Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Dolla is Dead
In today's sad news, Roderick "Dolla" Burton II was shot and killed at a mall in Beverly Hills, California, probably while he was trying to either get some brain in the Hummer, mashing out in something European, smoking Steve Urkel by the ton, or generally owning the club. If you just asked, "Who the fuck is that?," well, you may remember a song named just that which was hot on "106 and Park" for two seconds last summer.
That was Dolla's song! "Who the fuck is that?" By Dolla. Who used to drop stacks at the bar on the Louis XIII but is dead now. Too bad, although I wouldn't be surprised if he was capped on account of those ratty braids he was rocking. Those are an insult to hair braiders everywhere, and certainly would not pass muster with the fine lady who creates fine braided creations with a certain Robert Sylvester Kelly's hair.
Anyway, Dolla was only 21, and that's sad. Just so you know who you're pouring liquor out for, here is who the fuck Dolla is:
RIP, Dolla. Say hi to Pimp C for me.
Labels: people who died, rap, tragedy
Friday, May 30, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Harvey Korman
DOB: February 15, 1927
DOD: May 29, 2008
Occupation: actor, hot piece
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: a funeral home in Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Not being a necrophile, I'm not really interested in hitting it with Harvey's corpse. I am, however, interested in lauding his career, since he was in one of the greatest movies of all time: Mel Brooks's Western parody and masterpiece Blazing Saddles.
Blazing Saddles is probably one of the most politically incorrect movies I've ever seen, and it's awesome. I think it explains a lot concerning my inherent offensiveness level now that I grew up quoting lines like "Wait a minute while I whip it out" and "You said rape twice...I like rape." Nowadays, a movie like Blazing Saddles would probably never be made, because nobody not named Dave Chapelle could get away with dressing a black man in Klan robes and presenting this as humorous. Nor would modern day audiences find dialogue such as "Alright, we'll give land to the niggers and the chinks, but we don't want the Irish!" to be side-splittingly funny. The genius of Blazing Saddles lies in its script taking some of the most offensive, despicable societal customs (ie: flagrant racism and bigotry) and satirizing them in a manner that is completely and unabashedly hilarious. I've probably seen Blazing Saddles 50 times, and I still laugh out loud hard when I watch it.
Harvey Korman plays corrupt political boss Hedley Lamarr in this movie, and he's brilliant. I never saw any of Harvey Korman's other work (with the possible exception of his voice-overs in "Tom and Jerry" cartoons), but his work in Blazing Saddles alone is an achievement of the highest order. When he says florid lines like, "My mind is a raging torrent, flooding with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives" it's the perfect set-up for his henchman to say, "Goddammit, Mr. Lamarr, you use your tongue prettier than a $20 whore." Nobody else could call stampeding cattle through the Vatican "kinky" with quite the same panache as Harvey Korman. If you don't believe me, watch this classic scene:
My only regret is that I couldn't find one of my favorite clips on YouTube, specifically where Hedley Lamarr's hired muscle Taggart is explaining what he's going to do to the people of Rock Ridge who have failed to socially implode upon assigning them a black sheriff and thus are blocking his efforts at expanding the railroad ("unfortunately there is one thing standing between me and that property: the rightful owners").
My only regret is that I couldn't find one of my favorite clips on YouTube, specifically where Hedley Lamarr's hired muscle Taggart is explaining what he's going to do to the people of Rock Ridge who have failed to socially implode upon assigning them a black sheriff and thus are blocking his efforts at expanding the railroad ("unfortunately there is one thing standing between me and that property: the rightful owners").
Taggart: We'll work up a "number 6" on 'em.I salute Harvey Korman for his outstanding skills as a thespian, and hope that his soul has found repose being totally hysterically funny in the afterlife alongside Madeline Kahn's. Rest in hilarity, Harvey.
Lamarr: "Number 6?" I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that one.
Taggart: Well, that's where we go a-ridin' into town, a whampin' and whompin' every livin' thing that moves within an inch of its life. Except the women folks, of course.
Lamarr: You spare the women?
Taggart: Naw...we rape the shit out of 'em at the Number 6 dance later on!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, movies, people who died
Monday, April 21, 2008
Death and the City
I was not at all excited for the new Sex and the City movie due out next month. Apart from Samantha's adventures in sluttery, I could care less about new storylines involving these superficial, ugly old broads going shoe shopping and banging ugly old dudes. However, thanks to a recent interview by the ugliest of the ugly old broads, Cynthia Nixon, I now have something to get excited about. Supposedly, one character is going to bite the big one in the new movie.
As far as I'm concerned, as long as one character is getting killed off, why not take them all out (except Samantha)? The producers have labored under the delusion that any of these characters (again, except Samantha) are likable or fun. These women are a bunch of obnoxious old shrews with little character apart from their love of overpriced footwear and their tendency to act like junior high retards regarding the men in their life. I think any of the following scenarios would be good, or to use the SatC ladies' favorite adjective--FABULOUS:
1. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha sit down to a table of cosmopolitans at some upscale lounge. Samantha goes to fuck the bartender in the bathroom and while she's gone, a meteorite crashes through the roof right onto their table, killing them instantly in a blaze of cosmic dust and shattered martini glasses.
2. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha attend a prestigious gallery opening. While Samantha is off banging some artist type in the bathroom, Mr. Big walks in with an Uzi and takes everyone out because it's the only way to get Carrie's fickle, whiny ass to quit him once and for all. Then he kills himself, both for much-needed closure and because he's way hotter when he's Detective Mike Logan on various "Law and Order" franchises.
3. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha go shoe shopping. While Samantha steps out of the Manolo Blahnik store to bang some random guy in the bathroom of the Starbucks next door, a freak shelf collapse kills the remaining three women via impalement by stiletto heels.
4. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha visit the spa. While Samantha is banging one of the facial technicians, Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda are boiled to death when the sauna's thermostat goes inexplicably haywire.
5. Carrie goes bankrupt due to spending far beyond the means of an unemployed columnist, gets evicted from her Upper East Side apartment, and contracts drug-resistant tuberculosis. While crashing with Charlotte and Miranda, she gives them the consumption as well, and they all die. Samantha is spared because she is too fabulous to hang out with Carrie after she joins the ranks of the homeless, and she's probably banging some dude in a bathroom somewhere.
6. Miranda finally nags Steve to his breaking point. While they are at some function where Samantha is banging some dude in the bathroom, Steve walks in with a bomb strapped to his chest and blows the place up. Only the bathroom where Samantha is skanking it up survives the explosion.
7. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha are forced to take the subway somewhere. Samantha changes her mind upon venturing into the dirty subterranean realm of the common folk and retreats to a nearby bathroom where she bangs some guy. Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda are unaccustomed to how the subway works, and accidentally step into the path of an oncoming F train, thinking that's how they are supposed to board it.
8. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha go to a sushi restaurant. While Samantha is banging the sake delivery man in the bathroom, Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda eat an improperly cut piece of blowfish and die when their hearts explode. Actually, I don't know if improperly cut blowfish really makes your heart explode, but that happened on an episode of "The Simpsons" once, so it's likely.
9. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha throw a botox party. Samantha is banging the plastic surgeon in the bathroom while Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda all die from acute botulinum poisoning thanks to the massive amounts of botox required to youth up their craggy-ass faces.
10. Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha take a road trip to the Hamptons. Upon arrival, Samantha promptly gets down to business banging the pool boy at their rental. Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda just spontaneously drop dead because they suck.
However this goes down, it's going to be awesome. Anything that will put these hags out of their misery and relegate them to late-night reruns on TBS where they belong is right on in my book.
Labels: movies, people who died, retard rage, Sex and the City
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Stanley Kamel
DOB: January 1, 1943
DOD: April 8, 2008
Occupation: character actor best known for playing the villainous mob boss Tony Marchette on (the greatest show in the history of television) "Beverly Hills, 90210"
Hometown: South River, New Jersey
Current residence: a funeral home in Los Angeles
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I was terribly saddened to hear of the death of one Stanley Kamel, an actor who has apparently been in about ten million shows, but is truly memorable for his role as Tony Marchette, father and accidental assassin of Antonia "Toni" Marchette McKay. In case you somehow haven't watched these classic episodes on FX or SoapNet reruns (and you can't get them on DVD...season six doesn't drop until spring 2009), I will provide a brief recap.
