Tuesday, October 28, 2008
We have a lot to be angry about
I left a smack-talking post on the Facebook page of the dude who I opened a can of ass-beating on in my Fantasy league after destroying him (by one point). Since he joined our league this year and quickly established that he's an even bigger shit-talker than me, I couldn't resist pointing out that not only did I defeat him after he claimed that playing me would be an "automatic win," his favorite team (the Bills) got smoked by the Dolphins.
"Automatic win"? Sha. My team just BARELY beat you only to ensure that you didn't feel bad about your Fantasy suckage. I didn't want to hurt your poor wittle feewings, especially since you're probably doubly depressed that the Bills got ass-raped by the Dolphins too. You have my sympathies, and I won by a meager point to illustrate what a charitable bitch I can truly be.Apparently, this was unwise, because he turned around and wrote a bitchy essay of his own for my Facebook wall:
Before you toot your horn too much, a few things to keep in perspective:While I would dispute his opinions concerning what makes a better Fantasy team, the AFC East being the "second best division in football," and the Arizona Cardinals being the 25% of the NFC West that is not a Pop Warner team (implied...this fool lives in Arizona), I unfortunately cannot come up with much to counter his accusation that I "come from the most wretched sports town on earth." Unfortunately things have indeed been grim sports-wise in the great P-N-Dub. However, I am pleased to see that at least we can produce champions in one area: flipping out NFL coaches.
1. I am an expansion team. You SHOULD destroy me. You barely won against a team that started drafting after 8 others gobbled up the 40 best players. You barely won against an expansion team that had three backups playing (backups on my team and on the ones the played on) due to injury and lack of any quality on waiver wire.
2. The Bills are 5-2 in the second best division in football. The Seahawks are 2-5 in the only division where it appears 75% of it is Pop Warner teams. You come from the most wretched sports town on earth. The Mariners were the worst MLB team, teh Huskies are the worst NCAA, the Sonics left the decrepit area for (cough) Oklahoma, and the Seahawks are the only team in the league that pray the Detroit Lions and Cincinnati Bengals don't die in a plane crash.
3. I still have more total points than you, an arguably better indicator of the best fantasy team.
I rule.
This past weekend, legendary Seahawks quarterback and current Redskins head coach Jim Zorn bugged out at a reporter for looking "ticked off" during a post-game press conference. This isn't quite up to Jim Mora the Elder "PLAYOFFS?!" standards, but it was his second public freak-out of the day after reaming running back Clinton Portis during the second quarter of the Racial Slurs' summary destruction of the hapless Detroit Lions. Zorn isn't Mora grade YET, but he's learning.
And speaking of Jim Mora, guess where he lives now? That's right...he moved his entire collection of shirts with random triangles out to the great P-N-Dub years ago when he was coaching the aforemention disgrace of the Pac-10 UW Huskies, and has remained there, presumably to mentor a whole new generation of angry NFL coaches. Not coincidentally, when our beloved Mike Holmgren waddles off to whichever tidal pool walruses retire to, Mora's own son Jim Mora the Younger will be taking the helm of the Seahawks. The newer Mora has never quite followed in the footsteps of his old man regarding a penchant for uncontrolled raving to the press, but did have a couple promising outbursts when he was head coach of the Falcons. He has also kept those of us who are big enough losers to have crushes on yeast geneticist-looking defensive coordinators entertained with his sideline theatrics (ie: dropping to his knees in visible agony at missed tackles or dropped interceptions). I can only hope that he's laying the groundwork for an epic press conference for sometime in October 2009 should the Seahawks struggle amongst the other heavyweights in the NFC West. Surely it takes years of preparation to come up with exclamations bearing more impact than "Diddly-poo!", "That was a horseshit performance," and "we SUCKED."
Though I don't see Seattle's sports prospects improving anytime soon, at least I can look forward to years of top-tier press conference rage coming from football coaches originating in the P-N-Dub. Frankly, anyone coming from such dismal sports circumstances has something to be angry about, and since our perennial suckage doesn't appear to be ending any time soon, I anticipate a fruitful golden era of NFL coaches responding to press queries with violent outbursts. At least there's one thing to be excited about.
Labels: Fantasia, NFL football, P-N-Dub, ranting, retard rage, Seahawks, sportsmen
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Once again, Cheese Sauce proves that his followers are the dumbest
I was reading the news today, and as usual it was all fucking bad. The economy is crumbling thanks to years and years of getting unapologetically sodomized by Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, who despite their friendly, folksy names sound like a couple of serious motherfucking bastards. I was just going to click over to the BBC to read about the collapse of the credit markets in Europe to add a little international flavor to my general feeling of dread and impending doom when I noticed a catchy title in a sidebar ad:
Wait...Time magazine's business writers have decided to blame GOD for the imminent Greater Depression about to swallow the entire civilized world? I can understand why people still solvent enough to enjoy luxuries like print magazines read The Economist these days instead of Time, because that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. It's not like God took a break from being omnipotent to moonlight as an unscrupulous broker at Countrywide. Rolling my eyes, I went to the article expecting to continue audibly scoffing at my laptop.
Instead of continuing to think about the author's stupidity, however, I was instead filled with annoyance and anger not at the author, but at those goddamned irritating evangelical Christians! Apparently, this bullshit is all their fault thanks to something called the "Prosperity gospel" that a bunch of them subscribe to. This is the notion that if you open your wallet to Christ so that your megachurch can buy a new IMAX screen for in-service laser shows praising Cheese-Sauce Crasst, you'll be rewarded by getting approved for a mortgage that you can't afford and will assuredly default on should the economy take a downturn–kind of like the precipitous faceplant it's doing now!
Granted, this policy isn't explicitly stated by most evangelical ministers. However, an expert interviewed for the article explained that this is spelled out in facile Jesus-flavored suggestions that even the most slow-witted Pentecostal Joe Sixpack can understand:
Granted, this policy isn't explicitly stated by most evangelical ministers. However, an expert interviewed for the article explained that this is spelled out in facile Jesus-flavored suggestions that even the most slow-witted Pentecostal Joe Sixpack can understand:
"The pastor's not gonna say, 'Go down to Wachovia and get a loan,' but I have heard, 'Even if you have a poor credit rating, God can still bless you — if you put some faith out there [that is, make a big donation to the church], you'll get that house or that car or that apartment.'"
The Catholic church was practicing the medieval equivalent of this back in the day, except instead of the faithful donating their cash for corrupt ministers to buy Mercedes to snort meth and bang underage boys in, the faithful donated their farthings for corrupt clergymen to maintain lavish residences for their mistresses and instead of being promised home ownership, they were promised a guaranteed spot in heaven. Eventually, even the feudal peasants (the Joe Sixpacks of their time) of the Middle Ages caught on that this was a bullshit scam, and hence Protestants exist at all. I'm just relieved that this time around the Catholics have nothing to do with all hell breaking loose. Luckily, we learned our lesson about the dangers of selling indulgences six centuries ago. Too bad these holy rolling heretics aren't up on their history, because if they had been maybe they wouldn't have tried to better their own financial situations via this Prosperity gospel bullshit and caused the global credit markets to fucking fail.
