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":
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.
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, media whores, oh the horror, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Thursday, February 12, 2009
This is why I always remember to take my pill on time
It's pretty safe to say that "octomommy" Nadya Suleman is the antithesis of me. This crazy bitch lives with her mom, is unemployed, has over 50 grand in debt, receives food stamps and collects disability benefits for three of her kids (although according to her, that doesn't count as welfare), and is a single mother with an addiction to the IVF clinic. Seriously, this bitch put fourteen fucking test tube babies on the California taxpayers' tab because she was lonely as a child or something. Being saddled with one brat I couldn't afford, much less FOURTEEN of them, and subsisting as a parasite of the state/online mendicant is not my idea of a great way to spend my life.
Apart from the fact that I hate children and being stuck at home with a small army of them rather than doing some type of interesting, meaningful job is an accurate description of my personal hell, there is another reason why I would never want to be start procreating aggressively.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!! Seriously, being eight months pregnant with octuplets is just as bad as I could imagine, if not worse. Homegirl looks like the main egg-laying bitch from the movie Aliens. I mean that shit is like some kind of Lovecraftian horror that will drive anyone who interacts with it completely batshit insane. And speaking of batshit insane, I'm going to have nightmares for weeks about those stretch marks alone. Pregnancy with one kid is bad enough on a bitch's figure, but after seeing what having EIGHT buns in the oven looks like, I'm ready to rip out my entire reproductive tract and sew up my vagina for good measure just on the off chance that something like this might happen to me. I could pretty much write off ever having sex again with anyone remotely attractive (at least not without getting them really, REALLY drunk and in a really dark room) if my body was ravaged like this. Nadya's not going to be ready for bikini season for a while...or hopefully ever. This is just not okay.
Labels: crazies, destroy all children, gross, oh the horror
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I hate VD
While I've never suffered from a venereal disease, I think it's hardly a coincidence that these pestilent conditions go by the same initials as Valentine's Day. I HATE Valentine's Day, primarily because it is a holiday dedicated to things I despise. It's like when the executives at Hallmark or whoever decided that Valentine's Day was a holiday worth celebrating, they spent hours brainstorming customs that are designed to piss me off. From the romantic comedies to the obligatory gift-giving to the lame-ass decorations, Valentine's Day is a clusterfuck of loathsome abhorrence.
For starters, Valentine's Day isn't even a real holiday. This bullshit was made up to encourage consumer spending, and I don't see anything romantic or passionate about that. Nothing is more annoying than seeing an endless stream of commercials featuring ugly bitches getting all worked up because they got an even uglier tennis bracelet from Zales. Watching some scrawny ho squealing about how "he went to Jared" and paid $199.99 for some tacky heart-shaped necklace does not fill me with a lust for low-budget diamond-and-fug-ass-14-karat-yellow-gold jewelry. This certainly does not make me feel romantic. Homicidal, maybe, but not romantic.
It's also not just the jewelry that's low-quality. Valentine's-themed stuff is always crap. Those heart-shaped boxes of candy always have really shitty chocolate. You can just tell that whoever is in charge of that at See's uses the cheapest grade chocolate fit for human consumption. They also never tell you which chocolate is which, and you have to find out the hard way: by accidentally eating a bunch of nauseatingly repellant buttercreams that taint your mouth with their cloying grossness. Those sampler boxes also go heavy on the chocolate-covered cherries, presumably because cherries are red, and because they are also fucking disgusting. There is nothing worse than biting into a chocolate that you think is going to be something good like caramel or hazelnut and getting an unexpected and VERY unwelcome blast of maraschino repulsion. I'd rather my love interest give me a Hershey bar and call it a day rather than that box of mystery nastiness. Or even better, to hell with the chocolate. Give me some scotch.
I would try to escape from the bullshit of V-Day by going to the movies. Unfortunately, none of the movies in the theater during Valentine's season contain what I consider the three essential elements of cinematic excellence (murder, explosions, and fucking). Instead, the multiplexes are full of date movie/chick flick bullshit like He's Just Not That Into You. God, even typing the title of that movie pisses me off. Never has a movie title so thoroughly captured the spirit of what I presume is two hours documenting the madcap adventures of a bunch of desperate bitches going on lame dates with ugly guys like my archnemesis Justin Long the Mac dude. I don't really know what the movie is even about, but the ads make me think it's a supposed "comedy" about desperate bitches whining about how they don't have a man. And I would rather be gangbanged by an army of morbidly obese, unshowered Steelers fans while listening to Coldplay than sit through Bride Wars, New in Town, or Confessions of a Shopaholic. Come Valentine's Day, theaters abound with films featuring shrews like Kate Hudson, Katherine Heigl, and Jennifer Aniston, and there is truly no escape from the pervasive reality of this horrible holiday.
I even hate the damn iconography of Valentine's Day. To me, a flying baby with archery skills is the stuff of nightmares, not romance or cuteness. The idea that I might be walking along, minding my own business, and be shot at by an infant with a poison arrow that turns me into a lovesick, monogamous, probably undersexed loser is nothing short of absolutely terrifying. I'll stick with just getting blasted in the face with random jizz than blasted by Cupid's plague of irksome, simpering love, thank you very much.
You might think, "Oh, HA! Razzy's a bitter single woman who hates Valentine's Day because she isn't in a relationship." That hypothesis would be incorrect. I hated Valentine's Day even when I had a boyfriend, because it meant I'd have to go out and buy some bullshit to give him. Not that I minded giving my boyfriend gifts, but Valentine's presents for men are a pain in the ass to select, especially if they already have a nice watch. You aren't really supposed to buy a dude a shirt or some other practical, unsentimental gift for V-Day, especially when you know the dude is getting you jewelry. I used to agonize for hours about this, and spent most of my time cursing Valentine's Day for the added stress. Relationship or not, Valentine's Day manages to spread the bullshit around.
I realized that I've written a lengthy rant about Valentine's Day every February since this illustrious blog's inception. In 2006, I wrote about "the fiscal anal rape" I suffered at the hands of Sprint on the holiday of love. In 2007, I protested the obligatory self-pity party that unattached bitches are supposed to throw. In 2008, I douchebagged the entire holiday. In fact, the only positive mention of Valentine's Day I could find on my website was an amused narrative concerning one of my friends advising me that she employed my anal sex tips last year to commemorate the theme of romance and passion. I think that from now on, my Valentine's tradition is going to be complaining about how much I hate this fucking holiday. Happy I Hate Valentine's Day, everyone!