Dylan McKay, brooding and high-maintenance as always, comes off a bad year in which he becomes addicted to heroin thanks to a sketchy pool hall acquaintance who wonders if Dylan has ever "chased the dragon." Then, just when he gets out of a near-fatal stint in rapid opiate detox and subsequent rehab, his half-sister's evil mother Suzanne and her boyfriend Kevin steal his fortune and abscond to some tropical destination (I think it was supposed to be Brazil, but it looked more like Mazatlan). Dylan's sister would have been lost to an undoubtedly grim fate with Suzanne and Kevin if not for the aid of a hard-boiled private investigator named Jonesy and Valerie putting her powers of sneaky manipulation to work. Dylan gets his money and his half-sister back (so that she can enjoy a childhood in foster care and eventually become a different actress and a teen prostitute by season 8), and has just resumed flying the pride windsock from the front porch of his Craftsman-style bungalow when he has to help extract Kelly Taylor from the New Evolution cult. Then Kelly shows her gratitude by choosing herself over a trip around the world.
Just when things are looking up for Dylan and an investor seems interested in developing his shiteous sci-fi screenplay, he discovers the investor has ties to organized crime. Even worse, it appears that Don Tony Marchette of the organized crime family in question ordered a hit on Dylan's father Jack since Dylan's questions about this result in his being dangled from a gondola by the unscrupulous investor. And so season 6 begins with Dylan trying to conduct his own investigation into Jack McKay's death-by-exploding-car, and getting close to the don's daughter, the comely Antonia Marchette AKA Rebecca Gayheart the Noxema fresh-faced girl. Dylan falls in love with her in spite of his best efforts to pursue his vengeance-fueled vendetta against her family. He then marries her against Tony Marchette's wishes, his outraged father-in-law orders his murder. Unfortunately, the assassin confuses the recent Mrs. McKay with Dylan, and accidentally empties a clip into her. This precipitates another classic scene of Dylan howling in grief ("NOOOOOOO!!!!! WHYYYYYYY?!?!?!?!?!"), the likes of which hadn't been seen since Jack McKay faked his death by car bomb. Dylan then goes to Europe to live with Brenda and resume his junkie reverie, and only returns to the world's greatest zip code when 8 Seconds fails to score at the box office and Luke Perry's career as a big-screen leading man goes down in flames.
Anyway, the whole Dylan-versus-Tony Marchette feud made for some intense times on Bev Niner, and while I suppose death is a karmic reward for killing Jack McKay (or at least thinking he did), it's still a pity that Stanley Kamel checked out before he got a chance to bring some Cosa Nostra-related shenanigans to the upcoming Bev Niner spinoff. RIP Stanley Kamel.
Labels: Bev Niner, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, people who died
Monday, February 11, 2008
RIP Chief Brody
I was very sad to hear that Roy Scheider passed away at the age of 75 this weekend. He had multiple myeloma and he was old anyway, but I still experienced a pang of sadness at the news. As far as movies go, there are a few that had a dramatic impact on my world. In no particular order, these films include The Ten Commandments, Gone With the Wind, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, The Naked Gun, Aliens, A Nightmare on Elm Street, Ghostbusters, Back to the Future, Robocop, Romancing the Stone, The Running Man, and Ruthless People. However, while all these movies are my treasured favorites, there is one film that rises above all of them in terms of having the most lasting effect on me: Jaws.
I saw Jaws when I was five, because I desperately wanted to see it and finally my mom relented. It's rated PG, after all, and the worst language in it ("smile, you son-of-a...") is obscured by an exploding scuba tank in the shark's mouth. She figured it wouldn't be the worst thing if I saw Jaws since I wanted to so badly. I decided after a trip to Sea World when I was three that my life's ambition was to be a marine biologist, and I determined that seeing Jaws was critical to my training as such. It turns out that this would have been better left out of my early childhood marine biology curriculum, because it convinced me that great white sharks like to eat girls, and are so terrifying they can come onto land. Although that didn't happen in Jaws, I wasn't entirely sure something as determinedly hungry as the shark wouldn't get under the carpet in the hallway at my parents' house, and swim up to my room and pluck me from my day bed like some kind of little girl midnight snack. I insisted that my parents turn the hall light on and leave my door open so I could see that inevitable dorsal fin when it came swimming up the carpet to get me and try to avoid it as best as possible. That arrangement lasted for seven years, until I finally conceded that great whites couldn't swim up carpeted hallways in junior high.
Although I started off being terrified out of my wits by Jaws, this movie became one of my favorites. It's awesome and fun to watch, and I realized in hindsight that Chief Brody is a hot piece. He spends most of the movie smoking, drinking giant tumblers of wine, and fighting with the local bureaucrats, and then he conquers his fear of water to blow up the shark with a scuba tank and his trusty thirty-ought. He was even hot shit when he was up to his rolled-up shirtsleeves in fish guts working the shark boat's chum station.
The world is a less sexy place now that Chief Brody isn't running around keeping the beaches of New England safe from marauding sharks. Alas.
I saw Jaws when I was five, because I desperately wanted to see it and finally my mom relented. It's rated PG, after all, and the worst language in it ("smile, you son-of-a...") is obscured by an exploding scuba tank in the shark's mouth. She figured it wouldn't be the worst thing if I saw Jaws since I wanted to so badly. I decided after a trip to Sea World when I was three that my life's ambition was to be a marine biologist, and I determined that seeing Jaws was critical to my training as such. It turns out that this would have been better left out of my early childhood marine biology curriculum, because it convinced me that great white sharks like to eat girls, and are so terrifying they can come onto land. Although that didn't happen in Jaws, I wasn't entirely sure something as determinedly hungry as the shark wouldn't get under the carpet in the hallway at my parents' house, and swim up to my room and pluck me from my day bed like some kind of little girl midnight snack. I insisted that my parents turn the hall light on and leave my door open so I could see that inevitable dorsal fin when it came swimming up the carpet to get me and try to avoid it as best as possible. That arrangement lasted for seven years, until I finally conceded that great whites couldn't swim up carpeted hallways in junior high.
Although I started off being terrified out of my wits by Jaws, this movie became one of my favorites. It's awesome and fun to watch, and I realized in hindsight that Chief Brody is a hot piece. He spends most of the movie smoking, drinking giant tumblers of wine, and fighting with the local bureaucrats, and then he conquers his fear of water to blow up the shark with a scuba tank and his trusty thirty-ought. He was even hot shit when he was up to his rolled-up shirtsleeves in fish guts working the shark boat's chum station.
Labels: hot dudes, movies, people who died, Razzification
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: John Gibson
DOB: 1946
Occupation: FOX News talk show host, insensitive cad, sworn enemy of the British Broadcasting Corporation
Hometown: ???
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I used to watch FOX News a lot, because the people on it are so ridiculous. Between their whole Bush propagandist freedom schtick and their intentionally obnoxious, constantly editorializing personalities, I found FOX News to be completely hilarious. However, that got tired after awhile. You can only watch Sean Hannity and Ann Coulter giving each other palpable fuck-me eyes while spouting a steady stream of outrageous asshole gibberish for so long before you decide to see if Bravo is showing any episodes of "Project Runway" that you've seen five times already.
When I do watch FOX, I usually skip right past "The Big Story," because John Gibson is boring as well as boorish, and he looks like the villain in a bad Lifetime movie. I could see him playing a child-molesting stepfather or a date-raping corrupt city councilman opposite the survivor-victim female protagonist portrayed by Rena Sofer or Rebecca Gayheart. Every once in a while, Gibson produces some extreme assholery, like his crusade against those damn America-hating foreigners at the BBC or his wishing for "another 9/11" to galvanize support for Bush and the Iraq war. Most of the time, however, he creeps me out, so I don't watch his show, and I sure as shit don't listen to his radio program. Besides, I'm more into the hotness that is Shepard Smith.
Anyway, John Gibson had one of his rare moments of achievements in being a dick yesterday when he started going off on Heath Ledger. He mocked him with audio clips of the infamous "I don't know how to quit you" and came up with a few theories about why Heath Ledger made such an early departure from this mortal coil. This created some controversy, because apparently making fun of Heath Ledger is off-limits now that he's no longer with us, and because making fun of gay movie characters sounds like homophobia to idiots. Frankly, I would be more upset about the fact that the Reverend Fred Phelps is taking his "GOD HATES FAGS" signs down under to picket Heath's funeral because, according to Westboro Baptist Church spokeswhore Shirley Phelps-Roper, "he got on that big screen with a big, fat message: God is a liar and it’s OK to be gay." Their press release describes Brokeback Mountain as a "sordid, tacky bucket of slime seasoned with vomit" and "He (God) hates all persons having anything whatsoever to do with it." They also add, "Heath Ledger thought it was great fun defying God Almighty and His plain word; to wit: God Hates Fags! & Fag-Enablers!... Heath Ledger is now in Hell, and has begun serving his eternal sentence there - beside which, nothing else about Heath Ledger is relevant or consequential." Now once I got to the "seasoned with vomit" part I said, "A-HA! Homophobia alert!" Actually, that happened when I went to the URL godhatesfags.com. The Westboro Baptist Church thinks Heath is currently roasting over an eternal flame at the business end of a pitchfork for being a "fag-enabler," and I'm going to call a spade a spade and say that the Phelpses are indeed homophobic. I don't really think that making fun of scenes from Brokeback Mountain on a FOX News radio show necessarily is the same thing, but you can decide for yourself.
