Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Fuck your moms
My feelings about kids (specifically, that they suck and should be destroyed) have long been publicly known. Therefore, it shouldn't surprise anyone that the plethora of ads using motherhood as a qualifying selling point for crappy scams do nothing but piss me off. If you've ever used Facebook, or gone on the internet at all, you've seen these ads touting weight loss and tooth-whitening secrets discovered BY A MOM.
These mom ads are even worse than those old ads bragging that Airborne was discovered "BY A TEACHER!" I don't see what makes a person versed solely in herding unruly second graders and instructing them in complicated topics such as cursive and subtraction remotely qualified to develop products sold as antimicrobial drugs. Certainly it would make more sense to say Airborne was discovered by a virologist, but I suppose they probably couldn't get a virologist to go along with that marketing scheme. Speaking as a virologist (and one who even used to work on the common cold), I would never be so disingenuous as to suggest I discovered vitamin C, which is basically what Airborne is. Furthermore, I would consider it professionally irresponsible to claim that taking vitamin C will somehow act as a magical shield that will allow you to fly surrounded by sick, sneezing people and remain impervious to any kind of respiratory pathogens.
That said, at least a teacher inventing an infuriatingly overpriced vitamin C supplement is still better than hearing that A SINGLE MOM (!!!) invented some kind of fabulous breakthrough in tooth-whitening or weight loss by accident. Granted, there are many women who are mothers as well as competent scientists. If you are talking about Dr. Carol Greider, who was awarded this year's Nobel prize in medicine and physiology and who also has a couple kids, then I might believe that she came up with such a novel discovery. However, the notion that motherhood alone is somehow so superior to rational scientific research that random single moms discover bullshit in ten minutes of their spare time is ludicrous and offensive. If child-bearing is qualification enough to make a person a credible inventor of fabulous new technologies, then any of the following people may as well have accidentally tripped and fallen on the ultimate secret to tooth-whitening:
Yeah, I'm sure Kendra or Britney are likely to stumble upon a cure for AIDS now that they've joined the ranks of intellectual elite by ejecting progeny from their wombs. I'm sure that when Stephenie Meyer isn't encouraging teenage girls to devote themselves unquestioningly to chaste, sparkling Mormon vampires, she dabbles in developing a unified field theory of physics. And that when Courtney Love isn't overwhelming Twitter with incoherent ranting, she's whipping up a time machine. That's plausible...because that's what happens when, despite your intellect or your maternal skills, you squeeze out a rugrat to annoy me with. Your vagina gets used as a human egress, and you become an instant genius.
Yeah, I'm sure Kendra or Britney are likely to stumble upon a cure for AIDS now that they've joined the ranks of intellectual elite by ejecting progeny from their wombs. I'm sure that when Stephenie Meyer isn't encouraging teenage girls to devote themselves unquestioningly to chaste, sparkling Mormon vampires, she dabbles in developing a unified field theory of physics. And that when Courtney Love isn't overwhelming Twitter with incoherent ranting, she's whipping up a time machine. That's plausible...because that's what happens when, despite your intellect or your maternal skills, you squeeze out a rugrat to annoy me with. Your vagina gets used as a human egress, and you become an instant genius.
What's even better is that, per countless other sidebar and pop-up ads, I've been informed that Obama would like to enhance our nation's inventive capacity by sending MOMS TO SCHOOL. After all, if being a mother alone is sufficient for being an innovator on par with Thomas Edison, then imagine how Obama's post-partum educational mandate will produce a veritable technology boom. Bitches are going to be discovering cold fusion and establishing the existence of the hypothesized Higgs boson in between making peanut butter sandwiches and turning on Spongebob Squarepants. Even worse, childless underachieving losers like myself will probably be out of work.
And it's just as well, because I'm obviously NOT qualified to make fabulous discoveries anyway. For example, I always thought moms were women with children. It turns out they were Jesus-esque, hirsute, barechested, male indigents this whole time:
Labels: destroy all children, gross, ranting, scathing indictments
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Faith Hill is in league with Satan (there's no other explanation)
If there's anything that could fire me up enough to brush the dust off my blog and return to a more prolific state of active bitchery, it's Faith Hill killing my figurative boner for Sunday Night Football. Every week I've been watching this bitch and her tranny equine countenance trying to do her best "sexy Hank Williams" routine to segue between "Football Night in America" and the actual game. And every week I've been getting progressively more pissed off.
Faith Hill's "Drag Queen Kim Zolciak" look is not sexy, it does not make me believe that my rowdy friends have gathered anywhere nearby or accessible, and it most definitely does not get me ready for some football. On the contrary, it gets me ready for a cerebrovascular accident. Faith Hill is so talentless and dumb that she couldn't even write her own football song, and thus shamelessly stole "I Hate Myself for Loving You" from Joan Jett. This song has not been improved with new lyrics reminding me that the Gollum of sideline reporters, Andrea Kremer, will be prowling the sidelines and irritating me even more all evening. The entire atrocity is like when you're about to hook up with a really hot guy, only to achieve trouser access and realize he's rocking a golf pencil. That's hardly the way you want to start out a goddamn football game.
And this isn't just any movie about football, it's a movie about football starring Sandra Bullock, a veteran of about 8,000 shiteous chick flicks. So it makes sense for the NFL to give this movie some free press, as football fans are a demographic teeming with fans of The Lake House. What does not make sense is thinking that featuring Tim McGraw will butch this movie up for the NFL audience. Tim McGraw designed not one but TWO colognes. He probably doesn't even drive a damn truck, or if he does, it only has two-wheel drive. He's certainly no Toby Keith. He
Even worse, Al Michaels and Cris Collinsworth are contractually obligated to constantly name-check this appalling introduction. This evening, the punting unit took the field after a lackluster drive by the Bears' offense, and Al Michaels thought this would be a perfect opportunity to remind everyone what a sour note the game began on, stating, "Unlike Faith Hill, Jay Cutler has NOT been waiting all week for Sunday night...his confidence has definitely been shaken." Thanks for the Faith Hill-based analysis of Jay Cutler's humanity, Al. It really helps me understand the game better. One thing NFL fans has been missing and, in fact, clamoring for is more commentary revolving around FAITH HILL AND HER PLAGIARIZED STUPID FUCKING SUNDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL INTRO SONG!
Really, what marketing executive decided that the key to getting more people to watch Sunday Night Football on NBC was Faith Hill? I forgot that this bitch even fucking existed. Didn't Taylor Swift make her irrelevant? Nonetheless, she seems to be the executive producer of "Football Night in America," since the entire game is filled with Faith Hill references. In fact, it's not just NBC. The NFL can't seem to get enough of Faith Hill-related endorsements. Last week, I received an e-mail from NFL.com touting Tim McGraw's bit part in a movie about football.
