Friday, September 12, 2008

 

This is why internet dating is for losers

I have a firm and unimpeachable policy against internet dating.  Partly this is because after acquiring a zillion unsolicited rejects from Friendster a few years back, I realized that the majority of people trolling for dates online are hideous degenerates I wouldn't want to stand next to on the subway, much less meet under romantic pretexts.  Validating this is my now-passé MySpace account, the inbox of which is regularly filled with tempting solicitations like these:


Uh, "muah" to you too.  Consider that a kiss OFF. Why, indeed.


Is that a hint, Justin?  You want me to Yahoo messenger you?  Sorry, but apart from my oft-referenced beauty, I am not sure how much I'd have to chat about with a fella whose handle is "Sweeetdicwilly."  Usually because guys who imply they answer to a name like that usually have a dic/willy that is anything but "sweeet."


Well, that's a nice sentiment.  I cute and good looking.  I also, unfortunately for this dude, have an annoying habit of expecting my correspondents to use punctuation.  I am indeed a "very chill cool person" but I'm somewhat of an intellectual elitist in the sense that I expect my paramours to have mastered the basics of second grade grammar.


This is in reference to the picture of me straddling a male stripper's face.  I'd like to remind Fat Joe here that the gentleman in that photograph was paid to do that.  Although I can't see what Joe looks like from the neck down, I am willing to wager that he doesn't quite have the physique of Brad the Butterface Stripper and thus can't get into that line of work.  Keep wishing, Joe. 


Well, I don't get 200 e-mails like that a day, but I have banged a few lawyers here and there.  In fact, it would probably benefit my cause to bang a lawyer with some expertise in online free speech and defamation law, given some of my history with crazy dickheads and the civil court system.  However, given that this message completely failed to persuade me to MySpace him back, I can't imagine that this guy would do much to persuade a judge or jury on my behalf in court.  Not to mention I've never met a fuckworthy guy of any profession who essentially begged me to return his social networking message.  PASS.


I'm the sexiest woman on all of MySpace?  Even sexier than Tila Tequila?  NO WAY!  Too bad that given that overcompensating muscly topless photo of George, I'm willing to bet that he has THE smallest penis on this whole damn site!  Wow!!!


Ah, yes, you've got to love the guys trying to fix up a threesome on MySpace.  They're the ones who figure that dropping a few keywords like "naughty" and "curious" are a surefire method to get any bisexual chick into their pants.  And even though this guy looks like a bizarre amalgam of a fisherman from "Deadliest Catch" and a contestant on "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," I just can't be persuaded to go "play with" anyone who doesn't know that "a lot" is TWO WORDS.  Besides, like I'm going to the Bronx.  I broke up with a guy once because he moved to the Bronx.  Well, that, and he had weird nipples, didn't know how to use a condom, and said "cummed" instead of "came" (which REALLY bothered me for some reason), but the dealbreaker was the ride to the end of the D train I'd have to take to see him.  Fuck that.


Apparently not.  But that's probably because I don't e-flirt with small children.


Well, thank God.  I am glad that my looking good in all of my pictures is something to laugh out loud about.

 
Man, if I had a dollar for every time someone on MySpace saluted me with "hey sexy," I'd be a very rich woman.  Clearly all the Razzy Haters who like to tell me that I'm fat, old, or ugly haven't been spending enough time perusing my MySpace profile.

Anyway, between the random propositioning on MySpace and the rejects of yore from Friendster, I pretty much decided that if this is the kind of dating scene that materializes without even trying, I can't even imagine the kind of freaks that are on actual dating sites.  This supposition has been verified by every friend I know who has tried online dating.  Sure, a few of my friends have met the occasional awesome person this way, but they had to kiss a LOT of proverbial frogs first.  I've heard all sorts of stories.  One of my friends met someone who was actually a porn producer recruiting new talent.  Another friend met someone who claimed that he "didn't like fun."  My lesbian apprentice Twathopper has made one disastrous crazy bitch acquaintance after another thanks to her forays into online dating.  In fact, the only time she met a chick who WASN'T crazy, they became platonic friends and I ended up banging her.   Otherwise, Twathopper has racked up a resumé full of lunatics, but this didn't stop her from going online with a fresh sense of hope that maybe–just MAYBE–this time she might meet a nice, normal girl who was down to watch some female singer/songwriters performing live indie folk music and not cause her too much trouble.  

Unfortunately, she didn't get past signing in to Match.com before being repelled by the twats on there.  She first found this profile, and I think it identifies the exact problem with online dating: a complete lack of touch with reality on the part of the people engaged in this activity.

Yes, how can I make myself look attractive for all the lonely single lesbians on Match.com?  I KNOW!  I'll style myself like I just walked off a box of Massengill and give myself the most obnoxiously pretentious screen name possible.  Nothing turns on the ladies more than a recently douched "artsysociologis" who has conquered that not-so-fresh feeling.  

Once again, I firmly espouse my strong "internet dating is for losers" stance.  If you want to get laid, just suck it up like a normal, socially functional human being and go get drunk at a bar!

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:57 AM 3 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

 

Marathon Man by JerseyGirl

The length of years a woman is single in New York is directly proportionate to how many bizarre, funny and awful dating stories she'll wind up collecting in her repertoire. Though I had had a "boyfriend" for the my first two years in the Big Apple, to actually call him my boyfriend in the traditional sense of the word would be a misrepresentation. I cheated on him freely and at will, which is the main reason as to why I have so many bizarre, funny and awful dating stories. Here is one of the more hilarious ones.

I work as a television news producer and once a month this publicist throws an extended happy hour for media types. It’s always done at some fancy, up-and-coming bar in the city, and tons of people go to mingle with their coworkers and enjoy two free hours of copious drinking. One January a few years ago, I decided to take advantage of said party, at some club in the Meatpacking district. Since I'm an experienced drinker, especially when the booze is free, when the two hours had passed I was three sheets to the wind. My colleagues decided it was time to head home, and I thought I should probably get going too. On my way walking through the door, however, I spotted a really cute guy sitting on a couch. He was sitting alone, talking to another guy who was standing up. Since there was ample room on the couch next to him, I brazenly stumbled over to couch, plopped myself right next to him, and said, "Hi, I'm Annie."

Liquid courage is the best isn't it? Or in this case, THE WORST!

He said his name was Marathon Man, and he was a reporter for the Daily News. I have a total and utter weak spot for print reporters, since my ex was one himself, and I thought for a long time he was the love of my life. But that's a different story. MM and I chatted for about twenty minutes, and the conversation flowed easily. He was cute and seemed totally interested. When I announced it was time I got my drunk ass home, he made an attempt to come home with me. But even through my drunken haze, I knew I had to be at work early, and I could tell this guy was so into me that I was certain he'd call way sooner than later, so I politely declined, gave him my card, and got myself a cab.