I am obviously a Christian being that I count myself among the O.G. Jesus worshipers. Since the most holy and apostolic JP Dos was running things over at the Holy See, I was encouraged that we'd finally gotten past doing globally destructive bullshit like starting centuries-long holy wars and torturing Jews, intellectuals, and anyone else who did things slightly differently. Unfortunately, it seems these evangelicals have picked up where we Catholics left off in the global shitshow department. All these evangelicals love to talk about how awesome the apocalypse is going to be, and how great it's going to be when Jesus returns. I wouldn't get too excited if I were them, because frankly, if I were Jesus, I'd be getting so sick of my followers perpetrating worldwide catastrophic disaster in my name that if I had to get off my ass and leave heaven because of it, I'd just wipe the troublesome losers off the map like John McCain wants to do with our nation's bad mortgages. So quit doing anything in Jesus's name except praying, because I don't want to get Armageddoned along with economically fucked thanks to the investment strategies of the fundamentalist devout.
Labels: assholes, capitalism, Catholicism, crazies, Dear God, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Avada kedavre! No, seriously, AVADA FUCKING KEDAVRE!
Okay, so I know that the "Avada kedavre" killing curse only works in Harry Potter, but frankly it's about as believable as the latest stunt epic douchebag David Blaine is pulling as far as "magic" is concerned. Besides, the prospect of eliminating him Voldemort-style in a rush of green light has never been more appealing. I wish that I could Avada kedavre David Blaine and get him to permanently cease and desist clogging up my news pages with tales of his latest exploits in pointlessness.
In the past, David Blaine has somehow managed to convince the public that swimming around in a giant breast implant, being frozen in a block of ice, and being trapped in a plexiglass box constitutes some sort of illusionist mystery. The reality is that David Blaine just likes to tell everyone there is something wizardly and enigmatic about doing uncomfortable things for a really long time when you wear eyeliner and black shirts. I have news for all the gullible morons who like to ooh and aah about David Blaine's so-called feats of amazement: his apparent high tolerance for repeated extended urethral catheterization doesn't indicate magic so much as a penis with impaired sensory capabilities. He's no Uncle Majic the Hip-Hop Magician, that's for damn sure.
His latest exercise in media whoring charlatanry, dramatically named the "Dive of Death," involves him hanging upside down in Central Park for two days. Apparently this means he could be at risk of high blood pressure, blindness, and a stroke. I'm hoping that all of the above will go down and result in David Blaine going on the permanent PUP list for magicians, but so far he's just dangling like a giant pretentious bullshit-spewing Robert Downey, Jr.-impersonating bat.
He's like a giant douchebag-shaped piñata, and his handlers were wise to suspend him six stories up. If he were within reach, I'd gladly start pummeling him, and that wouldn't end well, because instead of pouring out delicious candy, he'd likely unleash a giant shitstorm of loathsome assfuckery. Since I can't play Bludgeon-the-Fucktard, I will instead just root for a stroke. LET'S GO STROKE!
Labels: assholes, Harry Potter, magick is bullshit, NYC, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Rock the SNORE
I was just having lunch ("lunch"=Sugarfree Red Bull covertly slugged down in lab) and checking my Facebook page. I noticed that one of my Facebook friends, who works in Washington, DC registering voters or something political and civic dutiful like that, had changed her status message to "ready to rock the vote with Talib and Solange. FREE concert in Philly. 3 PM. Come on out!"
Wait, this concert is being headlined by Talib Kweli and Solange? Not to trash this friend's job or anything, but if this is the best Rock the Vote can do to lure young voters, it's hardly surprising that so many people are apathetic at best about participating in the democratic process. I would imagine that half of you reading this are scratching your heads and saying, "Uh, who are Talib Kweli and Solange?"
Talib Kweli is probably best known for being in the group Black Star with Mos Def. He's one of those socially conscious rappers who spends way more time bitching about poverty and racism and other serious stuff rather than bragging about his awesomeness, like popping bottles and models or driving ridiculous customized luxury cars or blowing $15 million in 1 week or his prowess as a make-believe cocaine trafficker.
See, Talib Kweli looks like he's always about to get mad when you crack a joke and say "I don't know how you can laugh when there are innocent men dying of AIDS in prison!" or something similarly sobering and unpleasant. He's not talking about popping champagne like he just won a championship game or how he went from shitting in a cell to shitting on a jet or about all his cars "automative automatic." I guess listening to him whine about society might get you all fired up to vote, but it's not like his concert is a great fucking time.
See, Talib Kweli looks like he's always about to get mad when you crack a joke and say "I don't know how you can laugh when there are innocent men dying of AIDS in prison!" or something similarly sobering and unpleasant. He's not talking about popping champagne like he just won a championship game or how he went from shitting in a cell to shitting on a jet or about all his cars "automative automatic." I guess listening to him whine about society might get you all fired up to vote, but it's not like his concert is a great fucking time.
Solange is even worse. She is best known for being Beyoncé's younger, uglier, more trans-tastic sister.
I can't think of a time when I've ever heard Solange emit a single musical note. Most of the time she's skulking after her sister's fat ass down a red carpet at some cut-rate awards show (ie: the Teen Choice Awards) in an outfit that looks like a French maid's feather duster bred with a disco ball. Usually you can also almost see the mustache she just waxed off before throwing on her tacky House of Dereon Barbie cocktail dress and mugging for the camera in a pathetic attempt to be noticed. The only kind of vote she inspires me to cast is one AGAINST seeing Solange out in public.
I can't think of a time when I've ever heard Solange emit a single musical note. Most of the time she's skulking after her sister's fat ass down a red carpet at some cut-rate awards show (ie: the Teen Choice Awards) in an outfit that looks like a French maid's feather duster bred with a disco ball. Usually you can also almost see the mustache she just waxed off before throwing on her tacky House of Dereon Barbie cocktail dress and mugging for the camera in a pathetic attempt to be noticed. The only kind of vote she inspires me to cast is one AGAINST seeing Solange out in public.
I don't care if this concert is free. Between Solange's annoying desperate bids for fame and Talib Kweli's humorless social commentary, free is still too pricey. You'd have to pay me to go, because this lineup makes me wish I was disenfranchised.
Labels: media whores, politics, ranting, rap, sluts
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Homeopathy is bullshit
I slept weird the other night and now have an annoyingly painful kink in my neck. I've been taking ibuprofen and fielding all sorts of advice on how to deal with it. My boss suggested I get some of that cream that has aspirin in it, but "not the kind that makes you smell like an old person." My colleague and platonic life partner, J-Sexy, simply cackled and reminded me that I am getting up there in years and joint, neck, and back problems are going to be par for the geriatric course in my thirties. "Perhaps you should get a heating pad, Oldilocks! Or perhaps you should acquire a boyfriend to rub it for you!"
I gave her a withering look. "Aren't you from the Jamaicubahaitican Republic? Can't you do some of that santeria hoodoo shit to fix me up? Like kill a chicken, smoke a cigar, and blow dust at me or whatever. Help a rheumatic bitch out, Miss Cleo!"
"No, I can only tell the future. The cards never lie," said J-Sexy. "I predict your neck will get better. Now come over here and I suppose I can rub it for you."
While I appreciated J-Sexy's deigning to rub my neck, it didn't provide a long-term solution. Last night when I got home, I popped a couple more ibuprofen and went to dig through my medicine cabinet to see if I had anything that might further improve the situation. The best I could find was a tube of this stuff called "The Rub."
