Wednesday, July 15, 2009

 

It's okay to avoid like leprosy

I did not think it possible, but I have managed to find an ad campaign that makes me even more furious than Twitter whore Ashton Kutcher's COOLPIX ads. In fact, they make my feelings toward Ashton's buffoonery seem downright warm and charitable. This is the single most unappealing pitch for a dating site ever. It's even worse than that gross, snaggletoothed old Christian dude that used to sell e-Harmony with a lot of soporific jabber about compatibility and a lot of ugly couple success stories. These ads make e-Harmony, a company that is currently being sued for refusing to match gay couples and that seems to regard marrying a fat guy with a cell phone clipped to his belt a perfect outcome, seem like my ideal dating site. The horror of which I speak is the match.com "It's okay to look" ad campaign.

I am not sure what upsets me more, the slogan or the representative match.com singles from the commercials that I will ostensibly meet should I decide to partake of their services. The slogan is pretty bad. I don't need some disembodied female voice with the patronizing yet facile intonations of an overcompensating day care supervisor informing me that it's cool to cruise the internets for ass. I know plenty of people who get laid thanks to the miracle of the world wide web. I also think it's find to look for hookups at bars, clubs, restaurants, coffee shops, work, the gym, the park, the library, the designer mall, the waiting room at Planned Parenthood...hey, you never know when you might find someone. Really, the only place it's NOT okay to look is at a family reunion (although I have been hit on at one of those...but that's a whole other story). I am always looking, so thanks for stating the obvious about how "okay" it is to be doing so, match.com. I suppose next you're going to tell me that it's okay to drink coffee or it's okay to eat breakfast or it's okay to walk my dogs. Fuck off, match.com, with trying to make me feel validated enough to shell out for your subscription fee.

If I'm going to PAY to look, then I had better be looking at some hot pieces of ass who aren't insane. One of the biggest reasons people avoid internet dating (myself included) is the possibility of meeting a complete lunatic and/or stalker. I do a good enough job finding those without any e-assistance, so if I'm going to actually pay to peep at some frisky honeys on the prowl themselves, they better not be ugly and/or behaving like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. However, according to match.com's own promotional material, that's EXACTLY what they are selling.

If you go to match.com's website, you'll see SmilesforMiles01 and devco2000, AKA Fake Liz Phair and Pauly Shore/John C. Reilly's bastard child, letting us know in one sentence the dumbest, least interesting thing about both of them.

I only know a mere phrase worth of information about either of these people and already I hate them. You can tell that SmilesforMiles01 uses that lawn mowing line as part of her nagging routine. I can practically hear her shrill, shrewish voice issuing forth from within the unattractive folds of the Liz Claiborne blouse she's rocking: "Mow the lawn. It's THERAPEUTIC. Take out the garbage. IT'S THERAPEUTIC." And devco2000 would just rather that I think he's some kind of Jimmy Buffett-meets-Balthazar Getty rather than a sorry impersonator of the lead in Bio Dome. I should add, these are just the still promotional shots on the match.com website. The singles I'm supposed to get excited about looking at in the TV spots are infinitely more infuriating.


Take, for example, LaSirene7, who wants her potential sex partners to know that she can't roller skate, she shrieks a lot, she has an annoying laugh, and she wears ugly dresses gleaned from the "Misses" section at the Puyallup Ross Dress for Less. In other words, she's basically walking birth control.

There's also 1Eamonn4U, a Kevin Federline-meets-Channing Tatum knockoff who thinks that chuckling and chasing around a butterfly will get him laid. Although I must commend him on going this route rather than his usual Ed Hardy shirt-wearing and roofie-slipping, I don't know many ladies who will eagerly follow a butterfly right into the awkwardly flailing arms of a low-functioning buffoon. He's so confident in his strategy that at the end of his ad, he says, "Heh heh heh, I can't wait 'til my ex-girlfriend sees this." Because she's going to be soooooooooooo jealous of all those girls who won't be able to resist 1Eamonn4U's lack of coordination and baffling lepidopteran amusements.

Or NYCGingerGirl, a low-rent Jami Gertz knockoff who can't seem to master the complex technical nuances of a chef hat. I can see why her name isn't NYCRocketScientist.

And then there's Buddy20, whose seduction game involves putting on his jaunty Robin Hood feathered cap and jogging in place in a suit while giggling maniacally. (SPOILER ALERT: Buddy20 is also totally a serial killer.)

Get an eyeful of Kumnandi, who is apparently suffering from dissociative schizophrenia and is letting her "Lenny Kravitz" personality manage her internet dating life.

One of my most hated ads is the one promoting HablawithMe, some mid-40s divorcee who is apparently obsessed with butchering simple phrases in German and Spanish. At the end of her asinine monologue (which is mostly comprised of her saying "um" and laughing at herself for no reason), she says "puedo no hablar el español," then guffaws and says, "Maybe someone out there understood that, somewhere." Maybe, bitch, because it's completely unfathomable that anyone out there speaks Spanish. And it doesn't take a wise Latina to realize that you said "I can't speak Spanish," which is frankly pretty fucking obvious.

And without fail, the worst, most loathsome installment in the "It's Okay To Look" serial shitshow, is the intolerable Adventure90. Every time I hear, "I'm just a goof, looking for my ball!" I want to pull out my strap and lay the bitch out, and in the rap way, not the hot girl-on-girl kind of way.

Seriously, who wants to go on a single date with ANY of these people? All these ads do is confirm the worst about internet dating: everyone on match.com is a weirdo and a freak, and irritating as fuck to boot. It's like these people exist in the world solely to work my very last nerve. It is okay to look, and it's also okay to say "HELL THE FUCK NO, MATCH.COM." Call me conservative and call me old-fashioned, but I'm going to pull my ass the traditional way: drag their drunk ass home from a bar!

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:19 AM 12 Comments Links to this post

Sunday, March 22, 2009

 

Sparkly Volvo-driving vampire groupies vs. MS-13: Battle of the Wal-Mart

In today's hilarious news, it seems that Wal-Mart is trying to downplay rumors spread via text message that the rabid tween girls who planned to spend last night camped out waiting for the Twilight DVD to drop were at risk of being brutally killed as part of some sort of gang initiation.  Given my opinion of the twelve-year-old girl's vampire-themed Book of Mormon, I was rooting for the bangers.  Nothing would put the lid on all these crazy bitches in their puff-painted  "Bite Me" shirts like some random gun violence.

