wonder BaggageBitch looked away and hurried off; she knows Twathopper is way too hot to L her worthless P. We're getting you a hot date to that Tegan and Sara concert yet, Twathopper!
Labels: assholes, lezbollah, Twathopper, you're ugly
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Adventures in Labia-sitting
OK, so I'm trying my damndest (with the ever-so gracious support of Razzy) to be a good solstice. But more importantly, I'm trying to be a successful solstice. And as the summer solstice just came and went, I should be in full bloom now. Alas, if you're staying on top of the awesomeness that is this blog, it's quite apparent that I'm average at best. It's been over a year at proactively courting the ladies and I've come up quite short...dismally short: "FEED ME" short. Although I've earned my stripes, I've yet to find a hot piece that's at the very least available, and at the very most, simply not "Girl, Interrupted" crazy or too scared/confused to pursue anything that has the semblance of an adult, sexual relationship. I'm what many would call a novice lesbian. So much so that often times I feel like I'm 15 years old, in high school and just starting the dating process altogether- which I guess in essence I am. So I might as well write this post like the 15 year-old 'lil girl I've become.
Hi everyone, I'm Twathopper. I like girls. And I just started dating them, but I don't have very good taste when it comes to them. I like crazy girls. And huge nerds. Oh, and since I'm quite new to this, I still mess around with guys. Well, not anymore, but I used to. And I pick much better dudes than I do chicks. Oh well! Here's the rundown of how it's been going since last May:
My first attempt at snaggin a chick: Writersprout. Me framing an article. Enough said. Or better said, I got dicked so hard with no actual "dicking", or L'n P for this paticular matter.
Ex-boyfriend of 6 years: I'll call him WuTang, because he loves them. He has the tattoo to prove it, although he'll deny it. Anyway, we had a nice, one night fling last summer that needed to occur. I was solidly assured I was never, and never would be, in love with him. But I got some, and TRUST I needed it. See above.
Old dude: After that I made some alcohol related decisions, and old dude was one of them. I'm not saying it was a bad decision, because I found him to be quite smooth and good looking, regardless of him being 20 years my senior. Plus he had that Southern charm. Oh did I mention he's a client of mine? Maybe not the best decision I've made, but as soon as he mentioned that he saw Fleetwood Mac in their heyday (ya know when Stevie Nicks was the hottest piece going in the 70s), my pants literally dropped to the floor. But I found out quickly he was more lesbian than I'll ever be when I discovered all he wanted to do was L my P all night. I basically had to tell him to do me. And then even that was solsticey. Jesus.
Sarah Babysits: This was all about the Babysitter who cried "cancer." Before that happened though, I was just a sucker for a hot chick–and she was completely my type. But I'm the asshole who let her hang around off and on for a good 6 months, because I just couldn't believe someone could lie about cancer. Or as I like to say, I just can't wrap my brain around crazy.
The Bartender: During most of these flings, there has been one constant, and that's my bartender friend. He's sweet, normal, good looking, nice to my friends, complimentary, available when I want him to be and scarce when I want that. Oh and did I mention the free drinks? It's awesome and probably everything I'm looking for. Too bad he's a dude and I can't fall for him. Damn.
SuperLez: Two words: FEED ME. Again, enough said. Oh wait, more can be said. What Razzy left out, that I find to be a HUGE, HUGE dealbreaker, is we barely made out. Yep, this bitch found making out to be enormously intimate, and because she just knew it was physical between us, she barely would. LOSER. And if you know me, you know I love to make out, so I barely needed the "Feed Me" excuse to cut her loose. TRUST she ain't no Julia Roberts and I for damn sure am not Richard Gere.
So there you have it, that 's my abysmal year of dating. With the exception of the few nice guys in there (well not really because they're GUYS), the proof is in the solstice pudding that I'm pretty much the worst lesbian around. Or if I wanna be nice to myself, a slow learner. But I'm trying and Razzy is an excellent mentor. So if you guys know any hot, normal, available solstices, send 'em my way and I'm sure I'll be totally uninterested as that's completely not my type.