I do not understand why the NFL and its affiliates have entered into this unholy alliance with Tim McGraw and Faith Hill. Granted, the NFL has made some questionable marketing choices in the past (such as sending me a Super Bowl XL Commemorative Steelers' Gear Catalog), but I'm completely at a loss as to why the celebrities leading their marketing efforts are these two washed-up pieces of country-fried trash. Seriously, these two must have sold their souls, or are in league with the Freemasons, or found a magic genie-filled lamp at some point, because there's just no other logical reason for them to be on my television ruining football.
Labels: cuntry singers, NFL football, ranting, sluts
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.
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!
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!
Labels: capitalism, I'm Not Buying It, intentional buffoonery, overcompensation, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, ranting, retard rage, sex, sluts, you're ugly
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
The Naomi-Wolf-Is-Smart Myth
I guess the editors at Harper's Bazaar decided to smarten up a cover full of pronouncements about summer's sexiest dresses and looking chic at any price by getting Naomi Wolf to write the latest installment in the canon of Angelina Jolie worship. Naomi Wolf raving about the Baby Collector's beauty in a fashion magazine is particularly awesome, considering Naomi Wolf made her name trashing the fashion and beauty industry for being a tool of the patriarchal hegemony meant to keep us ladies too busy being insecure.
In case you actually had some sort of life and desire for fun and not a bunch of feminist grousing in 1990, you may have missed Naomi Wolf's book The Beauty Myth. This book became notorious for heralding the birth of third-wave feminism, which is basically the idea that feminists need to start being really intellectually condescending about the same bullshit feminists have always been super bitchy about. All the women's studies types thought this was great except that hot bitch Camille Paglia, who started a beef because she thought (correctly) that The Beauty Myth made feminists seem really annoying and stupid due to the fact that Naomi Wolf is both. Naomi Wolf spends most of the book blabbing on about how our concept of beauty is all a giant patriarchal conspiracy designed to keep women in place and punish them for breaking free from male domination. Currently, I think Naomi Wolf needs to lighten the fuck up, but then again I may just be bitter that back in the day, her ideas and intellectual influence were largely responsible for THIS lamentable fashion misstep (and many, MANY like it):
Think of how many skanky titty shirts I could have purchased with the stacks I was dropping for ill-fitting fleece and bulky wool Cosby sweaters at Eddie Bauer and REI! Be assured that I was wearing a pair of dark brown suede Birkenstock clogs and a pair of Woolrich socks on my feet, to top off this ill-fitting and shapeless ensemble. Subverting the patriarchy Naomi Wolf-style is not a pretty sight and it barely got me laid. Thanks a lot, Naomi Wolf. Team Paglia.
Anyway, now I have another reason to hate Naomi Wolf besides her indirect effect on my regrettable style choices in high school. She wrote this article for a fashion and beauty magazine about how stupid, obnoxious Angelina Jolie is the perfect woman, "bosomy and wasp-waisted, with that curtain of hair and those crazy pillowy lips, she is an obvious male sex fantasy." Naomi Wolf goes on to gush that through deft PR, image management, and Brad Pitt-fucking, Angelina has transcended the banality of being a mere mortal to achieve the status of female archetype. She also manages to work in an insinuation that the patriarchy killed Princess Di and that Angelina Jolie has become the dominant female "ego ideal." The entire article is one lengthy, excessively devoted fan letter bearing the nauseating title "Why Women Want Angelina Jolie's Life."
If Naomi Wolf could pull her clueless academic head out of her own ass, she might take note that I do NOT want Angelina Jolie's life, and I bet there are a lot of other women who don't either. Brad Pitt seems like an asshole with stupid tattoos, and I would hate all those kids running around. Not to mention that with all the media whoring Angelina so graciously includes her children in those brats are going to grow up to be absolute monsters. In approximately eight years, TRUST that Maddox Jolie-Pitt is going to be the Paris Hilton for the next generation: attention-seeking, disgustingly overindulged, and one of the most loathsome individuals on earth. No fucking thank you to being legally and morally responsible for unleashing that upon the Hollywood club scene and the world.
Even moreso than a brood of spoiled tyrants, I do not want a life where I'm constantly reminding everyone what a big hypocrite I am. I wouldn't want to bring a swarm of photographers to document me getting off a private jet to "help" starving refugees in Chad by merely standing in their presence and posing. I also wouldn't want to run around giving impassioned speeches against poverty and chastising everyone else in the world for not doing their part, and then go with my common-law dickbag movie star boyfriend to drop half a million dollars on a gold couch. In fairness, Angelina is more visible than me and can thus raise more awareness about important issues like poverty and civil upheaval in Chad and Sudan. I'd just like to know how much of that raised awareness has fixed things in Darfur. Angelina Jolie pretends to do shit when in reality she just promotes herself and her haughty-ass persona. Sorry, but I'd rather actually do shit and back up my haughtiness with substance rather than duplicitous media skankery.
Then again, I can see why Naomi Wolf appreciates Angelina Jolie's self-promoting fakery, since she's been using the same scam for years to get the academic types to think she's not an intellectual lightweight. She makes her name declaring that fashion, beauty, and the cult of female celebrity are forms of patriarchal subjugation, and then twenty years later she writes in a fashion magazine about how a female celebrity's beauty has entranced modern women everywhere, most certainly including herself. Naomi Wolf's scholarly credentials involve specializing in wrapping the same overbearing, tired whining about the patriarchy in a thin veneer of hypocritical bullshit and selling it to people stupider than her (like me aged 15). Feminism deserves better than this vapid slag telling us that Angelina Jolie is the best thing to happen to women since vibrators were invented. STFU, Naomi Wolf!
Labels: celebrities, feminazism, media whores, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Monday, June 01, 2009
Will the real Slim Shady please sit the fuck down?
Last night the MTV Movie Awards were on, and it was basically a big snorefest, except for this choice moment:
Having Sacha Baron Cohen's junk in my face would be a sublime experience. He's swarthy, hot, and hilarious, plus he's like 10 feet tall so I'd wager he's packing. Should SBC–as himself, Brüno, or anyone else–ever descend from above like a flamboyant, ridiculous angel, my response would be similar to Eminem's "Are you fuckin' serious?" However, my response would NOT be in the vein of the humorless crybaby attitude exhibited by Mr. Mathers. I would be shocked at being in such great luck as to be blessed with a live closeup of SBC's business end, not demonstrating that I'm the asshole who can't take a joke.
Eminem is really one to get pissed off about this, considering that his signature videos mock many of his colleagues in the entertainment industry. Speaking from experience, if you dish it out, you'd better learn to take it because you will get it. He should have learned this in 2002 when he stormed out of the VMA's because Triumph the Insult Comic Dog ragged on him. Eminem's apparent steadfast inability to accept a little criticism continues to support my suspicions about his diminutive penis size. Also supporting my Eminem small weiner theory is his knee-jerk homophobia, and I do mean PHOBIA, since the mere proximity of Brüno's crotch sent him running from the theater.
