Friday, May 11, 2007
My first doctorate
It seems that I was not the only one to notice the intriguing virology coverage yesterday by the BBC. No less than THREE separate Razzyphiles e-mailed me about the HPV-mediated link between cocksucking and throat cancer BEFORE they even saw that I'd written about it. In fact, J-Sexy, who only reads my blog when I'm either out of town or tell her that I've written something about her hatred of animals, dutty wining, or Jamaican food, didn't read it. Today she was very proud of herself when she asked, "Did you see the article that I e-mailed you? I thought you in particolar would find that relevant."
I don't know why I'm bothering with this dumb Ph.D., because clearly my certifications as a head doctor are current. Judging by the number of people who felt that I would benefit immensely from a warning that the impressive "blowjobs" section of my curriculum vitae might put me at risk, my reputation as a dicksucking skank is apparently widely known.
Not that I'm arguing with it or offended by it, because it's totally true. When I was home in the P-N-Dub last week, I was experiencing some killer tonsillar lymphoadenopathy that I attributed to vigorous deep-throating (after an evening of drinking, smoking like a 19th-century locomotive, and hollering at everyone in sight). I was blaming it on the combined mechanical trauma of sucking a dude off with the fact that I had mono when I was a freshman in college and my head-and-neck secondary lymphoid organs haven't been the same since. If I get so much as a minor cold my tonsils and submandibular lymph nodes swell to the size of golf balls. However, now I'm getting worried that it's HPV!
I should investigate this further for my own health and well-being. I wonder how my physician would react if I strolled into her office and demanded that she give my mouth a Pap smear. I don't know if my shitty Aetna insurance will cover that, but it never hurts to ask.
I don't know why I'm bothering with this dumb Ph.D., because clearly my certifications as a head doctor are current. Judging by the number of people who felt that I would benefit immensely from a warning that the impressive "blowjobs" section of my curriculum vitae might put me at risk, my reputation as a dicksucking skank is apparently widely known.
Not that I'm arguing with it or offended by it, because it's totally true. When I was home in the P-N-Dub last week, I was experiencing some killer tonsillar lymphoadenopathy that I attributed to vigorous deep-throating (after an evening of drinking, smoking like a 19th-century locomotive, and hollering at everyone in sight). I was blaming it on the combined mechanical trauma of sucking a dude off with the fact that I had mono when I was a freshman in college and my head-and-neck secondary lymphoid organs haven't been the same since. If I get so much as a minor cold my tonsils and submandibular lymph nodes swell to the size of golf balls. However, now I'm getting worried that it's HPV!
I should investigate this further for my own health and well-being. I wonder how my physician would react if I strolled into her office and demanded that she give my mouth a Pap smear. I don't know if my shitty Aetna insurance will cover that, but it never hurts to ask.
Labels: epidemic geekery, oh the horror, perversion, science, sex, sluts, viruses rule
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Bad news from the tumor virus front
I was reading an article BigBagel sent me about Paris Hilton on the BBC website when I noticed an article that piqued my interest. In fact, it is currently the second most read article on the whole of the BBC's site. Needless to say, it did little for my unchecked Paris-related rage besides convert it into stark concern about my health:
Crap...it looks like HPV can tumor up your throat as well as your cooch. You know all those commercials for the HPV vaccine featuring a bunch of fugly chicks that are like, "Cancer?! FROM A VIRUS?! I had no idea that a VIRUS could cause CANCER! I'm going to tell every bitch I know!" Unlike those dumb bitches in the vaccine ad, I've known all about the link between human papillomavirus and cervical cancer for a long time (Chingy!'s old dogsitter used to work on how the E6 viral protein acts as a ubiquitin ligase to target several important proteins for proteasomal degradation, thus enabling oncogenesis and metastasis), but why haven't I heard about this blowjob risk? They need to have a Gardasil-hawking commercial about that!
It seems your risk increases by almost an entire order of magnitude if you've blown more than six people. Guilty as charged on that count. Even worse, blowjobs are even riskier than smoking! I've done a lot of both, although on the bright side I've smoked exponentially more cigarettes than cocks, as I'm not quite so slutty as to suck twenty cocks a day for ten years. Regardless, it's pretty fucked up that my decade-long pack-a-day habit is something to cheer about, so it looks like I should just put money down now for one of those microphone thingies you have to use when they remove your voice box.
Does this mean that now I need to start throwing a pre-fellatio raincoat over dudes' dicks? My colleagues in the virology business are probably about to shame me for my flagrant irresponsibility, but I hate giving head to weiners with a condom on them. First off, you haven't tasted bitter misery until you've gotten an accidental mouthwash of nonoxynol-9. Second, even the non-spermicidal generic lube tastes like ass. And third, from a technical perspective which I will not go into detail about, condoms complicate some of my signature blowjob moves. This study is grave news, indeed.
Crap...it looks like HPV can tumor up your throat as well as your cooch. You know all those commercials for the HPV vaccine featuring a bunch of fugly chicks that are like, "Cancer?! FROM A VIRUS?! I had no idea that a VIRUS could cause CANCER! I'm going to tell every bitch I know!" Unlike those dumb bitches in the vaccine ad, I've known all about the link between human papillomavirus and cervical cancer for a long time (Chingy!'s old dogsitter used to work on how the E6 viral protein acts as a ubiquitin ligase to target several important proteins for proteasomal degradation, thus enabling oncogenesis and metastasis), but why haven't I heard about this blowjob risk? They need to have a Gardasil-hawking commercial about that!
It seems your risk increases by almost an entire order of magnitude if you've blown more than six people. Guilty as charged on that count. Even worse, blowjobs are even riskier than smoking! I've done a lot of both, although on the bright side I've smoked exponentially more cigarettes than cocks, as I'm not quite so slutty as to suck twenty cocks a day for ten years. Regardless, it's pretty fucked up that my decade-long pack-a-day habit is something to cheer about, so it looks like I should just put money down now for one of those microphone thingies you have to use when they remove your voice box.
Does this mean that now I need to start throwing a pre-fellatio raincoat over dudes' dicks? My colleagues in the virology business are probably about to shame me for my flagrant irresponsibility, but I hate giving head to weiners with a condom on them. First off, you haven't tasted bitter misery until you've gotten an accidental mouthwash of nonoxynol-9. Second, even the non-spermicidal generic lube tastes like ass. And third, from a technical perspective which I will not go into detail about, condoms complicate some of my signature blowjob moves. This study is grave news, indeed.
Labels: epidemic geekery, oh the horror, perversion, science, sex, sluts, viruses rule
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
How the fuck did I get on this mailing list?
I received the following e-mail today, which is the most bullshit sales pitch I've ever heard in my life:
From: SSG Irma Coronado (IRMA.CORONADO@USAREC.ARMY.MIL)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: The U.S. Army has a place for you
Dear Angela,
I'm a little shocked by the Army's marketing language. They make it sound like working in the Army is along the lines of working for an investment bank or something, with all those bonuses and whatnot. Too bad a bunch of it is STRAIGHT LIES, like the part where you can enlist for as little as 15 months. I guess it doesn't sell as well if they include the line "until the President decides to extend your tour in Baghdad by a year." And I bet you can only "request a specific duty assignment" so long as that assignment involves going to fucking Iraq as cannon fodder.
Ultimately, I was all fired up, but it's not SSG Irma Coronado's fault. However, she should know that I'm not Army material so she will cease her unwanted correspondence, and I replied with this e-mail:
To: Staff Sergeant Irma Coronado (IRMA.CORONADO@USAREC.ARMY.MIL)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Dear Sergeant Coronado,
I was most confused upon receiving this e-mail, as I have never expressed any interest in joining the armed forces. Well, okay, when I was a sophomore in high school I thought for two seconds about going to West Point so that I could get free college tuition, but that all went out the window when I realized that spartan accommodations were mandated in the dorms and I couldn't hang up posters of Courtney Love in my room (don't laugh, it was 1994). It's a good thing I didn't, because when I was an undergrad at Smith, cadets from West Point used to come to our parties all the time and talk about some socially and sexually repressed dudes! Since passing on West Point on the basis of wanting my Hole poster handy, I'm afraid that I have not once considered a career in the U.S. Army, nor has the Army considered me a malleable subject upon which to bestow "Army strength."
For one thing, I am often very resistant to discipline and have a tendency to question everything, particularly authority, and particularly the military policies of its current commander-in-chief. Since taking orders is a requisite part of military life, I think I might run into problems there.
Also, I have a hard time keeping my own secrets, so I'm just going to come right out and say that I fuck girls sometimes, which I believe is against the Army's long-standing "don't ask, don't tell" policy. Granted, I'm not sure if that policy applies only to strict lesbians and not to licentious bisexuals like myself, but somehow I feel that my bedroom activities might also be frowned upon.
Finally, the biggest issue I have with a career in the Army is having to go to Iraq. While I have always wanted to see the Middle East, even after I found out the Holy Grail isn't actually at Petra like Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade led me to believe, getting blown up by a RPG in Fallujah is not my idea of a party. Furthermore, since I didn't agree with going to war in Iraq in the first place, I will hardly have a patriotic attitude about being there and I doubt you want a hater like me bringing down everyone's morale when it comes to "fighting terror" or "winning freedom" or whatever your folks' PR department is calling it these days.
Don't get me wrong, Sergeant, because I'm proud that we have brave soldiers like you to fight for our country and I thank you wholeheartedly for your service and sacrifice. I think that you guys have gotten the short end of the stick in terms of being taken care of by the government which called you to make these sacrifices in the first place. However, I'm afraid that I'll have to do my freedom fighting on the homefront. As sick and tired of graduate school as I am, two more years of slaving away in the lab sounds like a luxury cruise along the French riviera compared to ducking suicide bombs in the green zone.
Thank you for your interest, but regrettably I must decline your offer of Army Strength.
Best wishes,
Razzy
Hopefully that will stem the tide of the Army's efforts to lure me into the fold, and allow me to continue padding my academic pedigree and being an elitist snob, or what I like to call, "Ivy League Strong." Hoo-rah, or whatever.
From: SSG Irma Coronado (IRMA.CORONADO@USAREC.ARMY.MIL)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: The U.S. Army has a place for you
Dear Angela,
As your local Army Recruiter, I'd like to tell you about the many opportunities the Army has to offer students like yourself. Whether you know the path you want to take after college or are still deciding, the Army has many opportunities to suit your needs.
Army Reserve
As a Soldier in the Army Reserve, you can train near home and be ready to serve full time when needed. As a Soldier in the Army Reserve, you may qualify for:
- An enlistment bonus of up to $20,000
- More than $23,000 in education benefits through the Montgomery GI Bill with the Army Reserve "Kicker"
- Up to $20,000 to pay off your federally insured student loans through the Army Loan Repayment Program
- An extra paycheck every month
Active Duty
If you're close to graduating or are simply thinking about giving college a break, you may want to consider serving full time on Active Duty. As a Soldier in the U.S. Army, you may qualify for:
As an active duty Soldier, you will be entitled to 30 days paid vacation a year, medical and dental coverage, access to superb recreation facilities, and low-cost shopping in post stores. You may also have an opportunity to request a specific duty assignment.
Of course, the benefits of joining the U.S. Army go beyond just the monetary. In addition to becoming a stronger individual as you gain new training and experiences, you'll also feel a sense of accomplishment, experience true camaraderie and teamwork, and develop discipline and leadership skills that today's employers value.
If you'd like to learn more about opportunities the U.S. Army and Army Reserve offer, contact me.
You can also send for info at www.goarmy.com. I look forward to hearing from you!
Sincerely: SSG Irma Coronado
ARMY STRONG!
I'm a little shocked by the Army's marketing language. They make it sound like working in the Army is along the lines of working for an investment bank or something, with all those bonuses and whatnot. Too bad a bunch of it is STRAIGHT LIES, like the part where you can enlist for as little as 15 months. I guess it doesn't sell as well if they include the line "until the President decides to extend your tour in Baghdad by a year." And I bet you can only "request a specific duty assignment" so long as that assignment involves going to fucking Iraq as cannon fodder.
Ultimately, I was all fired up, but it's not SSG Irma Coronado's fault. However, she should know that I'm not Army material so she will cease her unwanted correspondence, and I replied with this e-mail:
To: Staff Sergeant Irma Coronado (IRMA.CORONADO@USAREC.ARMY.MIL)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Dear Sergeant Coronado,
I was most confused upon receiving this e-mail, as I have never expressed any interest in joining the armed forces. Well, okay, when I was a sophomore in high school I thought for two seconds about going to West Point so that I could get free college tuition, but that all went out the window when I realized that spartan accommodations were mandated in the dorms and I couldn't hang up posters of Courtney Love in my room (don't laugh, it was 1994). It's a good thing I didn't, because when I was an undergrad at Smith, cadets from West Point used to come to our parties all the time and talk about some socially and sexually repressed dudes! Since passing on West Point on the basis of wanting my Hole poster handy, I'm afraid that I have not once considered a career in the U.S. Army, nor has the Army considered me a malleable subject upon which to bestow "Army strength."
For one thing, I am often very resistant to discipline and have a tendency to question everything, particularly authority, and particularly the military policies of its current commander-in-chief. Since taking orders is a requisite part of military life, I think I might run into problems there.
Also, I have a hard time keeping my own secrets, so I'm just going to come right out and say that I fuck girls sometimes, which I believe is against the Army's long-standing "don't ask, don't tell" policy. Granted, I'm not sure if that policy applies only to strict lesbians and not to licentious bisexuals like myself, but somehow I feel that my bedroom activities might also be frowned upon.
Finally, the biggest issue I have with a career in the Army is having to go to Iraq. While I have always wanted to see the Middle East, even after I found out the Holy Grail isn't actually at Petra like Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade led me to believe, getting blown up by a RPG in Fallujah is not my idea of a party. Furthermore, since I didn't agree with going to war in Iraq in the first place, I will hardly have a patriotic attitude about being there and I doubt you want a hater like me bringing down everyone's morale when it comes to "fighting terror" or "winning freedom" or whatever your folks' PR department is calling it these days.
Don't get me wrong, Sergeant, because I'm proud that we have brave soldiers like you to fight for our country and I thank you wholeheartedly for your service and sacrifice. I think that you guys have gotten the short end of the stick in terms of being taken care of by the government which called you to make these sacrifices in the first place. However, I'm afraid that I'll have to do my freedom fighting on the homefront. As sick and tired of graduate school as I am, two more years of slaving away in the lab sounds like a luxury cruise along the French riviera compared to ducking suicide bombs in the green zone.
Thank you for your interest, but regrettably I must decline your offer of Army Strength.
Best wishes,
Razzy
Hopefully that will stem the tide of the Army's efforts to lure me into the fold, and allow me to continue padding my academic pedigree and being an elitist snob, or what I like to call, "Ivy League Strong." Hoo-rah, or whatever.
Labels: correspondence, intentional buffoonery, oh the horror, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
The P-N-Dub versus the Volcano
One of the things about the P-N-Dub (and that means PACIFIC NORTHWEST, to the many people who STILL haven't figured that out in spite of my explaining it several different times) that is notable besides the abundance of salmon, coffee, Costcos, and Windows billionaires, is our lovely natural scenery. We have beautiful bays, verdant year-round evergreen forests, mighty rivers (as anyone who, like me, repeatedly failed at successfully sailing their wagon down the Columbia River from the Dalles at the end of the elementary school "Oregon Trail" computer game can attest), crashing Pacific surf, and majestic mountains. Our largest and most famous mountain, for which our tastiest and most famous local beer Vitamin R is formally named, can be seen here in all its snow-capped glory: Mt. Rainier, known as "Tahoma" by the local Native American tribes, towering over Tacoma, a city whose name is also derived from its magnificence.
Yes, it's very breathtaking and awe-inspiring (as is the hideously triangular outdoor wallpaper design on the Tacompton Dome). Adding to its impressiveness is the fact that Mt. Rainier is an active volcano. It hasn't erupted in 500 years, but apparently it's due any time now. After Mt. St. Helens erupted in 1980, it occurred to the US geological survey that Mt. Rainier might also blow its top. However, unlike Mt. St. Helens, which is in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, Mt. Rainier towers over the heavily populated Seattle-Tacoma metropolitan area, the land that spawned yours truly. Therefore, the possibility for mass casualties and subsequent FEMA ineptitude in the event of a catastrophic eruption is considerably more worrisome regarding Rainier than St. Helens.
Apparently the big eruption, when it occurs, will not be like those you see on a tropical island or like what happened at the end of LOTR: Return of the King after the One Ring was destroyed, with lava spouting out and flowing everywhere. There will be plenty of lava, but nobody will be able to see it unless they are inside the crater at the time of eruption, a vantage point that equates to instant death. All that magma trying to spurt out of the mountain will hit the underside of Rainier's scenic snowy peak, which is actually billions of gallons of water frozen into several huge-ass glaciers. Those glaciers will instantly liquefy, forming clouds of superheated sulfuric acid gas (called the "pyroclastic flow") and giant walls of boiling mud (called "lahars") that will rocket down the mountainside at the speed of an F-16 fighter jet. While the pyroclastic flow can mix with the hot ash flying out of the mountain to create severe lightning storms and sulfuric acid rainstorms and that's pretty dangerous, the lahars are worse. They will pick up everything, from houses to giant boulders to entire forests, as they speed down the mountain to destroy the towns below. Obviously when the geologists realized that this has a very high probability of happening sometime within the next century, they concluded that maybe a little planning was in order.
My high school best friend G-Boner grew up about ten minutes away from my parents' house in a town called Orting. Orting is located in a valley at the confluence of several riverbeds formed by ancient glaciers leaking off Mt. Rainier. If the mountain erupts, geologists say it's highly likely that a lahar 30-100 feet in height will bury Orting almost immediately. They estimate that the people in Orting will have 30-40 minutes to evacuate before its curtains for them. This is so imminent that when I was in college, a lot of my friends took a Rocks for Jocks course called "Natural Disasters." The hypothetical eruption of Mt. Rainier formed the basis for the ENTIRE COURSE, and everyone in it had to form a group and make a detailed presentation about all the ways my hometown and the surrounding areas are seriously, unequivocally, unfixably fucked. A couple of my friends formed a group and actually incorporated video footage of an interview with me answering questions like, "How does it feel to live in the shadow of impending destruction?" and "Do you experience any anxiety that your friends, family, dog, and everything you grew up knowing might be wiped out at any moment?" and (my favorite) "Are you terrified of seismic activity?" (One popular theory is that an earthquake might set off an eruption).
Fortunately, I don't have to experience constant anxiety while I'm home visiting the P-N-Dub, because the area is prepared. Valleys that will presumably be buried in lahars have installed sirens, and there are various emergency notification alert systems using phones, radio, and TV announcements that will warn us to drop what we're doing and get the fuck out of the lahar zone. For several years, signs advising people of "volcano evacuation routes" have been placed at the bottom of various elevated areas, and basically instruct people that in the event of an eruption, they should literally head for the hills.
I arrived back in the P-N-Dub right in time for a Pierce County-wide lahar drill. Apparently, a bunch of the sirens in such distinguished towns as McMillen and Alderton didn't work, and now the county is freaking out. Apparently, even though these towns have a killer view of the Rainier, none of the inbred dumbasses living there will be perturbed when they hear really loud EXPLODING SOUND, look up, and notice A GIANT FUCKING MUSHROOM CLOUD COMING OUT OF IT:
By the way, that's Mt. St. Helens, and it's like Rainier's kid sister. St. Helens was way smaller, with substantially less glacial mass on top of it, and this is what it did. Mt. Rainier's emissions will be at least twice as big and frightening. If you can't see the fucking mushroom cloud coming out of Rainier, then you had better be blind, because I don't see how you could miss it otherwise. Even if one of these valley-dwellers is too blind or stupid to see an intact mushroom cloud, one would think that sky being blotted out by a huge Apocalyptic-looking curtain of volcanic ash would suggest that it might be time to check out that volcano evacuation route. This is another picture from when St. Helens erupted in 1980. I guarantee that if I walked outside and saw this going on, I wouldn't respond by shrugging and noting, "Wow, the sky sure does look weird today." I mean, we are also famous for our cloudy skies here in the P-N-Dub, but there's overcast with a slight chance of rain and then there's overcast with a 100% chance of Biblically proportioned fire and brimstone, and this is the latter.
My personal opinion is that if the mountain blows and you need a siren or a phone call from the county sheriff to tell you that it's time to make like a tree and leave your double-wide behind alongside the Orting-Kapowsin highway, you would be doing our species a favor by staying right where you are and allowing the lahars to crush you and all those in your inferior gene pool to dust. Who needs eugenics when we've got mother nature, right?
On the bright side, when the mountain blows, my family and I will probably all get FEMA checks to spend on bags of oo-wee and baby mama's new weaves. Since all the dumb people will have succumbed to the fury of the lahars because they were too busy sitting around their sketchily financed Rent-a-Center flatscreens watching NASCAR and cooking meth to evacuate, and will subsequently be dead, there will be plenty of disaster relief to go around for the rest of us to spend inappropriately. Score!
Apparently the big eruption, when it occurs, will not be like those you see on a tropical island or like what happened at the end of LOTR: Return of the King after the One Ring was destroyed, with lava spouting out and flowing everywhere. There will be plenty of lava, but nobody will be able to see it unless they are inside the crater at the time of eruption, a vantage point that equates to instant death. All that magma trying to spurt out of the mountain will hit the underside of Rainier's scenic snowy peak, which is actually billions of gallons of water frozen into several huge-ass glaciers. Those glaciers will instantly liquefy, forming clouds of superheated sulfuric acid gas (called the "pyroclastic flow") and giant walls of boiling mud (called "lahars") that will rocket down the mountainside at the speed of an F-16 fighter jet. While the pyroclastic flow can mix with the hot ash flying out of the mountain to create severe lightning storms and sulfuric acid rainstorms and that's pretty dangerous, the lahars are worse. They will pick up everything, from houses to giant boulders to entire forests, as they speed down the mountain to destroy the towns below. Obviously when the geologists realized that this has a very high probability of happening sometime within the next century, they concluded that maybe a little planning was in order.
My high school best friend G-Boner grew up about ten minutes away from my parents' house in a town called Orting. Orting is located in a valley at the confluence of several riverbeds formed by ancient glaciers leaking off Mt. Rainier. If the mountain erupts, geologists say it's highly likely that a lahar 30-100 feet in height will bury Orting almost immediately. They estimate that the people in Orting will have 30-40 minutes to evacuate before its curtains for them. This is so imminent that when I was in college, a lot of my friends took a Rocks for Jocks course called "Natural Disasters." The hypothetical eruption of Mt. Rainier formed the basis for the ENTIRE COURSE, and everyone in it had to form a group and make a detailed presentation about all the ways my hometown and the surrounding areas are seriously, unequivocally, unfixably fucked. A couple of my friends formed a group and actually incorporated video footage of an interview with me answering questions like, "How does it feel to live in the shadow of impending destruction?" and "Do you experience any anxiety that your friends, family, dog, and everything you grew up knowing might be wiped out at any moment?" and (my favorite) "Are you terrified of seismic activity?" (One popular theory is that an earthquake might set off an eruption).
Fortunately, I don't have to experience constant anxiety while I'm home visiting the P-N-Dub, because the area is prepared. Valleys that will presumably be buried in lahars have installed sirens, and there are various emergency notification alert systems using phones, radio, and TV announcements that will warn us to drop what we're doing and get the fuck out of the lahar zone. For several years, signs advising people of "volcano evacuation routes" have been placed at the bottom of various elevated areas, and basically instruct people that in the event of an eruption, they should literally head for the hills.
I arrived back in the P-N-Dub right in time for a Pierce County-wide lahar drill. Apparently, a bunch of the sirens in such distinguished towns as McMillen and Alderton didn't work, and now the county is freaking out. Apparently, even though these towns have a killer view of the Rainier, none of the inbred dumbasses living there will be perturbed when they hear really loud EXPLODING SOUND, look up, and notice A GIANT FUCKING MUSHROOM CLOUD COMING OUT OF IT:
By the way, that's Mt. St. Helens, and it's like Rainier's kid sister. St. Helens was way smaller, with substantially less glacial mass on top of it, and this is what it did. Mt. Rainier's emissions will be at least twice as big and frightening. If you can't see the fucking mushroom cloud coming out of Rainier, then you had better be blind, because I don't see how you could miss it otherwise. Even if one of these valley-dwellers is too blind or stupid to see an intact mushroom cloud, one would think that sky being blotted out by a huge Apocalyptic-looking curtain of volcanic ash would suggest that it might be time to check out that volcano evacuation route. This is another picture from when St. Helens erupted in 1980. I guarantee that if I walked outside and saw this going on, I wouldn't respond by shrugging and noting, "Wow, the sky sure does look weird today." I mean, we are also famous for our cloudy skies here in the P-N-Dub, but there's overcast with a slight chance of rain and then there's overcast with a 100% chance of Biblically proportioned fire and brimstone, and this is the latter.
My personal opinion is that if the mountain blows and you need a siren or a phone call from the county sheriff to tell you that it's time to make like a tree and leave your double-wide behind alongside the Orting-Kapowsin highway, you would be doing our species a favor by staying right where you are and allowing the lahars to crush you and all those in your inferior gene pool to dust. Who needs eugenics when we've got mother nature, right?
On the bright side, when the mountain blows, my family and I will probably all get FEMA checks to spend on bags of oo-wee and baby mama's new weaves. Since all the dumb people will have succumbed to the fury of the lahars because they were too busy sitting around their sketchily financed Rent-a-Center flatscreens watching NASCAR and cooking meth to evacuate, and will subsequently be dead, there will be plenty of disaster relief to go around for the rest of us to spend inappropriately. Score!
Labels: natural disaster, oh the horror, P-N-Dub, tragedy
Monday, April 30, 2007
Prospective swingers will be disappointed
I was busy cruising the various gossip sites on the web today (after looking up about 9000 hot pics of Sigurd "The Hotness" Hansen on the internet, of course), and came across an ad in the sidebar that completely distracted me from the critique of Victoria Beckham's astoundingly pointy nipples I was reading. The ad must have determined my location based on my parents' computer's IP address, and customized its wares accordingly, which were cheap sex hookups with losers who can only get laid on the internet. I think you'll agree that this ad is most misleading.
I have yet to see a thin, seemingly well-groomed (for a skank advertising an online sex clearinghouse, anyway), corset-wearing, moderately attractive golf slut in Puyallup. Puyallup is full of fat bitches with prominent moose knuckles hanging out of their Wal-Mart stretch pants, spiral perms, and Taco Bell stains on their vintage Unionbay sweatshirts. It's also full of skinny, balding, meth-mouthed hookers with a penchant for double negatives and, despite the lack of a formal education, a talent for performing organic chemistry using Sudafed, anhydrous ammonia, and muriatic acid in a rudimentary lab setup composed of a gas can, funnel, and rusting truck bed of a 1994 Ford Ranger. In other words, while nasty whores abound, I have yet to see any of them who look REMOTELY like the woman in the above photograph.. There was an indie film based on Puyallup called Mulletville, for God's sake! I think that any men hopeful that a membership at Mate1 "Intimate Dating" (again, translation: online loser fucking forum) will yield a specimen like the one above need a serious reality check. If they are too lazy to Google "Puyallup" and examine some of the women's pictures that pop up, let me oblige:
Okay, so this picture MAY be 100 years old, but not much has changed in the way of skin care since then around here. And in fact, the picnic tablecloth-for-a-skirt thing is still going strong out in the more rustic areas.
These heifers are professors at the local community college. I think it's safe to say that when David Lee Roth penned the lyrics to "Hot for Teacher," this is NOT the variety of teacher he had in mind.
This bitch is some sort of anti-meth activist when she's not busy licking snatch, getting her hair cut at Fantastic Sam's, and purchasing horrific ill-fitting shirts with shoulder pads. This is approximately the same style that I was rocking at the age of 12. I bet she's got a hot pair of elastic waistband rayon culottes underneath.
Here's some dumb kid engaged in what is known as "doing the Puyallup." The Puyallup Fair is an annual testament to overpriced rides, scones, onion burgers, the 4H club, and horrific dreamcatchers and airbrush paintings of wolves which masquerade as artwork. The classic Puyallup Fair ads advise locals that they "can do it at a trot, or do it at a gallop, or do it real slow so your heart don't palpitate...just don't be late...DO THE PUYALLUP!" Clearly this kid (who I'm estimating to be 15 based on body mass index but who is probably actually 8 and what appears to be pubescent development is just her fat rolls) ate one too many Earthquake burgers and is now forced to do it real slow so her heart don't palpitate and result in a massive coronary. And yes, I know I'm making fun of a child and that's not very nice, but it's for her own good. Ho needs to drop a pound or twenty.
This woman is concerned that she might drop beneath the mass of a WWII-era Panzer tank and is drinking Sunkist by the 2-liter to ensure that she consumes at least 10,000 calories per day. Her daughter can fit into that edgy Hot Topic shirt that clashes so horribly with her red faux punk hair NOW, but give her a few years and she'll make the ground thunder when she stomps into the South Hill Mall Sam Goody to purchase her next Gym Class Heroes CD.
Did you ever hear that creepy story about the dude whose car breaks down by this farm and the farmer will fix it if he agrees to marry his daughter, and the daughter winds up being dead? Well, feast your eyes on the corpse bride of urban legend, right here in P-town.
Remember when I mentioned that they sell some really fucking ugly dreamcatcher-based artwork at the Puyallup Fair? Meet one of the artists.
Okay, that's my Aunt Jesus. I couldn't resist. You won't meet her on any sex/swinger personals websites, but if you go to a dating website geared toward judgmental neo-conservative fundamentalist Christians, you can probably win her over with some choice commentary in an evolution-bashing forum.
My point has been made. If you want to use Mate1 Intimate Dating to find women in Puyallup, you're much more likely to have Virgie Arthur or Aileen Wuornos's long-lost cousin show up at your door ready to rock your world than Fake Titted Golf Skank up there. Consider yourself warned, horny internet-scouring men of Puyallup.
This woman is concerned that she might drop beneath the mass of a WWII-era Panzer tank and is drinking Sunkist by the 2-liter to ensure that she consumes at least 10,000 calories per day. Her daughter can fit into that edgy Hot Topic shirt that clashes so horribly with her red faux punk hair NOW, but give her a few years and she'll make the ground thunder when she stomps into the South Hill Mall Sam Goody to purchase her next Gym Class Heroes CD.