Labels: hot chicks, lezbollah, sex, sluts, Twathopper
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Talk ridiculously to me
The other day, I was Gchatting with Twathopper and she was telling me some of the more offensive things her ex-paramour Superlez pulled during their brief stint dating. Apparently, although Superlez didn't seem very interested in having real-life sex, she loved phone sex. Granted, this was the lamest phone sex ever, since she spent 99% of it telling Twathopper how cute she was and what she liked about her. In the brief times they actually managed some light physical coupling, Superlez apparently also liked to dirty talk. One time she started bossing Twathopper around about her "cunt," and while the C-bomb doesn't really bother me, it's not one of Twathopper's favorite words and she had to argue with Superlez about whether or not it turned her on. Another time, Superlez pulled one of the grossest, most off-putting instances of dirty talk I've ever heard. Whilst hovering over Twathopper, she said, "Feed me!"
"Uh...what?" Twathopper didn't know what she was talking about.
"Feed me!" repeated Superlez, who then began suckling on Twathopper's tits like some sort of demented baby from hell. This was such a huge turn-off that Twathopper–in spite of being hard-up for lezzie sex–stopped their hooking up in its tracks, because in her words "I'm not into baby fantasies and shit" as having "a grown woman suck on my tits like a fucking infant" was off-putting to say the least. As she put it, "equating the adult act of sex with children" is "not hot at all," and I couldn't agree more. For one thing, I hate kids, and for another...if there's one thing that doesn't go together it's HOT SEX and IMITATING CHILDREN. Another one of my friends was dating this guy a while back, and he used to baby talk all the time. It was mildly disturbing enough that he would routinely say things like "I wuv wu, sweetie-weetie" and stuff like that in front of her friends at bars and restaurants. In the bedroom he was even worse. He would say stuff to her like "Baby, will wu sucky wucky my cocky wocky?" When she told me about this, I thought that if any dude ever said something like that to me, my first response would be, "EW! Oh my GOD, NO! Never again!"
When it comes to dirty talk, there's a fine line between hot and creepy that clearly some people cross with flying leaps. I have certainly engaged in my fair share of dirty talk, but luckily I've never had anyone try to baby talk me in bed. I have, however, on many occasions had some sexy talk turn really fucking funny quickly. Obviously, I'm the kind of person who gets turned on by humor and laughing, so this isn't a problem except in the realm of phone sex. I am terrible at phone sex because I get about two lines deep and start cracking up. In the past I've tried a few times and haven't gotten farther than "...and then I pull your giant, hard cock out of your pants..." before I dissolve into giggles like the totally mature, sophisticated lady that I am. I'm a lot better at dirty talk when I'm actually getting it on, but even then I sometimes can't control myself if something surprisingly hilarious comes out.
For example, the guy who told me that I performed fellatio with a great deal of "flair" made me snicker on his dick, which could have turned into a very bad situation with my gag reflex had I been deep throating rather than doing some between-swallowing head work at that particular moment. I could not control the full belly-laugh that happened when this dude (who I apparently lured back to my web of sin and depavity with my incredibly seductive rendition of the Scorpions' "Wind of Change") blowing his load all over my ass shouted "DRAAAAIIINAGE!" Luckily he had a good sense of humor and wasn't put off by my clutching my side laughing at his money shot move. I've had some other instances of pretty hilarious dirty talk, as well. One of my former booty calls would always start fucking me and demand, "TELL ME ABOUT MY COCK!" I'd then proceed to come up with all sorts of outlandish stuff, like comparing his dick to a Johnsonville brat, telling him to buck like a raging stallion, and complimenting his ability to drill me like a Texas oil rig. Another dude I was dating would always ask me to "play with his chest," which was code for giving him vicious titty twisters. Seemingly pinching his nipples encouraged him to say incredibly ridiculous stuff along the lines of "I'm going to split you in half with my big black snake, girl" and "I'm fucking you so deep my dick's going to come out the top of your head." And yet another dude who was apparently really into artistic ejaculation techniques asked if I wanted some jewelry before giving me a pearl necklace. And yet another Mr. Right Now who I dated for a few months back in Seattle told me that my pussy tasted like the duck sauce Chinese restaurants give you to dip egg rolls in (I disagree...I think my pussy–like most pussy–tastes like a milder version of salt and vinegar potato chips).