As he's trying desperately to claw his way back from obese complacency to cultural relevance, he should be glad for the association with a hot movie that's about to drop and will most likely be very successful. Hell, considering the state of his career's stagnation, he should be glad he even got an invitation to the MTV Movie Awards, whether his seat came with surprise SBC ass or not. Being on the radio for the first time in four years with that forgettable "Crack a Bottle" song does not restore the kind of celebrity gravitas excusing being a whiny, insecure bitch who can't take a joke. Can Eminem's comeback just fail and send him back to Detroit to verbally abuse his immediate family members, get fat again, and generally drink a tall glass of bitch, shut your trap? Because his very presence just reminds me of how over him current popular culture ought to be. Please, Eminem, make like your song and LOSE YOURSELF...in obscurity.
Labels: assholes, ranting, rap, retard rage, TV
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
This is a threat?
You'd think that with all the important stories in today's news (new ho shooting to dethrone Ruth Bader Ginsberg as hottest bitch on the Supreme Court, prop 8 sadly stands, economic collapse, etc.), CNN could come up with a better use of their journalistic resources than THIS FUCKING STORY:
I've really had it with bitches who fall for this fucktard's antics. Ashton Kutcher is a snake oil charlatan with no talent save that of being inexplicably tolerable to stupid people. Everything about this motherfucker is despicable, and I don't know why people haven't recognized that since the late 90s or whenever "That '70s Show" was on. I basically hated him from the moment I gazed upon his guffawing, trucker hatted visage. A quick review of his CV reminds me that he came on the scene playing a dumb, lazy, unemployable stoner, then morphed into an annoying pest playing contrived pranks on people. Then he was mistaken for a celebrity anyone cares about by fucking and marrying Demi Moore. Then he became disgustingly overappreciative of his own value, made two years' worth of absolutely terrible films, and obnoxiously embraced Kabbalah. Now he's become my own personal multimedia gadfly, goading me with a deft combination of COOLPIX camera ads and self-aggrandizing pretensions that I should care about how this knuckle-dragger's Twitter habits influence his fickle relationship with his own media whorishness. Big deal: more assholes follow Ashton's Twitter feed than CNN's. He probably has more Facebook friends too. WHO CARES?! Larry King, please explain why you cluttered up your valuable primetime cable news space with this asshole's Twattery. It takes the average person about 30 seconds to not feel sorry for Ashton Kutcher being impaled upon his own proverbial e-sword. I'm losing approximately NO sleep knowing that Ashton worrying that someone might intrude upon and irritate him via the very media conduit he has used to torment the entertainment industry-consuming public for the past decade. Karma's a bitch, and so are you, Kutcher!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, internet domination, ranting, retard rage, TV
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Excuse me, but WHAT, BITCH NAMED KATE GOSSELIN?!?!?!?!
I am a glutton for punishment, and I really couldn't help myself. I went to the gossip internets and read more completely unsubstantiated, totally unreliable, and most likely false bullshit about the entirely loathsome "Jon and Kate Plus 8" family drama. It seems that there isn't much going on with real famous people, because the Gosselin parents are being thoroughly owned for their incompetence at media whorecraft. I could pretend that I'm the level of classy that stops after one glass of Franzia and takes the high road about obviously obnoxious twats, but let's be real about it: my new life goal apart from professional success and landing lots of hot ass is that THE GOSSELINS MUST BE STOPPED. I don't want to see them or hear about them and their gigantic litter of brats any longer, and I'm more than content to see the tides turn against them so severely that they are uniformly hated by the world and thus fade into the obscurity where they belong.
I'm clearly not the only one. The esteemed journalists at Us Weekly are obviously feeling me. The only thing they fail to point out is that she looked like a massive cunt even when she was just "a mom". She looks like the kind of mom who would force you to drink milk, eat raisins, and say unfamiliar Protestant prayers when you went over to hang out with her kids. This one girl I was friends with in sixth grade had a mom who did that, and she looked just like pre-monster Kate Gosselin. I bet if fleeting reality fame/infamy hadn't come her way, Kate Gosselin would have presumptuously overparented other people's children and decorated with God's eyes, framed needlepoint, and gingham-patterned geese just like Mrs. Gesch.
And due to their highly competent reportage, Us Weekly has managed to distill everything I hate about Kate Gosselin into a quick blurb, courtesy of a probably misappropriated quote from an obscure Associated Press features brief published in 2005:
Kate Gosselin said she feels society has a responsibility to help with the children, since modern medicine promotes the use of fertility drugs, which can lead to multiple births.
Kate Gosselin ought to get down on her knees and thank OctoMom's shameless social parasitism for distracting everyone from the fact that she is the true pioneer of egregious, infuriating media gaffes. However, Kate is finally getting the credit she deserves for her equally obnoxious attitude about subverting nature to achieve such a massive brood and then passing the responsibility off on the rest of us, and that's not going to translate into great "Jon and Kate Plus 8" ratings. Much like a predatory lender or American auto executive, it's a bad time to be a money hungry not-actually-that-famous reality star with eight mouths to feed and a broke-ass equally subfamous stump of a man who may or may not be banging some lesbian fifth grade teacher on the side. Probably because HOW *DARE* YOU BLAME SOCIETY FOR YOUR OWN VAIN BABY-OBSESSED CRAZY BITCH PSYCHOSIS THAT MY TAX DOLLARS SUBSIDIZE YOU FUCKING STUPID UGLY SELF-RIGHTEOUS TROLLOP-ASS CYPRESS MOSS-ESQUE-LABIA-HAVING PROSTITUTE!!!!
I would like to go around telling everyone that society has an obligation to support me because it encourages me to rule their faces off, but for reasons of not seeming like a delusional lunatic, I refrain from doing so. The vast majority of the society that supposedly encouraged Kate to take fertility drugs certainly won't embrace an annoying, shrewish, totally unendearing frigid nagfest pompously informing them that they need to pick up the tab for her own manifest selfishness. As someone who works in the field of "modern medicine" and an avowed child hater, I assuredly did not encourage Kate Gosselin or anyone else to take fertility drugs, and I strongly resent the implication that this bitch did so at my behest rather than her own arrogant desire to overbreed. And her suggestion that somehow I need to shoulder the burden of her own bad decisions makes me want to kill a bitch.
Kate's about to learn the hard way that it doesn't pay to be a mega cunt (literally and figuratively) with a detestable reproductive history and a fucking HORRIBLE Rosie O'Donnell circa 2002-meets-rabid Old Yeller's raised hackles haircut. People are going to quit that bitch and her show's going to get canceled, and she can go back to firing nannies and emasculating her husband without having a television audience to detest her. As far as I'm concerned, that joyous moment can't come soon enough. Down with the Gosselins!
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Monday, May 18, 2009
Seattle is already pissing me off
Don't get me wrong, because I'm excited to be back in the P-N-Dub. Although there are many things I miss about New York, my time in Seattle so far has basically ruled. I have appliances that I've merely fantasized about for the last six years, and I'm very happy doing chores around my comparatively gigantic apartment and listening to my icemaker thump steadily and rapturously. I have a Costco membership, my buddies Morrissey'sHair and TAFKAMA are practically my next-door neighbors, my fridge is loaded with Vitamin R, I partied with Sig Hansen AGAIN at CatchCon, the Mariners are at least doing a little better than they were last year, and I managed to cap off a night of lame wall painting with some hot unexpected lesbian sex. Oh, AND I get to have dinner at my parents' house every weekend! As soon as I identify the location of the nearest Taco Time, life will be all sunshine, Mexi-Fries, and cunnilingus.