I've had this tube since the day after I fucked this guy who was a piercing apprentice in 2003. This dude's metal bodily adornments absolutely ruined me. Not only was my twat shredded thanks to his ELEVEN penis piercings, I had a raging urinary tract infection and a huge hickey on my neck. I recalled that while drunkenly hooking up with him the night before, he had really been licking and sucking on my neck a lot. In addition to spending a humiliating morning at the gynecologist's office the next day for a very unfortunately timed annual checkup, I had to actually wear a scarf to work thanks to Lestat leaving a hematoma the size of Texas on my neck. The scarf was not an effective disguise, and within five minutes of arriving, my cubicle neighbor T-Bag took a break from reading ZagsHoops.com to ask loudly, "Hey, Miss Ang, what's that on your neck?! What could that be? You've got something on your neck!"
Several of our other co-workers/drinking buddies joined in, and I spent a morning enjoying the ignonimy of being the office slut. Granted, this wasn't exactly a new position for me to be in, but having an obvious hickey was even more embarrassing than usual. So at some point I was outside increasing my risk of cancer and heart disease with my office smoking buddy, T-Bag's sort-of girlfriend the receptionist.
"What do I do about this? Freeze a spoon? Who the fuck gives someone a hickey at all, much less a visible one?!" I raged.
"I heard that freezing a spoon thing doesn't work," said Receptionist. "But I heard that Preparation H works within a couple hours."
"Preparation H? Like for hemorrhoids? Really?" I thought about it. It's true that hemorrhoids have something to do with clotted blood and fucked-up blood vessels, which is basically what a hickey is all about. It seemed like a reasonable hypothesis.
"Well, yeah, I mean I think a hemorrhoid is kind of like a hickey on your ass," said Receptionist.
"Okay, dude, we have to go to Bartell's," I said, and dragged Receptionist to the drug store down the street from our office. "Keep an eye out and make sure nobody from work is around." I really didn't want to get caught buying Preparation H on the same day I showed up to work wearing glasses and a hickey-(ineffectively) hiding scarf. I grabbed a tube of Preparation H and went to purchase it. I placed the box label-side down and tried to act casual. The cashier grabbed the tube, examined the box, smirked at me, and took his sweet time ringing it up. It felt like an eternity.
Back at the office, Receptionist stood guard while I applied Preparation H to my hickey in the ladies' room. It was surprisingly thick and greasy, and had an unpleasant medicinal smell that I identified with my grandmother's bathroom. However, I sucked it up and waited all day for the Preparation H to shrink my hickey before my eyes.
Unfortunately, by the time I left the office, I realized that the hickey hadn't changed at all. I grew alarmed, because I only owned one scarf, and as it was June, turtlenecks were not an option. I thought I might have to call in sick from work unless I somehow got rid of the hickey. On the way home, I swung by this fancy grocery store to buy some stuff for dinner. Because Queen Anne Thriftway was so fancy, they didn't have a regular drug store section that might have other anti-hickey options. Instead, they had a "homeopathic" section full of herbal tinctures and vitamins and bullshit like that. I think herbal cures are generally bullshit, but I was desperate. I found this stuff called "The Rub" that claimed to treat muscle soreness and "minimize bruising," which sounded to me like "snake-oil hickey cure." I purchased it.
I spent the rest of the evening rubbing The Rub into my neck, eating frozen pizza, and drinking a bottle of shiraz. The next day, to my extreme delight, the hickey was gone! I could have kissed that tube of The Rub. I put it in my medicine chest just in case I ever got another hickey. While I have since banged some real losers, none of them has ever been so despicable as to give me a prominent hickey, and I haven't needed it.
However, with my ouchy neck, I decided that it was high time I saw if The Rub was as good at relieving muscle pain as curing hickeys. I was full of hopes that if The Rub could perpetrate the miracle cure of shrinking my hickey by at least 90% overnight, it could provide some respite from the discomfort in my neck.
Too bad my neck is just as sore as it was when I fell asleep last night. Granted, last night I was eating delivery pizza and drinking Pilsner Urquell, so maybe my change of routine from the first time I used The Rub sapped its effectiveness as a magic neck malady cure-all. Or maybe homeopathic products are just a lot of inert bullshit dressed up in a lot of lame hippie marketing, and they don't work at all. Maybe my prior success using The Rub was more indicative of a placebo effect occurring due to my desperation to rid myself of that troublesome hickey rather than a panacea for slut problems in 2003. In any event, my neck still hurts, I'm probably going to spend the next week smelling like Ben Fucking Gay, and I'm pissed that I ever had hope in this homeopathic quackery.
Labels: aging, medical drama, ranting, Razzification, sex, sluts
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
I know you're fat, but you don't need an umbrella that big
Dear New Yorker With the Giant Umbrella,
I know you're fat. I know that a lifetime of eating pizza slices and McDonald's and various iterations of halal street meat has given you the figure of Rosie O'Donnell after a particularly lazy week of couch surfing, but that does NOT mean you have to walk down the crowded New York City sidewalk on a rainy day with an umbrella roughly the size of an America's Cup yacht mainsail.
I also know that you may not be as accustomed to the rain as a native Pacific Northwesterner like myself. Let me assure you that should a stray drop of sky-water touch your dimpled flesh you will not melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. Trust that if you did, I would run around throwing water at your corpulent ass because I hate fat people and I especially hate fat people who carry around giant umbrellas, and your dissolution would be a boon to my general mood and demeanor.
Your umbrella is just as, if not more inconsiderate, than all the other annoying fat-person-in-New-York things you do. For example, huffing up the subway stairs at the pace of a weary snail, only to halt at the top and block all ascending and descending traffic in order to catch your breath, light a cigarette, and/or start catching up on your phone calls. Blocking the sole means of egress from a thoroughly populated and necessary conduit of urban life like the subway is bad enough, but throw a gigantic umbrella in the mix and you're supersizing your already massive oblivious dickheadishness. It's like being in the first scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark, except instead of being a hot adventurous Smith College archaeology professor trying to outrun a massive rolling boulder in an ancient South American temple because I want to brag about a priceless ancient golden idol, I'm an irritable Smith College graduate trying to circumvent a massive Rocawear-clad beach ball in a dirty subway staircase because I'm probably late getting to lab.
Even worse than the subway is when you walk down the street with your giant umbrella. It's like you are a traveling bubble occupying most of the sidewalk, since anyone not wanting to get their eyes gouged out by the edges of your umbrella has to give you a wide berth. This means that to avoid your umbrella, not only to we have to dash out of the way on what little sidewalk remains, but we have to usually drop our normal-sized umbrellas and get wet ourselves so that you may walk beneath your own portable fucking tent.
This is unacceptably selfish, antisocial behavior. What makes you think you are so special that you deserve to take up more than your allotted portion of the city sidewalk? You already DO take up more than I do on account of your obnoxious obesity. You shouldn't be rewarded for your sloth and lack of personal physical maintenance by being allowed to carry an umbrella the size of Queens and thus occupy even more precious public space. You should be mocked for your fatness and derided for your selfish choice of rain repelling equipment! You should be reviled by your fellow man for so callously gobbling up more than your share of sidewalk and forcing your neighbors literally into the gutter because your precious ass just HAS to carry a goddamned golf umbrella. You should be roundly disparaged for your poor displays of citizenship, not tolerated in spite of your obnoxious largesse.