I'm somewhat amazed, however, that I seem to have way more stories about this than most of my friends. This is in large part due to the fact that I'm the most open about my sluttery, and I seem to attract ridiculous sexual partners more than my friends. This makes sense, because I'll be the first to admit that I'm pretty ridiculous myself. I asked JerseyGirl, who has done enough silly drunk things to last a lifetime, and the best she could think of was that her boyfriend sometimes says how hot she is "in an 'i'mgonnablowmyloadanyminute' kind of way." I also asked this lovely girl I'll call Tits because she has the hottest natural rack I've ever seen in my life. Tits always has to leave everything early so she can fuck her boyfriend, and while she admitted to trying to convince her boyfriend to let her peg him (he declined), she couldn't think of anything funny that happened with her man. Since she then had to go fuck her boyfriend, I told her to get some dirty talk going on and report back. I have yet to be debriefed. At least FalloniusMonk proved to me that she shares my ability to attract the crazy dirty talk. One time, she was hooking up with some dude who "in the same breath" explained that he was a descendant of Mark Antony and wondered if they could still work together IF THEY WERE MARRIED! Because of their semi-work relationship and his obvious craziness, she elected to never hire him for freelance work again. Another time, "a crazy dyke" asked her if she liked fighter jets in the middle of sex. Sadly, FalloniusMonk did not indicate her love for F-16s by popping in "Highway to the Danger Zone" for the rest of their tryst. Then again, nobody ever accused Kenny Loggins of writing effective lesbian sex jams. Still another time, she fucked some girl in a church parking lot, and the girl asked if she thought Jesus was watching. Well, in Catholic school they taught me that Jesus is basically everywhere, so probably...but I can't imagine he'd be doing anything besides wanking it hard to some hot backseat girl-on-girl in the church parking lot. FalloniusMonk I'm sure came up with some similar don't-worry-about-Jesus-worry-about-lesbian-sex sentiment since she's a pro ho at closing the deal with the ladies, or as she puts it, "Can this just happen? Instead of the Katy Perry horseshit? This isn't about chapstick, it's about pussy!"
Anyway, while it's fun to hit the sheets and do a little dirty talk, in my experience it's actually seldom as dirty as it is either hilarious or creepy. I'm sure some of y'all have stories of your own, and I invite you to share. I suspect that there's a lot more silliness (or possibly creepiness) with the sexiness than sexiness alone. Share, bitches!
Labels: FalloniusMonk, gross, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, lezbollah, perversion, ridiculous absurdity, sex, Twathopper
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: homos
DOB: same as humanity
Occupation: totally ruling
Hometown: everywhere
Current residence: everywhere!
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: So Sunday was Pride, and as always, it was a drunken great time. It's hard to be in a bad mood around thousands of gays during Pride because the atmosphere is so buoyant and joyful. Besides, being part lesbish myself, I have gone through the difficulties that most hommasekshuls probably face at one time or another: feeling like a freak, a pervert, a hellbound sinner, etc. Pride is great because everyone just celebrates who they are without reservation, and has a fucking blast. I have nothing but respect for the way gays can party their faces off with regard to who they are.
What I have less respect for is the proliferation of ugly-ass lesbians. I just do not understand why so many dykes just don't keep themselves up. There were more fat-ass harpies in stretch pants and pizza-faced trolls than I could shake a Pride flag at. While I made good on my promise to Twathopper to point out some of the ladies who did not fall into the category of "butch" or "dykes on bikes," I was less successful in pointing out some regular-looking lesbians who were actually attractive. Before the parade started, J-Sexy, I'mNotRussianGoddammit, Twathopper, Twathopper's friend (who I'll call CuteClothes because she's a snappy dresser...the last time I saw her she was rocking this adorable pair of heels and Sunday she was stunting in this hot-ass strapless dress), and myself went to this place down Seventh Avenue a couple blocks from the parade route for outdoor brunch, and we could not get over the sheer number of lesbians slacking heavily in the personal maintenance department. First off, a lot of ladies need to eat more pussy and less McDonald's, because there were some morbidly obese broads out in force. Unfortunately, said fat-ass broads were the ones who seemed to think that either white lycra stretch pants or a stripper-esque bra/miniskirt combo were appropriate attire for their size 22 asses. Second, a lot of the girls who WOULD be attractive were not making an even minimal effort to keep themselves up. I'd see what appeared from down the street to be a cute girl heading our way, only to realize that girlfriend needs to hit the Proactiv solution something serious when she'd get up close. The general sloppiness of the average lesbian wandering around was emphasized by the impeccably groomed gay men juxtaposed beside them. The group of super bitchy fags at the table next to us heard J-Sexy and I crowing about Tila Tequila's "snap-on tits," instantly became our friends, and we spent a solid hour making fun of the personal style choices of passing lesbians.
"Hey, I'mNotRussianGoddammit," said J-Sexy. "There's a girl for you. She looks kind of alternative and she has short hair."
