Friday, September 26, 2008
My new goal: whatever I like
The other day, LL Cool Jew Gchatted me, fretting about the current economic situation. Don't let any stereotypes you may harbor about her religious extraction fool you; that bitch is about as interested in banking and economics as she is in particle physics, Harlequin romance novels, or doing home repairs, which is to say not at all. However, in this frightening financial climate, even those of us who are usually blissfully unaware of what goes on in the world of investments and equity and whatnot are forced to pay attention to the dire news coming from Wall Street. Since as a graduate student and a highly educated humanities grant specialist about to enter the job market, respectively, myself and LL Cool Jew are completely impotent as far as finding any kind of rational solace about how we might cope with the travails currently facing the world. Therefore, we occupy ourselves with the next best thing: discussion regarding diminutive rapper and self-proclaimed "King of the South" Clifford "T.I." Harris's current single "Whatever You Like," an ode to buying all sorts of luxurious shit for the chick he's banging, and rapper ternt sanga Faheem "T-Pain" Najm's current single "Can't Believe It," which is basically about the same thing except flavored with T-Pain's inexplicable desire for cold-weather real estate. Our employment prospects may be grim and our country may be headed for utter ruin and disaster, but at least we can fantasize about dating ballers with the means to make us say, "Economy? What economy?"
LL Cool Jew: stacks on deck
LL Cool Jew: patron on ice
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: (who drinks patron on ice?)
LL Cool Jew: dear t.i., i will tell you what i would like: to listen to this jam on repeat for the remainder of the hour. many thanks, llcj.
LL Cool Jew: TYXO!
Razzy: LOL
LL Cool Jew: i am really dumb but also, what are stacks on deck?
LL Cool Jew: i am so white
LL Cool Jew: TOTZ WHITE
Razzy: i'm assuming it means money that he's going to make
Razzy: future money
Razzy: projected income
LL Cool Jew: AAAAH
Razzy: let me check urban dictionary
LL Cool Jew: yes please
Razzy: oh oops
Razzy: it's soulja boy's record label!
Razzy: AKA "SOD Money Gang"
LL Cool Jew: really????
LL Cool Jew: that's dumb
Razzy: oh, also urban dictionary says it means "to have a lot of money" or "to have money when u need it. Never run out"
LL Cool Jew: You know them old sugar daddies...they be trickin', they tell them...
LL Cool Jew: see you were 100% right on!!
LL Cool Jew: "projected income"!
LL Cool Jew: dude
LL Cool Jew: when i listen to this song
LL Cool Jew: i realize how awesome it would be to be screwing a multimillionaire.
Razzy: well YEAH
Razzy: gas up the jet and you can go wherever you like
Razzy: if you date t.i.
LL Cool Jew: i wish someone would tell ME i won't never, never have to go in my wallet. :(
Razzy: get a mansion in wisconsin if you date t-pain
Razzy: i KNOW
Razzy: the last date i went on I PAID
LL Cool Jew: and i love the really insistent way he goes, MY CHICK GET WHATEVER SHE WANT!
Razzy: that was my choice
Razzy: i volunteered to pay because i like the guy and i'm all modern like thatRazzy: although like many of my speculative ventures, that investment turned out to be a bust
Razzy: but still, i only date poor or at best middle class people
LL Cool Jew: srsly
LL Cool Jew: no big boy ice for us.
Razzy: i have to be I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T
LL Cool Jew: LAME.
Razzy: i know, especially since i can't afford all the gucci that lil' boosie and webbie claim their independent women bestow on them
LL Cool Jew: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Razzy: at least there's still hope for me
Razzy: you're married to a journalist
LL Cool Jew: yeah but maybe one day i'll be the executive director of a rich-ass charitable foundation...
Razzy: well exax
LL Cool Jew: stacks on deck, patron on ice...
LL Cool Jew: (see, repeat)
Razzy: hahaha
LL Cool Jew: (TI is giving me what i like)
Razzy: will you really drink patron on ice?
Razzy: i guess i would if that's what ti wanted me to drink
LL Cool Jew: i mean i don't really fuck with tequila
Razzy: tequila on the rocks, no less
Razzy: why can't rappers be into scotch?!
LL Cool Jew: maybe if it were watered down
LL Cool Jew: i mean, if ti's buying, i'm trying
Razzy: i guess "dalmorangie on ice" doesn't quite have the same ring to it
LL Cool Jew: i could probably look right into his eyes in heels...
Razzy: lol
LL Cool Jew: he's so lil.
Razzy: that's why he's buying whatever you like
Razzy: he's overcompensating
LL Cool Jew: dude if t.i. gave me his black card he would so regret it
LL Cool Jew:i would destroy him
LL Cool Jew: he needs to put you up in a condo way up in toronto
Razzy: or a log cabin in aspen
LL Cool Jew: neither of those sound particularly attractive right???
LL Cool Jew: certainly not Wiscansin
LL Cool Jew: why is tpain so into cold weather if he's from Miami?Razzy: he's from tallahassee, actually, that's what the "t" stands for, but whatevs
Razzy: t-pain was hard up for places that rhymed with condo, cabin, and mansion
Razzy: and he wants what he doesn't know...it's all exotic
LL Cool Jew: hate to break it to you tpain, there is nothing exotical about wiscansin
LL Cool Jew: ooh, so what is a Marcialago or whatever?
LL Cool Jew: faincy car?
Razzy: i believe a murcielago is a type of lamborghini
Razzy: i am amazed that he can pronounce "murcielago" but not "wisconsin"
LL Cool Jew: the car is more expensive
Razzy: than a mansion in wisconsin? probably
LL Cool Jew: probably!!!!!