Unfortunately, this was quite apparently a hoax, since rumors about how "three women are to be killed by a Mexican gang" were everywhere from Colorado to Wal-Mart's northern Arkansas homeland, and from what I can tell not a single Twilunatic was unceremoniously felled by a Latin King's bullet at a Wal-Mart Twilight DVD release party.  Not that I'm pro-random murder, but Twilight actually drove me crazy enough that I might consider such a gang initiation a public service.  

I was actually disappointed to hear that this was just another made-up gang story meant to frighten stupid people, like the Tacoma Mall ankle slasher.  When I was in grade school, there were rumors that "gang members" would hide under your car and when you put your bags in your car, they would slash your ankle with a razor blade.  When you reached down to see what went on, they'd get out and steal your shit, and maybe rape and/or murder you as well.  Some of my crazy aunts actually believed this so resolutely that they carried around little flashlights to look under their cars with when they went to the mall.  Of course, the ankle slashers were the ones who were also putting razor blades and broken glass in Halloween candy, sticking HIV-infected needles in the coin-return slots on pay phones, and dying after drinking Coke with a mouthful of Pop Rocks.  Apparently, the ankle slashers have now moved on to baseless text threat-hoaxes against ugly fat tween girls who like pining away for glittery gay Mormon vampires.  Bummer.  I would rather people meet their untimely end via anti-Twilight gang violence than trampled to death by legions of rabid Christmas shoppers, but I guess that's just not the world we live in.  Sigh.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:56 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

 

Twi-LAME

When I travel, I have a ritual that I almost always perform. I stop at the airport gift/book/junk food/drugstore, and purchase a trashy piece of reading material. This is the only time I allow myself to read crappy paperback bestselling works of fiction. I prefer books with murders, sex, and an utterly predictable mystery to solve, particularly the Mother Goose-inspired titles of James Patterson. I’ve also been known to indulge in some Stephen King and John Grisham from time to time. Sometimes this ritual works out well, and by “well” I mean I enjoy this guilty pleasure, I finish the book right around the time my flight is landing, leave it in the pocket of the seat in front of me with the SkyMall for the next passenger to enjoy, and immediately forget about whatever the cookie cutter plot was. Sometimes it doesn’t work out so well, such as the times that I’ve made the foolish mistake of reading anything by Dan Brown. When I read Angels and Demons, I was literally reminding myself that audibly cursing out a book on a plane surrounded by strangers is probably not a good idea, even if said book is as offensively retarded as Angels and Demons.

When I decided that, in spite of the A&D debacle, I was going to read The Da Vinci Code, it was even worse. I had some hippie computer programmer with a fucking ponytail hitting on me via incomprehensible jokes about coding in Perl and inviting me on sailing trips through the San Juans on one side, and The Da Vinci Code pissing me off with every poorly composed page in front of me. I was only reading The Da Vinci Code because so many people, including ones who normally don’t read these types of books, were talking about this shit like it was the best thing since the Bible, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. As I read, I grew angrier and angrier that The Da Vinci Code, which I rated as the literary equivalent of a frost-bitten Lean Cuisine chicken cordon bleu , was something that a significant number of people had recommended to me as both mindblowingly awesome and educational. I was insulted that Dan Brown conned a lot of otherwise intelligent people into believing that a bland, patronizing, Grail Quest-flavored retelling of a Learning Annex art appreciation course is some sort of phenomenal contribution to the canon of great literature. I thought that after enduring The Da Vinci Code without either falling into some state of catatonia or murdering anyone, I had suffered enough. And then last month, I wandered into the Hudson News at JFK and purchased a book that made The Da Vinci Code look like War and Peace

That book, which may be the single worst book I’ve ever read, is called Twilight.

In case you aren’t a fat, ugly, bespectacled adolescent preteen girl and you didn’t notice hordes of the same swarming your local theater a few months back, you might not know about Twilight. It’s a Mormon vampire fantasy with legions of extremely dedicated tween girl fans. I normally don’t read books for children because I hate kids, and I normally avoid vampire stories, because I don’t care about what annoying goth fruitcakes get up to when they’re not exsanguinating random bitches.  I assume shopping for crushed velvet frocks or appropriately spooky wine goblets for their decrepit old mansions and castles, listening to "Toccata and Fugue," and practicing their Transylvanian accents.  However, several of my friends liked this trash, so I decided to give it a try.  After all, I’d spoken derisively at length about Harry Potter, but after reading it became a serious HP nerd so dedicated that I cut in front of children at the Lincoln Center Barnes and Noble TWICE trying to get my copy of book 7 . Maybe I’d likewise be pleasantly surprised by Twilight. At least I expected that it would at worst be solid trashy plane reading.

WRONG. Twilight sucks. Actually, “sucks” isn’t strong enough. Twilight is so bad that the very word should be stricken from the English language. I’d be happy to exclusively say “dusk” just to ensure that nothing could remind me of the mind-numbingly horrific experience of reading this shitty fucking abomination of a novel.  I think I would probably rather read The Notebook fifty times without stopping than Twilight once. I hate Twilight so much that I’m tempted to bring my copy into lab and destroy it with whatever kind of hardcore acid we have in our "Corrosives" cabinet.   Actually, I’d like to piss on Twilight before burning it and destroying the ashes with acid.  In fact, I think the actual paper the book is printed on is begging me to do so.  The book is that fucking appallingly terrible.

For starters, the story’s narrator, the protagonist Bella, is the dumbest bitch I’ve ever encountered in the world of fiction, and that includes legendary dumb bitches like Daisy from The Great Gatsby.  Daisy looks like a damn rocket scientist next to this hooker.  Bella spends the entire book pining away after Edward, her obnoxious vampire boyfriend.  In fact, Bella seems to have no interest in anything whatsoever besides obsessing over Edward.  Occasionally she takes a break from figuring out how to better craft her entire reason for living around her statuesque undead paramour to do some domestic chores around the house, but that's about it.  What kind of a personality devoid loser does fucking dishes and laundry for fun when she's not devoting herself slavishly to some dumbass guy?  Not any slag I would be rolling with.  The minute Edward and all the other devastatingly sexy vampires roll onto the scene, I was hoping one of them would bite the fuck out of Bella and call it a day, because I was so sick of reading Bella's utterly idiotic musings like "there's no way this godlike creature could be meant for me", "I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him," and (my favorite) "you're exactly my brand of heroin."  Oh, bitch, please.  Save it for some bad poetry in your diary and get a life, and that's real talk. 