We all looked to see this girl in a torn, dirty shirt, a pair of stained cutoffs, and a short, tousled mop of greasy hair.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" asked I'mNotRussianGoddammit. "I don't like HOMELESS girls!"
"J-Sexy, that bitch DOES look like a vagrant. And she's wearing a FANNY PACK!" I argued in I'mNotRussianGoddammit's defense.
"Fanny packs are in now! They're retro," said J-Sexy. "And anyway, she's not a vagrant...she's just grunge!"
"Grunge?! What is this, 1993? Dude, sorry, but I left my old Alice in Chains shirt back in my FRESHMAN YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL!" I said to J-Sexy. I felt it was important to argue in I'mNotRussianGoddammit's defense, since she's a hot piece and can certainly do better than indigent lesbians caught in an early '90s time warp.
Anyway, after about two hours of this, we decided to actually go check out the parade. That was thwarted by a sudden torrential rainstorm, from which we took shelter in the nearest bar. Unfortunately, this bar catered so strictly to a male clientele that not only were all the bartenders wearing nothing but tighty whities, there were Sistine Chapel-esque paintings of a host of chiseled, muscle-fag cherubim on every wall and cheesy house music blaring at an eardrum-rupturing volume. "I've got my eye on that vinyl jumpsuit over there," I said to Twathopper, who started laughing, because this is a line that Brandon Walsh used from the season 2 episode of "Beverly Hills, 90210" where Emily Valentine slips U4EA into his Fresca at the "underground club" AKA gay rave the gang attends.
"God, this place is such a sausage fest," noted CuteClothes. At that moment, a group of lesbians walked in to escape the rain, and we noticed that a couple of them were pretty cute. Unfortunately, they were all couples. Typical. I swear, it's easier to find a four-leaf clover growing out of a New York City sidewalk than a lesbian who is both single and attractive.
We finished up our beers, the rain tapered off, and we fled across Christopher Street to Kettle of Fish, a bar that is marginally more lesbish. At least it's a more mixed crowd, anyway, in the sense that there were plenty of unattractive lesbians playing Galaga and watching the Euro Cup final. We proceeded to drink heavily while we waited for my buddy El Polaco to march by with his group of gay Catholics. He came by at the end of the parade, and by that time, we were shitfaced and plastered with "God Made Me Queer" stickers. At that point, we bid goodbye to CuteClothes (too bad, because I was hoping I could work the "So, we both went to Seven Sisters schools...do the math" seduction angle with her), who wisely remembered that it was a school night. The rest of us weren't so smart, and ended up going to Cubby Hole, the dyke bar where I was infamously hassled by the nefarious bulldyke Blu. Luckily, Blu was not in attendance. Less luckily, I was so shitfaced that I decided it would be a great idea to drink J-Sexy's overproof rum straight as we waited in line, resulting in me actually DANCING once I got inside. Not only did I dance, I actually smoked a cigarette inside this tiny closet of a bar, and then proceeded to try to convince Twathopper to actually talk to this girl she thought was cute. Sadly, Twathopper's alcohol consumption had caught up with her and she was rapidly devolving into a gloomy solstice depression. I kept grabbing her chin and readjusting her facial posture, saying, "Chin UP, Twathopper! Nobody wants to L a super-depressed P, girl!" Unfortunately, she was too far gone, so I said goodbye to the girl I met who was trying to talk me into going to an orgy on some boat. It's for the best, because while an orgy might be fun and an awesome story, I probably shouldn't accompany random bitches I just met onto a floating bacchanal full of strange lesbians from which there is no escape short of diving into the Hudson River. I took Twathopper home for some pizza and some good old-fashioned lesbian processing about her feelings to lift her spirits. I even watched a Tegan and Sara video on LOGO with her, and managed to turn her frown upside down once we switched on the choice "Beverly Hills, 90210" episode where Brandon embarks on a self-righteous crusade to block the High Point Center from replacing the Peach Pit.