The next day I had an email waiting for me in my inbox from Marathan Man, asking me out. I replied yes, and we had a great first date. He took me to this cute Italian café downtown, where we had a delicious meal, and listened to some live music afterwards. I got to know him better, and learned he was an accomplished marathon runner and loved to hike, rock climb, and all that outdoors shit. I'm not into that at all (at least I wasn't at the time), but I thought he must be in teriffic shape with all that exercise. All the better for me.

We ended the night with a few more brewdogs and a game of pool. We split a cab back uptown and made out the whole way. I was psyched - he was a great kisser! I thought for sure that Marathon Man and I might be headed towards a little place called love.

A few days later, we made plans to hang out again. This time, I invited him over to my place instead of going out. I did this for one reason and one reason only - I wanted to seriously hook up. I wasn't sure if we were going to have sex or not, but I at least wanted to fool around with him enough so that I could check out the goods, if you get my drift. Plus, my apartment at the time was about 350 square feet with a table and two chairs, a bed, and that's about it. It would be nearly impossible for a guy not to pick up on the reason I invited him over. We started off the evening drinking some brewdogs at the table, and watching whatever game was on tv. After about three beers a piece, I got up to get something out of my closet, and when I peered back out he was lying on the bed. Smooth move, I thought. He clearly was on the same page I was. Let the humping begin!

Which is what we immediately started to do. I will admit that in my earlier years I was something of a freak and could seriously, literally, have an O from dry humping. So in the course of me grinding all up on him, I totally came. It was awesome! What was not awesome was that two minutes later, I was partially deafened by:

"AAAAHHHHHH!!!!! OOOHHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

In case my aaahh, oooh, aaahhh wasn't explicit enough for you, that was the sound of Marathon Man. Having an orgasm. While we were dry humping. With all our clothes on. For only five minutes.

Did I mention, he's 36 years old?

I looked at him with a horrified expression on my face, I'm sure, and he mustered up something about how hot I was, and that he couldn't control himself.

Dude, I don't care if you had freakin Gisele on top of you, NO MAN, and I mean NO MAN over the age of 15 has the right to come in his pants. It is just something that boys, who are turning into men, learn at a very young age is NOT COOL. Wanna know what else is not cool? Watching a wet spot slowly start to form on your date's jeans, while he's lying on your bed. Yuck!

About one minute later, I said I didn't feel well and asked him in the nicest way possible to leave. He begrudingly did, and then asked if he could see me again. I told him to email me and we'd figure it out. That of course, meant no.

For inexplicable reasons that I still have not figured out to this day, I decided against my better judgment, and that of every woman out there, to see him again. He told me he wanted to make me dinner, and he said he'd make my favorite meal - steak and mac'n'cheese. I figured at the very least I'd get a free meal out of it and an interesting story to tell later on. And interesting, it most certainly is.

We had a great dinner, and he was really nice and funny throughout and had put a lot of effort into making the meal a nice one, so I decided to take him up on his lame cue to "look through a photo album" in his bedroom. While lying on his bed, looking at pictures, it seemed as though he had a really nice family, normal friends, and he really seemed to be a good guy. So I took pity on him and decided to try to hook up with him again. I mean, there's no way he could come in his pants twice, right? Right?

Wrong.

Again, we were hooking up, and again through the course of dry humping, I came. But this time I was totally quiet about it; I didn’t want to give him any reason whatsoever to think that it was okay for him to come in his pants. However, after what I would say was about ten minutes of kissing, light petting, and dry humping, again I was horrified to hear:

"AAAAHHHHHH!!!!! OOOHHHHHHHH!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

It had happened yet again. The 36 year-old Marathon Man had managed to come in his pants, not once, but twice, over the course of four days. While he was coming, I had to stifle a laugh. For I knew at that exact moment I had a doozy of a story to tell all of my friends. I uncomfortably rolled over and while lying next to him, and was yet again forced to watch a wet spot form on his jeans. We layed there for about five minutes and made chitchat while he sat in underwear soaked in cum. Then, at the very first opportune moment, I yet again announced that I wasn't feeling well and needed to go home. He was really sweet and asked if there was anything he could get me. Hmmm, maybe just a towel? For yourself? So you could WIPE THE CUM OFF OF YOUR PANTS, YOU FREAK!

I ran out of his place as quickly as possible, immediately met my girlfriend for a beer, and regaled the story of my very own Marathon Man, who came in his pants while making out with me - fully clothed.

[RAZZY Note: This post was written by JerseyGirl, as those of you who were like "wait a second, since when has Razzy been a TV news producer?" probably deduced, although in fairness I do share her weakness for print journalists that like sports.  She e-mailed it to me because ho probably forgot her Blogger login or something.  That's okay, since she posts as "Annimal" and not "JerseyGirl" because SOMEBODY didn't pay attention when told "set up your Blogger account using your Razzy name as your username."  Anyway, I know it says "Posted by Razzy" but this was actually written by JerseyGirl, so give credit where credit's due.  The quickest draw I've ever been with at least managed to get his pants off and get his dick in the vicinity of my vagina before anything like what happened above transpired.  Either I select men with more stamina, or I turn guys on way less than JerseyGirl does.  Your call.]

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:42 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Monday, March 03, 2008

 

Surrender Razzy

Today I got an e-mail from a new Razzyphile who just discovered my site:
From: Bongo Hercules (bongohercules@freeemailplace.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: what's cookin' good lookin'?

Hi there! I'd like to audition for your rejects page! I'm old!  I'm not fat or bald, or married, but I DO have a lot of disgusting body hair and I can probably work up a soul-curdling grin.

Wanna fuck me yet?

I'd have sent a picture, but I don't have any babies around. What if I take a picture of my dick next to a cabbage patch doll?

Sorry. I think I'm funny.
What I really wrote you about is I noticed your picture with the strap-on and wanted to clue you on some internetty stuff that might be useful to you.
First, the double-strap harness with thigh straps will give you better control than those panty looking things with the thin vinyl straps. The vacu-lock system is the most relied upon, and you can get it from jt's stockroom,(http://www.stockroom.com/) and see it in action, with dozens of variants on doggystyle girl-girl sex at http://ultimatesurrender.com.