Perez Hilton is incensed about this--because he does SUCH a service for the gays by being the most annoying queen in the history of Manic Panic hair dye and other brightly colored accessories for plumage enhancement and outing every celebrity he can think of who MIGHT be hitting it on the same-sex tip because they don't deserve private lives--and provided this synopsis of Gibson's insensitive eulogizing of Heath Ledger:
Playing an audio clip of the iconic quote, 'I wish I knew how to quit you' from Ledger’s gay romance movie Brokeback Mountain, Gibson disdainfully quipped, 'Well, he found out how to quit you.' Laughing, Gibson then played another clip from Brokeback Mountain in which Ledger said, 'We’re dead,' followed by his own, mocking 'We’re dead' before playing the clip again."I think this is actually kind of funny, at least the part about John Edwards and speculation about Heath's portfolio taking a dive down on Wall Street. Tasteless, maybe, but COME ON. It's Heath Ledger! Who cares? I know Heath Ledger's death was surprising and a big tragedy and everyone is devastated and he was talented and blah blah blah, but this is Heath Ledger, not fucking JFK. Heath Ledger from 10 Things I Hate About You (filmed in Tacoma, WA!) and the appalling two hour movie rendition of a Medieval Times matinee jousting showcase known as A Knight's Tale. Okay, so Brokeback Mountain was fine, but still...Heath Ledger didn't end the damn Cold War or broker peace or invent a vaccine or get Africa out of debt or do anything besides convince everyone that he was a gay cowboy and not an Australian Johnny Depp wannabe hipster, knock up that chick from "Dawson's Creek," and move to Brooklyn. It's not like making a couple dumb splices of a memorable scene from Brokeback Mountain is the equivalent of making fun of Holocaust survivors or something really loathsome and inexcusable.
Gibson called Ledger a "weirdo" with a "serious drug problem" and suggested that Ledger killed himself because he had "a serious position in the (stock) market" or perhaps "watched the Clinton-Obama debate last night. I think he was an Edwards guy, cause he saw his Edwards guy was just completely irrelevant."
Besides, this is FOX NEWS! How can anyone get mad about something a FOX host says that is crass or offensive? That describes virtually ALL of their programming. John Gibson was just doing his damn job: reporting unsubstantiated sensationalist facts and being an asshole. I applaud him for having such a high standard for professionalism. I also am glad SOMEONE is trying to be funny about Heath Ledger, because if I have to read one more breaking story about how Heath Ledger liked his coffee or how he helped some dumbass change a tire once or how John Travolta had a huge hard-on for him, I'm going to go crazy. I get it. Heath Ledger was nice. It's sad that he's dead. That's a downer, so why not try to add some levity with a couple mean-spirited jokes? Good show, John Gibson. You may not have much class, but at least your black heart is in the right place.
Labels: assholes, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, intentional buffoonery, media whores, movies, people who died, TV, vulgar display of faggotry
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Pourin' out for Pourin' Up
Sadly, Chad "Pimp C" Butler passed away two days ago from as-yet-undisclosed causes. His mom says he died in his sleep, which makes me think "codeine and promethazine overdose," but I'm down to make a friendly wager on this matter if you have another idea. My thoughts are that 33-year-old dudes don't just up and die for no reason, and given that he was a man from the South who noted in "Big Pimpin'" (while helping Jay-Z make Grey Goose vodka rain all over the tits of a veritable army of bikini-clad video hoes) that he's "keepin' lean up in his cup." Other notable Houston-based rappers (ie: DJ Screw) have died from overdoing their Jolly Rancher-Sprite-prescription cough syrup-vodka concoctions, so my money's on the sizzurp.
Anyway, it's sad that the world was deprived of this great artist at such a young age. Pimp C's fans have already crafted beautiful and moving tributes to his memory, and to help his longtime partner Bernard "Bun B" Freeman cope with his loss. I know it hurts, but stay trill!
To keep his memory alive, I will conclude this memorial with a few lines that Pimp C penned himself. Pimpalation will always be proceeding so long as we cherish Pimp C's contribution within our hearts. Bow your head and take a moment to reflect.
Anyway, it's sad that the world was deprived of this great artist at such a young age. Pimp C's fans have already crafted beautiful and moving tributes to his memory, and to help his longtime partner Bernard "Bun B" Freeman cope with his loss. I know it hurts, but stay trill!
To keep his memory alive, I will conclude this memorial with a few lines that Pimp C penned himself. Pimpalation will always be proceeding so long as we cherish Pimp C's contribution within our hearts. Bow your head and take a moment to reflect.
Smokin out, pourin up, puttin dick up in yo slutFather-Son-Holy Spirit, Amen.
All my car got leather and wood, in my hood we call it buck
I'm smokin out, pourin up, keep it lean up in my cup
All my car got leather and wood, in my hood we call it buck
Labels: drugs, people who died, rap, tragedy
Monday, November 26, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Dr. Donda West
DOB: 1949
DOD: November 10, 2007
Occupation: former English professor, Kanye West's manager
Hometown: Atlanta, Georgia
Current residence: a cemetery somewhere--Chi-town?
Douchebaggery: As much as I hate Kanye West for being an insufferable, obnoxious asshole, I did feel bad when his mother died. I would be devastated if my mother passed long before her time, and I don't wish family tragedy on anyone, even an annoying egomaniacal sell-out like Kanye. That said, however, the media should SHUT UP about Donda West.
Donda is being discussed in the same way that people discuss those who died in the Holocaust. She's being portrayed as the innocent victim of some nefarious evil force, and her departure from this mortal coil is the most tragic untimely death since Martin Luther King or John F. Kennedy. While from what I've read, it seems like Donda was a brilliant scholar, a loving mother, and an all-around good person, I had no idea who the fuck Donda West was until she croaked. The bitch was busy doing things like getting Kanye airmailed $4000 worth of transatlantic Indian food and marketing Kanye merchandise. She might have been a good person, but it's not like she was Mother Teresa, and I am tired of hearing her described as though she was. In my view, if it weren't for her, we wouldn't be listening to Kanye's asinine demagoguery about everything from conflict diamonds to Jesus, and that would make the world a better fucking place. Thanks a lot for giving birth to that asshole, Donda, and even worse, thanks for ENCOURAGING him to be a blowhard.
Furthermore, Donda didn't die from an assassin's bullet or some other martyr-type death. She died having plastic surgery from a doctor whose credentials she didn't check after a different doctor told her that she wasn't a candidate for a tummy tuck or tumescent lipo or whatever. Basically, she went against medical advice for the sake of vanity. I'm not saying that anyone who wants plastic surgery deserves to die, but it shouldn't be so fucking unexpected when a doctor refuses to operate on you because you're such a high-risk patient, and you instead turn to some unscrupulous quack without board certification. Donda decided to risk her life for her looks, and paid the price. That sucks, but it's not like she died rescuing puppies from a burning building, and if I hear one more entertainment news report portraying her death as some type of horrible unforeseen tragedy from which the world is paralyzed with grief, I'm going to swear off watching "Access Hollywood" and "The Insider" forever. Whatever will I do now that Donda West is dead? As challenging as it will be for me, I'll probably keep slanging rhinovirus, pounding Heinekens, watching reruns of "I Love New York 2," and hating on her son. In other words, BUSINESS AS USUAL.
Kid Rock had it right at the AMAs when he took the stage and asked everyone who was busy with the clusterfuck of public lamentation about Donda West's death to remember the thousands of U.S. soldiers who died in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well. It's true that all those soldiers have done as much if not more for the world than Donda West, and who gave their lives serving their country rather than their own narcissistic desire for smaller saddlebags, and they're not getting shit besides the odd "here's who died in Iraq today" cable news segment. Donda West's death has served only to showcase how completely skewed our priorities as a society are, as we care more about Kanye's stupid mother than the fucking WAR that's destroying our economy, ruining our credit with the world, and killing our citizens and soldiers. So fuck Donda West. She's dead. Move on.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, media whores, people who died, plastic surgery, rap, vanity
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Anthony Merino
DOB: 1983?
Occupation: part-time morgue lab technician; geriatric necrophile
Hometown: Bronx, New York
Current residence: W. 185th Street, Manhattan, New York, New York
Douchebaggery: A quick glance at his metallic Playboy-symbol embossed MySpace might lead you to believe that Anthony Merino is your usual harmless guido-next-door. His interests are pretty typical, including "watching Movies, weight training, playing football, making mix dance/club mixes, going out to the hottest clubs in NYC, and last but not least working hard always cause I know in the end it will all pay off. The harder you work the harder you can party." He likes "eurodance" music and his favorite book is something called Extreme Muscle Enhancement. I have a feeling that Anthony can execute a flawless fist pump.