Did you ever hear that creepy story about the dude whose car breaks down by this farm and the farmer will fix it if he agrees to marry his daughter, and the daughter winds up being dead? Well, feast your eyes on the corpse bride of urban legend, right here in P-town.
Remember when I mentioned that they sell some really fucking ugly dreamcatcher-based artwork at the Puyallup Fair? Meet one of the artists.
Okay, that's my Aunt Jesus. I couldn't resist. You won't meet her on any sex/swinger personals websites, but if you go to a dating website geared toward judgmental neo-conservative fundamentalist Christians, you can probably win her over with some choice commentary in an evolution-bashing forum.
My point has been made. If you want to use Mate1 Intimate Dating to find women in Puyallup, you're much more likely to have Virgie Arthur or Aileen Wuornos's long-lost cousin show up at your door ready to rock your world than Fake Titted Golf Skank up there. Consider yourself warned, horny internet-scouring men of Puyallup.
Labels: fat fucks, oh the horror, P-N-Dub, perversion, PWT, sex, sluts, you're ugly
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Bad Dreamgirls
Last night I was watching the finale "Search for the Next Pussyclot Doll," and while I stand by my opinion that it is the worst show on television, I've now become morbidly fascinated by its overwhelming shitshowiness in a manner that is almost pathological. It invokes the kind of feelings in me that I imagine would ensue if I watched a scat porn starring Dennis Hastert and Rosie O'Donnell: totally consuming fascinated horror. Between Lil' Kim's dramatically fluctuating BMI and questionable rayon shirt choices, the Stepford Ho contestants who, when asked "What do you like about the product you're selling?" respond with "Yes," the SUPER bitchy gay choreographer who shrieks with horror when the dumb bitches fuck up subtly while shaking their pussies at each other, and former Sugar Ray frontman Mark McGrath's smarmy and unnecessarily arrogant hosting and interviewing demeanor, this show is the most explosive trainwreck to hit the C-Dub network ever. Or the WB/UPN, for that matter.
To validate how outrageously bad this show is, it also has the worst commercials. As I was contemplating whether or not to flip to the Anna Nicole "THS" that I've already seen 50 times during the ads, this particular solicitation perked my attention. "Something amazing is coming," it cautioned me.
Okay, I'm in. What's amazing? I minimized this channel guide and was hit with a very bad, very anti-Razzified sight: Beyonce, fat ass Jennifer Hudson, and that other bitch dancing around in their Supremes outfits and hawking the DVD release of Dreamgirls. I think that Dreamgirls may be the most repellant movie ever committed to film, and the mere idea of seeing it, much less purchasing the DVD, is causing my blood pressure to spike alarmingly high. Dreamgirls combines two movie genres that I despise: musicals and chick flicks. I have a very strict hierarchy for types of movies I like and it goes something like this:
Best: horror, old school Schwarzenegger, and Varsity Blues have a three-way tie. I'd watch C.H.U.D. or Predator with equal relish. PG-13 horror movies (ie: Boogeyman) do not count. However, anything with a giant shark, interplanetary Earth-Mars political machinations, some senseless slasher with awesome accessories (chainsaw/meat apron, hockey mask, fancy knife-wielding flying ball, etc.), hookers with three boobs, time-traveling killer cyborgs, murderous pun-spewing leprechauns, rocket launchers, Cold War nuclear intrigue, Paris Hilton getting a steel pole driven through her head, evil Communists, teenagers having their faces eaten off, or Japanese ghosts can pique my interest.
Second Best: Historical or Tolkien-based epic adventure. This genre would be top if it didn't disappoint me so much and so often. For every Gladiator, Master and Commander, and all sixteen hours of the sublime extended edition Lord of the Rings, there is a King Arthur, Eragon, Kingdom of Heaven, Alexander, and 300, where the magnificent and commendable Xerxes was reduced to what the bastard child of Yul Brynner and RuPaul would look like if he dressed in leather drag and worked as a sadistic dom at some underground gay bar catering to pain fetishists.
Third Best: Action movies that don't have Nicolas Cage and/or John Travolta in them. I welcome explosions, fully automatic assault rifles doing lots of shooting, and generally large special effects budgets, but if I ever have to watch Face/Off or Con Air again, there will be another type of explosion. A derisively verbal explosion. From me.
Fourth Best: Movies that amuse me. Specifically, The Naked Gun, Blazing Saddles, Airplane, Spaceballs, Trading Places, Three Amigos, Dirty Work, Ghostbusters, Fletch, Caddyshack, The Big Lebowski, and Ruthless People.
Fifth Best: Harry Potter movies. Fuck all you HP haters. Harry Potter kicks ass. And I wouldn't kick Daniel Radcliffe out of bed either, after his 18th birthday, anyway.
Tolerable and I might like it once in a while: Documentaries about interesting things like war, sex, or guns, movies about disturbing crimes, historical movies without epic military combat (ie: Elizabeth), and cautionary tales about the dangers of scientists playing God.
Bad: Children's movies, cartoons, anything involving Celine Dion theme songs, and movies about dance contests. The best part of Titanic was when the fucking boat sank, but the two and a half hours preceding that made me want to go down with the damn ship.
Worse: Christmas movies. If my cranky, incompetent, pussified father informed me that every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings, I would have told him to cut the bullshit, sober up, and go beat the crap out of that asshole Mr. Potter. None of this wandering aimlessly around town being a loser until you happen to discover the spirit of Christmas or whatever. And while It's a Wonderful Life gets most of my ire in this genre, I don't like ANY Christmas movies. I don't like that Christmas Story movie about Ralphie and his gun that everyone thinks is so great, and don't get me started on Jim Carrey's bastardized portrayal of the Grinch. Unless the Christmas movie stars a puppet elf with aspirations of becoming a dentist, count me out.
Much Worse: Movies where awesome dogs die. DO NOT get me started about Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows, because this results in me starting to cry, which is both highly embarrassing and annoying to the person talking with me about it. Old Yeller, AKA the best doggone dog in the West, sacrificed himself to save his human family from an angry she-bear afflicted with the hydrophobia and all he got in return was the standard 19th century frontier treatment for rabies: a 12-gauge shotgun shell in the face. It is one of the greatest tragedies of the American cinema.
Hell on earth: a tie between musicals and chick flicks. I may have been the only girl in American history to hate both Dirty Dancing and Grease. When I was a tween and attending slumber parties was the social activity of choice, Dirty Dancing and Grease were the must-rent movies. In spite of the slightly raunchy subtext of both films (pregnancy and underage substance abuse), these movies make me want to commit seppuku because they are so fucking irritating. For one thing, in Dirty Dancing, Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze were unable to recapitulate the magical chemistry they exuded onscreen while leading the guerilla insurgency against the invading Soviet hordes in Red Dawn. For another, every time I see John Travolta, I just want to punch him in that stupid asshole-shaped dimple in his chin, and I certainly don't need to see him singing about Sandra Dee. I hate all the boring processing and the completely contrived representation of the way love and relationships work in chick flicks, and most of these movies are veritable Lord of the Rings-esque in length. Beaches and Steel Magnolias were both fucking interminable, and the only part about those movies that cheered me up in the end was the death of a main character. They would have been significantly improved if ALL the main characters died, preferably in a gas main explosion, a weaponized anthrax attack, or a horrible riding lawnmower accident. Nothing would be more satisfying than seeing Bette Midler get cut to ribbons by a rampaging John Deere, but apparently that ending didn't test well with the audience of middle-aged fat women that Beaches was obviously geared towards. My mother loves musicals, and those are also all like three hours long. I just don't get why people enjoy a character who, when faced with a major life decision, bursts into song about it. Are you a disfigured loser living in the catacombs beneath the Paris opera who spends all his time orchestrating a diabolical plan to kidnap and rape the understudy soprano and posing as a ghost? Well, light some candles and hit the pipe organ for some melodious lamentation, by all means. Got AIDS? ...And a one...and a two...time for some jazzy dance numbers! Nazis in Austria got you down? Well, gather the family and and sing "Edelweiss." What sort of retard uses showtunes to compensate for a lack of effective coping skills? Even more despicable is that the songs always totally suck. To date, the only song in a musical I've ever enjoyed was that "Springtime for Hitler" song in The Producers, and that was because it was slightly offensive. Seeing musicals and/or chick flicks fills me with all sorts of Seung-hui Cho-esque urges, so it is best for everyone if I just avoid these types of movies entirely.
Dreamgirls: Dreamgirls now gets its own category for managing to amalgamate the most horrible qualities of both the movies above. Furthermore, it also stars Beyonce, who has been on my shit list for a long time. In spite of my weakness for some good old-fashioned Destiny's Child once in awhile (I will never stop loving "can you pay my automo-bills?", nor will I ever be ashamed enough to do so), I cannot stand Beyonce. Her solo career has annoyed me ever since that stupid "Crazy in Love" song was torturing listeners of everything save talk radio and country ad nauseum throughout summer 2003, and I would rather wear a Nazi uniform to church than so much as try on one of her shiteously tacky rap video hooker costumes from her "coutoure" fashion line. If I want to look like a clap-dribbling prostitute, I can find something way cheaper at any local Ricky's store. In addition to Beyonce, Dreamgirls also features the supremely repugnant asshole Jamie Foxx. My feelings concerning Jamie Foxx, his overwhelmingly large veneers, and his general demeanor of insufferable smugness are well-documented. If there was ever a way to make a combined musical-chick flick even worse, it's to cast Beyonce and Jamie Foxx in major roles alongside a fat "American Idol" castoff and a tranny-loving deadbeat dad like Eddie Murphy. Dreamgirls is the stuff of my nightmares, and the only way it can be considered "something amazing" is in the sense that my eyes melting out their sockets upon seeing it would indeed be amazing. Shitty for me, but amazing nonetheless.
To validate how outrageously bad this show is, it also has the worst commercials. As I was contemplating whether or not to flip to the Anna Nicole "THS" that I've already seen 50 times during the ads, this particular solicitation perked my attention. "Something amazing is coming," it cautioned me.
Okay, I'm in. What's amazing? I minimized this channel guide and was hit with a very bad, very anti-Razzified sight: Beyonce, fat ass Jennifer Hudson, and that other bitch dancing around in their Supremes outfits and hawking the DVD release of Dreamgirls. I think that Dreamgirls may be the most repellant movie ever committed to film, and the mere idea of seeing it, much less purchasing the DVD, is causing my blood pressure to spike alarmingly high. Dreamgirls combines two movie genres that I despise: musicals and chick flicks. I have a very strict hierarchy for types of movies I like and it goes something like this:
Best: horror, old school Schwarzenegger, and Varsity Blues have a three-way tie. I'd watch C.H.U.D. or Predator with equal relish. PG-13 horror movies (ie: Boogeyman) do not count. However, anything with a giant shark, interplanetary Earth-Mars political machinations, some senseless slasher with awesome accessories (chainsaw/meat apron, hockey mask, fancy knife-wielding flying ball, etc.), hookers with three boobs, time-traveling killer cyborgs, murderous pun-spewing leprechauns, rocket launchers, Cold War nuclear intrigue, Paris Hilton getting a steel pole driven through her head, evil Communists, teenagers having their faces eaten off, or Japanese ghosts can pique my interest.
Second Best: Historical or Tolkien-based epic adventure. This genre would be top if it didn't disappoint me so much and so often. For every Gladiator, Master and Commander, and all sixteen hours of the sublime extended edition Lord of the Rings, there is a King Arthur, Eragon, Kingdom of Heaven, Alexander, and 300, where the magnificent and commendable Xerxes was reduced to what the bastard child of Yul Brynner and RuPaul would look like if he dressed in leather drag and worked as a sadistic dom at some underground gay bar catering to pain fetishists.
Third Best: Action movies that don't have Nicolas Cage and/or John Travolta in them. I welcome explosions, fully automatic assault rifles doing lots of shooting, and generally large special effects budgets, but if I ever have to watch Face/Off or Con Air again, there will be another type of explosion. A derisively verbal explosion. From me.
Fourth Best: Movies that amuse me. Specifically, The Naked Gun, Blazing Saddles, Airplane, Spaceballs, Trading Places, Three Amigos, Dirty Work, Ghostbusters, Fletch, Caddyshack, The Big Lebowski, and Ruthless People.
Fifth Best: Harry Potter movies. Fuck all you HP haters. Harry Potter kicks ass. And I wouldn't kick Daniel Radcliffe out of bed either, after his 18th birthday, anyway.
Tolerable and I might like it once in a while: Documentaries about interesting things like war, sex, or guns, movies about disturbing crimes, historical movies without epic military combat (ie: Elizabeth), and cautionary tales about the dangers of scientists playing God.
Bad: Children's movies, cartoons, anything involving Celine Dion theme songs, and movies about dance contests. The best part of Titanic was when the fucking boat sank, but the two and a half hours preceding that made me want to go down with the damn ship.
Worse: Christmas movies. If my cranky, incompetent, pussified father informed me that every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings, I would have told him to cut the bullshit, sober up, and go beat the crap out of that asshole Mr. Potter. None of this wandering aimlessly around town being a loser until you happen to discover the spirit of Christmas or whatever. And while It's a Wonderful Life gets most of my ire in this genre, I don't like ANY Christmas movies. I don't like that Christmas Story movie about Ralphie and his gun that everyone thinks is so great, and don't get me started on Jim Carrey's bastardized portrayal of the Grinch. Unless the Christmas movie stars a puppet elf with aspirations of becoming a dentist, count me out.
Much Worse: Movies where awesome dogs die. DO NOT get me started about Old Yeller, White Fang, or Where the Red Fern Grows, because this results in me starting to cry, which is both highly embarrassing and annoying to the person talking with me about it. Old Yeller, AKA the best doggone dog in the West, sacrificed himself to save his human family from an angry she-bear afflicted with the hydrophobia and all he got in return was the standard 19th century frontier treatment for rabies: a 12-gauge shotgun shell in the face. It is one of the greatest tragedies of the American cinema.
Hell on earth: a tie between musicals and chick flicks. I may have been the only girl in American history to hate both Dirty Dancing and Grease. When I was a tween and attending slumber parties was the social activity of choice, Dirty Dancing and Grease were the must-rent movies. In spite of the slightly raunchy subtext of both films (pregnancy and underage substance abuse), these movies make me want to commit seppuku because they are so fucking irritating. For one thing, in Dirty Dancing, Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze were unable to recapitulate the magical chemistry they exuded onscreen while leading the guerilla insurgency against the invading Soviet hordes in Red Dawn. For another, every time I see John Travolta, I just want to punch him in that stupid asshole-shaped dimple in his chin, and I certainly don't need to see him singing about Sandra Dee. I hate all the boring processing and the completely contrived representation of the way love and relationships work in chick flicks, and most of these movies are veritable Lord of the Rings-esque in length. Beaches and Steel Magnolias were both fucking interminable, and the only part about those movies that cheered me up in the end was the death of a main character. They would have been significantly improved if ALL the main characters died, preferably in a gas main explosion, a weaponized anthrax attack, or a horrible riding lawnmower accident. Nothing would be more satisfying than seeing Bette Midler get cut to ribbons by a rampaging John Deere, but apparently that ending didn't test well with the audience of middle-aged fat women that Beaches was obviously geared towards. My mother loves musicals, and those are also all like three hours long. I just don't get why people enjoy a character who, when faced with a major life decision, bursts into song about it. Are you a disfigured loser living in the catacombs beneath the Paris opera who spends all his time orchestrating a diabolical plan to kidnap and rape the understudy soprano and posing as a ghost? Well, light some candles and hit the pipe organ for some melodious lamentation, by all means. Got AIDS? ...And a one...and a two...time for some jazzy dance numbers! Nazis in Austria got you down? Well, gather the family and and sing "Edelweiss." What sort of retard uses showtunes to compensate for a lack of effective coping skills? Even more despicable is that the songs always totally suck. To date, the only song in a musical I've ever enjoyed was that "Springtime for Hitler" song in The Producers, and that was because it was slightly offensive. Seeing musicals and/or chick flicks fills me with all sorts of Seung-hui Cho-esque urges, so it is best for everyone if I just avoid these types of movies entirely.
Dreamgirls: Dreamgirls now gets its own category for managing to amalgamate the most horrible qualities of both the movies above. Furthermore, it also stars Beyonce, who has been on my shit list for a long time. In spite of my weakness for some good old-fashioned Destiny's Child once in awhile (I will never stop loving "can you pay my automo-bills?", nor will I ever be ashamed enough to do so), I cannot stand Beyonce. Her solo career has annoyed me ever since that stupid "Crazy in Love" song was torturing listeners of everything save talk radio and country ad nauseum throughout summer 2003, and I would rather wear a Nazi uniform to church than so much as try on one of her shiteously tacky rap video hooker costumes from her "coutoure" fashion line. If I want to look like a clap-dribbling prostitute, I can find something way cheaper at any local Ricky's store. In addition to Beyonce, Dreamgirls also features the supremely repugnant asshole Jamie Foxx. My feelings concerning Jamie Foxx, his overwhelmingly large veneers, and his general demeanor of insufferable smugness are well-documented. If there was ever a way to make a combined musical-chick flick even worse, it's to cast Beyonce and Jamie Foxx in major roles alongside a fat "American Idol" castoff and a tranny-loving deadbeat dad like Eddie Murphy. Dreamgirls is the stuff of my nightmares, and the only way it can be considered "something amazing" is in the sense that my eyes melting out their sockets upon seeing it would indeed be amazing. Shitty for me, but amazing nonetheless.
Labels: movies, musicals suck, oh the horror, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
More dumbfuckery on the Lower East Side
All the kids on MySpace are probably wishing they were 21 and living in NYC, because this tool is opening a bar on the Lower East Side:
That's Pete Wentz. When he's not challenging Jared Leto for the Honorary Robert Smith Excellence in Excessive Eyeliner Award, he plays bass for Fall Out Boy, this crybaby band of "punk" male lesbians who write songs about their feelings and whine about their relationship problems. He's also famous for sticking his dick into Ashlee Simpson, who should advise him to get those caterpillars waxed off his brow next time he gets those feathered layers touched up at the salon.
New York magazine interviewed this douche about his new business venture, and it turns out that Pete Wentz simply had to open a bar because there aren't any that are cool enough for him in all of Nueva York, as all the bars are apparently "for dudes with Rod Stewart hair and white belts to go hang out at." Therefore, he's opening his own place called Angels and Kings, and let me tell you, there's NO PLACE along Avenue A anything like this joint:
I guess I really shouldn't expect much more than stuck-up rambling about his contrived concept dive bar from a dude who whacks off to Morrissey posters (for that extra dose of emo bitch credibility) and takes pictures of same with his Sidekick:
I think I speak for everyone when I compliment the friendship bracelet/Swatch combo for really underscoring the fact that Pete Wentz has the maturity and originality of a twelve-year-old girl in 1992. That's some really SUPER kewl fashion sense right there. It's the perfect accompaniment to that badass flaming yin-yang heart tattoo on his happy trail, which got the waxing his eyebrows so desperately need.
Regrettably, I won't be able to go discuss the Cliff Notes of Last Exit on April 30th and drink Fall Out Boy-inspired shots alongside the rest of the studded belt-wearing pseudo-intellectual crowd when this place opens. I'll be back in the P-N-Dub, eating lots of salmon, and, most likely, lots of Tacoma dick.
[Razzy Edit: Okay, so this bar is on 11th and Ave A, which is technically the Village of the East, but same difference. I'm still calling it the Lower East Side, so all you New Yorkers, don't rush to fucking correct me.]
New York magazine interviewed this douche about his new business venture, and it turns out that Pete Wentz simply had to open a bar because there aren't any that are cool enough for him in all of Nueva York, as all the bars are apparently "for dudes with Rod Stewart hair and white belts to go hang out at." Therefore, he's opening his own place called Angels and Kings, and let me tell you, there's NO PLACE along Avenue A anything like this joint:
"Dudes can use the chicks’ bathroom and vice versa, so that girls don’t have to wait in line. And we’re raising the D.J. booth because the D.J. should be like God. He shouldn’t have to deal with anyone trying to talk to him....We’re putting up mug shots on the wall of people we’re fans of. Like we have this awesome Sid Vicious mug shot where you can tell he’s just like a fucked-up kid, like everyone had him pegged wrong. It speaks to me...This communal thing, it’s a lost narrative in pop culture. You don’t have anything like the Factory anymore, and where people can come together and talk and get wasted. I want it to be like Shredder’s hangout in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 2."Yes, I can't think of ANY places down on the LES where the bathrooms are functionally unisex, or that feature a fucked-up looking picture of (junkie wife-beating murderer) Sid Vicious hanging on the wall, or that have some pretentious fucktard running the music, or that welcome hipster assholes who will drop Andy Warhol references while drinking PBR out of a can, comparing facial piercings, and competing to see who has the most ennui. I don't remember what Shredder's hangout was like in Secret of the Ooze, but I sincerely doubt that the commander of the evil ninja underworld was rocking Gym Class Heroes or Avril Lavigne on the fucking jukebox.
I guess I really shouldn't expect much more than stuck-up rambling about his contrived concept dive bar from a dude who whacks off to Morrissey posters (for that extra dose of emo bitch credibility) and takes pictures of same with his Sidekick:
I think I speak for everyone when I compliment the friendship bracelet/Swatch combo for really underscoring the fact that Pete Wentz has the maturity and originality of a twelve-year-old girl in 1992. That's some really SUPER kewl fashion sense right there. It's the perfect accompaniment to that badass flaming yin-yang heart tattoo on his happy trail, which got the waxing his eyebrows so desperately need.
Regrettably, I won't be able to go discuss the Cliff Notes of Last Exit on April 30th and drink Fall Out Boy-inspired shots alongside the rest of the studded belt-wearing pseudo-intellectual crowd when this place opens. I'll be back in the P-N-Dub, eating lots of salmon, and, most likely, lots of Tacoma dick.
[Razzy Edit: Okay, so this bar is on 11th and Ave A, which is technically the Village of the East, but same difference. I'm still calling it the Lower East Side, so all you New Yorkers, don't rush to fucking correct me.]
Labels: alcoholism, assholes, capitalism, masturbation, media whores, NYC, oh the horror, overcompensation, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, weiners
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Gigantically Bad Sunday
I should have cut myself off earlier last night. Not from drinking, because I only had two beers, which for me is about as intoxicating as taking a deep breath. No, I mean I shouldn't have watched two straight hours of "Sabado Gigante," because I think I have a hangover from the experience. I'm running late (of course) to get to Central Park for the race I'm running, and I have a headache and a queasy stomach similar to that I'd get from drinking around 10 beers with some interspersed Jaeger shots. It's not an I-wish-I-were-dead hangover, but it's a hangover nonetheless, and it means I'm off to a rough start on Domingo Gigante. Even rougher will be the 4 mile Central Park loop I'm set to trot around.
If you dare to watch "Sabado Gigante" next weekend, I strongly recommend making sure you can sleep late on Sunday to minimize the unpleasant effects consequent to overstimulating oneself with frenzied absurdity.
If you dare to watch "Sabado Gigante" next weekend, I strongly recommend making sure you can sleep late on Sunday to minimize the unpleasant effects consequent to overstimulating oneself with frenzied absurdity.
Labels: comeuppance, oh the horror, que magnifico, Razzification
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
This is even more awesome
The Post has these awesome pictures today of the Columbia torture rapist using the ATM at the (not five but) Six Stars Deli, which is my corner bodega.
Apparently along with everything else he did to the poor girl, he jacked her debit card and emptied her bank account at my local deli. Fucking asshole. Get out of my neighborhood!
On the bright side, maybe these pictures will hasten the process of Ice-T and Mariska Hargitay's real-life counterparts at the NYPD arresting his ass and shipping him off to Riker's Island, where, if there's any justice in the world, he will discover that karma is truly a forcefully sodomizing bitch.
Apparently along with everything else he did to the poor girl, he jacked her debit card and emptied her bank account at my local deli. Fucking asshole. Get out of my neighborhood!
On the bright side, maybe these pictures will hasten the process of Ice-T and Mariska Hargitay's real-life counterparts at the NYPD arresting his ass and shipping him off to Riker's Island, where, if there's any justice in the world, he will discover that karma is truly a forcefully sodomizing bitch.
Labels: crime and punishment, for serious people, Harlem world, NYC, oh the horror, sexual assault
Monday, April 16, 2007
Did somebody check the Sugar Hill Megan's Law list?
I knew those sex predators in my neighborhood were up to no good. Granted, I have no proof that any of them committed this especially heinous sexually-based offense, but just in case the dedicated detectives of the elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit who investigate these vicious felonies haven't heard, there's a lot of category-three-most-likely-to-reoffend pervs skulking about my hood. I would ask them about the crime describe in this comforting headline on the Daily News cover this morning:
Although the ass-kissing tribute to Giuliani's wife is almost equally horrific, I'm talking about the headline on the bottom. It seems that over the weekend, some dude forced his way into this Columbia Journalism school student's apartment, tied her to her futon, spent 19 hours raping her, burning her with chemicals, scalding her with boiling water, and slitting her eyelids, then lit her on fire and left her to die. She was able to burn off her ligatures and get out of her apartment before it went up in flames, and is now currently in the hospital and probably severely traumatized for life. The best part? This happened one block away from me!
I'd take solace in knowing that I have dogs who will protect me, but who am I kidding? Caesar would probably hide if the perpetrator came in here and made a loud, startling noise, and what's Chingy! going to do...sit on the torture rapist? I need to get a gun...I mean, is Columbia going to protect me? Today we got this e-mail from President Lee Bollinger which presumably is supposed to assuage the fear and anxiety this might engender in Columbia grad students:
Dear members of the Columbia community,
I am very sorry to report that over the weekend a graduate student in the Graduate School of Journalism was assaulted in her off-campus apartment in Hamilton Heights. [Razzy Edit: "Hamilton Heights" is the relatively new white-people-friendly name for my hood instead of the more historically gangsta-sounding "Sugar Hill", just like "Morningside Heights" is what Columbia calls West Harlem.] She is in a hospital, and her family is with her. The police are searching for the assailant.
At this time, both out of respect for the privacy of the student and her family and out of the need to assist the police investigation actively underway, we cannot say more. I have, on behalf of the entire University community, expressed to the family our deepest concern and our wish to assist them in any way we can.
I know this horrible crime will be upsetting and troubling to all members of the University but especially to our students and their families. If anyone--students, staff, or faculty--feels the need for assistance of any kind, we have a range of resources available, including counseling and psychological services.
While I'm glad the University is covering its ass by making their arsenal of shrinks readily available to anyone who can't cope with what is destined to be "ripped from the headlines" for an episode of "Law and Order:SVU", since when was "rape and torture by chemical burns, eyelid-slitting, and attempted murder by immolation" considered "assault"? What the fuck, Columbia?! It's not like that's a secret...it's in 72-point font on the cover of the Daily News, for God's sake! Thanks, University Administrators, for dumbing down the severity of this assault and sending us all to the shrink for some Xanax...way to proactively deal with this situation. I feel safer already.
I'd take solace in knowing that I have dogs who will protect me, but who am I kidding? Caesar would probably hide if the perpetrator came in here and made a loud, startling noise, and what's Chingy! going to do...sit on the torture rapist? I need to get a gun...I mean, is Columbia going to protect me? Today we got this e-mail from President Lee Bollinger which presumably is supposed to assuage the fear and anxiety this might engender in Columbia grad students:
Dear members of the Columbia community,
I am very sorry to report that over the weekend a graduate student in the Graduate School of Journalism was assaulted in her off-campus apartment in Hamilton Heights. [Razzy Edit: "Hamilton Heights" is the relatively new white-people-friendly name for my hood instead of the more historically gangsta-sounding "Sugar Hill", just like "Morningside Heights" is what Columbia calls West Harlem.] She is in a hospital, and her family is with her. The police are searching for the assailant.
At this time, both out of respect for the privacy of the student and her family and out of the need to assist the police investigation actively underway, we cannot say more. I have, on behalf of the entire University community, expressed to the family our deepest concern and our wish to assist them in any way we can.
I know this horrible crime will be upsetting and troubling to all members of the University but especially to our students and their families. If anyone--students, staff, or faculty--feels the need for assistance of any kind, we have a range of resources available, including counseling and psychological services.
While I'm glad the University is covering its ass by making their arsenal of shrinks readily available to anyone who can't cope with what is destined to be "ripped from the headlines" for an episode of "Law and Order:SVU", since when was "rape and torture by chemical burns, eyelid-slitting, and attempted murder by immolation" considered "assault"? What the fuck, Columbia?! It's not like that's a secret...it's in 72-point font on the cover of the Daily News, for God's sake! Thanks, University Administrators, for dumbing down the severity of this assault and sending us all to the shrink for some Xanax...way to proactively deal with this situation. I feel safer already.
Labels: crime and punishment, for serious people, grad school bullshit, kewlness, NYC, oh the horror, sexual assault
Thursday, April 12, 2007
When lesbians attack
Since my buddy JerseyGirl now works for a certain cable news outlet that fired the old curmudgeon known as "Don Ho" by the NY Post and Don Imus by everyone else, she is privy to lots of breaking news. As long as I'm on the subject of lesbian happenings, I figured I'd share this amusing article she sent me from the Associated Press today:
I find the idea of some hapless dude selling his homemade indie movies outside the IFC theater in the Village of the West getting jumped by a posse of knife-toting "avowed" lezzies after responding to accusations that he had ugly sneakers by spitting and calling a fat one an "elephant" INCREDIBLY amusing. All this scene needs to become totally and completely ludicrous is Ignatius J. Reilly to saunter by with a hot dog bellowing about Boethius and trying to rally followers in his Crusade for Moorish Dignity.
Too bad I don't have Court TV in lab, because I'm most eager to see how the jury decides concerning this "hate crime against a straight man." Don't mess with Jersey dykes!
Man says he feared for his life when 7 New Jersey lesbians attacked him
By SAMUEL MAULL
Associated Press Writer
April 11, 2007, 8:56 PM EDT
NEW YORK -- A man who was beaten and stabbed after a street fight with
seven avowed lesbians testified Wednesday that he thought he was going
to die after they jumped him last year.
