Thursday, January 07, 2010

 

Thanks be to fucking God (I never got that stupid tattoo)

I managed to escape my teens and twenties without a single tattoo. Mercifully, I do not have a dreamcatcher tramp stamp, or a dolphin leaping over my shoulder, or any random Chinese characters, or ANYTHING subcutaneously airbrushed on my body. This is a good thing, too. All the tattoos I ever wanted to get were extraordinarily lame, and I'm glad I was either too young, too lazy, or too broke to get them.

In high school, while deeply smitten with my girlfriend, I painted the case of my TI-85 graphing calculator with illustrations of the tattoos I was going to get to declare my extreme baby dyke radical feminist views and my obsession with aforementioned girlfriend. I don't remember all of them, but I do recall that I wanted to get an armband tattoo that was a sort of vine of roses entangled with irises because those were our favorite flowers at the time. I painted this all around the perimeter of my TI-85 cover. I also remember that I wanted to get a pink triangle on the bottom of my foot, to "remind me where I stand." That wouldn't have been too bad or noticeable, but lacking that certainly didn't cause me to forget that I like to lick snatch sometimes and I support the civil rights of others who choose to get in on some hot same-sex action.

Later, in my early twenties, LL Cool Jew, Wmania, and myself were going to get matching Georgia O'Keefe deer skulls as a testament to our deep and abiding friendship. I planned on getting this on my right shoulder, LL Cool Jew was going to get it on her chest, and Wmania wanted the classic small-of-back cum catcher. Additionally, we wanted to get "WAR" below this famous reproduction of a decomposed, decapitated cervid, in Eazy-E's Compton hat gangsta font (it is an acronym of our initials). For some reason, we thought such a look was classier than any tattoo we would have opted for in college, and would be a cherished and not remotely regrettable addition to our bodies. After all, who wouldn't disfigure themselves for the sake of friendship?

Sha. Suffice to say, I can only imagine how annoyed LL Cool Jew would have been at her wedding had antlers been sprouting out of the bodice of her Vera Wang wedding gown and despoiling her hot-ass tits at her nuptial celebration. Luckily, those tattoos were all about $250 more than we had budgeted for our exercise in making a permanent physical record of our friendship. Still more luckily, we are all still friends, despite lacking Georgia O'Keefe deer skull tattoos.

In spite of all the dumb ideas I had with regard to body art, there is one tattoo I wanted for a long period of time that I never got. I just never got around to it, but I always figured if I found myself in a position where tattooing made sense, I would ask for that. Over my many years of Catholic education, I developed a fetish for graven images, and my favorite of all time was the sacred heart of Jesus.

At one time, I thought this heart-shaped, briar-encircled Zippo lighter of Christ was an awesome image. It was at once cool, relatively unique, less associated with Latin gangs than the Our Lady of Guadalupe, and scratched my old-timey-Catholic-stuff itch. It was personal, appropriate, and up to my standards, and I wouldn't have to draw it.

It was also the tattoo equivalent of a fucking Ed Hardy shirt. I realized this today, when I went to my favorite internets gossip site and found THIS:

When you realize that Michael Lohan--a convicted felon, estranged deadbeat patriarch of one of the most trainwrecktastic clans currently grasping desperately for a glance of the public eye, and probably the most detestable non-celebrity famewhore on the entire internet-- has your former dream tattoo, and is further flaunting it to the most accursed of bottom-shelf, we-wish-we-were-x17 paparazzi, you can go ahead and thank your lucky stars you never went ahead with that sacred heard of Jesus tattoo. You can also swear on the risen motherfucking Christ whose sacred heart that supposedly is that you never made it a permanent part of your epidermis, as I very nearly did. Bullet DODGED.

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# posted by Razzy @ 10:34 PM 5 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, January 05, 2010

 

Idea #11 for Bono's consideration: GO AWAY

Normally, the New York Times tends to piss me off with its overbearing erudition and pompous undertones. However, I read it anyway, if only because there's nothing more hilarious than reading the Grey Lady's attempts at making a review of a Soulja Boy Tell 'Em album excessively literary. I also like to supplement my knowledge of New York local news from the greatest publication in the history of print journalism (the NY Post, duh), because I miss New York and there's usually more interesting stuff going on there than in Seattle. And I like to bust on Maureen Dowd simply because she's so oblivious to her own stupidity, and her hair color is appalling.

There is one thing, however, that I truly cannot abide in the Times. On what seems like a quarterly basis, Bono decides to show the staff of the Times how a REAL pretentious tool does it, and writes some heavy-handed op/ed that makes me want to go on a destruction spree against any business that has ever allowed anything from the (failed) Product (RED) line to pollute its shelves.


Guess what? Noel Gallagher had a great idea for Bono back in 2007. Play "One" and shut the fuck up about Africa. That idea might be three years old, but it's still as timely as ever, now that Bono fancies himself the next Thomas L. Friedman and has taken it upon himself to encourage Times readers' participation in his dumb New Year's resolutions. Take a gander at this aberration and see if you want to follow the lead of a media whoring asshole so delusional he apparently thinks that egregiously making multiple self-referential "rock star" comments is self-deprecating.

I could see why Bono might have some credibility if, in spite of his insufferable tone, he actually came up with some "great" ideas. Bono's ideas are as stupid, self-important, and unnecessary as those ubiquitous D&G shades he's been wearing for the past 25 years. Let's review his top ten list of ways for dumbasses who think they are smart and globally conscious to achieve new levels of obnoxious hypocrisy, just like their rose bespectacled messiah.

1. Return of the Automobile as a Sexual Object. Apparently, most American cars from the past couple decades have been too fat and boxy for Bono's taste, and he's calling upon the powers that be in Detroit to start making cars he'd be willing to fuck. Which basically means he wants Steve Jobs to design a next-gen hybrid Ford Focus.

2. Intellectual Property Developers. While this "idea" is pretty vague, it actually means that Bono wants the internet to use China's model for suppressing dissention to keep people from illegally downloading U2 albums for free. He also blames internet service providers for "reverse Robin Hooding," stealing from the "poor" (AKA record labels and movie studios) by allowing file sharing networks to flourish in cyberspace. Though I've got no love for Comcast, Bono is about as sympathetic a victim to lost profits from downloaded music as Lars Ulrich was back in the Napster era. Loathsome as the idea of having U2 songs on my iTunes might be, I might just illegally download The Joshua Tree out of fucking spite.

3. An Equal Right to Pollute (and the Polluter-Pays Principle). Per Bonoconomics, a starving Ethiopian subsistence farmer can sell all the carbon they don't emit to "mild greens" in the developed world who want to pollute freely without a guilty conscience, and somehow this will reduce carbon emissions. That way, Bono can't take his private jet across the Atlantic to satisfy a craving for New York style pizza without first writing a check to some poor person in Africa. Because nothing assuages the shame of glaringly obvious hypocrisy like having a receipt to say you are paid in full.