Razzy: i imagine real estate in america's dairyland is cheap
LL Cool Jew: esp. in those heinous suburban subdivisions
Razzy: do you think t-pain means a mcmansion?
LL Cool Jew: definitely
Razzy: or something like designed by frank lloyd wright
LL Cool Jew: i am pretty sure he doesn't care much for historic architecture
Razzy: probably not
LL Cool Jew: since those places rarely include revolving jasmine-scented hottubs
I think it's pretty much decided. I need to become some type of rap star, or at least start screwing one. This grad school bullshit isn't going to give me "whatever I like." I'm not sure what exactly that entails, but revolving jasmine-scented hot tubs sounds pretty good, as does "stacks on deck," any kind of premium liquor on ice, and a private jet at my disposal. And since the reality is that I'll probably be a Ph.D-educated bread line lingerer once our country's economy totally collapses, I might as well shoot for the stars and make "whatever I like" my new career ambition.
Labels: capitalism, correspondence, LL Cool Jew, overcompensation, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Friday, August 29, 2008
Bob is no longer smiling
I knew this was coming several years ago when I first saw a commercial for this product called Enzyte, purported to provide "natural male enhancement." For a while, these ads featuring the creepy, "Black Hole Sun" videoesque Bob grinning maniacally about his Enzyte-improved penis were ubiquitous on television, particularly on cable news and sports broadcasts. I remember seeing these ads and scoffing, thinking to myself, "God, men are so fucking dumb about their weiners. Enzyte is bullshit."
Not for one second did I believe that Enzyte actually worked to make cocks bigger OR more functional. Since Enzyte was described by its manufacturer as a "nutraceutical" (a very scientastic way of saying "vitamin"), I doubted it contained any cGMP-specific phosphodiesterase 5 inhibitors capable of treating erectile dysfunction. A quick review of the label confirmed that while Enzyte is made primarily of B vitamins, some minerals, some random vaguely sexy-sounding plant extracts ("horny goat weed"), and oatmeal (Avena sativa), it contained no sildenafil whatsoever.
I can't fathom how these ingredients make a dick harder, much less physically larger. Penises get about as big as they're going to get during puberty, and short of surgery, medical science has yet to discover a way to get around the limitations of human development. Rest assured that if eating oatmeal gave dudes bigger dicks, Quaker would be a menu option at every restaurant all day long. Guys would eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Unlike the unscrupulous marketers touting Enzyte, however, the rolled oat industry has stuck with selling the cholesterol-lowering properties of their grain to the health conscious baby boomer and livestock feed bag markets, and refrained from touting their cereal as a means of "male enhancement," and this has turned out to be a wise move.
As it turns out, I wasn't the only one calling bullshit on Enzyte. Some federal regulators decided they would look into the suspicious claims made by Berkeley Premium Nutraceuticals, the company running the Enzyte con. They discovered that founder Steve Warshak scammed sexually insecure men out of over $100 million by selling them a crap product, manipulating credit card transactions, and refusing to honor returned or canceled orders. Federal prosecutors successfully managed to convict Warshak on 93 separate counts of fraud, conspiracy, and money laundering, ordered him and three other employees to forfeit $500 million, and sentenced his bitch ass to 25 years in prison.
I'd be more surprised that Warshak was able to get away with a scam of such proportions if I didn't know how absolutely ridiculous men can be when it comes to their cocks. Their entire sense of self can literally rise and fall with their sometimes annoyingly mercurial johnsons, and I'm not even talking about in the bedroom. Phallic obsession seems to pervade almost every aspect of male life. Once my little brother got dragged out to sea by a riptide and almost drowned on the Oregon Coast when he was around ten or eleven, and after being pulled out of the surf and treated for severe hypothermia on the beach, his main concern was the paramedics observing "shrinkage." He almost died, but he was more worried that the medical personnel treating him might have been unimpressed with his pubescent package. And for all the trouble I've gotten in for discussing my sex life openly, I can't count the number of times I heard men in work contexts using their dicks as analogies for their professional abilities and achievements. If a woman shows too much cleavage, wears too short of a skirt, or is sexually titillating in any way in many workplaces, she isn't taken seriously, but men have carte blanche to bring their pricks into any and all conversations because their penis obsession is such an irritatingly prevalent aspect of human culture.
When it comes to sex, penises can be even more aggravating, and I'm not even talking about the physical aspects of penile function. They can make the guys they are attached to complete pains in the ass. I'll compliment guys on their weiners when warranted, but often they seem to interpret "you have a nice dick that I like sitting on" as worshipful reverence. One of my ex-boyfriends took to his blog after our breakup and wouldn't get off the topic of how much I supposedly loved his fucking penis. Obviously during happier times, I enjoyed having sex with him, but no amount of awesome penis-having could make up for the fact that he was an asshole who treated me like shit and fully deserved the summary dumping I gave him. Just last night, a one-night stand from a while back wanted to know why I haven't made good on a promise I apparently made to write about his "beautiful cock." Simple: I forgot I drunkenly said I was going to do that, and while it was a hot one-nighter and his dick was just fine, it's not like I've been sitting around thinking about how fucking phenomenal his penis is. I had nice weiners before, and I've had nice weiners since, and while I like them, I'm not going to venerate any of them. News flash, fellas: your dicks do NOT make you Jesus, Vishnu, Zeus, Gozer the Gozerian, or any other kind of reverential deity. They are just dicks, and you all have them. Most of them are perfectly fine (in my storied history of sluttery, I've really only come across ONE penis that was unacceptably small), and while I like fucking them, they are not what I spend my time fretting about. I'm far more intrigued by the rare man who I admire for the head on his shoulders as much as the one between his legs.