"I remember being surrounded, my hands up in my face," Dwayne Buckle
testified at the trial of four of the women. "I went up into a defensive
position. I felt a nick in my abdomen. I had my two hands in front of my
face."
He said he didn't realize he had been stabbed.
"Somebody told me I was stabbed," he said. "As soon as he said that, I
felt it. I lay down on my knapsack. I was hollering and screaming. I
felt like I was going to die."
Buckle, 29, said he was in a hospital for five days and in bed at his
Queens home for a month after undergoing surgery for a lacerated liver
and stomach. He said he also suffered cuts, bruises, scratches and an
eye injury in the attack.
Buckle, who has called the incident "a hate crime against a straight
man," was testifying in Manhattan's state Supreme Court at the trial of
Patreese Johnson, 20, Renata Hill, 25, Venice Brown, 19, and Terrain
Dandridge, 20, all of Newark, N.J.
The defendants are charged with first- and second-degree assault and
gang assault. Johnson, accused of stabbing Buckle, also is charged with
second-degree attempted murder. All have pleaded not guilty.
Three of the seven women pleaded guilty to assault charges in exchange
for sentences of six months in jail and five years probation.
Buckle, a movie audio-video engineer and an independent filmmaker, said
the fight started outside the Independent Film Center in lower
Manhattan, where he was trying to sell videos he had made. He said that
as the women walked by, he spoke to one of them because he found her
attractive.
Buckle said a heavyset woman in the group said something rude.
"She just started dogging me out, being loud and disrespectful," he
said. "I think I called her an elephant and told her I wasn't talking to
her."
Buckle said she spoke disparagingly of his looks and clothing, saying he
was wearing cheap sneakers. Meanwhile, another woman spat on him and he
spat back.
The women surrounded and attacked Buckle, he said. After a few minutes,
he said, the fight subsided and he began picking up his DVDs from the
sidewalk.
"Someone attacked me from behind," Buckle said. "One girl called for
some guys to come beat me up. A guy got me on the floor (sidewalk), and
I was jumped again."
Assistant District Attorney Sharon Laveson told the jury in opening
statements that surveillance video will show that Johnson pulled a steak
knife from her purse and stabbed Buckle with it.
Johnson admits she slashed Buckle with a knife but says she did it in
self-defense, according to papers filed by prosecutors at her
arraignment. Johnson's statement says she pulled out her knife after
Buckle grabbed her arm and spat on one of her friends.
"As I got my knife, Renata hit him for spitting," Johnson's statement
says. "Then everyone jumped in because he is a man. Then some young men
had helped us. After that we walked away. I admit I did cut him one time
for my own safety."
I find the idea of some hapless dude selling his homemade indie movies outside the IFC theater in the Village of the West getting jumped by a posse of knife-toting "avowed" lezzies after responding to accusations that he had ugly sneakers by spitting and calling a fat one an "elephant" INCREDIBLY amusing. All this scene needs to become totally and completely ludicrous is Ignatius J. Reilly to saunter by with a hot dog bellowing about Boethius and trying to rally followers in his Crusade for Moorish Dignity.
Too bad I don't have Court TV in lab, because I'm most eager to see how the jury decides concerning this "hate crime against a straight man." Don't mess with Jersey dykes!
Labels: crime and punishment, JerseyGirl, lezbollah, NYC, oh the horror, overcompensation, ridiculous absurdity, you're ugly
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
It's not slander if it's TRUE
I'm pretty sure that I reiterate this every opportunity I get, but I hate, loathe, and despise Paris Hilton. She irritates me and distracts from gossip about other celebrities that I would like to read about more. Last week, she was pissed because Manhattan Mini-Storage is running these ads on bus shelters, phone booths, and subways throughout my fair city:
Even though there are also ads saying "Your closet's so narrow it makes Cheney look liberal" and you don't see the VP's people flipping out, Paris didn't like these ads one bit. Her publicist demanded that Manhattan Mini-Storage remove it (which so far, they have not done). This is presumably because the last time Paris had dealings with a mini storage company, it resulted in the genesis of the short-lived parisexposed.com and lots ofpublic humiliation free publicity. In case you didn't know, a while back Paris failed to pay a $200 bill for a storage locker containing all sorts of shit, from pictures of her doing drugs to her fake IDs to old prescriptions, resulting in it being sold at public auction. Somebody bought all the old crap, spent ample time delousing it, and started this website, parisexposed.com, where you could access all of it. It's now shut down, either due to legal tangles or due to a lack of public interest in paying $40 for the privilege of seeing her dirty laundry. However, the damage has been done. The internets are still full of evidence that confirms what everyone has suspected for years: Paris Hilton is a dumb, fucked-up, herpes-ridden whore.
For example, her blatant rebellion against this particular elevator's non-smoking mandate. Well, it's blatant rebellion or a misunderstanding of the sign consequent to her limited literacy. It's possible she thought the sign either forbade only cigarette smoking, or encouraged packing your blown glass bowl rather than rolling up a doobie.
There is also an interesting series of photographs featuring Paris's friend with a mountain of cocaine on his chest. He must need all that snow to cool down because he's SO HOT. Brace yourself, ladies, because he is a looker:
Here is Paris letting Girls Gone Wild mogul and world-class douche Joe Francis fondle her boob (presumably as a prelude to an unrestrained exchange of various STDs between the two):
And let's not ignore the piece de resistance garnered from her storage facility, this video where Paris sings "I'm an ugly Jewish bitch", "I'm a little JAP-y Jew", "I'm a little black whore, I got fucked in the butt for coke," and of course the simple but straight to the point, "I'm a nigger and I steal shit, I'm black and I steal, yo." That's the true mark of Paris's high society upbringing: she's classy AND racially sensitive!
Well, Paris realized that maybe not ALL publicity is good publicity, because her PR guy has been on the offensive ever since about any material that so much as hints that Paris might be mentally retarded/bigoted/slutty/diseased/coked up/pick your derogatory description. Recently, Gallery of the Absurd made this brilliant poster as a spoof of the upcoming season of "The Simple Life:"
After this was posted on Dlisted, Paris's lawyer fired off a command to remove the poster from the internets, saying, "This poster clearly implies Ms. Hilton has loathsome diseases and also implies Ms. Hilton uses Vicodin. The inferences are false and defamatory."
Ummm...false? She doesn't use Vicodin? Then I'd like to hear her explanation for this:
And she doesn't have "loathsome diseases"? Then why is the bitch filling scrips for Valtrex? I've never seen her afflicted with herpes zoster (shingles), so the only other conceivable reason to take Valtrex is GENITAL HERPES.
Clearly Tina Fey wasn't kidding when she bitched to Howard Stern a while back that Paris has no sense of humor about herself and is an unprofessional "piece of shit." You don't hear Nicole Richie's people flipping out about this (possibly because her Vicodin use is a matter of public record and she'll undoubtedly experience some killer PMS while off at Simple Life camp). Nor do you hear Brandon Davis's people complaining that this poster implies that he lets beavers suckle his man-tits. Paris's lawyers clearly need to go back to their correspondence course at DeVry and brush up on what "defamation" really is. You can't defame somebody unless you're presenting lies about them as fact. It's not a lie that Paris has herpes, or that she was prescribed Vicodin, or that "The Simple Life" is a tightly scripted "reality" show (designed to induce suicide by viewers), and if you Google "Paris Hilton vagina" there are approximately 1,480,000 hits (including a very amusing and accurate site asserting that "Paris Hilton's vagina looks like sun-dried dog food").
Furthermore, the poster is obviously a parody. If people could sue every time somebody made fun of them, the internets would be a much less interesting place, "Saturday Night Live" would have been cancelled long ago, and I would never be able to speak or type a single damn word. Who the hell does Paris Hilton think she is that her recently developed apparent sense of shame can override the First Fucking Amendment? Not that my site gets enough traffic to pop up on Paris's lawyers' radar, but on the off chance I receive some kind of "cease and desist" e-mail from them, let me just say that I am not scared about fighting charges of slander from a woman whose overwhelming dignity, intelligence, and sophistication precipitates pictures of her naked, coked out her mind, and smoking a tampon:
Bring it, you cunt-faced, lazy-eyed, fake-haired, herpes-spreading, racist waste of oxygen.
Even though there are also ads saying "Your closet's so narrow it makes Cheney look liberal" and you don't see the VP's people flipping out, Paris didn't like these ads one bit. Her publicist demanded that Manhattan Mini-Storage remove it (which so far, they have not done). This is presumably because the last time Paris had dealings with a mini storage company, it resulted in the genesis of the short-lived parisexposed.com and lots of
For example, her blatant rebellion against this particular elevator's non-smoking mandate. Well, it's blatant rebellion or a misunderstanding of the sign consequent to her limited literacy. It's possible she thought the sign either forbade only cigarette smoking, or encouraged packing your blown glass bowl rather than rolling up a doobie.
There is also an interesting series of photographs featuring Paris's friend with a mountain of cocaine on his chest. He must need all that snow to cool down because he's SO HOT. Brace yourself, ladies, because he is a looker:
Here is Paris letting Girls Gone Wild mogul and world-class douche Joe Francis fondle her boob (presumably as a prelude to an unrestrained exchange of various STDs between the two):
And let's not ignore the piece de resistance garnered from her storage facility, this video where Paris sings "I'm an ugly Jewish bitch", "I'm a little JAP-y Jew", "I'm a little black whore, I got fucked in the butt for coke," and of course the simple but straight to the point, "I'm a nigger and I steal shit, I'm black and I steal, yo." That's the true mark of Paris's high society upbringing: she's classy AND racially sensitive!
Well, Paris realized that maybe not ALL publicity is good publicity, because her PR guy has been on the offensive ever since about any material that so much as hints that Paris might be mentally retarded/bigoted/slutty/diseased/coked up/pick your derogatory description. Recently, Gallery of the Absurd made this brilliant poster as a spoof of the upcoming season of "The Simple Life:"
After this was posted on Dlisted, Paris's lawyer fired off a command to remove the poster from the internets, saying, "This poster clearly implies Ms. Hilton has loathsome diseases and also implies Ms. Hilton uses Vicodin. The inferences are false and defamatory."
Ummm...false? She doesn't use Vicodin? Then I'd like to hear her explanation for this:
And she doesn't have "loathsome diseases"? Then why is the bitch filling scrips for Valtrex? I've never seen her afflicted with herpes zoster (shingles), so the only other conceivable reason to take Valtrex is GENITAL HERPES.
Clearly Tina Fey wasn't kidding when she bitched to Howard Stern a while back that Paris has no sense of humor about herself and is an unprofessional "piece of shit." You don't hear Nicole Richie's people flipping out about this (possibly because her Vicodin use is a matter of public record and she'll undoubtedly experience some killer PMS while off at Simple Life camp). Nor do you hear Brandon Davis's people complaining that this poster implies that he lets beavers suckle his man-tits. Paris's lawyers clearly need to go back to their correspondence course at DeVry and brush up on what "defamation" really is. You can't defame somebody unless you're presenting lies about them as fact. It's not a lie that Paris has herpes, or that she was prescribed Vicodin, or that "The Simple Life" is a tightly scripted "reality" show (designed to induce suicide by viewers), and if you Google "Paris Hilton vagina" there are approximately 1,480,000 hits (including a very amusing and accurate site asserting that "Paris Hilton's vagina looks like sun-dried dog food").
Furthermore, the poster is obviously a parody. If people could sue every time somebody made fun of them, the internets would be a much less interesting place, "Saturday Night Live" would have been cancelled long ago, and I would never be able to speak or type a single damn word. Who the hell does Paris Hilton think she is that her recently developed apparent sense of shame can override the First Fucking Amendment? Not that my site gets enough traffic to pop up on Paris's lawyers' radar, but on the off chance I receive some kind of "cease and desist" e-mail from them, let me just say that I am not scared about fighting charges of slander from a woman whose overwhelming dignity, intelligence, and sophistication precipitates pictures of her naked, coked out her mind, and smoking a tampon:
Bring it, you cunt-faced, lazy-eyed, fake-haired, herpes-spreading, racist waste of oxygen.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, drugs, free fucking speech, gross, oh the horror, overcompensation, perversion, ridiculous absurdity, sluts, threats
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Tango versus Chance
On last night's (totally awesome) finale of "I Love New York", Tango and Chance got into a big throwdown over some shit-talking Tango had been doing about Chance's rap group, the Stallionaires. In case you missed the dopeness that was last night's finale episode (in which I was not only totally wrong about Chance winning, but in which Tango actually PROPOSED to New York after he won), here's how they ruined dinner on their first night of vacation in what New York called "Playacar, Mexico" (actually Playa del Carmen, Mexico):
This fight got nasty. At one point, Tango stated, "I'm-a break you into two motherfuckin' pieces!", prompting Chance to insist that he'd "whip yo' ass Stallionaire style...him and his back-stabbin', fake fat mouth blabber ass ninja turtle lookin' fuckin' self."
I've said it before and I'll say it again: "I Love New York" is the BEST SHOW ON TV!!!
This fight got nasty. At one point, Tango stated, "I'm-a break you into two motherfuckin' pieces!", prompting Chance to insist that he'd "whip yo' ass Stallionaire style...him and his back-stabbin', fake fat mouth blabber ass ninja turtle lookin' fuckin' self."
I've said it before and I'll say it again: "I Love New York" is the BEST SHOW ON TV!!!
Labels: crazies, hilarious shit, I Love New York, oh the horror, ridiculous absurdity, television, threats
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Yo FNC raps!
I don't even know what to say about this. It's either Karl Rove's woefully belated attempt to court the minority vote, or just what happens when they have a few too many glasses of grog at the Skull and Bones annual gladhanding party, but...sweet Jesus Christ on a cracker.
Where's my boyfriend Curtis to show up, start some beef, and fill this fat asshole with lead? I think that the beat-boxing alone should be enough to warrant an attempt on his life. I mean, in addition to being a lying, cheating, swindling, warmongering, power-hungry, manipulating, America-fucking crook.
Oh no he DIDN'T!
Where's my boyfriend Curtis to show up, start some beef, and fill this fat asshole with lead? I think that the beat-boxing alone should be enough to warrant an attempt on his life. I mean, in addition to being a lying, cheating, swindling, warmongering, power-hungry, manipulating, America-fucking crook.
Oh no he DIDN'T!
Labels: assholes, oh the horror, overcompensation, politics, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, rap
Monday, March 19, 2007
Medical alert
It's not often that I get an important piece of news on the virology front from my celebrity gossip pages, but Dlisted just delved into cutting edge epidemiology by reporting that this big black weiner belongs to Gnarls Barkley singer Cee-Lo. 
I have no idea how this dude was identified as Cee-Lo other than by the prominent love handle, but the identity of the man attached to this cock is pretty irrelevant. It's lucky this dude shaves his pubes, because it will be that much easier to visually diagnose his first outbreak that way. Regardless of who the dick belongs to, buy stock in GlaxoSmithKline, because there's one more scrip for Valtrex being written right now. In fact, I expect Valtrex sales to go through the roof so long as this whore is on the loose, so call your broker. Though there are many reasons why Paris Hilton should be summarily shot, ruining this gorgeous wang with her stank strain of the herp just became one of her more egregious offenses. Man, I hate that bitch.
I have no idea how this dude was identified as Cee-Lo other than by the prominent love handle, but the identity of the man attached to this cock is pretty irrelevant. It's lucky this dude shaves his pubes, because it will be that much easier to visually diagnose his first outbreak that way. Regardless of who the dick belongs to, buy stock in GlaxoSmithKline, because there's one more scrip for Valtrex being written right now. In fact, I expect Valtrex sales to go through the roof so long as this whore is on the loose, so call your broker. Though there are many reasons why Paris Hilton should be summarily shot, ruining this gorgeous wang with her stank strain of the herp just became one of her more egregious offenses. Man, I hate that bitch.Labels: celebrities, epidemic geekery, gross, oh the horror, perversion, sex, sluts, viruses rule, weiners
What's wrong with this picture?
While I was digging through my doggy photos to find choice face shots of Chingy! to make the Chingy! the Hutt photo spread, I came across this one. This was taken a couple years ago for the purposes of being a Christmas card, and I had selected it and gotten it all ready to send until I realized that there was something very wrong with it. Can you spot it? And no, it's not the fucking zit on my forehead that looks like Krakatoa erupting...my Photoshop skills are pretty piss poor but they're good enough to have covered that up. I'll give you a hint: it has to do with one of the dogs.
There was an old "Seinfeld" episode where Elaine sent out a Christmas card, only to realize later that her nipple was showing on it. That would be embarrassing, but not nearly as bad as sending all your friends and loved ones seasons greetings in the form of a disgusting dog erection.
Caesar, put away your lipstick! GROSS!
There was an old "Seinfeld" episode where Elaine sent out a Christmas card, only to realize later that her nipple was showing on it. That would be embarrassing, but not nearly as bad as sending all your friends and loved ones seasons greetings in the form of a disgusting dog erection.
Caesar, put away your lipstick! GROSS!
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, oh the horror
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Episode Whatever: I am a weak-minded fool
A lot of people wonder "how much I paid" for Chingy!, since he's a purebred Pug and all. I've always had German Shepherd mix mutts like my devastatingly handsome Caesar, and I wasn't trying to be like the Angelina Jolie of dog adoption or anything. He used to belong to this creepy doorman at the first building I lived in, and he said that if he couldn't find Chingy! a new home, he'd be euthanized. In spite of my hatred for most living things, including children, plants, and many adult humans, I have a soft spot for dogs so I grudgingly agreed to take him "temporarily." That was four fucking years ago.
Now, when I tell the story of acquiring this little monster, I prefer to do so inventively. Not everyone gets it from the dialogue, though, because apparently not everyone's dad took them to see Return of the Jedi in the theaters when they were four, and had the combination of the Pit of Sarlacc and the noise that accompanied the outer space dogfighting between the Empire and the Rebel Fighters scare them to tears, ensuring that every part of that movie was committed almost verbatim to memory. Anyway, since I'm sick of explaining this to death, I'll try to illustrate the tale of Chingy! via Star Wars analogy with pictures.
EPISODE VI: REVENGE OF THE SHIT (EATER)
[Blah blah blah...background shit about the Empire building a new and terrifying Death Star, and something about Ewoks.]
Meanwhile, on Tattooine...
This is the palace of the vile intergalactic space gangster, Chingy! the Hutt. He terrorizes planets with his rePUGnant odors, arrogant attitude, and powerful aura of generalized affrontery.
Chingy! is inside, sedentary as usual, smoking his hookah and entertaining himself by chewing on dirty socks and feeding tentacle-headed strippers to the monster that lives underneath his equally revolting ass. In strolls a Jedi who looks nothing like my creepy former doorman to make an ill-advised attempt at detante.
Chingy!, in keeping with Hutt tradition of being an obstinate, destructive asshole, responds with scornful laughter.
The Jedi, unfazed, tries a new tactic.
Chingy! sees through this clever ruse. He sneezes disdainfully at his attendants for being so easily hoodwinked by the smooth-talking Jedi.
I have to interject that things would have been a lot better off if Chingy! had managed to successfully rebuff those campaigning to free Captain Solo from his carbonite prison. Then he couldn't have gotten old, fucked Ally McBeal's skeletal ass, and prepared to ruin Indiana Jones by making a fourth movie. How is he supposed to teach archaeology to Smith girls, retrieve priceless religious artifacts, and fight the Nazis for said valuable antiquities when he's older than Sean Connery was in Last Crusade? Is he going to beat them up with his walker, or what? Anyway, digression aside, this ploy on the Jedi's behalf did not work. Chingy! would not have his palace despoiled by the Jedi's cheap parlor tricks.
This is where I come into the story. I was just trying to mind my own business and walk Caesar as usual when this group of Star Wars nerds was blocking the road. I told them to get out of my way.
What?! Obviously THAT came out wrong.
This argument got me nowhere. Before I knew it, the stupid Jedi had tricked me into taking responsibility for the nefarious and despicable Chingy!, thus ending the days of brutalizing alien sex slaves, listening to really shitty music, and otherwise dominating the criminal underworld. A time of peace and prosperity returned to the parts of the galaxy now vacated by Chingy!, but the time of strife for me in Harlem was just beginning.
After months of civil war characterized by the wanton destruction of my personal belongings, I got used to the little asshole and we came to an uneasy truce. Once I changed out of that ridiculous gold bikini, it was a lot easier to command him on the leash. Also, I discovered that so long as he is supplied with ample Beneful and is permitted to sleep in my bed and/or suitcase, he's calm and peaceable to the point of being almost comatose twenty-three hours out of the day. And so the beast was quelled, and I find myself in the situation I'm in today.
And that's how much I paid for Chingy...not a damn cent, but the emotional and material toll has been immeasurable. CHONGAY CHONG!
P.S. Yeah, I know this is pretty dorky, but I had some time to kill this afternoon and my other alternative activity was housework. Sha right! Star Wars and dog Photoshop geekery wins every time.
Now, when I tell the story of acquiring this little monster, I prefer to do so inventively. Not everyone gets it from the dialogue, though, because apparently not everyone's dad took them to see Return of the Jedi in the theaters when they were four, and had the combination of the Pit of Sarlacc and the noise that accompanied the outer space dogfighting between the Empire and the Rebel Fighters scare them to tears, ensuring that every part of that movie was committed almost verbatim to memory. Anyway, since I'm sick of explaining this to death, I'll try to illustrate the tale of Chingy! via Star Wars analogy with pictures.
EPISODE VI: REVENGE OF THE SHIT (EATER)
[Blah blah blah...background shit about the Empire building a new and terrifying Death Star, and something about Ewoks.]
Meanwhile, on Tattooine...
I have to interject that things would have been a lot better off if Chingy! had managed to successfully rebuff those campaigning to free Captain Solo from his carbonite prison. Then he couldn't have gotten old, fucked Ally McBeal's skeletal ass, and prepared to ruin Indiana Jones by making a fourth movie. How is he supposed to teach archaeology to Smith girls, retrieve priceless religious artifacts, and fight the Nazis for said valuable antiquities when he's older than Sean Connery was in Last Crusade? Is he going to beat them up with his walker, or what? Anyway, digression aside, this ploy on the Jedi's behalf did not work. Chingy! would not have his palace despoiled by the Jedi's cheap parlor tricks.
This is where I come into the story. I was just trying to mind my own business and walk Caesar as usual when this group of Star Wars nerds was blocking the road. I told them to get out of my way.
And that's how much I paid for Chingy...not a damn cent, but the emotional and material toll has been immeasurable. CHONGAY CHONG!
P.S. Yeah, I know this is pretty dorky, but I had some time to kill this afternoon and my other alternative activity was housework. Sha right! Star Wars and dog Photoshop geekery wins every time.
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, creative projects, doggity style, epic geekery, fat fucks, gross, movies, oh the horror, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Stick Wit sUicide
For some reason, after Dateline's "To Catch a Predator" ended, I flipped the channel over to the CW network where "The Pussycat Dolls Present: Search for the Next Doll" or whatever that show is called was on. I have no idea why I ended up watching this instead of Primetime's expose of up-and-coming porn stars, except that I caught a glimpse of Lil' Kim as I was channel surfing by, and my jaw just dropped. That bitch is fatter every time I see her. She's expanding like a fucking Hungry Jack biscuit in a hot oven. I swear to God she got lupus from her leaking breast implant and is now taking massive doses of steroids; she can't really be that fat now, can she?
Anyway, my fascination with the transformation of Lil' Kim into Mo'Nique got me to watch 5 minutes of this show, and it transfixed me with its train wreckishness. The girls, who all cry at the slightest provocation when their lackluster performance of "Buttons" failed to win excessive praise from their "mentor", the slut who currently sings lead for the Pussycat Dolls, are complete and total fucking morons. They make the girls on "Top Model" look like the committee of scientists working on the Manhattan Project in comparison. It's almost like the number one criterion for being cast was being utterly vapid.
Even better is when these bitches in their gangsta-font "PCD" wife beaters and cocked fedoras start rattling off Pussycat Dolls talking points to the judges about how they're here to be a "role model" (as opposed to "clap-spreading attention whore") because the Dolls are all about female empowerment and independence. And nothing says "womyn power" like a camel toe and a "Property of Stick Wit U" midriff-baring scoop-neck baby tee. At least it measures up to my old professor Saratoga120's interpretation of feminist actualization: "when there are many mediocre women as there are mediocre men in important, visible, or powerful positions." When I see Saratoga120 at LL Cool Jew's upcoming wedding, I'll inform her that finally gender equity has been achieved in the music industry and cite this as the most compelling piece of evidence.
The girls can't hold a candle in the "hot mess" department compared to the Pussycat Dolls' creator and producer, choreographer Robin Antin. I can state unequivocally that Robin Antin DEFINITELY AND FOR SURE was once a man. This isn't just a s/he-has-an-Adam's-apple kind of tranny. S/he looks like David Leisure (thespian noted for his work on "Empty Nest" and the seminal "Joe Isuzu" ad campaign) with one of Tyra Banks's discarded weaves on his/her head. S/he may not have had his/her gender reassigned as an adult, but I can picture him/her being one of those babies born a hermaphrodite, whose parents just picked a sex and ran with it when s/he was a baby. Whatever the scientific explanation, bitch definitely is packing a Y chromosome.
Bolstering the medical anomaly argument is Robin's general demeanor. The way she nods vigorously while smiling this vacant, open-mouthed grin makes me wonder if s/he didn't spend childhood riding the short bus with Corky Thatcher. Something is definitely amiss upstairs when a person shows that much primal, drooling, mouth-breathing joy listening to a trio of fake-titted, overtanned prostitutes perform atrocious covers of Ciara's "One, Two Step."
And then there's the aforementioned used-to-be-Lil' Kim. This woman, known for irresistable seduction lines such as "somethin' I wanted, but I never was pushy, the motherfucker never ate my pussy" and "I dug him, so I fucked him, it wasn't nothin'...he wanted me to suck him but I didn't, I ain't frontin'", actually lectures these bitches on how to be desirable. She acts like she's in fact cornered the market on sex appeal. John D. Rockefeller had oil, J.P. Morgan had railroads and banks, and Lil' Kim has sexiness? Sha right. The woman looks like she just ate an entire Popeye's, and I mean the ENTIRE restaurant, including the building. Furthermore, I think the CW was so busy dressing the contestants in PCD branded hooker wear that they forgot to budget for Lil' Kim's wardrobe, because she's wearing what looks like the same busted orange top that she's worn for virtually every TV appearance since she emerged from the federal penitentiary. She looks like a really slutty version of the Great Fucking Pumpkin, and don't get me started on her hair. Her wig looks like it was made of chicken wire, papier mache, and numerous coats of some sort of shellacking agent. My money's on Epoxy.
Don't watch this show. For weeks I've been referring to it as "Search for the Next Pussyclot Doll" to amuse J-Sexy. "Pussyclot" is a term in Jamaican patois that literally means "maxi-pad", but is often as an adjective to make an insult even more derogatory (ie: "you pussyclot motherfucker"). In this case, it is totally fitting. Unless you are feeling particularly masochistic, I would avoid this shit like the herpes the contestants are probably spreading around Los Angeles in their spare time. Jumping off a bridge would be a better use of your time.
Anyway, my fascination with the transformation of Lil' Kim into Mo'Nique got me to watch 5 minutes of this show, and it transfixed me with its train wreckishness. The girls, who all cry at the slightest provocation when their lackluster performance of "Buttons" failed to win excessive praise from their "mentor", the slut who currently sings lead for the Pussycat Dolls, are complete and total fucking morons. They make the girls on "Top Model" look like the committee of scientists working on the Manhattan Project in comparison. It's almost like the number one criterion for being cast was being utterly vapid.
Even better is when these bitches in their gangsta-font "PCD" wife beaters and cocked fedoras start rattling off Pussycat Dolls talking points to the judges about how they're here to be a "role model" (as opposed to "clap-spreading attention whore") because the Dolls are all about female empowerment and independence. And nothing says "womyn power" like a camel toe and a "Property of Stick Wit U" midriff-baring scoop-neck baby tee. At least it measures up to my old professor Saratoga120's interpretation of feminist actualization: "when there are many mediocre women as there are mediocre men in important, visible, or powerful positions." When I see Saratoga120 at LL Cool Jew's upcoming wedding, I'll inform her that finally gender equity has been achieved in the music industry and cite this as the most compelling piece of evidence.
The girls can't hold a candle in the "hot mess" department compared to the Pussycat Dolls' creator and producer, choreographer Robin Antin. I can state unequivocally that Robin Antin DEFINITELY AND FOR SURE was once a man. This isn't just a s/he-has-an-Adam's-apple kind of tranny. S/he looks like David Leisure (thespian noted for his work on "Empty Nest" and the seminal "Joe Isuzu" ad campaign) with one of Tyra Banks's discarded weaves on his/her head. S/he may not have had his/her gender reassigned as an adult, but I can picture him/her being one of those babies born a hermaphrodite, whose parents just picked a sex and ran with it when s/he was a baby. Whatever the scientific explanation, bitch definitely is packing a Y chromosome.
Bolstering the medical anomaly argument is Robin's general demeanor. The way she nods vigorously while smiling this vacant, open-mouthed grin makes me wonder if s/he didn't spend childhood riding the short bus with Corky Thatcher. Something is definitely amiss upstairs when a person shows that much primal, drooling, mouth-breathing joy listening to a trio of fake-titted, overtanned prostitutes perform atrocious covers of Ciara's "One, Two Step."
And then there's the aforementioned used-to-be-Lil' Kim. This woman, known for irresistable seduction lines such as "somethin' I wanted, but I never was pushy, the motherfucker never ate my pussy" and "I dug him, so I fucked him, it wasn't nothin'...he wanted me to suck him but I didn't, I ain't frontin'", actually lectures these bitches on how to be desirable. She acts like she's in fact cornered the market on sex appeal. John D. Rockefeller had oil, J.P. Morgan had railroads and banks, and Lil' Kim has sexiness? Sha right. The woman looks like she just ate an entire Popeye's, and I mean the ENTIRE restaurant, including the building. Furthermore, I think the CW was so busy dressing the contestants in PCD branded hooker wear that they forgot to budget for Lil' Kim's wardrobe, because she's wearing what looks like the same busted orange top that she's worn for virtually every TV appearance since she emerged from the federal penitentiary. She looks like a really slutty version of the Great Fucking Pumpkin, and don't get me started on her hair. Her wig looks like it was made of chicken wire, papier mache, and numerous coats of some sort of shellacking agent. My money's on Epoxy.