The only sensible thing Bella does in the entire book is show disdain for Forks, Washington, where most of the action takes place. I have been to Forks on several occasions, and if given a choice between eternity there or in Hell, I'd strongly consider Hell.  It's a tiny, piece of trash town with absolutely no redeeming qualities, which is apparently why domesticated (ie: non-people-eating) vampires like living there.  There's not a lot of sun (which just causes the vampires to glitter like a bunch of really attractive disco balls, but it's apparently really obvious and distracting) and the place is populated exclusively with ignorant hicks, so it's clearly a great place for a clan of statuesque Volvo-driving (seriously) Mormon vampires to blend in.   Just as a further indication of the type of people living in Forks, the teenagers in the book all take time out from their parents by cruising over to La Push.  My family spent a couple summer vacations salmon fishing at this fetid shitshow of a Quileute reservation town, and those were the crappiest summer vacations ever.  La Push was always cold, I invariably got seasick from being on the north Pacific in my uncle's 20-foot Bayliner, and the beach was covered with broken glass, because the kids in La Push do what every other bored-ass teenager from a crappy economically depressed town: drink cooking wine stolen from the coolers outside tourist fishermen's RVs and smash the bottles on the beach.  This happened like four times before it occured to my aunt to keep her salmon poaching-grade chardonnay inside the trailer...and yes, note that we were the "rich," faincy out-of-towners and we were worried about losing four jugs of Gallo from outside the RV, which should give you an idea of how classy the denizens of La Push actually are.  However, that's not the way the kids roll in Twilight.  They go to the beach and there isn't a drop of liquor anywhere in sight.  They build beach fires and look at tide pools.  Those aren't the drunken Forksian/La Push hicks I remember.  UNREALISTIC.  FAIL, STEPHENIE MEYER, FAIL!

Apart from the lame setting and lead characters, Twilight may actually be one of the most poorly written, relentlessly cheesy novels I've ever read.  Half the fucking book is this bitch Bella gushing about how incomparably gorgeous her vampire boyfriend is, and how she literally faints when he pecks her on the cheek.  The rest is them exchanging lame dialogue while they smell each other because that's about as hot and heavy as they can get.  Apparently, though he is a boring Volvo-driving vampire who only eats random wild animals, making out too passionately with Bella will cause him to lose control and eat her.  Clumsy teenage boning is thus definitely out of the question.  So instead they just snuggle and sniff each other and have lame exchanges like this:
I could feel his cool breath on my neck, feel his nose sliding along my jaw, inhaling.

"I thought you were desensitized."

"Just because I'm resisting the wine doesn't mean I can't appreciate the bouquet," he whispered.  "You have a very floral smell, like lavender...or freesia," he noted.  "It's mouthwatering."
Seriously, dumb vampire, that is not the smell of your fucking destiny.  It's the smell of a $7.99 bottle of Bath and Body Works lotion.  Get with the century, loser.  And as long as Edward is learning about modern customs, he might read up on how the women of the present regard STALKING.  This moron vampire actually tells stupid-ass Bella that he fucking hangs out in a tree and watches her sleep every night.  Instead of being creeped out and ordering him the hell out of her life, Bella, again demonstrating her total and utter lack of any sense or intelligence whatsoever, thinks it's fucking cute and endearing after he assures her that she repeats an endless litany of "Edward" in her sleep.  Then again, I would expect no less from a bitch so completely clueless she refers to NyQuil as "gratuitous drug use" and thinks exchanging body odor with her man is hot.  Granted, I like a man to be on top of his hygiene and smell nice, but at the end of the day I want a dude who I can blow without him either whining about how dangerous he is or trying to exsanguinate me.  That's something Edward can fucking work on, and it shouldn't be THAT hard if he's so "godlike."

I could probably rage on about this abortion of a novel for hours, but I have to get back to work on my thesis, and frankly, I'm not sure the internets are big enough to contain all my anti-Twilight hatred.  I'll just try to work on getting my breathing and heart rate under control, and leave you with a reminder that all the bitches who love this trash look like this:


Before you start criticizing me for knocking on these children, let me remind you all that I am a huge nerd.  I can tell you that Gandalf's sword is named Glamdring.  I know Hermione Granger's middle name.  I can tell you who Cthulhu is and that in his house of R'lyeh he waits dreaming.  And I've been remiss with the posts lately because I'm on the home stretch doctorate in science.  My nerdiness is well-established, and is in fact my profession.  However, I am like the fucking captain of the cheerleading squad in comparison to these fugly, custom-shirt-crafting losers.  Even when I was a poetry-writing, morbidly depressed, Sylvia Plath-reading baby dyke wearing hideous Eddie Bauer fleece pullovers and ill-fitting Salvation Army khakis I was like a prom queen compared to these bitches in terms of our respective spots on the social hierarchy.  These are the bottom of the high school barrel.  These are the kids who lettered in band and got jackets made anyway.  They were the kids who you thought you would rather be stretched on the rack than kiss.  The ones who had bad skin and smelled weird and still wore stirrup stretch pants long after the early 90s were over.  They are the ones who read Twilight.  Don't be one of them!  Leave sexless Mormon vampire romance novels on the shelf (or better yet, the garbage can) where they belong!

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:29 AM 9 Comments Links to this post

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

 

Unthanksgiving

At Thanksgiving, usually people spend a lot of time reflecting on all the fabulous things in their lives.  Most people, no matter how hard-hearted or cynical, will at least take a few minutes to acknowledge the fact that it's great their houses haven't gone into foreclosure...yet, or that even if the Seahawks suck at least their number two favorite team the Titans are kicking ass, or that beer, dogs, and pepperoni pizza remain plentiful, or that or they got laid this month.  I'm sure I'll have a misty little moment tomorrow when I've got my hand rammed up a giant Butterball's ass as I try to fill its body cavity with a tampon full of Pepperidge Farm stuffing.  However, this year that moment will be brief because this year there are so many damn things to be pissed off and not one bit thankful about.  In addition to obvious downers like the economy, the job market, my unnecessarily yet perpetually dramatic work environment, my Atlas-caliber workload, and the soul-manglingly depressing fact that I'm still in hell grad school, I've realized that this year, I'm more pissed off at the little things than usual.  

Most Thanksgiving-time blog posts will be about the authors' gratitude for happy things like sugar cookies, Jesus and snow and free babysitters and other stuff Mormons like, watching Juno and Mamma Mia instead of dying of typhus in a concentration camp, the joys of making holiday feasts with semen, your ugly, breasticled husband, the inanity of Twittering, or tea, Byzantine costumes, and pussy,  Hell, even Duff McKagan is blogging about how he's thankful for his wife, kids, friends, Seattle (which earns an eye-roll with a touch of side-eye from me), "Flight of the Conchords," and something Krist Novoselic wrote once about the '92 VMAs.  Therefore, I thought I would take it upon myself to mention a few of the MANY things I am most certainly NOT pleased with, much less grateful for.