4. A Person (Dr. William Li) and a Word (Angiogenesis). Bono explains that the study of angiogenesis (the formation of new blood vessels) and its role in tumor growth (tumors need a blood supply to grow and spread). How does Bono know so much about cancer? Well, admittedly he doesn't have a "medical pedigree," luckily his pal The Edge apparently does. Well, The Edge has given money to Dr. William Li, anyway, and he runs some foundation promoting the study of...angiogenesis. According to Dr. Li, studying the role of angiogenesis in malignancy is "the first medical revolution of the 21st century." That would be nice, if studying angiogenesis in cancer hadn't already been pioneered by the late Dr. Judah Folkman, who first proposed this notion in 1971, nearly 30 years before the advent of the 21st century. I guess Dr. Edge didn't review the historical literature while he was obtaining his medical degree from the University of Tax-Deductible Donations to Dr. Li's Foundation.

5. Matter Doesn't Matter. Although Bono humbly admitted his lack of knowledge in medicine, quantum physics is another MATTER entirely. Apparently, Bono once experienced quantum teleportation backstage in Berlin in the early 1990s (what a great joke, Bono, and thanks for reminding us again that you are a rock star!), and is thus qualified to comment on Dr. Anton Zeilinger's work in this field. Per Dr. Bono, "E=mc2 ends in a cosmic punchline," which is that Dr. Zeilinger is inventing a way to beam people up, and this means God is both a nerd and a Trekkie.

6. Festival of Abraham. Are you tired of keeping track of which religious holidays your friends celebrate? Bono is, and furthermore, he has deduced that this is the source of all those unpleasant political problems in the Middle East. Thankfully, Bono has played concerts all over the world and has used his extensive worldliness to come up with a solution. Festivus! Actually, he wants to call it the "Festival of Abraham," after the ancient, pious horndog common to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Furthermore, being from Ireland and all, Bono knows that terrorists will be compelled to lay down their pipe bombs if bands play songs and get famous. Therefore, politicians can't participate in this inclusive, Mideast peace-brokering political holiday. Good thinking, Bono! Maybe U2 can calm down Hamas like they singlehandedly calmed down the IRA with songs like "Sunday Bloody Sunday"!

7. People Power and the Upside-Down Pyramid. Um...Hillary Clinton is saving Africa by meeting with local leaders instead of corrupt government officials in some kind of reverse pyramid scheme.

8. Taking the Fight to Rotavirus. I guess I can't complain that Bono is pro-childhood vaccination.

9. Viva la (Nonviolent) Revolucíon. Obama got elected, the Berlin Wall came down, and that poor Neda woman was killed in Iran. According to the Gospel of Bono, these things wouldn't have happened if not for Martin Luther King, Jr. and other peaceful protestors. Well, except that Neda mess, but Bono thinks that Ahmadinejad and his fellow tyrannical dictators (Kim Jong Il, dude in charge of Myanmar, etc.) will watch Gandhi and change their evil, oppressive, human rights-violating ways thanks to the commanding performance of Sir Ben Kingsley. I mean, the Berlin Wall came down thanks to the musical stylings of David Hasselhoff, so I guess anything's possible.

10. The World Cup Kicks Off the African Decade. Bono just watched Invictus, and he wants Nelson Mandela to attend the World Cup in South Africa. Oh, and for those of you who thought that they wouldn't build the stadiums in Pretoria or Cape Town or Johannesburg or wherevs? Suck some Afrikaner dick, fools, because they're ready for some hard core SOCCER down there. Bono saves the world again with his keen insights and unsurpassed understanding of the global community.

Seriously, Bono, the only thing you are any good for these days are annoying mobile device endorsements (although not that good, as U2's iPod commercial from five years ago singlehandedly discouraged me from getting an iPod until three months ago). There are many places for Bono's "great ideas": his Twitter, a U2 album liner, the trash, etc. The New York Times op/ed page is not one of them. If Bono wants to do anything for the new year, he should consider not writing any more columns. Now that is a "great idea" that I could celebrate. Slainte!

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# posted by Razzy @ 10:52 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

 

Screw U2, says Dublin. I heart Dublin, says me

I laughed scornfully today when I read an article about how U2's tour promoters were crying about being behind schedule on their European tour because their very own countrymen were fed up with their bullshit. Specifically, they were pissed that after three shows at Ireland's largest stadium, local residents were treated to some around-the-clock raucous related to dismantling their elaborate stage set-up. Therefore they decided to protest, and as a result, the "more than 50 trucks carrying much of the band's 390-ton stage, TV screens, lighting, and sound equipment missed their intended morning ferry." Consequently, the tour manager has noted, "It affects the tour schedule."

Oh, NO!!!! Now the rest of Europe might have to wait a day or two before they can plunk down their $250 to watch a gigantic Blackberry ad. Maybe Bono can do something about this. After all, he is singlehandedly solving Africa's poverty, political upheaval, and AIDS crises. However, when reached for comment after just stepping down from his private jet in Nice, France, Africa's savior sent his PR flunky out to throw down some bullshit about how the band feels "pure disappointment. It's just really put a damp squib (that is Irish for sponge, not a person with non-magical abilities born to wizarding stock) on something that was a fantastic experience and a fantastic show." He forgot to add, "It's treasonous for anyone of Irish heritage to disrupt, piss off, disappoint, mock, disparage, or otherwise speak in non-reverent tones about U2, and these freedom haters will be summarily labeled enemy combatants and sent to the Irish equivalent of Gitmo. Well, if such a thing existed anyway."

Clearly Bono, The Edge, and whatever other stupidly-named Irishmen are in U2 are devastated. However, Bono is mostly likely taking life's lemons and using them to make lemonade for those legions of starving, AIDS-ridden Africans he likes to lecture everyone about. Or maybe just being so incredibly disappointed that he can barely enjoy any of the earthly delights the French riviera has to offer. This is clearly what an extremely depressed megalomaniac with delusions of messianic grandeur looks like:

Poor Bono. I guess he'll have to drown his sorrows in a combination of sanctimonious lectures about the excesses of the developed world and some random Katy Perry-meets-Zoey Deschanel cooze. I mean, Bono knows hard times, and nothing is harder than depriving continental Europe of halfassed, corporate-retooled performances of "With or Without You" and "One." Oh, the humanity!

In other news, I still totally hate the shit out of U2. The protestors in Dublin get a Razzy Medal of Service to Humanity for disrupting the well-greased wheels of dickbaggery. Well played, Croke Park neighborhood coalitions.

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:42 AM 3 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

 

The Naomi-Wolf-Is-Smart Myth

I guess the editors at Harper's Bazaar decided to smarten up a cover full of pronouncements about summer's sexiest dresses and looking chic at any price by getting Naomi Wolf to write the latest installment in the canon of Angelina Jolie worship. Naomi Wolf raving about the Baby Collector's beauty in a fashion magazine is particularly awesome, considering Naomi Wolf made her name trashing the fashion and beauty industry for being a tool of the patriarchal hegemony meant to keep us ladies too busy being insecure.