Labels: gross, movies, oh the horror, ranting, Razzification
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Fake vagina poll
A few days ago, this dude I went to grade school and high school contacted me on Facebook asking how I was. I replied tersely that I was very busy with my thesis writing and postdoc interviewing but I'd otherwise been doing fine over the last ten years. Apparently he was aware of this as he had perused my blog on occasion. Specifically, he had perused the several posts I've written concerning one Ms. Chasey Lain and her tragic and precipitous descent into hideous plastic surgery and crack (and/or maybe meth) addiction. He added that he used to jerk off to her movies in college and enjoyed that experience so much that he actually purchased a Chasey Lain replica rubber vagina to bang. He was now disappointed that Chasey is but a loathsome, Gollum-esque shadow of the utterly fucktastic porn star she once was.
This entire email gave me pause, as I was a little startled to learn this bit of information about this guy. I remembered this guy as one of those extremely quiet types who would either grow up to be a software tycoon or a serial killer. In our decade of being classmates, we maybe exchanged twenty words TOTAL. I actually don't know anything about this dude except that my brother was friends with his little brother back when they were nine, but now I know how he masturbates. I was a little shocked, not just because this is an odd and slightly creepy piece of information to hear from someone you barely knew during childhood, but because he actually admitted to owning and using one of those fake vaginas.
I have always been puzzled by those fake porn star vaginas. I am by no means a prude, nor am I opposed to using masturbation accessories. I could go on for hours about essential features of a quality vibrator the way some dudes talk about cars or motorcycles. However, I just don't understand those fake porn star vaginas.
I get that dudes want to experience banging their favorite porn stars. I also get that in lieu of actually banging one's favorite porn star, masturbation is a solid substitute for that activity. However, I just don't understand how sticking your dick into this this is the equivalent to banging young, pre-crack/meth, pre-Restalyne fish lips Chasey Lain:
I just cannot believe that two AA batteries can accurate simulate fucking a porn star. In my experience with vibrators, two AA batteries are good for about 30 seconds before they start to crap out, and if I for some inexplicable reason wanted that sort of brevity, there are plenty of loser one-pump chumps in my little black book I can call. If two AA batteries can't cut it for a tiny portable bullet vibe, they sure as hell aren't going to duplicate the experience of porking Chasey Lain.
Also, these just aren't very sexy sex toys. Granted, not all sex toys have to be in and of themselves sexy. I have this two-sided dildo thing which, every time I've attempted to break it out for one of my special girlfriends, just makes me laugh because it's hot pink, gigantic, and flops all over the place like some sort of ridiculous gigantic piece of half-cooked pasta. I actually don't think I've used it on any girl apart from playfully flogging her with it as a joke. My strap-on, however, is definitely not designed to be seen and admired so much as it is for banging some broad cross-eyed. Likewise, a vibrator is often form over function. Women don't fantasize about having rabbits eat them out or doing it with a body massager from The Sharper Image. Some vibrators are more stylishly designed than others, but when it comes right down to it they are tools. Fake porn star pussies are designed to be fantasy objects in and of themselves, so that guys can pretend they are actually nailing Chasey Lain or whoever else. I don't know about dudes, but when I fantasize, I don't do so about someone's disembodied torso and genitalia.
Furthermore, I have always figured that these things get seriously gross after just one use. I bet that any sexiness derived from the knowledge that you're fucking a "Cyberskin" exact replica of Chasey Lain's orifices wears off the second you have to scrub the dried-up dick cheese out of their inner recesses. And "TRY ME, BUY ME?" As if the prospect of cleaning post-masturbatory smegma out of a fake porn star pussy wasn't revolting enough, you can actually wind up with someone's literal sloppy seconds. What fucking genius at the Terminator pussy factory marketing department thought the concept of a public testing hole on a fake porn star cooze would be a good idea? Although it's a disgusting sales concept, in fairness, sticking your dick into a dank, dirty passageway that's hosted countless other anonymous, herpetic weiners isn't all that different from actually engaging in sexual congress with the extremely weathered and amphetamine addled Ms. Lain at present.
I have always wondered who in the hell uses these things, and now I have heard from one solitary person that they actually plunked down the ducats to elaborately masturbate into a stank pelvic rubber semen collector. However, since every porn star in the world seems to sell these, someone must be buying them. In fact, Chasey Lain actually has FOUR different models of fake twat on the market, which appear pretty similar in terms of looks and features but retail for anywhere from around $30 to well over $100. Obviously there's a market.
Thus, out of scientific curiosity concerning the practical and economic aspects of Chasey Lain (and/or Your Favorite Porn Star) fake genital molds, I'm doing a little survey on the comment page. How many of you fellas (or girls, although I really can't imagine any practical reason for a woman to use such a product) have actually fucked a fake porn star vagina? How many of you have actually purchased one? And most importantly, how is this product "easy to clean" as the online sex emporiums tout? I am genuinely mystified both that this actually appeals to anyone, much less enough people to warrant an entire industry, so any clarification would be most appreciated. Holler at me, pervs.
Labels: correspondence, gross, oh the horror, perversion, porn
Sunday, December 28, 2008
This shit had dog death written all over it...literally
The other day, my dog-hating friend J-Sexy asked if I planned to go see Marley and Me. Specifically, she asked, "Are you going to see that movie? It has one of those disgosting dogs you like in it." She was making fun of me, because recently I had been telling her about the plot to the world's most upsetting cartoon, The Plague Dogs, and started choking up about it. A few tears even leaked out. J-Sexy laughed at me, because she's evil like that.
Mark my words: I will never, EVER see this movie. TRUST.
"Hell to the no!" I responded. "That dog is obviously going to die and I cannot deal." Apart from the fact that Jennifer Aniston and Owen Wilson's very existence offends me and I wouldn't see a "dramedy" (AKA shitshow by definition) about these two fucktards enduring the trials and tribulations of domestic life, dog death is a movie theme that I simply cannot cope with. I still have bad dreams about Where the Red Fern Grows. I start to sniffle if anyone brings up White Fang, and don't even MENTION Old Yeller around me. I cried during I Am Legend when the dog died. Hell, I cried during the remake of The Hills Have Eyes when one of the dogs died!