If you've never heard of ultimate surrender, it's a site where girls wrestle and then the winner fucks the loser. If you ask me, this thing has prime-time ESPN written all over it. Me and some dyke friends follow it religiously, and they seem to like it as long as the femmy porn-star girls lose. When the big dykey girls lose they get uncomfortable for some reason. Trust me, it's at least as cool as Battlebots. (Not what I'd call erotic, exactly, but it has a warped charm. It's sort of what I think cheerleader camp ought to be...)
I guess now would be a good time to tell everyone that I figured out how to bang a broad doggystyle with my strap-on.  I appreciated all the good advice I got, and it turns out all I needed was a little practice, which my special girlfriends have been more than gracious about giving me opportunities to do.  In spite of now being a slightly more experienced dilettante in the field of fake penis-fucking, I always am happy to watch professionals in action and "at least as cool as Battlebots" is enough of a selling point for a nerd like myself, so I went over to Ultimate Surrender to check it out.

Ah, of course.  Ultimate Surrender is run by kink.com.  Kink.com is an online porn production company known for running various fetish porn sites.  Among their sites are Fuckingmachines.com (women get penetrated in every orifice by a variety of power tools modified with sex toys ie: "the drilldo"), Wiredpussy.com (women get electrodes hooked up to their snatches and shocked), Meninpain.com (women beat the shit out of male submissives), and Hogtied.com (pretty self-explanatory).  Kink.com is also notorious in the porn industry for frightening talent out of the business by mistreating them horribly.  I would argue in kink.com's defense that any would-be porn skank shooting for a site called wiredpussy.com shouldn't be surprised when they break out the alligator clips and the car battery, but I digress.  Compared to the rest of kink.com's offerings, Ultimate Surrender is pretty tame.

Anyway, I didn't want to pay to watch an Ultimate Surrender match in its entirety, but I was disappointed with what I did see.  First, there was less strap-on action than I would have liked (because let's face it, the whole I-eat-you-out-you-eat-me-out paradigm of lesbian porn is booooooooorrrrrrrrriiiiiinnnnnnggggg), and what I did see was kind of ridiculous.  It seems like wrestling while wearing a strap-on would be cumbersome and put the competitor as a disadvantage.  I have zero experience in wrestling apart from watching WWE and having exuberant sex with multiple position changes, so my first order of business if I were going twat-to-twat with an experienced butch porn wrestler like "Vendetta," "Spartica," or "The Hungarian Nightmare" would be to grab that bitch by the fake cock and start swinging her around the ring.  

Furthermore, it seems like fucking the loser is less of a prize than one would imagine.  Shouldn't the loser have to fuck the winner?  The winner has to do all the work!  Ever since I started hitting the ladies with my strap-on, I have a newfound respect for men.  Fucking someone with a penis is hard work!  If I won a vicious lesbian wrestling match and my prize was to throw my back out giving orgasms to some skank I defeated, I'd withdraw from competition.  Those orgasms should be mine!  That's almost worse than winning "Flavor of Love" and being awarded with a cheap-ass grill and the opportunity to sit on shriveled hood-hobbit dick.  The Ultimate Surrender seems like the Ultimate Rip-off as far as I am concerned.

That said, I do agree with Bongo Hercules that this should be on ESPN.  It might need a little tweaking to suit my taste, but I'll take hardcore lezzie wrassling over those poker tournaments they have on ad nauseum any day.  Besides, it's "non-scripted," so it probably qualifies as a sport rather than "sports entertainment" like WWE.  And there should be more lesbians on TV not named "Ellen" or "Rosie" anyway.  Call your cable company today and demand "Ultimate Surrender."  Hell, it's got at least as good a chance of getting on cable as the NFL Network.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:10 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Friday, June 15, 2007

 

Blowing up my phone

Over the last week, I have had four separate people bitch at me about my telephone habits, specifically my custom of sending people to voicemail and then failing to listen to my messages or call them back in a timely manner. This irritates the shit out of me, because I have always been like this with regard to phone use, and I'm not going to change in response to what I consider petulant nagging. I feel too strongly about hating talking on the phone.

I do not like talking on the phone. From about the ages of 10-16, I was a phone junkie, but that was because I was an adolescent girl and not yet able to drive. After my driver's license freed me from being stuck in Puyallup without a ride, however, I found that I much preferred conversing with my friends and associates in person than via phone. Since then, my phone conversations are usually terse, and limited to "What time do you want to meet? Where? See you there." There are exceptions where I will indulge long phone conversations. These are in three particular situations:

1. I'm talking to my parents and/or brother, who live in the glorious P-N-Dub and who I cannot get together with in person.
2. I'm talking with friends who also don't live in the greater New York metropolitan area, who I cannot get together with in person.
3. I'm calling customer service at (select: Time Warner Cable/Con Ed/Sprint PCS/credit card company/some other bullshit account for a paid service I require), and am either stuck on hold forever or occasionally shouting at some semi-literate representative who can do nothing but say, "Please hold, Ms. Rommizen, while I get my manager", leaving me infuriated that no matter how many fucking times I spell it out, these people always butcher the pronunciation of my last name.

Unless it's an emergency, I can't be bothered with long phone conversations when I could just make plans to meet and chat about whatever in person. Emergencies happen very rarely, but often people disagree with me about what one entails. G-Boner thinks she has an emergency every other week, when really it's just some sort of minor tiff with one of the Deckmates or whatever nautical term they use to refer to her underlings at the Trader Joe's she manages, or a retelling of some sort of humorous correspondence with some distant acquaintance on MySpace. In my mind, emergencies are "I have cancer, venereal disease, or some other grave medical condition" (this is particularly relevant to me because all my non-grad school friends think I'm the next best thing to a real doctor on account of being the only one who understands a damn thing about biology or science), "My significant other hit me or otherwise abused me and I need help moving out and a place to stay", and "OH MY GOD, I'm PREGNANT!", not "so-and-so didn't stock the cheese cooler correctly" or "look at the comment so-and-so left on my MySpace page."

If people need a lengthy opinion from me, I prefer to e-mail. I can express myself most clearly in writing, and because I can type very fast, most efficiently as well. Furthermore, I don't have to deal with being interrupted by cell phone issues. Since I'm in lab approximately 99% of the time, where I get a fucking horrible cell phone signal, I don't usually even bother taking my phone out of my bag because attempts to conversate via it are routinely dropped or full of static. Also, I find it very difficult to multitask when talking on the phone. It distracts me, and if I try to do even the most mundane tasks while on the phone (enter data, load gels, dilute samples, etc.), I usually end up not paying attention to half the conversation and fucking up whatever I'm working on, making it a double exercise in futility. If people need to get hold of me for whatever reason while I'm at work, e-mail, instant message, or text message are my preferred means of contact.