However, Anthony's life is not entirely spent going to "the hottest clubs in NYC" (translation: Crobar, Avalon, and any other hellish bacchanalian clusterfuck of cocaine, overpriced drinks, and house music that attracts the Bridge-and-Tunnel types), improving his muscles, and taking pictures of his crotch rocket car. He's also a student and thus spends lots of time "studing" (probably the most awesome guido misspelling of all time) and working as a "histotechnologist" AKA slide sorter at some New Jersey hospital lab. In the course of his professional efforts, he has access to the hospital morgue. After all, "histotechnologist" refers to someone who works with technology relating to tissue samples, and where are there more tissue samples than in a morgue?
However, Anthony decided to take a rather unconventional approach to his job. Instead of taking a tissue sample from the corpse of the 92-year-old woman who had just been wheeled into his office after hours, Anthony decided to leave one of his own. In her cold, collapsed, dead elderly woman vagina. GROSS! He got arrested and was clearly sad about getting caught:
Anthony is a revolting perv, and me being disgusted by someone's perversion is a tall order indeed. Ladies, if you happen to be out clubbing and you see this fella, fist-pumping away in a fuzzy pastel Kangol hat and a pair of stunner shades to some eurotrash techno, RUN don't walk away from him! His dick has hit dead vagina, and even I draw the line at sitting on that. Indeed, what lies behind and before are small matters compared to what lies within, if by "within" you are referring to my cooch and by "what" you are referring to necrophiliac guido dick. NO THANKS.
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, gross, oh the horror, people who died, perversion, sex, sexual assault
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Adelfa Volpes
DOB: 1925
DOD: October 22, 2007
Occupation: December bride
Hometown: Santa Fe, Argentina
Current residence: the morgue in Santa Fe, Argentina
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Adelfa Volpes died yesterday at the ripe old age of 82, leaving behind her inconsolable 24-year-old husband Reinaldo Waveqche. Reinaldo moved in with Adelfa, a friend of the family, following his mother's death when he was 15. Naturally, Adelfa made like Mary Kay LeTourneau and promptly started banging his swarthy 58-years-her-junior ass.
Apparently it was love, because they got married last month and headed to Brazil for a sexed-up honeymoon which took its toll on Adelfa's ailing heart. She croaked, but not before establishing herself as the most accomplished horny old lady in the history of horny old ladies. Man, I hope I'm nailing dudes in their early twenties when I'm an octogenarian. Those are some seriously impressive man-landing skills. She's clearly a pimp and a player who was born to mack.
Reinaldo isn't that bad looking, either. Granted, his style needs a little work because he has a skeevy date rapist vibe, but I think that could be fixed with a shave and some new stunner shades. Overall, he's a pretty choice piece of ass for an 82-year-old woman to score. I bet that in her day, Adelfa gave one hell of a blow job or she's super rich, because I was expecting her to be with a troll. It's too bad the old girl didn't have a longer run with her marriage, but I salute her nonetheless. I hope she's up in heaven kicking it with a cadre of young studs catering to her every whim. What a hot bitch.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, gross, hot chicks, people who died, sluts
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Steve Fossett
DOB: April 22, 1944
Occupation: securities robber baron, aviator, seaman, pursuer of pointless records
Hometown: Garden Grove, California
Current residence: the Nevada desert
Douchebaggery: I get so annoyed with all these rich guys who decide to become famous and take up space in my news coverage with their attempts to do stupid, pointless, incredibly expensive shit. These billionaires all decide to live out their childhood fantasies of being an astronaut or a professional athlete by buying tickets to space in Russia or buying a pro sports franchise. At least the sports team owners provide some entertainment, both in terms of their product and their courtside antics (in Mark Cuban's case, anyway). The astronaut types are annoying and provide nothing of value except stupid articles concerning the breaking news of their flight in some overpriced test rocket.
Steve Fossett clearly has experienced a variation of the I-always-wanted-to-be-an-astronaut syndrome afflicting so many other dudes enjoying their billions, as he apparently wanted to be Charles Lindbergh or Phileas Fogg when he grew up. He's set a ton of records important to nobody except the publishers at Guiness, and is always looking for new ways to circumnavigate the globe for no apparent reason. His means of travel have the trappings of danger, and thus every time he busts out in the "Global Flyer" or his balloon or whatever, the media covers his ass more than the war in Iraq. However, money, press, and faggy flight suits do not make the man Magellan. Steve Fossett will interest my ass when he tries to sail around Cape Horn in a rotting, worm-ridden, single-hulled piece of Spanish crap subsisting solely on rancid seal blubber and Madeira wine while quashing mutinies and battling scurvy. Until he does that (hopefully also going out like Magellan and getting hacked to death by a horde of angry Filipinos), I could care less about anything Steve Fossett does, much less that he's missing.
While this douche was out scouting salt beds to race along in the desert, he disappeared in his buddy Barron Hilton's (aka grandfather of Paris) fancy plane. This has been the top headline for the past day, and I just don't care. Everyone seems to be shocked that this happened, but COME ON! Planes crash and this dude was always in one, so it's not like it's a surprise. His ass is probably dead and thankfully so, as he'll now never annoy me with future news headlines about breaking the land-speed record, his latest attempt at setting a who-fucking-cares record.
Sir Richard Branson, the self-proclaimed "rebel billionaire" who owns Virgin and loves to get in on the market opportunities afforded by his buddy Fossett's hobby, seems confident that I am wrong. "Steve is a tough old boot. I suspect he is waiting by his plane right now for someone to pick him up. The ranch he took off from covers a huge area, and Steve has had far tougher challenges to overcome in the past. Based on his track record, I feel confident we'll get some good news soon." A rebellious statement on par with a report to shareholders on quarterly earnings, to be sure. Branson is obviously pissed that he can't slap Virgin Atlantic logos all over Fossett's land-speed rocket car, because the charred carbon representing all of Steve Fossett's earthly remains is probably baking along with the twisted wreckage of his plane beneath the hot Nevada sun. You know that motherfucker probably had a GPS in his Rolex, so the fact that every plane in Nevada has to be called out for the search isn't particularly encouraging concerning, whatever Sir Branson might deviously say. Steve Fossett is dead. Praise the Lord.
Labels: assholes, capitalism, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, overcompensation, people who died, seamen
Monday, August 20, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Leona Helmsley
DOB: July 4, 1920
DOD: August 20, 2007
Occupation: hotelier, real estate investor, Queen of Mean
Hometown: Brooklyn, New York
Current residence: a mortuary in Connecticut
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I don't think I'd actually like to hit Leona Helmsley's hotness as much as I would like to salute it. Leona Helmsley was the biggest bitch in the history of bitches, and her petulant tyranny left this mortal coil today at the age of 87 at her estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. Leona was a real estate agent who married a tycoon named Harry Helmsley. Harry quickly descended into senility as Leona took over his hotel empire and ruled with an iron fist. She would berate, harangue, and otherwise verbally abuse her employees for the slightest infraction, and would often extort money, products, and services from her suppliers. Employees were observed physically trembling with fear and anxiety in her grand and terrible presence. She was declared the all-time "Queen of Mean."
Leona was so fucking frightening that her reputation extended into popular culture. Hunter Hearst Helmsley (aka "the Game", aka "Triple H", aka "the Cerebral Assassin") actually appropriated her name to butch up his gimmick. Also, Donald Trump wouldn't be trashing Rosie O'Donnell and anyone else who stumbles into his crosshairs now if it weren't for his feud with Leona. Escalating from a real estate battle for control of the Empire State Building, Donald noted that Leona "is a horrible, horrible human being," while Leona responded with a simple, "I hate Donald Trump." An old Forbes article notes that "no two billionaires loathe each other on a personal level more than The Donald and The Queen of Mean." They've been trashing each other in the Post for years, and we can thank Leona for inspiring The Donald to combine his media whore tendencies with crybaby shit-talking whenever he gets a chance.
Unfortunately for Leona, her karma caught up with her, and she was convicted in the 80s on a clusterfuck of tax-related corporate scams, including multiple counts of tax evasion and mail fraud. That's what you get when you make statements like "we don't pay taxes...only the little people pay taxes" to your housekeeper. Leona reaped what she had sown, and did time in federal prison for it. She did not, however, lose her real estate fortune, and inherited an estimated $5 billion upon her husband Harry's death.
Overall, Leona was an absolutely depraved, selfish, evil, criminal human being. However, I have to thank her for one very important thing: elevating bitchiness to an almost unsurpassable level. Leona was so good at being a monster bitch that she inspired nightmares in her employees, as well as tears, nervous breakdowns, and tremors. Achieving that level of unrepentant nastiness, especially while succeeding in a cutthroat environment like the Manhattan realty market, takes an uncommon drive and ability. By setting the bar so astronomically high for the kind of bitchniness others can expect from a successful businesswoman, all the rest of us can feel safe breaking out a little bit of occasional bitchery where useful in the workplace. I try to get everything done at work by being competent, professional, and friendly. However, sometimes in order to get the job done, a girl has to cease with the pleasantries and break out her inner aggressive mega-bitch.