A while later, LL Cool Jew and I were Gchatting about how much Will Smith's new stinkbomb Seven Pounds is going to suck because that's all Will Smith does, and the topic came up again:
LL Cool Jew: that 7 pounds thing just looks so sure-to-be-shiteous
LL Cool Jew: i wonder which is worse, that or marley and me?
LL Cool Jew: although the latter might be worse because i sense it involves dog death
LL Cool Jew: which is obviously unacceptable
LL Cool Jew: the dog will inevitably die
Razzy: i KNOW that it involves dog death
LL Cool Jew: there is a part in the trailer where owen wilson is sitting in a field with a very graybearded marley
Razzy: i don't like that one bit
LL Cool Jew: and says to himself, "dogs don't care if you're rich or poor..."
LL Cool Jew: which indicates - dog death.
Razzy: "immortal marley without those two d-bags" sounds like a much better movie
Razzy: dude, dogs always die in movies
Razzy: i don't know why i think otherwise
LL Cool Jew: no, no way will i subject myself to that
LL Cool Jew: crying at a jennifer aniston movie
LL Cool Jew: NO THANKS
Razzy: hell to the FUCKING NO!
LL Cool Jew: too humiliating
LL Cool Jew: almost as embarrassing as it was crying at a will smith movie (i am legend)
Razzy: dude i cried at that shit too!
Razzy: jerseygirl leaned over to her boyfriend and was like, "dude, check it out...RAZZY'S CRYING!!"
Razzy: then they laughed at me!
Razzy: i was like "that dog is so sweet and caesary!"
LL Cool Jew: um yes
LL Cool Jew: graphic scenes of doggie violence!!!!
LL Cool Jew: marley and me would be worse
LL Cool Jew: because it would be more along the lines of how our dogs are going to go
Razzy: i know, at least the dog in "i am legend" died in the line of duty
LL Cool Jew: old and infrim
LL Cool Jew: buh
Razzy: can. not. deal.
LL Cool Jew:i can't even think about it
Needless to say, I have not gone to see Marley and Me and I likely never will given the high probability of canine mortality. However, thanks to some intrepid soul who selflessly braved this cinematic disaster so as to save the rest of us, I now know that this was a wise decision based on an accurate hypothesis:
Labels: doggity style, LL Cool Jew, movies, oh the horror, tragedy
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
No longer a pretty Face
The other day I was looking at some sort of "where are they now" montage of actors from my childhood on the gossip internets. When I saw this guy, my first reaction was, "Who the fuck is that? He looks beat, whoever he is."
When I read the caption identifying this man, I was completely shocked. Not only do I know who this guy is, he was on one of my favorite shows growing up. If you were one of the many red-blooded, explosion-loving Americans who were interested in the adventures of a crack commando unit sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit, who promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground, and where, though still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. That's right, this dude is none other than Dirk Benedict, AKA Lieutenant Templeton "Face" Peck from the motherfucking "A-Team"!
Indeed, Face, the A-Team's smooth-talking procurer of cars and other useful pieces of stylish equipment (he was so adept that his colleague "Howlin' Mad" Murdoch once credited him with somehow acquiring a mint-condition '56 Cadillac which was inexplicably needed for some military mission in the jungles of Vietnam), isn't looking so good. Somehow I think if "The A-Team" were still up and running, Face would be spending a lot more time doing his actual mercenary duties than picking up women. I don't know if he's had some work done, but there's something that's different about his once-eponymous countenance. He certainly looks far removed from the days when he was gracing the cover of Playgirl magazine.
Indeed, Face, the A-Team's smooth-talking procurer of cars and other useful pieces of stylish equipment (he was so adept that his colleague "Howlin' Mad" Murdoch once credited him with somehow acquiring a mint-condition '56 Cadillac which was inexplicably needed for some military mission in the jungles of Vietnam), isn't looking so good. Somehow I think if "The A-Team" were still up and running, Face would be spending a lot more time doing his actual mercenary duties than picking up women. I don't know if he's had some work done, but there's something that's different about his once-eponymous countenance. He certainly looks far removed from the days when he was gracing the cover of Playgirl magazine.
The thing about Face that was most memorable was he was the type of guy who looked the same age. He could have been anywhere from 25 to 55 during the A-Team's heyday, and I wouldn't have known the difference. Actually, everyone on the A-Team was like that except for the timelessly old George Peppard, who played Captain John "Hannibal" Smith. Years later, I was in high school and one of my classes was showing us some made-for-TV movie from the mid-90s about the Montgomery bus boycott and the civil rights movement. Dwight Schultz came on screen and HotLawyer, who was in my class, blurted out, "Hey, it's Murdoch from the A-Team!" The entire class started laughing and Mr. Eckert had to threaten JUG ("Justice Under God," the Jesuit equivalent of detention) to shut us up. Murdoch was easy to spot, because in spite of the fact that he was playing an uptight Alabaman bigot instead of a lunatic helicopter pilot residing in an insane asylum when not needed for A-team ops, he looked exactly the same as he did 10 years before. Now, even as a failed conservative radio personality almost twenty years after the A-Team's glory days, he still looks like the same guy. And certainly even children who weren't born when "The A-Team" was on could probably recognize Mr. T. I don't know what the hell happened to Face, because he looks beat down.
The only possible explanation I can come up with is that age finally caught up with him (Wikipedia tells me he's 62) and he's resorted to desperate measures to maintain what was once his boyish charm and attached recognition. Since his last attempt at staying relevant (apart from working the autograph table at numerous "Battlestar Galactica" conventions in the midwest) was to appear on "Big Brother" in the UK. If he's gotten into reality famewhoring, I would not be surprised to learn that he's also wound up on the business end of a needle full of cut-rate nail salon Botox. It's a pity, because Dirk Benedict used to be a hot piece. I'm currently trying to figure out how to get a copy of that Playgirl he was in 25 years ago. In the meantime, I guess I'll have to content myself with this awesomeness, and reminisce fondly about days long since past, where men were men, bullets were completely harmless, and mercenaries dressed up in zany costumes instead of killing innocent Iraqi citizens a la Blackwater:
Man, "The A-Team" ruled so hard.