The fall of the Enzyte empire should be a lesson to men everywhere about their penises. While clearly they have been a driving force in human civilization, they are a man's Achilles heel, as evidenced by the number of dudes who were duped by Enzyte's marketing trickery into plunking down their plastic for empty promises of assuaging perceived inadequacies in this area. The most surefire way to coax out a man's inner moron is to neg his precious pecker, which is what Berkeley Nutraceuticals did to the legions easily hoodwinked into buying their oatmeal vitamin pills. Most guys aren't hung like Lexington Steele, and women don't expect them to be. A dude with a regular-sized dong who doesn't spend all his time fretting about it is considerably more attractive than a fucking idiot willing to invest in a panacea for his own insecurities. Besides, if a guy wants to be a hit in the bedroom, he should just learn how to give decent head rather than waste his time trying to achieve the impossible by bulking up his dick with a placebo. Guys should realize that overcompensating stupidity is far less attractive than any variation of penis size. Get over your fucking dicks, dudes.
Labels: crime and punishment, overcompensation, retard rage, sex, weiners
Monday, August 11, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Alain Bernard
DOB: May 1, 1983
Occupation: Olympic swimmer, un-backing-up shit talker
Hometown: Aubagne, France
Current residence: the ignonimy of defeat, Beijing, China
Douchebaggery: I have spent so much time rooting against China that I've forgotten that there are plenty of other countries whose asses I'd like America to summarily kick, as well. One of the leaders among my most-hated foreign nations is France. Apart from producing some solid wine, cheese, pepper steak, baguettes, inspiration for my boy Chopin to compose some of his greatest piano works, and part of the backdrop for my favorite Hemingway novel, France leads Europe in the garnering of my disdain. I can't stand the snotty, entitled attitude that the French are famous for, and nothing brings out my inner uncouth asshole redneck American like a Frenchman waxing on about how culturally superior his country is. One time, back when I lived in Seattle, I was at this pretentious bar with a couple of my coworkers and was making fun of how another colleague used to show off his high school French–or at least his over-the-top French accent–whenever he called one of our collaborators in France.
"And zen, Docteur So-and-So, yeu will spectratype ze T cells, oui? J'adore yeur deft analeesees of our samples, cheri," I was saying, while my coworkers laughed. The guy sitting next to us at the bar overheard, and butted in.
"I am Française," he said bitchily. "Zis ees exactly why we zink Americaines are steupeed eediots." He gave me a look like, "DAMN, I just owned you, Americaine swine!" Bad idea.
"Oh, really? Well, if you don't like it, none of us will stop you from going back to France. In fact, that would be preferable, since that way we won't have to endure your rude butting in to our conversation."
The French guy just glared at me and rolled his eyes. I wasn't having it. Time to break out my favorite anti-French insult. It's clichéd, but like blue jeans, Coca-Cola, or blow jobs, it never goes out of style.
"Don't give me that 'oh, you crude American' eye roll, Pierre. If it weren't for us, your ass would be speaking German right now." At that point the French guy decided he'd had enough, and promptly began ignoring us. I started telling obnoxious French jokes loudly to my coworker friends, who were enjoying the whole spectacle. "Why are French tanks equipped with rearview mirrors? So they can see the battle," I said. French guy settled his tab and left shortly thereafter. I win again and as usual!
Anyway, very few things satisfy me more than putting an overconfident Frenchman in his place, and I'm glad the U.S. men's Olympic swimming team could do just that. Apparently, one of the few things France is good at besides insufferable condescension is men's swimming. As I would expect from an athlete originating in the country where the word "douche" originated, one of the guys from Team France decided to dismissively shit-talk Team USA's prospects in the 4x100 m relay. "The Americans?" said French swimmer Alain Bernard. "We're going to smash them. That's what we came here for." That's some serious dick-swinging being done by a lead singer-of-Coldplay-looking man who has to rely on a shark tattoo to butch himself up.
Alain should have taken some lessons from other incidences of "we will crush you" shit-talking that backfired hard. Once Roy Williams of the Detroit Lions foolishly vowed to crush the Chicago Bears after they opened the season losing 9-6 to the Seahawks, after adding, "it was stupid how close we were to putting forty points on the board." The vaunted 2006 Lions went on to lose 34-6 to Chicago. In another incident, then-Seahawks tight-end Jerramy Stevens made some comments prior to Super Bowl XL, saying, "It's going to be a sad day when (Jerome Bettis) doesn't walk off the field with that trophy." To this day, I blame Jerramy Stevens's hubris almost as much as I blame Bill Leavy's heavily Steeler-biased officiating for a day that lives in infamy with 12th Men everywhere. There are countless instances of some player firing off his mouth and then getting spanked for it when it matters, and if Alain Bernard weren't so busy looking down his elitist French nose at Team USA, he might have considered that prior to giving our guys some motivation.
Not only did Team USA take the gold in the 4x100 relay, they completely owned Alain Bernard and his compatriots in the process. It appeared that going into the final 100 meters, France was winning. Luckily Jason Lezak wasn't about to let Alain Bernard or the French-held world record in this event get in his way. He made up America's lost time and kicked Alain Bernard's ass in the final 50 meters and set a world record for relay split swimming in the process. To add extra sweetness to the victory, the record Lezak broke was Bernard's. Suck on that, Alain Bernard and France. USA! U! S! A! U! S! A!