Don't watch this show. For weeks I've been referring to it as "Search for the Next Pussyclot Doll" to amuse J-Sexy. "Pussyclot" is a term in Jamaican patois that literally means "maxi-pad", but is often as an adjective to make an insult even more derogatory (ie: "you pussyclot motherfucker"). In this case, it is totally fitting. Unless you are feeling particularly masochistic, I would avoid this shit like the herpes the contestants are probably spreading around Los Angeles in their spare time. Jumping off a bridge would be a better use of your time.
Labels: celebrities, fat fucks, gender bending, Lil' Kim, media whores, oh the horror, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, ranting, sluts, TV
Monday, March 12, 2007
Subway bloody subway
Last Saturday, I met up with my buddy KatieScarlett and we went to go see The Host, this Korean horror movie in which the titled monster is basically a giant, man-eating, amphibious Chingy!, and then forced her to accompany me to a K-town noodle shop for Tsingtaos to bolster me for what I consider an arduous and lengthy trek: a D-train ride to Brooklyn to visit our friend Miss Corbutt.
I hate going to Brooklyn. For one thing, I always get lost there. It seems like Flatbush and Atlantic Aves are everywhere, and go in every direction, so I can't even use those landmarks to get situated like I can here on the fair isle of Mannahattas. I hate going off the grid. Furthermore, once you actually get to Brooklyn, the nearest subway stop is always at least two miles from wherever you are going. People who live in Brooklyn don't notice this, because they are so used to it. My subway stop here is four blocks from my apartment, and that takes all of five minutes to walk. Our destination in Brooklyn was like ten blocks from the subway, and it took us a solid twenty minutes to get there. Granted, we did have to stop at a bar so we could pee after our post-Host Tsingtaos, at which I insisted on doing Jaegermeister shots to "keep us warm" during our hike. "I need spirits to keep my spirits up," I told KatieScarlett. "Oh, Razzy...it's really not that far. Miss Corbutt's place just isn't that convenient for getting to and from the train." She was being very tolerant of my curmudgeonly grousing, though, and just took her shot. I liberated the bar's supply of NYC condoms from the bathroom and we returned to our quest.
Miss Corbutt just had surgery, and we were asked to bring some prune juice for her. We had no idea where to buy prune juice, but we were hoping it would be at some establishment that also sells beer. We passed a bodega called Angie's Deli. "This looks like a good spot," I said. "I bet they sell beer."
"Yes, but do they have prune juice?" KatieScarlett asked skeptically.
"We won't know until we go in and see."
"If you were running your namesake deli, would you stock prune juice?"
I thought quickly over the inventory that I would purchase for my bodega: Heineken, imported cheese, other beers, sausage, frozen pizza, toilet paper, Beneful, ice cream, and rolling papers were the first things that came to mind--not prune juice.
"Good point," I said. "But maybe we should get some beer here?"
"We still have a ways to go...you don't want to carry the beer all that way, do you?" KatieScarlett asked cheerfully.
I groaned. "A ways to go" probably equals three miles in Brooklynese. We kept walking. Finally we found a grocery store that sold prune juice but NO COLD BEER. "We should have gone to Angie's Deli," I grumbled as we checked out. We stopped at another store for beer, and then we were on the home stretch to Miss Corbutt's.
We kept passing these young lesbian couples everywhere we went. After passing the last pair of pixie cuts, I was so strongly reminded of Smith that I asked, "God, did some wrinkle in space-time or whatever result in half of Northampton, Ass being mystically transported to Park Slope, or what?"
"I know, it's pretty lesbish around here," KatieScarlett agreed.
"Smith should open a fucking satellite office of the alumnae association here--if they haven't already. Now I see why you and Bienvenido-a-Miami moved here."
"Miss Corbutt lives here too and she's not a lesbian."
"Yeah, because she's from Northampton! Lesbians probably make her feel as comfortable as mountains, smoked salmon, and Starbucks make me, and decrepit steel mills, scrapple, and Christmas music makes you" (KatieScarlett is from Bethlehem, PA). "Are we there yet?" I added.
"Almost," said KatieScarlett in a quit-your-bitching type of tone.
We arrived at Miss Corbutt's and spent a while visiting with her and her boyfriend. Then she was feeling a bit strained, and since she just had her guts rearranged (her surgery required a lot of digging around in her abdomen), we left her to get some rest. I went over to KatieScarlett's and Bienvenido-a-Miami's for dinner, and afterward, was feeling very full and content and not at all like doing anything besides getting horizontal.
"You can stay the night here, Razzy," offered Bienvenido-a-Miami.
"I can't...you know, the dogs need walking. How the hell do I find the D train again?"
They gave me directions to the train and I sucked it up and trudged off alone into the misty night, hoping that I would not get lost in this most confusing of boroughs. Fortunately, I found the train, and even more fortunately, a Manhattan-bound D train zoomed up within five minutes of my arrival on the platform. I boarded and sank contentedly into an empty seat with my book about Genghis Khan, confident that all my troubles would subside now that Brooklyn was almost behind me.
Sadly, my hopes of a nice, quiet, Mongol horde-filled ride the whole way back to Sugar Hill were dashed almost immediately. Across from me were two short dudes that were obviously completely shitfaced. They were passed out and leaning against each other. I wasn't paying them much attention since they were both asleep. As the train emerged from the subway tunnel to cross the Manhattan Bridge, I looked across the East River to the city full of its tall buildings and bright lights and felt very pleased and relieved; I was returning to my home borough. I'd be home in twenty minutes.
**THUNK**
A loud noise snapped me out of my reverie and I saw that one of the drunk guys had fallen smack into the middle of the floor of the train. He didn't move, and I wondered if he was even alive. Everyone around him was trying to decide if this situation warranted a break from the typical New Yorker apathy concerning crazy and/or drunk people on the train. Finally, some dude on the train stood up, appraised the situation, and said to some guy a few seats over, "I guess we'd better pick him up."
The other guy made like he was going to protest, but the first guy reiterated, "We gotta pick him up. Come on, we can't just leave him there on the ground."
I vacated my prized seat so these guys could haul the drunk motherfucker up and lay him down across the bench where I'd been sitting. In spite of the drunk guy's petite size, they were having a difficult time getting him to stay put on the bench. Even though he was totally unconscious, his limbs were sprawled out like he was playing some bizarre static game of Twister.
"Holy shit!" one of the Good Samaritan lifters exclaimed, and they both released the man, who slipped back on the floor, this time with a slightly less pronounced thumping noise. Blood had started gushing from the guy's head, presumably from splitting his head open when he initially fell. There was blood all over the seat, and now it was pooling on the floor. Everyone was backing up as though they were going to get hepatitis just looking at him.
"I think we should call 911," said one of the lifters.
"Tell them to send a Hazmat team," quipped another passenger.
"Fuck, no, are you crazy?! They'll stop the train!"
While the prospect of being stuck with Bloody Mario for an indeterminate amount of time was unappealing, the guy was bleeding profusely and was generally unresponsive. I grudgingly sided with the guy who wanted to call 911.
"We have to get the cops or something," I offered.
"I know, I know," said pro-911 guy. "I don't want to be stuck here either. But, Jesus Christ, look at him! He's still fucking bleeding!"
The train pulled into the Grand Street station and I went with pro-911 guy to tell the conductor to call an ambulance. The conductor did indeed stop the train. When I returned to the car, the dude was now sitting upright although whether or not he was aware of his surroundings AT ALL was unclear. Blood was now pouring down his face onto his shirt, and given his dirty appearance, he looked like he'd just survived a roadside bomb in Iraq. People were shouting at him to wake up, I think because nobody was sure if he was just dead drunk or actually dying. Someone decided to try and appeal to his equally drunken but thus far uninjured friend.
The friend finally looked up with a bleary eye, announced something semi-intelligible about needing to piss, and started unzipping his fly.
"NO!" the entire train car shouted, practically in unison. "NO! NO! NO!"
"Eh?" he squinted up at everyone, apparently not believing that the subway car was an inappropriate place to urinate.
"You pull anything out of those pants and you'll be lookin' like your friend there," said the conductor menacingly, having just arrived at the car to assess the situation.
Meanwhile, one of the other passengers found an empty fifth of vodka under the drunks' original seat and showed it to the conductor.
"Here's what they were drinking," he announced. "Leeds Vodka. Christ, I've never even heard of that."
The conductor turned around and said, "I wouldn't touch that, sir. It could be a health risk."
The guy dropped the bottle immediately. I offered him some hand sanitizer. At that moment, two of New York's finest arrived. They took one look around and immediately shouted, "Okay, people, please exit the car! This car is being isolated!"
We all moved to a different car, and about 15 minutes later, the train was on its way. As we moved past the platform, I saw the two drunk dudes facing the wall as the cops fitted them each with a pair of lovely silver bracelets.
When I got home, I thought about all my trials, ranging from not being able to track down prune juice to nearly being spattered with possibly HIV-loaded blood, and I realized that ONCE AGAIN, everything was going fine until I ventured into that accursed borough across the river. It's all Brooklyn's fault.
I hate going to Brooklyn. For one thing, I always get lost there. It seems like Flatbush and Atlantic Aves are everywhere, and go in every direction, so I can't even use those landmarks to get situated like I can here on the fair isle of Mannahattas. I hate going off the grid. Furthermore, once you actually get to Brooklyn, the nearest subway stop is always at least two miles from wherever you are going. People who live in Brooklyn don't notice this, because they are so used to it. My subway stop here is four blocks from my apartment, and that takes all of five minutes to walk. Our destination in Brooklyn was like ten blocks from the subway, and it took us a solid twenty minutes to get there. Granted, we did have to stop at a bar so we could pee after our post-Host Tsingtaos, at which I insisted on doing Jaegermeister shots to "keep us warm" during our hike. "I need spirits to keep my spirits up," I told KatieScarlett. "Oh, Razzy...it's really not that far. Miss Corbutt's place just isn't that convenient for getting to and from the train." She was being very tolerant of my curmudgeonly grousing, though, and just took her shot. I liberated the bar's supply of NYC condoms from the bathroom and we returned to our quest.
Miss Corbutt just had surgery, and we were asked to bring some prune juice for her. We had no idea where to buy prune juice, but we were hoping it would be at some establishment that also sells beer. We passed a bodega called Angie's Deli. "This looks like a good spot," I said. "I bet they sell beer."
"Yes, but do they have prune juice?" KatieScarlett asked skeptically.
"We won't know until we go in and see."
"If you were running your namesake deli, would you stock prune juice?"
I thought quickly over the inventory that I would purchase for my bodega: Heineken, imported cheese, other beers, sausage, frozen pizza, toilet paper, Beneful, ice cream, and rolling papers were the first things that came to mind--not prune juice.
"Good point," I said. "But maybe we should get some beer here?"
"We still have a ways to go...you don't want to carry the beer all that way, do you?" KatieScarlett asked cheerfully.
I groaned. "A ways to go" probably equals three miles in Brooklynese. We kept walking. Finally we found a grocery store that sold prune juice but NO COLD BEER. "We should have gone to Angie's Deli," I grumbled as we checked out. We stopped at another store for beer, and then we were on the home stretch to Miss Corbutt's.
We kept passing these young lesbian couples everywhere we went. After passing the last pair of pixie cuts, I was so strongly reminded of Smith that I asked, "God, did some wrinkle in space-time or whatever result in half of Northampton, Ass being mystically transported to Park Slope, or what?"
"I know, it's pretty lesbish around here," KatieScarlett agreed.
"Smith should open a fucking satellite office of the alumnae association here--if they haven't already. Now I see why you and Bienvenido-a-Miami moved here."
"Miss Corbutt lives here too and she's not a lesbian."
"Yeah, because she's from Northampton! Lesbians probably make her feel as comfortable as mountains, smoked salmon, and Starbucks make me, and decrepit steel mills, scrapple, and Christmas music makes you" (KatieScarlett is from Bethlehem, PA). "Are we there yet?" I added.
"Almost," said KatieScarlett in a quit-your-bitching type of tone.
We arrived at Miss Corbutt's and spent a while visiting with her and her boyfriend. Then she was feeling a bit strained, and since she just had her guts rearranged (her surgery required a lot of digging around in her abdomen), we left her to get some rest. I went over to KatieScarlett's and Bienvenido-a-Miami's for dinner, and afterward, was feeling very full and content and not at all like doing anything besides getting horizontal.
"You can stay the night here, Razzy," offered Bienvenido-a-Miami.
"I can't...you know, the dogs need walking. How the hell do I find the D train again?"
They gave me directions to the train and I sucked it up and trudged off alone into the misty night, hoping that I would not get lost in this most confusing of boroughs. Fortunately, I found the train, and even more fortunately, a Manhattan-bound D train zoomed up within five minutes of my arrival on the platform. I boarded and sank contentedly into an empty seat with my book about Genghis Khan, confident that all my troubles would subside now that Brooklyn was almost behind me.
Sadly, my hopes of a nice, quiet, Mongol horde-filled ride the whole way back to Sugar Hill were dashed almost immediately. Across from me were two short dudes that were obviously completely shitfaced. They were passed out and leaning against each other. I wasn't paying them much attention since they were both asleep. As the train emerged from the subway tunnel to cross the Manhattan Bridge, I looked across the East River to the city full of its tall buildings and bright lights and felt very pleased and relieved; I was returning to my home borough. I'd be home in twenty minutes.
**THUNK**
A loud noise snapped me out of my reverie and I saw that one of the drunk guys had fallen smack into the middle of the floor of the train. He didn't move, and I wondered if he was even alive. Everyone around him was trying to decide if this situation warranted a break from the typical New Yorker apathy concerning crazy and/or drunk people on the train. Finally, some dude on the train stood up, appraised the situation, and said to some guy a few seats over, "I guess we'd better pick him up."
The other guy made like he was going to protest, but the first guy reiterated, "We gotta pick him up. Come on, we can't just leave him there on the ground."
I vacated my prized seat so these guys could haul the drunk motherfucker up and lay him down across the bench where I'd been sitting. In spite of the drunk guy's petite size, they were having a difficult time getting him to stay put on the bench. Even though he was totally unconscious, his limbs were sprawled out like he was playing some bizarre static game of Twister.
"Holy shit!" one of the Good Samaritan lifters exclaimed, and they both released the man, who slipped back on the floor, this time with a slightly less pronounced thumping noise. Blood had started gushing from the guy's head, presumably from splitting his head open when he initially fell. There was blood all over the seat, and now it was pooling on the floor. Everyone was backing up as though they were going to get hepatitis just looking at him.
"I think we should call 911," said one of the lifters.
"Tell them to send a Hazmat team," quipped another passenger.
"Fuck, no, are you crazy?! They'll stop the train!"
While the prospect of being stuck with Bloody Mario for an indeterminate amount of time was unappealing, the guy was bleeding profusely and was generally unresponsive. I grudgingly sided with the guy who wanted to call 911.
"We have to get the cops or something," I offered.
"I know, I know," said pro-911 guy. "I don't want to be stuck here either. But, Jesus Christ, look at him! He's still fucking bleeding!"
The train pulled into the Grand Street station and I went with pro-911 guy to tell the conductor to call an ambulance. The conductor did indeed stop the train. When I returned to the car, the dude was now sitting upright although whether or not he was aware of his surroundings AT ALL was unclear. Blood was now pouring down his face onto his shirt, and given his dirty appearance, he looked like he'd just survived a roadside bomb in Iraq. People were shouting at him to wake up, I think because nobody was sure if he was just dead drunk or actually dying. Someone decided to try and appeal to his equally drunken but thus far uninjured friend.
The friend finally looked up with a bleary eye, announced something semi-intelligible about needing to piss, and started unzipping his fly.
"NO!" the entire train car shouted, practically in unison. "NO! NO! NO!"
"Eh?" he squinted up at everyone, apparently not believing that the subway car was an inappropriate place to urinate.
"You pull anything out of those pants and you'll be lookin' like your friend there," said the conductor menacingly, having just arrived at the car to assess the situation.
Meanwhile, one of the other passengers found an empty fifth of vodka under the drunks' original seat and showed it to the conductor.
"Here's what they were drinking," he announced. "Leeds Vodka. Christ, I've never even heard of that."
The conductor turned around and said, "I wouldn't touch that, sir. It could be a health risk."
The guy dropped the bottle immediately. I offered him some hand sanitizer. At that moment, two of New York's finest arrived. They took one look around and immediately shouted, "Okay, people, please exit the car! This car is being isolated!"
We all moved to a different car, and about 15 minutes later, the train was on its way. As we moved past the platform, I saw the two drunk dudes facing the wall as the cops fitted them each with a pair of lovely silver bracelets.
When I got home, I thought about all my trials, ranging from not being able to track down prune juice to nearly being spattered with possibly HIV-loaded blood, and I realized that ONCE AGAIN, everything was going fine until I ventured into that accursed borough across the river. It's all Brooklyn's fault.
Labels: BK, crazies, gross, MTA, NYC, oh the horror
Monday, February 26, 2007
I Dream Nightmare of Jenna
I love porn, and thus it goes without saying that I've always had a special place in my heart for Jenna Jameson. For one thing, she's an exceptionally talented porn star, and anyone who has seen enough porn can tell you that it is indeed possible to be horrible at pornography. Just as with any other star, there's a certain "it" factor you need to make fucking for the camera look awesome, and Jenna has it. For another, she's the embodiment of the American dream. With no money in her pocket, she fought her way into stripping at the age of 17 with a fake ID. When the manager told her that she couldn't strip with braces, she went home and grabbed a set of pliers and RIPPED THEM OFF HER TEETH. That is the determination of the truly hard core. Years later, she's a multimillionaire, a household name, and exemplifies the pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps type of success that's most lauded in our society.
I've seen a lot of Jenna's movies, including such cinematic masterpieces as Jennatalia, Briana Loves Jenna, Bella Loves Jenna, Jenna Loves Pain, Cherry Pie, Last Girl Standing (which SUCKED...the least amount of sex in any porn I've ever seen, although the part where Briana Banks contemptuously masturbates with a bottle Jenna's signature fragrance is hilarious), The Dinner Party, and I Dream of Jenna. Jenna is not really a natural beauty, but in spite of her rather plastic appearance, she's always been very sexy, in a porn star, fake-tits sort of way. For the last ten years or so, Jenna has looked more or less like this:
Yeah, so her jugs might be super surgerized and her face might be covered with so much pancake she could start an IHOP, but I've always found Jenna to be one of the more appealing porn stars. God knows she's much better looking than the probable post-op tranny Taylor Wane and is certainly more natural than Chelsea Charms. Furthermore, I must admire Jenna's business acumen. She's made millions, not only through selling DVDs and stripping, but through merchandizing the shit out of her brand. You can buy everything from a Jenna Jameson blow-up doll to Jenna Jameson perfume (which can also be used as a dildo according to Briana Banks, as mentioned above) to a Jenna Jameson battery-powered pube trimmer if you want. She's like the Madonna of porn, going from a broke, meth-addicted slut to a true, super-rich media mogul. Even if you're not into Jenna's product or profession, you have to give her props for entrepreneurial savvy.
That's why I was so horrified to find on one of my gossip websites today that Jenna made the terrible, unforgivable mistake of venturing out to collect swag at a pre-Oscar party looking like THIS:
Jenna, how could you? Not only are you so skinny that I'm wondering if you haven't restarted that meth habit you claimed to have kicked ten years ago on your E! True Hollywood Story, but you've had so much Restalyne pumped into your mouth that your lips could act as a flotation device. Your hair looks like it's had one too many treatments with industrial-strength Clairol Maxi-Blonde, and you need to call whatever plastic surgeon did your eyes and demand a refund because that shit was BOTCHED. And don't get me started on that tan of yours...your skin is so fucking leathery I wouldn't be surprised if you fired up a chainsaw and went after the nearest hapless coed. Seriously...are you taking style tips from Amanda Lepore? You look like you're one of the extras from Total Recall who lived in the poor part of Mars, where everyone turned into a mutant because of the stellar radiation that filtered into the whorehouses. And you're not hot like that mutant prostitute with the three boobs; you look more like the "Quaiiiid! Start the reactorrrrr!" guy who was growing out of the other dude's stomach.
I'm just going to pretend this didn't happen so that I won't want to throw up the next time I'm trying to rub one off to a movie of Jenna's. I'm just hoping that these pictures hitting the internet will spark an outcry from your fans. Put on some weight, lay off the Mystic Tan, and call a decent surgeon to fix your entire fucking face, because what you have going on now is not anything I want to see getting it on for the camera.
I've seen a lot of Jenna's movies, including such cinematic masterpieces as Jennatalia, Briana Loves Jenna, Bella Loves Jenna, Jenna Loves Pain, Cherry Pie, Last Girl Standing (which SUCKED...the least amount of sex in any porn I've ever seen, although the part where Briana Banks contemptuously masturbates with a bottle Jenna's signature fragrance is hilarious), The Dinner Party, and I Dream of Jenna. Jenna is not really a natural beauty, but in spite of her rather plastic appearance, she's always been very sexy, in a porn star, fake-tits sort of way. For the last ten years or so, Jenna has looked more or less like this:
That's why I was so horrified to find on one of my gossip websites today that Jenna made the terrible, unforgivable mistake of venturing out to collect swag at a pre-Oscar party looking like THIS:
I'm just going to pretend this didn't happen so that I won't want to throw up the next time I'm trying to rub one off to a movie of Jenna's. I'm just hoping that these pictures hitting the internet will spark an outcry from your fans. Put on some weight, lay off the Mystic Tan, and call a decent surgeon to fix your entire fucking face, because what you have going on now is not anything I want to see getting it on for the camera.
Labels: celebrities, oh the horror, porn, ranting, sluts, you're ugly
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Now you can say you've seen it
Last weekend, LL Cool Jew was in town to visit with myself and the rest of her Smith bitches and take care of some wedding business, like laying the smackdown on the inept fucktards at Vera Wang who did a hack job on her dress. You think that when your bridal gown costs as much as a moderately tricked-out Nissan Sentra and it's VERA FUCKING WANG, they would not try to blame their own ineptitude on the bride-to-be by asking, "Have you gained weight since you were measured?" Once it was established that LL Cool Jew actually lost weight since then (and she's a size 2, for God's sake), they declared that heads would roll and she was moving to "the top of ALL the lists" in terms of priority. We decided this must mean that only the third-world children with the most nimble fingers will be stitching it together. Anyway, somehow while we were talking about this, LL Cool Jew turned to me and asked a question. One fun fact about LL Cool Jew is that she used to be a lesbian. And I don't mean she was on the Smith four-year plan. She was a full-on dyke, and she came out of the closet in junior high. At one point she owned a house with her partner. When she and I spent a year sharing an apartment, she was dating my friend KatieScarlett. Then she met BigBagel, and fell in love, and the rest is history. Anyway, because of her established Sapphic history, LL Cool Jew had a question about male anatomy. So naturally, she asked me, who, as a slut and a scientist, has extensive firsthand and professional knowledge of the male nether regions. Also, I am familiar with all the latest in internet celebrity gossip, so her reference did not need to be explained. "Have you seen that picture of Cisco Adler's balls? BigBagel's don't look like that...is he weird or is Cisco Adler?"
I know precisely what picture she was talking about, because it stunned me, as well. I have never seen a set of nards so categorically revolting. I figured the rest of the world had seen this picture and was equally repelled, but apparently not.
I've mentioned this photograph several times, the most recent being this morning while catching up with Morrissey'sHair on the phone, and everyone responds with a blank "huh?" Well, I'm going to end that right now. This is old news, and I'm tired of explaining it. Be sure you haven't eaten recently when you look at this, because it's better than syrup of ipecac for induction of vomiting.
DISGUSTING. It's like he has two asymmetric pendulums between his legs. His scrote is so stretched out that I wonder if his balls are actually made of lead, and their ponderous weight conspired with gravity to drag that shit down like a fucking taffy pull. Making the picture contextually even more horrendous is the fact that he's parading around butt-naked at PARIS HILTON'S HOUSE. The source of this picture was that ParisExposed.com website that was sells the privilege of viewing the auctioned-off items in a storage locker that Paris forgot to pay for, such as video of her singing every racist epithet in the book to the tune of "It's a Small World", doing a mountain of blow off a fat man's chest, and saying "I got fucked in the butt for coke", as well as a receipt for an abortion a miscarriage, a fake ID, her Valtrex prescription, and frightening pictures like the one above. The only conceivable reason I can see for Cisco Adler (who is only famous for looking like a homeless guy and sticking his above stank weiner into the ultra-fug Mischa Barton) being naked at Paris Hilton's house is to swap strains of herpes simplex with her.
And for the record, LL Cool Jew and anyone else who hasn't seen as many testicles up close as I have, that is NOT NORMAL. Most dudes have much smaller scrotums. Sure, there's usually a little give and sway to them, but they do not look like there's two fleshy grandfather clocks ticking away between their legs. Cisco Adler is a freak, and he should get one of the actual celebrities who hangs out with him (no pun intended) to pay for the scrotal lift he so desperately needs. SO HEINOUS!
I know precisely what picture she was talking about, because it stunned me, as well. I have never seen a set of nards so categorically revolting. I figured the rest of the world had seen this picture and was equally repelled, but apparently not.
I've mentioned this photograph several times, the most recent being this morning while catching up with Morrissey'sHair on the phone, and everyone responds with a blank "huh?" Well, I'm going to end that right now. This is old news, and I'm tired of explaining it. Be sure you haven't eaten recently when you look at this, because it's better than syrup of ipecac for induction of vomiting.
DISGUSTING. It's like he has two asymmetric pendulums between his legs. His scrote is so stretched out that I wonder if his balls are actually made of lead, and their ponderous weight conspired with gravity to drag that shit down like a fucking taffy pull. Making the picture contextually even more horrendous is the fact that he's parading around butt-naked at PARIS HILTON'S HOUSE. The source of this picture was that ParisExposed.com website that was sells the privilege of viewing the auctioned-off items in a storage locker that Paris forgot to pay for, such as video of her singing every racist epithet in the book to the tune of "It's a Small World", doing a mountain of blow off a fat man's chest, and saying "I got fucked in the butt for coke", as well as a receipt for And for the record, LL Cool Jew and anyone else who hasn't seen as many testicles up close as I have, that is NOT NORMAL. Most dudes have much smaller scrotums. Sure, there's usually a little give and sway to them, but they do not look like there's two fleshy grandfather clocks ticking away between their legs. Cisco Adler is a freak, and he should get one of the actual celebrities who hangs out with him (no pun intended) to pay for the scrotal lift he so desperately needs. SO HEINOUS!
Labels: celebrities, gross, LL Cool Jew, oh the horror, sex, weiners, you're ugly
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Britney might kill us all
I'm so glad this insane, out-of-control bitch is in rehab after seeing this picture. Homegirl looks like she might eat the motherfucker toying with her panty line because he's there and she's hungry. However, anyone not living on the recently demoted Kuiper Belt body Pluto knows that Britney is hungry only in the sense that she might eat you for bad publicity.
She might be taking entirely too much vitamin E and doing her part to subsequently bolster the Bolivian economy and fund guerilla insurgents battling for de facto control of Colombia, but Britney Spears is NO JOKE. Did you ever see Dune? Because this fierce hooker looks as though she's about to grab her crude yet effective Fremen blade and engage her tattooist in mortal combat to negotiate ancient intergalactic feudal family bullshit concerning planetary fiefdoms and control of the spice trade. Don't fuck with House Atreides! Holy God, I just fully revealed my nerdiness. Next I'm going to start making "Battlestar Galactica" references, a la "Britney looks like she could be one of the five unrevealed Cylons!" I need to not blog when drunk alone after spending the entire night bonding with LL Cool Jew about how she meets friends in the Dirrty Dirrty based on well-placed references to lembas bread.
Regardless, would YOU fuck with that? I surely would not.
She might be taking entirely too much vitamin E and doing her part to subsequently bolster the Bolivian economy and fund guerilla insurgents battling for de facto control of Colombia, but Britney Spears is NO JOKE. Did you ever see Dune? Because this fierce hooker looks as though she's about to grab her crude yet effective Fremen blade and engage her tattooist in mortal combat to negotiate ancient intergalactic feudal family bullshit concerning planetary fiefdoms and control of the spice trade. Don't fuck with House Atreides! Holy God, I just fully revealed my nerdiness. Next I'm going to start making "Battlestar Galactica" references, a la "Britney looks like she could be one of the five unrevealed Cylons!" I need to not blog when drunk alone after spending the entire night bonding with LL Cool Jew about how she meets friends in the Dirrty Dirrty based on well-placed references to lembas bread.
Regardless, would YOU fuck with that? I surely would not.
Labels: alcoholism, Britney Spears, epic geekery, oh the horror, PWT, ridiculous absurdity, stank vaginas
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Million dollar scabies
Recently the woman who refused to shave Britney's head has been dragging the hair around to "Entertainment Tonight" and any other media outfit that will allow those biohazardous synthetic tresses on set. It seems she spied a golden opportunity and tried to sell this crap on eBay. eBay, adhering to their policy not to allow auctions selling biological or chemical weapons of mass destruction, pulled the listing. Undaunted, the entrepreneurial owner of the alleged hair set up a website to sell it for the low, low price of one MILLION dollars.
While I'm all for capitalism and I'm not hating on this salon owner for aspiring to be counted among what Destiny's Child calls "all the mamas with profit dollas", if this sells fora cool million a hundred thousand ten grand one C-note 5 bucks, I'll be astounded yet again by the sheer idiocy of the average American consumer. How exactly could you make any money off this shit except by selling it to a monumentally stupid buyer after convincing them it's a winning business venture? Unfortunately, there probably IS some trashy moron out there who just won Powerball or something that will plunk down an obscene sum of cash for this worthless crap which MAY be an infectious hazard. God bless America.
I was hoping that my favorite city paper, the NY Post, would have an awesome exclamatory front page headline about this bullshit "opportunity." Instead, it seems they've chosen to focus on the busted selection of wigs she's chosen to sport since getting the Smith College first-year womyn's studies major/G.I. Jane coif, although they neglect to mention that this look was shamelessly stolen from Deputy Johnson on "Reno 911!".