On several occasions, people have tried to change my anti-phone ways, at their peril. I went out with this one guy a few times, and he would call me in between dates and just start chit-chatting away about everything from his favorite TV shows to his educational debt to his recent trip to Nigeria. When I told him, "Okay, let's just figure out what day we're both available to go have dinner and then subsequent sex, I'm busy watching Bev Niner," he would be like, "Well, then you can talk!" When I would say, "But I don't like talking on the phone, let's just get together," he would cockily reply, "You'll like talking on the phone after you hang out with me for awhile." I privately wondered why, because his phone conversations mainly revolved around his weight lifting regimen, his love for WWE wrestling, the bureaucratic ins and outs of his residency, and what new South Beach Diet-friendly stir-fry recipes he'd invented. I put up with this temporarily, because the sex was okay, his weiner was pretty solid, and he was just the type of dude I like (hot, smart black doctor with an interest in celebrity gossip, my ass, performing oral, and paying for copious amounts of scotch). Unfortunately, the phone thing got old after a while, since he'd always harp on it. Furthermore, there were a couple other unrelated things he did that bothered me. One time, he kept taking a condom off and putting it back on because he liked to ride bareback but then would have guilt about doing so, which was incredible enough in itself considering he had gone to medical school and should know that if you're going to do that, what's the point of even using the damn thing? This stretched the condom out to the point that it lost some of its elasticity, and it got balled up and stuck up in my vadge. He offered to perform a PELVIC EXAM on me, which I balked at, because even if dude was a doctor, he's not my damn gynecologist. I informed him that his only business with my vagina was sticking his dick in it, and I'd fish out the condom ball myself. Another time, after he gave me yet another string of complaints about the brevity of my phone mannerisms, he made it apparent that he was keeping track of how many orgasms I'd had since we started dating, and referred to it as "you cummed twice the last time I stayed over." The scorekeeping certainly put me off, as did hearing someone who graduated from an Ivy League medical school using verb conjugation apparently learned from erotic letters to Swank. Plus he had the weirdest nipples I have ever seen. They were literally bifurcated, and looked like fleshy carving forks sticking out of his chest. Between these incidences, his regular hinting about his fondness for monogamous relationships, and his near-constant nagging about my not talking to him on the phone enough, I decided that his behavior was cumulatively a deal-breaker. I figured the punishment should fit the crime, so I dumped him by never answering another one of his calls. I never promised his ass a rose garden, and indeed all he ever got from me after that was a trip directly to my voice mail.

The moral of this story is that pestering me about my phone habits will get one nowhere. In fact, it will only draw my attention to other things that annoy me, and ultimately provoke my ire and scorn. Granted, I won't drop most people like some random honey with bifurcated nipples, bizarre birth control practices, and bad grammar who I've slept with on a handful of occasions, but I will be entirely less likely to take your calls if hassled about it. My associates, especially those who live in New York and who can eventually see me in person, need to take this under advisement, because I'm really getting sick of hearing passive-aggressive bullshit like, "God, I totally called you last weekend and you didn't return my call...I hope you were doing something REALLY IMPORTANT" or "I called you like FOUR HOURS AGO. What could you POSSIBLY have been doing?" Well, I could have been working, hanging with someone else and not wanting to be rude, at a movie, in the subway, running, walking my dogs, or just NOT IN THE MOOD TO TALK ON THE FUCKING PHONE. If it's important, send me a fucking text saying to call you back ASAP, or just keep calling and eventually I'll figure out that it's critical for me to pick up. I don't like the phone and I'm not going to change. Either learn to text me as a first-line means of communication or learn to love my voicemail, because me changing this aspect of my life elicits the same response as the prospect of me going brunette: SHA RIGHT.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:16 AM 3 Comments Links to this post

Friday, May 25, 2007

 

Dumping TWOD: a cautionary tale

As I've mentioned repeatedly on this blog, I haven't been in a monogamous relationship since 2004. Mostly this is because I value my freedom (to fuck whoever I want whenever I want), my independence, and my personal space. I like to sit around drinking beer in my underwear and nothing else watching "Deadliest Catch," and I don't need some dude bitching at me about it. I don't want for sex (plenty of hoes and vibrators in my stable), love (I'm very close to friends and family), or affection (I have dogs). Most people do not feel this way and seem to want regular companionship, and actively pursue or are in serious relationships. In some cases, their relationships leave much to be desired, and when observing this, my single status gets all the validation it needs. I'd rather die alone than beside someone who doesn't appreciate or understand me, and I've learned this from experience.

There is another reason why I've stayed single, and that is because my ex-boyfriend was so certifiably fucking crazy that I still sometimes have dreams that I'm still dating him and wake up in a cold sweat. I don't know why I went out with him for four entire months. I like to attribute my extremely poor judgment concerning him to his reliance on black magic, santeria, or some other form of fell witchcraft to hoodwink me into not dumping him long before I did. The truth is that he plied me with steak, scotch, and magical dust extracted from the leaves of the coca plant, but I like to delude myself into thinking that it was because he resorted to the black arts.

I should have known he was bad news from the moment we started dating. At first, there was nothing terribly sinister, but in hindsight there were a number of warning signs from whence I should have not walked but RUN away as fast and as far as possible: he wore a Madonna t-shirt, he was proud of the fact that his name (Tod) was spelled with only one D, he liked to randomly make out with his male friends in front of me, he made fun of me for not being as good at math as him, etc. Tod with one D, or TWOD, as he shall be known henceforth, was a terrible fucking boyfriend, and I should have realized this long before I actually took action about it.

TWOD and I met through our mutual friend Multiple Scorgasms, who thought we would hit it off. We both like to drink and pull a variety of scandalous hijinks for the purpose of amusing people, so this was a reasonable expectation on her part. One night, we all went out for drinks. I brought FalloniusMonk as a wingman in case I needed an excuse to bail, and to get her sage opinion of him. He was tall, dressed snappily, well-groomed, and complimented me for all the right things, like my fondness for combining big words with crude profanity and my prowess at drinking scotch. I remember thinking that he was funny. I drank even more scotch, and subsequently decided to propose that we make the beast with two backs all night long. He accepted my proposition, and I was pleased to see that his weiner was relatively resistant to alcohol, and it was a decent size.

Initially, I told him my anti-relationship policy, and he played his hand accordingly. He didn't overcall me, he acted like my presence was a privilege that he genuinely appreciated, made a real effort to amuse and impress my friends, and insisted on paying for everything wherever we went. The next thing I knew, I was relenting on my avowed bachelorettehood, and agreed not to fuck anyone else.