After watching "Leona Helmsley: Queen of Mean" on the Lifetime Movie Network one slow Sunday afternoon and observing the blistering hotness of Suzanne Pleshette viciously dressing down her employees while masterfully manipulating her increasingly senile husband, I decided that Leona Helmsley--or at least Suzanne's portrayal of the same--made Joan Collins on "Dynasty" look like a cuddly, reasonable, compromising sweetheart.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, people who died, tyrannical rulers
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Together in hell
I was pretty sad a while back to hear that Eddie "Latino Heat" Guerrero had croaked on account of years of steroid and drug abuse in his late thirties. Unfortunately, WWE has lost another of its own, and this time the situation is even more tragic. Basically, Hell these days is looking an awful lot like an episode of Monday Night Raw circa 2003:
Over the weekend, Chris Benoit, also known as "The Canadian Crippler" and "The Rabid Wolverine", killed his wife (a WWE "manager"--otherwise known as random piece of ass who escorts other wrestlers to the ring and occasionally interferes by distracting the extremely impartial WWE referees or tripping the opponent--known simply by the moniker "Woman"), and his seven-year-old son before offing himself. God, steroids are a hell of a drug.
Ironically, tonight's episode of Raw was supposed to be a memorial service for Vince McMahon, who was killed off in a recent storyline. I haven't been following WWE for the past couple years (my interest waned once Kurt Angle was gone--I loved that asshole and his impossibly thick neck wreathed by his signature Olympic gold medals), but killing off Vince McMahon is even more ridiculous than when Linda McMahon was in a catatonic state at some mental institution after witnessing the horror of Vince hooking up with Trish Stratus. I might have to start watching WWE again, since the scripts seem to be achieving unprecedented heights of absurdity. Unfortunately, this ridiculous storyline can't be borne out, because yesterday when Raw was being filmed, Vince had to cancel it, then miraculously reincarnate himself to inform an empty arena that Chris Benoit was dead in real life. The whole episode will be a tribute to Chris Benoit, although I bet WWE is going to be regretting that now that it's out that Benoit is a wife-killing infanticidal lunatic.
I'm not surprised that someone--especially a short, overcompensating, toothless Canadian like Chris Benoit--in the WWE finally succumbed to roid rage and got homicidal on his family's asses. What I am surprised about is that the news is reporting that he did not kill them or himself with a gun. Did he perform a couple Crippler Crossfaces and not let them tap out or something? I'm not sure a signature submission move has ever been lethal, so that's a first. And more importantly, how did he manage to off himself with a wrestling technique...jump off a ladder onto his head or something? Actually, I think I saw one of the Hardy Boys do that in a long ago tables-ladders-chairs match and walk away unscathed. I am curious to hear more about the forensics. Double murder-suicide by wrestling doesn't happen every day.
Ironically, tonight's episode of Raw was supposed to be a memorial service for Vince McMahon, who was killed off in a recent storyline. I haven't been following WWE for the past couple years (my interest waned once Kurt Angle was gone--I loved that asshole and his impossibly thick neck wreathed by his signature Olympic gold medals), but killing off Vince McMahon is even more ridiculous than when Linda McMahon was in a catatonic state at some mental institution after witnessing the horror of Vince hooking up with Trish Stratus. I might have to start watching WWE again, since the scripts seem to be achieving unprecedented heights of absurdity. Unfortunately, this ridiculous storyline can't be borne out, because yesterday when Raw was being filmed, Vince had to cancel it, then miraculously reincarnate himself to inform an empty arena that Chris Benoit was dead in real life. The whole episode will be a tribute to Chris Benoit, although I bet WWE is going to be regretting that now that it's out that Benoit is a wife-killing infanticidal lunatic.
I'm not surprised that someone--especially a short, overcompensating, toothless Canadian like Chris Benoit--in the WWE finally succumbed to roid rage and got homicidal on his family's asses. What I am surprised about is that the news is reporting that he did not kill them or himself with a gun. Did he perform a couple Crippler Crossfaces and not let them tap out or something? I'm not sure a signature submission move has ever been lethal, so that's a first. And more importantly, how did he manage to off himself with a wrestling technique...jump off a ladder onto his head or something? Actually, I think I saw one of the Hardy Boys do that in a long ago tables-ladders-chairs match and walk away unscathed. I am curious to hear more about the forensics. Double murder-suicide by wrestling doesn't happen every day.
Labels: crime and punishment, oh the horror, people who died, ridiculous absurdity, TV, wrasslin
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Good riddance, you fat fucking asshole
I am not the least bit sad to see that the man upstairs has finally had enough and called home one of his most vocal Gospel-spreaders, presumably to shut him the fuck up. Yes, there is a great weeping and gnashing of teeth coming from my Aunt Jesus's house as she is probably busy rending her garments, donning sackcloth, and self-flagellating to grieve the death of the Reverend Jerry Falwell.
Here's the good minister during happier times, writing what is doubtless a message of Christian love and compassion to the goddamnedinnocent Iraqi civilians terrorists that this Tomahawk cruise missile is going to blow up like the Fourth of July:
Okay, that picture MIGHT be a fake, so here's a real one of the Rev. Falwell doing what he does best: idolizing himself and passing some ridiculous judgment.
If for some reason you haven't watched the news EVER and can't distinguish Jerry Falwell from other fat right wing assholes (like Dennis Hastert, who may be his long-lost cousin), here is a brief summary of his past accomplishments:
-Cutting his ministerial teeth preaching passionately about how Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a heretical loon, how segregation is truly the Christian way, and how the Civil Rights movement was inherently sinful...I mean, Jesus woulda been sprayin' those uppity nigras with fire hoses, setting attack dogs on them, and lynching them too!
-Stealing control of the beleaguered PTL ministries from the infamous Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker after Jim got caught swindling his congregation and fucking his secretary
-Went to South Africa in a show of support FOR apartheid and encouraged Americans to invest in what amounted to Afrikaaner racist war bonds. Because white supremacy is SO Christian!
-Made a video full of patently false accusations about Smoking Hot Stud and Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton conspiring to assassinate reporters. This was produced by the same people who paid Arkansas state troopers to make up shit about Clinton, and were later convicted of lying to the FBI.
-Got his ass handed to him by the Supreme Court after he bitched that Larry Flynt couldn't make fun of him in Hustler by suggesting that he lost his virginity to his mother in an outhouse. It wasn't libel because it was the truth!
-Switched to talking incessant shit about gays once overt racism went out of style. Over the past decades, Falwell called them "brute beasts" and "a vile Satanic system", declared that one day they "will be utterly annihilated and there will be a celebration in heaven," suggested that they were corrupting the youth through subliminal messages delivered via Tinky Winky the purple Teletubby, and blamed them, along with feminists and the ACLU, for 9/11.
-Oh yeah, and he was also a big proponent of the notion that AIDS is a gift from God meant to wipe out those sinful Sodomites.
-Once stated that "If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being."
-Declared that the Antichrist ushering in the imminent apocalypse will FOR SURE be a Jewish guy.
Obviously Jesus just got fed up listening to this fat fucking hatemonger speak on his behalf and decided it was time to silence his bitch ass permanently. I'm saying some prayers for Reverend Falwell that God shows his immortal soul a little more compassion than he showed everyone who wasn't a fundamentalist asshole.
Here's the good minister during happier times, writing what is doubtless a message of Christian love and compassion to the goddamned
-Cutting his ministerial teeth preaching passionately about how Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a heretical loon, how segregation is truly the Christian way, and how the Civil Rights movement was inherently sinful...I mean, Jesus woulda been sprayin' those uppity nigras with fire hoses, setting attack dogs on them, and lynching them too!
-Stealing control of the beleaguered PTL ministries from the infamous Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker after Jim got caught swindling his congregation and fucking his secretary
-Went to South Africa in a show of support FOR apartheid and encouraged Americans to invest in what amounted to Afrikaaner racist war bonds. Because white supremacy is SO Christian!
-Made a video full of patently false accusations about Smoking Hot Stud and Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton conspiring to assassinate reporters. This was produced by the same people who paid Arkansas state troopers to make up shit about Clinton, and were later convicted of lying to the FBI.
-Got his ass handed to him by the Supreme Court after he bitched that Larry Flynt couldn't make fun of him in Hustler by suggesting that he lost his virginity to his mother in an outhouse. It wasn't libel because it was the truth!
-Oh yeah, and he was also a big proponent of the notion that AIDS is a gift from God meant to wipe out those sinful Sodomites.
-Once stated that "If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being."