On a totally unrelated note, the Post and Daily News are BOTH all over how Pay-Rod and Derek Jeter broke up. The Post got it wrong because the headline SHOULD be "A-ROD COMES OUT".
I defy anyone (JerseyGirl) passionately arguing against the fact that these two were trading reach-arounds up until Jeter's brief showmance with Jessica Biel to say so now. Not only are they not friends anymore, but what Pay-Rod specifically said was, "You go from sleeping over at someone's house five nights a week, and then you don't sleep over anymore." He should have added, "And then your boyfriend--I mean, teammate--is on Perez Hilton playing football on some Puerto Rican beach with that hot-assed bitch who used to be on '7th Heaven'. I've learned that when someone says, 'I'll never leave you, Alex' they are A FILTHY LIAR! Wait...I miss you, Derek. I'll never find anything as special as what we once had. Call me!" This is otherwise known as BREAKING UP. Apparently, they hit a rough patch (AKA last post-season, when the only balls Gay-Rod was hitting with his bat were Jeter's) and had a bit of a lovers' spat. Now Jeter is sending Gay-Rod to voicemail and slutting around Hollywood to inspire jealousy. Man, I hope the Yankees suck this year on account of gay drama involving the shortstop and third baseman. Better yet, I hope one of them buys Britney's hair to give the other as a peace offering, and then they both die from the as-yet-undescribed super-virulent strain of the clap it carries. That would kick so much ass.
This is it, the opportunity of a lifetime. You can be the proud owner of Britney Spears’ hair, extensions, the Omega clipper used to cut it all off and even the can of Red Bull she was drinking at the time. You also get her blue Bic Lighter and this valuable domain and website to use for publicity purposes. This is the Ultimate Britney Spears Experience! It is a piece of history that can not be duplicated!It might be the "opportunity of a lifetime" for the salon owner to unload a permanently nit-contaminated set of clippers, but that's it. I would also argue that the "Ultimate Britney Spears experience" would be doing a shit-ton of ecstasy and having a lesbian orgy with a platoon of washed-up Vegas hookers in a pig trough filled with Cheetos, but I guess that's a little tougher to orchestrate and sell. In case that sales pitch didn't convince you that the cheap extensions Brit sheared off, along with a Red Bull can that actually touched her herpetic lips, a lighter, and the EXTREMELY valuable domain "buybritneyshair.com" are worth your hard-earned MILLION DOLLARS, take a gander at the goods themselves.
A portion of the proceeds will be donated to various charities. The winner will have the choice to remain anonymous or to use this for publicity purposes.
If you are SERIOUS about purchasing please do the following:
Please send an email to buybritneyshair@yahoo.com and include your name, company name (if applicable), email, phone number, and address. We will contact you A.S.A.P. Any submissions that do not include ALL of the required information will be discarded.
While I'm all for capitalism and I'm not hating on this salon owner for aspiring to be counted among what Destiny's Child calls "all the mamas with profit dollas", if this sells for
I was hoping that my favorite city paper, the NY Post, would have an awesome exclamatory front page headline about this bullshit "opportunity." Instead, it seems they've chosen to focus on the busted selection of wigs she's chosen to sport since getting the Smith College first-year womyn's studies major/G.I. Jane coif, although they neglect to mention that this look was shamelessly stolen from Deputy Johnson on "Reno 911!".
On a totally unrelated note, the Post and Daily News are BOTH all over how Pay-Rod and Derek Jeter broke up. The Post got it wrong because the headline SHOULD be "A-ROD COMES OUT".
Labels: Britney Spears, capitalism, celebrities, fuck the Yankees, gross, large exclamatory font, oh the horror, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, ridiculous absurdity, vulgar display of faggotry
Friday, February 16, 2007
Moderation is back in full motherfuckin' effect
It is always that when a time of peace has descended upon me here at RAZZY.org, some tool shows up and ruins it all. I used to not delete any comments, because I'm not going to be like Rose and Olive and tell motherfuckers they're being inappropriate on account of me not being able to handle their criticisms. However, occasionally, I am forced to delete. This has occurred only when someone either posts my home address and invites all the creeps of the internet over, or when someone writes a bunch of extremely racist bullshit and signs it with my name.
This morning, I opened my e-mail and was alerted that the latter had occurred, funnily enough, on the comment page of the Rose and Olive post. It seems the hatemongering Razzy impersonator is back at it after several months of silence, although that person is now employing the moniker "Razzy III" instead of just plain old "Razzy". Clever. Anyway, I didn't even finish reading the bullshit about how I've been off with the retired Nazis "incinerating Jews in Argentina" before I deleted it and turned comment moderation back on.
So hopefully Razzy III will find something better to do than craft these idiotic missives, so I don't have to sit around approving comments on the grounds that they don't contain references to "porch monkeys" and the like. Anyways, bear with me. I'll approve everything so long as it's not written by "Razzy III", even if you're calling me a big, fat, ugly, mentally challenged slut or whatever else, and hopefully Razzy III will crawl back under his/her rock and be otherwise occupied.
Oh, and Razzy III, I have your IP address. So be warned: if you persist in cluttering up my comment pages with your bullshit, I will eventually find out who you are. Then I'll be happy to post your personal information right alongside the text of some of your more choice comments. They're deleted, but I still have the comment e-mail alerts Blogger sent me. I figured I would save them in the hopes that I'd figure out who you are and out you for being a bigot and, I might add, a pussy for choosing to share that side of you with the world via anonymous blog comments. Man up, bitch, and take credit for either your own fucked-up worldview or for whatever it is about me that compels you to occupy your time in this way. I am shameless and I am ruthless, so feel free to continue trying my patience. I will destroy you.
This morning, I opened my e-mail and was alerted that the latter had occurred, funnily enough, on the comment page of the Rose and Olive post. It seems the hatemongering Razzy impersonator is back at it after several months of silence, although that person is now employing the moniker "Razzy III" instead of just plain old "Razzy". Clever. Anyway, I didn't even finish reading the bullshit about how I've been off with the retired Nazis "incinerating Jews in Argentina" before I deleted it and turned comment moderation back on.
So hopefully Razzy III will find something better to do than craft these idiotic missives, so I don't have to sit around approving comments on the grounds that they don't contain references to "porch monkeys" and the like. Anyways, bear with me. I'll approve everything so long as it's not written by "Razzy III", even if you're calling me a big, fat, ugly, mentally challenged slut or whatever else, and hopefully Razzy III will crawl back under his/her rock and be otherwise occupied.
Oh, and Razzy III, I have your IP address. So be warned: if you persist in cluttering up my comment pages with your bullshit, I will eventually find out who you are. Then I'll be happy to post your personal information right alongside the text of some of your more choice comments. They're deleted, but I still have the comment e-mail alerts Blogger sent me. I figured I would save them in the hopes that I'd figure out who you are and out you for being a bigot and, I might add, a pussy for choosing to share that side of you with the world via anonymous blog comments. Man up, bitch, and take credit for either your own fucked-up worldview or for whatever it is about me that compels you to occupy your time in this way. I am shameless and I am ruthless, so feel free to continue trying my patience. I will destroy you.
Labels: assholes, crazies, defiance, oh the horror, Razzy Haters, retard rage
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Sex offenders and the city
Tonight I was glad to see that there was a new episode of "To Catch a Predator" on, and it included some serious awesomeness like Chris Hansen telling one of the idiot pederasts whose internet kewlness landed him in the Dateline NBC web of righteous deceit "you wrote 'i want to taste your orgasm' TO A 14 YEAR OLD!". When another perverted creep started talking to the chunky decoy about doing her fat ass on the nearby pool table, Chris Hansen smugly narrated, "Fortunately, he never got to demonstrate his skill at billiards," then leaped into the room with unchecked gloating enthusiasm. Also, the voice-overs of the IM transcripts are fucking priceless. I don't know if there's an Emmy for approximating the sound of "lol" and distinguishing it from "rotflmao", but if there is, the folks on "TCaP" should get it hands down. It's totally fucking rad.
While "TCaP" will always entertain me, I think its golden age has passed. The predators are much more wary than they used to be. A lot of the would-be pervs chicken out before they go into the house and get simultaneously interrogated and morally browbeaten by the incomparable Mr. Chris Hansen. They know that their numerous IM transcripts reading "do u do anal lol" or "wil u suck my cock? kewlio" are going to get them in big trouble, so they leave without even getting out of their cars. Of course, the police then pick them up, but they've gotten wily and insist on their right to an attorney, ensuring that the interrogation back at the station house is boooorrrring. While I was impatiently admonishing the television to get some better predators for catching, I got to thinking.
All the predators on "TCaP" are preying upon children, who I hate. Granted, I'm not for kids getting raped or molested (I don't hate kids THAT much), but I don't believe that the only predators out there are just targeting kids. What about the predators who, say, lurk in the bushes in the hope of raping an impoverished grad student at St. Nicholas Park while she's walking her dogs? I'm not sure how Dateline could set up an entertaining show about catching them as there are no hilarious chat transcripts involved and it would be hard to lure them to a house with Kool-Aid set out on the kitchen island for their enjoyment while Chris Hansen lectures them for depravity, but I suspect there are just as many creeps trying to rape me as these dumb kids.
So I hit the internet to see if there's any kind of online sex offender registry, and what do you know? There is. New York has passed its own "Megan's Law", which was named for a girl in Jersey who was raped and murdered by the convicted sex offender who lived across the street. This law requires state law enforcement officials to release to the public the names, addresses, pictures, and details of the crimes, and in New York, they do this via the internet. I plugged in my zip code on the sex offender registry search page and was amazed at how many convicted predators have relocated to my hood after paying their debts to society up at Dannemora and Sing Sing. If Dateline ever does figure out a way to have a show dedicated to known perverts out and about in society, there's a whole bunch to choose from in historical Sugar Hill.
Meet Eddie Raymore:
He pretended to be a police officer so that he could overpower and brutally rape a 36-year-old woman. After doing 3 to 7 at the state's expense, he moved into the projects three blocks away from me. Awesome.
And this is Ronald Crosby:
According to his rap sheet, he did 15 years in state prison for attempting to rape a teenager in 1984 by attacking her with a "knife/cutting instrument (e.g. ax, ice pick, screwdriver, switchblade, Kung Fu stars, cane sword, etc.)". I guess that most of the sex crimes committed in New York City involving a "knife/cutting instrument" are committed by either Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or Jet Li. I suspect that Ronald here probably went for the screwdriver or switchblade route over the cane sword or battle axe. Now he resides about 7 or 8 blocks away from me.
Living right down the street from Ronald is Hamilton Dejesus:
I don't even need to tell you that this skeezy-ass motherfucker raped an 11-year-old girl. The sagging face, the Dumbo-esque ears, the dully malevolent expression, the fact that there's some serious general not-quite-rightness about this guy...obviously he diddles kids. And for some reason, he only did nine years for it.
A mere two blocks away from me is Wilbert Harrison.
He might look like he's all sensitive and tearful, but he's probably crying for his own sorry ass doing 25 years for raping a woman at knifepoint. He did his entire sentence for being an assole.
Then we have Anthony Hayes, a fellow I not-affectionately call "Handlebars".
Apparently he used his appearance as the long-lost black grandson of Yosemite Sam to orchestrate molesting a seven year old in 2002. After doing the three-year max upstate, he moved in with his girlfriend (he has a girlfriend?!) about five blocks away.
I don't know if he's related to Handlebars Hayes above, but the next guy on the list is George Hayes.
After racking up a slew of rape and forcible sodomy convictions starting in 1983, he did 15 years and moved into the 135th Street Y. I can't wait until he hollers at me as I jog by one of these days.
When his dreams of a career impersonating Forest Whitaker failed to pan out, Derrick James decided to resort to plan B.
By "Plan B", I mean raping a 12-year-old girl and blaming it on his drug addiction. Derrick should have stuck with the Forest Whitaker career, because right now Forest is the Oscar favorite for his portrayal of Idi Amin, and Derrick would probably be getting lots of work. I'd say that paying homage to an ugly man portraying a sadistic warlord dictator is far preferable to committing tween rape and moving one measly block away from yours truly.
If you want to see an example of someone with an "obvious child molester" vibe, take a gander at Virgilio Lay.
He diddled two little girls and did a pathetic 60 days for it. I guess his group sessions went well. Anyway, he continues his recovery just a ways up St. Nicholas Ave from me.
And speaking of kiddie touchers, meet Andre Mathews.
After he was convicted for forcible sodomy on a 6-year-old girl, he did 11 years in state prison and then decided to move to my neighborhood two blocks from my place, where he'll undoubtedly pass the time by NOT plucking his unkempt monobrow. Fortunately, I don't think I've crossed paths in person with Andre despite the close proximity of his residence, because I have yet to see anyone so blatantly reminiscent of Mr. Potato Head loitering around the block.
Unlike the previous pedophiles, Jirel McClinton likes them barely illegal.
He physically overpowered and forced a 17-year-old in Poughkeepsie to perform some type of unspecified sex act. He did 6 months, and then moved three blocks away from me.
My neighbor ten blocks away, Eric McNeil, should be glad that his picture is so grainy.
I suspect that if the above image of Mr. McNeil were refined, he'd be recognized for his true identity: the cymbal-playing harbinger of death wind-up organ grinder monkey from the cover of Stephen King's Skeleton Crew. It's too bad that short story didn't wind up like some of Stephen King's other short stories as a vignette in the movie Creepshow, because when you try to rape a 16-year-old girl by holding a knife to her throat, a creepshow in the form of the New York Megan's Law Sex Offender Registry website is exactly what ensues.
Don't let the lazy eye fool you...Anthony Palmer is NOT a harmless simpleton.
After four years upstate for sexually assaulting a 12-year-old girl, Anthony Palmer moved to a building three blocks away.
Continuing to ensure that mustaches of this nature look impossibly creepy, Ricardo Pereira sexually assaulted a 15-year-old boy in the Bronx.
Now he lives one street over.
When he's not busy guarding Jabba's palace on Tatooine, Michael Pimble likes walks in the park, sunsets, and ass-raping young boys.
He pursues his interests and revels in his porcine visage three blocks away.
Over at the Adam Clayton Powell Houses, Hector Reynoso is waddling after all the underage girls.
He sexually abused some teenager, and now is looking forward to spring when he can scout the local parks and try out his new line for luring prospective victims: "Ever hear of Fat Joe? Well, he's my older brother."
It seems that Justin Guarini from "American Idol" season one had John Legend's love child, and said progeny grew up to be a child rapist named Darryl Smalls.
Correspondent with his level 3 (aka most likely to reoffend) offender rating, Smalls seems happy and not the least bit repentant about raping a 9-year-old. According to the New York Department of Criminal Justice, the terms of his release involve a mandate to "ENTER A SEX AFFENDERS PROGRAM, ENTER A SEX AFFENDERS PROGRAM." Despite the obvious emphasis implied by the capitalization and the repeating of the phrase, I can just see Smalls getting out of going to therapy on the basis that there is no such thing as a program for sex "affenders." I hate it when creeps slip through the cracks, especially when it's due to state justice department officials not being able to properly spell.
Don't think that senior citizens aren't representing in the neighborhood pervert cadre. Michael Vincze has that demographic covered.
This distinguished older gentleman raped 2 teenaged boys in another state in the late '80s, and now is trying to live out his sick pedophilic version of "Diff'rent Strokes" starring himself as Mr. Drummond five blocks from my crib.
And last but certainly not least, we have Christopher Williams.
This accomplished rapist of 15-year-old boys lives right by the deli two blocks away. I probably see him on late nights when the slightly closer deli is closed and I venture out in search of more Sugarfree Red Bull.
One thing that struck me about all my convicted neighborhood felons is that, with the exception of the bushy browed Conrad Bain up there, they're all REALLY SHORT, as in 5'7" or less. Now I have good reason to defend my "I don't fuck dudes under five-ten" platform with vigor and determination on the basis that anyone shorter might not only have a small penis, but could also be a convicted sex offender. Henceforth, whenever I see some skeezy-looking short dude leering at me on my street, I am going to double-check whether or not he's one of the creeps on this list.
While "TCaP" will always entertain me, I think its golden age has passed. The predators are much more wary than they used to be. A lot of the would-be pervs chicken out before they go into the house and get simultaneously interrogated and morally browbeaten by the incomparable Mr. Chris Hansen. They know that their numerous IM transcripts reading "do u do anal lol" or "wil u suck my cock? kewlio" are going to get them in big trouble, so they leave without even getting out of their cars. Of course, the police then pick them up, but they've gotten wily and insist on their right to an attorney, ensuring that the interrogation back at the station house is boooorrrring. While I was impatiently admonishing the television to get some better predators for catching, I got to thinking.
All the predators on "TCaP" are preying upon children, who I hate. Granted, I'm not for kids getting raped or molested (I don't hate kids THAT much), but I don't believe that the only predators out there are just targeting kids. What about the predators who, say, lurk in the bushes in the hope of raping an impoverished grad student at St. Nicholas Park while she's walking her dogs? I'm not sure how Dateline could set up an entertaining show about catching them as there are no hilarious chat transcripts involved and it would be hard to lure them to a house with Kool-Aid set out on the kitchen island for their enjoyment while Chris Hansen lectures them for depravity, but I suspect there are just as many creeps trying to rape me as these dumb kids.
So I hit the internet to see if there's any kind of online sex offender registry, and what do you know? There is. New York has passed its own "Megan's Law", which was named for a girl in Jersey who was raped and murdered by the convicted sex offender who lived across the street. This law requires state law enforcement officials to release to the public the names, addresses, pictures, and details of the crimes, and in New York, they do this via the internet. I plugged in my zip code on the sex offender registry search page and was amazed at how many convicted predators have relocated to my hood after paying their debts to society up at Dannemora and Sing Sing. If Dateline ever does figure out a way to have a show dedicated to known perverts out and about in society, there's a whole bunch to choose from in historical Sugar Hill.
Meet Eddie Raymore:
He pretended to be a police officer so that he could overpower and brutally rape a 36-year-old woman. After doing 3 to 7 at the state's expense, he moved into the projects three blocks away from me. Awesome.
And this is Ronald Crosby:
According to his rap sheet, he did 15 years in state prison for attempting to rape a teenager in 1984 by attacking her with a "knife/cutting instrument (e.g. ax, ice pick, screwdriver, switchblade, Kung Fu stars, cane sword, etc.)". I guess that most of the sex crimes committed in New York City involving a "knife/cutting instrument" are committed by either Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or Jet Li. I suspect that Ronald here probably went for the screwdriver or switchblade route over the cane sword or battle axe. Now he resides about 7 or 8 blocks away from me.
Living right down the street from Ronald is Hamilton Dejesus:
I don't even need to tell you that this skeezy-ass motherfucker raped an 11-year-old girl. The sagging face, the Dumbo-esque ears, the dully malevolent expression, the fact that there's some serious general not-quite-rightness about this guy...obviously he diddles kids. And for some reason, he only did nine years for it.
A mere two blocks away from me is Wilbert Harrison.
He might look like he's all sensitive and tearful, but he's probably crying for his own sorry ass doing 25 years for raping a woman at knifepoint. He did his entire sentence for being an assole.
Then we have Anthony Hayes, a fellow I not-affectionately call "Handlebars".
Apparently he used his appearance as the long-lost black grandson of Yosemite Sam to orchestrate molesting a seven year old in 2002. After doing the three-year max upstate, he moved in with his girlfriend (he has a girlfriend?!) about five blocks away.
I don't know if he's related to Handlebars Hayes above, but the next guy on the list is George Hayes.
After racking up a slew of rape and forcible sodomy convictions starting in 1983, he did 15 years and moved into the 135th Street Y. I can't wait until he hollers at me as I jog by one of these days.
When his dreams of a career impersonating Forest Whitaker failed to pan out, Derrick James decided to resort to plan B.
By "Plan B", I mean raping a 12-year-old girl and blaming it on his drug addiction. Derrick should have stuck with the Forest Whitaker career, because right now Forest is the Oscar favorite for his portrayal of Idi Amin, and Derrick would probably be getting lots of work. I'd say that paying homage to an ugly man portraying a sadistic warlord dictator is far preferable to committing tween rape and moving one measly block away from yours truly.
If you want to see an example of someone with an "obvious child molester" vibe, take a gander at Virgilio Lay.
He diddled two little girls and did a pathetic 60 days for it. I guess his group sessions went well. Anyway, he continues his recovery just a ways up St. Nicholas Ave from me.
And speaking of kiddie touchers, meet Andre Mathews.
After he was convicted for forcible sodomy on a 6-year-old girl, he did 11 years in state prison and then decided to move to my neighborhood two blocks from my place, where he'll undoubtedly pass the time by NOT plucking his unkempt monobrow. Fortunately, I don't think I've crossed paths in person with Andre despite the close proximity of his residence, because I have yet to see anyone so blatantly reminiscent of Mr. Potato Head loitering around the block.
Unlike the previous pedophiles, Jirel McClinton likes them barely illegal.
He physically overpowered and forced a 17-year-old in Poughkeepsie to perform some type of unspecified sex act. He did 6 months, and then moved three blocks away from me.
My neighbor ten blocks away, Eric McNeil, should be glad that his picture is so grainy.
I suspect that if the above image of Mr. McNeil were refined, he'd be recognized for his true identity: the cymbal-playing harbinger of death wind-up organ grinder monkey from the cover of Stephen King's Skeleton Crew. It's too bad that short story didn't wind up like some of Stephen King's other short stories as a vignette in the movie Creepshow, because when you try to rape a 16-year-old girl by holding a knife to her throat, a creepshow in the form of the New York Megan's Law Sex Offender Registry website is exactly what ensues.
Don't let the lazy eye fool you...Anthony Palmer is NOT a harmless simpleton.
After four years upstate for sexually assaulting a 12-year-old girl, Anthony Palmer moved to a building three blocks away.
Continuing to ensure that mustaches of this nature look impossibly creepy, Ricardo Pereira sexually assaulted a 15-year-old boy in the Bronx.
Now he lives one street over.
When he's not busy guarding Jabba's palace on Tatooine, Michael Pimble likes walks in the park, sunsets, and ass-raping young boys.
He pursues his interests and revels in his porcine visage three blocks away.
Over at the Adam Clayton Powell Houses, Hector Reynoso is waddling after all the underage girls.
He sexually abused some teenager, and now is looking forward to spring when he can scout the local parks and try out his new line for luring prospective victims: "Ever hear of Fat Joe? Well, he's my older brother."
It seems that Justin Guarini from "American Idol" season one had John Legend's love child, and said progeny grew up to be a child rapist named Darryl Smalls.
Correspondent with his level 3 (aka most likely to reoffend) offender rating, Smalls seems happy and not the least bit repentant about raping a 9-year-old. According to the New York Department of Criminal Justice, the terms of his release involve a mandate to "ENTER A SEX AFFENDERS PROGRAM, ENTER A SEX AFFENDERS PROGRAM." Despite the obvious emphasis implied by the capitalization and the repeating of the phrase, I can just see Smalls getting out of going to therapy on the basis that there is no such thing as a program for sex "affenders." I hate it when creeps slip through the cracks, especially when it's due to state justice department officials not being able to properly spell.
Don't think that senior citizens aren't representing in the neighborhood pervert cadre. Michael Vincze has that demographic covered.
This distinguished older gentleman raped 2 teenaged boys in another state in the late '80s, and now is trying to live out his sick pedophilic version of "Diff'rent Strokes" starring himself as Mr. Drummond five blocks from my crib.
And last but certainly not least, we have Christopher Williams.
This accomplished rapist of 15-year-old boys lives right by the deli two blocks away. I probably see him on late nights when the slightly closer deli is closed and I venture out in search of more Sugarfree Red Bull.
One thing that struck me about all my convicted neighborhood felons is that, with the exception of the bushy browed Conrad Bain up there, they're all REALLY SHORT, as in 5'7" or less. Now I have good reason to defend my "I don't fuck dudes under five-ten" platform with vigor and determination on the basis that anyone shorter might not only have a small penis, but could also be a convicted sex offender. Henceforth, whenever I see some skeezy-looking short dude leering at me on my street, I am going to double-check whether or not he's one of the creeps on this list.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, kewlness, NYC, oh the horror, perversion, TV
Sperm bowling?!
So I heard back from the latest stripper to try and solicit work from our LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party Yahoo! group, and I can't decide whether to laugh or be deeply disturbed. One thing is clear, though, and that's that Motherbucker, FalloniusMonk, Wmania, and myself were all wrong in assuming that this particular dancer was a woman...because female strippers don't usually perform party tricks like "sperm bowling."
From: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
love your title razzy,, director of strippers too
funny
i'm handsome , just not a bodybuilder type but im not
tubby
either id be the joke entertainment maybe serve
drinks nude
then some party tricks im good at sperm bowling but need
a lil rest between frames hope you ladies enjoy your party just
figured
id throw myself out there and besides id be no charge
i appreciate you stickin up for the nuthin special contingent
im
sure you put up a valiant fight for me
keep me in mind your reply was a piss take
care
I'm not sure I know what exactly "sperm bowling" is, but it sounds like some sort of latently homosexual fraternity initiation rite, variations of which might involve a plate of crackers. While I'm not inclined to look a gift stripper in the mouth, I have to say that I don't believe there is such a thing as a free stripper, despite his assertions that he'd be "no charge." I also don't trust anyone who can't identify denigrating sarcasm when he sees it, or who has such an obvious fondness for using the Tab key in his correspondence.
He's right about one thing, though. I did put up a "valiant fight"...to embarrass him on the internet. Mission accomplished.
From: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
love your title razzy,, director of strippers too
funny
i'm handsome , just not a bodybuilder type but im not
tubby
either id be the joke entertainment maybe serve
drinks nude
then some party tricks im good at sperm bowling but need
a lil rest between frames hope you ladies enjoy your party just
figured
id throw myself out there and besides id be no charge
i appreciate you stickin up for the nuthin special contingent
im
sure you put up a valiant fight for me
keep me in mind your reply was a piss take
care
I'm not sure I know what exactly "sperm bowling" is, but it sounds like some sort of latently homosexual fraternity initiation rite, variations of which might involve a plate of crackers. While I'm not inclined to look a gift stripper in the mouth, I have to say that I don't believe there is such a thing as a free stripper, despite his assertions that he'd be "no charge." I also don't trust anyone who can't identify denigrating sarcasm when he sees it, or who has such an obvious fondness for using the Tab key in his correspondence.
He's right about one thing, though. I did put up a "valiant fight"...to embarrass him on the internet. Mission accomplished.
Labels: crazies, FalloniusMonk, gross, LL Cool Jew, Motherbucker, oh the horror, perversion, real-life rejects, ridiculous absurdity, weiners, Wmania
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Something the world could do without
There is this new show on FX called "Dirt" that's on during ""Nip/Tuck"'s old Tuesdays at 10 timeslot that I didn't get a chance to see until last night. I was shocked by what I saw, and not in a good way. FX is really going downhill, and they have been for several years now. First, they replaced their four reruns of "90210" a day with episodes of "M*A*S*H", thus forever eliciting my scorn and contempt. Then, they seemed to decide as a network that it would be a good idea to rerun Rob Schneider movies six nights a week, and make it such an event that it's hosted by failed MTV VJ Dave Holmes. If watching The Hot Chick or The Animal weren't torture enough already, Holmes and his bimbo sidekick then show all the special features and extras from the DVDs and make inane commentary on it. I and oh, say, EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD does not care how the special effects in Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo were executed. Now they have this shitshow "Dirt", and if it weren't for "Nip/Tuck", I would never watch the FX network again.
I've heard about this "Dirt" show because Perez Hilton won't shut up about it, on account that he gets to make a guest appearance in some upcoming episode. Also, allegedly Jennifer Aniston, the pathetically jilted ex-Mrs. Pitt and the fugliest celebrity in Hollywood, is guest-starring in the season finale as a lesbian and she's going to make out with the show's star, fellow "Friends" alumna Courteney Cox. Who fucking cares about that? "Friends" is one of my all time most-despised shows, and any type of televised cast reunion is tantamount to an act of war. The fact that "Friends" managed to pollute TVs everywhere for 10 years (and more, thanks to syndication) is a disgrace and a shameful statement about humanity. The quickest way to get me to NOT watch some other show is to try to simultaneously relive the old "Friends" magic and be edgy by getting Monica and Rachel to say "shit" a few times and then share what I anticipate will be an awkward and completely nonsexual kiss. If they hired a baseball mitt to make out with an empty beer bottle it would be more sensually enticing.
Anyway, this stupid waste of premiere network cable TV-MA LSV time is about Courteney Cox, who is a stressed out, hardassed tabloid magazine editor named Lucy Spiller (and that's supposed to be her real name...how do you grow up to be anything BUT a tabloid magazine editor with a name like Lucy Spiller? That's like naming your kid Mack Strong and expecting him to be anything but a NFL fullback). She's a raging bitch who fires people for petty shit like getting married or calling her a bitch via BlackBerry text messages or generally being inferior at their jobs (ie: "the point is not that he was having sex with a hooker, but that he wanted her to bang him with a strap-on! THAT'S YOUR LEAD!") There's all these sideplots about her head paparazzo being a schizophrenic off his meds, and some blonde chick who lost her acting job because she's a coked-up loser, and some R&B singer whose Irv Gotti-esque record label president cut off his head and stored it in a wine cellar, and I was not intrigued. In fact, I grew bored and contemplated changing the channel. However, I snapped immediately to attention when I saw Courteney Cox whip out her vibrator and start unconvincingly faking an orgasm.
I was unsuccessful in finding the scene from last night's episode on YouTube, but I did find this other one, which suggests that this was not an isolated incident. Apparently, Courteney Cox rubs one off for all the viewers to see in every episode. As if I needed any more incentive NOT to watch this show:
Sweet Jesus Christ on the cross. Who on earth wants to watch this stringy old succubus masturbate to her own magazine? The only people I would think enjoy this are the blind, because at least they don't have to suffer the visual image of Courteney Cox pleasuring herself. They can imagine that all that overdone oohing and aahing is issuing from the mouth of some actually attractive woman, and not the heavily Botoxed wife of David Arquette. If this is the show's trademark, akin to Drs. Troy and McNamara saying their signature "tell me what you don't like about yourself" line at the beginning of every episode, then count me out of the "Dirt" fan club. One thing I can say that I assuredly do NOT want from TV is a weekly date with Courteney Cox and her bedside table drawer.