However, in spite of my happiness at being back in the verdant corner of the country from whence I came, aspects of Seattle that I consider less than appealing have already begun to draw my ire. I knew it was only a matter of time before this happened. When I lived in Tacoma, Seattle used to piss me off to no end. It turns out, this is still true. While I'm generally enjoying life, a few things have emerged to push my internal "KILL A BITCH" button.
1. Stupid fucking eco-asshole-themed bumper stickers. People in Seattle love to be greener than the Prius driver next door, and they aren't shy about covering their hybrid or their Subaru in stickers proclaiming this. I actually saw a Saturn hybrid (LOSER) that had a bumper sticker reading "TREEHUGGER." This was in the company of a variety of obnoxious self-righteous stickers along the lines of "Ignore the Environment...It Will Go Away," "Have You Thanked a Green Plant Today?," and "The Revolution Will Not Be Motorized." Sha. The Terminator movies have indicated that any major revolution will, in fact, be motorized, and that franchise is more credible than an asshole who puts a "< / car >'" sticker ON HIS FUCKING CAR! Buy some REI fleece instead of blowhard bumper stickers bragging about how "My Prius Accelerates Faster Than Your SUV" and shut your tempeh hole, hippie-crite. Oh, and BT-dubs. That duo of Kucinich '04 and '08 stickers on the back window of your Outback? You should be embarrassed about that.
2. SoapNet is not included in the Seattle Comcast basic digital cable package. The other day I went to watch a rerun of the greatest show in the history of television AKA "Beverly Hills, 90210" and flipped through my new digital cable until I found SoapNet. I was all excited to see Dan Rubin, hot Jewish English nerd, flirt with Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman while she whines condescendingly about the self-loathing Jew running the Alpha Omega sorority, Steve Sanders pledge the KEG house while laying the groundwork for major drama with the nefarious John Sears, David Silver experiment with meth, and Brenda fail miserably at being Jim Walsh's office bitch. Alas, my hopes were dashed when I flipped to SoapNet and discovered that I have to upgrade to a more expensive cable package to get my Bev Niner fix! The fact that I have seen every Bev Niner episode at least five times and own the DVDs is irrelevant. Bev Niner-showing channels should ALWAYS be considered "basic" and included in cable packages accordingly. I also discovered that National Geographic Channel is likewise considered semi-premium when I DVR'd an hour of a blank screen that should have showed me "Locked Up Abroad: Indonesia." I never thought I'd say anything nice about the knuckle-dragging morons who work at Time Warner Cable, but at least they have their priorities in order more than Seattle Comcast.
3. My local pizza place sells RAW pizza. Seriously. I live down the street from this place called 'Zaw, which is not only a stupid fucking name, but they sell uncooked pizza. At first I thought this was one of those places that serves actual raw pizza, but after checking out their website, I realized that it's actually a take-and-bake place. I guess that's slightly better, but it's probably the most self-inflated bake-at-home pizza place–excuse me, I mean "artisan pizza in the raw" place–I've ever seen. On their website their pizza is described as "tummy-nourishing" and "life enhancing." They add snottily, "Not all pizza comes in a grease-stained box. (Ick!)" Parenthetical Ick! is right, at least if we're talking about the asshole who actually managed to make a take-and-bake pizza menu pretentious. Parenthetical Ick! is how I feel about trying to order something called "The Arizawna" or "Formaggio the IV" when I'm drunk and hungry for some grease-stained box pizza and then having to actually cook it. (Fucking hella ICK!)
4. There is a Lady Gaga song on any given radio station at any given time. Yes, Lady Gaga annoyed me plenty in New York too, but I don't recall Hot97 playing "Just Dance" every two seconds. They may have played "Right Now" by Akon or anything by Ne-Yo every two seconds, but not Lady Gaga. Here, I discovered to my extreme chagrin that "Poker Face" was simultaneously eliciting homicidal anger from me on THREE different radio stations. Because my hot Cam'ry doesn't yet have a CD player and I can't be bothered to dig out my old cassette tapes (which consists Vanilla Ice's To The Extreme, NKOTB's entire early 90s repertoire, Out of Time by REM, the Metallica black album, and the Cocktail soundtrack, if I recall), I'm stuck with the radio. Hearing that fug disco skank belt out a casino-themed ode to her own sick game (and I do mean sick...bitch is a blight upon humanity and her face should be reclassified as a disease) does not give me a peaceful attitude about rolling to Taco Time in the Cam'. Lady Gaga sucks and yet the people of western Washington (at least those listening to KUBE 93, Movin' 92.5, or KISS 106) seem to compulsively require regular dosing with the electronically augmented wailing of this club banshee at 5 minute intervals. Please, dear God, can the backlash bred by such relentless overexposure start ruining this hooker's life already?
5. Spiders. In six years in New York City, I maybe saw five spiders. They were all small and manageable. The worst spider incident in NYC involved me discovering a daddy long-legs residing in a corner of the ceiling in my shower, and I had to ask this dude I was banging to exterminate it for me. Here, I have pleasant dreams about daddy long-legs. The spiders in the P-N-Dub are no fucking joke. This weekend I was hanging out with my friend TAFKAMA at his girlfriend's house. We left to go hit the bars, and on the way out, TAFKAMA says something like, "Check that out, Razzy." I look at where he is pointing, and see ONE OF THESE FUCKING THINGS. I freaked out and fled the scene at a sprint, babbling "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod." Once outside, TAFKAMA apologized, saying he didn't realize I was THAT arachnophobic, in spite of having heard anecdotal tales of my great spider-related freakouts for nearly 20 years. I am not pleased about the fact that there is plenty more spider action where this came from.
6. People who can't fucking drive. The greater Seattle-Tacoma region has some of the worst traffic in the country, and this isn't just because state officials have the transportation engineering skills of Paris Hilton. While it is completely asinine that people seem to believe that the solution to all of Seattle's horrible congestion problems is to extend the novelty monorail built as a tourist attraction for the 1962 World's Fair, the real problem is not just based on flawed transit planning. The real problem is all the stupid assholes who can't drive in the rain. If you live in Seattle, your ass really has no excuse AT ALL for going 35 on the freeway just because it's sprinkling. You should be used to driving in the rain since everyone drives here and it rains all the fucking time. You should not freak out and go at a snail's pace, and then stop to let an entire freeway ramp merge in front of you because you drive like a fucking pussy, oblivious to the giant line of cars slowing to a miserable halt on the freeway behind you. I'm not a super aggressive or pissed-off driver, but I also don't act like a passive dick by being "nice" and letting more than one car bust into line in front of me.