I may not have gotten laid, and I may not have gotten my apprentice laid, but I know it was a great Pride when I was too fucking hung over and exhausted yesterday to even regale you with the tale and go off about how much the homos kick ass.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, J-Sexy, lezbollah, NYC, Twathopper, vulgar display of faggotry
Monday, June 30, 2008
Post-party depression
I just spent the last two hours trying desperately to type something coherent about Pride, but unfortunately this just wasn't working. I barely managed to type two shoddy paragraphs but alas, I think I might still be drunk. All weekend I probably got a total of five hours sleep. I planned to leave Pride at a reasonable hour yesterday, but then I met this cute bisexual chick who invited me to an orgy, which I had to decline because Twathopper's drunk self was starting to work herself into a gloomy lesbian fugue state. I wound up taking her home to cheer her up with pizza, Miller Lite, and a few well-placed episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210," and while maybe it would have been more impressive to end Pride by participating in an orgy with cute bisexual chicks, I wouldn't be any kind of decent lesbian mentor (or decent friend, for that matter), if I didn't take care of my girl in her time of need. Therefore, I was up late drinking after spending approximately the last 48 hours drinking, and now my elderly almost-thirty-year-old ass is paying the price. In fact, I tried to take a picture of my tits as a substitute for any real content and I couldn't even manage that.
Yeah...I'm a mess. Not even a hot mess, but just a straight-up MESS this morning. I look and feel completely and utterly busted. In fact, I'm physically busted. On Saturday, I ran out of lab through a torrential rainstorm and bit it on the stairs coming out of the building where I work. Luckily my ample (hot) ass cushioned my fall somewhat, but now the aforementioned hot ass is a battered shitshow:
Therefore, I'm going to quit before I get even further behind. Tomorrow I should have gotten my shit together enough to resume my routine of useless bullshittery, but for now I'm just going to pull the old shameless trick of posting links to useless bullshit I wrote before, but you should go ahead and read again. In the spirit of Pride, the theme will be TOTALLY LESBISH!
Building a mystery: I still haven't found this missing vibrator. As an added bonus, there's a whole tangent about how I'm not really bisexual. Obviously I got over that big case of denial.
Three's company: Threesomes are for winners. Trust this.
The proof is in the pussy-loving hat: Note that, based on her Smith College hat, I diagnosed Lindsay Lohan with a case of the carpet munching OVER A YEAR AGO. Yes, you heard it here first!
More slutty lesbian beauty queens!: I'd be way more into the pageant circuit if these bitches actually did more drunken girl-on-girl
Rosie, leave the FUCKING LESBIANS out of it!: Rosie O'Donnell sucks and is a blight on the good name of muff divers everywhere
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Dani from "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila": Some love for every androgyny-loving lipstick lezzie I know
Help out with my strap-on: Thanks to all your helpful advice, I finally did learn how to bang a broad doggystyle
Daily Douchebag: Gayelle: The dumbest new way of saying "lesbian" ever
I'm kind of a lesbian: Bisexuality is confusing
The Same Old Ugly-Ass Broad Kind of Ladies Night: Lesbian parties are SOOOOO lame
Daily Douchebag: Rumors that I've gone totally gayelle: Never fear, fellas...I haven't lost my appetite for kielbasa
Lesbian riot! Go Pioneers!: Oh, those predictably enraged Smith girls.
Daily Douchebag: shrinks: According to my ex-shrink, I'm a tranny!
Labels: alcoholism, excuses, lezbollah, Razzification
Friday, June 27, 2008
LESBIANS, START YOUR VAGINAS!
This weekend is Pride, bitches! I'm especially glad Pride is coming up, because there's no better way to put a spring in your step after a dude treats you shabbily than to go bang a hotter chick than he could ever score (excepting self). Pride is the best pickings in the city, because EVERY lesbian worth her Georgia O'Keefe lilies shows up there. Hell, every gay person goes! The last time I was at Pride a couple years back, I totally flirted with some cute chicks, although then I wasn't yet remembering how fun it is to fuck girls, so I didn't take any action. Now, I'm ready to chat up some chicks and hopefully do what my friends refer to as "L'ing P," our shorthand for "licking pussy." Furthermore, it provides an excellent opportunity for Twathopper, my lesbian apprentice, to find a companion for the Teagan and Sara concert she really wants to attend with a date. Twathopper was a little gloomy about her prospects, so in a super-hot, all-girl, three-way Gchat, JerseyGirl and I doubled up to give her some confidence:
Unfortunately, apart from her lone evening of drunken passion, Twathopper's track record is not so great. She's dated a host of the most ridiculous bitches ever, although part of the problem is the fact that she dug up these obnoxious broads on Nerve.com. First there was Writersprout, a cupcake-loving open mic aficionado who sublets for fun and writes the world's most infinitely boring blog. Then, there was Sarah Babysits, a girl who babysits for a living and who actually faked a rare bone cancer to poke at Twathopper's soft spot for the sick and wounded. This was after she faked a dog bite to cover up a missed "text date" (shaking my head) due to a Vicodin coma. In response, JerseyGirl got hold of Twathopper's phone and texted back "did the dog eat your homework, too?", and Sarah Babysits was so stupid that she actually thought this was flirtatious. When Twathopper dumped her on account of "you need to focus on recovering from the rare Ewing's sarcoma you have, especially since you're being inexplicably treated for it by a gastroenterologist," Sarah Babysits experienced an almost instantaneous remission of her malignancy. Twathopper finally stopped responding to her texts after that. I can hardly blame her, because after months of talking and texting and processing, the thing these bitches had in common beside being incredibly lame is their seeming unwillingness to go further than second base. Twathopper had to get these hoes completely wasted to even be permitted a stray grasp of a shirt-covered breast.