In case you actually had some sort of life and desire for fun and not a bunch of feminist grousing in 1990, you may have missed Naomi Wolf's book The Beauty Myth. This book became notorious for heralding the birth of third-wave feminism, which is basically the idea that feminists need to start being really intellectually condescending about the same bullshit feminists have always been super bitchy about.   All the women's studies types thought this was great except that hot bitch Camille Paglia, who started a beef because she thought (correctly) that The Beauty Myth made feminists seem really annoying and stupid due to the fact that Naomi Wolf is both.  Naomi Wolf spends most of the book blabbing on about how our concept of beauty is all a giant patriarchal conspiracy designed to keep women in place and punish them for breaking free from male domination. Currently, I think Naomi Wolf needs to lighten the fuck up, but then again I may just be bitter that back in the day, her ideas and intellectual influence were largely responsible for THIS lamentable fashion misstep (and many, MANY like it):

Think of how many skanky titty shirts I could have purchased with the stacks I was dropping for ill-fitting fleece and bulky wool Cosby sweaters at Eddie Bauer and REI! Be assured that I was wearing a pair of dark brown suede Birkenstock clogs and a pair of Woolrich socks on my feet, to top off this ill-fitting and shapeless ensemble. Subverting the patriarchy Naomi Wolf-style is not a pretty sight and it barely got me laid. Thanks a lot, Naomi Wolf.  Team Paglia.

Anyway, now I have another reason to hate Naomi Wolf besides her indirect effect on my regrettable style choices in high school. She wrote this article for a fashion and beauty magazine about how stupid, obnoxious Angelina Jolie is the perfect woman, "bosomy and wasp-waisted, with that curtain of hair and those crazy pillowy lips, she is an obvious male sex fantasy." Naomi Wolf goes on to gush that through deft PR, image management, and Brad Pitt-fucking, Angelina has transcended the banality of being a mere mortal to achieve the status of female archetype.  She also manages to work in an insinuation that the patriarchy killed Princess Di and that Angelina Jolie has become the dominant female "ego ideal."  The entire article is one lengthy, excessively devoted fan letter bearing the nauseating title "Why Women Want Angelina Jolie's Life."

If Naomi Wolf could pull her clueless academic head out of her own ass, she might take note that I do NOT want Angelina Jolie's life, and I bet there are a lot of other women who don't either.  Brad Pitt seems like an asshole with stupid tattoos, and I would hate all those kids running around.  Not to mention that with all the media whoring Angelina so graciously includes her children in those brats are going to grow up to be absolute monsters.  In approximately eight years, TRUST that Maddox Jolie-Pitt is going to be the Paris Hilton for the next generation: attention-seeking, disgustingly overindulged, and one of the most loathsome individuals on earth.  No fucking thank you to being legally and morally responsible for unleashing that upon the Hollywood club scene and the world. 

Even moreso than a brood of spoiled tyrants, I do not want a life where I'm constantly reminding everyone what a big hypocrite I am.  I wouldn't want to bring a swarm of photographers to document me getting off a private jet to "help" starving refugees in Chad by merely standing in their presence and posing.  I also wouldn't want to run around giving impassioned speeches against poverty and chastising everyone else in the world for not doing their part, and then go with my common-law dickbag movie star boyfriend to drop half a million dollars on a gold couch.  In fairness, Angelina is more visible than me and can thus raise more awareness about important issues like poverty and civil upheaval in Chad and Sudan.  I'd just like to know how much of that raised awareness has fixed things in Darfur.  Angelina Jolie pretends to do shit when in reality she just promotes herself and her haughty-ass persona.  Sorry, but I'd rather actually do shit and back up my haughtiness with substance rather than duplicitous media skankery.

Then again, I can see why Naomi Wolf appreciates Angelina Jolie's self-promoting fakery, since she's been using the same scam for years to get the academic types to think she's not an intellectual lightweight.  She makes her name declaring that fashion, beauty, and the cult of female celebrity are forms of patriarchal subjugation, and then twenty years later she writes in a fashion magazine about how a female celebrity's beauty has entranced modern women everywhere, most certainly including herself.  Naomi Wolf's scholarly credentials involve specializing in wrapping the same overbearing, tired whining about the patriarchy in a thin veneer of hypocritical bullshit and selling it to people stupider than her (like me aged 15).  Feminism deserves better than this vapid slag telling us that Angelina Jolie is the best thing to happen to women since vibrators were invented.  STFU, Naomi Wolf!  

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# posted by Razzy @ 12:40 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, June 04, 2009

 

Read the Bible: Jesus was very pro-whore

Yesterday HotLawyer sent me a link to a local news story from the intellectual backwater and hallowed site of white supremacist history known as Whidbey Island.  Of course, megachurch evangelical Christianity has seduced many of Whidbey's native yokels, and not much goes on there, so the hard-hitting journalists over at the Whidbey News-Times decided to write a story showcasing exactly what a bunch of lameasses these people are.
Never been kissed: Bride-to-be waits for her wedding day

When Todd Ritter is told to kiss the bride at the altar this July in front of 277 of their closest friends and family, people will understand if it’s a little clumsy.

It will be the couple’s very first kiss.

“I’m wondering, will I be a good kisser? Do I know what I’m doing? I’m nervous, but excited,” says Rachel Welch, 21, who is marrying 23-year-old Ritter in Oak Harbor.

The couple instated a “no-kissing” policy, to keep things from getting out of hand before marriage. Welch decided at age 14 to save kissing for someone special, and hoped that her first lip-lock would shortly follow “I do.”
Personally, I think this kind of bullshit is actually very anti-Christian.  If you read the Gospels, you'll notice that Jesus is kissing all over everyone on the regular.  He kisses babies, lepers, homeless dudes, and whores, and doesn't think twice about it.   The skankiest prostitutes in all of Galilee were JC's roll dogs, and one would think that such a devout couple of youth ministers would have at least considered that before instituting such a rigid policy.  Especially since, judging by their chattiness regarding their Eskimo kissing, chaperone policies, and foot massaging, they apparently have no problem being media whores.  They even gave the Whidbey News-Times a frightening, look-we're-scary-super-Christians picture in which you can practically hear them condemning evolution and elaborating on how gay marriage and anyone who helps it become legal is going to burn in eternal damnation.

And since I have been kissed before–on numerous parts of my body and usually as a prelude to getting my sinful nonmarital fuck on–let me explain to Rachel and Todd exactly how lame their marriage is going to be thanks to their policy of extreme abstinence.  Since neither of them have any idea what they are doing and are probably taking pointers from the Michael W. Smith "I Will Be Here for You" video, their first heavy makeout sesh is going to be nothing short of disgusting.  Todd looks like one of those guys who thinks that hot tongue kissing involves licking and slobbering all over every part of your face except your mouth, so I hope Rachel enjoys a good spit shine.  And as far as Rachel is concerned, if Todd thinks that once he's made an honest uptight prude out of her it's going to be all hot legit Christian sex, he's gravely mistaken.  Bitches don't go from Eskimo kisses and love letters to blowjobs and anal overnight, and Rachel strikes me as the type who won't put out on her wedding night.  In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if both of them are so abysmally bad at sex that they wind up doing it as infrequently as possible.  After all, who even needs a sex life when you have the rapture to look forward to?