Things started to go awry after about a month. Three main things happened that turned the tide of my opinion, and I should have just cashed in then. First, we were hanging out with his "friend" (actually his drug buddy) at TWOD's apartment, and this dashing fellow stole my debit card out of my purse when I was in the bathroom and charged a bunch of Metrocards to it. I called up TWOD and told him, and he said, "Oh, yeah, I figured he would do something like that. Jimmy steals things. He once stole $300 out of my wallet when I was passed out." I was baffled that TWOD would remain friends with an unrepentant thief, but at the time did not recognize it for what it was: a major malfunction in his ability to make sound judgments. At the time, however, I told him that Jimmy Sticky Fingers better not come anywhere near me again, and left it at that. Strike two occurred about a week later, when we went back to his apartment after a night out, and I wanted to have sex. He wanted to, but said that he couldn't. When I inquired as to why not, he informed me that earlier that day, he was jacking off and ran out of lube. I was like, "You need lube to beat off?" Apparently he needed such copious quantities that not having it was not an option for him, and he was too lazy to walk downstairs to the Duane Reade and buy more, so he used shampoo. His dick turned red and scaly, and looked like it had been scalded in a pot of boiling water. It was gross. I was sympathetic then, but soon realized that this was indicative of his compulsive masturbation problem. He was an electrical engineer and worked from home designing cell phone chips, and spent a lot more of his day beating off than engineering circuitry. I like to rub one off as much as the next sexually healthy human being, but when you exit online meetings with your boss prematurely and without warning to damage your dick by whacking off with detergent, you've got a problem. The third incident was the most egregious of all. He told me he loved me after less than a month. I don't like people who flippantly drop the L-bomb. My ex-boyfriend Benzo, who is the polar opposite of TWOD in almost every way, took six months to say it, and that was because he really did love me and didn't want to go there until he was sure of it. I appreciated and admired his restraint and honesty. TWOD just decided that a month was a good enough time as any to start ending our phone calls with "I love you" (to which I'd respond with something vague, like "right back atcha" or "uh huh, yeah, you too.")

After he started saying "love", he clearly started feeling more comfortable around me, and his true craziness emerged in full force. He started picking fights with me in public places because "it's funny." These weren't playful fights; they were verbally abusive geysers of nasty mean-spiritedness that would erupt from him whenever he felt bored. He would call me fat and/or dumb, and then laugh when I'd respond negatively, which infuriated me more. He also would go on long tirades about what a waste of time a Ph.D is, and suggest that my career was an exercise in futility, which enraged me. Then, every time I would almost dump him, he would start apologizing profusely and CRYING. I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't just tell him to save it for his shrink and walk out then, but I'd always convince myself that it wasn't a very big deal and he really was sorry. Man, I didn't realize how fucked up this relationship actually was unti I just wrote that down.

TWOD was also a social liability. While he was usually pleasant to my friends, he'd pull shit where I would literally want to sink into the ground and disappear, and being that I have no shame, that's a tall order. One time, we were on the subway, and he announced loudly, "I fucking hate Jews. Greedy fucking kikes." Everyone on the crowded train immediately took notice and stared at us resentfully. It does not help that with my Scandinavian features, I look like I'd fit right in at a white supremacy rally. Horrified, I said, "What the fuck are you talking about? Why would you say something like that?" He laughed, and said, "Racism is hilarious." I gaped at him. "No, it's not!" He gestured to everyone around him, and said, "Look, I got everyone's attention." I responded, "Yeah, because they all think you're an anti-semitic Nazi asshole! That's not funny...it's EMBARRASSING. I don't want anyone thinking that I'm with you or, God forbid, agreeing with you." Yet another opportunity to unload his dead weight came, and for some reason I let it pass me by and continued dating him.

All these incidents did subtly change the way I thought about him. I stopped noticing positive things about him, and started paying much more attention to his negative attributes. Pretty soon, everything about him drove me crazy. I hated his spartan apartment. I hated the fact that he drank vodka sodas with a splash of cranberry. I hated his taste in television. I hated the way he moaned girlishly during sex. I hated his cum face. I hated the fact that he slept until four every day, and then took another nap at six, and then made fun of me for my diurnal schedule. I hated his wardrobe (in addition to his Madonna t-shirt, he also had this purple ruffled number that he wore out one time to meet my friend Wmania, and I told him in no uncertain terms that I'm cool with many things, but dating a gay pirate is not one of them). I especially hated his whining. Because of his compulsive need for sex, he would constantly pester me for it. Anyone I've ever dated and/or slept with and/or hung out with can tell you that I have a voracious appetite for fucking, so it's not like I wasn't giving it up. I was putting out several times a day. I LOVE getting laid. However, there's nothing that will kill your libido quicker than having your boyfriend show up in frilly girl clothes and wheedle "Can we PLEEEEEASE make love?" The way he phrased it made me immediately respond with "Ugh! No!" because it was such an unbelievable turnoff. Then he'd bitch to everyone who'd listen that I was a big prude and not the wanton slut I claimed to be, and pout about it. No matter how many times I explained that his method of initiating sex was the problem, he'd accuse me of being a bad girlfriend who didn't attend to his needs. It was all my fault.

Furthermore, I also became aware of the extent of his drug problem at this time. In addition to seeking help from an ear, nose, and throat specialist for his deviated septum, there were vials of cocaine all over his apartment. I'd go to get a fork out of his kitchen drawer and find yet another of his many stashes. He'd call me and say, "Come over and we'll order pizza and watch Romancing the Stone and have a quiet night in," and I'd get there and he'd be coked out of his mind and masturbating furiously, then imperiously demand blowjobs for the rest of the night. I'd usually comply, but he would want these epic, hour-long blowjobs without reciprocation, and I would lose patience with that very quickly. After twenty minutes or so, which is a long time to give head without a break, my mandibular joint would be aching and I'd be like, "Okay, it's my turn now," and he would start whining abusively. "But I want more head! I want MORE! You are such a prude! You are a selfish lover! You NEVER suck my dick." It was so unfair, especially since due to the inordinate amount of blow he was doing, he couldn't fuck me properly to thank me for spending so much time sucking him off and then tolerating his complaints about how a thirty minute BJ is chintzy and prudish. This behavior increased proportionally with the amount of cocaine that entered his nose, and it grew both tiresome and alarming.