Finally, there was Superlez, and this bitch is a piece of work. On their first date, within five minutes of sitting down with their drinks Superlez informed Twathopper that she'd "never been penetrated by a man." Then, after interrogating Twathopper on her experience or lack thereof, Superlez condescendingly asked her, "Do you have any questions about the community?" I don't recall appointing Superlez spokesperson for every chick who bangs chicks, and I frankly don't want some sort of vagina snob who obviously looks down her nose at bisexuals acting like the orientation supervisor for the girl-on-girl circuit. Twathopper was like, "What community? Lesbians? No!" Frankly, the only question Twathopper ever had about "the community" was "why don't any of these girls ever have sex?" Furthermore, any future questions could be undoubtedly directed toward one of the horde of Smith College graduates Twathopper rolls with. Then Twathopper mentioned that she has lots of straight friends, so Superlez informed her that "you're going to start resenting your hetero friends and their hetero ideals." Hopefully for JerseyGirl's sake, that prediction won't come true. I guess I'm in the clear since Superlez never cast any warnings about resenting friends for their bisexual ideals. I told Twathopper that she should throw that uppity dyke back to the online dating cesspool she pulled her out of, but as usual, she did not heed my advice.
My anti-Superlez stance softened a little when I learned that Twathopper got some finger action from her, and I figured that while she may be obnoxious, maybe she would at least get my apprentice over the figurative hump. Unfortunately, Superlez then decided their bedroom antics were going to plateau there, because she apparently has fewer lesbian skills than I had at 15. I mean, I wrote some appalling poetry back then, but it only took me about a week or two to graduate to L'ing P once we got the fingerbanging routine down. Instead of progressing sexually, Superlez stalled via completely sexless phone sex which Twathopper described as "telling me how hot I was" and "what she liked about me." I am not at all surprised that is an accurate description of lesbian phone sex. I bet that segued into an incredibly sexy description of all the boobmashing they could do. She also did a lot of sexless dirty talk that Twathopper did not appreciate, such as strange routines involving baby talked references to nursing to precede some breast suckling. GROSS. After all this hassle and for all her talk about being the biggest dyke at the sushi bar, Superlez still never went downtown, so Twathopper finally cut her loose.
However, she did not stop stalking Superlez via social networking sites, and yesterday sent me her MySpace page. Twathopper made me swear to the Goddess that I would not post a link to it (although I DESPERATELY wish I could), so I will just have to describe what to me looked like a bullet safely dodged. After squinting to read anything beyond Superlez's annoying profile wallpaper of a group of lesbians white-water rafting, I noticed that her sole interest was under (of course) music, and seemed to be limited to some Lisa Loeb wannabe named Ingrid Michaelson who Wikipedia describes as an "indie-pop singer/songwriter" and is "most notably" famous for having contributed 6 songs on the "Gray's Anatomy" soundtrack. She also counts Marlee Matlin among her "Top Friends," because like every predictable-ass pushy lesbo, Superlez loves "The L Word." She also probably has a crushing handshake and a collection of Dar Williams CDs. Other than that, Superlez just exhibits about fifty million pictures of either herself looking mysterious, or herself posing in various Brooklyn establishments with her new girlfriend who is CLEARLY a Nerve.com find judging by her mousy hipster appearance. She also seems to think that, despite her butt girlfriend, she's still quite the lothario as evidenced by her continued attempts to IM and text flirtatiously with Twathopper. IF ONLY I could post her picture and proceed to–in the words of Lil' Wayne–cool her ass down if she thinks she's hot shit, because while she isn't bad looking, the sheer volume of ridiculous brooding, contrived self-portraits make her as unattractive as her personality does within five minutes of meeting this silly twat.