Peter Orszag's appointment as head of the Obama Office of Management and Budget

I have no idea what Orszag's job qualifications are to be America's top accountant other than he apparently passed the epic and invasive job application Obama was requiring prospective employees to fill out.  One question the comprehensive vetting process missed, however, was "Is your haircut a variation on a nine-year-old boy twenty years ago?"  Peter Orszag is like a halfassed Bob Saget impersonator rocking the same bowl-above, shaved-below look my brother rocked to the opening of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movie in like 1990.  If he can balance the budget in these trying times, then props to him, but he ought to celebrate with a new style.  I hear they make some really fashionable toupeés these days.

Kanye West has a new album out

I've begrudgingly liked a few Kanye West songs in the last year or so, and this has disturbed me.  Granted, they were mostly songs that also featured Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter, Clifford "T.I." Harris, or Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins, but still...normally I bear such a passionate hatred for Kanye West himself that this precludes me liking anything he's associated with.  In fact, after admitting that I LOVED the "Lollipop" remix, I proceeded to convince myself that the "Kanye West" credit on the song was a misprint and it was really Faheem "T-Pain" Najm trying a new setting on his vocorder.  Now that Kanye has a new album out, though, I get the feeling I'm going to be hearing a lot of Lil' Wayne, T.I., and Young Jeezy-free Kanye jams, and this doesn't bode well for 2009.

The 'Sprout is out

I've previously discussed my disdain for this blogger going by "Writersprout," because not only is her writing appallingly poor, she really pulled a head-job on my lesbian apprentice Twathopper.  And I don't mean she gave Twathopper head; I mean this bitch dragged Twathopper to every open-mic night at every fucking intentionally dingy "performance space" in Williamsburg and the Lower East Side, probably while jabbering incessantly about jogging, subletting, and cupcakes, and then, after Twathopper went through all this pussy-grooming trouble, hooked up with some other bitches instead.  People who manage to combine the world's most obnoxiously contrived personality with a track record of doing mean things to my friends are high up on my Enemy List.  However despite my utter contempt for her, thanks to Writersprout I've had endless comic material for my friends' amusement, culminating in a recent blog I started paying homage to her upcoming graduate degree in popular fictional creative non-fiction (no joke) via a serious of riveting mystery stories.  Sadly, before I could publish the first of the Brooklyn Cupcake Marathon Mysteries, Writersprout went and defaulted on her web hosting bill!  How am I supposed to launch a parody Writersprout's insufferable, Roget-augmented wordsmithery when her site redirects to a "Error-Deadbeat Hosting Customer" page?  You can still read her lame blog about subletting for fun, but it's just not the same.  Thanks a lot, Writersprout, for so cruelly snatching away my dream to spend a lot of time ragging on you hard.

Beyoncé is SASHA FIERCE

This wasn't cool when Garth Brooks did it, so I don't know why Beyoncé thinks she can get away with it.  Apart from acquiring a name that sounds even MORE like some kind of tranny hooker, Sasha Fierce and Beyoncé are virtually indistinguishable.  They both do the same kind of fat-ass-chunk-shaking dance moves, they both dress like they're on their way to a black-tie leotard formal with the upper crust spice magnates from Dune, and they both sing the same songs about how dumping assholes and buying your own jewelry are the hallmarks of female empowerment.  Would Beyoncé/Sasha Fierce please proceed to get Aretha Franklin fat like LL Cool Jew has predicted she will, and stop bothering us with her wack repackaging of the same old bullshit.  

Besides, there's only one R&B superstar who can pull off an alter-ego, and that's only in the context of a musical soap opera about adultery, gay preachers, elderly neighbors with erectile dysfunction, midget-cuckolded highway patrolmen, lesbian diner employees, and mysterious packages.  In other words, the only person with the combined musical and acting chops to effect such a feat is none other than the legendary and incomparable ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY playing the Beretta-wielding Chicagoan Sylvester.

The 2008 Seahawks

The Seachickens are 2-9, and about to get a festive Thanksgiving ass-raping from Tony Romo and T.O. to commemorate Mike Holmgren's final season as coach.  I don't think I need to elaborate further.

The 2008 Dallas Cowboys, Pittsburgh Steelers, New England Patriots, and Indianapolis Colts

I would hope that if my team is sucking stank Sasha Fierce balls, at least the teams I loathe would be too.  Despite occasional flashes of glee I felt when I thought Tony Romo was out tampon shopping with Jessica Simpson for the season, or I realized that Ben Roethlisberger's abilities are embarrassingly overrated, or Tom Brady went down crying like a bitch in week 1, or Peyton Manning was going to be permanently overshadowed by his younger brother Eli "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome" Manning, these assholes all seem to perservere.  All are still in the running for their divisions (except maybe the Colts, but they've still got a very good shot at a wild card slot), and all are still existing solely to piss me off and perturb me.  Oh, and did I mention the Cowboys are playing the Seahawks on Thanksgiving?  I can only pray that Jessica Simpson shows up at the game and shines her Cowboys-disrupting energy full force on Texas Stadium during the game.

Now I have to go to work, but keep checking back.  I am sure that all day I'm going to be thinking of stuff I'm NOT thankful for, so I'll update this list through the next couple days.  In the meantime, if you are as depressed as I am with the state of the world today, I urge you to make like me and eat the pain away.  Happy Unthanksgiving!

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:51 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, November 20, 2008

 

Ugly "betty"

Since I went brunette last week, I've gotten a surprisingly large number of queries about whether or not I dyed the "hair down there" to match the curtains.  This served to remind me how ignorant many people are on the topic of girls' pubes.  Back when I was blonde, I got a lot of questions about this from my paramours, especially those of the male variety.  This was probably because a lot of people didn't realize that my blonde hair color was from a bottle too.

Granted, I am a natural blonde, and when I was a little kid, I looked like the poster child for the Hitler Youth.  However, once I hit puberty, my hair started to get darker.  I was tired of being what my mother calls a "dishwater blonde" and I had a very unfortunate admiration for Courtney Love's personal style, so at 16 I bought a box of Clairol Maxi-Blonde and peroxided it so hard my hair was probably emitting free radicals.  Since that day, I'd been coloring it various brighter shades of blonde until I decided to get down with brown for my thirties, but my pubes have always been the same color of light brown.  Despite the carpet always being darker than the drapes, I've never, EVER taken my L'Oreal anywhere near my southerly hedgerows, nor considered it.