-Declared that the Antichrist ushering in the imminent apocalypse will FOR SURE be a Jewish guy.
Obviously Jesus just got fed up listening to this fat fucking hatemonger speak on his behalf and decided it was time to silence his bitch ass permanently. I'm saying some prayers for Reverend Falwell that God shows his immortal soul a little more compassion than he showed everyone who wasn't a fundamentalist asshole.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, fat fucks, I LOVE IT, people who died, vengeance is sweet
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Let the healing begin
For those of you who thought that pain caused by Seung-hui Cho shooting up Virginia Tech would never go away, you can relax. My boyfriend is here to help, and he's dressed in an appropriately authoritative manner to put everyone's mind at ease. Never fear, Tech...Lieutenant Colonel Kells is here, looking for a few solid barely legal teenagers to piss on console.
It seems that while on his way to a mind-blowingly awesome show somewhere outside of the Chi, he became absorbed with cable news coverage of the tragedy at Virginia Tech, and immediately took it upon himself to right the wrongs done to the Hokie Spirit. His new song "Rise Up," which presumably will be more along the lines of "I Wish" and "I Believe I Can Fly" than "Feelin' on Yo Booty" or "R&B Thug" in terms of tone, is supposed to inspire the devastated community at Virginia Tech to overcome their grief and pain and will raise money for the memorial fund established in the names of those blown away by the socially inept loser and aspiring playwright Seung Cho. Besides, nothing brings a fresh breeze of hope to the lank sails of the despairing like the inspirational gleam of a 20-karat diamond pinky ring reflecting in a stage light:
Just looking at him soulfully exhorting the Hokie faithful to "Rise Up" in his finest funereal bling and his somber black do-rag is bringing a tear to my cruel eye and an uncomfortable sensation that I think could be characterized as warmth to my icy heart.
Labels: boyfriends, I LOVE IT, people who died, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Back to his little grass shack
As if I wasn't already depressed enough by having to work and the fact that there is an unseasonable Nor'easter unleashing hell upon the city today, a very important early influence on my life kicked the bucket. It is with deep sadness that I acknowledge the passing of this giant of Hawaiian music...the utterly incomparable Don Ho:
There aren't very many dudes in the world who can make raspberry-tinted glasses and a Ukelele their trademarks and actually pull it off, but Don Ho managed to do so. I've adored Don Ho as much as the hot younger chick in the above picture, because he's been an influential force in my life almost since I was born.
When I was around two or three, I had this tape full of songs that I would sing along to. I don't really remember this much, but every once in a while I'll be making fun of some trashy song from the late 70s or early 80s, and my mom will say, "That was on your 'Favorite Songs' tape. You used to sing it all the time." From what I have discerned so far, this tape contained some AWESOME musical selections such as "Wildfire" by Michael Martin Murphy (song about a chick and her horse, I think), "If You Like Pina Coladas" by Rupert Holmes (song about 70s swinging and striking out on the newspaper personal ad scene), "Freeze Frame" by J. Geils Band (song about ?????), "Angie" by the Rolling Stones (duh), "Leader of the Band" by Dan Fogelberg (song about his elderly father), "Maneater" by Darryl Hall and John Oates (song about an unrepentant slut), "Bette Davis Eyes" by Kim Carnes (song about a super hot bitch in New York), "Urgent" by Foreigner (song about needing to get laid IMMEDIATELY), and "Tiny Bubbles" by Don Ho (song about drinking champers in Hawaii).
Apart from my instinctive attraction to "Tiny Bubbles" because of its alcohol-related theme, I used to really enjoy singing this song soulfully for my parents and their friends (then, as now, I was a zealous attention-seeker). When I was only about three, my ability to enunciate wasn't quite as well developed, and I would sing "Tiny Buboes...in the WINE." Perhaps it was due to my underdeveloped toddler's soft palate, and perhaps it was just an ode to things I would eventually like. "Bubo" could refer to two things:
1. The mechanical owl who assisted Perseus in his valiant struggles against Kalybos, his vengeful mother the goddess Thetis, and the evil Gorgon Medusa to save his beloved Andromeda from the fury of the Kraken in one of the greatest movies ever next to Varsity Blues and the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Clash of the Titans:
I was crooning "Tiny Buboes" right around the time Clash of the Titans came out, and I was immediately entranced by it, so it's entirely possible that my rendition of Don Ho's masterpiece was indeed a tribute to Perseus's charming robotic owl.
2. An extremely enlarged, inflamed, painful, swollen, darkened lymph node characteristic of infection with Yersinia pestis. This is why the plague is called "black death," because the lymph nodes get full of hemorrhagic material and scar tissue (as you can see in the transverse H&E-stained section below) and become necrotic and black, which is called a "bubo", hence the "bubonic plague":
Although I've never had plague and don't study it, I think that singing about microbial diseases at a young age certainly prepped me for doing it as a career. I'm sure if there were a song that had lyrics which sounded like "allergic airway hypersensitization" or "paralytic poliomyelitis" I'd have sung that accidentally too.
In any event, whether I took Don Ho's classic to primarily mean "buy Clash of the Titans on DVD" or "pursue a career in microbiology", I ended up doing both. "Tiny Bubbles" was as much of an influence on the person I am today as The Sun Also Rises or Too $hort's Cocktails album.
Rest in peace, Don Ho(tness)...I hope wherever you are, the humuhumunukunukuappu'aa'aa are swimming by.
When I was around two or three, I had this tape full of songs that I would sing along to. I don't really remember this much, but every once in a while I'll be making fun of some trashy song from the late 70s or early 80s, and my mom will say, "That was on your 'Favorite Songs' tape. You used to sing it all the time." From what I have discerned so far, this tape contained some AWESOME musical selections such as "Wildfire" by Michael Martin Murphy (song about a chick and her horse, I think), "If You Like Pina Coladas" by Rupert Holmes (song about 70s swinging and striking out on the newspaper personal ad scene), "Freeze Frame" by J. Geils Band (song about ?????), "Angie" by the Rolling Stones (duh), "Leader of the Band" by Dan Fogelberg (song about his elderly father), "Maneater" by Darryl Hall and John Oates (song about an unrepentant slut), "Bette Davis Eyes" by Kim Carnes (song about a super hot bitch in New York), "Urgent" by Foreigner (song about needing to get laid IMMEDIATELY), and "Tiny Bubbles" by Don Ho (song about drinking champers in Hawaii).
Apart from my instinctive attraction to "Tiny Bubbles" because of its alcohol-related theme, I used to really enjoy singing this song soulfully for my parents and their friends (then, as now, I was a zealous attention-seeker). When I was only about three, my ability to enunciate wasn't quite as well developed, and I would sing "Tiny Buboes...in the WINE." Perhaps it was due to my underdeveloped toddler's soft palate, and perhaps it was just an ode to things I would eventually like. "Bubo" could refer to two things:
1. The mechanical owl who assisted Perseus in his valiant struggles against Kalybos, his vengeful mother the goddess Thetis, and the evil Gorgon Medusa to save his beloved Andromeda from the fury of the Kraken in one of the greatest movies ever next to Varsity Blues and the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Clash of the Titans:
I was crooning "Tiny Buboes" right around the time Clash of the Titans came out, and I was immediately entranced by it, so it's entirely possible that my rendition of Don Ho's masterpiece was indeed a tribute to Perseus's charming robotic owl.
2. An extremely enlarged, inflamed, painful, swollen, darkened lymph node characteristic of infection with Yersinia pestis. This is why the plague is called "black death," because the lymph nodes get full of hemorrhagic material and scar tissue (as you can see in the transverse H&E-stained section below) and become necrotic and black, which is called a "bubo", hence the "bubonic plague":
Although I've never had plague and don't study it, I think that singing about microbial diseases at a young age certainly prepped me for doing it as a career. I'm sure if there were a song that had lyrics which sounded like "allergic airway hypersensitization" or "paralytic poliomyelitis" I'd have sung that accidentally too.
In any event, whether I took Don Ho's classic to primarily mean "buy Clash of the Titans on DVD" or "pursue a career in microbiology", I ended up doing both. "Tiny Bubbles" was as much of an influence on the person I am today as The Sun Also Rises or Too $hort's Cocktails album.
Rest in peace, Don Ho(tness)...I hope wherever you are, the humuhumunukunukuappu'aa'aa are swimming by.
Labels: alcoholism, epidemic geekery, I LOVE IT, people who died, Razzification, tragedy
Monday, February 19, 2007
Dead Poetic license
Last week, I went out to dinner with some friends to celebrate my buddy Neo's 28th year of existence in this mortal coil. Afterward, we went to this bar on the Upper West Side called the Dead Poet. I got myself a scotch, helped Neo pick out some songs on the jukebox, picked out the choicest quotes about alcoholism attributed to various dead poets hanging on the bar wall, and was generally having a grand time...until I got a look at the drink menu.
