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 a
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 a