Toward the end of our relationship, I invited TWOD to accompany me to the P-N-Dub for my brother's college graduation. I warned him ahead of time that this would entail lots of quality family time and not much sightseeing, so he shouldn't come if he wants to spend the whole time going up in the Space Needle or taking the Seattle Underground Tour. I also warned him that my mother isn't cool with me sleeping in the same room as my boyfriend, because she's very uncomfortable with anything having to do with my sexuality. He gave me a long song and dance about how much he wanted to meet my family, and that this would be fine. Our first night, we went to eat oysters in Seattle, had sex in my parents' car, and had a generally nice time. The second day, we went to my aunt's house for dinner and I thought he was quiet, but well-behaved. Then we went to the Roadhouse with MillerTime and he perked up considerably, in spite of the looks he got for ordering his decidedly feminine signature drink and his vocal outrage that the Roadhouse, an establishment known for its wide selection of pull tabs and its heated smoking porch, didn't stock the bar with Ketel One. The next day was my brother Lil' Tevie's graduation, and all his attempts at conducting himself like an adult went out the window. He spent the entire commencement complaining loudly to my entire family about how long and boring it was (and Lil' Tevie's ceremony lasted an hour and a half...in contrast, my Smith graduation involved bagpipes and long speeches from vagina ashtray-sculpting feminist artists, and lasted FOUR hours). Then at the party for Lil' Tevie at my parents' house, he was rude to all my relatives, told Lil' Tevie that "teaching is stupid" (my brother is a teacher), and decided to take a nap on top of the guests' coat pile. He actually got mad when one of my cousins was about to leave and he had to wake up and move so that she could extract her coat and purse from beneath him. The entire flight back to New York, we were fighting about this.

"That whole trip was boring. I wanted to spend more time in Seattle!"

"I told you it wasn't going to be a sightseeing trip, TWOD. You said that was fine!"

"We didn't do ANYTHING except hang out with your family. I thought I was going to die from boredom."

"You are thirty-one years old. I would think that by this point in your life, that you realize that sometimes you have to do things that you don't want to do. Since you obviously haven't, GROW UP and realize it!"

There were five hours of this on the way back to New York, and I was gearing up to dump him as he stuck me with the $80 cab fare from JFK to each of our apartments, but he escaped before I could deliver the death blow. I think he realized what was coming because for the next week and a half, he acted like a prince. He told me that he was quitting drugs, asked for my support, took me out to dinner several times, and was surprisingly well-behaved. I was suspicious, but thought that maybe he was really going to change, and convinced myself that I'd be a really shitty person if I didn't help this man who claimed to love me when he needed it most. He seemed motivated, and I thought that perhaps he could remind me why I ever liked him in the first place. He said he was going to get a dog, and asked if he could dogsit Chingy! one weekend to give pet ownership a trial run.

The trial was quickly terminated. I had to go pick up Chingy! on that Saturday because the night before, TWOD fed him a Wendy's Frostie, which combines two potent dog poisons: dairy and chocolate. Chingy! was sick and shitting everywhere. I fucked TWOD, collected Chingy!, and walked with TWOD back to the subway. On the way, TWOD picked a fight with me about whatever, and it got progressively heated as we approached the A train station on 14th and 8th Avenue. "Why do you always do this? I thought things were going better for us, and now you pull this? What is your fucking problem?" I asked. "Why don't you go home and settle down and we can discuss this later like adults?"

And then he committed his most unacceptable act of bullshit offensiveness, in one swift, cheap shot. There's one thing I don't discuss on this blog (my membership in what I call "the clinic club"), because it doesn't sit well with me to this day, and I have a lot of complex and unpleasant feelings concerning it. However, he felt that to win this argument, he'd go ahead and break it out. It was the debating equivalent of dropping a nuclear bomb on our argument.

"Why don't YOU go have another abortion and cry about it, you dumb bitch?"

I felt like he'd kicked me in the twat. I was apoplectic with rage to the point where I could not even speak. Not trusting myself not to murder him with my bare hands right there, I gathered up my Chingy! and marched onto the subway. I rode all the way back uptown fuming and fantasizing about smashing him in the face with a pickaxe. I didn't take his calls for the next three days. There was no apology sufficient to rectify this.

Prior to this incident, we had plans for dinner the next week, and I finally decided to pick up the phone when he called that afternoon. He acted like nothing had happened, and wanted to know if I was in the mood for sushi or steak. "We need to have a discussion," I said. "I'll come over and we can talk."

He paused. "Are you going to break up with me?"

"Yes," I said.

"Then don't bother coming over. I don't need to see you if you're just going to dump me."

"Well, at least I can thank you for saving me the trip. Have a nice life."

I hung up and did a fucking jig, I was so happy to be free of his dead weight. In the weeks following, he proceeded to start his own website, which is mercifully no longer polluting the internets. His home page featured a picture of him shoving a dildo up his ass, and the site consisted mainly of transcripts of instant message fights between the two of us, and the ex-girlfriend he briefly reconciled with after I was done with him. There were also a number of incoherent paragraphs about his deep and abiding love for cocaine. If I ever needed validation for my decision to finally sever ties, that website was it.

The entire episode with TWOD taught me one very important lesson: when in doubt, dump that fucktard. I should have dropped his bitch ass the second I first realized that his "ohhhh! OH!" orgasmic squealing irritated me. I should have dropped his bitch ass the first time he ever questioned my intellect, or called me a name, or even showed hints of treating me shabbily. Those are four months I will never get back, when I could have been spending more time with my friends and enjoying myself. I will never make that mistake again, and if any good can come out of the TWOD shitshow, it's that maybe people in similar situations will heed my advice to get out NOW. Life is too short to spend sitting on a dick that doesn't appreciate you, respect you, or understand you. Breaking up is hard to do, but it's SO worth it to remember what it's like living life on your own terms. Don't waste your time with undeserving losers who think they can make up for being a raging asshole with sushi and an insincere "sorry" or two, because once you've taken them back, they'll just reoffend in a way that's logarithmically worse. The TWODs of the world are not remotely worth it, not even a little bit.

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# posted by Razzy @ 12:07 PM 13 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, April 26, 2007

 

Extra, extra! I have a new reject

Since I have not done much with the remainder of my site excepting this blog in the past month or nine, it doesn't get very much traffic. To make a halfassed attempt at improving this, I added a new Reject to the Razzy's Rejects page. If you click on those links, it will take you there, and you can scroll all the way down to see the new guy, "TT Boy/Krishna," who, much to my chagrin, briefly appointed himself my "Guru." I advised him that I was posting his shit, which prompted a grovelling apology. However, I'm not taking it down, because he is an asshole, and it serves him right for being a disingenuous, adulterous douchebag whose primary coping skill is name-calling. Hopefully he'll think twice about peddling his unattractive wares around the social cesspool known as Friendster, and it will spare some other unsuspecting woman the hassle of dealing with his bullshit propositions.