This is why I always fuck on the first date.  I'm not going to invest my time and emotion in someone without giving them a test drive and making sure they are competent at turning me out.  As a result of this policy, if I ever do get married, please believe that my future spouse will be a tiger in the sack and will likewise benefit from my extensive experience in this area.  I also take umbrage with Todd's assertion that Rachel's no-kissing purity vow is an indicator of her "awesome" self-respect, thus implying that sleeping around means I don't respect myself.  I have an awesome amount of respect for myself (you can't fancy yourself the most awesome human being on earth EVER without having a healthy amount of self-esteem), and I can't think of any better way to demonstrate that than by giving myself the gift of plenty of varied hot ass.  I think it's actually disrespectful to yourself and your partner not to be the best lay you can be, especially if you're about to take vows promising to never hit the sheets with anyone else ever again.  It's a sacred duty to your future spouse to get out there and practice on as much strange as possible before you limit genital privileges to just one person.  Then again, since neither Todd nor Rachel have any basis for comparison, maybe they won't even know what they are missing when they are rutting clumsily away at one another with the lights off and their shirts on.  Ignorance is bliss for the abstinent purity ring set, I guess.

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:39 AM 5 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

 

Jon and Kate Plus HATE

An ill wind blows.  Lately, every time I go onto the internets for some celebitchery, I am confronted with the unattractive visage of Jon and/or Kate Gosselin.  Even worse, I'm confronted with headlines suggesting that one or both of them has been getting freaky with their busted asses...and not with each other.  Either I have to picture Jon's fugly pedophile eyes humping drunkenly on some bitch with low self-esteem who thinks he's a celebrity, or I have to picture Kate's haircut doing ANYTHING sexy, which is about as titillating as the notion of watching two rabid prairie dogs mating.  



For those of you who may be unfamiliar with this fugly little pair, they are the stars of the TLC reality show "Jon and Kate Plus 8."  This show is basically about these two IVF junkies who wound up churning out a set of sextuplets to go with their twins, and all the consequent grossness that ensues.  I watched this show once, and in that hilarious installation all eight kids had rotavirus or some kind of nasty gastrointestinal virus.  As much as I love watching eight toddlers simultaneously shitting their pants and puking everywhere, I almost immediately flipped the channel to something more classy and palatable, like "Rock of Love Bus."  Hey, I'd WAY rather watch drunken strippers and porn stars fall off a pole and puke on Bret Michaels during the "White Trash Olympics" or whatever than watch 60 minutes of this:



I am never going to get into a show about two assclowns whose own outrageous vanity compelled them to bring not one or two but EIGHT bratty kids into the world.  I hate kids, and watching eight of them raise hell while these two make annoying commentary (or more accurately, while Kate bitches incessantly in an obnoxious, authoritarian "I'm a MOM!" tone at Jon) is not my idea of must see TV.  So while I'm laughing internally that their heavily marketed marriage is falling apart per the gossip internets, I also can't fathom for the life of me why I have to hear unpleasant tales about these two getting some strange on the side.

I can't really blame Jon for straying from his marital bed.  I'd probably want to screw faux lesbian kindergarten teachers too, if I had to fight with this harpy about getting some on the regular.
   


The prospect of Kate's stretch marks alone should be considered a mitigating factor in Jon's adultery.  And you know this bitch hasn't given him a BJ in ten years (if ever.)  Instead, she uses her mouth to constantly berate and belittle him, so I can understand how a frustrated little fella like Jon might eventually get frustrated and look for a less fortified, non-industrial strength vagina to scribble on with his golf pencil.  I don't blame him for making like the Ying Yang Twins and deciding that he's sick and tired of listenin' at ya naggin'.  In these pictures from the past weekend, you can almost hear Kate's shrewish bossing-around.



And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":



The only thing I'm curious about is why anyone would want to fuck either of these tools.  As discussed previously, Kate's naked torso probably looks like a leather hobo bag that got dropped on the subway tracks and run over by a speeding A train and her hair looks like the nexus of a lesbian book club and a tragic Flowbee accident.  And for any dumb chick who thinks she's star fucking on Jon, should I remind her that he has EIGHT CHILDREN?  That means not only will you have to put up with eight uncontrollable monsters every other weekend, but he will always be broke and trying desperately to keep up with his child support.  Any self-respecting skank will not settle for Z-list fame and no fortune, especially when he's a stumpy, easily dominated pussy.  In the wise words of Lil' Kim, I'll pass; the dick is trash.  

The moral of this story is that kids don't guarantee a happy marriage or a happy family, so don't have eight of them.  That will take an already fragile and ill-advised marriage and turn it into fucking around and miserable birthdays.  In fifteen years, please believe these kids are going to go on the "Jon and Kate Plus 8 E! True Hollywood Story" to describe in graphic detail how much they loathe their reality whore parents for forcing them to publicly perpetuate their sham of a marriage.  Just throw in the towel, Jon and Kate, for your kids' sake and for those of us who don't want your fertile asses cluttering up their gossip pages.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:11 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

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!"

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:56 AM 6 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, October 30, 2008

 

Phinish Phelps

I'm officially sick of Michael Phelps.  I was actually sick of him the second the swimming part of the Olympics ended, but now I'm REALLY sick of his fug ass showing up everywhere.  It was bad enough having my gossip pages cluttered up with reports of all the random pussy he was hauling with the help of his sheaf of gold medals, followed by denials from Michael Phelps's handlers that his Olympic gold turned him into a man-slut of the highest caliber.  Now I have to endure him in commercials hawking everything from cell phones to cereal to Visa check cards.  The other day when I saw him learning Mandarin with a Rosetta Stone do-it-yourself language lesson, I actually cursed at the television.  I heard that he's currently negotiating with world-class dipshit Ashton Kutcher and his succubus wife for a reality show, which I can't imagine will consist of anything besides Michael Phelps eating ungodly amounts of food and flashing his ugly mug for the camera.  Meanwhile, Page Six is reporting that he got paid 100K for showing up at some big shot television douchebag's wife's birthday party and swimming some laps.


I have no problem with dudes selling out in order to stack that paper before everyone forgets who they are.  Surely, in Michael Phelps's case, he's MAYBE got one more Olympics to remind us all that he's got an allele or two in his genome that confers phenotypic traits more common to aquatic mammals, and then he'll be an afterthought at best.  Like Mark Spitz before him, after his Olympic glory days are over we'll only hear about Phelps when he's sitting bitterly in the stands at the 2028 or 2032 Olympics trying to make backhanded compliments concerning his successor to an aging Bob Costas sound slightly less backhanded.  I can't blame him for being completely shameless about his media whoring while demand still exists.  However, I am over seeing his disturbingly Eli Manning-esque visage hawking Corn Pops, and I can't imagine why any woman who is married to an obviously rich old man would want to live the dream of having him strip down and swim for her.  I can think of about 50 guys I'd rather see dripping wet in a Speedo, and most of them would do it for less than a hundred grand.