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, Olympics, overcompensation, sportsmen, United States of Asskickery
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Justin Timberlake
Name: Justin Randall Timberlake
DOB: January 31, 1981
Occupation: a fashion maven in his own deluded mind
Hometown: Shelby Forest, Tennessee
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I used to like JT back in the day. I thought *NSYNC was hilarious (although Joey the Fatone was really my favorite of all the guys) and I've been known to slay "Bye Bye Bye" in karaoke after a few cocktails. I also enjoyed Justin's solo work...until every girly girl in the world decided that he was the second coming of Elvis and forced me to endure an endless spinning of Future Sex/Love Sounds. Even though that shit is like two years old, it's STILL the only thing my friend MillerTime listens to in her car. And after my friend Wmania's bachelorette party, she insisted that we all dance to "Love Stoned" in her condo SEVERAL times. "Oh my GOD, dude, this song is like, the greatest song ever. It is SO HOT. How can you not like this?" she kept asking. LL Cool Jew and I just sat on the couch drinking beer and bitching about the Justin Timberlake-playing meat market club we had just escaped, where we were hit on by Karl Rove's nephew (or some prominent neo-con's nephew, I can't remember who because I was trying to drink the pain of the whole incident away).
Girls who love Sex and the City love Justin Timberlake and think he's hot. I think he's a testicularly challenged one-trick pony who bit David Silver's style and sings like a girl. Trust that my twat doesn't get all tingly when he shows up in his trucker hat to warble in the falsetto register and act like he's the first genius who decided to wear a wife beater. As a matter of fact, given his latest asshole comments to the press, I would not be surprised if he took credit for inventing that treasured bit of white trash couture either.
Apparently, JT decided to start beef with notorious COOLPIX camera pranking, manpri-sporting, "matchy matchy" douchebag fashionista extraordinaire Ashton Kutcher over who started the fucking TRUCKER HAT craze of 2003. In a recent interview, Justin said the following:
It's funny, I keep hearing Ashton Kutcher say how he was responsible for trucker caps. Me and my friend Trace Ayala were wearing them when we were 17.
WHO TAKES CREDIT FOR STARTING THE TRUCKER HAT FAD??? That's like taking credit for starting the overalls-with-one-strap-undone trend of 1991, or the stirrup-stretch-pants-with-slouch-socks-and-Keds trend of 1987, or the floral-rayon-dress-with-hiking-boots trend of 1994. You don't hear the douchebag who started wearing "Big Johnson" or "Coed Naked" shirts demanding that the public recognize his obnoxious taste in clothes. Even worse, it foments a douche-off between two of the most despicable trendsetters in teen fashion. You know Ashton Kutcher is going to respond with this, probably by some stupid prank that will inspire more eye rolls than laughter, and those of us who suckle celebrity gossip from the internets like beer from a tap will be forced to endure a neverending back-and-forth about who has perpetrated more crimes upon popular dressing.
Furthermore, I beg to differ with Justin's claim that he discovered this amazing fashion accessory when he was 17 (which would have been 1998). I can attest that all my uncles, as well as the majority of red-blooded truck-driving men in Puyallup, Washington were rocking their "CAT" and "John Deere" millinery as long as I can remember. Just because my uncles aren't rocking their forest camouflage "STIHL" gear (which probably came complimentary with their new chainsaw) on any red carpets doesn't mean that they weren't down with the local fashion long before Justin Timberlake ever put on a pair of Mickey Mouse ears. Being that Justin is from a hick town himself, he should know that claiming to have pioneered this look is as intellectually dishonest as claiming he invented double-wides or instructing the masses regarding the pragmatic value of auto parts store-insignia-stamped beer cozies.
Even JT's attempts at being self-deprecating about his tremendous influence on the fashion world are infuriating. Later in the interview, he says, "Honestly, I don't walk out of my house thinking, 'Man, I hope somebody thinks this looks cool!' There's some stuff I wear that people think is not cool." Hmmm...you mean stuff like TRUCKER HATS? Because indeed I don't think that is cool. I think it is a contrived attempt to steal credit for accessories popularized by legendary designers like Jeff Foxworthy and Larry the Cable Guy, and it doesn't score him any points with me that plagiarizing redneck chic is so effortless for Justin. Then again, I would expect nothing less from the knuckle-dragger that gave us the unbelievably annoying term "wardrobe malfunction." His whole life has been a damn wardrobe malfunction. Someone should pop a trucker cap in his ass, already.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, media whores, overcompensation, PWT, ranting, retard rage
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Dream OFF
You may recall an uncharacteristically girlish post I wrote a while back about a boy I liked, in which many Razzyphiles kindly provided lots of sound advice on how to deal with this situation. Of course, I didn't take any of that advice, and chose to just ignore the guy and hope that this brief bout of feelings would pass like a head cold. Frankly, I can't take a lot of that advice. Many people suggested I invite him somewhere for a date, which I just can't bear to do. Also, I was told to pretend I'm virtuous and not skanky, and not to sleep with him under any circumstances. Well, that's impossible since he already knows I'm skanky because I slept with him once a long time ago and our friendship developed after. Therefore, I just decided to get over it, because either he doesn't know how I feel or doesn't feel the same way, and I don't want to put myself out there in a most un-Razzified way, get shot down, feel like an idiot, and foment a permanent awkwardness between us. I'm not going to wait around for him to make a move, and I'm not going to make one myself, so it's better that I occupy my time with more productive pursuits. Besides, Morrissey'sHair gave me a stern Gchattig-to the other day, and it confirmed what I already knew: that this kind of bullshit is a waste of my time.