Labels: aging, oh the horror, TV, you're ugly
Friday, December 12, 2008
This is why I don't eat fast food
I guess some chicks were fired from a KFC in California because one night when they were closing up, they thought it would be nice to unwind after a hard day at the fryer with a relaxing bubble bath. So like any resourceful pieces of trailer trash, they filled up the industrial dishwashing sink, stripped down to their Wal-Mart unmentionables, and hopped in. And just to make their friends all jelly, they took pictures of their spa day and posted them on MySpace. 
Not only did they impress their friends, they impressed the local media, who promptly featured the girls prominently on the nightly news. KFC fired them and claims it's going to retrain all their employees about how to properly sanitize equipment, but the damage is done. Granted, I haven't eaten KFC since I was in grade school because–with the notable exception of the divine ambrosia known as Taco Time–I think most fast food is shitty food prepared in a shitty way by shitty people. Now I am validated in my beliefs, as KFC is apparently staffed by flabby-armed teenagers who for some inexplicable reason would WANT to bathe in a dishwashing sink at a fast food place. I know a bath just doesn't feel as relaxing if there isn't random chicken bones, mashed potato smegma, and other Original Recipe detritus floating around in it, but somehow I manage to get by in the tub with just some bath salts and a beer (to drink, not bathe in, which would be a waste of beer and thus a mortal sin). Maybe my skin would be softer if I emerged from my ablutions with a thin sheen of rancid trans-fat from the Popcorn Chicken fryer, but I'm willing to stick with my Palmer's if only because smelling like lotion is considerably better than smelling like something off a dollar menu. In any event, I suspect my abstinence from KFC will continue for another several decades to come.
Labels: fat fucks, gross, oh the horror
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
This is your porn star on drugs
Awhile back, I posted about some videos that porn producer and notorious asshole Donny Long uploaded to YouTube starring the once-great and now extremely cracked out porn star Chasey Lain. Sadly, I have been up to my tits in bullshit lab work, and haven't had the time to follow up on what Chasey has been doing since she threatened to have her mafioso boyfriend kill Donny Long for not letting her bang the male talent with a tampon in (and EW, gross). Chasey drove off in her Rolls Royce, crack pipe ablaze, and I thought that might be the last of her. I was saddened, because what a tragic end to such a luminous career in sucking dick on camera for cash.
Thank goodness my Razzyphiles are picking up my slack. Today I received an e-mail with the subject line "Chasey Lain–from bad to worse!" from PackMan, a Razzyphile who has been diligently following this story in my stead (which, I should add, I really appreciate because nobody is more depressed about my lack of bloggery lately than myself, and I need all the help I can get). Attached were two photographs proving that even when you think someone has hit bottom, there's always a little further that they can fall. It also proves that I can scream "WHY, CHASEY, WHY?!" a little louder than I did when I saw her trying to negotiate the going rate for hardcore stills in fluent tweaker gibberish.
This right here is exactly why you shouldn't do drugs, especially those generally bought and sold in crystalline form. Chasey looks like what would result if one of the "Faces of Meth" procreated with something from a George A. Romero movie. She looks like she's more interested in eating brain than giving it, and trust that's not something I want to rub one off to. Chasey looked pretty beat before, but now she looks like the human equivalent of the residue that accumulates on the bottom of a crack pipe. I imagine she smells like a combination of anhydrous ammonia and a Porta-Potty on the last day of Burning Man that has been filled with an endless stream of unbathed, tripping-balls drunken hippies while sweltering in the hot desert sun for three days. Sister needs to be on "Intervention" AND "Extreme Makeover," not cavorting around industry functions with male talent that seemingly can't wait to escape her necrotic clutches before some of her coochie cooties get on his Pacers jersey.
Even more disturbing than Chasey's cadaveric appearance is the fact that she's apparently executing some kind of twisted revenge scheme posing here with Donny Long's personal archnemesis, ChristianXXX. ChristianXXX did a few gay titles in the past, and this has led to a vicious feud in which Donny Long has accused him of being a "tranny fucker" and discouraged other women from working for him due to "safety concerns" (because only gay dudes have STDs, right, Donny, you homophobe?). ChristianXXX has responded by attempting to fight him in a parking lot (Donny Long ran away) and authoring the world's most soporific porn blog about his workout routine and what he likes to order at Chili's. I've never had any problem with ChristianXXX myself because I don't really pay much attention to the male talent in porn unless the dude is gross (in which case I have to actively try to not look at him), and ChristianXXX seems generally well-groomed and unintrusive. However, he may have just jumped into gross-out territory with this ill-advised unholy anti-Donny Long alliance, if the above photos suggest that he did a scene with the decrepit remnants of what was once one of the hottest pieces of ass in the entire adult world. That's really too bad, because the other day I saw a clip of Christian banging Eva Angelina and it was pretty hot. Now I can't even watch it again, because the second his bald, Mr. Clean-looking ass shows up I'm going to conjure up images of Chasey's ghoulish visage. I don't even think the hotness that is Eva Angelina will be able to quell my compulsive and violent urge to vomit all over my computer screen, and that's saying a lot, because she's pretty hot.
And speaking of compulsive, violent urges, I have to stop now due to uncontrollable shuddering.
Labels: correspondence, drugs, gross, oh the horror, porn, Razzyphiles, sluts, tragedy
Friday, October 17, 2008
A dangling C.H.U.D.