I'm not sure what it is about Phelps that I'm so tired of, but it may have something to do with the fact that he looks like this one dude I banged last year.  This guy and I got along pleasantly enough at most grad school functions, and then one night we fucked while in advanced states of intoxication.  After that, the dude proceeded to be an aggressively snubbing asshole every time our paths crossed.  When I asked him why he was being such a prick, he informed me that he's a "relationship guy" not mature enough to deal with a no-strings roll in the proverbial hay and that my very existence was something he no longer cared to acknowledge as a result.  As I was (not surprisingly) drunk, I decided this would be a great opportunity to show him that nobody–not even some dumbass Michael Phelpsian science nerd in his early twenties with bad social skills and a whole host of personal issues–ignores me...by hurling the contents of a freshly refilled glass of Johnnie Walker all over his button-down.  That event has since led to some extremely awkward occasional social run-ins, and a persistent sense of distaste for Michael Phelps ever since.  In fact, when I was watching the Olympics at a party and another grad student pointed out the resemblance between this guy and Michael Phelps and followed that with, "So, what does Michael Phelps's dick look like?," I was so perturbed that I couldn't even mitigate my involuntary glowering while shouting "U! S! A!  U! S! A!" to celebrate him winning another gold medal for our great country.  Between Michael Phelps's media whoring and the consequences of my own personal whoring, I am through with this dude.  Maybe in another four years I'll be ready to watch him prostitute himself for the sake of consumerism, but for now this butterface needs to get the fuck off my television. 

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:41 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

 

The silver lining

Where is the tabloid magazine footage of one Ms. Jessica Simpson wearing one of her vile pink Cowboys jerseys marching snottily into the stadium to watch her excessively lauded boyfriend Tony Romo get owned by the likes of the Arizona Cardinals?  I was expecting to see Jessica rocking a giant dipteran pair of sunglasses and looking like a heavily Mystic tanned, Cowboys logo-adorned, Barbified version of Gregor Samsa with lots of Texas-sized hair extensions and a fetish for handbags large enough to stow a side of beef in, strolling into her luxury suite ready to spread her myiasitic plague of fumbling, badly held snaps, and interceptions to her man once again.

Oddly, Jessica Simpson was nowhere to be found when the Cowboys lost to the the Cards, as she was off singing cuntry music to rednecks in North Carolina at some lame NASCAR race. I found this hard to believe, since it seems that Jessica will neither shut up about Tony Romo or be fewer than 100 yards from him at any given time, but apparently she needed more money to spend in the NFLshop.com Cowboys team store, so she was off titillating the Dale, Sr.-worshiping elite by suggestively working this nozzle-thingy prior to yowling at them in her affected hick twang:

Proving, however, that she's really got her accursed claws deep into Romo's nutsack, he sprained his pinky in spite of her absence and is out for the month!  As Brad Johnson, who is currently competing with Kerry Collins, Jeff Garcia, and Brian Griese for the title of New Vinny Testaverde, will now be taking snaps for the Cowboys, I couldn't be happier.  For one thing, I hate the fucking Cowboys.  For another, any misery befalling NFC teams besides the absolute disgrace that the Seahawks' season has been thus far is fine by me.  I encourage Jessica Simpson to continue dating Tony Romo so that her malignant misfortune can eat him up like a cancer.  This is the silver lining to what has been a very depressing first quarter of the NFL season.

Oh, and Jessica...just in case it doesn't work out with Tony Romo, I hear Ben Roethlisberger is single.  I'm sure the Shitsburgh Steelers would really benefit from your inherent anti-quarterback destructive powers.  I know you and Tony are tight, but just in case he gets sick of sitting on his couch watching his team lose while you jabber about purses and fashion during his convalescence, you might think about giving Big Ben a call.  Just a suggestion.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:28 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Sunday, October 05, 2008

 

Ask not for whom the bell tolls, Dallas Cowboys

...because thanks to your quarterback's love life, it tolls for fucking thee!  As of last weekend, the Cowboys are no longer undefeated thanks to the Washington Anti-Native American Racial Slurs, and we all know who to thank.  No, it's not the dynamic new offense brought to the Redskins by their new coach,  Seahawks legend Jim Zorn (!).  It's not the defensive upgrades the Redskins made by adding the likes of Jason Taylor to their roster.  In fact, this Redskins victory has nothing to do with the Redskins at all.  It doesn't even really have anything to do with the Cowboys directly, at least not with their game on the field.

No, Tony Romo's girlfriend AKA the Cowboys' bad luck charm showed up to work her nefarious magic on their record:

Though she's not wearing that loathsome pink jersey which originally cursed the Cowboys and drew the disdain of the highly opinionated Terrell Owens, it appears that Jessica showing up AT ALL is enough to usher in a Cowboys loss.  I sincerely hope that Jessica shows up for every Cowboys game for the rest of the season because a 3-14 Cowboys season is something that will always make me smile contentedly.  Please continue standing by your man, Sloppy Tits.

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:54 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Friday, October 03, 2008

 

And in other science media news...

I've noticed that on some completely non-science websites (like fucking GAWKER!), snarky bloggers noticed this week's front and back covers of Nature and are questioning whether or not this Sigma-Aldrich ad with the yellow and chocolate Labrador retrievers isn't just a little TOO similar to the front cover with McCain and Obama to not be racist.

I doubt there was any intentional racism at work, since Sigma has been bombarding me with leaflets of this very ad at work and were probably just continuing their marketing blitzkrieg on the print edition of Nature. In fact, we just got a bunch of chemicals from Sigma the other day in lab, and the box contained a stack of crap talking about the unique forensic properties of dogs' nose prints. Somehow this is supposed to make me want to buy oligos from Sigma. What it does in actuality is make me say "awww, cute dogs" for about two seconds, then say, "FUCK SIGMA AND THEIR SHITTY-ASS OLIGOS!"

Oligos, also known as oligonucleotides or primers, are little snippets of DNA we use in PCR reactions.  PCR is basically a technique for photocopying specific stretches of DNA, and that specificity is conferred by the oligos you use.  I think that's Sigma's point about the dogs...their primers are as unique as a dog's nose print.  Too bad Sigma takes forever to synthesize their primers and half the time they mail you the wrong ones!  We used to use Sigma primers in my lab, until we realized that they charge way too much, fuck up orders all the time, and don't synthesize or ship them in a timely manner.  I'm way less offended by the perception of accidental racism than the notion that cute dogs and their cute noses should be exploited to whore out Sigma's inferior-ass primer business.  Cute dogs never make me wait two weeks on doing some PCR I need because they haven't gotten around to doing quality control on my dumb oligos. 