Anyway, with such a dismal history of dating, I am pretty sure that Twathopper can't do any worse at Pride this weekend than the prostitutes she's already wasted ample time on. I'm sure we can find a slightly better broad than the extracurricular subletters, cancer fakers, and bossy self-appointed lesbian ambassadors she's been messing with. Surely we can find her some nice, normal Tori Amos fan for her to swap Lilith Fair stories with, commence cohabitation, and celebrate their love with a romantic Teagan and Sara concert.
JerseyGirl: Twathopper, tegan and sarah are coming to nyc in octoberNeedless to say, Twathopper's pessimism about her prospects are misguided. However, I can completely understand where her negative energy is coming from. While our previous foray into the lesbian bar scene turned into an escape mission to free me from the clutches of a highly aggressive, Jamba Juice-giftcard toting bulldyke named Blu rather than the sex Twathopper was hoping for, she did manage to finally earn her stripes and L some P. I'm sure she did a great job thanks to my excellent coaching. Now that she's done it once, she wants to do it some more, preferably after listening to some live introspective female singer/songwriters perform their acoustic harmonies.
JerseyGirl: maybe you should buy two tickets, proactively so that you can take a solstice with you
JerseyGirl: oh and actually sigur ros is coming to nyc too
Twathopper: i know about both
Razzy: call me when kells is swinging back this way
Razzy: dude jerseygirl, twathopper probs reads all the music ZINES that tell her these things
Twathopper: hahaha lol ZINES
JerseyGirl: twathopper, i think you should definitely buy 2 tix to tegan and sara
Twathopper: hahahaha
Razzy: yeah cereally
JerseyGirl: buy it and then you can take whatever solstice you are dating at the time
Twathopper: F you jerseygirl!
Razzy: the pussy will be eating out of your pants for those tix
Razzy: from now on you're going to get some decent snatch if it kills me
Razzy: we're gonna find you a GF at pride this weekend
Razzy: TRUST
Razzy: get tix to this show
Razzy: and find some hot twat at pride to squire along with you
Twathopper: let's find the ho first
Twathopper: then get the tix
Razzy: well when do the tix go on sale?
Razzy: if we pull a nice tuna out of the tank at pride for you
Razzy: you'll be living together by next week
Razzy: so problem solved
Razzy: i know how you solstae roll
Twathopper: hahahah lol
Razzy: in fact, you should rent the uhaul now
Twathopper: well i hope it's better than what i saw last year
Razzy: what, at pride?
Twathopper: which was a bunch of old dykes on bikes
Twathopper: and butches everywhere
Razzy: dude every queer in the city comes out for pride!
Razzy: see all the normal-looking girls mixed in with all the crusties?
Razzy: THOSE ARE THE NORMAL LESBIANS
JerseyGirl: i cannot wait to hear stories about l'ing p from bitches you met at pride
Twathopper: oh like me walking around
JerseyGirl: :P
JerseyGirl: haha that's the l p icon
Twathopper: what will i be doing then?
Twathopper: talkin to some chick about tori and live music probz
Razzy: talking to some girl about live music
Razzy: LOL
Twathopper: haha omg!
Razzy: well that'll work
Razzy: you're looking for a keeper
JerseyGirl: omg you guys are in solstice sync
Razzy: with the ladies, i'm all catch-and-release
Razzy: you get in the door, twathopz
Razzy: i get in the pants
Razzy: perf
Unfortunately, apart from her lone evening of drunken passion, Twathopper's track record is not so great. She's dated a host of the most ridiculous bitches ever, although part of the problem is the fact that she dug up these obnoxious broads on Nerve.com. First there was Writersprout, a cupcake-loving open mic aficionado who sublets for fun and writes the world's most infinitely boring blog. Then, there was Sarah Babysits, a girl who babysits for a living and who actually faked a rare bone cancer to poke at Twathopper's soft spot for the sick and wounded. This was after she faked a dog bite to cover up a missed "text date" (shaking my head) due to a Vicodin coma. In response, JerseyGirl got hold of Twathopper's phone and texted back "did the dog eat your homework, too?", and Sarah Babysits was so stupid that she actually thought this was flirtatious. When Twathopper dumped her on account of "you need to focus on recovering from the rare Ewing's sarcoma you have, especially since you're being inexplicably treated for it by a gastroenterologist," Sarah Babysits experienced an almost instantaneous remission of her malignancy. Twathopper finally stopped responding to her texts after that. I can hardly blame her, because after months of talking and texting and processing, the thing these bitches had in common beside being incredibly lame is their seeming unwillingness to go further than second base. Twathopper had to get these hoes completely wasted to even be permitted a stray grasp of a shirt-covered breast.