The menu had a page devoted to the bar's "signature cocktails", each one of which is named after a notable dead poet. I could not disagree more with some of these drinks. I suspect that the morons who made up these drinks have never read a single word of their namesakes' poetry, because they are dead wrong.
Walt Whitman: "Our famous version of the Long Island Iced Tea. Lemon vodka, gin, coconut rum, and orange liqueur are combined to create a smooth, highly potent potion. Served in a pint glass and garnished with lemons and a cherry."
The fact that their Walt Whitman cocktail is "famous" is news to me, probably because the only thing it's famous for is having absolutely nothing to do with Walt Whitman save the fact that he originally hails from Strong Island. Nothing about coconut rum and orange liqueur bring to mind Whitman's ties to the abolitionist and free-soil movements or his passionate hatred of the tariff. The only way I can see this having any connection to Whitman at all is that it might have been what Monica Lewinsky was drinking when the Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton gave her a copy of Leaves of Grass and stained her dress. I think a more appropriate drink would be one reflecting the image of the poet himself:
The mixologists at the Dead Poet should have noted Whitman's obvious resemblance to a cracked-out homeless dude or freight rail-riding stowaway hobo (although in fairness, that was the look in the 1870s), and just served some Mad Dog 20/20 Banana Red out of the bottle in a brown paper bag. People would get it.
Oscar Wilde: "Much like the flamboyant Irish writer, our sour-apple martini is spirited and robust. Ketel One vodka, apple liqueur, and melon liqueur are shaken and poured into a sugar-rimmed martini glass."
I guess "flamboyant" is a better adjective for use on a menu than "big fat homo." I also can't argue with the drink choice here, except to say that Oscar Wilde was probably not swilling appletinis while testifying about "the love that dares not speak its name" as he faced two years in Reading Gaol for buggering Lord Alfred Douglas. The appletini would have been a better choice for Truman Capote, but being that he was more of a novelist, he doesn't have a signature drink.
Edgar Allan Poe: "Poe was both glorified as an angel and maligned as the devil because of his dark, mournful tales and his mysterious personal life. Grey Goose vodka, Chambord, Triple Sec, and a squeeze of fresh lime. Shaken with ice and served in a sugar-rimmed martini glass."
Yes, nothing says "dark mystery" like a drink that tastes like raspberries and oranges served up with a sugar-coated rim. This definitely captures the dualistic nature of Poe, and conjures up the correspondent gloomy images celebrated in such poems as "The Raven". Certainly this drink would make me think of a man who drank himself into oblivion because all his family members kept dying of consumption.
Emily Dickinson: "Celebrate this 'New England mystic' with our pink lemonade cocktail. We combine Bacardi Limon, Triple Sec, sour mix, and a splash of grenadine to create this tart and tangy cocktail. Garnished with a lemon and served on the rocks or straight up in a martini glass."
Emily Dickinson was a sexually repressed, miserable old spinster who lived at the nexus of hell on Earth: western Assachusetts. She spent all of her time and poetry fixated on death and winter, because there's nothing else to do in Amherst unless you like fucking rich, WASPy, lacrosse-playing frat boys with big egos, limp dicks, and white baseball caps (which she did not). Nothing says "undersexed, reclusive, depressed, austere old woman" like pink lemonade!
Dylan Thomas: "Thomas was flamboyantly theatrical, a heavy drinker, and he became a legendary figure, both for his work and the boisterousness of his life. We toast Thomas with the ultimate dirty martini. Ketel One vodka is shaken with olive juice and strained into a chilled martini glass. Garnished with a trio of Queen olives."
My friend LL Cool Jew has a line from a Dylan Thomas poem, "Noli me tangere", tattooed on her shoulder. This was bitten by Thomas from the Gospel of John, and it means "touch me not." That's about the limit of my knowledge about Dylan Thomas, but I'm curious as to whether the Dead Poet's barkeep using "flamboyant" here means that, like Oscar Wilde, Dylan Thomas had a thing for young minor male nobility. The garnish of "Queen olives" certainly supports that theory. I couldn't find anything about that on his Wikipedia page, but I did find that he was a whiskey drinker...so what's with giving him a dirty martini?
John Keats: "Known especially for his descriptions of nature, his poetry also resonated with
deep philosophical questions. Feel free to philosophize the meaning of life while you enjoy a pint glass full of vodka, Southern Comfort, amaretto, sloe gin, Triple Sec, lime juice, and orange juice."
This seems like it could be overly sweet, much like Keats's poetry.
Robert Frost: "Possibly the most popular 20th century American poet, Frost wrote about the character, people, and landscape of New England. Vanilla vodka, melon liqueur, and raspberry liqueur are combined with cranberry and orange juice and served in a pint glass."
This drink is for curmudgeony old New Englanders who get sick of the Emily Dickinson lemonade. It's best consumed surrounded by blazing Yankee Candles. Presumably the melon and raspberry flavors will then evoke images of fall foliage, Nantucket whalers, and the Kennedys.
W.B. Yeats: "This Nobel Prize-winning author was one of the greatest English-language poets of the 20th century. His intellectual, often obscure poetry focused on the reality of life in Ireland. A mixture of vodka, gin, rum, Triple Sec, melon liqueur, sour mix, and a splash of 7-Up reflect the lush green countryside of Yeats's homeland."
This drink might reflect the Emerald Isle in terms of color, but I don't recall anybody drinking anything involving Triple Sec in Angela's Ashes. In fact, the only thing I remember about that book was that every other chapter, a baby died of starvation and/or typhoid. Presumably, the Dead Poet bar staff felt that accuracy be damned, this tricked-out Midori sour-flavored Long Island Tea was a better representative of Yeats's Ireland than say, a glass of Bushmill's. The drink comes with a bar of Irish Spring, a box of Lucky Charms, and a DVD of the classic film Leprechaun: In Space to really hammer the faux Irishness home.
I was ranting about this to my mom on the phone that night after I got home and she asked a very good question. "Didn't they have one for that depressed woman? You know, Sylvia Plath?" (My mom gets her money's worth on my college education by giving shout-outs to notable Smith alumnae at every turn...you should hear her when she gets going about Julia Child).
"What would that be, Mom? An oven with an unlit pilot light and the gas on full?"
"Judging by what you told me about their menu, I was thinking that would probably be an electric iced tea or something equally inappropriate," Mom said in her half-disapproving Marge Simpson voice.
"You're probably right about that. It IS too bad they didn't include her, because I could totally associate her with a kamikaze shot. 'Let's do a round of Sylvia Plaths, guys!'" My mom shelved her disapproval and laughed along with me.
Tasteless Sylvia Plath jokes aside, the owners of the Dead Poet clearly need to take a fucking poetry class. If I brought Saratoga120, my old English teacher from Smith who secured my acquittal on possession charges, to this place, she'd take one look at the drink menu and probably inform the bartender that he had the literary accomplishments of a brandy jigger. The Dead Poet would be a considerably better establishment if they made like the main character in the crappy movie of the same name and died. Carpe diem, or whatever. Death is the only just reward for any tard who associates Emily Dickinson with pink lemonade.
The menu had a page devoted to the bar's "signature cocktails", each one of which is named after a notable dead poet. I could not disagree more with some of these drinks. I suspect that the morons who made up these drinks have never read a single word of their namesakes' poetry, because they are dead wrong.
Walt Whitman: "Our famous version of the Long Island Iced Tea. Lemon vodka, gin, coconut rum, and orange liqueur are combined to create a smooth, highly potent potion. Served in a pint glass and garnished with lemons and a cherry."
The fact that their Walt Whitman cocktail is "famous" is news to me, probably because the only thing it's famous for is having absolutely nothing to do with Walt Whitman save the fact that he originally hails from Strong Island. Nothing about coconut rum and orange liqueur bring to mind Whitman's ties to the abolitionist and free-soil movements or his passionate hatred of the tariff. The only way I can see this having any connection to Whitman at all is that it might have been what Monica Lewinsky was drinking when the Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton gave her a copy of Leaves of Grass and stained her dress. I think a more appropriate drink would be one reflecting the image of the poet himself:
The mixologists at the Dead Poet should have noted Whitman's obvious resemblance to a cracked-out homeless dude or freight rail-riding stowaway hobo (although in fairness, that was the look in the 1870s), and just served some Mad Dog 20/20 Banana Red out of the bottle in a brown paper bag. People would get it.
Oscar Wilde: "Much like the flamboyant Irish writer, our sour-apple martini is spirited and robust. Ketel One vodka, apple liqueur, and melon liqueur are shaken and poured into a sugar-rimmed martini glass."