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:34 AM 3 Comments Links to this post

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.

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# posted by Razzy @ 10:25 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Saturday, September 20, 2008

 

The Cowboys' offense can start sucking any time now

The other night Jessica Simpson, a woman whose existence I like to block out of my mind altogether, was performing at some show in Vegas. Yes, for some inexplicable reason, some presumably hearing-impaired people actually pay to listen to this bitch sing, and she takes the opportunity between songs to gab about her love life.
Tony is a great quarterback, but he's a better boyfriend. I'm seriously proud of myself for letting him into my life. Through all the chaos and torment and everything I go through, I can lay in his arms and finally rest.
Chaos? Torment? Since when was Jessica Simpson a fucking character in a Greek tragedy? Bitch, the last time I checked you were not named Iphigenia or Hecuba or anything like that! The only Jessica Simpson-related thing that can accurately be described as "chaos and torment" is watching one of her acting performances.  Getting slaughtered by the US Weekly fashion police for wearing some heinous polyester Ken Paves extensions may be a little embarrassing, but it's hardly worthy of being described with such grave, dramatic language. The last time I checked, Jessica was famous for the undeserved feat of being a big-titted caterwauling dumbass, not suffering for all eternity in perdition. Frankly, the closest she's come to meeting those standards are perpetuating horrifying scenes such as this one with her beloved:

Furthermore, I guess Jessica should be proud of herself for her taste in boyfriends, since Tony Romo is assuredly an upgrade from her previous paramour, King of the Douchebags John Mayer. She should also be proud for getting Tony to stick with her in spite of the fact that she is a game-killer of the highest order. Last year, her pink jersey-wearing presence fucked up Tony's passing game so severely that even T.O. complained about it. In fact, her attendance at Cowboys games was so universally regarded as the cause of Tony Romo's late-season fuckups that The Onion wrote an extra-believable story about it and an entire website was founded dedicated to supplying fans of teams opposing the Cowboys with Jessica Simpson masks.  Even Perez Hilton was supporting this opinion, and trust me when I say that ridiculous gossip fags are not known for their NFL coverage.

Given her history of being viciously reviled by the notoriously, obnoxiously bellicose Cowboys fans, Jessica Simpson has some cojones to be flapping her big frog mouth publicly about Tony Romo letting her "lay in his arms and finally rest." Well, either she has stones of steel or she's too stupid to realize that every last despicable human being wearing a despicable Cowboys jersey will seek to hang her head from the ramparts of Texas Stadium if Tony Romo throws any picks after spouting off about this. Since Romo is not on my Fantasy team and I hate the Cowboys, that can't happen soon enough. Keep up the good work, Jessica.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:46 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, September 18, 2008

 

Rock the SNORE

I was just having lunch ("lunch"=Sugarfree Red Bull covertly slugged down in lab) and checking my Facebook page.  I noticed that one of my Facebook friends, who works in Washington, DC registering voters or something political and civic dutiful like that, had changed her status message to "ready to rock the vote with Talib and Solange.  FREE concert in Philly.  3 PM.  Come on out!"

Wait, this concert is being headlined by Talib Kweli and Solange?  Not to trash this friend's job or anything, but if this is the best Rock the Vote can do to lure young voters, it's hardly surprising that so many people are apathetic at best about participating in the democratic process.  I would imagine that half of you reading this are scratching your heads and saying, "Uh, who are Talib Kweli and Solange?"

Talib Kweli is probably best known for being in the group Black Star with Mos Def.  He's one of those socially conscious rappers who spends way more time bitching about poverty and racism and other serious stuff rather than bragging about his awesomeness, like popping bottles and models or driving ridiculous customized luxury cars or blowing $15 million in 1 week or his prowess as a make-believe cocaine trafficker.

 See, Talib Kweli looks like he's always about to get mad when you crack a joke and say "I don't know how you can laugh when there are innocent men dying of AIDS in prison!" or something similarly sobering and unpleasant.  He's not talking about popping champagne like he just won a championship game or how he went from shitting in a cell to shitting on a jet or about all his cars "automative automatic."  I guess listening to him whine about society might get you all fired up to vote, but it's not like his concert is a great fucking time.

Solange is even worse.  She is best known for being Beyoncé's younger, uglier, more trans-tastic sister.

I can't think of a time when I've ever heard Solange emit a single musical note. Most of the time she's skulking after her sister's fat ass down a red carpet at some cut-rate awards show (ie: the Teen Choice Awards) in an outfit that looks like a French maid's feather duster bred with a disco ball.  Usually you can also almost see the mustache she just waxed off before throwing on her tacky House of Dereon Barbie cocktail dress and mugging for the camera in a pathetic attempt to be noticed.  The only kind of vote she inspires me to cast is one AGAINST seeing Solange out in public.

I don't care if this concert is free.  Between Solange's annoying desperate bids for fame and Talib Kweli's humorless social commentary, free is still too pricey.  You'd have to pay me to go, because this lineup makes me wish I was disenfranchised.

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# posted by Razzy @ 11:56 AM 4 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: okay, FINE, it's "The Hills" season 4!


Name: "The Hills" season 4

DOB: August 18, 2008

Occupation: making vacuous stupidity hot with all the kids

Hometown: West Hollywood, California

Current residence: sad but true, my TV (but only during Olympics commercials, I swear!)

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness:  I need to stop fighting it.  I need to just suck it up and accept the fact that I watch "The Hills" to the extent that it merits a tag on my website, I have a photo album on my Facebook page entitled "Whitney and Audrina," and I have openly discussed the fact that I think Justin "Bobby" Brescia is hot despite the fact that he's an indigent philandering hairdresser.  Besides, I'm outed.  Not only have I admitted to watching "The Hills" here, my friend JerseyGirl sent an update to the Smith Alumnae Quarterly advising all our fellow Smithies that watching said shitshow is our primary activity next to "Beverly Hills, 90210" parties.  I'm so unfortunately afflicted with this "Hills" addiction that I actually have pathetic text exchanges such as this with my girlfriends:
JerseyGirl: Hills season premiere on at ten!
Razzy: Why does it have to be during olympics?
JerseyGirl: Dewd u must turn it on.  It is so dumb its awesome
Razzy: I'm watchn some right now. LC is soooo dumb. And she looks 45!
JerseyGirl: So dumb. Justin bobby is SO HOT
Razzy: I wld hit that so hard for real.
Wait!  That's not even the ONLY text conversation I had about this trash last night!  There's more!
CorporateCard: Steamy steamy justin bobby. Boo lo! 1st commercial break was almost 10 min! superbowl for teens!
Razzy: Truly!  I gotta watch the rerun. I'm olympics crazy.
Never mind my feeble protests about watching the Olympics.  At every commercial and/or pointless Bob Costas monologue, I flipped over to MTV to drink in the knuckle-dragging antics of Lauren "LC" Conrad, Audrina Patridge, Whitney Post, LC's bitchy childhood friend Lo, and LC's archnemesis and the McCain supporter I wish didn't exist, Heidi Montag.  This season, LC goes on a date with a guy who's main distinguishing feature is that he drinks beer (which, as indicated by her eye rolls, LC clearly thinks is VERY bourgeoisie), Whitney continues to apply her slow mental faculties to challenging "stylist" jobs (ie: folding jeans) at the People's Revolution, Heidi's sister moves into her and Spencer's apartment, and Lo and Audrina exchange a lot of cunty mean-mugs.