Razzy: i totally like this one guy
Razzy: but i'm so fucking idiotic about how to handle it
Razzy: i'm just pretending that he doesn't exist any more
Razzy: i suck at being coy and whatever the fuck girls are supposed to do to get a man
Razzy: for more than 1 night
Morrissey'sHair: you shouldn't be getting hung up on these dudes, Raz. They're not worth it
Razzy: i know
Razzy: i hardly ever do
Razzy: i just always pick the wrong guys
Morrissey'sHair: You, of all people, don' t need to date for the sake of dating
Razzy: well, i'm not dating for the sake of dating
Razzy: i really like this guy
Morrissey'sHair: being single is not the end of the world
Razzy: no, of course not
Razzy: duh
Morrissey'sHair: But I know that it feels lonely at times
Razzy: it does
Razzy: we have this incredibly ambiguous "friendship"
Razzy: (details omitted because they are too identifying and I would be mortified if this guy found out I was talking about him like this on my blog)
Morrissey'sHair: you don't need friends like that
Razzy: ugh i know
Razzy: he's SUCH a nerd too
Razzy: (more identifying details I'm omitting...I left the above nerd comment above there because it's an established fact that I have a big nerd fetish and I know many of them, so no big reveal there)
Morrissey'sHair: WTF? Kick this guy to the curb!
Morrissey'sHair: Who the fuck does he think he is?
Morrissey'sHair: You DO NOT need that in your life, Raz.
Anyway, in spite of LL Cool Jew saying that I shouldn't give up because this guy and I are perfect for each other, I'm more inclined to follow Morrissey'sHair's line of thinking. However compatible this guy and I may be in theory, it's not happening in reality and until it does, I don't need this bullshit in my life on top of everything else causing unnecessary stress about decidedly lame junior high issues like whether or not somebody "likes" me.
Too bad just when I was getting the hang of not "liking" this dumb guy, I went and had an incredibly vivid sex dream about him. In the dream we were swimming around at some beach resort-type place. Yes, I know that dream swimming means something sexual, and even if I didn't, I would have been clued into the significance of water when we wound up having way, WAY hotter dream sex in the dream-beach crashing surf than any we've had in real life. I won't go into the details, but it was one of those dreams where you wake up and actually expect to see the dream partner laying next to you naked and ready to go. I don't know if I had this dream because a totally platonic instant message conversation I had with the subject yesterday reminded my subconscious that I was trying to forget about the fact that I am attracted to him against all my better judgment and I just wasn't tormented and confused ENOUGH by this situation.
Apparently, making the rational decision not to be a dumb girl hung up on who I like is not enough to actually accomplish that, since my subconscious betrays me in dreams. I wish there was an "off" switch for this kind of thing so I can get back to focusing on how I'm going to score a player from the 'Nolia this weekend in New Orleans, and show my breasts to every tourist in the French Quarter, and eat my weight in crawfish, shrimp, andouille, turtles, and giant swamp rats, and generally be a Razzified force to be reckoned with. At least if I can't turn it off, I can get so rip-roaring drunk that I don't dream at all, and have so many adventures that I forget all about this bullshit by the time I get back to New York. Yeah...that's it. Alcohol and educational tourist activities. Lots and lots of alcohol and educational tourist activities.
Labels: LL Cool Jew, Morrissey'sHair, oh the horror, overcompensation, Razzification, sex
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Daily Douchebag: the dumb boys I occasionally like
DOB: also no comment
Occupation: apart from tormenting my thoughts, no comment
Hometown: definitely no comment
Current residence: NO FUCKING COMMENT
Douchebaggery: Most of the time, my attitude about dating is "FUCK RELATIONSHIPS." My life has enough drama (legal threats and stalkers) and I am so busy with school and this blog that I generally think my life doesn't need the additional complication of maintaining a relationship. I spend a great deal of time convincing myself that relationships are akin to herpes: something to avoid at all costs lest it plague me for months to come. I'm pretty successful at doing so. A few years ago, LL Cool Jew asked people to submit songs that reminded them of me for a birthday mix CD, and THREE separate people suggested "Man Eater" by Hall and Oates. However, as much as I hate to damage my reputation as an unrepentant slut with a heart of stone, a supercharged libido, no sense of shame, and an ability to toss out former lovers like empty Heineken bottles, I'd be lying if I said I didn't occasionally like someone and actually want to date them. And by "date" I don't just mean "fuck and allow them to sleep over" but actually talking and getting to know each other and that sort of thing.
When this happens, it usually results in some type of disaster. The guys I tend to like are either assholes or not interested or both. Furthermore, I'm terribly incompetent at playing coy and hard-to-get and all the subtle girl crap you are supposed to do to attract a boy's mind as well as his penis. I usually try really hard to act like I don't care, which then leads the object of my affections to think I don't, which then frustrates me and finally causes me to say "DUH, IDIOT, I TOTALLY LIKE YOU!" or something similarly inappropriate and frightening, and scares the guy off permanently.
I'm not looking to get married, or even to have a serious boyfriend. I'm not desperate for companionship, but I also am not dedicated to my fortress of solitude. When I meet someone who I consider quality and who I think I am compatible with, I usually would just like to get to know them better and see what happens. However, I'm terrible at getting to know dudes better outside of the Biblical context. I'm so afraid that they will reject me as a person that when I'm in a position to initiate something beyond sex that I pay a lot of lip service to my cold-hearted emotionless skank qualities and unfortunately they usually buy it. One guy I liked a while back ended up being so put off by this routine that he avoided me and acted weird after we had sex, and then when I confronted him about it, he said he was not the type who sleeps around and wanted to ignore me forever, I said something along the lines of, "YOU ASSHOLE, I LIKED YOU!" and then he was wearing my scotch. I was so mortified by my behavior and handling of the situation that I wrote a big crybaby post about it and have avoided grad student parties ever since.