I could go on for pages, except I have to go to work. My new job is definitely not giving me a honeymoon period. I already have business cards and a full Outlook schedule! And I have a meeting this morning, which should be sufficiently dull as to allow me to organize my thoughts about the next 6+ points about what to hate in Seattle.
Labels: P-N-Dub, ranting, Razzification, retard rage
Sunday, April 12, 2009
World War 6E
I haven't been writing much lately because I've been finishing up my thesis (which will finally be fully done tomorrow) and trying to get everything in order for a cross country move and generally doing a bunch of boring stuff that nobody wants to hear about. In fact, the only notable thing I've been up to is waging a blood feud with my upstairs neighbor. Okay, well maybe it's not quite so bad that blood will be spilled over it, but it's a feud and there's a whole lot of fuming and stomping going on.
Several years ago, I noticed that there was a lot of pounding coming from my ceiling coincident with occasions when I'd bump some Southern ass rap or Kells. Loud jams echoing through my building, and in fact through my building from other nearby buildings, are a normal part of life in my neighborhood. Still, my suspicions about the nature and purpose of these pounding noises were quickly confirmed when my upstairs neighbor advised me that my music disturbed him. I initially tried to keep it low. However, when I would hear him practicing his piano, I figured he was awake and it was okay to chillax with a little Rick Ross at medium volume. Furthermore, I figured I wasn't the only one on his shit list, since he sometimes stomped when I was reading or sleeping and generally not making any noise at all. I figured he'd direct his ire to his other, louder neighbors.
Well, I was wrong. I am this asshole's whipping bitch for every noisy motherfucker in the vicinity. Apparently, because this douche fancies himself some kind of jazz piano composer, I need to to stay quiet as a fucking churchmouse (and, apparently, keep my neighbors quiet too) so he can fully focus on the bullshit "jazz music" he churns out. He plays that hippie sort of jazz that never really begins or ends. In other words, it's a fucking one-man jam session all day. It's like living downstairs from Bruce Hornsby. An even more annoying Bruce Hornsby who first asked me to keep it down, then whined that it interfered with his daily piano abuse, then threatened to call the landlord. Then he apparently did call the landlord, because I received an enlarged photocopy of the section of my lease detailing rules concerning noise in the mail from the management office. Rather than fight, I just kept my music extremely low. And this had, until recently, resulted in an uneasy truce between us.
I understand that he probably feels the same way about my music as I feel about his, but just because he writes terrible music from his rodent-infested slum doesn't mean that it's more important than my right to do what I want in my own apartment. The notion that his bullshit takes precedence over mine just because really pisses me off. And I must have subconsciously been listening to my music a little louder than normal, because a couple months ago the stomping began again in earnest. This time, however, instead of opting for peace, I decided that I was going to piss this obnoxious prick off just as much as he pisses me off.
One day he decided to cool down from a vigorous stomping session by loitering aimlessly outside the building front door. As I passed on my way out he bawled, "Your music's too loud." I mustered the most cunty expression in my repertoire of don't-fuck-with-me-son looks, and said in my most icy tone, "So is yours." And thus, it's on.
He has taken to stomping at the slightest provocation. Originally he took issue with just my rap and R&B collections, but now he's stomping with equal fervor to music as varied as Brahms piano sonatas, Heart, and David Bowie. Unfortunately, I don't have any bootlegged tracks from bands jamming live at Bonnaroo or whatever to test whether or not he'd stomp at something he'd presumably consider more palatable. I think at this point he would stomp regardless of his preferences, because we hate each other that much.
The other day we literally had a pounding contest, and not in a hot way. As a matter of fact, there's no way that sexual diplomacy can resolve this matter, because he is revolting. He looks like he has Marfan's syndrome, because he's built like Abe Lincoln: extremely skinny and tall, with freakishly long limbs. He also is almost bald, but the patchy, thinning Friar Tuck salt-and-pepper hair ringing his ashy-ass skull is long and obviously unfamilar with a brush. When he rocks his beret over the overcompensating, undergroomed mess that is his coiffure, he looks like a skeezy child molester in a Lawrence Ferlinghetti costume. Add to it that he's probably in his mid-40s and still living in a shithole like my building and can't afford a studio or practice space, which suggests to me that most consumers agree with my assessment of his art. There is unequivocally NO WAY even in the most extreme or ridiculous circumstances, I would ever consider standing two feet away from this man, much less fucking him. Our pound-off therefore consisted of me listening to Muse, him stomping, me changing the music to "Fireman" from Tha Carter II, him stomping louder, and me grabbing a broom and pounding on my ceiling in response while shouting "GO FUCK YOURSELF!" through my light fixtures.
Because this situation is rapidly escalating, I decided that it was time to quit fucking around and demand surrender. He spent today working on some major construction project and then had the audacity to stomp when I took a writing break to bounce around to The R. in R&B. So it's time to regain the psychological upper hand in this war, and break his fucking spirit. I took it upon myself to craft a letter full of real talk to be taped to his apartment door like it's the damn church at Wittenberg. Sun Tzu would approve.
Dear Fake Bruce Hornsby,For some time now, I have been enduring your presumptuous stomping on my ceiling whenever you perceive a stray bit of noise coming from the direction of my apartment. I am constantly amazed by the acuity of your hearing, as you have on occasion woken me up with your imperative, obnoxious floor-pounding. I can only assume that in such situations, your exquisitely sensitive audio detection skills have made it possible for my restful breathing to annoy you. Either that, or you for some reason expect me to act as your emissary to any of my neighbors who might have the audacity to listen to music, watch television, open and close the doors in their apartments, and generally make the noise that occurs in the course of living. Once a couple years ago you complained to me about one of my neighbors slamming a door too loudly for your taste, and still seemed to think that was somehow my responsibility despite my informing you that the door slammer was not myself.I am certainly not suggesting that I don't make any noise. I listen to my stereo at a reasonable volume during daytime hours (never late at night), and have never had any complaints from any of my other neighbors. In fact, if my other neighbors did ask me to turn it down (which again, they never have), I would gladly comply. When you first asked me to turn it down, I did so. I even accommodated your podiatric demands for lower volume when you have stomped so frequently and with such ardor that my light fixture rattled and it sounded as though a rehearsal for Riverdance was occurring in your apartment.Sometimes I listen to the stereo more often than I normally would, as I need it to drown out the incessant cacophony of jam-session jazz that pours down from your apartment on a regular basis. As long as I'm being forced to suffer through your meandering, uninspired compositions whenever you get a hankering to practice, I figure I can at least block it out with something I enjoy. I've heard you say numerous times that you are a "musician," as if this somehow means that you can commit noise pollution as a matter of professional necessity and everyone else has to not only tolerate it, but provide you with a quiet atmosphere in which to craft your ghastly generic jazz-flavored non-masterpieces.Granted, given the fact that you live in this dilapidated tenement and the fact that you apparently don't have a studio to practice in, your music career hasn't exactly been successful. I feel slightly sorry for your pathetic attempts to parcel together what scraps of a career you can at any and all hours of the night. However, since your tired, desperate grasps for relevance involve me being forced to aurally consume a largely rejected product such as your entire piano repertoire, I am completely justified in instead choosing to listen to something that the market apparently finds much more palatable, including such multi-platinum-selling artists as Lil' Wayne, T.I., T-Pain, and R. Kelly. And Morrissey. And Lionel Richie. And Metallica. You even got stomping mad about Chopin Nocturnes, and I really honestly can't think of anything quieter and less intrusive than those.Therefore, please believe that from now on, when you start composing your next dissonant snorefest of elementary jazz chord progressions, I will turn on my stereo JUST LOUD ENOUGH to drown you out so that I can exist in peace in my apartment. I will not respond to any future stomping, except by possibly adjusting the volume accordingly. And if you like, you can call the landlord, because I'm more than happy to explain that I'm not the only one who likes music around here. However, good luck getting building management to care, since I'm moving in three weeks. I am sure after that, you will enjoy the dulcet tones of ten loud construction workers gutting and converting the apartment into an illegal one-bedroom so that the landlord can fleece some poor college student WHO ALSO LIKES RAP AND/OR ROCK MUSIC AND/OR ANYTHING BESIDES ORDINARY, SOPORIFIC, INTERMINABLE HIPPIE JAZZ PIANO PIECES.In short, sir, I demand that you cease stomping immediately.Regards,The Bitch Directly Downstairs From You
After writing this, I decided that it might be a little longer than necessary. At the very least, it might be so awesomely crushing that he wouldn't glean the larger "QUIT STOMPING" message from it. I wasn't trying to challenge his feeble mind with a comprehensive account of our ongoing hostilities. So I just wrote:
6E,From now on, whenever you rudely stomp on your floor/my ceiling in response to my music, I will turn said music up. If I have to tolerate your music, you can tolerate mine in return. Feel free to complain about it, because I'm moving in three weeks anyway.Regards,5E
I think it gets the point across. I win again and as usual.