I would, however, be remiss if I didn't point out that, in spite of all of "Dirt"'s shiteous qualities, there are two awesome things about the show. First, Rick Fox plays a basketball player who likes to take it up the butt and is constantly being blackmailed for other skeletons in his closet by Courteney Cox because his reputation would be permanently destroyed if his anal fetish ever gets discovered. The show is worth watching just to see Rick Fox attempt poorly to feign concern and alarm while saying things like, "I have a family to support! I'm in the NBA! If it ever gets out that I like to receive anal, my career is over!" The other awesome thing is that, as revolting as Courteney Cox doing herself is, I got to see something truly amazing. Grant Show, AKA the super-virile motorcycle repairman and Shooters proprietor Jake Hanson from "Melrose Place", plays a macho Republican action movie star and closeted gay dude, and gives a dude a very strongly implied poolside blowjob. Thank God YouTube had footage of this, because it's like finding a diamond ring in a mountain of dogshit. Behold, the only thing that MIGHT lead to me tolerating another future episode of "Dirt":
From now on, "Dirt" producers, I want more hilarious gay romance Grant Show the Head Doctor and Rick Fox the Anal Queen scenes. Leave the Courteney Cox vibrator footage on the cutting room floor!
I've heard about this "Dirt" show because Perez Hilton won't shut up about it, on account that he gets to make a guest appearance in some upcoming episode. Also, allegedly Jennifer Aniston, the pathetically jilted ex-Mrs. Pitt and the fugliest celebrity in Hollywood, is guest-starring in the season finale as a lesbian and she's going to make out with the show's star, fellow "Friends" alumna Courteney Cox. Who fucking cares about that? "Friends" is one of my all time most-despised shows, and any type of televised cast reunion is tantamount to an act of war. The fact that "Friends" managed to pollute TVs everywhere for 10 years (and more, thanks to syndication) is a disgrace and a shameful statement about humanity. The quickest way to get me to NOT watch some other show is to try to simultaneously relive the old "Friends" magic and be edgy by getting Monica and Rachel to say "shit" a few times and then share what I anticipate will be an awkward and completely nonsexual kiss. If they hired a baseball mitt to make out with an empty beer bottle it would be more sensually enticing.
Anyway, this stupid waste of premiere network cable TV-MA LSV time is about Courteney Cox, who is a stressed out, hardassed tabloid magazine editor named Lucy Spiller (and that's supposed to be her real name...how do you grow up to be anything BUT a tabloid magazine editor with a name like Lucy Spiller? That's like naming your kid Mack Strong and expecting him to be anything but a NFL fullback). She's a raging bitch who fires people for petty shit like getting married or calling her a bitch via BlackBerry text messages or generally being inferior at their jobs (ie: "the point is not that he was having sex with a hooker, but that he wanted her to bang him with a strap-on! THAT'S YOUR LEAD!") There's all these sideplots about her head paparazzo being a schizophrenic off his meds, and some blonde chick who lost her acting job because she's a coked-up loser, and some R&B singer whose Irv Gotti-esque record label president cut off his head and stored it in a wine cellar, and I was not intrigued. In fact, I grew bored and contemplated changing the channel. However, I snapped immediately to attention when I saw Courteney Cox whip out her vibrator and start unconvincingly faking an orgasm.
I was unsuccessful in finding the scene from last night's episode on YouTube, but I did find this other one, which suggests that this was not an isolated incident. Apparently, Courteney Cox rubs one off for all the viewers to see in every episode. As if I needed any more incentive NOT to watch this show:
Sweet Jesus Christ on the cross. Who on earth wants to watch this stringy old succubus masturbate to her own magazine? The only people I would think enjoy this are the blind, because at least they don't have to suffer the visual image of Courteney Cox pleasuring herself. They can imagine that all that overdone oohing and aahing is issuing from the mouth of some actually attractive woman, and not the heavily Botoxed wife of David Arquette. If this is the show's trademark, akin to Drs. Troy and McNamara saying their signature "tell me what you don't like about yourself" line at the beginning of every episode, then count me out of the "Dirt" fan club. One thing I can say that I assuredly do NOT want from TV is a weekly date with Courteney Cox and her bedside table drawer.
I would, however, be remiss if I didn't point out that, in spite of all of "Dirt"'s shiteous qualities, there are two awesome things about the show. First, Rick Fox plays a basketball player who likes to take it up the butt and is constantly being blackmailed for other skeletons in his closet by Courteney Cox because his reputation would be permanently destroyed if his anal fetish ever gets discovered. The show is worth watching just to see Rick Fox attempt poorly to feign concern and alarm while saying things like, "I have a family to support! I'm in the NBA! If it ever gets out that I like to receive anal, my career is over!" The other awesome thing is that, as revolting as Courteney Cox doing herself is, I got to see something truly amazing. Grant Show, AKA the super-virile motorcycle repairman and Shooters proprietor Jake Hanson from "Melrose Place", plays a macho Republican action movie star and closeted gay dude, and gives a dude a very strongly implied poolside blowjob. Thank God YouTube had footage of this, because it's like finding a diamond ring in a mountain of dogshit. Behold, the only thing that MIGHT lead to me tolerating another future episode of "Dirt":
From now on, "Dirt" producers, I want more hilarious gay romance Grant Show the Head Doctor and Rick Fox the Anal Queen scenes. Leave the Courteney Cox vibrator footage on the cutting room floor!
Labels: celebrities, gross, masturbation, Nip/Tuck, oh the horror, ranting, TV, vulgar display of faggotry
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
My Aunt Jesus's dream guy
Today Rack sent me a link to this post by Dan Savage on The Stranger's blog, featuring this simultaneously hysterically funny and utterly horrifying music video by a group called Donnie Davies and the Evening Service. Although the song boasts the seemingly innocuous title "The Bible Says", it's more readily identifiable by its soaring chorus of "God Hates a Fag."
I particularly enjoy watching this fundamentalist homo joining in a prayer circle with all his fellow self-loathing butt buddies, clutching one another's hands and praying desperately for Christ to mitigate their sinful urges to turn their Bible study into a giant Sodomite orgy. After asking Jesus to "fill [him] with His love" and declaring JC the "only man for me", the pink shirt-clad youth minister/troubadour reminds all the "filthy sinners" that "God hates a fag." According to his website and his MySpace page, Davies is a "reformed homosexual", and this is all part of a plan he calls C.H.O.P. (Changing Homosexuals [into] Ordinary People). Unbelievably, he bases his mission to convert the gays on his love for his hero...OSCAR WILDE, one of history's most famous fags. He actually suggests that gays should likewise be prosecuted and jailed for buggery, because it would do them good as it had done Wilde, who he claims converted to Christianity while imprisoned and publicly renounced his homosexuality. Whatever biography of Oscar Wilde he read, I think he ought to give it another look, because he's either making shit up or confusing Wilde with his boyfriend Bosie. Oscar Wilde's tombstone has a giant weiner on it, for God's sake!
One of the funny things about these fundamentalist wack-jobs is that, despite their tendency to quote obscure passages from Leviticus and Paul's letters verbatim, they totally ignore other major salient points in the Good Book. For example, that whole because God so loved us that he sent us His only son to die for our sins thing. And since we're all a bunch of filthy sinners, doesn't that mean that God loves everyone, fags or not? Also, why would Jesus be hanging out with the whores and tax collectors and just decide arbitrarily to be okay with them, but reserve hatred for the queers alone?
While this kind of logic makes no sense to me, it's the kind of Jesus-hates-everyone-but-me attitude that my Aunt Jesus has wholeheartedly embraced. She's so sure she's right (and righteous) about her shit that I wouldn't be surprised if she's stuck one of those "In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned" stickers on the bumper of her car (which, ironically, is the ultimate dykemobile...a Subaru). She also hasn't spoken to me or, apparently, forgiven me for calling her out on my website a year ago. Not that I mind being off the you're-going-to-hell, you're-a-disgrace-to-the-family e-mail list, but I can't resist pointing out that she's not exactly following JC's mandate about showing mercy and forgiveness to one's enemies.
I attribute both Aunt Jesus's indomitable sense of self-righteousness and delight in informing the few remaining people tolerant of her bullshit that they are condemned to an eternity of fiery torment to the fact that she is one miserable-ass bitch. Not only is she VERY single, she probably hasn't gotten laid in going on thirty years since her deadbeat husband dumped her, and given her eagerness to lecture everyone about perversion, I'm pretty sure she's not a regular masturbator. Therefore, I see this as a match made in heaven. After a whirlwind courtship, I picture their wedding going down (no pun intended) like so:
NOTHING says "romantic" like a good old-fashioned God Hates Fags rally! But as content as this prospective loving couple appears above, I'd caution my Aunt Jesus to keep an eye on him no matter what he says about his "reformed" ways. You never know what kind of untoward shit goes on at those men-only Promise Keepers rallies. I suspect it might be the evangelical freak show equivalent of "poker night" in secular down-low circles.
I particularly enjoy watching this fundamentalist homo joining in a prayer circle with all his fellow self-loathing butt buddies, clutching one another's hands and praying desperately for Christ to mitigate their sinful urges to turn their Bible study into a giant Sodomite orgy. After asking Jesus to "fill [him] with His love" and declaring JC the "only man for me", the pink shirt-clad youth minister/troubadour reminds all the "filthy sinners" that "God hates a fag." According to his website and his MySpace page, Davies is a "reformed homosexual", and this is all part of a plan he calls C.H.O.P. (Changing Homosexuals [into] Ordinary People). Unbelievably, he bases his mission to convert the gays on his love for his hero...OSCAR WILDE, one of history's most famous fags. He actually suggests that gays should likewise be prosecuted and jailed for buggery, because it would do them good as it had done Wilde, who he claims converted to Christianity while imprisoned and publicly renounced his homosexuality. Whatever biography of Oscar Wilde he read, I think he ought to give it another look, because he's either making shit up or confusing Wilde with his boyfriend Bosie. Oscar Wilde's tombstone has a giant weiner on it, for God's sake!
One of the funny things about these fundamentalist wack-jobs is that, despite their tendency to quote obscure passages from Leviticus and Paul's letters verbatim, they totally ignore other major salient points in the Good Book. For example, that whole because God so loved us that he sent us His only son to die for our sins thing. And since we're all a bunch of filthy sinners, doesn't that mean that God loves everyone, fags or not? Also, why would Jesus be hanging out with the whores and tax collectors and just decide arbitrarily to be okay with them, but reserve hatred for the queers alone?
While this kind of logic makes no sense to me, it's the kind of Jesus-hates-everyone-but-me attitude that my Aunt Jesus has wholeheartedly embraced. She's so sure she's right (and righteous) about her shit that I wouldn't be surprised if she's stuck one of those "In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned" stickers on the bumper of her car (which, ironically, is the ultimate dykemobile...a Subaru). She also hasn't spoken to me or, apparently, forgiven me for calling her out on my website a year ago. Not that I mind being off the you're-going-to-hell, you're-a-disgrace-to-the-family e-mail list, but I can't resist pointing out that she's not exactly following JC's mandate about showing mercy and forgiveness to one's enemies.
I attribute both Aunt Jesus's indomitable sense of self-righteousness and delight in informing the few remaining people tolerant of her bullshit that they are condemned to an eternity of fiery torment to the fact that she is one miserable-ass bitch. Not only is she VERY single, she probably hasn't gotten laid in going on thirty years since her deadbeat husband dumped her, and given her eagerness to lecture everyone about perversion, I'm pretty sure she's not a regular masturbator. Therefore, I see this as a match made in heaven. After a whirlwind courtship, I picture their wedding going down (no pun intended) like so:
NOTHING says "romantic" like a good old-fashioned God Hates Fags rally! But as content as this prospective loving couple appears above, I'd caution my Aunt Jesus to keep an eye on him no matter what he says about his "reformed" ways. You never know what kind of untoward shit goes on at those men-only Promise Keepers rallies. I suspect it might be the evangelical freak show equivalent of "poker night" in secular down-low circles.
Labels: assholes, Aunt Jesus, crazies, Dear God, hilarious shit, oh the horror, ridiculous absurdity, vulgar display of faggotry
Disgorge and shine
I woke up this morning to discover that Chingy!, bewitching creature that he is, vomited all over my bed at some point during the night. Since I've been so sleep deprived as of late, I was in a comatose state comparable to that princess bitch who pricked her finger on a spinning needle and fell into an enchanted slumber, and thus did not stir when he was apparently puking. Unlike Sleeping Beauty, however, I did not wake to the tender kiss of Prince Charming, but to a puddle of regurgitated Beneful Healthy Weight in front of a peacefully snoring pug. Man, Chingy! is adorable.
Every time some person sees me walking Chingy! down the street and squeals, "That dog is SO CUTE!", I respond with a delightful story about the many charms of Chingy!. This includes stories about him stamping poop starfishes on people's pants, avidly consuming used tampons, getting yeast infections in his ears, ejaculating on my apartment floor, and lapping up the diarrhea of the indigent. Now I can add "vomits on my sheets" to the annals of Chingy! anecdotes.
With a morning that starts out like this, with not only dog vomit but also housework (both are right up there with raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens in the pantheon of favorite things), how can my day NOT be totally awesome?
UPDATE: While I was waiting for this to publish, Chingy! woke up, ate some of his own puke, apparently didn't like it (imagine that), and sneezed haughtily at it. Then he jumped off the bed and came up to me, giving me a look that plainly stated, "Would you change the fucking sheets already? There's vomit onyour my bed." I'm getting to it right now, asshole! CHONGAY CHONG yourself, you rePUGnant little beast!
Every time some person sees me walking Chingy! down the street and squeals, "That dog is SO CUTE!", I respond with a delightful story about the many charms of Chingy!. This includes stories about him stamping poop starfishes on people's pants, avidly consuming used tampons, getting yeast infections in his ears, ejaculating on my apartment floor, and lapping up the diarrhea of the indigent. Now I can add "vomits on my sheets" to the annals of Chingy! anecdotes.
With a morning that starts out like this, with not only dog vomit but also housework (both are right up there with raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens in the pantheon of favorite things), how can my day NOT be totally awesome?
UPDATE: While I was waiting for this to publish, Chingy! woke up, ate some of his own puke, apparently didn't like it (imagine that), and sneezed haughtily at it. Then he jumped off the bed and came up to me, giving me a look that plainly stated, "Would you change the fucking sheets already? There's vomit on
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, gross, oh the horror
Monday, January 22, 2007
Don't YOU be shy, George
Wmania, Motherbucker, and myself are all busily planning LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party. While I can't divulge the details because it's a surprise for the bride-to-be, it's going to be OFF THE FUCKING CHAIN in terms of total awesomeness. To keep all of LL Cool Jew's pals/drunken carousers abreast of the plans, Motherbucker assiduously started up a Yahoo group. Supposedly this group is private, but that didn't get in the way of some random internet pervert getting wind of Wmania's e-mail address. She was kind enough to forward on his correspondence:
From: Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com)
To: Fallonius Monk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com), Motherbucker (motherbucker@somecampaignofficeoranother.org), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
oh. my. god.
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: George <geo4sparks@yahoo.com>
Date: Jan 22, 2007 6:57 AM
Subject: I came across your LL Cool Jews bachelorette party planning group
Being a Boston area male who has stripped for groups of women before, I
applaud your efforts and those organizing the event to give the lady a
night filled with entertainment and voyeuristic pleasure.
Wishing you all a fun filled night from a stranger who chanced by your
group and has his own share of entertaining in hen nights. The only
advice I can give is be your fun loving selves, don't be shy to touch
and enjoy the night.
George
You hear that, LL Cool Jew? I'm sure that Gorgeous George would be the perfect purveyor of "voyeuristic pleasure" for your "hen night." For starters, unlike many strippers he appears to eschew the "no touching" rule that will get you kicked out of most reputable nudie bars. Furthermore, I know we could all benefit from his sage wisdom about how to best be our "fun loving selves." Rather than the night of presently classified debauchery and wildness we have planned for the soon-to-be Mrs. BigBagel, I'm sure LL Cool Jew would much rather have George wiggling his (probably slender) package in her face, sweating Mystic Tan all over her, and allowing her to touch what I imagine is his copious upper arm and back hair. To ensure that LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party is accordingly a magical and special night, I took it upon myself to send this e-mail:
To: George (geo4sparks@yahoo.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Hi George,
I'm one of the planners for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, and I wanted to thank you for your advice. It was most fortuitous that you stumbled upon our group, because we're currently in the market for a male stripper who might be able to perform for the bride-to-be before or after we go out on the town. Would you be interested in participating? It sounds as though you have some experience in this arena, and we'd like a man who knows how to work a bachelorette party.
If you are interested, please send a picture or a link to your website (if you have one), so that we might consider it.
Cheers,
Razzy
Poor schmuck. If and when he sends me his picture, it will be a day that, for him, will live in infamy.
From: Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com)
To: Fallonius Monk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com), Motherbucker (motherbucker@somecampaignofficeoranother.org), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
oh. my. god.
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: George <geo4sparks@yahoo.com>
Date: Jan 22, 2007 6:57 AM
Subject: I came across your LL Cool Jews bachelorette party planning group
Being a Boston area male who has stripped for groups of women before, I
applaud your efforts and those organizing the event to give the lady a
night filled with entertainment and voyeuristic pleasure.
Wishing you all a fun filled night from a stranger who chanced by your
group and has his own share of entertaining in hen nights. The only
advice I can give is be your fun loving selves, don't be shy to touch
and enjoy the night.
George
You hear that, LL Cool Jew? I'm sure that Gorgeous George would be the perfect purveyor of "voyeuristic pleasure" for your "hen night." For starters, unlike many strippers he appears to eschew the "no touching" rule that will get you kicked out of most reputable nudie bars. Furthermore, I know we could all benefit from his sage wisdom about how to best be our "fun loving selves." Rather than the night of presently classified debauchery and wildness we have planned for the soon-to-be Mrs. BigBagel, I'm sure LL Cool Jew would much rather have George wiggling his (probably slender) package in her face, sweating Mystic Tan all over her, and allowing her to touch what I imagine is his copious upper arm and back hair. To ensure that LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party is accordingly a magical and special night, I took it upon myself to send this e-mail:
To: George (geo4sparks@yahoo.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Hi George,
I'm one of the planners for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, and I wanted to thank you for your advice. It was most fortuitous that you stumbled upon our group, because we're currently in the market for a male stripper who might be able to perform for the bride-to-be before or after we go out on the town. Would you be interested in participating? It sounds as though you have some experience in this arena, and we'd like a man who knows how to work a bachelorette party.
If you are interested, please send a picture or a link to your website (if you have one), so that we might consider it.
Cheers,
Razzy
Poor schmuck. If and when he sends me his picture, it will be a day that, for him, will live in infamy.
Labels: correspondence, gross, LL Cool Jew, nudity, oh the horror, overcompensation, real-life rejects, small penises
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
What an inspiration
I love Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins almost as much as pepperoni pizza. In fact, I love Young Jeezy so much that when I was making a flyer for the Grad Student Organization party we threw a while back I was about THIS close to putting the angry snowman logo from his high fashion "Trap or Die" shirts on it.
It seems that Young Jeezy is not satisfied being the undisputed king of the cocaine market in his neck of the woods, and wants to give back to his community. Specifically, he would like to inspire the youth of Metro Atlanta to reach for their academic dreams, by acting as some type of role model. Therefore, he is sponsoring an ESSAY CONTEST:
Here are some instances of the excellent and inspiring example Young Jeezy is setting for the high school seniors of Hotlanta in his own words:
On mixing business with pleasure: "Jeezy like to drink, Jeezy like to smoke, Jeezy like to mix Arm and Hammer with his coke. Jeezy at the trap, Jeezy like to grind, Jeezy bout his paper, cause Jeezy like to shine"
On maintaining relationships with women: "I need a hoodie hoodie hood rat, she know where the cheese at, she bring it home to daddy, 'cause she know I needs it."
On plagiarism: "That's why these rap niggas take notes, recite my ad libs, borrow my quotes. Make me wanna IHOP a nigga, serve 'em with toast."
On success: "Trap all day, play all night, this is the life of a go getta."
On academic achievement: "No high school diploma, but I know math."
To demonstrate his mathematical prowess by solving probability equations: "Chances of gettin' rich like one in a million--nahh--more like two in a billion."
On chemistry: "Might cook it in the stove, might cook it in the microwave, either way it's gonna sell, I still weigh it on the scale."
Oh his masculinity: "I have a huge penis...jeah!"
On the birds and the bees: "Born in the field, I was raised in Atlanta. Pop bust a nut here so I was made in Atlanta."
On staying true to yourself in the face of adversity: "I'm-a stay thuggin' 'til the Feds come get me."
Don't get me wrong, because I'm absolutely not hating on Young Jeezy, and I completely enjoy his music and wish for his continued success (on a totally unrelated aside, I fully support what has obviously been a Herculean effort in the gym on his part; that motherfucker now actually has visible muscles as opposed to forearms that resemble fatty lamb shanks). I also acknowledge that I'm getting my Ph.D at an Ivy League school, and I'm a complete narcissist with super supportive parents who went to private school all my life with the exception of the gifted program I attended once a week in grade school, so I can't say I ever looked to the music industry for anything but entertainment. Not everyone is from such a privileged background as myself, however, and though I applaud Young Jeezy's efforts to encourage kids who like his music to focus their writing on their inspirations, I have to say that he's not exactly who I would want a high school kid to turn to when thinking about colleges or careers or even graduating high school at all. While Young Jeezy's lyrics are undoubtedly a superb primer for kids aspiring to be a former-cocaine-dealer-turned-overnight-millionaire-rapper, I don't think that the high school guidance counselors of the greater Atlanta metropolitan area would be terrifically psyched that he's marketing himself as some type of mentor.
Furthermore, I would like to know who is judging this essay contest, and I pray that it's not Young Jeezy himself. My boy Mr. 17.5 possesses a command of the English language that is at best idiomatic and at worst completely fucked-up and unintelligible. For example, one of his trademarks is his tendency to "ad lib." Usually most people think "ad libbing" refers to making a clever and unexpected, unscripted quip. Jeezy thinks this means saying "Ayyyyy," "Jeah!", "Dayummm," or "That's riiiiiight" when there is a pause between his lyrics. Also, as much as I appreciate the urban colloquialisms employed by Young Jeezy, try getting a job when you walk into the interview and ask your prospective employer "What it do? What the business is?" Sometimes in lab and we're listening to either Let's Get It!:Thug Motivation 101 or The Inspiration (a frequent occurrence), I'll intersperse talking about killing mice or running gels or whatever with a query to my platonic life partner like, "Yo, J-Sexy, can I get a ad lib?", and she'll just roll her eyes and say something like, "Oh, that silly fat man, he doesn't make any sense." Then, for good measure, she'll usually add, "And neither do you, Razzy."
Furthermore, if his song titles or MySpace blog entries are any indication, Jeezy can't spell the word "love" correctly (ie: "I luv it"), nor does he understand the concept of an acronym. His song "J.E.E.Z.Y." in no way explains what J.E.E.Z.Y. stands for, and I have the feeling Young Jeezy titled it as such because he liked the way that looked better than simply "Jeezy" or "JEEZY". And don't get me started on his claims about being "the realist." At first I thought this meant he had an astute, prudent, pragmatic worldview. After listening to him say, "They lies, they phonies, they fakes...these niggaz never sold their weight, I'm the motherfuckin' realist," I realized that he actually means "realest", an invented word meaning "the most real" in terms of drug dealing street credibility. I can only hope that the winner of this contest was able to string at least one sentence of coherent English together.
It's great that the winner gets a $2500 college scholarship and a pizza party for their class, but...an essay contest?! Keep worrying about the red dogs in your trap, Jeezy, and leave the scholarly philanthropy to people who use their public platform to discuss something besides their ability to cook, grind, and sell crack, and whose academic credentials include things beside being able to count 200 grand in crumpled-up ones.
It seems that Young Jeezy is not satisfied being the undisputed king of the cocaine market in his neck of the woods, and wants to give back to his community. Specifically, he would like to inspire the youth of Metro Atlanta to reach for their academic dreams, by acting as some type of role model. Therefore, he is sponsoring an ESSAY CONTEST:
Here are some instances of the excellent and inspiring example Young Jeezy is setting for the high school seniors of Hotlanta in his own words:
On mixing business with pleasure: "Jeezy like to drink, Jeezy like to smoke, Jeezy like to mix Arm and Hammer with his coke. Jeezy at the trap, Jeezy like to grind, Jeezy bout his paper, cause Jeezy like to shine"
On maintaining relationships with women: "I need a hoodie hoodie hood rat, she know where the cheese at, she bring it home to daddy, 'cause she know I needs it."
On plagiarism: "That's why these rap niggas take notes, recite my ad libs, borrow my quotes. Make me wanna IHOP a nigga, serve 'em with toast."
On success: "Trap all day, play all night, this is the life of a go getta."
On academic achievement: "No high school diploma, but I know math."
To demonstrate his mathematical prowess by solving probability equations: "Chances of gettin' rich like one in a million--nahh--more like two in a billion."
On chemistry: "Might cook it in the stove, might cook it in the microwave, either way it's gonna sell, I still weigh it on the scale."
Oh his masculinity: "I have a huge penis...jeah!"
On the birds and the bees: "Born in the field, I was raised in Atlanta. Pop bust a nut here so I was made in Atlanta."
On staying true to yourself in the face of adversity: "I'm-a stay thuggin' 'til the Feds come get me."
Don't get me wrong, because I'm absolutely not hating on Young Jeezy, and I completely enjoy his music and wish for his continued success (on a totally unrelated aside, I fully support what has obviously been a Herculean effort in the gym on his part; that motherfucker now actually has visible muscles as opposed to forearms that resemble fatty lamb shanks). I also acknowledge that I'm getting my Ph.D at an Ivy League school, and I'm a complete narcissist with super supportive parents who went to private school all my life with the exception of the gifted program I attended once a week in grade school, so I can't say I ever looked to the music industry for anything but entertainment. Not everyone is from such a privileged background as myself, however, and though I applaud Young Jeezy's efforts to encourage kids who like his music to focus their writing on their inspirations, I have to say that he's not exactly who I would want a high school kid to turn to when thinking about colleges or careers or even graduating high school at all. While Young Jeezy's lyrics are undoubtedly a superb primer for kids aspiring to be a former-cocaine-dealer-turned-overnight-millionaire-rapper, I don't think that the high school guidance counselors of the greater Atlanta metropolitan area would be terrifically psyched that he's marketing himself as some type of mentor.
Furthermore, I would like to know who is judging this essay contest, and I pray that it's not Young Jeezy himself. My boy Mr. 17.5 possesses a command of the English language that is at best idiomatic and at worst completely fucked-up and unintelligible. For example, one of his trademarks is his tendency to "ad lib." Usually most people think "ad libbing" refers to making a clever and unexpected, unscripted quip. Jeezy thinks this means saying "Ayyyyy," "Jeah!", "Dayummm," or "That's riiiiiight" when there is a pause between his lyrics. Also, as much as I appreciate the urban colloquialisms employed by Young Jeezy, try getting a job when you walk into the interview and ask your prospective employer "What it do? What the business is?" Sometimes in lab and we're listening to either Let's Get It!:Thug Motivation 101 or The Inspiration (a frequent occurrence), I'll intersperse talking about killing mice or running gels or whatever with a query to my platonic life partner like, "Yo, J-Sexy, can I get a ad lib?", and she'll just roll her eyes and say something like, "Oh, that silly fat man, he doesn't make any sense." Then, for good measure, she'll usually add, "And neither do you, Razzy."
Furthermore, if his song titles or MySpace blog entries are any indication, Jeezy can't spell the word "love" correctly (ie: "I luv it"), nor does he understand the concept of an acronym. His song "J.E.E.Z.Y." in no way explains what J.E.E.Z.Y. stands for, and I have the feeling Young Jeezy titled it as such because he liked the way that looked better than simply "Jeezy" or "JEEZY". And don't get me started on his claims about being "the realist." At first I thought this meant he had an astute, prudent, pragmatic worldview. After listening to him say, "They lies, they phonies, they fakes...these niggaz never sold their weight, I'm the motherfuckin' realist," I realized that he actually means "realest", an invented word meaning "the most real" in terms of drug dealing street credibility. I can only hope that the winner of this contest was able to string at least one sentence of coherent English together.
It's great that the winner gets a $2500 college scholarship and a pizza party for their class, but...an essay contest?! Keep worrying about the red dogs in your trap, Jeezy, and leave the scholarly philanthropy to people who use their public platform to discuss something besides their ability to cook, grind, and sell crack, and whose academic credentials include things beside being able to count 200 grand in crumpled-up ones.
Labels: celebrities, grammar gestapo, hilarious shit, oh the horror, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Young Jeezy
Saturday, January 06, 2007
The Ruining
It's no secret to anyone who reads this blog that I am a stickler for spelling and punctuation. This obsession has been forged in me from childhood, because of my competitive spirit. I have actually lost sleep after catching random typos on RAZZY.org, wondering how many more typos and misplaced commas are lingering undiscovered. People actually read this, so my copy has to be of the utmost quality. God help me if my website has poorer spelling and/or grammar than any given asshole with a MySpace page. I am driven to have the finest fucking blog on planet Earth, because I want to be better than everyone else.
I'm viciously competitive when I'm competing for something that piques my interest. However, I'm not unnecessarily competitive. I don't care if I lose things I have no skill at. I was watching Caddyshack tonight, and when I wasn't thinking "holy SHIT, Rodney Dangerfield is hilarious", it reminded me of golf, and how I suck at it. I don't mind losing at golf, because I am abysmally bad at it. If I were to play a great game of golf (great game being defined as less than thirty over par after nine holes), it would be a fucking miracle on par with Croat ragamuffins getting the secrets of the coming apocalypse from the Virgin or whatever at Medjugorje. Getting my ass kicked at golf is no problem, because I can drink while playing, make vulgar jokes about the ball-washing devices, and can expect nothing from myself except trying my best to suck as little as possible, so losing gracefully is no big deal. That is NOT the case, however, when it comes to battles of wit or intellect, and specifically those involving spelling.
I rarely resort to physical violence in arguments. I learned at a young age that the resultant trouble from slugging somebody is disproportionate to any gain from the act of punching itself. Consequently, I haven't had cause to give anyone an authentic, put-up-your-dukes knuckle sandwich for going on twenty years. However, if there is any competition that will make me an insane, go-for-the-throat opponent, it is the spelling bee.