Fat people with giant umbrellas take notice: from now on, I will not put up with your lack of consideration any longer. Henceforth, I plan to say things like "nice umbrella, Jumbo" and "hey, I think there's a little piece of your back cellulite that's getting wet" the next time I am trapped behind one of your mobile circus tents. I'm also going to give you a blast of extra super cunty face just to drive it home that I hate you and your stupid umbrella.
Cordially,
Razzy
Labels: assholes, fat fucks, NYC, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Olympic gymsnatchtits judges
DOB: ???
Occupation: hating on America
Hometown: Australia, Russia, and China
Current residence: National Indoor Stadium, Beijing, China
Douchebaggery: Anyone who watched last night's uneven bars Olympic ladies gymsnatchtits individual medal competition knows that my barely legal girlfriend Nastia Liukin got screwed harder than me at an open bar nerd convention full of MIT graduates. She tied cheating thirteen-year-old He Kexin and wound up coming out behind courtesy of the new scoring system's wack tiebreaking rules. The undeservedly low score the Australian judge gave to Nastia fucked up her average, and she found herself with yet another silver medal in spite of earning the same score as her pubescent competition. That's right...they tied, and Nastia still lost. Thanks to the perpetually eloquent and informative Bela Karolyi ranting to Bob Costas about the scoring system afterward, this was due to "incompetence at the judging."
Similar issues with unfairly low scores posted by the Chinese and Russian judges screwed Alicia Sacramone out of a medal in the vaulting and almost fucked Nastia in the all-around. At least I expect the Russians and Chinese to play dirty when it comes to posting unfair gymsnatchtits scores reflecting an anti-American bias. Why the Australian judges have jumped enthusiastically into hating on Team USA is beyond me, but according to Valeri Liukin it's been this way for the past three world championships. Now I have a new reason not to go to Australia. Apart from the fact that Foster's sucks and they have horrifying spiders, they have American-screwing gymsnatchtits judges who are at best inexcusably inept and at worst flagrantly complicit in rigging the Chinese gold haul. Nastia was robbed, and to use the immortal words of Bev Niner's resident morally condescending slut Kelly Taylor, Australia is never again.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, international intrigue, Olympics, ranting
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Daily Douchebag: dumb dyke-alike lesbians offended by me
DOB: looked to me like around 1984
Occupation: getting offended
Hometown: probably somewhere in the Midwest that allowed them to develop such massive chips on their shoulders
Current residence: I'm going to take a wild guess and say Park Slope, Brooklyn, New York
Douchebaggery: The other night, I attended my usual Tuesday night bar trivia (where my team took the top prize for the second week in a row–HOLLA!). Next to our barside table, a pair of lesbians had bellied up to play trivia with the bartender's assistance. I took one look at these bitches and knew I wasn't going to like them. I obviously had no problem with the fact that they're gay, as I've got my own reserved seat at the sushi bar. I knew I wouldn't like them because of the type of lesbian they both were, which I know well from Smith College. They both looked like they were having a Hoegaarden to prefunk for a Dolores O'Riordan impersonator convention and were regarding everyone with the same insufferably condescending expression, as if any moment they were about to break out with a furious passive-voice tirade about everyone else's heteronormative ideals. They were the kind of dykes who act like they invented lesbianism, and treat their queerness as their sole distinguishing trait. They were so into clubbing everyone over the head with their politicized muff-diving inclinations that their trivia team was even cleverly named "The Lesbians."
After destroying The Lesbians at trivia, we turned our attention to Olympic women's gymsnatchtits. I started going off about my desire to do the nasty with Nastia Liukin, and discussed her merits versus LL Cool Jew's designated crush Alicia Sacramone. When these ladies both fucked up their floor routines, I said something like, "Don't worry, ladies, you can find comfort by sticking your faces in each other's twats back at the athlete's village." At this point, Lesbian #1 leaned over to me and demanded, "Excuse me, but are you a lesbian?" I could tell that she was about to call me a homophobe if I answered in the negative.
"I'm bisexual," I said bitchily. "WHY?"
Lesbian #1 didn't give any answer for demanding to know my sexual orientation prior to bitching at me for making assumptions about Alicia Sacramone's pussy-eating predilections. Instead, she turned to Lesbian #2 and exchanged a flurry of scathing whispers. They were probably thrown, as on one hand, they couldn't call me a homophobe since I just freely admitted that I eat at the clam bake. On the other, they probably didn't consider me a wholly legitimate gay person since I allow evil men to pollute my sacred female space with their patriarchal penises. I shrugged and went back to addressing the Sapphic sexual practices of Team USA, after underscoring my bisexuality by making out with CuteClothes for their viewing pleasure (and my personal gratification...CuteClothes is a hot-ass bitch.)
The Lesbians settled their tab and prepared to leave. As they were stomping out, Lesbian #2 said (while walking quickly past) to me, "Just so you know, what you were saying was, like, really offensive." Then she tried to keep walking.
Oh no the bitch didn't just try to give me an ambulatory dressing-down! I wasn't having that, so I said, "No, HOLD UP, bitch. You don't get to just walk away from that. That offends ME. What the fuck business do you have being offended by what I'm saying? I wasn't even talking to you!"
"You can't just talk about whether those women are lesbians. You have no right to discuss lesbian issues in a straight bar!"
I don't have the right to discuss lesbian issues in a straight bar? Last time I checked the Bill of Rights, there weren't any exceptions to the First Amendment specifying that, especially considering these twats wore their lesbianism like a damn power suit. "That's pretty awesome coming from a bitch who named her trivia team 'The Lesbians'!" I retorted.
"That's different," she said. "We were being funny!"
"And I wasn't?" Sha right. I'm way funnier than these humorless cunts. "I see...only YOU and your dyke-alike are allowed to talk about gay chicks in this 'straight bar.' That makes a lot of sense. You're not only dumb, you're also a hypocrite! That offends ME."
This didn't go over well. Probably my use of the word "dyke," pointing out her hypocrisy, and implying that she wasn't smart all combined to make this professionally angry bitch REALLY mad. She unleashed a torrent of roundabout "like, that is so wrong" gender politics babble, and eventually implied that since I was sitting at a table of three other heterosexual chicks and one dude, I was not in a position to discuss the taboo topic of hot girl-on-girl.
"Really? A table full of straight girls, huh?" I turned to my table. "Ladies, raise your hand if you are gay." I thrust my hand in the air, and was joined in asserting my enthusiasm for pussy by CuteClothes and Twathopper. "See, I have more lesbians in my entourage than you do. I guess nobody told us we aren't allowed to mention it here in this 'straight bar.'"
Lesbian #2 couldn't argue with our numbers, so she instead changed the subject to the fact that she thinks I'm a chauvinist pig. "You were talking about those women like OBJECTS. Sexuality is a very powerful and complex blah blah blah blah...and you were just, like, CHEAPENING it. That's just what men do!"
I was about to snap back that I love men and she would hardly be the first to point out my many masculine qualities, but at that point the bartender told us to break it up. "Alright, Sappho, back to Brooklyn with you," I said. "We can continue this next week if you deign to leave the Isle of Lesbos for these straighter pastures so we can kick your flat ass in trivia again."
"Oh, WE'LL BE BACK!" she shot at me, and grabbed her girlfriend and stormed out.