I've hooked up with blond chicks and dudes and I have yet to see a "natural blonde" in that sense.  In my experience, all people with naturally blonde hair of varying degrees have light to medium brown crotch curls, and thus I've never felt the need to match since it's hardly going to be shocking if my twat topiary isn't the exact same color as the hair on my head.  It's not like the fact that my hair color isn't natural is some big secret, and besides, coloring hair is a real pain in the ass.  It damages the fuck out of it, and you have to constantly maintain your roots.  The last thing I need is to start the same drama with my short and curlies.  

Sadly, now there's a pube dye being marketed in drugstores nationwide, and now I feel there is added pressure to get all matchy-matchy.  In fact, a month or two ago, I was discussing the general issue regarding becoming a "natural" blonde upstairs and down with my fellow dye-assisted natural blonde ElCyd and we both expressed our disdain and suspicion about such a product.
Razzy: when i get a hot job soon
Razzy: i'm going to hit the salon
Razzy: for riz
ElCyd: fo sho
Razzy: dyeing is such a hassle
Razzy: and as much as i like the PWT aesthetic
ElCyd: it's worth it to not have my arms hurt for a day afterwards
Razzy: truly
Razzy: plus it's nice to have it look sorta "natural"
Razzy: because people who aren't blonde
Razzy: don't realize that it's fake
Razzy: because we are "natural" blondes
Razzy: although there's been more than one retard who got my pants off and was like, "wait, you're a brunette?"
Razzy: and i'm like, "what?"
Razzy: and they're all, "the carpet doesn't match the drapes"
ElCyd: zomg
ElCyd: so they've clearly never boned a blonde
Razzy: i'm like "NO SHIT, loser. there are no blondes who have platinum pubes"
Razzy: have you seen this pube dye they're selling now?
ElCyd: yes
ElCyd: because THAT is what need
ElCyd: to deal with more than the hair on my head
Razzy: http://www.bettybeauty.com/
Razzy: "betty"

Razzy: i'm like, bitch, look at my eyebrows! look at the hair on my arms and legs! it's blonde, loser
Razzy: pubes are always brown
ElCyd: except for the firecrotches
ElCyd: their shit is RED
ElCyd: ew
Razzy: i know
Razzy: and it's TRUE too
Razzy: i've f'd a couple and their shit was totally red
ElCyd: oh christ
ElCyd: p.s.
ElCyd: why would anyone want blue pubes
ElCyd: srsly
Razzy: oh i KNOW
Razzy: hipsters would, probs
Razzy: that's so dumb
ElCyd: fucking stupid
ElCyd: i hate hipsters
Razzy: i mean if i saw that on someone
Razzy: i would laugh in their face
Razzy: and call them stupid
ElCyd:i mean
ElCyd: that takes some initiative
ElCyd: which means you are completely lame
Razzy: who is like "you know what would be fun? PINK PUBES"
ElCyd: gezus
ElCyd:right?
Razzy: dude what about THIS?
Razzy: http://www.bettybeauty.com/charmcils.php

ElCyd: dude
ElCyd: don't even get me started
Razzy: like make a fucking dollar sign on your "betty"?
Razzy: (which is the stupidest term ever for PUBES)
ElCyd: i think i saw a real sex once that had some chick getting her pubes dyed pink wtih a stencil
ElCyd: from like, a million years ago
ElCyd: oh, did you see the thongs that say "my betty is ready"?
ElCyd: lame
Razzy: that is so dumb
Razzy: those thongs are pricey
Razzy: although pube dye is nothing in comparison to bad woman ideas when you consider the services offered by c'elle: www.celle.com
Razzy: PERIOD STEM CELLS
ElCyd: omg
And I'll stop there, because I don't think anyone needs a digression into the world of companies specializing in cryopreserving a girl's "monthly miracle."  In any event, rest assured, there will be no pubic hair matching going on around my vagina anytime soon, much less any flamboyant colors or peace sign designs painted onto my racing stripe.  Sorry to disappoint those proponents of color matching, but to be perfectly honest, it's not like anyone believes I'm a natural brunette anyway.  Besides, in my experience nobody has particularly cared what my rug matched before they started munching it, and until that happens, there will be no Betty on my pubes.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:16 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

 

The economy isn't the only thing trending toward TOTAL SHIT

I was idly checking my e-mail the other day when my eyes strayed across the link that Gmail read the contents of my correspondence and decided I would like to click upon.  Due to a fair amount of dick-swinging shit-talkery about last Sunday's Seahawks abortion game between myself and other various football buddies, there were enough references to the Green Bay Packers (ie: "the Hawks will melt those Cheeseheads like a pot of bitch-flavored fondue"), Google's e-mail readers decided that I'd be attracted to the following statement: "Wear Zubaz in Packers Colors!  BUY NOW!" 

"Zubaz?"  I said, as the term was vaguely familiar.  It reminded me of something in my childhood...something from a simpler time, when I carried an Esprit tote bag, wore my hair in a spiral perm to disguise the decidedly not neon (and therefore not stylish) neckstrap for the headgear my sadistic orthodontist forced me to wear to school, and when I was awkward and afraid of boys and knew the song "U Can't Touch This" so well that I could do that really fast "it's-Hammer-go-Hammer-MC-Hammer-yo-Hammer-and-the-rest-can-go-and-play-can't-touch-this" part without messing up.  So I decided to investigate further, and almost as soon as I clicked the link, I remembered EXACTLY what Zubaz are.  I know right now the world is a grim and uncertain place, but things aren't so bad that THIS needs to come back:

Granted, there are parts of Puyallup where these pants have never gone away. Usually they're found waddling into Wal-Mart in old school Seahawks colors and/or UW Huskies colors (and trust that purple and gold do not go well with morbid obesity) accessorized with a fanny pack, a prodigious gut, and a B.U.M. Equipment sweatshirt.  However, excepting certain dark trailer parks in unincorporated Pierce County, Washington, I had long since relegated Zubaz along with Hypercolor, International News logo shirts, and stirrup stretch pants to the class of trends that are dead and gone.

Thus I was most dismayed to see that Zubaz have made a "proud return," with their signature "bold patterns and classic styles" (translation: zebra, zebra, and more zebra).  I don't need to see low-rent Paris Hilton and Ryan Reynolds knockoffs trying to convince me that this is any better a sportswear-mediated fashion statement now than it was 15 years ago.  Fuck Zubaz and the zebra they rode in on.  I'm not buying it.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:31 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, September 11, 2008

 

Not grounded, not dead

Reason #4765 to stop fucking whining: we're not fucking dead.

Wednesday was a different day around the Experiential Marketing ranch. It became a little tougher to endure the nonstop river of conference call inanities, the continual misinterpretations of cretin clients and Cro-Magnon coworkers. The words "leverage" and "manage change" came tinged with far more bitterness than usual. What could be the matter? Too much carbon monoxide coming from the vents? A widspread, sudden existential crisis? Was everyone simultaneously unlucky in love?