I am absolutely no good at all at liking people, which is why I'm currently pissed at myself for being in that condition now. Because I value the guy I like now as a person, I'm determined not to fuck it up with any drunken confessions and/or scotch-tossing, so I overcompensate by fronting hard like we are just friends. I figure that if moves are to be made, he needs to make them so I don't fuck the whole thing up irreparably with my incompetence. This has worked in terms of not scaring him off and maintaining our friendship, but I worry that he doesn't know I like him, and this in turn will prevent him from making any moves if he likes me in return. I've been told that I'm intimidating to guys, and presumably this contributes to the lack of move-making on his end and results in me being cockblocked by my own magnificent awesomeness. It's also possible that he's not that into me and just wants to be friends, but I don't know because I suck so righteously at the kind of feminine tricks that can tease this information out of a dude.
I was bitching to LL Cool Jew about this, and she gave me the most on-point analysis I've ever heard of why I have a hard time reeling in the dudes I consider keepers.
Razzy: i'm totally reverting to my dumb inner seventh grade girl and being retarded about liking dumb stupid dumb guy i like
LL Cool Jew: dumb guy you like
LL Cool Jew: another one who needs to get with the mufung program
Razzy: the dumb guy i like is being totally dumb
Razzy: i mean, i can't tell if he likes me
Razzy: every time i think he does
Razzy: then i am like, but he's talking to me about his other girlfriends or would-be girlfriends
LL Cool Jew: i know you know what i'm goign to tell you right now
Razzy: ignore this guy because he's dumb?
LL Cool Jew: you put yourself out there like you're not capable of tripping over a dude
LL Cool Jew: which puts you in the unfortunate position of having to overtly tell someone how you feel
Razzy: i know, and i hate that
LL Cool Jew: which can make you way more vulnerable than you might choose to become.
LL Cool Jew: and it can totz backfire
Razzy: it's a lot easier to just get drunk and fuck someone and ask questions later
Razzy: oh it HAS backfired
LL Cool Jew: i know it has
LL Cool Jew: what sucks is that when you like someone, you're not in love with them - at all
LL Cool Jew: you just like them
LL Cool Jew: and would like to be taken seriously by them
LL Cool Jew: but being in the position where you have to "profess your like"
LL Cool Jew: makes it seem like you care way more than you currently do
Razzy: and then i come across as scary or too aggressive
LL Cool Jew: exactly
Razzy: EXACTLY
LL Cool Jew: and then they get all awful like she's so into me, she's sweating me
LL Cool Jew: (aka stupid [dumb guy from LL's brief single period of yesteryear for 10 minutes])
LL Cool Jew: and you're like
LL Cool Jew: actually, i hate you
Razzy: YES
So, if anyone has any suggestions on how to resolve this situation without "professing my like," I'm all ears. This guy is smart, funny, cute, nerdy (which in my book means HOT), shares many interests, and I wish we could go on a date or whatever the fuck normal people do when they want to get to know each other better. He also gives me a lot of mixed signals and I can't tell if he isn't feeling it or is feeling it but doesn't want to initiate things for whatever reason (fear of rejection, he thinks I don't like him, he doesn't want to screw up our friendship, he's waiting for me to make a move, etc.). I'm not going to chase him around and make a fool out of myself, and I just want this feeling of embarrassed vulnerability to go away. I'm tired of feeling like a Morrissey song: full of self-doubt, neurotic, confused, and generally very un-Razzified. I hate liking dumb guys!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, for serious people, hot dudes, overcompensation
Monday, May 19, 2008
Daily Douchebag: housework
DOB: the beginning of human civilization...I assume ancient Sumer?
Occupation: the scourge of my existence
Hometown: not anywhere near where I'm from
Current residence: Sugar Hill, Harlem, New York
Douchebaggery: I've been awfully stressed out about my too-full schedule lately, so I've been smoking too many cigarettes. In fact, any cigarettes are too many, much less a pack a day of Parliament Lights. This smoking has resulted in terrible problems in the asthma department, and has necessitated my quitting immediately. Therefore it's been three smoke-free days and I'm doing remarkably well. It's amazing how much easier it is to quit when you have a choice between doing that and not breathing. Well, and when your shrink put you on Wellbutrin a week ago for this exact purpose. Anyway, in keeping with this "no smoking" thing, I decided that it was high time I cleaned my apartment and got rid of all my smoking crap. In fact, it was high time I cleaned my apartment anyway since the last time I really thoroughly cleaned it was...well, never.
One thing about me that never changes is that I absolutely SUCK at housework. As far as aptitude at domestic skills goes, I can cook a full seven-course dinner in a New York City studio apartment and I can fuck like a tiger, but when it comes to cleaning, I am retarded. While Meat Loaf would say that two out of three wife skills ain't bad, I would argue that my ineptitude at tidying up is a major shortcoming. I literally don't know how to clean. Probably because I never clean much, I don't know where to start. In order to really clean, I have to trick myself by rearranging the furniture and being confronted with the horror that lurks beneath it. I am not accomplished or efficient at doing this. Whenever some of my friends come over (especially Millertime, Miss Corbutt, and J-Sexy), they might get exasperated by my clutter and start picking some of it up themselves, and in five minutes they can do what would be at least an hour's worth of work for me. However, I am determined that my place will be free of empty Parliament packs and a generally less dusty, more asthma-friendly living space, and I resolved to really deeply clean my apartment if it took all fucking day.