I've gotten a couple e-mails regarding a certain SUPER hot photo from the master debate the other evening. It seems that despite the widespread circulation of this shot on the internets, my mom, GayMan, and a couple of random Razzyphiles just had to e-mail me to make sure it didn't escape my notice that the officer and a hot piece known as Senator John McCain (R-AZ) looked like he was being transmogrified into one of the creatures dwelling in the fell city of Minas Morgul after catching a glimpse of old Pointy Pelvis Obama's ass:
I don't know how I missed McCain doing this live, because I certainly watched the debate. It may have something to do with the fact that I watched it at a bar and had already knocked back a Dos Equis or fifty. I also was thrown off because during the debate there had been a lot of cheering for McCain, and I thought maybe I was in good company. Then, however, when the cheering continued after the debate I realized that everyone was getting excited about the Phillies game on one of the other bar TVs, and as usual I was the only McCainiac around. In any event, I had other things on my mind than spotting fleeting moments when McCain apparently gave in–if only for a moment–to his insatiable craving for smug, condescending Illinois senator flesh. I wish I had seen it, though, because I've been saying for a long time that we need a C.H.U.D. in the White House. For one thing, a cannibalistic, possibly undead president would strike a lot more fear into the hearts of evildoers everywhere than a brainy law professor. For another, I'd like to see those socialist homos in Europe complain about our warmongering ways while facing the threat of being ravenously devoured by our fearless leader for their gall. My election preference continues to be validated by Senator McCain's total awesomeness. JOHN! MC! CAIN! JOHN! MC! CAIN!
*RAZZY Edit: No sooner did I publish this than I was asked, "What the f is a C.H.U.D.?" Apparently I am the only one around here with any appreciation for the cinematic masterpieces of the 1980s. C.H.U.D. is a movie about some John McCain-looking things with glowing eyes that live under New York City in the abandoned subway tunnels and occasionally venture up from their subterranean digs to eat hot 80s chicks with spiral perms. It's a really realistic movie, because I can't tell you how many narrow escapes I have made from hungry C.H.U.D.s since moving to New York six years ago. Take a gander at the awesome trailer for C.H.U.D. and I guarantee that not only will you IMMEDIATELY rush to Blockbuster and rent it, you will see my reasoning that a C.H.U.D. would make a better president than a community organizer. TRUST.
Labels: Barack Obama, John McCain, movies, oh the horror, politics
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, July 31, 2008
How the mighty have fallen
Chasey Lain is a famous porn star from the 1990s. Even people who aren't total pervs like me and follow the smut industry to the point of reading porn blogs may have heard of Chasey Lain, because the Bloodhound Gang (of "you and me, baby, ain't nothin' but mammals so let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel" fame) had a song entitled "The Ballad of Chasey Lain." As you might imagine, that was an incredibly romantic love song featuring lines like "show 'em them titties", "as your biggest fan, I must demand that you let me eat your ass", "you've had a lotta dick, Chasey, but you ain't had mine," and "would you fuck me for blow?"
Well, it turns out that Chasey probably would. In fact, if a would-be paramour was fresh out of powder cocaine, she'd probably fuck the lucky guy for crack. Or meth. Or spray glue. While ten years ago, Chasey was a pretty hot piece of ass and plied her cinematic craft to make numerous rubworthy masterpieces (and some pretty boring couples-oriented boy-girl scenes too–and even though that link is to some seriously snoreworthy porn, mind clicking it at work). She was a Vivid contract girl and undoubtedly inspired a respectable amount of fan masturbation.
Unfortunately, the years have not been kind to Chasey, and she DOES NOT look like that anymore. In the past, there have been all sorts of rumors going on about her. She's been reported as dead several times, was involved with a boyfriend's murder, and has supposed links to the Russian mob. While thanks to her porn fortune or her rumored ties to organized crime, she drives a $250,000 Rolls Royce, recent evidence surfaced indicating that she has also picked up a raging drug habit and a bad case of busted crackwhore in the looks department.
The other week, Chasey went to shoot a scene with Donny Long, who is a dickhead director and producer notorious for shooting his mouth off to the adult industry blogs about people he hates. Most recently, he's been catching a lot of flack for getting into a feud with male talent ChristianXXX, and calling him a "tranny-fucker" and a big flaming 'mo. ChristianXXX is pissed because even though he did a few gay titles early in his career, he thinks (probably correctly) that Donny Long is hurting his industry reputation by telling young actresses that he'll give them AIDS and they shouldn't work with (ie: be anally reamed by) him. ChristianXXX has responded in the respectable way one would expect a porn star of his sophistication and elegance to: by saying that Donny Long literally stinks and whining about it on his blog. Because the porn "press" has nothing better to do than cover every bit of backstabbing trash talk, you can read all about their petty squabbles by searching either of their names on any given porn news site. It's all very mature, which is why I follow it. I'm hoping to pick up some pointers on professionalism from these classy guys.
Anyway, Donny Long was supposed to shoot a scene with Chasey Lain, and needless to say, she showed up acting like a full-on raging tweaker mess. Unfortunately for her, Donny Long just discovered YouTube, and shared the whole debacle with the world. Chasey shows up, dicks around, makes a zillion completely incoherent arguments about wanting "a handwritten contract" stipulating more money to shoot hardcore stills as well as video, claims she's going to wear a tampon throughout (GROSS), and eventually threatens to send her hit man boyfriend after Donny Long. At that point, Long fires her ("get your meth out of my studio, you fucking crack whore") and follows her out of his studio, where he captures her supposedly lighting up her crack pipe in the backseat. The videos are sort of long, but nonetheless worth watching, particularly if you're in a crappy mood and wondering if there's any way your life could get worse. Your life could be much, much worse. You could be Chasey Lain.
Labels: drugs, gross, oh the horror, porn, sluts, tragedy
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Alexandra Wells and Alyssa Waldrop
DOB: 1986-1990
Occupation: the oldest profession
Hometown: ???
Current residence: a jail cell in Lake Ozark, Missouri
Douchebaggery: The lovely ladies pictured above are both in the family way, and were undoubtedly stressing a little about how to pay the bills once they had another mouth to feed around the house (or possibly, the sleazy no-tell motel room in which they reside). Therefore, with no marketable skills save using buttfuckmissouri.craigslist.org and taking dick, they resorted to a seemingly natural line of work: prostitution.
This in itself isn't all that unusual. What is unusual about them is that their ring consisted entirely of pregnant women, and this was a selling point. While on one hand, I congratulate the ladies on their business acumen for targeting a probably untapped niche market, on the other, I say a big "ew, GROSS!" for catering to a fetish I've never understood. It's probably not a very enlightened thing to say, but I feel like pregnant women are kind of nasty. They have a lot of gas and stretch marks, and they're always pigging out, and I worry that their twats might be...I don't know, weird. When mice get knocked up, they develop a big mucus plug in there, and I'm pretty sure that human mammals do too. SICK!