Finally, there was Superlez, and this bitch is a piece of work. On their first date, within five minutes of sitting down with their drinks Superlez informed Twathopper that she'd "never been penetrated by a man." Then, after interrogating Twathopper on her experience or lack thereof, Superlez condescendingly asked her, "Do you have any questions about the community?" I don't recall appointing Superlez spokesperson for every chick who bangs chicks, and I frankly don't want some sort of vagina snob who obviously looks down her nose at bisexuals acting like the orientation supervisor for the girl-on-girl circuit. Twathopper was like, "What community? Lesbians? No!" Frankly, the only question Twathopper ever had about "the community" was "why don't any of these girls ever have sex?" Furthermore, any future questions could be undoubtedly directed toward one of the horde of Smith College graduates Twathopper rolls with. Then Twathopper mentioned that she has lots of straight friends, so Superlez informed her that "you're going to start resenting your hetero friends and their hetero ideals." Hopefully for JerseyGirl's sake, that prediction won't come true. I guess I'm in the clear since Superlez never cast any warnings about resenting friends for their bisexual ideals. I told Twathopper that she should throw that uppity dyke back to the online dating cesspool she pulled her out of, but as usual, she did not heed my advice.
My anti-Superlez stance softened a little when I learned that Twathopper got some finger action from her, and I figured that while she may be obnoxious, maybe she would at least get my apprentice over the figurative hump. Unfortunately, Superlez then decided their bedroom antics were going to plateau there, because she apparently has fewer lesbian skills than I had at 15. I mean, I wrote some appalling poetry back then, but it only took me about a week or two to graduate to L'ing P once we got the fingerbanging routine down. Instead of progressing sexually, Superlez stalled via completely sexless phone sex which Twathopper described as "telling me how hot I was" and "what she liked about me." I am not at all surprised that is an accurate description of lesbian phone sex. I bet that segued into an incredibly sexy description of all the boobmashing they could do. She also did a lot of sexless dirty talk that Twathopper did not appreciate, such as strange routines involving baby talked references to nursing to precede some breast suckling. GROSS. After all this hassle and for all her talk about being the biggest dyke at the sushi bar, Superlez still never went downtown, so Twathopper finally cut her loose.
However, she did not stop stalking Superlez via social networking sites, and yesterday sent me her MySpace page. Twathopper made me swear to the Goddess that I would not post a link to it (although I DESPERATELY wish I could), so I will just have to describe what to me looked like a bullet safely dodged. After squinting to read anything beyond Superlez's annoying profile wallpaper of a group of lesbians white-water rafting, I noticed that her sole interest was under (of course) music, and seemed to be limited to some Lisa Loeb wannabe named Ingrid Michaelson who Wikipedia describes as an "indie-pop singer/songwriter" and is "most notably" famous for having contributed 6 songs on the "Gray's Anatomy" soundtrack. She also counts Marlee Matlin among her "Top Friends," because like every predictable-ass pushy lesbo, Superlez loves "The L Word." She also probably has a crushing handshake and a collection of Dar Williams CDs. Other than that, Superlez just exhibits about fifty million pictures of either herself looking mysterious, or herself posing in various Brooklyn establishments with her new girlfriend who is CLEARLY a Nerve.com find judging by her mousy hipster appearance. She also seems to think that, despite her butt girlfriend, she's still quite the lothario as evidenced by her continued attempts to IM and text flirtatiously with Twathopper. IF ONLY I could post her picture and proceed to–in the words of Lil' Wayne–cool her ass down if she thinks she's hot shit, because while she isn't bad looking, the sheer volume of ridiculous brooding, contrived self-portraits make her as unattractive as her personality does within five minutes of meeting this silly twat.
Anyway, with such a dismal history of dating, I am pretty sure that Twathopper can't do any worse at Pride this weekend than the prostitutes she's already wasted ample time on. I'm sure we can find a slightly better broad than the extracurricular subletters, cancer fakers, and bossy self-appointed lesbian ambassadors she's been messing with. Surely we can find her some nice, normal Tori Amos fan for her to swap Lilith Fair stories with, commence cohabitation, and celebrate their love with a romantic Teagan and Sara concert.
Labels: JerseyGirl, lezbollah, sex, sluts, Twathopper
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