"I look forward to it!" I shouted after her. I really do look forward to her return. I used to get in arguments with uppity women's studies lesbians who needed to be taken down a peg all the time back at Smith, and it's been too long since I've had a good old-fashioned Razzy Crude Cussout versus Queer Studies Gibberish smackdown. Please come back to the Joshua Tree next Tuesday so I can own you again, Tegan and Sara!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, lezbollah, ranting, retard rage
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Justin Timberlake
Name: Justin Randall Timberlake
DOB: January 31, 1981
Occupation: a fashion maven in his own deluded mind
Hometown: Shelby Forest, Tennessee
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: I used to like JT back in the day. I thought *NSYNC was hilarious (although Joey the Fatone was really my favorite of all the guys) and I've been known to slay "Bye Bye Bye" in karaoke after a few cocktails. I also enjoyed Justin's solo work...until every girly girl in the world decided that he was the second coming of Elvis and forced me to endure an endless spinning of Future Sex/Love Sounds. Even though that shit is like two years old, it's STILL the only thing my friend MillerTime listens to in her car. And after my friend Wmania's bachelorette party, she insisted that we all dance to "Love Stoned" in her condo SEVERAL times. "Oh my GOD, dude, this song is like, the greatest song ever. It is SO HOT. How can you not like this?" she kept asking. LL Cool Jew and I just sat on the couch drinking beer and bitching about the Justin Timberlake-playing meat market club we had just escaped, where we were hit on by Karl Rove's nephew (or some prominent neo-con's nephew, I can't remember who because I was trying to drink the pain of the whole incident away).
Girls who love Sex and the City love Justin Timberlake and think he's hot. I think he's a testicularly challenged one-trick pony who bit David Silver's style and sings like a girl. Trust that my twat doesn't get all tingly when he shows up in his trucker hat to warble in the falsetto register and act like he's the first genius who decided to wear a wife beater. As a matter of fact, given his latest asshole comments to the press, I would not be surprised if he took credit for inventing that treasured bit of white trash couture either.
Apparently, JT decided to start beef with notorious COOLPIX camera pranking, manpri-sporting, "matchy matchy" douchebag fashionista extraordinaire Ashton Kutcher over who started the fucking TRUCKER HAT craze of 2003. In a recent interview, Justin said the following:
It's funny, I keep hearing Ashton Kutcher say how he was responsible for trucker caps. Me and my friend Trace Ayala were wearing them when we were 17.
WHO TAKES CREDIT FOR STARTING THE TRUCKER HAT FAD??? That's like taking credit for starting the overalls-with-one-strap-undone trend of 1991, or the stirrup-stretch-pants-with-slouch-socks-and-Keds trend of 1987, or the floral-rayon-dress-with-hiking-boots trend of 1994. You don't hear the douchebag who started wearing "Big Johnson" or "Coed Naked" shirts demanding that the public recognize his obnoxious taste in clothes. Even worse, it foments a douche-off between two of the most despicable trendsetters in teen fashion. You know Ashton Kutcher is going to respond with this, probably by some stupid prank that will inspire more eye rolls than laughter, and those of us who suckle celebrity gossip from the internets like beer from a tap will be forced to endure a neverending back-and-forth about who has perpetrated more crimes upon popular dressing.
Furthermore, I beg to differ with Justin's claim that he discovered this amazing fashion accessory when he was 17 (which would have been 1998). I can attest that all my uncles, as well as the majority of red-blooded truck-driving men in Puyallup, Washington were rocking their "CAT" and "John Deere" millinery as long as I can remember. Just because my uncles aren't rocking their forest camouflage "STIHL" gear (which probably came complimentary with their new chainsaw) on any red carpets doesn't mean that they weren't down with the local fashion long before Justin Timberlake ever put on a pair of Mickey Mouse ears. Being that Justin is from a hick town himself, he should know that claiming to have pioneered this look is as intellectually dishonest as claiming he invented double-wides or instructing the masses regarding the pragmatic value of auto parts store-insignia-stamped beer cozies.
Even JT's attempts at being self-deprecating about his tremendous influence on the fashion world are infuriating. Later in the interview, he says, "Honestly, I don't walk out of my house thinking, 'Man, I hope somebody thinks this looks cool!' There's some stuff I wear that people think is not cool." Hmmm...you mean stuff like TRUCKER HATS? Because indeed I don't think that is cool. I think it is a contrived attempt to steal credit for accessories popularized by legendary designers like Jeff Foxworthy and Larry the Cable Guy, and it doesn't score him any points with me that plagiarizing redneck chic is so effortless for Justin. Then again, I would expect nothing less from the knuckle-dragger that gave us the unbelievably annoying term "wardrobe malfunction." His whole life has been a damn wardrobe malfunction. Someone should pop a trucker cap in his ass, already.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, media whores, overcompensation, PWT, ranting, retard rage
Monday, July 28, 2008
This all kinds of WRONG
I was horrified to see THIS on the celebrity gossip internets over the weekend:
NOOOOOOOOO! How DARE you, Robert Rodriguez and Rose McGowan? HOW FUCKING DARE YOU?!?!?! I am used to arrogant Hollywood assholes thinking that they can improve classic movies that did not in any way need an update, but doing this to Red Sonja is my breaking point.
If you haven't seen the original Red Sonja, then you are a communist, terrorist, or some other type of all-around freedom-hating dickwad degenerate with absolutely no taste. I can't tell you what Red Sonja is really about, except that Brigitte Nielsen runs around in a chain-mail negligee with Arnold Schwarzenegger in full Conan regalia and star of the woefully underappreciated series "Sidekicks" Ernie Reyes, Jr. (capitalizing, no doubt, on the Short Round-induced demand for Asian boy actors with both comic timing and martial arts skills in the early-mid 80s) swordfighting with a variety of ill-favored barbarian types, giant robotic dragon "security systems," and skanky lesbian witch-prostitutes who look fresh off the set of the Mötley Crüe "Looks That Kill" video. It's also produced by Dino de Laurentiis, who is not only responsible for David Lynch's Dune and Blue Velvet, the Conan franchise, Serpico, Death Wish, Orca, and Army of Darkness, but also founded gene pool that spawned my brother's main Food Network would-be girlfriend "Everyday Italian" host Giada de Laurentiis. Red Sonja hardly needs a coherent or memorable plot when it's working with that basic framework of extreme awesomeness.
I cannot see for the life of me how Rose McGowan is going to somehow breathe fresh new life into the role Brigitte Nielsen totally owned. Brigitte Nielsen's film career may have been short, but I nonetheless fully thought that her work as Red Sonja (as well as her roles as Mrs. Ivan Drago in Rocky IV and a hot 80s power lesbian bank robber in Beverly Hills Cop II) is worthy of a fucking Oscar. Furthermore, have you ever suffered through an instance of Rose McGowan performing her craft? Since I didn't bother sitting through the Lord of the Rings-length (and not caliber) Grindhouse, the only thing I can think of are the few episodes of "Charmed" I've seen snippets of on TNT while flipping channels. "Charmed" was generally a televised abortion and a black mark on Aaron Spelling's grand legacy that couldn't even be salvaged by a grossly overdressed Alyssa Milano or Julian McMahon's hot ass. I never really knew what it was about save some lame witches or something, but I can tell you unequivocally that Rose McGowan was no fucking Shannen Doherty, who she replaced. Hell, she wasn't even close to fellow Aaron Spelling drama Shannen Doherty replacement Tiffani-Amber Thiessen on a little (greatest show in the history of television) program known as "Beverly Hills, 90210." Lucky for her she was banging Robert Rodriguez (after twatmatizing him sufficiently to get him to leave his wife and four kids) when casting was going on for Red Sonja, because Rose McGowan couldn't act her way into my grade school's production of "Jack and the Beanstalk." She's going to make Brigitte Nielsen look like Katharine fucking Hepburn with the extent of her theatrical butchery of Red Sonja, and I hope she gets AIDS from the bloody sword she's licking in the promo poster.