It also seems like sex with a heavily pregnant chick would be really challenging. You certainly are limited in terms of positions, and I'd be worried about screwing something up. Like, what if you were doing the chick doggystyle and things got crazy and the baby got squished into whatever surface you were doing it on (in this case, a jizz-spattered by-the-hour bed)? I don't know if that can happen, but it seems like you could really fuck up a third trimester fetus by trying some of the positions I assume are part of any decent working girl's repertoire. It seems like you could also really fuck up a dude trying some more adventurous positions. For example, the kind of middle-aged, overweight, out-of-shape dude in a ratty Chiefs sweatshirt that I presume patronizes a heavily pregs rural Missourian hooker could throw his back out if he tried to execute the wheelbarrow and thus support all that weight with his lumbar spine. These hookers were courting danger as well as my symptoms of nausea.
Overall, I'm glad these bitches have ceased mining the internets for pervs interested in pregnant dick. I'm sure their babies will thank them for getting arrested at some point, since they probably are going to have difficult enough childhoods without having to worry about getting a perinatal herpes infection on the way out of their skank moms' high-traffic twats. Eight month pregnant hoes are something that does not need to be on the open pussy market. Justice is served like these bitches' customers won't be.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, gross, oh the horror, sex
Monday, July 28, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Shigeo Tokuda
DOB: 1933?
Occupation: porn star
Hometown: Tokyo, Japan
Current residence: Tokyo, Japan
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Every time I watch something Japanese, I'm sort of mystified and confused by a lot of what goes on. Probably there's a lot lost in translation, but generally I find Japanese shit strange and befuddling to my American sensibilities. Take suicide, for example. Plenty of people commit suicide around the world, but the Japanese have the market cornered on bizarre movie suicides for no apparent reason. If you watch almost any Japanese movie, from Godzilla v. Mothra all the way to Battle Royale, people are killing themselves right and left just because. In Battle Royale, there is literally one couple who kills themselves because they won't be able to continue their junior high relationship together on account of everyone involved in the titular Battle Royale having to kill each other...and NOT because they've been fitted with an explosive collar around their necks and forced to murder their tween peers.
In some cases, this cultural misunderstanding works well. "MXC: Most Xtreme Challenge" is a fun way to pass time on Spike TV when nothing else is on, and I have adored the original Japanese "Iron Chef" since I first witnessed Chaiman Kaga presiding over the Abalone Battle in Kitchen Stadium years ago. I may have no idea what "skwe-san" means, but I know that if the commentators don't use it to discuss the delicate and impressive manner in which an Iron Chef or his challenger is making swallow's nest and eel ice cream, hell will break loose (actually, the offender would probably just commit suicide). The elements of Japanese culture I don't get often intrigue and amuse me, and many Americans have followed suit. We've thus developed inferior versions of these shows for ourselves, since we seem to share the Japanese people's taste for crazy game shows, campy cooking competitions, karaoke, and pale long-haired ghosts who crawl out of consumer electronics.
That incorporation of classically Japanese entertainment into American culture has also occurred in the world of pornography. My high school boyfriend would always say he was watching "anime," and I'd come over to find him watching some hentai shit where a large-eyed cartoon princess was being fucked in every orifice including ears and nostrils by some kind of grotesque robot praying mantis alien creature with twelve cocks and a giant set of mecha-crab claws. I'm sure that there are at least twenty million other high school boys sitting around whacking it to the same ridiculous cartoons. Although I find it pretty boring and somewhat gross, the sheer volume of various bukkake scenes on the internet indicate that this Japanese brand of porn has also made the leap into an international commodity. For a nation of people who supposedly are always too busy working to have sex, the Japanese love themselves some nasty porn to the point where they've invented new disgusting genres.
Upon learning of new developments in this arena, though, I pray that unlike bukkake and animated alien rape, the new cutting edge trend in Japanese porn will stay on its own side of the Pacific. Apparently the Japanese jerk-off consumers these days are all into GERIATRIC PORN. It's not that I have a problem with sex with older men. I've fucked my share of dudes in their mid-to-late thirties, and there have been more than a few guys in their forties or fifties I've fantasized about. In fact, I'd even consider fucking guys older than that (named John McCain). What I do not really want to do, however, is rub one off to guys who spent their youth trying to rout our forces on Guadalcanal and elsewhere in the Pacific theatre. Enter Shigeo Tokuda, the 74-year-old star of such films as Maniac Training of Lolitas, Grandparents Getting Down, and Forbidden Elderly Care. A recent article by TIME magazine describes Shigeo's niche as portraying "a tactful elderly gentlemen who instructs women of different ages in the erotic arts."
Just because I doubt I would appreciate his art, however, doesn't mean I can't show some love for Shigeo. The man is apparently a porn superstar in Japan, to the point where his very name has in itself become a brand. He keeps his real name a closely guarded secret, because in the TIME article he says his wife and daughter are unaware that he is the Peter North of Japanese pepaw porn. A slightly more recent piece by CNN suggests that his wife and daughter have found out and are supportive, but don't want to know the details. I suppose that when your elderly spouse and father is featured on over 350 porn box covers, at some point, you're bound to see one and call an emergency family meeting. I can understand why I probably wouldn't want to know the details of my dad's second career as a male retiree porn star, since I don't want to see clips of a film entitled Never Too Old to Bone regardless. However, just because I'm not interested in masturbating to his (gross) art doesn't mean I can't salute Shigeo Tokuda, who claims he's going to be in the business until he's 80 or older and attributes his "glowing complexion" to his love of his part-time job. Vince Voyeur and T.T. Boy wish they had that kind of staying power.