I dominated the All Saints School (aka ASS) spelling bee starting in the second grade, where we were challenged by bullshit words like "apple" and "tree" and the more challenging "chief" and "Mississippi." That was before this chick Joy came along. Joy enrolled in my class and gave me a heaping helping of motherfucking humility. That bitch mopped the floor with my ass in the finals of our third grade spelling bee. I seem to recall a heated duel over the word "gymnasium", in which I was subsequently vanquished. I was pissed. In second grade, people called me a "human dictionary" (and at that age, this was a pejorative term, but I embraced it nonetheless). I not only took the spelling bee with ease, but I totally ruled "Around the World" when we worked with the alphabet, spelling, phonics, social studies, or anatomy. I got to skip regular school once a week to attend the goddamn gifted program, and I wasted no time telling everyone so. At the time, I could back my shit-talking up with things like pointless spelling bee victories, and was sitting pretty as the ASS resident genius. I guess I got too comfortable, because Joy showed up and snatched my credible intellectual elitism out from under my nose.
Joy became my friend because we were both nerds and could spend our time playing with our My Little Ponies and discussing The Chronicles of Narnia, but I secretly nursed a tremendous grudge. Making matters worse was her tendency to brag about spelling triumphs in regular conversation. Her behavior was the academic equivalent of one of my brother's favorite pesky-little-brother techniques: the Ruining. When I was about five, I occupied much of my time either writing and illustrating stories or building large, cult headquarter-esque structures from Lincoln Logs. I would build these elaborate, gigantic meeting halls, complete with necessary infrastructure (police station, jail, fire department, hospital, armory, etc.), that were great examples of the architectural style made famous in legendary places like Waco, TX and Jonestown, Guyana. Lil' Tevie, in true toddler little brother form, would sneak up on me and, when my back was turned, gleefully start jumping on my masterpieces. My much toiled-over Branch Davidian compound would be reduced to a pile of Lincoln Logs, and I would invariably be furious. According to my mother, in these situations I used to point at my brother and scream "He's RUINING me!" Well, that is exactly how I felt about that bitch Joy and her superior spelling ability.
When the fourth grade spelling bee rolled around, I was fucking prepared. There was no way that bitch was going to beat me in the fourth grade. I read feverishly and even copied challenging words out of the dictionary for my mom to grill me with. I showed up on spelling bee day ready to lay waste to Joy and anyone else who dared challenge my spelling prowess. Slowly the class thinned out as the words grew progressively harder, until only Joy and me were left spelling. And the bitch beat me...AGAIN. I was outraged. I had been practicing, for God's sake. I should beat people in intellectual battles without even trying, and CERTAINLY when I actually practice. Joy was congratulated, and our class was dismissed to the parking lot for recess.
While the other kids were busy playing hit the jerk with the tennis balls Manny Rivera and Joe Whelan always carried with them for this purpose, I calmly strolled up to Joy. I think she thought I was going to say something gracious, and actually be a good sport. Fuck that. I was incensed.
"You won," I said venomously.
"No hard feelings?" she said.
I didn't respond. I seethed at her for a moment. Then I closed up my fist, and punched her square in the nose.
I remember being disappointed at both the lack of a satisfying crunching sound and the absence of the "thwack" sound that movies led me to believe results from slugging someone in the face. I also remember being completely alarmed at how much my hand hurt. Blood started pouring out of Joy's nose onto her Peter Pan collar, ASS sweatshirt, and lloyd plaid pleated uniform skirt, so my attempt at vengeance wasn't entirely unsuccessful.
Unfortunately, my victory in the gladiatorial arena was short-lived. I was promptly dragged into the principal's office, and my parents received phone calls at work. I got in BIG TIME trouble with the folks, and was restricted from phone calls, computer games, slumber parties, and Babysitter's Club books for a solid month. I couldn't believe it. I thought that if I couldn't win at spelling, a pugilist victory would mitigate the sting of defeat, and the adults would understand. When they didn't, and I got in trouble, it was like Joy beating me all over again. That bitch was ruining me, in spite of my best effort to ruin her.
In fifth grade, I got pneumonia and was out of school for several weeks recuperating, thus missing the spelling bee that year due to absentia. It was just as well, because I didn't think I could stomach another loss to Joy. The year after that, she moved to a different school, and I handily won the sixth grade competition. I went to the Pierce County Private School district competition, and took first prize in that by mowing down inferior spellers from St. Charles and Visitation like I was Cortes and they were the Incas. I got my picture in the Tacoma News Tribune and went on to compete in the Pierce County finals.
I walked in to the room at Tacoma Community College where the county finals were being held prepared for epic battle. I was wearing a very stylish banana clip in my freshly permed hair, a pair of Guess jeans with zippers at the ankle, and a neon windbreaker. I was ready to destroy all the other district winners, until I heard something that fucked up my game BIG TIME.
"Hey, Razzy! I thought you'd be here!" a familiar voice said. I turned and saw Joy sitting there, looking smug. Apparently she'd won the Orting district competition, and once again, we were going to throw down. "Good luck!" she said sweetly. I managed to return the sentiment in an irritable and insincere tone, and resolved to outspell this hooker once and for all.
When the competition started, I did well for the first three rounds until I came across the word that was my undoing. I still grit my teeth in anger when I come across this word now. I have to write it all the time in my lab notebook with respect to sacrificing mice using carbon dioxide gas, and every time I do I seethe just a little bit inside. I remember standing on that stage, looking at the three solemn judges moderating the spelling bee, and hearing the word that was my downfall.
"Your word is...asphyxiate," said the head judge.
I had no fucking clue how to spell this word. I stalled, asking for the definition, asking for it to be used in a sentence, etc. I was hoping to get a flash of divine inspiration, but I did not.
I finally had to suck it up and give it a try. "A-S-S-F-I-X-I-A-T-E. Assfixiate."
Although I'm still convinced that "assfixiate" should be a word, I was appalled to see the judges raise the red flag indicating that I was wrong. I went to my seat cursing myself for failing to ask the word origin, believing that if I'd heard this word had Greek roots I would have spelled it with one "s" and a "phy". This bothers me so much to this day that I'll go to my grave wishing a pox upon the house of whoever included the word "asphyxiate" in that county-wide spelling bee competition.
Then it was Joy's turn. Her word was ventriloquist. Fucking ventriloquist! I got asphyxiate and that bitch lands an easy word like ventriloquist! I wanted to shout something dramatic, like, "This contest is a travesty! It is FIXED!", but since my parents were sitting there and encouraging me to be a good sport, I simply sat and fumed, stomping my LA Gear Brats periodically in anger. Ultimately, Joy lasted long enough to win fourth place.
I never made it back to the county competition. Although I continued to dominate the ASS spelling bee in seventh and eighth grade, I took second in the districts both those years. This kid Jason Dye beat me both times, and promptly got his ass handed to him at county. I could only console myself by dominating the ASS geography bee and the Puyallup Valley Piano Olympics (where, I'm proud to say, I took home blue ribbons for note-reading and--my favorite--fingering). By a strange coincidence, my high school best friend G-Boner knew Joy from Orting, and in high school we met up and smoked pot with her a couple times, but I still could never really get over the fact that I never defeated her in spelling competition. The fact that she dropped out of high school, and may have won the spelling bee but clearly lost to me in the game of life, was of little consequence. I can't let the spelling bee go. I remember sitting around in some field in Orting getting stoned and saying something along the lines of, "Remember how I rearranged your face after you beat me in the spelling bee? Man, that was awesome." She said she only vaguely recalled that, as her most vivid All Saints spelling memory was of repeatedly defeating me. Fucking bitch.
That is why I am so fucking picky about spelling and grammar now, because my dreams of spelling glory were summarily crushed by Joy, the Ruiner. I think that, one day, if Joy starts looking for useless bullshit on the internet and happens to stumble across my site, she'll be like, "God damn, Razzy is so superior in her command of the written word that I was one LUCKY-ASS BITCH to have ever beaten her in the spelling bee. I'm not worthy!" And that's why I'm so vigilant about spelling. Go asphyxiate yourself, Joy.
I'm viciously competitive when I'm competing for something that piques my interest. However, I'm not unnecessarily competitive. I don't care if I lose things I have no skill at. I was watching Caddyshack tonight, and when I wasn't thinking "holy SHIT, Rodney Dangerfield is hilarious", it reminded me of golf, and how I suck at it. I don't mind losing at golf, because I am abysmally bad at it. If I were to play a great game of golf (great game being defined as less than thirty over par after nine holes), it would be a fucking miracle on par with Croat ragamuffins getting the secrets of the coming apocalypse from the Virgin or whatever at Medjugorje. Getting my ass kicked at golf is no problem, because I can drink while playing, make vulgar jokes about the ball-washing devices, and can expect nothing from myself except trying my best to suck as little as possible, so losing gracefully is no big deal. That is NOT the case, however, when it comes to battles of wit or intellect, and specifically those involving spelling.
I rarely resort to physical violence in arguments. I learned at a young age that the resultant trouble from slugging somebody is disproportionate to any gain from the act of punching itself. Consequently, I haven't had cause to give anyone an authentic, put-up-your-dukes knuckle sandwich for going on twenty years. However, if there is any competition that will make me an insane, go-for-the-throat opponent, it is the spelling bee.
I dominated the All Saints School (aka ASS) spelling bee starting in the second grade, where we were challenged by bullshit words like "apple" and "tree" and the more challenging "chief" and "Mississippi." That was before this chick Joy came along. Joy enrolled in my class and gave me a heaping helping of motherfucking humility. That bitch mopped the floor with my ass in the finals of our third grade spelling bee. I seem to recall a heated duel over the word "gymnasium", in which I was subsequently vanquished. I was pissed. In second grade, people called me a "human dictionary" (and at that age, this was a pejorative term, but I embraced it nonetheless). I not only took the spelling bee with ease, but I totally ruled "Around the World" when we worked with the alphabet, spelling, phonics, social studies, or anatomy. I got to skip regular school once a week to attend the goddamn gifted program, and I wasted no time telling everyone so. At the time, I could back my shit-talking up with things like pointless spelling bee victories, and was sitting pretty as the ASS resident genius. I guess I got too comfortable, because Joy showed up and snatched my credible intellectual elitism out from under my nose.
Joy became my friend because we were both nerds and could spend our time playing with our My Little Ponies and discussing The Chronicles of Narnia, but I secretly nursed a tremendous grudge. Making matters worse was her tendency to brag about spelling triumphs in regular conversation. Her behavior was the academic equivalent of one of my brother's favorite pesky-little-brother techniques: the Ruining. When I was about five, I occupied much of my time either writing and illustrating stories or building large, cult headquarter-esque structures from Lincoln Logs. I would build these elaborate, gigantic meeting halls, complete with necessary infrastructure (police station, jail, fire department, hospital, armory, etc.), that were great examples of the architectural style made famous in legendary places like Waco, TX and Jonestown, Guyana. Lil' Tevie, in true toddler little brother form, would sneak up on me and, when my back was turned, gleefully start jumping on my masterpieces. My much toiled-over Branch Davidian compound would be reduced to a pile of Lincoln Logs, and I would invariably be furious. According to my mother, in these situations I used to point at my brother and scream "He's RUINING me!" Well, that is exactly how I felt about that bitch Joy and her superior spelling ability.
When the fourth grade spelling bee rolled around, I was fucking prepared. There was no way that bitch was going to beat me in the fourth grade. I read feverishly and even copied challenging words out of the dictionary for my mom to grill me with. I showed up on spelling bee day ready to lay waste to Joy and anyone else who dared challenge my spelling prowess. Slowly the class thinned out as the words grew progressively harder, until only Joy and me were left spelling. And the bitch beat me...AGAIN. I was outraged. I had been practicing, for God's sake. I should beat people in intellectual battles without even trying, and CERTAINLY when I actually practice. Joy was congratulated, and our class was dismissed to the parking lot for recess.
While the other kids were busy playing hit the jerk with the tennis balls Manny Rivera and Joe Whelan always carried with them for this purpose, I calmly strolled up to Joy. I think she thought I was going to say something gracious, and actually be a good sport. Fuck that. I was incensed.
"You won," I said venomously.
"No hard feelings?" she said.
I didn't respond. I seethed at her for a moment. Then I closed up my fist, and punched her square in the nose.
I remember being disappointed at both the lack of a satisfying crunching sound and the absence of the "thwack" sound that movies led me to believe results from slugging someone in the face. I also remember being completely alarmed at how much my hand hurt. Blood started pouring out of Joy's nose onto her Peter Pan collar, ASS sweatshirt, and lloyd plaid pleated uniform skirt, so my attempt at vengeance wasn't entirely unsuccessful.
Unfortunately, my victory in the gladiatorial arena was short-lived. I was promptly dragged into the principal's office, and my parents received phone calls at work. I got in BIG TIME trouble with the folks, and was restricted from phone calls, computer games, slumber parties, and Babysitter's Club books for a solid month. I couldn't believe it. I thought that if I couldn't win at spelling, a pugilist victory would mitigate the sting of defeat, and the adults would understand. When they didn't, and I got in trouble, it was like Joy beating me all over again. That bitch was ruining me, in spite of my best effort to ruin her.
In fifth grade, I got pneumonia and was out of school for several weeks recuperating, thus missing the spelling bee that year due to absentia. It was just as well, because I didn't think I could stomach another loss to Joy. The year after that, she moved to a different school, and I handily won the sixth grade competition. I went to the Pierce County Private School district competition, and took first prize in that by mowing down inferior spellers from St. Charles and Visitation like I was Cortes and they were the Incas. I got my picture in the Tacoma News Tribune and went on to compete in the Pierce County finals.
I walked in to the room at Tacoma Community College where the county finals were being held prepared for epic battle. I was wearing a very stylish banana clip in my freshly permed hair, a pair of Guess jeans with zippers at the ankle, and a neon windbreaker. I was ready to destroy all the other district winners, until I heard something that fucked up my game BIG TIME.
"Hey, Razzy! I thought you'd be here!" a familiar voice said. I turned and saw Joy sitting there, looking smug. Apparently she'd won the Orting district competition, and once again, we were going to throw down. "Good luck!" she said sweetly. I managed to return the sentiment in an irritable and insincere tone, and resolved to outspell this hooker once and for all.
When the competition started, I did well for the first three rounds until I came across the word that was my undoing. I still grit my teeth in anger when I come across this word now. I have to write it all the time in my lab notebook with respect to sacrificing mice using carbon dioxide gas, and every time I do I seethe just a little bit inside. I remember standing on that stage, looking at the three solemn judges moderating the spelling bee, and hearing the word that was my downfall.
"Your word is...asphyxiate," said the head judge.
I had no fucking clue how to spell this word. I stalled, asking for the definition, asking for it to be used in a sentence, etc. I was hoping to get a flash of divine inspiration, but I did not.
I finally had to suck it up and give it a try. "A-S-S-F-I-X-I-A-T-E. Assfixiate."
Although I'm still convinced that "assfixiate" should be a word, I was appalled to see the judges raise the red flag indicating that I was wrong. I went to my seat cursing myself for failing to ask the word origin, believing that if I'd heard this word had Greek roots I would have spelled it with one "s" and a "phy". This bothers me so much to this day that I'll go to my grave wishing a pox upon the house of whoever included the word "asphyxiate" in that county-wide spelling bee competition.
Then it was Joy's turn. Her word was ventriloquist. Fucking ventriloquist! I got asphyxiate and that bitch lands an easy word like ventriloquist! I wanted to shout something dramatic, like, "This contest is a travesty! It is FIXED!", but since my parents were sitting there and encouraging me to be a good sport, I simply sat and fumed, stomping my LA Gear Brats periodically in anger. Ultimately, Joy lasted long enough to win fourth place.
I never made it back to the county competition. Although I continued to dominate the ASS spelling bee in seventh and eighth grade, I took second in the districts both those years. This kid Jason Dye beat me both times, and promptly got his ass handed to him at county. I could only console myself by dominating the ASS geography bee and the Puyallup Valley Piano Olympics (where, I'm proud to say, I took home blue ribbons for note-reading and--my favorite--fingering). By a strange coincidence, my high school best friend G-Boner knew Joy from Orting, and in high school we met up and smoked pot with her a couple times, but I still could never really get over the fact that I never defeated her in spelling competition. The fact that she dropped out of high school, and may have won the spelling bee but clearly lost to me in the game of life, was of little consequence. I can't let the spelling bee go. I remember sitting around in some field in Orting getting stoned and saying something along the lines of, "Remember how I rearranged your face after you beat me in the spelling bee? Man, that was awesome." She said she only vaguely recalled that, as her most vivid All Saints spelling memory was of repeatedly defeating me. Fucking bitch.
That is why I am so fucking picky about spelling and grammar now, because my dreams of spelling glory were summarily crushed by Joy, the Ruiner. I think that, one day, if Joy starts looking for useless bullshit on the internet and happens to stumble across my site, she'll be like, "God damn, Razzy is so superior in her command of the written word that I was one LUCKY-ASS BITCH to have ever beaten her in the spelling bee. I'm not worthy!" And that's why I'm so vigilant about spelling. Go asphyxiate yourself, Joy.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, grammar gestapo, oh the horror, overcompensation, ranting, scathing indictments, vengeance is sweet
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Some bullshit is what it is
I just arrived home with a heavy fucking heart. I'm not going to go into details, because I'd hate to shatter my carefully cultivated image of being a stone-hearted, ball-busting bitch, but I had a very emotionally draining night with someone who I love deeply, but with whom it just won't work. I don't think he and I have ever had such an honest conversation, and it resulted in us both being in tears and lamenting both our bad decisions and the unfairness of life in general. In the course of our conversation, I even admitted cowardice, which is a rare occasion indeed. Finally, after singing our sorrows about how we wound up at this miserable juncture, acknowledging many, many failures, and speculating about how things might have been under different circumstances, I actually said, "Not to sound trite and quote Hemingway, but isn't it pretty to think so?" It's not exactly trite to quote Hemingway (because who the fuck besides me busts out lines from The Sun Also Rises in major relationship discussions?), but nonetheless I was embarrassed I couldn't come up with something more original.
In any event, after crying, kissing, confessing our mutual love for one another, crying some more, kissing some more, making some feeble jokes about Seattle people and the stupid "I heart KCTS (public TV)" bumper stickers on their busted Peugeots, crying and kissing yet some more, and finally making the difficult adult decision to go our separate ways for the evening without having sex to mitigate our respective senses of gloominess, I got in the car and tried to forcibly lighten my mood with my favorite kind of "I rule the world, and everything is okay" music: rap. Unfortunately, I was in such a depressed state that not even my boy Kells singing about pulling up to the club in the Phantom with the wheels spinnin' and the ladies sayin' "that's that," nor could me shouting "ballin!" along with Jim Jones and half of the ballerholics/ballers extravaganza from Atlanta, New Orleans, and Houston cheer my despondent ass up. However, I should have known that if I couldn't lift my spirits, at least I could distract myself with the next best thing: unchecked rage.
KUBE 93, Seattle's only hip-hop station, decided to play the song "Some Cut" by Trillville. This song is over two years old, but as is befitting this not-down-at-all city, Seattle has apparently just discovered it. I immediately thought this song was hilarious when I first heard it several years ago and it even enjoyed a brief stint as my cell phone ringtone. Every time I play it in lab, J-Sexy rolls her eyes and says, "Ugh, is this 'What it is, ho?' This song is revolting." The song is pretty disgusting in terms of the sentiments portrayed, and even a big slut like myself would take offense at the seduction techniques which comprise its lyrics employed by the incredibly ugly trio of men in Trillville.
In case you haven't heard this song, the chorus goes as follows:
What it is, ho? What's up?
Can a nigga get in them guts?
Cause you walk like you ain't been cut
I'll show that ass how to really catch a nut
Well, give me yo' number and I'll call
I'll follow that ass in the mall
Take you home, let you choke on my balls
While I beat and tear down your walls
As hilarious as this is in a song, I'd slap a motherfucker who said something like this to me, and I'm not the kind of girl who runs around slapping dudes for saying dirty shit. Well, I'd at least slap a dude if he looked like any of the guys in Trillville and was audacious enough to approach me like that. Anyway, my tolerance for nasty pick-up lines aside, I was even more offended by the radio edit of this song. It takes this from being an over-the-top, hilariously offensive song to being straight-up crappy:
What it is, yo? What's up?
Can a playa just keep in touch?
Crunk you up like you ain't been crunk
Show us all how to really give it up
Well, give me yo' number, and I'll call
I'll follow that thang in the mall
Take you home so we can do it all
While I (:::silence:::) your walls
What the fuck is that? "So we can do it all" doesn't hold a damn candle to "let you choke on my balls," and "Crunk you up like you ain't been crunk" is certainly a far cry from "'cause you walk like you ain't been cut". For God's sake, the name of the damn song is "Some Cut"! It gets worse, too.
At one point, there's a line that says "you a certified head doctor, number one staller who takes dick in the ass and won't holler" which is replaced in the radio version with "you a certified love doctor, number one staller who knows how to treat a true baller." Why did someone decide to even put this song on the radio in the first place when literally every lyric has to be changed to some lame radio-friendly euphemism?! Granted, I suppose that the proper way to treat a "true baller" is indeed to refrain from responding audibly when being anally penetrated, but anyone with the slightest appreciation for lyrical brilliance can tell you that "takes dick in the ass and won't holler" has a hell of a lot more panache and artistry.
I may be feeling sad, and nursing my tender little tragic wounds, but I'm not too down and out to sit idly by when a good thing is irreparably fucked with. Hey, KUBE 93, show "Some Cut" some goddamn respect and don't change "catch a nut something serious" to "I love you and I'm serious." That's just wrong!
In any event, after crying, kissing, confessing our mutual love for one another, crying some more, kissing some more, making some feeble jokes about Seattle people and the stupid "I heart KCTS (public TV)" bumper stickers on their busted Peugeots, crying and kissing yet some more, and finally making the difficult adult decision to go our separate ways for the evening without having sex to mitigate our respective senses of gloominess, I got in the car and tried to forcibly lighten my mood with my favorite kind of "I rule the world, and everything is okay" music: rap. Unfortunately, I was in such a depressed state that not even my boy Kells singing about pulling up to the club in the Phantom with the wheels spinnin' and the ladies sayin' "that's that," nor could me shouting "ballin!" along with Jim Jones and half of the ballerholics/ballers extravaganza from Atlanta, New Orleans, and Houston cheer my despondent ass up. However, I should have known that if I couldn't lift my spirits, at least I could distract myself with the next best thing: unchecked rage.
KUBE 93, Seattle's only hip-hop station, decided to play the song "Some Cut" by Trillville. This song is over two years old, but as is befitting this not-down-at-all city, Seattle has apparently just discovered it. I immediately thought this song was hilarious when I first heard it several years ago and it even enjoyed a brief stint as my cell phone ringtone. Every time I play it in lab, J-Sexy rolls her eyes and says, "Ugh, is this 'What it is, ho?' This song is revolting." The song is pretty disgusting in terms of the sentiments portrayed, and even a big slut like myself would take offense at the seduction techniques which comprise its lyrics employed by the incredibly ugly trio of men in Trillville.
In case you haven't heard this song, the chorus goes as follows:
What it is, ho? What's up?
Can a nigga get in them guts?
Cause you walk like you ain't been cut
I'll show that ass how to really catch a nut
Well, give me yo' number and I'll call
I'll follow that ass in the mall
Take you home, let you choke on my balls
While I beat and tear down your walls
As hilarious as this is in a song, I'd slap a motherfucker who said something like this to me, and I'm not the kind of girl who runs around slapping dudes for saying dirty shit. Well, I'd at least slap a dude if he looked like any of the guys in Trillville and was audacious enough to approach me like that. Anyway, my tolerance for nasty pick-up lines aside, I was even more offended by the radio edit of this song. It takes this from being an over-the-top, hilariously offensive song to being straight-up crappy:
What it is, yo? What's up?
Can a playa just keep in touch?
Crunk you up like you ain't been crunk
Show us all how to really give it up
Well, give me yo' number, and I'll call
I'll follow that thang in the mall
Take you home so we can do it all
While I (:::silence:::) your walls
What the fuck is that? "So we can do it all" doesn't hold a damn candle to "let you choke on my balls," and "Crunk you up like you ain't been crunk" is certainly a far cry from "'cause you walk like you ain't been cut". For God's sake, the name of the damn song is "Some Cut"! It gets worse, too.
At one point, there's a line that says "you a certified head doctor, number one staller who takes dick in the ass and won't holler" which is replaced in the radio version with "you a certified love doctor, number one staller who knows how to treat a true baller." Why did someone decide to even put this song on the radio in the first place when literally every lyric has to be changed to some lame radio-friendly euphemism?! Granted, I suppose that the proper way to treat a "true baller" is indeed to refrain from responding audibly when being anally penetrated, but anyone with the slightest appreciation for lyrical brilliance can tell you that "takes dick in the ass and won't holler" has a hell of a lot more panache and artistry.
I may be feeling sad, and nursing my tender little tragic wounds, but I'm not too down and out to sit idly by when a good thing is irreparably fucked with. Hey, KUBE 93, show "Some Cut" some goddamn respect and don't change "catch a nut something serious" to "I love you and I'm serious." That's just wrong!
Labels: oh the horror, rap, retard rage, scathing indictments
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Fuck the sphinx
Last Saturday I woke up with a terrible, brutal, hangover. I was nauseated and retching, and I had such a splitting headache that it felt as though my skull would split sagittally and Athena would pop out, clad in battle armor with gray eyes flashing. Nonetheless, I was determined to make a dim sum date with KatieScarlett and Bienvenido-a-Miami, so around noon I steeled myself for the arduous process of exiting my bed, making myself look slightly less like the bastard child of Bret Michaels and Aileen Wuornos, walking the dogs, fighting off the urge to dry heave all over the A train, and battling counterfeit purse-seeking tourists on Canal Street.
It took me a few minutes to even begin the process of moving the blankets off me, much less actually change from a supine posture to an upright one. The night before I was in serious revelry mode: I rocked a cocksucker red dress (it's a very Christmassy color), drank half a gallon of Smirnoff vodka with a very light splash of tonic, and tore up various grad student holiday parties. I was in BAD shape. And while I tried to cope with being awake and being this severely hung over, I looked down and noticed something that made me frown.
My fucking pubes were shaved crookedly. The day before, I had trimmed the hedges, so to speak, and I obviously hadn't used a level to shape my racing stripe. The shit looked like the trajectory of a bad Golden Tee shot. How could I have done this? It's not like it's THAT hard to shave in a straight fucking line. I had done said shaving during my morning shower, so it's not like I was drunk. I was completely sober, and still managed to do a hack job on what is a normal part of my routine. Maybe it was the hangover, but I was really bothered by this.
When I finally made it to the shower, I resolved to correct it. However, the sheer magnitude of punishment that my massive vodka consumption laid upon me dictated that I was physically unable to wield a sharp object around my nether regions with great precision. I didn't want to have a terrible accident with my Mach 3, and since I've already cheated death once while trying to shave my crotch, I didn't want to push it. However, I knew that if I didn't correct the crooked pubes, it would bother me all day. Lacking other options, I foolishly elected to do something very extreme. I shaved everything off.
Some might ask, "Why do you bother shaving? If you just go get waxed, you only have to do it every four weeks, and you don't have to worry about shaping it." I got waxed once, and it was horrible. LL Cool Jew made this appointment for us right before we went to Belize two years ago, and she asked what I wanted. "A Brazilian," I responded. "With a little racing stripe. Like Clark Gable's mustache, except vertical." LL Cool Jew called the waxing place, which claimed to be NYC's ONLY "exclusively wax studio", and told me, "They made up new names for all the standard waxes. Your procedure is called the deep Playboy bikini with buttocks strip instead of a good, old-fashioned Brazilian. If you want it all taken off, that's called the Sphinx. You don't want the Sphinx, right?"
"No way," I said. "I think that's kind of weird."
We went to get waxed and I walked into the room. The very massive non-English speaking Russian woman who was to wax my crotch indicated via some subtle hand gesticulations that I should take off my pants. I dropped trou, but didn't take them off. I'm comfortable being naked, but I wasn't sure what the procedure was for having someone else wax your pussy. Certainly at the gynecologist there's a certain amount of decorum involved in getting naked and sticking your feet in the stirrups, followed by some careful gown draping. I didn't know how this was done at the waxing salon. The woman shook her head and clucked at me sharply, then gestured more insistently that the pants and panties were to come all the way off. I obliged, and got up on the table.
The waxer smacked her meaty hands together with a loud slapping sound, reached down and grabbed my ankles, and roughly wrenched my legs apart. She began to apply the wax. I thought, "Well, it's not too hot. This isn't too bad." As if the waxer could read my mind, she smirked sadistically at the prospect of shattering my false sense of security, and slapped on a piece of paper and RIPPED.
I bit my lip, determined not to audibly express how excruciatingly painful it is to have hair torn out by the root from your labia majora. She continued this for about ten agonizing minutes, and seemed to be taking great pleasure in the amount of punishment she was inflicting upon me. Every time it was actually painful enough to warrant a gasp on my part, she got this look on her face that I can only describe as tremendous satisfaction. I swear to God that before this woman came to the U.S., she probably ran a backpacker torture-for-hire facility similar to the one in the movie Hostel.
I am no stranger to pain in my nether regions. I was born with a congenital urethral defect which, although surgically repaired when I was three, has resulted in me experiencing a lifetime of urinary tract infections and being catheterized for tests several times. I've also had an abnormal pap smear which prompted several less-than-delightful cervical biopsies, the last of which involved slicing off pieces of dysplasia from my cervix with an electrified loop of wire. I also developed a benign mole on my chode (AKA the perineum AKA "the taint" as my brother calls it, which is the region from your vadge to your asshole, and in order for the doctor to remove it, I had to get a shot of anesthetic IN MY CHODE. So it's not like waxing has been the only pelvic trauma I've ever faced, but I have to say, it's right up there with the supremely bad traumas.
When we finally left the waxing studio and LL Cool Jew helped me hobble back to the 1 train, I could barely stand to wear pants that night because my goodies were so sore and inflamed. It was much better by the next day, and I looked hot in my bikini in Belize, but I swore that I'd never do that again. Besides, it was $60, and that's a steep price to pay to be willfully tortured. It's even worse being obligated to tip your torturer.