This news is so upsetting that I almost forgot about another disturbing development in the world of reviving 80s cinema classics: Darren Aronofsky is on board to direct a sequel/remake to one of the finest action films of all time:
NOOOOO!!!! Not RoboCop, too! This doesn't bode well. Rather than making movie magic, Hollywood has turned into an abattoir engaged in the wholesale slaughter of its own classic material. I have a very bad feeling that any day I'm going to hear I can look forward to a remake of Red Dawn starring Justin Timberlake, Shia LaBoeuf, Brody Jenner, Miley Cyrus, and Lindsay Lohan in my local multiplex. That day will be the day I purchase a samurai sword and start looking for the sweet spot on my gut. Trust.
Labels: movies, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Daily Douchebag: the New York Times
Name: the New York Times
DOB: September 18, 1851
Occupation: deciding which news is fit to print
Hometown: One Times Square, New York, New York
Current residence: 620 8th Ave, New York, New York
Douchebaggery: If you watch cable news at all, you probably saw that yesterday Matt Drudge stirred up all the pundits by publishing a story about how the Times rejected an op-ed essay by the officer and a hot piece Senator John McCain that responded to a piece by Senator Barack Obama entitled "My Plan for Iraq." David Shipley, editor of the Times Op-Ed page, apparently rejected it on grounds that he would rather have a piece that "mirrors" what Obama had to say.
While having edited an op-ed page myself (for the august Smith College Sophian), I understand that sometimes there is a process involving the author of an editorial piece in which the piece is changed a bit from its original form, I can't imagine how the Times expects McCain to write something "mirroring" Obama's plan. A fundamental difference between the two candidates–and the reason I am voting for John McCain–is their position on the Iraq War, and their plan on how to end it. McCain favors what I think is a more rational approach, a withdrawal based on conditions in Iraq as determined by our military leaders and the Iraqi government, versus the timetable Obama has revealed as his grand plan. While McCain states quite explicitly in his article that he expects troops to be out of Iraq by the end of his first term as president (rather than the "hundred years" Obamaphiles have been crowing about every time I tell ANYONE that I'm voting for John McCain), he plans to do this only after achieving a stabilized Iraq.
I don't like the Iraq War, and I did not support President Bush's decision to start it–thus sacrificing the lives of thousands of our brave troops and many more Iraqis–based on flawed intelligence and a poorly disguised desire for oil. However, we are up to our freedom-loving tits in it, and I think that as much as we'd all like to be like Obama and say, "much later, Iraq," we ought to finish what we started and stick it out until we establish some kind of lasting stability there. Or in the words of Senator McCain, "any draw-downs must be based on a realistic assessment of conditions on the ground, not on an artificial timetable created for domestic political reasons...I find it ironic that he (Obama) is emulating the worst mistake of the Bush Administration by waving the 'Mission Accomplished' banner prematurely."
Shipley stated that he would reconsider an editorial by McCain so long as it "would articulate, in concrete terms, how Senator McCain defines victory in Iraq." Considering McCain's piece already defined several goals concerning the Iraq military, reductions in sectarian violence, and his specific counterinsurgency strategy, as well as outlined what he considered benchmarks of failure in Iraq, Shipley's demand sounds a lot less like constructive editorial criticism and a lot more like they are more interested in presenting Obama's view than McCain's. This is hardly a surprise considering that the Times has been on Obama's jock since he leapt on the national stage at the 2004 Democratic National Convention, but it is disappointing. Whatever bias the Times may have, it's absurd and irresponsible for them to refuse to publish one major party candidate's views on a central issue of the upcoming presidential election until he comes up with a policy that "mirrors" their preference. I consider both Obama's and McCain's plans regarding the Iraq War to be "fit to print," and it shows a reprehensible disregard for fairness or equity to suggest that one's are more fit than the other's.
Granted, I always knew the Times was populated primarily by a bunch of insufferably arrogant snobs who generally think they know best, but I at least thought they had some fucking integrity. As it turns out, they aren't any better than FOX News when it comes to designing coverage that suits their particular bias. I've never been more glad to say that I prefer to read the trashy-ass Post.
Labels: Barack Obama, Daily Douchebag, John McCain, politics, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Friday, July 18, 2008
Richie Sexson goes where all former Mariners go
As a Seattle sports fan, I'm accustomed to our teams sucking. The Seahawks spent virtually all of my childhood stinking up the Kingdome. The Sonics are taking a legacy of loss to Oklahoma City, although on the bright side they are the sole Seattle team to have won a league championship...when I was an infant in 1979. Despite the fact that at the time most of my attention was devoted to breastfeeding and shitting in my diapers, I know all about the Sonics historic championship season because my mother was considering naming me "Freddie Brown" due to my propensity for jumping around her uterus during the 1978 season in which I was gestating and the Sonics lost the championship to the Washington Bullets. And the Mariners have had one year after another in which they either suck righteously or win enough to get everybody all excited, only to get unceremoniously knocked out of the postseason, usually by the goddamned sonofabitchbastard New York Yankees. Seattle should consider adding "soul-crushing sports teams" to its roster of famous exports like Windows software, Weyerhauser timber, and Starbucks coffee.
This year, the Mariners take the prize for the P-N-Dub's most disgraceful team. The Seahawks had a great draft and I have high hopes that they'll continue to beat the piss out of the rest of the shitshow known as the NFC West this fall. The Sonics are gone. That leaves the Mariners, who are without question the worst team in baseball, which I attribute to karmic reward for their hating on hot lesbian makeout sessions at Safeco Field. They can't hit, can't pitch, and can't win games under any circumstances. Somebody needs to make a cardboard cutout of the team owner and take off a piece of clothing every time they win a game or SOMETHING to motivate them. Well, actually, I doubt that any of the Mariners staff wants to see the CEO of Nintendo naked, but that worked in Major League and at this point anything is worth a try because they suck harder than me after ten scotches in a bar bathroom with a willing honey.
Since the M's don't have a diabolical yet potentially hot naked owner who actually wants them to lose and they don't have Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn, Jake Taylor, Pedro Cerrano, Roger Dorn, or Willie Mays Hayes on their roster, they are trying a different strategy to save their team: trimming the fucking fat. That means getting rid of the overpaid and grossly underperforming marquis players we signed with great fanfare just two short seasons ago, specifically Richie Sexson.
I'm a little disappointed by this because Richie Sexson is 6'8" tall, I get the feeling he's hung like a brontosaurus, and he looks like the type who could fuck my freckles off. Seriously, check out his pants in the above photo...even when dejected due to yet another strikeout, it literally looks like he has a tail tucked between his legs. However, if I think with my head rather than my vagina, he shouldn't let the door hit his bitch ass on the way out. The Mariners signed Sexson to a contract worth $50 million and he's played like he's making the league minimum. The past two years, he's been batting squarely around .200 with like negative fifteen RBIs and a paltry handful of home runs. I can hardly blame the M's management for trying to cut their losses. However, what annoys the hell out of me is the fact that Richie Sexson is going where Gay Rod, Randy Johnson, John Olerud, Tino Martinez, and all departing Mariners always end up: THE FUCKING NEW YORK YANKEES!