Just because I doubt I would appreciate his art, however, doesn't mean I can't show some love for Shigeo. The man is apparently a porn superstar in Japan, to the point where his very name has in itself become a brand. He keeps his real name a closely guarded secret, because in the TIME article he says his wife and daughter are unaware that he is the Peter North of Japanese pepaw porn. A slightly more recent piece by CNN suggests that his wife and daughter have found out and are supportive, but don't want to know the details. I suppose that when your elderly spouse and father is featured on over 350 porn box covers, at some point, you're bound to see one and call an emergency family meeting. I can understand why I probably wouldn't want to know the details of my dad's second career as a male retiree porn star, since I don't want to see clips of a film entitled Never Too Old to Bone regardless. However, just because I'm not interested in masturbating to his (gross) art doesn't mean I can't salute Shigeo Tokuda, who claims he's going to be in the business until he's 80 or older and attributes his "glowing complexion" to his love of his part-time job. Vince Voyeur and T.T. Boy wish they had that kind of staying power.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, gross, oh the horror, porn, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, sex
Thursday, June 26, 2008
THE most embarrassing thing that I've ever done
Yesterday, I had one of the most upsetting instant message conversations of all time. To make a long and completely unnecessary story very short, I got a "no thanks, I'm not interested in you" in the form of talk about how my public discussion of my abortion makes this dude think I'm a totally unattractive and unlovable freak, and an itemized list of obvious problems with myself that this dude wanted no part of. Basically, it was the cruelest, most humiliating way of hearing "let's just be friends" of all time, and I was in a tremendously bad state afterwards. Don't get me wrong, I've certainly been in the position where a dude just wasn't feeling me, and sure, that makes you feel bad for about a week. Your ego is wounded and that sucks, but you get over it much sooner than later, and big fucking deal. It happens, and (especially when you're a narcissist like me) you get over it. However, I've never received a comprehensive summary of the human flaws I am most sensitive about as a means of saying "I'm just not feeling a re-do of the date we had almost a year ago." All I could do while discussing this–over IM–was try to save face and seem like I was merely embarrassed rather than profoundly hurt that this person actually thought that by telling me all about EVERYTHING that is wrong with me (to the point of quoting comments on this very blog saying that I'm too much of a slut to ever find a man who isn't a freak and then adding that such commenters "have my back") would be a kindness.
While this was actually pretty awful, I naturally acted like it was no big deal, and then called my friends in tears. The reason I talk about my abortion the way I do is because it is so unbelievably painful and difficult for me to deal with that the only way I know how to cope with it is to minimize its destructive power by making flippant jokes. Horrible things lose some of their sting when you can make fun of them. Being incredibly hurt by hearing that my sole coping mechanism for dealing with the worst thing that I've ever done is at the top of the list of reasons why I'm an undesirable freak is at least something that my friends can make fun of and thus help me deal with.
A couple of my friends came to my apartment to drink beers with me and discuss how awesome I am and how, while bringing up the fact that I talk about my abortion as a negative I somehow needed to hear about might be one of the coldest things they've ever heard of, we've all put ourselves out there and gotten burned BAD. Sometimes, this burning is in the stupidest, most humiliating, most vulnerability-exploiting way, and what can you do besides try to laugh about that? Everyone was talking about the most embarrassing thing they've ever done in these situations, and who had the most predictable bullshit embarrassing bad dating moves ever? Go figure...that was strictly in the realm of lesbian stories.
Twathopper said something like, "At least you actually slept with this fuck once. And at least you didn't go give some bitch who wouldn't even fuck you their inaugural article in Runner's World framed as a gift!"
While that IS pretty lame, in fairness, Twathopper was putting up with six months of extreme mindfuckery, and she was new to the clam bake. Novice lesbians always do stupid shit like that, and I know from experience. This actually made Twathopper seem sane and normal, because memories of my incredibly annoying high school poetry-writing lesbian phase flooded in, and I was like, "I think I've actually done something even more embarrassing than that. Holy shit, I think I actually have some poetry."
I have a box of crap from yesteryear containing a bunch of random photographs and letters and that kind of thing. One of these random items was a poem I wrote on September 13, 1994 per the date stamp. "I think that myself at age 14 almost 15 was even worse," I said. It's true; I was the most RIDICULOUSLY UNCOOL, TOTALLY INSANE teenage lesbian at a Jesuit high school ever. There is nothing that will drive a highly cognitive, sexually confused pubescent girl nuts like a hefty dose of Catholic guilt and hormone-clouded thoughts of unrequited love. Poetry writing was the least of my problems. I actually did some light stalking, long letter-writing, and truck-egging (and how crazy teenage lesbian is that?) after my ex-girlfriend dumped me for this other girl in our class because she was the sole BDOC (big dyke on campus) in our high school and she basically could. Trust that I realized fifteen years ago how batshit crazy that sort of behavior is over someone not worth that much effort.
Anyway, I realized that even hearing that someone is not attracted to me because of how I've dealt with my most traumatic experience ever is nothing in terms of embarrassment when it comes to how I dealt with my high school lezzie drama. The poem I wrote is absolute proof, and it was actually educational, as I realized when I wrote this, I was still 14 and had obviously grown enamored with fucking my girlfriend. I swear it was when I was fifteen, and I remember the exact date (July 26, 1995) that I lost my virginity to a dude, but apparently I was hitting pussy when I was just 14 according to the date on the poem (*and OOPS, I was born November 17, 1978, so I was totally 15 when this was written...I just obviously suck hard at math, but I'm leaving it). That would be a lot more sexually precocious in an awesome way if it weren't for the UNBELIEVABLY LAME POETRY I WROTE! I couldn't even read this whole thing to my friends because I was so ashamed of it, and I'm certainly not printing the entire thing here now. I am probably more ashamed of this than ANYTHING I've ever done, and strictly because it's the most cloying, awful, totally pathetic teenage lesbian thing I've ever read. Here are some of the excerpts I can actually tolerate releasing to the internets-reading public, and...well, just uff da. UFF DA!
The window is cracked to our naked skin
And we would be cold but for the
Heat of the other woman's flesh.
The blankets, smell of old cigarettes, the keys
Why she loves me.
I mean, SERIOUSLY?!?! I WROTE THIS?!?!?! If I didn't know how incredibly psychotic and overwhelmingly lame I was as an insane faux-suicidal lesbian teenager, I wouldn't believe it myself. And it gets worse.