Labels: assholes, Harlem world, overcompensation, ranting, Razzification, retard rage, scathing indictments
Monday, March 30, 2009
Raise your voice
Yesterday I was reading Dlisted, my main go-to site for celebrity e-bitchery, and laughed out loud when its author Michael K. wrote that Ashton Kutcher is the type to "give his peen a 'voice' while you're trying to blow him." Not only does that sound about right concerning the bedroom habits of the insufferably juvenile Mr. Kutcher, but it reminded me of the infrequently discussed but nonetheless relevant topic of talking on behalf of your genitalia and I felt compelled to weigh in on the matter.
Years ago, when I lived in beautiful Tacoma, Washington, the City of Destiny, I banged this dude who would translate for his penis while we were getting sexy. Specifically, he referred to it as "the boy" or "his boy," and wanted to relay its opinion to me throughout our drunken fucking. We were doing it and he said something like, "My boy feels great." Initially I was confused about what he meant and ignored it. However, he continued in this vein with comments like "Damn, my boy thinks you have a great pussy" and "the boy isn't going to last much longer if you keep going like this," and then attempted to engage me about it. He said something completely idiotic like "my boy wants to know if he's the best you've ever had?" I laughed in his face and responded with something like, "Tell your boy to shut up and fuck me."
This dude was definitely the Ashton Kutcher type. I knew him from around the Tacoma bar scene and from my interactions with him at such storied establishments as Hank's and Magoo's, I knew that he hung drywall or did construction or something and his life's ambition was to take surfing lessons. He had a tattoo of a sun with an ankh or a yin-yang or something along those lines on his upper back, even though he was the farthest thing imaginable from an eastern mystic. He also had an armband tat of some fake-me-out Celtic design and a Chinese character (that I like to think was the symbol for "tool") on his ankle like a damn girl. I had been at his apartment one time and he had taped torn-out pages from the Victoria's Secret catalog all over the walls by the toilet. I have no problem with dudes who keep their spank literature in plain view. In fact, I respect the brazen attitude of a dude who will leave his stack of Hustlers next to the john in plain view. However, taping ripped out pages of Heidi Klum selling 2 for 1 Angel bras for $49.99 as bathroom decor is a whole other level of douchebaggery, and cheap douchebaggery at that. Can't you at least buy a Maxim or something if you insist on decorating your bathroom with softcore jerk-off material? If this guy weren't cute in a Tacoma kind of way (meaning just okay) and I hadn't consumed half the stock of Sapphire gin at Magoo's that night, I probably wouldn't have seriously considered bagging him or his United Nations tattoos. In fact, my friend MillerTime had a crush on him and I wasn't going to go there out of deference for our friendship; however, she wasn't at the bar that night, and he was moving to Florida the next day. I figured that she'd never get her shot, and I might as well not let the dick go to waste.
Unfortunately, I didn't realize I'd be getting color commentary courtesy of "his boy" about the awesomeness of my vagina and its compatibility with said name-bearing penis. He didn't even stop when I laughed at him. In fact, he kept babbling on about "his boy" without saying anything in particular. It was like listening to Dick Vitale call our one-night stand. Then after "his boy" finished the job and retreated to its resting state, he bitched at me for smoking in my own apartment and plugged my toilet! He was a real charmer.
Since then, I've fortunately not come across anyone who said such asinine things on behalf of his penis during sex. I have had other guys say some silly stuff, like demanding that I compare their cock to smoked meat, shouting "DRAINAGE!" while ejaculating on my ass, or promising that I was about to be "split in half by (his) big, black snake." Luckily, however, I've never had another dude either attempt to interpret for his penis or assume the guise of his penis and chat me up. I don't think there is any way to make that hot.
Oh the other hand, I have successfully managed to talk with someone's genitalia myself, so I should never say never. A while back, I was banging this dude who set the tone by turning on some Skinemax original programming prior to us hooking up. I usually go straight to the internet for my porn because I don't like to trifle with any boring softcore bullshit, so I hadn't seen anything in that genre for awhile. It turns out that it's not the "Red Shoe Diaries" that I remember, which was sort of fake-classy (at least it referred to its actresses as "glamour models") and rarely showed much besides tits. Today's Skinemax, however, showed constant, close-up, full-frontal pussy shots and Randy Spears was in it! However, there still was not any real fucking in it, and the acting was TERRIBLE. Not that I expect an Oscar-worthy performance from the cast of "Co-Ed Confidential," but given that half of them are actual porn stars, I would expect them to at least believably simulate sex. There was one chick pretending to give a dude a blow job and her head was bouncing around so vigorously she looked like a damn jack-in-the-box. I started ranting indignantly about this, and after a few minutes, the honey took matters into his own hands and asked why I was wearing so many clothes. That reminded me that I did not go over to his apartment to critique the acting on Cinemax, and got down to business.