Sexson deserves to go play for Satan's own baseball team given his piss-poor performance. However, I hate the fact that the Mariners are practically a farm team for the fucking Yankees. Why do all of our players, no matter how good or bad, depart and (excepting Alex Rodriguez's brief layover in Texas) go straight to the goddamned Bronx? I can only hope that Sexson's slump gets even worse as he dons the pinstripes of the damned and he causes them to plummet to the dregs of the AL East. Or, barring that, Sexson just contributes to the perennial dearth of offense come playoff time the Yankees have experienced the past few postseasons. That's the silver lining I was looking for.
Labels: fuck the Yankees, Mariners, P-N-Dub, ranting, scathing indictments, sportsmen
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Joba the HATE
A new Dunkin Donuts location opened down the street from me right next to the subway entrance, and this could not be more convenient. I love Dunkin Donuts iced coffee, and stop every morning on my way to lab. Getting my hands on an icy cold cup of D'n'D coffee is always an eagerly anticipated part of my morning, and thinking of it puts a smile on my face and a spring in my step.
You can imagine, therefore, how shocked and horrified I was to walk into Dunkin' Donuts the other morning only to practically run into this monstrosity:
Yes, there is a life-sized cardboard Joba Chamberlain guarding the door to my Dunkin' Donuts. Nothing says "pre-coffee buzzkill" like seeing a goddamned, motherfucking, sonofabitchbastard Yankee offering an iced coffee like Hades with a pomegranate. I realize that I do live in New York City, and thus tolerating Yankees fans is a daily trial I've learned to endure. However, running smack into a six foot image of their overrated porcine pitcher in full pinstriped regalia is an insult I should not have to suffer. When I say that I hate the Yankees, I mean I loathe them to the core of my being. I despise them so much that if Al Qaeda decided to launch a full-on suicide bombing assault against those cocksuckers in the Bronx, I would gladly become a terrorist. I would honestly prefer Dunkin' Donuts appropriating the image of Adolf Hitler for their summer "Bases Loaded" iced drink campaign than Joba Fucking Chamberlain.
Even worse, I went to the Dunkin' Donuts "Bases Loaded" website to see that they've managed to doubly piss me off with their selection of athlete endorsements:
In addition to the detestable Joba Chamberlain's fat ass, they've managed to get one of the fucking Boston Red Sox on their payroll too! Just because I hate the Yankees doesn't mean I love the Red Sox. I hate the Red Sox too! Their fans are just as obnoxious as Yankees fans, if not more so. The damn Red Sox have a payroll larger than the bill for the Iraq war and have won two World Series in the past four years, yet their fans still bitch and moan like they're the most screwed over team in baseball and they're never going to be good enough because of completely baseless superstitions involving Babe Ruth (and if you want to talk about shitty major league baseball teams and the heartache that causes, keep in mind that I am a Mariners fan). I knew I was onto something when I rooted for the Mets in 1986 (although in fairness, that was because I had Ron Darling's baseball card and I thought he was totally hot). The BoSox are the second most abhorrent team in baseball after the Bronx Bombers. They caused me no end of relationship travails in college, when I dated an obsessed Red Sox fanatic for three years. My ex Benzo is a great guy, but I swear to this day I become murderously enraged whenever I so much as hear the name "Pedro Martinez" (and yes, I know he plays for the Mets now, but he'll always be one of my life's sworn enemies after hearing him venerated non-stop by Benzo to the point of talking about Pedro's assisting Benzo's rotisserie league team DURING SEX).
I pray that Dunkin' Donuts ceases making marketing decisions that are almost certainly designed to raise my blood pressure and infuriate me. First, I have to check my seething rage at Rachael Ray's dumb ass wearing her terrorist scarf proclaiming that everything is "delish," and then I have to stay calm in the face of Joba Chamberlain squinting me down with his piggy little eyes and offering Joba and Jonathan Papelbom bobblehead prizes every time I go to get a damn coffee. I can only imagine that my murder spree will begin come fall, when Dunkin' Donuts will, judging by their track record, probably hire the Shitsburgh Stealers to tout Coffee Coolattas via bragging about their (totally bullshit) victory in Super Bowl XL. All I can do is hope for humanity's sake that Dunkin' Donuts doesn't decide to get together with Apple Computers, because either I'll have to go into lifelong seclusion or somehow bring about the apocalypse in order to cope.
Labels: assholes, fuck the Yankees, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sportsmen
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Totally Shifty
Ok. So I was just reading this article on CNN that talks about the unveiling of plans for David Fisher's shape-shifting skyscraper in Dubai. It's called "Dynamic Tower" or something, and is being billed as "The World's First Building In Motion".
Holy Shit. So each floor will be able to rotate independently using the energy generated by wind-turbines installed in-between floors. I am not fucking kidding. You can check out an animated illustration of this amazingness here.
Pretty fucking amazing, right? Everybody else thinks so, too. So much so that the apartments within are slated to sell for $4 million to $40 million each.
But all is not totally peachy, though, as there has been some skepticism... Like, for instance, Fisher has never built a fucking skyscraper before. No lie. After he declared that his tower will "revolutionize the way skyscrapers are made", he acknowledged that he "[has] never built a skyscraper before" and "[hasn't] practiced architecture regularly in decades". But, no worries... He's got it all under control: He's hooking up with some certified architects in India and the U.K., and they're just stacking some prefab shit together anyway. So whatevs. It's cool.
Um. Who is putting up the money for this thing? I mean, it's a great idea and everything. (Ok.. It's a pretty bad-ass idea.) But, seriously, who wants to live in an oversized merry-go-round? It makes me nauseous just thinking about it. And, on a practical note, skyscrapers have their own special safety issues. Like being able to withstand windstorms and shit. Even whole architect/engineer teams that specialize in skyscrapers can overlook some grave detail. So who's the mega-rich douchebag who decided to let gramps give it a try?
Furthermore, it didn't take a whole lot of Google-searching to find out that not only is Dynamic Tower not the first rotating skyscraper in the world, it isn't even the first rotating skyscraper in Dubai ...since the rotating solar-powered Time Residencies Building will be finished the end of this year. And the Kinetic Pavilion, which allows floors to spin independently by way of wind-power, was proposed two years ago by California architect Michael Jantzen.
...Real fucking original, Dave. What's next? The world's first suspension bridge?
Labels: Ho Rofra, natural disaster, ranting
"We Can't Explain It to Children" is the new "Fuckin' Faggots"
In this day and age, homophobia is just as unpopular as being gay used to be in mainstream society. Therefore, homophobes have to resort to new and clever means of getting their bigotry out there to discriminate against gays without looking like a total asshole. The most popular means of nice-guy gay bashing seems to be "how are we going to explain that to our kids?" People saying this seem to have the attitude that children are incapable of comprehending same-sex hotness, which is simply not true. When I was a little kid, I found the whole concept of homos mysterious and fascinating. That's probably because I'm kind of gay, but I feel that even burgeoning non-bisexual skank hetero kids can handle the truth when it comes to the fact that some people are more inclined to jam with people of their own gender. Normal, decent people should be able to accept that being gay isn't a big deal and explaining that gay people exist shouldn't be any different than explaining to a kid that the sky is blue and grass is green.