Perhaps so, but more pressing: the Swiss were poised to conduct a test on a particle accelerator in the hours to come, at 2:30 in the American morning.

If it ended up a success, we would make a great leap in particle physics and introduce some compelling questions about the nature of matter. Hoo ha. Well, not we; the professor and the nearly 2,000 other physicists whose input he requested. But no matter.

IF, however, THE SUCKER FAILED, those no-side taking, unempathetic fucktard Swiss would have swiftly conducted the planet into a black motherfucking hole, thereby bringing on the end of the motherfucking world.

Blessed be, though, we were able to wake up on Thursday morning, not dead. Our phone bill was not sent off in vain. We still had time to call our moms. There would be yet another big fat bucket of movie popcorn in the bright future to come. We could return to work, able-bodied and with a bounce in our steps. Work wasn't any less mind-numbing. But we were no longer faced with spending the last day of our lives at fucking work. How do you say "amen" in Swiss German?

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# posted by FalloniusMonk @ 8:28 AM 3 Comments Links to this post

Monday, July 28, 2008

 

Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Shigeo Tokuda


Name: Shigeo Tokuda

DOB: 1933?

Occupation: porn star

Hometown: Tokyo, Japan

Current residence: Tokyo, Japan

Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Every time I watch something Japanese, I'm sort of mystified and confused by a lot of what goes on.  Probably there's a lot lost in translation, but generally I find Japanese shit strange and befuddling to my American sensibilities.  Take suicide, for example.  Plenty of people commit suicide around the world, but the Japanese have the market cornered on bizarre movie suicides for no apparent reason.  If you watch almost any Japanese movie, from Godzilla v. Mothra all the way to Battle Royale, people are killing themselves right and left just because.  In Battle Royale, there is literally one couple who kills themselves because they won't be able to continue their junior high relationship together on account of everyone involved in the titular Battle Royale having to kill each other...and NOT because they've been fitted with an explosive collar around their necks and forced to murder their tween peers.  

In some cases, this cultural misunderstanding works well.  "MXC: Most Xtreme Challenge" is a fun way to pass time on Spike TV when nothing else is on, and I have adored the original Japanese "Iron Chef" since I first witnessed Chaiman Kaga presiding over the Abalone Battle in Kitchen Stadium years ago.  I may have no idea what "skwe-san" means, but I know that if the commentators don't use it to discuss the delicate and impressive manner in which an Iron Chef or his challenger is making swallow's nest and eel ice cream, hell will break loose (actually, the offender would probably just commit suicide).  The elements of Japanese culture I don't get often intrigue and amuse me, and many Americans have followed suit.  We've thus developed inferior versions of these shows for ourselves, since we seem to share the Japanese people's taste for crazy game shows, campy cooking competitions, karaoke, and pale long-haired ghosts who crawl out of consumer electronics.

That incorporation of classically Japanese entertainment into American culture has also occurred in the world of pornography.  My high school boyfriend would always say he was watching "anime," and I'd come over to find him watching some hentai shit where a large-eyed cartoon princess was being fucked in every orifice including ears and nostrils by some kind of grotesque robot praying mantis alien creature with twelve cocks and a giant set of mecha-crab claws.  I'm sure that there are at least twenty million other high school boys sitting around whacking it to the same ridiculous cartoons.  Although I find it pretty boring and somewhat gross, the sheer volume of various bukkake scenes on the internet indicate that this Japanese brand of porn has also made the leap into an international commodity.  For a nation of people who supposedly are always too busy working to have sex, the Japanese love themselves some nasty porn to the point where they've invented new disgusting genres.

Upon learning of new developments in this arena, though, I pray that unlike bukkake and animated alien rape, the new cutting edge trend in Japanese porn will stay on its own side of the Pacific.  Apparently the Japanese jerk-off consumers these days are all into GERIATRIC PORN.  It's not that I have a problem with sex with older men.  I've fucked my share of dudes in their mid-to-late thirties, and there have been more than a few guys in their forties or fifties I've fantasized about.  In fact, I'd even consider fucking guys older than that (named John McCain).  What I do not really want to do, however, is rub one off to guys who spent their youth trying to rout our forces on Guadalcanal and elsewhere in the Pacific theatre.  Enter Shigeo Tokuda, the 74-year-old star of such films as Maniac Training of Lolitas, Grandparents Getting Down, and Forbidden Elderly Care.  A recent article by TIME magazine describes Shigeo's niche as portraying "a tactful elderly gentlemen who instructs women of different ages in the erotic arts."

Just because I doubt I would appreciate his art, however, doesn't mean I can't show some love for Shigeo.  The man is apparently a porn superstar in Japan, to the point where his very name has in itself become a brand.  He keeps his real name a closely guarded secret, because in the TIME article he says his wife and daughter are unaware that he is the Peter North of Japanese pepaw porn.  A slightly more recent piece by CNN suggests that his wife and daughter have found out and are supportive, but don't want to know the details.  I suppose that when your elderly spouse and father is featured on over 350 porn box covers, at some point, you're bound to see one and call an emergency family meeting.  I can understand why I probably wouldn't want to know the details of my dad's second career as a male retiree porn star, since I don't want to see clips of a film entitled Never Too Old to Bone regardless.  However, just because I'm not interested in masturbating to his (gross) art doesn't mean I can't salute Shigeo Tokuda, who claims he's going to be in the business until he's 80 or older and attributes his "glowing complexion" to his love of his part-time job.  Vince Voyeur and T.T. Boy wish they had that kind of staying power.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:21 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

 

Daily Douchebag: ME again and as usual


Name: Razzy

DOB: November 17, 1978

Occupation: liking children against my better judgment and my inherent instincts

Hometown: Puyallup, Washington

Current residence: Puyallup, Washington until tomorrow

Douchebaggery: Yesterday, I visited my friend M-Boner so I could meet her new baby.  My other friend from high school, Bostonphile, came over with her new baby, too, so it was baby central.  At some point, my friend TAFKAMA called me to make a lunch date for today, and I mentioned that the babies were cute.  

"Are you kidding?  Babies suck," he said.

"Yeah, well M-Boner's kid is well-behaved and seems to like me," I replied.  This is true.  M-Boner's baby woke up and started fussing while M-Boner was on the phone, and I went to pick her up and she not only stopped crying, she immediately grabbed at my boobs.  Wouldn't be the first time a cute girl has tried to put her mouth on my titties, but that's another story.

"Your icy child-hating heart is melting!" TAFKAMA exclaimed in alarm.