Now, it's looking like it will take all fucking week, since I worked from 8 a.m. yesterday until 9:30 p.m. with breaks only for eating, pissing, or laundry folding and I'm still not done with everything. I did 8 loads of laundry, and dug a revolting 10 bags of garbage out from underneath my bed and couch. I literally probably found two cases worth of Heineken bottles under my bed, under my couch, and INSIDE my couch. In fact, my couch turned out to be capable of swallowing all sorts of things. I found in the couch an invitation to my friend M-Boner's wedding (which I attended in SUMMER 2006), 8-10 lighters, approximately 50 cigarette butts, a book KatieScarlett lent me, a pair of flip-flops I thought were lost forever, a giant bag of Ricola cough drops, a letter congratulating me on earning my second master's degree, and half a manicure set including clippers, a file, and two bottles of nail polish.
I didn't find any disgusting food messes, and this is because one thing I'm actually semi-competent at doing is cleaning up when there is vermin-attracting garbage involved, because my entire building is notorious for its roach and mouse infestation problem. However, I almost wish I left more food messes around. Judging by the amount of mouse shit I swept up yesterday, the lack of food garbage isn't deterring the mice from hanging out behind my couch and dresser and under my radiator. At least if I had food messes, I could just throw them away, bleach that shit down, scrub thoroughly, and be done. With all the paper mess that characterizes 90% of the content of my clutter in the form of unfiled bills, newspapers, magazines, notes I've taken, junk mail, etc., I have to sort through everything to see if it's a bank statement or just my bank trying to sell me life insurance. It takes FOREVER and it's SO BORING AND LAME, and I'm convinced that thanks to the mice, I've contracted hantavirus. I hate it so much.
The fact that I haven't really, really cleaned my apartment in the two and a half years since I moved in doesn't help speed this process up. I realize that this would be much easier if I did it a couple times a year at least, or if I was better about cleaning up after myself on a daily basis. I still have boxes of crap that I haven't unpacked since I moved here, however, so the idea of me doing a quarterly cleaning is pretty far-fetched in practice. I need to start making money NOW so that I can pay someone more talented in the area of domestic organization than myself to do this crap while I watch TV. Housework is the worst, most exhausting, most unmitigatedly lame activity I've ever done. I'd rather have reverse piledriver anal with a spider (I really, really, REALLY hate spiders) than spend almost fourteen hours sweeping, sneezing, and being completely disgusted with myself.
On the bright side, my apartment is considerably more comfortable when it is clean, and I woke up this morning breathing easier than I have the past few weeks. I like not having to apologize for the mess when people come over. This process was also very educational. For example, I learned that a whole slew of my male partners prefer to chuck their used condoms on the floor under the bed rather than in the trash can. I pulled a veritable army of babies' worth of dried-up sperm depositories out from under there. I am going to have to try to maintain post-coital consciousness from now on long enough to ensure that whatever lazy fool I'm fucking gets his ass to the trash can. Now that the space under my bed is free from dog hair dust bunnies, empty Sugar-Free Red Bull cans, and used condoms from the random lays of antiquity, it better fucking stay that way. I don't want to have to do any more cleaning for a long time.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, fuck housework, gross, oh the horror, overcompensation, Razzification
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Daily Badass Douchebag: John Mayer
DOB: October 16, 1977
Occupation: translator of male pussification into song and verse, not-funny wannabe comedian, media whore, MAJOR LEAGUE D-BAG
Hometown: Bridgeport, Connecticut (AKA the worst state in America)
Current residence: New York, New York
Douchebaggery: John Mayer's offenses in douchebaggery are legendary. It's hard to even consider him a "daily" douchebag, since his douchebaggery is so pervasive and eternal that it's one of the few constants of this ever-changing world. The polar ice caps may melt, the seas may rise, coastlines may change, and continents may drift, but John Mayer will ALWAYS be a monumental douchebag of the highest order. If you look up "douchebag" in the dictionary, you should see something like this:
John Mayer is such an incorrigible douchebag (and so determinedly in denial about this fact) that he actually had to write a bemused critical analysis attempting to strip the term "douchebag" of its pejorative power, so that we may understand that John Mayer and Pete Wentz (who has "a truckload" of "big, bold, colorful ideas" without "their edges sanded down"...sha) are merely "OTHER PERSONALITIES...THAT ARE NOT ENTIRELY SYMPATHETIC TO OUR OWN."
I suppose John could call it that, and maybe his personality is not "entirely sympathetic" to mine, but putting on a shirt, realizing that it says "Mr. Douchebag" on it, and crossing that out with a Sharpie to replace "Douchebag" with "Badass" is one of the douchebaggiest moves I've ever seen. First off, there is nothing "badass" about John Mayer or his music. Most of his song lyrics read like a less-erudite approximation of the shiteous lesbian poetry I wrote when I was fifteen, he obviously spends more time fixing his hair than I do, and last I heard he was boning Jennifer Aniston. Way to go, John Mayer. Jennifer Aniston seems like she has the personality of a rancid prune, and she certainly has the skin to match. Banging her is not any more "badass" than writing lyrics like "can't seem to hold you like I want to so I can feel you in my arms," posing in metrosexually-themed Gap ads, and hawking Volkswagen Beetles. I may not be able to adequately describe the essence of douchebag with words other than "John Mayer," but I certainly know it when I see it. This is it.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, John Mayer sucks, overcompensation, small penises
Friday, April 18, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Akon
Name: Aliuane Badara Thiam
DOB: April 30, 1973
Occupation: R&B singer, record producer, big old phony
Hometown: Dakar, Senegal
Current residence: Atlanta, Georgia
Douchebaggery: I never spent much time thinking about whether Akon's claims of being imprisoned for various crimes ranging from operating a car theft ring to illegal weapons possession to drug dealing were true. Akon has a nice voice and he sounds sweet when he sings "I wanna fuck you." I also figure that with a few exceptions, most of the dudes in R&B and hip-hop are embellishing a little when it comes to their criminal resumés. For example, when I hear R. Kelly singing the hook for Young Jeezy's "Go Getta," I don't believe for a second that Kells is"trapping all day." Robert Sylvester Kelly may be a R&B thug, but he's not taking a break from blessing the world with his mackadelic nightspot realness to sling crack on the street corner. And I believe Lil' Wayne a lot more when he says things like "hoes kiss the dick with no mistletoes" over "I put 'em in ya head and watch the holes bleed." In spite of his claims to the contrary, I don't think anyone actually believes that his tattooed teardrops represent three different lives that he's personally taken via homicidal means. The only crimes he's committed are the ones he's routinely arrested for: rolling around with pounds of weed (literally), smoking the same in public, and enough Vicodin to supply every prescription pill-popper on "Intervention" for life.