However, since the types of jackasses who have some dumb reason for hating the gays (probably because they ARE gay) seem to think otherwise, this now seems to be the order of the day for infringing upon gay people's civil rights. Not too long ago, the staff at Safeco Field cracked down on hot lesbian makeout sessions at Mariners games because people couldn't explain it to their children. Honestly, if I were a parent, I'd have a much harder time explaining to my kid why I spent money on tickets to watch the shittiest team in baseball while surrounded by ushers and homophobes who, judging by their reaction to two hot lesbian strippers sucking face, obviously hate fun. Do parents feel the need to explain it to their kids when they see a heterosexual couple kissing? Hell to the no! So I can't understand why these idiots think saying "oh, my kids won't understand" is an adequate excuse for denying the queers these same rights. Their kids probably already understand, at least if, like my parents, they buy them more Barbies than Ken dolls. Half of my Barbies were sushi-suckers strictly because I was constantly suffering a severe shortage of Kens for them to make out with. Besides, kids these days are savvy, what with their Grand Theft Auto and their MyFaces and Spacebooks and iPods and the like. With internets access like kids have these days, they've probably seen hardcore anal orgies by the age of six. Kids don't have a problem with gay people having the audacity to be gay in front of them, asshole parents; YOU have a problem with it!
This trend seems to have made its way across the pond to the UK, where Heinz pulled this commercial for "deli mayo" because of the extremely G-rated man-to-man kiss at the end of it. The reason? According to the Telegraph, because it was "offensive" and "unsuitable to be seen by children," partly because of the "difficulty" parents would have explaining it to their kids.
Are you kidding? This was "offensive"? I think the concept of caramelized onion-flavored mayo is more offensive than the completely nonsexual guy-guy makeout sesh at the end of the commercial. And how is this difficult to explain? Just say, "Imagine what would happen if your mom turned into a wisecracking New York deli guy" (although in fairness, if they really wanted to capture the authentic New York deli experience, the deli guy would be a short, sweaty man from Yemen and he'd be jabbering on his cellphone earpiece in rapid Arabic rather than calling anyone "sweet cheeks"). This is not difficult to explain. What's more difficult to explain to the kids is that their parents are raging bigots who are so insecure and uncomfortable with homosexuality that they are using their children as a lame excuse because they don't have the balls to just admit that they don't approve of gay people.
Are you kidding? This was "offensive"? I think the concept of caramelized onion-flavored mayo is more offensive than the completely nonsexual guy-guy makeout sesh at the end of the commercial. And how is this difficult to explain? Just say, "Imagine what would happen if your mom turned into a wisecracking New York deli guy" (although in fairness, if they really wanted to capture the authentic New York deli experience, the deli guy would be a short, sweaty man from Yemen and he'd be jabbering on his cellphone earpiece in rapid Arabic rather than calling anyone "sweet cheeks"). This is not difficult to explain. What's more difficult to explain to the kids is that their parents are raging bigots who are so insecure and uncomfortable with homosexuality that they are using their children as a lame excuse because they don't have the balls to just admit that they don't approve of gay people.
What I'd like to know is what's coming next in this brave new world of pussified bigotry. Are people going to start saying that interracial couples shouldn't be allowed to display affection in public because they won't be able to explain it to their precious children? This is pathetic and I am offended that Heinz, Safeco Field, and whoever else are actually even listening to these homo haters, much less acquiescing to their demands. I almost prefer the days when homophobes ran about freely saying "faggot" and "dyke," since at least those pricks were up front about their views and not making halfassed excuses about their children in order to be a spiteful dick and still save face. Reverend Fred "God Hates Fags" Phelps may be insane, but at least he's honest about his hatred, which is a lot more than I can say for these "concerned parents" who attribute their homophobia to an inability to communicate with their own children. When Fred Phelps seems like a more upstanding, respectable citizen than you, that's when you've REALLY got problems. Eat some same-sex genitals, you pussy gay bashers.
Labels: assholes, lezbollah, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, vulgar display of faggotry
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Daily Douchebag: FUCKING APPLE COMPUTERS!
DOB: April 1, 1976
Occupation: pissing me off and interrupting my all-important constantly available MacBook routine
Hometown: Cupertino, California
Current residence: soon to be the goddamned motherfucking piece of shit "Genius Bar"
Douchebaggery: Today the day has arrived in which I must swap in the broken hard drive that came with my computer for the rapidly disintegrating hard drive that my PI installed before I realized I had a 1 year hardware warranty, so that the warranty will be valid and the pricks at the so-called "Genius Bar" will pop in a new one. Hopefully, they will fix my misbehaving "control" and "option" keys while they are at it, so that I can just reinstall Leopard and get back to having a normal, healthy MacBook that I can take with me everywhere I go. Therefore, be warned: I hope that this is something they can fix on site at the Apple store, but I know the possibility exists that they may ship my Mac off to some nerd sweatshop for its recuperation. If I don't post tomorrow, it's probably because my computer is off at the Cylon Resurrection Ship getting worked on. Yes, I just made a BSG reference, and no I'm not embarrassed anymore that I watch "Battlestar Galactica," even if it IS a show about the robot-battling Olympian god-worshiping Latter Day Saints. If Apple can call their tech support a "Genius Bar," then I can admit to liking my show about space Mormons. Edward James Olmos, Xena: Warrior Princess, Noah Hunter's roofie-slipping brother Josh from "90210," and Stands With a Fist from Dances with Wolves are in it, there's a one-eyed guy who looks like John McCain, the special effects are cheesetastically crappy, and it frakking rules. ANYWAY!
I'm extremely pissed that after owning this thing for less than a year, its components have given me so much fucking trouble, and although I really, REALLY like it when it's working, I've discussed at length how much I loathe the term "Genius Bar." In spite of the fact that I'm expecting to see a bunch of pompous, Converse-wearing, asymmetrical hair-having, non-genius, Justin Long-looking douchebags prepared to condescend to me at the Genius Bar, everyone I know with a Mac has said that they are "always very nice" and "extremely helpful." However, one of those positive reviews came from someone I totally hate and despise, so I'm still skeptical that I won't spend my entire time there doing meditational deep breathing to prevent myself from opening a Costco-sized can of supercunt on the geek chic fucktards scrutinizing my MacBook. It also has not escaped my notice that nearly everyone I know with a Mac in their possession has suffered a trip to the Genius Bar at least once. FalloniusMonk even advised me that the fact that my computer is still under warranty means I get to skip to the front of the line for service, knowledge suggesting that hers broke too during it's inaugural year of life. Since those arrogant "I'm an asshole who manages to be patronizing and self-deprecating at the same time, I'm a Mac!" commercials lead me to believe that Macs never, ever break down and equally infuriating Mac snobs are always crowing about the "stability" and "security" of these computers, it pisses me off that in reality these things have the mechanical stamina of a fucking Geo Prism. Everyone has to take it into the repair shop sooner or later.
As if Apple couldn't piss me off more with all their trappings of false superiority, I opened up my internets browser and saw this as the "Featured Content" on Apple's home page (yes, I'm too lazy to change Safari's default settings for home page selection):