I actually have a whole folder full of potential rejects from Friendster that I intend to post to the Rejects page eventually, but this guy actually managed to piss me off by having the audacity to insult me on a professional, moral, and gender-based level when I declined his repeated requests for a movie date on the basis of him being old, ugly, and married. So go check it out, as it's a preview of more Reject fun to come (in a month or two or twelve).

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:25 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

 

Sperm bowling?!

So I heard back from the latest stripper to try and solicit work from our LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party Yahoo! group, and I can't decide whether to laugh or be deeply disturbed. One thing is clear, though, and that's that Motherbucker, FalloniusMonk, Wmania, and myself were all wrong in assuming that this particular dancer was a woman...because female strippers don't usually perform party tricks like "sperm bowling."

From: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)

love your title razzy,, director of strippers too
funny
i'm handsome , just not a bodybuilder type but im not
tubby
either id be the joke entertainment maybe serve
drinks nude
then some party tricks im good at sperm bowling but need
a lil rest between frames hope you ladies enjoy your party just
figured
id throw myself out there and besides id be no charge

i appreciate you stickin up for the nuthin special contingent
im
sure you put up a valiant fight for me
keep me in mind your reply was a piss take
care

I'm not sure I know what exactly "sperm bowling" is, but it sounds like some sort of latently homosexual fraternity initiation rite, variations of which might involve a plate of crackers. While I'm not inclined to look a gift stripper in the mouth, I have to say that I don't believe there is such a thing as a free stripper, despite his assertions that he'd be "no charge." I also don't trust anyone who can't identify denigrating sarcasm when he sees it, or who has such an obvious fondness for using the Tab key in his correspondence.

He's right about one thing, though. I did put up a "valiant fight"...to embarrass him on the internet. Mission accomplished.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:43 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Monday, February 12, 2007

 

Nuthin' special

LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party Yahoo! group is certainly attracting its fair share of interested adult entertainers. Previously we had Not-Shy George instructing us to "not be afraid to touch" on the big night while passive-aggressively advertising his disrobing services. Today, Motherbucker forwarded the latest unsolicited correspondence from a net surfing stripper to the party planners:

From: Motherbucker (motherbucker@somecampaignofficeoranother.org)
To: FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: FWD: APPROVE -- i_iwanna wants to join llcooljewsparty

lol - dudes...this ho wants to be a part of our group...so she can "Strip" for us, despite the fact that she's "nuthin' special"

Forwarded message:
Hello,

The following person would like to join the llcooljewsparty group:
Email address: i_iwanna <iwanna4253@aol.com>

Comment from user:
would love to strip for ll cool jew and you other girls, im nuthin special but willing to do a show for you gals

I don't know exactly what "I wanna 4253" was thinking when designing this particular sales pitch, but it needs a little work. I can't imagine the situation where us planners, all a group of debauched drunks, dykes, and general titty aficionados, would willingly hire someone who describes herself as "nuthin' special" for our dear friend's last night of unmarriedness. At the very least, we ought to salute LL Cool Jew's graduating from Smith summa cum laude with her English degree and the highest honors her thesis on Graham Greene won with a stripper who can spell "nothing" properly.

So I wrote the stripper back to advise her that we weren't interested, and, in the spirit of compassion, to give her some tips on how to improve her cold-calling technique. My sales skills are a little rusty, but I did sell over $10,000 worth of fine kitchen cutlery one summer in college, and I didn't do that by telling motherfuckers that Cutco knives were "nothin' special," so I figured I could help the bitch out a little bit. And by "help the bitch out a little bit", I mean make her reconsider ever making a similar proposition by filling my letter with disdain and palpable sarcasm.

To: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)

Recently, our party planning group has engaged in a heated debate over whether or not "nuthin special" is a valid criterion for selecting the strippers we plan to employ for the pleasure of the bride-to-be. Despite my passionate argument for "nuthin special" strippers, the pro-special contigent has won out, and thus I regret to inform you that we will be unable to accept your generous offer.

Thank you for your interest, and best of luck in your future endeavors and solicitations.

Cordially,
Razzy
Director of Strippers, LL Cool Jew's Bachelorette Party

We have done nothing to advertise our little Yahoo! group, and I believe it's even designated "private" (although given that so far two degenerate unemployed strippers have attempted to join it, I'm not sure that "private" means anything at all). Nonetheless, we seem to be attracting the deepest, darkest dregs of the stripper world. Fucking typical...even though we try to keep our business on the low, there's still ugly bitches pestering us without provocation. Do we just give off a "we went to Smith, so therefore we're tolerant of stank twats offering the same for our amusement" vibe or something? Just because we all went to Ugly Bitch U does not mean we'll put up with some Betty Friedan-looking cooches slutting around LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party with a set of tasseled pasties and a feather boa, so to all other marginally attractive, fat, "nuthin' special" exotic dancers considering submitting a bid...DON'T BOTHER!

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# posted by Razzy @ 1:18 PM 1 Comments Links to this post

Monday, January 22, 2007

 

Don't YOU be shy, George

Wmania, Motherbucker, and myself are all busily planning LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party. While I can't divulge the details because it's a surprise for the bride-to-be, it's going to be OFF THE FUCKING CHAIN in terms of total awesomeness. To keep all of LL Cool Jew's pals/drunken carousers abreast of the plans, Motherbucker assiduously started up a Yahoo group. Supposedly this group is private, but that didn't get in the way of some random internet pervert getting wind of Wmania's e-mail address. She was kind enough to forward on his correspondence:

From: Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com)
To: Fallonius Monk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com), Motherbucker (motherbucker@somecampaignofficeoranother.org), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)

oh. my. god.

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: George <geo4sparks@yahoo.com>
Date: Jan 22, 2007 6:57 AM
Subject: I came across your LL Cool Jews bachelorette party planning group

Being a Boston area male who has stripped for groups of women before, I
applaud your efforts and those organizing the event to give the lady a
night filled with entertainment and voyeuristic pleasure.

Wishing you all a fun filled night from a stranger who chanced by your
group and has his own share of entertaining in hen nights. The only
advice I can give is be your fun loving selves, don't be shy to touch
and enjoy the night.