However, I couldn't get over the shoddiness of the travesty on television, and continued to jabber on about it while we were hooking up. Granted, my statements on the matter became much more terse, but I wasn't going to rest until I had vented. So I said something like, "This is what a fucking blow job looks like," and started fellating him between brief statements excoriating the unconvincing product that Cinemax was selling. I finally shut up once we started actually fucking, because only then was I distracted enough by my imminent orgasm to get over my critical disappointment in today's original softcore programming. Afterward, we were chatting while waiting for the dude to recharge, and he said, "I was really impressed with the way you were able to carry on a conversation at the same time as giving me head. I wasn't even annoyed."
"Uh, thanks," I said, then I noticed that Wild Orchid was now on Skinemax. "Hey, young Mickey Rourke! Now that's hot."
My dude was undeterred and continued, "Seriously, feel free to argue with my dick any time. It was a great blow job, and you made many excellent points."
"And you only made one," I said, grabbing his dick and realizing he was good to go again. Mollified, I proceeded to spend the rest of the night doing him with no complaints. Now, thinking back, I realized what a fine line there is between talking to and for your genitals. Talking to is clearly hot and sexy when done correctly by a pro ho like myself. Talking for, however, is just not okay. Ever. Fellas, if I want to talk to your cock, I will. Otherwise, tell it to keep its yap shut and just do its damn job. So let it be written, so let it be done.
Labels: perversion, ranting, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts, weiners
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Calling all ancient Greek sea monsters
Ahoy! The world's biggest dickbag has departed dry land and is now tweeting feverishly from the bounding main. A Carnival cruise ship was renamed the "Mayer Craft," thus ensuring that it is no longer worthy of the title "Fun Ship," and is slowly chugging its loathsome cargo from Long Beach, California to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. 
Yes, in yet another failed attempt at wit and humor, the Emperor of All Things Douchebaggy, John Mayer, donned his nautical-themed coochie cutters and welcomed his unfortunate fellow seamen aboard. When I die, this is what I expect Charon will look like as he prepares to ferry me across the river Styx to my eternal damnation: a dickless apparition born from an unholy alliance between old "Love Boat" episodes and any given roofie-slipping frathouse date rapist. Like the former, John Mayer isn't particularly amusing. Like the latter, he is obviously guilty of greatly exaggerating his manhood and thus suffers from a pathological need to overcompensate. I've been hearing all these rumors about how big John Mayer's wang is, and have been disputing them ever since. In these photos, I'm only seeing the slightest hint of knob, and SKINNY knob at that. Please believe that with a set of trunks like these, a veteran cock enthusiast such as myself could easily spot an impressive specimen from 50 nautical miles away. Thanks to his bulgeless short shorts, I am now confident that I am right about how NOT hung his bitch-ass is. John Mayer is, was, and ever shall be a golf pencil-rocking assclown. Trust.
John Mayer is busy turning a perfectly good cruise ship into the modern day equivalent of the Flying Dutchman, a harbinger of ill fate and maritime disaster, so the least I can do is hope that the innocent tourists aboard are put out of their misery before suffering through four days. As this isn't hurricane season, the only option seems to be a seafaring tragedy of mythological proportions to befall the Mayer Craft immediately. Since Scylla and Charybdis seem pretty content to stay put in the Strait of Messina, I'm thinking the Kraken is just the sea monster for the job. Hopefully, John Mayer will soon announce that his beauty surpasses that of the goddess Thetis, drawing her ire. Then she'll pester Poseidon to summon the Kraken, and since Perseus is busy being a constellation, there will be nobody to stop it from totally owning the Mayer Craft. Admittedly this plan is a little far-fetched, but hell...it worked in Clash of the Titans! And not only did that movie rule, but Thetis AKA Dame Maggie Smith is indeed hotter than John Mayer, so my hopes are high. With regard to Mr. Flat-Front Seaman Shorts here, the Kraken needs to get cracking.
[RAZZY Note: Yes, I know the Kraken is actually Scandinavian, and the correct Greek monster in the whole Perseus-Andromeda story is actually Cetus. I did read Edith Hamilton's Mythology like 50 fucking times. Clearly the people behind Clash of the Titans should have too. Either that, or they just decided that my Viking people had better sea monsters than those so-called "classical" Greeks. Either way, the movie still fucking rules, and John Mayer does not. The end.]
Labels: assholes, John Mayer sucks, nerd alert, ranting, seamen, small penises
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
You're exactly my brand of haterade, Twilight
I thought that my loathing toward the Twilight franchise was going to be like a summer fling, except full of boiling hate rather than hot sex. I figured that after some initially intense, explosive feelings of loathing toward this shitshow, my ire would burn itself out and I'd move on to the next pop culture phenomenon worthy of my dedicated abhorrence. In a few months, my comprehensive dislike for the world's lamest Washington coast-dwelling, Volvo-driving, neutered supermodel glitter vampires would fade just like last year's random honeys and I could train the crosshairs of my hateration elsewhere.
Unfortunately, due to my inability to avoid Twilight-related news, it appears that my hatred has been reduced to a slow simmer and is here to stay. I read the news, and there's Twilight, being inexplicably associated with random gang violence. I read my celebrity gossip, and see that Robert Pattinson is grossing everyone out on the set of the Twilight sequel New Moon because of his dislike for showers and generally disturbing lack of personal hygiene. Oddly, the fact that Robert Pattinson has the bathing regimen of a homeless meth addict on the gay hooker stroll and looks accordingly does not seem to deter a disturbingly large number of my female friends from rhapsodizing about his putative hotness, and I get to hear about this frequently via their Facebook status messages. In fact, Facebook is where I am most routinely confronted with unwanted Twilight-related information. Just yesterday, my news feed advised me that my high school ex-girlfriend is "stoked that her nephew gave her the collector's edition of Twilight on DVD for her birthday." Upon reading that, my eyes started rolling so uncontrollably that it probably looked like I was having a really bitchy seizure.
In fact, the only REMOTELY positive thing I can think of about Twilight is a little tidbit my Facebook wife ElCyd shared with me last night. We were Gchatting about the usual (Jayhawk basketball, the latest honeys on our ho rosters, how awesome we are, how much law school/grad school sucks, fucking girls and/or lesbian drama, our plans for world domination, our inherent Scorpio similarities, and how much my defense party is going to rule), and ElCyd decided to bring up Twilight. I can forgive ElCyd's rabid enthusiasm about Twilight, as she fully admits that it's godawful. I guess it's useful, too, since she came up with the only positive thing I've ever heard about the entire brand:
ElCyd: (p.s. best part of twilight the movie is the shout-out to Vitamin R)
Razzy: i did not see, obv
Razzy: but WHAT
Razzy: RAINIER BEER WAS IN TWILIGHT?!
ElCyd:: YES!
ElCyd: and they CALL IT VITAMIN R
ElCyd: IN THE MOVIE
Razzy: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!?!?!?!
Razzy: NO
Razzy: WAY
ElCyd: seriously
Razzy: ZOMG
ElCyd: i know.