I honestly have no idea why I watch this crap, much less LIKE watching it.  Typical dialogue on "The Hills" involves one character asking, "So, like, what are you, you know, like, doing tonight?" as she either folds a pair of jeans, pokes bemusedly with her index fingers at her shiny MacBook, or pretends to eat a grapefruit.  The respondent will then answer, "So, like, you know...yeah."  Another common story is that one character will go to a club, run into another character she hates, and they will exchange bitchy glares and/or bitch incomprehensibly at each other in the ladies room or the parking lot.  Does any of it make sense?  No more than Brody Jenner's star turn on "The Hills" resulting in his getting his own spin-off reality competition entitled (not joking) "Bromance," in which he auditions a new best friend to replace his now "dude-vorced" ex-buddy Spencer Pratt.  I guess Brody felt that fucking LC (and making frequent appearances on his Reggie (Get in My) Bush-polluting stepsister Kim Kardashian's reality show) was a better strategy than Spencer's ambitious ploy to achieve media notoriety making Nicole Richie eat.  Again, I have no idea why I watch this or LIKE watching it.  But I do.

That said, I totally watched most of last night's episode, if only to watch Justin Bobby's hot ass show up at Audrina's party.  Unfortunately, Justin Bobby seems to have truly mended his ways, and I might lose interest if he doesn't start belching, stealing Brody Jenner's drinks, and making out with other girls in front of Audrina soon.  Frankly, Lo is starting to become my favorite character, if only because she looked out at Audrina's guests, sighed, and said, "Well, I guess we'll just have to try to enjoy what we've got here" while Audrina blinked vacantly and suffered anguish trying to rack her weak mental capabilities for a comeback that never came.  If Lo's going to bring bitchery like that every episode, I'm signing up for her team.  I may as well just give in.  "The Hills" fucking rules!   
   

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# posted by Razzy @ 5:29 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

 

Daily Douchebag: Tori Spelling AGAIN


Name: Victoria Davey Spelling

DOB: May 16, 1973

Occupation: reality TV whore, deluded former Donna Martin

Hometown: Beverly Hills, California

Current residence: Hollywood, California

Douchebaggery: The gossip internets informed me yesterday that Tori Spelling pulled out of the new "90210" series yesterday in a huff because she was going to make less money per episode than fellow OG Bev Niner alums Jennie Garth and Shannen Doherty. Apparently Tori feels that her dedication to theatercraft (primarily Lifetime movies and a series of appalling reality shows detailing her marriage to that fug Canadian guy) since turning in her Donna Martin midriff-baring baby tees merits more than $10-20K per appearance. She demanded the $30-50K per episode that Kelly Taylor and Brenda Walsh are getting and the producers refused, so she told them something along the lines of, "Have it your way, CW. Let's just see how your little '90210' remake fares without Donna Martin uglying up every episode. Those new kids aren't going to be shopping at Now Wear This anytime soon! Dean and I are just going to take our hellspawn and film more of the unwatchable minutiae of our stomach-churning married life for the Oxygen network! That'll learn you!"

Good thinking, Tori. I'm sure that the loathsome "Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood" is going to be WAY better for your career. Undoubtedly the handful of obese Bichon Frise-stroking fags and gunt-laden housewives watching Oxygen are a far more powerful demographic than the "Gossip Girl" audience. And I'm sure that myself and all my Bev Niner-obsessed friends will really, really miss not having to listen to Donna Martin blaming her constant abject stupidity on dyslexia or vacillate about losing her virginity. I'm already composing an angry missive to the brass at CW, except said correspondence is mainly complaining that they didn't get rid of your ridiculous ass soon enough.

I would be on board with a Donna Martin return on one condition: her character only was involved in absurd situations like the unintentionally hilarious scene where she is discovered by a model scout in Paris thanks to her seductive pastry-eating skills.


While I did shout "Je suis American, and if you don't like it, too bad!" at Alain Bernard the other night during the Olympics, providing accidental comedy was Tori Spelling's primary contribution to the original Bev Niner. Unless Donna Martin was going to return to wear physically restricting prom dresses and Halloween costumes, get drunk off three sips of champagne at prom, catch David Silver banging Babyface's manager in a limo, get slapped around by her loser boyfriend Ray Pruit in Palm Springs, almost die in a brush fire trying to rescue a baby deer, save herself from certain rape by Garrett Slant by calling David Silver "Dave," deliver weather forecasts that match her belly shirt, fight off her stalker Evan Potter by feigning a passionate kiss, and develop a pain pill-and-merlot addiction, I am not interested in seeing any more of Donna Martin. When Donna wasn't doing something completely ludicrous and idiotic, she was basically a waste of space. I would way rather see Kelly Taylor resume her slutty boyfriend-stealing ways and Brenda Walsh open a can of hysterically self-righteous bitchery all over anyone who crosses her path, be it the aforementioned boyfriend-stealing Kelly Taylor or a group of researchers studying sudden infant death syndrome in cats.

Tori Spelling needs a reality check as to her status in the pantheon of Bev Niner greatness. There's a reason why she was always toward the bottom of the credits. In the first few seasons, she even came behind Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman in terms of billing. She only moved up the ranks when the likes of Joe E. Tata, Vincent Young, and Daniel Cosgrove joined the cast. Poorly played, Tori. Poorly played, indeed.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:11 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, July 31, 2008

 

Daily Douchebag: Justin Timberlake


Name: Justin Randall Timberlake

DOB: January 31, 1981

Occupation: a fashion maven in his own deluded mind

Hometown: Shelby Forest, Tennessee

Current residence: Los Angeles, California

Douchebaggery:  I used to like JT back in the day.  I thought *NSYNC was hilarious (although Joey the Fatone was really my favorite of all the guys) and I've been known to slay "Bye Bye Bye" in karaoke after a few cocktails.  I also enjoyed Justin's solo work...until every girly girl in the world decided that he was the second coming of Elvis and forced me to endure an endless spinning of Future Sex/Love Sounds.  Even though that shit is like two years old, it's STILL the only thing my friend MillerTime listens to in her car.  And after my friend Wmania's bachelorette party, she insisted that we all dance to "Love Stoned" in her condo SEVERAL times.  "Oh my GOD, dude, this song is like, the greatest song ever.  It is SO HOT.  How can you not like this?"  she kept asking.  LL Cool Jew and I just sat on the couch drinking beer and bitching about the Justin Timberlake-playing meat market club we had just escaped, where we were hit on by Karl Rove's nephew (or some prominent neo-con's nephew, I can't remember who because I was trying to drink the pain of the whole incident away).