I guess "flamboyant" is a better adjective for use on a menu than "big fat homo." I also can't argue with the drink choice here, except to say that Oscar Wilde was probably not swilling appletinis while testifying about "the love that dares not speak its name" as he faced two years in Reading Gaol for buggering Lord Alfred Douglas. The appletini would have been a better choice for Truman Capote, but being that he was more of a novelist, he doesn't have a signature drink.
Edgar Allan Poe: "Poe was both glorified as an angel and maligned as the devil because of his dark, mournful tales and his mysterious personal life. Grey Goose vodka, Chambord, Triple Sec, and a squeeze of fresh lime. Shaken with ice and served in a sugar-rimmed martini glass."
Yes, nothing says "dark mystery" like a drink that tastes like raspberries and oranges served up with a sugar-coated rim. This definitely captures the dualistic nature of Poe, and conjures up the correspondent gloomy images celebrated in such poems as "The Raven". Certainly this drink would make me think of a man who drank himself into oblivion because all his family members kept dying of consumption.
Emily Dickinson: "Celebrate this 'New England mystic' with our pink lemonade cocktail. We combine Bacardi Limon, Triple Sec, sour mix, and a splash of grenadine to create this tart and tangy cocktail. Garnished with a lemon and served on the rocks or straight up in a martini glass."
Emily Dickinson was a sexually repressed, miserable old spinster who lived at the nexus of hell on Earth: western Assachusetts. She spent all of her time and poetry fixated on death and winter, because there's nothing else to do in Amherst unless you like fucking rich, WASPy, lacrosse-playing frat boys with big egos, limp dicks, and white baseball caps (which she did not). Nothing says "undersexed, reclusive, depressed, austere old woman" like pink lemonade!
Dylan Thomas: "Thomas was flamboyantly theatrical, a heavy drinker, and he became a legendary figure, both for his work and the boisterousness of his life. We toast Thomas with the ultimate dirty martini. Ketel One vodka is shaken with olive juice and strained into a chilled martini glass. Garnished with a trio of Queen olives."
My friend LL Cool Jew has a line from a Dylan Thomas poem, "Noli me tangere", tattooed on her shoulder. This was bitten by Thomas from the Gospel of John, and it means "touch me not." That's about the limit of my knowledge about Dylan Thomas, but I'm curious as to whether the Dead Poet's barkeep using "flamboyant" here means that, like Oscar Wilde, Dylan Thomas had a thing for young minor male nobility. The garnish of "Queen olives" certainly supports that theory. I couldn't find anything about that on his Wikipedia page, but I did find that he was a whiskey drinker...so what's with giving him a dirty martini?
John Keats: "Known especially for his descriptions of nature, his poetry also resonated with
deep philosophical questions. Feel free to philosophize the meaning of life while you enjoy a pint glass full of vodka, Southern Comfort, amaretto, sloe gin, Triple Sec, lime juice, and orange juice."
This seems like it could be overly sweet, much like Keats's poetry.
Robert Frost: "Possibly the most popular 20th century American poet, Frost wrote about the character, people, and landscape of New England. Vanilla vodka, melon liqueur, and raspberry liqueur are combined with cranberry and orange juice and served in a pint glass."
This drink is for curmudgeony old New Englanders who get sick of the Emily Dickinson lemonade. It's best consumed surrounded by blazing Yankee Candles. Presumably the melon and raspberry flavors will then evoke images of fall foliage, Nantucket whalers, and the Kennedys.
W.B. Yeats: "This Nobel Prize-winning author was one of the greatest English-language poets of the 20th century. His intellectual, often obscure poetry focused on the reality of life in Ireland. A mixture of vodka, gin, rum, Triple Sec, melon liqueur, sour mix, and a splash of 7-Up reflect the lush green countryside of Yeats's homeland."
This drink might reflect the Emerald Isle in terms of color, but I don't recall anybody drinking anything involving Triple Sec in Angela's Ashes. In fact, the only thing I remember about that book was that every other chapter, a baby died of starvation and/or typhoid. Presumably, the Dead Poet bar staff felt that accuracy be damned, this tricked-out Midori sour-flavored Long Island Tea was a better representative of Yeats's Ireland than say, a glass of Bushmill's. The drink comes with a bar of Irish Spring, a box of Lucky Charms, and a DVD of the classic film Leprechaun: In Space to really hammer the faux Irishness home.
I was ranting about this to my mom on the phone that night after I got home and she asked a very good question. "Didn't they have one for that depressed woman? You know, Sylvia Plath?" (My mom gets her money's worth on my college education by giving shout-outs to notable Smith alumnae at every turn...you should hear her when she gets going about Julia Child).
"What would that be, Mom? An oven with an unlit pilot light and the gas on full?"
"Judging by what you told me about their menu, I was thinking that would probably be an electric iced tea or something equally inappropriate," Mom said in her half-disapproving Marge Simpson voice.
"You're probably right about that. It IS too bad they didn't include her, because I could totally associate her with a kamikaze shot. 'Let's do a round of Sylvia Plaths, guys!'" My mom shelved her disapproval and laughed along with me.
Tasteless Sylvia Plath jokes aside, the owners of the Dead Poet clearly need to take a fucking poetry class. If I brought Saratoga120, my old English teacher from Smith who secured my acquittal on possession charges, to this place, she'd take one look at the drink menu and probably inform the bartender that he had the literary accomplishments of a brandy jigger. The Dead Poet would be a considerably better establishment if they made like the main character in the crappy movie of the same name and died. Carpe diem, or whatever. Death is the only just reward for any tard who associates Emily Dickinson with pink lemonade.
Labels: alcoholism, assholes, librophilia, NYC, people who died, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, February 08, 2007
TrimSpa, baby!
Remember those early Anna Nicole TrimSpa ads where she was writhing around a beach saying, "Like my body?" (except it sounded more like, "Lahk my bahhhhdy?", similar to what I imagine what one of the banjo-picking locals in Deliverance would sound like if afflicted with Downs syndrome).
Well, the only one whose opinion of Anna Nicole's body is of any relevance now is the Broward County Medical Examiner, because she just DROPPED DEAD.
My e-mail and text messages have been going berserk between LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, FalloniusMonk, Wmania, Rack, and myself all corresponding. Examples include FalloniusMonk e-mailing "#1 in HOODIA GORDONII!! Be envied!" and Rack responding "Yall bitches are terrible and I love ya for it!" Our need to share thoughts on this breaking story is more urgent, fast, and furious than when Britney dumped K-Fed or when Aaron Spelling moved to that great elite zip code in the sky.
Anyway, I definitely care what the coroner has to say about Vicky Lynn "Anna Nicole Smith" Hogan's body because I'm trying to get anyone and everyone to wager whether it was suicide or accidental overdose. I'm leaning toward the latter, as it's not a stretch imagining some sort of ill-conceived publicity stunt gone horribly wrong. Can't you just see her thinking that spiking a huge bolus of methadone directly and wandering around the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel babbling incoherently would intrigue people to the point where they'd forget about the court-order compelling her daughter to take a paternity test or something? (And on that note, how long do you think it will take Howard K. Stern, her grieving lawyer/sham husband and fake baby daddy, to sign away his paternity rights? My guess is he'll have the papers drawn up to pass off that kid before Anna's even in the ground).
Accidental methadone OD is my bet, and I'm sticking to it like cellulite to the late Vicky Lynn Hogan's thighs. Seriously, what are all y'all's thoughts? The betting window is open.
Well, the only one whose opinion of Anna Nicole's body is of any relevance now is the Broward County Medical Examiner, because she just DROPPED DEAD.
My e-mail and text messages have been going berserk between LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, FalloniusMonk, Wmania, Rack, and myself all corresponding. Examples include FalloniusMonk e-mailing "#1 in HOODIA GORDONII!! Be envied!" and Rack responding "Yall bitches are terrible and I love ya for it!" Our need to share thoughts on this breaking story is more urgent, fast, and furious than when Britney dumped K-Fed or when Aaron Spelling moved to that great elite zip code in the sky.Anyway, I definitely care what the coroner has to say about Vicky Lynn "Anna Nicole Smith" Hogan's body because I'm trying to get anyone and everyone to wager whether it was suicide or accidental overdose. I'm leaning toward the latter, as it's not a stretch imagining some sort of ill-conceived publicity stunt gone horribly wrong. Can't you just see her thinking that spiking a huge bolus of methadone directly and wandering around the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel babbling incoherently would intrigue people to the point where they'd forget about the court-order compelling her daughter to take a paternity test or something? (And on that note, how long do you think it will take Howard K. Stern, her grieving lawyer/sham husband and fake baby daddy, to sign away his paternity rights? My guess is he'll have the papers drawn up to pass off that kid before Anna's even in the ground).
Accidental methadone OD is my bet, and I'm sticking to it like cellulite to the late Vicky Lynn Hogan's thighs. Seriously, what are all y'all's thoughts? The betting window is open.
Labels: celebrities, fat fucks, people who died, PWT, stank vaginas
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