The act of marriage, sacred and unholy still
With another woman it is just dirt
White dirt and I know God is getting off
On it, that love I feel when her
Skin is plastered to mine with the
Exertion of what she gives for me
I may have had some sick Catholic issues and been in the midst of a sexuality crisis, but on the bright side, at least I was having apparently extremely hot lesbian sex (and by that, I mean mostly boobmashing with a sprinkle of clumsy fingerbanging and labia kissing). "Skin plastered to mine" and "Exertion of what she gives for me"? That sounds to me like some seriously sexy girl-on-girl, but this was obviously spoken by someone who was having sex for the first time. Now that I've had a considerable amount of experience on top of that, I recall that this bitch had no tits, and was constantly complaining that I wasn't hitting the right spot. Give me a break, I didn't even discover my own G-spot until I started fucking boys, and that was totally by accident. At least she apparently got the job done for me. ANYWAY! Back to the horrendous poetry. It really does make me feel better to take the worst times of my life and rag on them hard. How can I really take stuff like this seriously? I certainly cannot take it with the life-or-death gravity as I did when I wrote it.
And masked bitter envy in a cloak of
False and prefabricated guilt.
This is the tree of life up here
Hidden in the outdated closets and faded curtains
Swept back so we can gaze together
Out of the bright picture window and
Watch the light play pretty shapes on
Flattened stomachs, bare golden backs
Red-spotted breasts and long yellow hair.
God, she's so pretty.
Okay, now I am sufficiently embarrassed by this TOTAL doggerel (and yes, I know this particular poem doesn't rhyme and thus technically doesn't qualify as "doggerel," but I can't think of a better word that means "shitty fucking poetry") that I can't continue with the excerpts. This is truly the most horrifyingly shameful thing I've ever committed to paper, and while I'm mortified that I brought this into the world at all, I'm glad that I did for personal self-esteem reasons. From now on, every time I make some incredibly dumbass girl move and get emotionally bitch-slapped for it, I can just pick my original copy of "Forbidden" out of my "old shit" box and remind myself how much crazier I was fifteen years ago, and how I'm SO much better than all of that now. Lord knows my sex life with the ladies these days is a hell of a lot more Strap it On 5 than "God, she's so pretty," and there's certainly nothing I can do or say to any of my sexual partners that's crazier or more horribly shameful than what I wrote in 1994.
In the midst of an extremely hearty laugh, JerseyGirl was like, "Razzy, that poem really is cereally one of the most straight-up renarded things I've ever heard." Truly. And when things like this come up, where I am faced with the consequences of writing extremely personal, touchy things on the internets and having somebody misinterpret the kind of human being I am at my deep expense as a result, I can always rely on the fact that no matter what I do as an adult trying to deal with the complicated issues of life the best way I can, I'm never going to be as "cereally renarded" as I was when I was 14. And actually, that is greatly comforting. It's a huge relief to know that the lamest thing I've ever done has nothing to do with heavy shit like how I deal with my abortion and how other people respond to it. For the first time ever...thank you, inner poetry-writing retarded-ass lesbian. Thank you so fucking much.
Labels: crazies, for serious people, JerseyGirl, lezbollah, oh the horror, Razzification, Twathopper
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Watch the eyes
In a week or so, I'm going to be attending an event (read: bachelorette party) where there will most likely be a professional male entertainer who specializes in taking off his clothes. LL Cool Jew told me the other day that she had never seen a male stripper before, and I reminded her that she had once before at Senior Banquet, a Smith event in which the graduating seniors get the underclassWOmen of Jordan House drunk and "will" them crap they want to part with.
"At my Senior Banquet at Smith! Remember? I know you were there...I willed you my Dr. Dre poster!"
"Uh, I remember going to your Senior Banquet. I don't remember a stripper there."
"Dude, the Jordan underclassbitches totally hired one for us! He came in dressed as a cop and then proceeded to wag his smiley-face banana hammock in all our faces!"
"I still don't remember that," LL Cool Jew said.
"Yes! And then, do you remember that shitty bar in Leeds or wherever called The Office? Well, the stripper came there with us afterward, and then Martindale brought him back to Jordan and fucked him!"
"How do I not remember that?" LL Cool Jew wondered.
I then took it upon myself to explain to LL Cool Jew what it's like witnessing a male stripper in action: BORING. Male strippers never take it all off. While LL Cool Jew pointed out that many female strippers keep their bottoms on too, they at least have tits. I could care less about some pretty boy guido's muscle definition. Sure, I might say, "He's got a hot body," but after about 30 seconds of lame gyrating I'm going to get bored without seeing some weiner. I mentioned that LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, in which we had that bitch in the private party room at Scores literally drowning in lady strippers, was going to go down in history as being WAY better in the nudity department than this upcoming shindig because male strippers are by definition sort of boring.
Anyway, I did a little research about male strippers, and I concluded that some of them may actually take it all off. For a moment, I felt cheered up. However, then I went to see what was going on in the world of internets celebrity gossip, and came upon a disturbing anecdotal tale. I'm now a little nervous after hearing this story courtesy of Michael K. at Dlisted:
So, my friend was at some bachelorette party and of course they had some guido stripper shaking his junk for all of them. Guido stripper went from girl to girl and practically dick slapped them. The next day, my friend's eye was all swollen and nasty. She went to the doctor and guess what was in that bitch's eye? A fucking dead crab.
So, my friend was at some bachelorette party and of course they had some guido stripper shaking his junk for all of them. Guido stripper went from girl to girl and practically dick slapped them. The next day, my friend's eye was all swollen and nasty. She went to the doctor and guess what was in that bitch's eye? A fucking dead crab.
This just validates my view that male strippers are far more loathsome than their female counterparts. I have enough trouble with guys and my eyes as it is. One time a dude shot his load on my face and hit me in the eye, and it felt like my contact got soaked in liquid fire. You wouldn't think that shit would sting so bad, but then again, semen is at a pretty alkaline pH to counteract the acidic environment of the vagina and maximize sperm survival, so I guess it can really fuck up a pH neutral mucosal surface like the eye. On that occasion, the guy noticed me clutching my hands over my eyes and saying "Holy FUCK, ow!", and was like, "What's the matter, baby?" Then I was all, "Nice shooting, asshole! Annie Fucking Oakley you are not! No more facials for you." As semen was bad enough, I have absolutely no desire to be picking the exoskeletons of pubic lice out of my tender, contact-wearing baby blues, so if this dude plans to dick slap me, he better brush up on his physical defense skills, because there will be no weiners in my face. In my mouth, vadge, or ass, maybe, but NOT IN MY FACE!
Labels: assholes, epidemic geekery, gross, holy fucking matrimony, nudity, oh the horror, sexual assault, weiners
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