Razzy: okay i might have to see twilight now
Razzy: i'm assuming it's not the sparkle vamps who call it that
ElCyd: no no
Razzy: but the redneck teens from forks
ElCyd: lol
ElCyd: redneck parents
Razzy: of course
Razzy: the teenagers don't drink
Razzy: they just build lame bonfires
ElCyd: in reference to a tallboy 6 pack of cans
Razzy: ah yes, the tallboy sixer of vitamin R
Razzy: soon to be a common sight in my refrigerator
Razzy: trust that
ElCyd: oh, i do.
ElCyd: please believe.
Razzy: those tallboy sixers of vitamin R are like $4
Razzy: so awesome
Razzy: i wonder if that clip is on youtube
Razzy: that will save me from having to watch twilight in its entirety
Razzy: which could result in someone's death
Unfortunately, nobody has yet had the presence of mind to save innocent bystanders from my murderous wrath by posting a YouTube of the scene in which Bella Swan's dad gives a shout-out to the greatest beer ever brewed, the sweet nectar of the P-N-Dub, Rainier Beer AKA "Vitamin R." Now maybe if there's a scene in New Moon in which the characters go pick up a crisp beef burrito and some Mexi-Fries from the Forks Taco Time, or take a detour to my hometown to Do the Puyallup, I could muster the inner strength to tolerate this bullshit. In the meantime, Bella Swan can stay addicted to her unshowered sparkling paramour. I have accepted that there is no escape from my hatred for it, and will just remain addicted to hating it.
Labels: ElCyd, librophilia, P-N-Dub, ranting, retard rage
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
NOT FUCKING FAIR!!!!!!!!!!
Star magazine just advised me that Douchebag of the Geological Epoch John Mayer is planning to write a tell-all about his relationship with Jennifer Aniston.
I think it's now official that John Mayer is the worst human being in the world. Not because he's writing a tell-all, which I'm sure will be excellent reading should you ever find yourself having a hard time falling asleep. I can only imagine what sort of tawdry tales he can tell about how Jennifer Aniston's leathery old ass spends all her time being vain and obnoxious. I'm sure I will be blown away when John Mayer regales us with the scandalous details of how an aging TV actress desperate to sustain her own relevance spends all her time doing yoga with some $400-an-hour private instructor. NO FUCKING WAY, John Mayer! STOP THE FUCKING PRESS!!
Whoever is coughing up $10 mil for a titillating batch of "secrets" like that is paying about $10 million too much. John Mayer is thus an extreme asshole, as I can't imagine he pulled off such a deal without some sort of contract with Satan. I don't remotely understand how this pubestachioed cooing dove (FYI, that's a dude who makes "ooo, ooOOO" disturbingly feminine cooing sounds while he's banging you with as much gusto as the average tampon you insert during your monthly) managed to negotiate a $10 million dollar deal for revealing the most boringly obvious non-secrets in the world. I'm really hard pressed to think of anybody whose secrets I am less interested in than old Human Benadryl Aniston. You'd have to pay me to waste time reading what I already know, because I can tell you exactly what a day in Jennifer Aniston's life entails for free. Observe:
1. Wake up at 10 a.m.
2. Do combo bed/spray tan.
3. Do yoga for 3 hours.
4. Get hair and makeup done for 3 hours. Bitch at them when they fail to give historical props to the cultural importance of "the Rachel."
5. Consult astrologer.
6. Go somewhere expensive for dinner and get photographed by paparazzi.
**OPTIONAL** Do above with Courtney Cox Arquette, assuming you can accommodate her similarly uneventful schedule.
7. Go home.
**ALSO OPTIONAL** Fill out e-Harmony profile, stealing Match.com commercial line "I'm just a goof, looking for my ball," because she's the only one in the entire fucking world who thinks that's cute or sexy. Go to bed, hoping to find an inbox full of many matches based on deep compatibility.
8. Repeat.
I mean, I guess there's probably some whining about how she used to be married to Brad Pitt and is so unlucky in love or whatever in the mix too, but who cares? That shit is boring, and spiking in a little "taking John Mayer's douchenozzle in missionary with shirts on" does nothing to spice it up, unless "spice it up" actually means "simultaneously gross me out and bore the shit out of me." Unless John's "private photo album" includes shots of Jennifer Aniston taking a baseball bat up the ass like Belladonna, I can't see how it would be worth more than the digital camera it's stored in. Frankly, even then I couldn't be bothered. I certainly wouldn't pay $10 million for that, much less news that Jen accidentally confused John Mayer with Brad Pitt in bed. This is hardly surprising, considering that not only is Jen still famously bitter about how her man ditched her for the Baby Collector, but the aforementioned 10-years-ago's Sexiest Man Alive is almost as insufferably obnoxious as the loathsome Mr. Mayer. I would be hard pressed not to confuse them myself, and I'm an internets gossip junkie so addicted that I can tell the Olsen twins apart and know what Peaches Geldof looks like.
I am primarily outraged that John Mayer, who does not need $10 million as much as I do, is getting such a ridiculous book advance for a tell-all about something as soporific as his dalliance with this busted-ass catcher's mitt of a woman. Granted, I tried hard to get a book deal in the sense that I wrote emails to two or three j-school grads I know and talked about wanting to do so and thought really fervently that it would be awesome to get fame and fortune for being Razzy. However, even if I sent the world's most stellar pitch to every publisher in the entire world or actually made the slightest amount of meaningful effort, I wouldn't get a $10 million deal. Granted, I don't have the pre-existing literary chops of writing such profound statements as "I want to run through the halls of my high school," but hell...I've slept with a whole bunch of doctors and lawyers who will surely be important someday, as well as writers for a couple publications even my parents have heard of, and other totally not-famous-but-work-for-famous-places types of people. I even dated a waiter at a famous restaurant, porked a fella who placed 27,945th in the New York City marathon, and publicly dumped a guy who invented the chip that went into Motorola StarTac phones! We all had one of those in like 1999!!!! Okay, he didn't actually invent the chip, but he wrote the mathematical algorithms that made it work, so same difference...you still wouldn't have been able to use your notoriously unreliable flip-phones without him and his state school engineering degree, which has known my vagina. I'm a total star fucker, like John Mayer!
Plus, I've had threesomes and done some hot girl-on-girl stuff and even taken it up the butt with some of these not-famous-but-I-could-maybe-convince-you-they-peripherally-are-type people. I'm not going to write shit about someone's boring obsession with yoga or in-home hairstyling. I'll tell you how big their dick is and whether or not it's worth a sit and spin! Instead of giving you pictures of a couple uninspiring, vain twats walking around LA with giant sunglasses on, I'll give you some straight-up real talk. And I'd be happy with a $10,000 book deal, which is a bargain compared to paying $10 million for something that does what Lunesta can for a mere $30 co-pay. So, assuming Star has its facts straight (which is actually a big assumption), I'm willing to underbid John Mayer and write whoever is paying for this a far more interesting book. So don't pay this tard an AIG bonus worth of cash for his account on what it's like to stick your dick in the human equivalent of a couch. Give it to me instead, and get your money's worth.
Labels: celebrities, John Mayer sucks, librophilia, ranting, Razzification, retard rage, scathing indictments
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