Ever since, I've gladly risked my neck to shave my punani. It's less smooth and has to be done more frequently, but it's considerably more comfortable than the alternative. However, now that I fucked it up, and since I tried to repair it while I was barely in a state to walk upright much less shave precisely around my precious, I'm rocking the goddamn Britney Spears vajayjay. It looks weird. Looking at myself naked, it's like my top half belongs to a grown woman and my lower half belongs to a girl that would appeal more to Humbert Humbert, Warren Steed Jeffs, or R. Kelly. I'm hoping that I won't get laid until it grows back at least a little bit, because I hate it so much that I'm afraid to even let a fuck-and-run honey see it. "The Sphinx" sucks. I want my fucking pubes back.
It took me a few minutes to even begin the process of moving the blankets off me, much less actually change from a supine posture to an upright one. The night before I was in serious revelry mode: I rocked a cocksucker red dress (it's a very Christmassy color), drank half a gallon of Smirnoff vodka with a very light splash of tonic, and tore up various grad student holiday parties. I was in BAD shape. And while I tried to cope with being awake and being this severely hung over, I looked down and noticed something that made me frown.
My fucking pubes were shaved crookedly. The day before, I had trimmed the hedges, so to speak, and I obviously hadn't used a level to shape my racing stripe. The shit looked like the trajectory of a bad Golden Tee shot. How could I have done this? It's not like it's THAT hard to shave in a straight fucking line. I had done said shaving during my morning shower, so it's not like I was drunk. I was completely sober, and still managed to do a hack job on what is a normal part of my routine. Maybe it was the hangover, but I was really bothered by this.
When I finally made it to the shower, I resolved to correct it. However, the sheer magnitude of punishment that my massive vodka consumption laid upon me dictated that I was physically unable to wield a sharp object around my nether regions with great precision. I didn't want to have a terrible accident with my Mach 3, and since I've already cheated death once while trying to shave my crotch, I didn't want to push it. However, I knew that if I didn't correct the crooked pubes, it would bother me all day. Lacking other options, I foolishly elected to do something very extreme. I shaved everything off.
Some might ask, "Why do you bother shaving? If you just go get waxed, you only have to do it every four weeks, and you don't have to worry about shaping it." I got waxed once, and it was horrible. LL Cool Jew made this appointment for us right before we went to Belize two years ago, and she asked what I wanted. "A Brazilian," I responded. "With a little racing stripe. Like Clark Gable's mustache, except vertical." LL Cool Jew called the waxing place, which claimed to be NYC's ONLY "exclusively wax studio", and told me, "They made up new names for all the standard waxes. Your procedure is called the deep Playboy bikini with buttocks strip instead of a good, old-fashioned Brazilian. If you want it all taken off, that's called the Sphinx. You don't want the Sphinx, right?"
"No way," I said. "I think that's kind of weird."
We went to get waxed and I walked into the room. The very massive non-English speaking Russian woman who was to wax my crotch indicated via some subtle hand gesticulations that I should take off my pants. I dropped trou, but didn't take them off. I'm comfortable being naked, but I wasn't sure what the procedure was for having someone else wax your pussy. Certainly at the gynecologist there's a certain amount of decorum involved in getting naked and sticking your feet in the stirrups, followed by some careful gown draping. I didn't know how this was done at the waxing salon. The woman shook her head and clucked at me sharply, then gestured more insistently that the pants and panties were to come all the way off. I obliged, and got up on the table.
The waxer smacked her meaty hands together with a loud slapping sound, reached down and grabbed my ankles, and roughly wrenched my legs apart. She began to apply the wax. I thought, "Well, it's not too hot. This isn't too bad." As if the waxer could read my mind, she smirked sadistically at the prospect of shattering my false sense of security, and slapped on a piece of paper and RIPPED.
I bit my lip, determined not to audibly express how excruciatingly painful it is to have hair torn out by the root from your labia majora. She continued this for about ten agonizing minutes, and seemed to be taking great pleasure in the amount of punishment she was inflicting upon me. Every time it was actually painful enough to warrant a gasp on my part, she got this look on her face that I can only describe as tremendous satisfaction. I swear to God that before this woman came to the U.S., she probably ran a backpacker torture-for-hire facility similar to the one in the movie Hostel.
I am no stranger to pain in my nether regions. I was born with a congenital urethral defect which, although surgically repaired when I was three, has resulted in me experiencing a lifetime of urinary tract infections and being catheterized for tests several times. I've also had an abnormal pap smear which prompted several less-than-delightful cervical biopsies, the last of which involved slicing off pieces of dysplasia from my cervix with an electrified loop of wire. I also developed a benign mole on my chode (AKA the perineum AKA "the taint" as my brother calls it, which is the region from your vadge to your asshole, and in order for the doctor to remove it, I had to get a shot of anesthetic IN MY CHODE. So it's not like waxing has been the only pelvic trauma I've ever faced, but I have to say, it's right up there with the supremely bad traumas.
When we finally left the waxing studio and LL Cool Jew helped me hobble back to the 1 train, I could barely stand to wear pants that night because my goodies were so sore and inflamed. It was much better by the next day, and I looked hot in my bikini in Belize, but I swore that I'd never do that again. Besides, it was $60, and that's a steep price to pay to be willfully tortured. It's even worse being obligated to tip your torturer.
Ever since, I've gladly risked my neck to shave my punani. It's less smooth and has to be done more frequently, but it's considerably more comfortable than the alternative. However, now that I fucked it up, and since I tried to repair it while I was barely in a state to walk upright much less shave precisely around my precious, I'm rocking the goddamn Britney Spears vajayjay. It looks weird. Looking at myself naked, it's like my top half belongs to a grown woman and my lower half belongs to a girl that would appeal more to Humbert Humbert, Warren Steed Jeffs, or R. Kelly. I'm hoping that I won't get laid until it grows back at least a little bit, because I hate it so much that I'm afraid to even let a fuck-and-run honey see it. "The Sphinx" sucks. I want my fucking pubes back.
Labels: oh the horror, Razzification, sex, tragedy, vanity
Thursday, November 16, 2006
My mother needs her eyes checked
I was catching up with my mom via phone the other day and somehow the conversation found its way to recent events in the P-N-Dub, specifically the Spanaway man who was imprisoned for fucking his family's Pit Bull. My mother was laughing with me about it, and then got serious, saying:
"What I don't understand is why he did it in the first place. I mean, he was a very good looking guy."
Riiiiiight, Mom...because usually only ugly people pork the family pet. Besides, I don't know about my mother's taste in men. She has been married for 30 years to my devastatingly handsome father, so maybe the years of monogamy have stunted her idea of what is "good looking", because accused caniphile Michael McPhail looks like what would result if Edward Furlong and the lead singer of the Killers had a wild night of meth-addled passion and conceived an unholy hybrid in the form of this future Jerry Springer Show guest:
Good looking?! I think it's time for my mom to suck it up and admit that she needs her glasses all the time, not just when she's reading.
"What I don't understand is why he did it in the first place. I mean, he was a very good looking guy."
Riiiiiight, Mom...because usually only ugly people pork the family pet. Besides, I don't know about my mother's taste in men. She has been married for 30 years to my devastatingly handsome father, so maybe the years of monogamy have stunted her idea of what is "good looking", because accused caniphile Michael McPhail looks like what would result if Edward Furlong and the lead singer of the Killers had a wild night of meth-addled passion and conceived an unholy hybrid in the form of this future Jerry Springer Show guest:
Good looking?! I think it's time for my mom to suck it up and admit that she needs her glasses all the time, not just when she's reading.
Labels: bestiality, oh the horror, P-N-Dub, perversion, PWT
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Ladies look out, indeed
Apparently trying to extort $30 million and custody of Sean Preston and Jayden James out of Britney Spears by threatening to release their sex tape on the internet is not the only classy move the FedEx is making with regard to handling his divorce proceedings. The perenially informative publication Us Weekly reports that at one of his sparsely attended concerts recently, Federlame took a Sharpie to his dressing room's shower door and scrawled this triumphant freedom cry/touching reiteration of his commitment to being a good father/response to his wife's petition for dissolution of marriage/dire threat to the women of planet Earth in his toddleresque penmanship:
Consider me warned and actively looking out. If I see that cornrowed parasite coming anywhere near me I'll be looking out for a free clinic to get some prophylactic anti-herpetic like Valtrex, as well as a broad-spectrum antibiotic and some delousing powder just for good measure. As a microbiologist, I'm well aware that most STDs can't be transmitted by casual contact or proximity alone, but you can never be too careful around guys like the unshaven greaseball above. His look just oozes "potentially pathogenic", and I'm not taking any chances.
Consider me warned and actively looking out. If I see that cornrowed parasite coming anywhere near me I'll be looking out for a free clinic to get some prophylactic anti-herpetic like Valtrex, as well as a broad-spectrum antibiotic and some delousing powder just for good measure. As a microbiologist, I'm well aware that most STDs can't be transmitted by casual contact or proximity alone, but you can never be too careful around guys like the unshaven greaseball above. His look just oozes "potentially pathogenic", and I'm not taking any chances.
Labels: celebrities, Kevin Federline, oh the horror, PWT, retard rage
Monday, November 06, 2006
It's not inspirational, it's terrorism
I don't give a rat's ass that Kirstie Alley lost 75 pounds. There is just NO reason for her to be running around anywhere in a bikini, much less on Oprah. The bitch is almost 60 years old, and I don't need to see any senior citizens rocking a bikini.
While I'm thankful that Oprah didn't decide to rock a bikini as well, I have to say that she and Thunder Thighs here have done a great disservice to the world with this little stunt. Now all the saggy old hags who watch Oprah are going to get inspired to work out and wear bikinis themselves, and since they don't have a team of personal trainers, plastic surgeons, and master airbrushers like Kirstie Alley does, it's going to be cellulite and stretch mark-stravaganza at the beach come next summer. I am already shuddering in anticipation of the aged cows that will be terrorizing the shores of Long Island with their slack midriffs.
Labels: celebrities, fat fucks, oh the horror, ranting
Saturday, May 13, 2006
The lousiest lays, vol. 2
It's not often that a completely undeserving wretch manages to scam both myself and one of my hot friends into spending more time than deserved in his company in two consecutive nights, but it did happen to me at least once. Naturally, this occurred while I was living in Tacoma.
My friend and roommate at the time, Miss Corbutt, is an artist. She's also probably the hottest friend I have (no offense to all my other ladies, but those who know Miss Corbutt would most likely agree). She's a six-foot-tall Amazon with a killer body (she's packing much back, in the best possible way), legs to her chin, perfect skin, and an incredible face. She's just freaking gorgeous. Because of her beauty, she gets hit on a lot, and in Tacoma this was often by guys who were nowhere near in her league. Because many of these dudes know she's way out of their league, they employ a ruse to get her to hang out with them. This particular guy asked her if she wanted to go to art classes with him in Seattle on Saturday mornings. He assured her that he was only interested in her as an artist and as a friend, and he would drive. She accepted.
In terms of appearance, he was so far out of her league they weren't even playing the same sport. He was very short (only slightly taller than me, and I'm 5'3"), and his face was, for lack of a better term, a little off. He looked like a cross between Betty Friedan and Frodo Baggins. He also was majorly lacking in the personal style department. Apart from rocking the classic awful lame Tacoma band t-shirt with ill-fitting pants and wallet chain, he'd hit up his thinning hair with a bottle of industrial-strength peroxide, and had that sort of sickly orange shade resulting from attempting to make black hair blonde. However, he initially came across as a pretty nice guy, and he could speak artfag with Miss Corbutt, so she figured they could just be friends. After a few weeks of classes, it seemed that he was actually telling the truth, and was only interested in her work. So, one Saturday, she invited him into our apartment for a glass of wine. I had spent the day over at my grandmother's house, because she was doing the home hospice care thing (dying). It was not fun. When I arrived home that evening, I was ready for a drink. Miss Corbutt and this guy were already on the same page, and in fact, were WAY ahead of me. They had exhausted three bottles of merlot, and were working on a bottle of Shih Wu Chih, which is this gross alcoholic Chinese herbal elixir that makes you CRAZY. Tequila and Jaegermeister have nothing on Shih Wu Chih in terms of liquor-induced madness and insanity. There was no way I was going to catch up with them, but I felt like having a drink nonetheless. So we piled into my car and met MillerTime at Hank's Tavern, a place that looks just like it sounds: decorated largely with beer advertisements and frequented by grizzled old individuals with emphysema, a fixed income, and a burning addiction to pull tabs. Once there, we drank about four pitchers of Kilt Lifter, this beer with a high alcohol content (like 9%). I was tipsy, but they were EXTREMELY drunk. So we went back to the crib, where Miss Corbutt decided she wanted to get physical, and not in a sexy way.
"Let's wrassle!" she shouted. Neither MillerTime nor myself were drunk enough to be feeling that, but the guy sure was. However, it was obvious he didn't want to hit or otherwise manhandle a girl, because he was holding back. To egg him on, Miss Corbutt TURNED OVER OUR COFFEE TABLE, smashing glasses and spilling Shih Wu Chih (which is black) all over the carpet. Then, she punched the guy in the nose, causing him to bleed everywhere. We lost part of our deposit on account of that night. After watching the entertaining spectacle, MillerTime and I went to bed and the guy presumably crashed on our couch.
The next morning, we went out to breakfast on Miss Corbutt's way to work. At his request, we went to this place called Wow's, because they had some taco omelette that he loved. Wow's is next to this other bar called Magoo's that I went to all the time, but I had never been to Wow's because every time I'd look in the window, the bar was largely populated with morose-looking elderly people in USS Indianapolis hats staring sadly into their glasses of Cutty Sark. I haven't been back to Wow's since that morning, because their food was disgusting and our waitress suggested that we come back at 10 on Monday morning to watch "The Price is Right" with the regulars...apparently, this is such an event at Wow's that they have Plinko drink specials. I gave the waitress my regrets, explaining that I had a 9-to-5 job, and thus would be unavailable for Monday morning drinking/estimating the value of shitty prizes during the showcase showdown with old folks. However I was more than happy to start my Sunday morning off right, and started drinking Bloody Marys. I had two while at Wow's, and they pour their drinks stiff. Art class guy was thinking like me, so he ordered a couple as well.
Then, I took MillerTime home and Miss Corbutt to work. Since she worked at a restaurant called Rock Pasta, and they had a bar, art class guy wanted to know if I was interested in going inside and having another Bloody Mary. I had nothing better to do, so I said, "What the hell? Why not?" Three more vodka cocktails later, we decided to switch to beer, so we went next door to the Swiss. After several more high alcohol content microbrews, it was three p.m., and I was shitfaced. Suddenly he seemed a lot better looking, and a lot funnier. Plus, he thought I was a riot, so I was having fun. However, I wasn't trying to be a waste at work the next day, so I wisely decided that it was time to go home. However, art class guy and I unwisely decided on the way home to stop by the Stadium Thriftway and EACH buy a case of Vitamin R, the official watered-down swill of Pierce County. Because drinking Rainier at home is definitely a good way to sober up. That's the kind of smart thinking that got me into an Ivy League graduate school.
We got back to my apartment, cracked open our Rainiers, and the next thing I know, we're making out. At this point I completely forgot that I found him physically repugnant, and decided that I was going to get laid. Being the pushy, libidinous bitch that I am, I dragged him to my bedroom and commenced disrobing. Once we'd both gotten our clothes off, I realize that something was amiss. More specifically, something was missing. His dick. Where was it???
I checked it out more closely and realized that he did, in fact, have a penis, but it's the smallest one I've EVER seen. It was literally the size of my thumb. I was momentarily dumbfounded by this, and thought he must be having some kind of alcohol-related problem with his erection. So I grabbed his dick, and realized that it was HARD.
I was confused. I'd never seen an erect dick that small before. But I'm a trooper, and at that point I didn't realize it was feasible to have such a tiny weiner that it's mechanically impossible to get it to stay in your cooch. So I shrugged and proceeded to attempt to mount it. Attempt is the key word here, because I literally could not figure out how to fuck him. I've put bigger tampons in my vagina. So I start trying different positions. Still, I couldn't get it to stay in. Finally, I said, "Oh fuck it, this isn't going to work." I figured he would get dressed and slink away in shame with his pitiful member between his legs. I would, if I were rocking a cock the size of a Chapstick. No wonder he spent the previous night going down on my roommate...it seems that's the only sexual act he's anatomically capable of.
Normally, I wouldn't have subjected this poor sucker to internet ignonimy for having a physical problem beyond his control. However, what happened next was INEXCUSABLE. He started talking to me about my DYING GRANDMOTHER. I don't know why he thought this was the appropriate topic for conversation after a failed attempt at intercourse with a pro ho like myself, but whatever his reasoning, I was not amused. I most certainly did not want to discuss that in my drunken state with his sorry ass, and told him so. He persisted, giving me all this bullshit about understanding my situation and trying to process with me like a damn Smith girl. I grew progressively more and more pissed off. Eventually I must have said something really bitchy (I don't remember what), because he started crying and told me he loved me. I have no patience for insincere motherfuckers casually tossing around the L word, so I lost my drunken temper.
"That's it!" I said. "Get out!"
He couldn't really believe that I was kicking him out, and kept trying to talk about feelings or whatever, so I was like, "I really need to be alone. You really need to leave. I'm not kidding. Go. Get out."
Then, he got dressed, and since it was dark, I failed to realize that he was committing one of the greatest crimes possible against a girl from Puyallup: this audacious motherfucker put on my authentic 1987 Def Leppard Hysteria tour t-shirt and STOLE IT! Since it was dark, and I was drunk, and having a difficult time mentally grappling with the outrageous events that had transpired, I didn't realize that he had switched up his crappy Severus shirt or whatever for my priceless buttrock relic. When I saw his shirt and didn't see my shirt about an hour later, I put two and two together and was RIPSHIT PISSED. Miss Corbutt came home from work, saw that I was distraught, and proceeded to comfort me. We both wondered how an ugly tool who drives a Ford Ranger with flame accents (really hot, by the way) was able to insidiously sneak his toothpick cock into both of our bedrooms in a single weekend. We didn't wonder long, since obviously it was on account of the magical effects of consuming ethyl alcohol.
Because we blamed it on the booze, Miss Corbutt gave him one more chance and went to art class with him the next weekend. When they came back, I was on the couch watching the first round of March Madness, and this fucker actually started complaining about me watching sports on MY television in MY apartment, because he had rented some horrible indie movie in an attempt to enhance his artfag street cred with Miss Corbutt. I was like, "Fuck you, I'm trying to see whether or not Kansas will beat Syracuse," and he said that sports were for the "simple minded" and made fun of my brackets! I grew outraged all over again, and asked, "What's your major malfunction? Did you get beat up by the quarterback one too many times in high school or something?" I secretly hoped so, because he went to Lincoln, and my cousin was their QB. To further insult his manhood, I added, "I thought all men appreciated sports." Then I said menacingly, "By the way, the next time you come over, you damn well better bring my fucking Def Leppard shirt."
The next time he came over, he did so uninvited, which was the last straw for Miss Corbutt. He was out of the circle at that point, and when we'd see him at Magoo's he would pretend not to know us and slink away like the tiny-dicked pussy that he is. I never thought much about him after that except to tell the story of the smallest penis I'd ever seen, and to lament the loss of my irreplacable shirt. However, last Christmas, I was visiting my friend G-Boner and noticed that her house had a lot of paintings signed with his last name. I inquired, and found out to my horror that Chapstick Dick is G-Boner's roommate and landlord! She assured me that he was never around, so I wouldn't have to worry about running into him. Famous last words. We went to open another bottle of wine, and there he was, skulking around her kitchen. He took one look at me and fled down the stairs to the safety of his basement lair. The next time I am in the P-N-Dub, I'm going to make G-Boner let me into her house when he's not home so that I can rummage through his shit and get my damn shirt back. I'm like an elephant when I've been wronged: I NEVER forget it. And while a lot of bastards have gotten away with not fucking me properly, it will be a cold day in hell before I let some dickless SOB make off with my Def Leppard paraphernalia. Mark my words: I will get that shirt back if it's the last fucking thing I ever do. Be warned, Chapstick Dick. You will pay.
My friend and roommate at the time, Miss Corbutt, is an artist. She's also probably the hottest friend I have (no offense to all my other ladies, but those who know Miss Corbutt would most likely agree). She's a six-foot-tall Amazon with a killer body (she's packing much back, in the best possible way), legs to her chin, perfect skin, and an incredible face. She's just freaking gorgeous. Because of her beauty, she gets hit on a lot, and in Tacoma this was often by guys who were nowhere near in her league. Because many of these dudes know she's way out of their league, they employ a ruse to get her to hang out with them. This particular guy asked her if she wanted to go to art classes with him in Seattle on Saturday mornings. He assured her that he was only interested in her as an artist and as a friend, and he would drive. She accepted.
In terms of appearance, he was so far out of her league they weren't even playing the same sport. He was very short (only slightly taller than me, and I'm 5'3"), and his face was, for lack of a better term, a little off. He looked like a cross between Betty Friedan and Frodo Baggins. He also was majorly lacking in the personal style department. Apart from rocking the classic awful lame Tacoma band t-shirt with ill-fitting pants and wallet chain, he'd hit up his thinning hair with a bottle of industrial-strength peroxide, and had that sort of sickly orange shade resulting from attempting to make black hair blonde. However, he initially came across as a pretty nice guy, and he could speak artfag with Miss Corbutt, so she figured they could just be friends. After a few weeks of classes, it seemed that he was actually telling the truth, and was only interested in her work. So, one Saturday, she invited him into our apartment for a glass of wine. I had spent the day over at my grandmother's house, because she was doing the home hospice care thing (dying). It was not fun. When I arrived home that evening, I was ready for a drink. Miss Corbutt and this guy were already on the same page, and in fact, were WAY ahead of me. They had exhausted three bottles of merlot, and were working on a bottle of Shih Wu Chih, which is this gross alcoholic Chinese herbal elixir that makes you CRAZY. Tequila and Jaegermeister have nothing on Shih Wu Chih in terms of liquor-induced madness and insanity. There was no way I was going to catch up with them, but I felt like having a drink nonetheless. So we piled into my car and met MillerTime at Hank's Tavern, a place that looks just like it sounds: decorated largely with beer advertisements and frequented by grizzled old individuals with emphysema, a fixed income, and a burning addiction to pull tabs. Once there, we drank about four pitchers of Kilt Lifter, this beer with a high alcohol content (like 9%). I was tipsy, but they were EXTREMELY drunk. So we went back to the crib, where Miss Corbutt decided she wanted to get physical, and not in a sexy way.
"Let's wrassle!" she shouted. Neither MillerTime nor myself were drunk enough to be feeling that, but the guy sure was. However, it was obvious he didn't want to hit or otherwise manhandle a girl, because he was holding back. To egg him on, Miss Corbutt TURNED OVER OUR COFFEE TABLE, smashing glasses and spilling Shih Wu Chih (which is black) all over the carpet. Then, she punched the guy in the nose, causing him to bleed everywhere. We lost part of our deposit on account of that night. After watching the entertaining spectacle, MillerTime and I went to bed and the guy presumably crashed on our couch.
The next morning, we went out to breakfast on Miss Corbutt's way to work. At his request, we went to this place called Wow's, because they had some taco omelette that he loved. Wow's is next to this other bar called Magoo's that I went to all the time, but I had never been to Wow's because every time I'd look in the window, the bar was largely populated with morose-looking elderly people in USS Indianapolis hats staring sadly into their glasses of Cutty Sark. I haven't been back to Wow's since that morning, because their food was disgusting and our waitress suggested that we come back at 10 on Monday morning to watch "The Price is Right" with the regulars...apparently, this is such an event at Wow's that they have Plinko drink specials. I gave the waitress my regrets, explaining that I had a 9-to-5 job, and thus would be unavailable for Monday morning drinking/estimating the value of shitty prizes during the showcase showdown with old folks. However I was more than happy to start my Sunday morning off right, and started drinking Bloody Marys. I had two while at Wow's, and they pour their drinks stiff. Art class guy was thinking like me, so he ordered a couple as well.
Then, I took MillerTime home and Miss Corbutt to work. Since she worked at a restaurant called Rock Pasta, and they had a bar, art class guy wanted to know if I was interested in going inside and having another Bloody Mary. I had nothing better to do, so I said, "What the hell? Why not?" Three more vodka cocktails later, we decided to switch to beer, so we went next door to the Swiss. After several more high alcohol content microbrews, it was three p.m., and I was shitfaced. Suddenly he seemed a lot better looking, and a lot funnier. Plus, he thought I was a riot, so I was having fun. However, I wasn't trying to be a waste at work the next day, so I wisely decided that it was time to go home. However, art class guy and I unwisely decided on the way home to stop by the Stadium Thriftway and EACH buy a case of Vitamin R, the official watered-down swill of Pierce County. Because drinking Rainier at home is definitely a good way to sober up. That's the kind of smart thinking that got me into an Ivy League graduate school.
We got back to my apartment, cracked open our Rainiers, and the next thing I know, we're making out. At this point I completely forgot that I found him physically repugnant, and decided that I was going to get laid. Being the pushy, libidinous bitch that I am, I dragged him to my bedroom and commenced disrobing. Once we'd both gotten our clothes off, I realize that something was amiss. More specifically, something was missing. His dick. Where was it???
I checked it out more closely and realized that he did, in fact, have a penis, but it's the smallest one I've EVER seen. It was literally the size of my thumb. I was momentarily dumbfounded by this, and thought he must be having some kind of alcohol-related problem with his erection. So I grabbed his dick, and realized that it was HARD.
I was confused. I'd never seen an erect dick that small before. But I'm a trooper, and at that point I didn't realize it was feasible to have such a tiny weiner that it's mechanically impossible to get it to stay in your cooch. So I shrugged and proceeded to attempt to mount it. Attempt is the key word here, because I literally could not figure out how to fuck him. I've put bigger tampons in my vagina. So I start trying different positions. Still, I couldn't get it to stay in. Finally, I said, "Oh fuck it, this isn't going to work." I figured he would get dressed and slink away in shame with his pitiful member between his legs. I would, if I were rocking a cock the size of a Chapstick. No wonder he spent the previous night going down on my roommate...it seems that's the only sexual act he's anatomically capable of.
Normally, I wouldn't have subjected this poor sucker to internet ignonimy for having a physical problem beyond his control. However, what happened next was INEXCUSABLE. He started talking to me about my DYING GRANDMOTHER. I don't know why he thought this was the appropriate topic for conversation after a failed attempt at intercourse with a pro ho like myself, but whatever his reasoning, I was not amused. I most certainly did not want to discuss that in my drunken state with his sorry ass, and told him so. He persisted, giving me all this bullshit about understanding my situation and trying to process with me like a damn Smith girl. I grew progressively more and more pissed off. Eventually I must have said something really bitchy (I don't remember what), because he started crying and told me he loved me. I have no patience for insincere motherfuckers casually tossing around the L word, so I lost my drunken temper.
"That's it!" I said. "Get out!"
He couldn't really believe that I was kicking him out, and kept trying to talk about feelings or whatever, so I was like, "I really need to be alone. You really need to leave. I'm not kidding. Go. Get out."
Then, he got dressed, and since it was dark, I failed to realize that he was committing one of the greatest crimes possible against a girl from Puyallup: this audacious motherfucker put on my authentic 1987 Def Leppard Hysteria tour t-shirt and STOLE IT! Since it was dark, and I was drunk, and having a difficult time mentally grappling with the outrageous events that had transpired, I didn't realize that he had switched up his crappy Severus shirt or whatever for my priceless buttrock relic. When I saw his shirt and didn't see my shirt about an hour later, I put two and two together and was RIPSHIT PISSED. Miss Corbutt came home from work, saw that I was distraught, and proceeded to comfort me. We both wondered how an ugly tool who drives a Ford Ranger with flame accents (really hot, by the way) was able to insidiously sneak his toothpick cock into both of our bedrooms in a single weekend. We didn't wonder long, since obviously it was on account of the magical effects of consuming ethyl alcohol.
Because we blamed it on the booze, Miss Corbutt gave him one more chance and went to art class with him the next weekend. When they came back, I was on the couch watching the first round of March Madness, and this fucker actually started complaining about me watching sports on MY television in MY apartment, because he had rented some horrible indie movie in an attempt to enhance his artfag street cred with Miss Corbutt. I was like, "Fuck you, I'm trying to see whether or not Kansas will beat Syracuse," and he said that sports were for the "simple minded" and made fun of my brackets! I grew outraged all over again, and asked, "What's your major malfunction? Did you get beat up by the quarterback one too many times in high school or something?" I secretly hoped so, because he went to Lincoln, and my cousin was their QB. To further insult his manhood, I added, "I thought all men appreciated sports." Then I said menacingly, "By the way, the next time you come over, you damn well better bring my fucking Def Leppard shirt."
The next time he came over, he did so uninvited, which was the last straw for Miss Corbutt. He was out of the circle at that point, and when we'd see him at Magoo's he would pretend not to know us and slink away like the tiny-dicked pussy that he is. I never thought much about him after that except to tell the story of the smallest penis I'd ever seen, and to lament the loss of my irreplacable shirt. However, last Christmas, I was visiting my friend G-Boner and noticed that her house had a lot of paintings signed with his last name. I inquired, and found out to my horror that Chapstick Dick is G-Boner's roommate and landlord! She assured me that he was never around, so I wouldn't have to worry about running into him. Famous last words. We went to open another bottle of wine, and there he was, skulking around her kitchen. He took one look at me and fled down the stairs to the safety of his basement lair. The next time I am in the P-N-Dub, I'm going to make G-Boner let me into her house when he's not home so that I can rummage through his shit and get my damn shirt back. I'm like an elephant when I've been wronged: I NEVER forget it. And while a lot of bastards have gotten away with not fucking me properly, it will be a cold day in hell before I let some dickless SOB make off with my Def Leppard paraphernalia. Mark my words: I will get that shirt back if it's the last fucking thing I ever do. Be warned, Chapstick Dick. You will pay.
Labels: alcoholism, assholes, Miss Corbutt, oh the horror, overcompensation, real-life rejects, retard rage, scathing indictments, small penises
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