"Well, I'm like M-Boner's sister, so that sort of makes her baby like my niece," I replied.  "I guess I like her because she's more like family."

"You should douchebag YOURSELF tomorrow for liking babies," he said scornfully.

So, here it is.  Despite the fact that I continue to hate kids in general and on principle, I now know there are at least two I don't loathe.  Plus, I taught M-Boner and Bostonphile's kids how to say "motherfucking cocksucker" and "lick my twat."  Well, they at least seemed amused while I was telling them.  They're only three months old, so they're not quite as adept at cursing as I would hope yet, but I expect they'll grow into it.  M-Boner's baby really loved it when I was bumping "Double Up" by Robert Sylvester Kelly in my parents' Prius.  I expect that once she learns to talk, the first words out of her mouth will be either "one in the bed, one in the chair, one massage my toes while one braids my hair" or "it's three's company, bitch, call me Jack Tripper."  That's my kind of kid.

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# posted by Razzy @ 11:00 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Friday, October 12, 2007

 

Nobel peace prize=BULLSHIT

Usually I give a shout-out to the nerds who win the Nobel prize in medicine every year, because I am compelled to help these loser trolls boost their insufferably large egos even more than they already are. I work a couple floors up from Richard Axel, who got his intellectual dick sucked by the Swedes in 2004 for his work on the olfactory nerves in flies, and he struts around generally behaving like he's the hottest asshole on the planet, when in reality he looks like the Crypt Keeper with Marfan's syndrome and a bow tie. He spends his spare time making genetically fucked-with transgendered flies, checking out bitches' racks (including mine) in the elevator, chain-chewing Nicorette gum, and banging this busted crone of a C. elegans developmental geneticist at Rockefeller. I like to facilitate this behavior, because these guys are the rock stars of science, and I'll do anything to make my chosen profession more interesting. I mean, more interesting than the infinitely intriguing ins and outs of rhinovirus pathogenesis in mice!

Anyway, speaking of mice, these dudes Mario Capecchi, Martin Evans, and Oliver Smithies got the Nobel prize in medicine for inventing gene targeting in mice. Thanks to them, I can make murine embryonic fibroblasts from mice with a bi-allelic neomycin insertion cassette in their type 1 interferon receptor alpha gene, or from any other knock-out mouse that's not early embryonic lethal. I also get to sit through countless immunology seminars in which the speaker drones on and on about crossing mice with floxed genes I've never heard of crossed with mice containing Cre under control of a promoter I've never heard of, and then get to struggle to remain consciousness through the interminable parade of unlabeled FACS dotplots that generally follow. In other words, thanks a lot, you assholes Capecchi, Evans, and Smithies. Okay, gene targeting in mice is most informative and was a major innovation and blah blah blah. I didn't get around to blogging about it, because as you can see, it's talking about gene targeting is as boring as watching most of the seminars which employ this technology.

What I'm all fired up about as far as the Nobel Prizes are concerned is that THIS douchebag was just given the big prize for PEACE!

FUCK AL GORE! I hate him so much, and all he's done is falsely claimed to have invented the internets, bored everyone to death with one of the least inspired presidential campaigns in recent memory (topped only by his Democratic successor John Kerry's failed White House bid), and blathered on pedantically about his retarded, scientastic, disputably validated theories on global warming. Al Gore makes me want to horribly pollute the planet just to spite him. I don't see how someone can be lauded for "peace" when their primary contribution to that lofty goal has been annoying everyone with completely uninformative pie charts, movies attracting hipsters like messenger bag-toting moths to a bug zapper, and recruiting metrosexual celebrity assholes like Leonardo DiCaprio to lecture me about my "carbon footprint." Just to show Al Gore and crew how much I detest their pursuit of "peace," I'm going to ensure that my carbon footprint looks like it was made by a damn Sasquatch! If I ever get out of grad school, get a real job, and become the baron of industry I was meant to be, I'm driving nothing but Hummers. I swear.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who pissed themselves with shock when this news about Gore getting recognized for his critical role in furthering the global peace sanctimonious lecture process. As I was writing this very post, I got an email from LL Cool Jew with her perspective on how the Karolinska Institute fucked up BIG TIME in dropping their prestige on this shithead and how it will ensure that Al Gore gets to help the Democrats crush yet another election into splintered debris like a non-global warming-caused hurricane does to the Gulf Coast every 50 years or so:

From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trostkyitepropagandists.org)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: oooh...on the Al Gore tip

Hey Raz,

OK, so Al Gore is totz annoying, and I don't really care for the fact that "An Inconvenient Truth" implied strongly that Hurricane Katrina was caused by global warming when throughout my brief career as a reportadora in the post-storm Gulf South I had to endure numerous conference calls with meteorologists from NOAA and the NWS and various esteemed universities explaining in their fastidious, snore-inducing sciencey style that in fact big hurricane seasons come on a roughly 50-year cycle (see Hurricanes Betsy and Camille in the late 1960s), and that while global warming could one day strengthen otherwise harmless storms, Katrina, Rita and the 2004 storms in Florida were pretty much right on schedule. I didn't see "An Inconvenient Truth," because while I really love documentaries about wars, murderers, pirates, plagues, etc., I don't really want to watch movies based on Chicken-Little-type PowerPoint presentations, and besides, the only thing that interrupted my drooling with boredom during Al Gore's run for president in 2000 was the presence of a sprightly, hilarious pre-9/11 George W. Bush piping up about "strategery" in the debates. But somehow I'm super excited that Al Gore won the Nobel Peace Prize today because it's really going to stick in the craw of the far-right. The president is probably bitterly sucking down a lowfat hot dog as we speak.

The fun has begun! ch ch ch ch ch ch check it out:

http://uk.news.yahoo.com/rtrs/20071012/tts-uk-nobel-peace-gore-bush-ca02f96.html

of course, Hannity and Limbaugh are still snoozing on sheets made from the skins of tiny children, but I'll def be keeping track of their take on the matter as the day progresses. Matt Drudge has already linked to like five stories speculating on whether this means Gore will get into the race again. It would be like a Shakespearian showdown btw Clinton and Gore...

Let's all just remember for a moment that LL Cool Jew was an English major and things like "Shakespearean showdown" probably sound compelling to her. She loves that Olde English crap, and can rattle off like half the Canterbury Tales if prompted to do so. However, since in my view Olde English is something that comes in a 40-ounce bottle and is the primary item stocking Dr. Dre's fridge, and I only care about the Shakespearean years as far as the history of battles between warring lords and nation-states, exploration, conquest, seafaring, smallpox, and other adventurous historical gems are concerned, I'm not getting excited about it until Al Gore turns into Cate Blanchett, puts on a really complicated dress and a wig of red ringlets, and starts saying shit along the lines of "By God, England shall not fall whilst I am queen!" Instead, you know his pompous ass is going to be running around exhorting us all to drive hybrids and bragging about his Nobel prize. That monotonous drag of a man is never going to shut up now. Thanks a lot, Karolinska Institute. You've created a monster. A really soporific, long-winded, toneless monster. This year's Nobel prizes SUCK!