Girls who love Sex and the City love Justin Timberlake and think he's hot.  I think he's a testicularly challenged one-trick pony who bit David Silver's style and sings like a girl.  Trust that my twat doesn't get all tingly when he shows up in his trucker hat to warble in the falsetto register and act like he's the first genius who decided to wear a wife beater.  As a matter of fact, given his latest asshole comments to the press, I would not be surprised if he took credit for inventing that treasured bit of white trash couture either.

Apparently, JT decided to start beef with notorious COOLPIX camera pranking, manpri-sporting, "matchy matchy" douchebag fashionista extraordinaire Ashton Kutcher over who started the fucking TRUCKER HAT craze of 2003.  In a recent interview, Justin said the following:
It's funny, I keep hearing Ashton Kutcher say how he was responsible for trucker caps. Me and my friend Trace Ayala were wearing them when we were 17.
WHO TAKES CREDIT FOR STARTING THE TRUCKER HAT FAD???  That's like taking credit for starting the overalls-with-one-strap-undone trend of 1991, or the stirrup-stretch-pants-with-slouch-socks-and-Keds trend of 1987, or the floral-rayon-dress-with-hiking-boots trend of 1994.  You don't hear the douchebag who started wearing "Big Johnson" or "Coed Naked" shirts demanding that the public recognize his obnoxious taste in clothes.  Even worse, it foments a douche-off between two of the most despicable trendsetters in teen fashion.  You know Ashton Kutcher is going to respond with this, probably by some stupid prank that will inspire more eye rolls than laughter, and those of us who suckle celebrity gossip from the internets like beer from a tap will be forced to endure a neverending back-and-forth about who has perpetrated more crimes upon popular dressing.

Furthermore, I beg to differ with Justin's claim that he discovered this amazing fashion accessory when he was 17 (which would have been 1998).  I can attest that all my uncles, as well as the majority of red-blooded truck-driving men in Puyallup, Washington were rocking their "CAT" and  "John Deere" millinery as long as I can remember.  Just because my uncles aren't rocking their forest camouflage "STIHL" gear (which probably came complimentary with their new chainsaw) on any red carpets doesn't mean that they weren't down with the local fashion long before Justin Timberlake ever put on a pair of Mickey Mouse ears.  Being that Justin is from a hick town himself, he should know that claiming to have pioneered this look is as intellectually dishonest as claiming he invented double-wides or instructing the masses regarding the pragmatic value of auto parts store-insignia-stamped beer cozies.  

Even JT's attempts at being self-deprecating about his tremendous influence on the fashion world are infuriating.  Later in the interview, he says, "Honestly, I don't walk out of my house thinking, 'Man, I hope somebody thinks this looks cool!'  There's some stuff I wear that people think is not cool."  Hmmm...you mean stuff like TRUCKER HATS?  Because indeed I don't think that is cool.  I think it is a contrived attempt to steal credit for accessories popularized by legendary designers like Jeff Foxworthy and Larry the Cable Guy, and it doesn't score him any points with me that plagiarizing redneck chic is so effortless for Justin.  Then again, I would expect nothing less from the knuckle-dragger that gave us the unbelievably annoying term "wardrobe malfunction."  His whole life has been a damn wardrobe malfunction.  Someone should pop a trucker cap in his ass, already.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:45 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, July 24, 2008

 

Daily Douchebag: former Senator John Edwards


Name: Johnny Reid Edwards

DOB: June 10, 1953

Occupation: world-class hypocrite

Hometown: Seneca, South Carolina

Current residence: Most recently, it was the Beverly Hilton fleeing from National Enquirer reporters

Douchebaggery:  I always thought John Edwards was a putz.  He comes across as a real salesman, which means I automatically don't trust him one bit.  Edwards just cracks that "aw, shucks" Southern boy smile of his and presumes it's disarming enough to distract people from what he is actually saying, and whether it is the truth or a lie.  I don't like liars, and I especially don't like liars who think they're so fucking charming they get a pass on being dishonest.  I derive more than a little schadenfreude when they get their comeuppance for being so.

Monday night, the National Enquirer was tipped off that Edwards was visiting his mistress and love child at the Beverly Hilton.  Granted, it hasn't been proven that this is Edwards's mistress and love child, and in fact one of his campaign staffers took the paternity bullet for him when the Enquirer first reported the story last year, but his behavior certainly seems to suggest that something in the milk ain't clean.  According to the story, Edwards showed up at the Beverly Hilton, avoided the lobby, and took a side staircase to his supposed mistress's room.  Then, at 2:40 in the morning, he snuck out an elevator into the basement, where to his dismay, he was confronted by several reporters.  He ran to the lobby, then ran back to the basement after he spotted a photographer, and eventually locked himself in a men's room until hotel security could escort him off the premises.  There could be many explanations for this behavior, but none of them equate to a man who is just making an innocent to a female friend and her new baby...surreptitiously...in the middle of the night...with a great fear of the press finding out.  It sounds to me a lot more like he got caught fucking his side broad and visiting his bastard than making a friendly social call.

I don't particularly care who John Edwards is hitting on the side.  I certainly can't speak from a position of moral authority, considering I have banged plenty of dudes who were in relationships with other people.  I once witnessed one of my paramours calling his girlfriend–at home with their baby–to tell her he was working late (until 2 a.m.) from a seedy motel right before he fucked me cross-eyed.  Another time, one of my special girlfriends had a brief phone discussion about paying household bills with her live-in fiancé and explaining that she was too drunk to drive home while I ate her pussy.  Yet another time I ran into this guy at a breakfast joint in Tacoma and met his lovely girlfriend of five years, a few days after he gave me a pearl necklace (not the jewelry) and a hideous rug burn on my ass from the vigorous dicking he delivered on my living room floor.  My personal position on these people (unless they are dating one of my friends, in which case I won't touch it) is that they are responsible for their own affairs and the cheating aspect of fucking me is their business.  Adultery is as old as the institution of marriage itself, and is hardly some new horrible offense that shocks everyone.  However, when a public political figure is constantly invoking the image of his loyal, cancer-ridden wife and brood of children as evidence of his upstanding character, I take issue with his hypocrisy.

Even if you are a politician and thus obliged to cater to the people who actually think politicians aren't all a bunch of corrupt, lying assholes, don't spend all your time touting your familial devotion if you are busy impregnating other bitches during your down time.  I don't presume to tell people how to wipe their ass, since I already know mine is just as shitty as everyone else's.  John Edwards should have just stuck to telling everyone how he has triumphed for the little people via his mastery of civil torts and cut the "family man who stands by his wife while she gets her tits cut off" schtick.  At least he probably wasn't impregnating opposing counsel in secret, and thus could have escaped exposure as the duplicitous bullshitter he truly is.

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