Akon, however, has apparently been doing a lot of talking about how critical his past record of illustrious criminal exploits have directly influenced his music. He even named his record label "Konvict" to demonstrate how critical his felonious history is to his art. A recent investigation by The Smoking Gun, however, raises some issues about Akon's personal credibility. As the author of the piece notes regarding his most recent album Konvicted, "Kontrived may have been a more accurate choice."
It seems Akon has made all sorts of claims in interviews, from being the "ringleader of a notorious car theft operation" specializing in exotic luxury vehicles to being a "champion" of prison fighting while doing a three-year sentence to "facing 75 years." With the exception of a solitary reporter at the Washington Post, the media largely accepted Akon's criminal autobiography as fact until The Smoking Gun did some fact-checking and declared Akon "James Frey with catchy hooks and an American Music Award."
In reality, Akon has only one felony conviction to his name (for gun possession), and apart from several months spent in the DeKalb jail for a stolen car charge he ended up getting three years probation for, he hasn't done any time. In fact, he conceived his son in the middle of his supposed term.
Akon has gone above and beyond to make himself seem like some kind of don of the urban underworld. Much like Vanilla Ice before him who made claims of being stabbed in the ass during a gang altercation, Akon presumably felt that this would enhance his marketability. He should have paid more attention to what happened to Vanilla Ice. The false claims of being grievously injured during a gang turf war were the nail in that idiot's coffin. Granted, Akon has produced far more in terms of hits than Vanilla Ice, but considering his outlandish fabrication of being a hardened criminal and maximum security prison veteran, I wonder how well his next album, Acquitted, will fare now that he's been outed as a total fake. Now nobody will ever be able to listen to lyrics like "you know my pedigree, street dealer used to move 'phetamines" without a sarcastic eye-roll. Then again, if nobody cares and Acquitted sells well, maybe I should think about marketing myself this way.
Here's my real autobiography:
I was born November 17, 1978 in Tacoma, Washington and raised in nearby Puyallup, in a house down the street from a trailer park and a mobile home dealership. I attended private Catholic school for twelve years. During this time my hobbies included writing, playing classical piano, and editing the school paper and literary magazine. I received a bachelor's degree in biological sciences from Smith College in 2000. I worked for a small biotechnology company in Seattle for three years and drove a '94 Honda Civic. I was then accepted into a Ph.D program at Columbia University, received two masters degrees, and expect to earn my doctorate in late 2008 or early 2009. I love dogs, beer, sex, and football. I have received only one criminal citation in my life (a misdemeanor "possession of drug paraphernalia" charge in South Dakota for having a pipe and half a joint in my car during a cross-country trek that amounted to no arrest and a fine of $250).
Here's my Akon autobiography:
I was born in 1985 in Tacoma and raised in a vile trailer park in Puyallup, where I began selling illegal firearms at a young age to my equally criminal neighbors. My aptitude in science led to a productive career in clandestine methamphetamine production, so I dropped out of school to pursue riches via the only option available: mastery of the drug trade. My shit was known as the purest tweak in all of Pierce County. After dominating the local market for meth and stunting around town in a stolen Mercedes MacLaren purchased at Akon's infamous chop shop, I set my sights higher. I expanded my portfolio of services to include illegal gun trafficking, money laundering, and interstate transportation of large quantities of marijuana. This backfired after an arrest in South Dakota landed me in maximum security federal prison for five years. While in prison, I was the head dyke in charge and quickly took control of the black market cigarette trade via my ability to beat everyone mercilessly. Upon my release, I migrated east to make a national name for myself amongst the heavy-hitting underground crime syndicates. In New York, I managed to use my prowess in the lab to sell black market illegal poliovirus and rhinovirus to terrorist and mercenary groups. I also began peddling illegal pornography, set up a bootlegging operation, and set up a combination pimping and dogfighting business catering to Michael Vick, Pac Man Jones, Tank Johnson, Ray Lewis, and some of the NFL's most notorious criminals. Today, I am considered a super-don and have several major crime families answering to me. I expect that soon I will be the world's most powerful criminal. And don't fuck with me, because I'm always walking around totally strapped.
Yeah, that's believable. I bet I'm about to get a lot more blog traffic now that I've decided to start marketing myself as a hardened felon with a lengthy rap sheet rather than an upwardly mobile science nerd with a Chopin fetish and a lot of letters bestowed by fancy schools that I can put after my name.
Labels: celebrities, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, Lil' Wayne, overcompensation, rap, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly, Young Jeezy