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:04 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Monday, October 01, 2007

 

The World's Ten Most Unfuckable Rock Stars

That whole business about Johnny Borrell getting his own action figure while yours truly is being largely IGNORED has really pissed me off. It seems that every time I turn on Vh1 there's some pussified bitch of a long-haired man getting tons of gash in spite of looking as though he goes through life doing that dick-tucking move perfected by Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs.

I can think of ten dudes right offhand who are mysteriously raking in some choice pussy like they're early-90s Axl Rose for no reason other than they probably sold their souls to Satan himself. I cannot imagine why bitches get all gaga over John Mayer's cascading curls or Adam Levine's smug ass, but some women are truly suckers for what Elvis Costello once called "the 'fuck me, i'm sensitive' Jackson Brown school of seduction." I'm much more partial to the R. Kelly "Let me remind you that I am the king of R&B" approach to courtship. It's not that I like a dude to treat me like shit, but I like a man to be a man like Ernest Hemingway or Tom Jones or Gregory Peck or Geraldo, not a bitch talking about his damn feelings. I mean, look at these losers! Who wants to fuck these guys? Seriously?!

10. Jason Mraz

I once dated this guy who always listened to this "Adult Contemporary" radio station in Seattle called "the Mountain" that was always playing Jason Mraz, and I was never able to truly regard this dude as a real man because of it. Even when he'd be like, "suck my cock, baby" and say other stuff that smacks of manliness, I'd still imagine him in his hybrid car (OF COURSE) jamming to the pop-folky acoustic stylings of Jason Mraz. Needless to say, that relationship didn't work out.

9. Dave Matthews

Ugh. Apologies to my girl MillerTime, but I have NEVER understood what she finds so fucking appealing about the bastard son of Old MacDonald and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man here. Dude needs to get up out the barnyard, lose the acoustic guitar and around 30 pounds, and take a fucking razor to his poorly groomed face.

8. Josh Groban

Is Josh Groban a Jim Henson creation? Because he's got some serious Muppet going on, which pretty much excludes him from being construed as remotely hot by anybody, including the blind. Plus, Josh Groban is played on those radio stations which describe themselves as "warm" and are generally played in doctor's offices and old people's cars. The kind of radio stations that rock a lot of Disney musical themes ("A Whole New World", Phil Collins' songs from Tarzan, "Beauty and the Beast," etc.) and are singlehandedly responsible for Peabo Bryson's continued employment as a musician. I don't do motherfuckers who rock the easy listening channel.

7. Jack Johnson

Just because you're a surfer instead of a regular old harmonica-playing hippie-flavored jerkoff doesn't mean I like Jack Johnson's musical spooge any more than the other nutless crooners on this list. God, not only was this asshole also a favorite artist on "the Mountain" but they sold his CD at the Starbucks that was by my office when I used to work in Seattle, and the baristas there marketed it relentlessly. I'd go in and actually be praying that they'd play some typical, generic Starbucksian jazz instead because there was so much finger-snapping, bongo-drumming, murderous rage-filling Jack Johnson playing in that Starbucks. If there is a single artist most exemplary of what the snobby eco-nazi hipsters unique to Seattle, Jack Johnson may be it. I'll pass.

6. Chris Martin

One part Sir Richard Branson, one part cloying falsetto, ALL Gwyneth Paltrow's simpering bitch. I actually have to admit that it's kind of entertaining seeing Chris Martin cranking that ratchet during a live performance of internationally bumped dance jams like "Clocks" and "Yellow."

5. Thom Yorke

Wasn't this guy the evil computer programmer in cahoots with Famke Janssen and Sean Bean in Goldeneye? Oh no, it's just the lead singer of Radiohead, looking pompous, sullen, and totally no fun to be around at all, per usual.

4. Robin Thicke

He's a little bit Orlando Bloom, a little bit Dr. McSteamy from "Gay's Shitnatomy," a little bit Clark Gable except not super foxy, and 100% the fruit (PUN INTENDED) of Alan "Dr. Seaver" Thicke's loins! While I do have to give Robin props for guesting on a 50 Cent song and singing "money ain't everything, but it's for sure, you pay for nothing when you fuck with me," everything else that comes out of this guy's mouth is more sickeningly feminine than a damn tampon commercial. If music was fabric, Robin Thicke's would be pink lace.

3. Adam Levine

The prospect of sitting on this pencil dick gets one reaction from me: NO FUCKING THANKS! I've got better things to do than chase after the chief twink from Maroon5. Go back to Canada or wherever, you scrawny tool.

2. James Blunt

The phrase "SHA RIGHT" was invented to describe my feelings about the prospect of fucking this wonk-faced assclown. After tormenting the world for months with that incessant "Beautiful" cacophony, James Blunt managed to ugly his way straight into the pants of tsunami surviving supermodel Petra Nemacova. Petra wised up and dumped him eventually...FOR CHEATING ON HER! What kind of world do we live in where a greasy first cousin of Gollum's cheats on hot Czech supermodels with other disproportionately hot bitches?

1. John Mayer

The undisputed king of mischaracterizing a she-male for a macho rock star, John Mayer has managed to juxtapose badass "rocker" stuff like tattoos and sleeveless muscle shirts with his glossy body wave and a set of SERIOUS DSLs. Yet, mysteriously, John Mayer has boned half of Hollywood. For some inexplicable reason, John Mayer is like R. Kelly, where he's at the top of the world and life's a pussy buffet. The only possible explanation I can conceive of is that a bargain for his soul was somehow involved, because "hot sex on a platter" is not what crosses my mind when I look at John Mayer. What does cross my mind is that as long as John Mayer is going to the salon to get his pussy waxed, he might want to get his eyebrows done while he's there. God, he's not even a competent metrosexual! I'd rather pour cement in my vagina and seal it permanently than let John Mayer's disappointing weiner anywhere near it. Again, NO FUCKING WAY!

More than climate change or war in the Middle East, I would have to say that these dudes reeling in scores of hot bitches is the most indicative portent of the Apocalypse in ages. The world is truly, TRULY an unfair place! If John Mayer isn't getting summarily shot down for being the effete emotive bomb as he should be, there is no justice. The world needs to end already, because this is just wrong.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:54 AM 3 Comments Links to this post

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