George

You hear that, LL Cool Jew? I'm sure that Gorgeous George would be the perfect purveyor of "voyeuristic pleasure" for your "hen night." For starters, unlike many strippers he appears to eschew the "no touching" rule that will get you kicked out of most reputable nudie bars. Furthermore, I know we could all benefit from his sage wisdom about how to best be our "fun loving selves." Rather than the night of presently classified debauchery and wildness we have planned for the soon-to-be Mrs. BigBagel, I'm sure LL Cool Jew would much rather have George wiggling his (probably slender) package in her face, sweating Mystic Tan all over her, and allowing her to touch what I imagine is his copious upper arm and back hair. To ensure that LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party is accordingly a magical and special night, I took it upon myself to send this e-mail:

To: George (geo4sparks@yahoo.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)

Hi George,

I'm one of the planners for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party, and I wanted to thank you for your advice. It was most fortuitous that you stumbled upon our group, because we're currently in the market for a male stripper who might be able to perform for the bride-to-be before or after we go out on the town. Would you be interested in participating? It sounds as though you have some experience in this arena, and we'd like a man who knows how to work a bachelorette party.

If you are interested, please send a picture or a link to your website (if you have one), so that we might consider it.

Cheers,
Razzy

Poor schmuck. If and when he sends me his picture, it will be a day that, for him, will live in infamy.

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# posted by Razzy @ 12:20 PM 1 Comments Links to this post

Monday, September 25, 2006

 

It's a small world, after all

Last night I was happily stuffing myself with ribs and Coors Light with the Js and Ps, Dick(Unicorn), and Tight Ends while watching the Seahawks lay waste to the Giants at Brother Jimmy's BBQ on the Upper West Side. While we were talking about some of the other teams in our Fantasy league, Dick(Unicorn) wanted to know if the team called The Forced Facial had something to do with my story about Facial Boy.

"No, dude," I said. "At least, I don't think so. That's my friend from high school Morrissey'sHair's team, and he is not the guy in that story."

"I didn't think so," said Dick(Unicorn). "That guy in that story, his name is Arial, right?"

"No, his name was Eytan," I said, but suddenly had a flashback to two years ago. Wmania was visiting me in New York, and we were at this bar called 1020 that's close to Columbia's main campus. I was pounding scotches and she was drinking vodka sodas like they were going out of style. We were approached by a swarthy, relatively attractive guy, who proceeded to buy us a round of drinks and sit with us. He was a second year law student at Columbia, and was Israeli. He started talking about his exploits in the Israeli military, and how he was some sort of super commando. He said that he was part of an elite unit similar to the Navy SEALs, and he'd stealthily assassinated all sorts of people. He bragged that he could kill a man with one quick jab to the throat.

"Yeah, but your name is Arial? Like The Little Mermaid?" I scoffed at him. "That's a fitting name for a big, bad military assassin."

He focused most of his energies on Wmania after that, and I thought he was full of shit. I mean, after you're done killing terrorists with your special throat-punches, do you eat gunpowder and shit dynamite, you overcompensating tool? The recently single Wmania made out with him in the ladies room for a little bit, but we bailed when he tried to talk us into having a threesome with him. I was unimpressed by his "I kill people with my bare hands" dick-swinging routine, and Wmania is not the type who fucks random guys in bars or has threesomes, so he just walked us outside while we hailed a cab.

At some point in the course of the evening, I gave him my phone number. My willingness to give out my phone number when drunk has netted me a lot of send-immediately-to-voicemail incoming calls, and this was no exception when he called me the next week. I didn't call him back. He called several more times. I still didn't answer the phone or call him back. Finally, he left me an irate message saying that he was deeply wounded by my refusal to answer the phone that went something like this: "Razzy, this is Arial. I don't know why you'd give me your phone number if you didn't want to talk to me, but apparently you don't. I don't know why you're treating me like this. It really hurts to be treated like nothing, like dirt. I don't deserve this, and I hope that nobody ever puts you through this pain." I'm not kidding, he was that dramatic about being blown off to voicemail by a drunk chick in a bar.

I called up Wmania, who was safely away from this insane fuck in DC, and said, "Dude, the Little Mermaid is pissed at me and leaving me crazy messages." She said he'd left her something similar, and, after establishing that he probably wasn't upset enough to track us down and kill us with his bare hands for our callous phone etiquette, we had a laugh at his expense. I forgot about him, until Dick(Unicorn) asked me if someone named Arial was Facial Boy.

"Holy shit!" I exclaimed to Dick(Unicorn). "I think I know that guy! He goes to Columbia law school, right? And he always talks about how he can kill people? I think my friend made out with him."

"Yeah, that sounds like him. Did you meet him at the West End?"

"No," I said.

"1020?"

"Yes!" I said. "It's got to be the same guy. How many law student Arials bragging about their Israeli military service could be running around the Columbia Morningside bar circuit? How do you know him?"

"He's notorious," said Dick(Unicorn). "And that whole facial story of yours seems like exactly the kind of thing he'd do."

"No shit," I said. "Thank God I didn't hook up with his sorry ass."

Unbelievable. Even in a huge fucking city like New York, not only have I already randomly run into Facial Boy in a Dunkin Donuts, but he's being confused with OTHER guys that I've also randomly met in bars (but mercifully did not hook up with). In addition to being a world of laughter and a world of tears, it's also apparently a world of former Israeli military expats trying incompetently to break off a piece of Razzy. A small fucking world, indeed.

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:26 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

Saturday, May 13, 2006

 

The lousiest lays, vol. 2

It's not often that a completely undeserving wretch manages to scam both myself and one of my hot friends into spending more time than deserved in his company in two consecutive nights, but it did happen to me at least once. Naturally, this occurred while I was living in Tacoma.

My friend and roommate at the time, Miss Corbutt, is an artist. She's also probably the hottest friend I have (no offense to all my other ladies, but those who know Miss Corbutt would most likely agree). She's a six-foot-tall Amazon with a killer body (she's packing much back, in the best possible way), legs to her chin, perfect skin, and an incredible face. She's just freaking gorgeous. Because of her beauty, she gets hit on a lot, and in Tacoma this was often by guys who were nowhere near in her league. Because many of these dudes know she's way out of their league, they employ a ruse to get her to hang out with them. This particular guy asked her if she wanted to go to art classes with him in Seattle on Saturday mornings. He assured her that he was only interested in her as an artist and as a friend, and he would drive. She accepted.

In terms of appearance, he was so far out of her league they weren't even playing the same sport. He was very short (only slightly taller than me, and I'm 5'3"), and his face was, for lack of a better term, a little off. He looked like a cross between Betty Friedan and Frodo Baggins. He also was majorly lacking in the personal style department. Apart from rocking the classic awful lame Tacoma band t-shirt with ill-fitting pants and wallet chain, he'd hit up his thinning hair with a bottle of industrial-strength peroxide, and had that sort of sickly orange shade resulting from attempting to make black hair blonde. However, he initially came across as a pretty nice guy, and he could speak artfag with Miss Corbutt, so she figured they could just be friends. After a few weeks of classes, it seemed that he was actually telling the truth, and was only interested in her work. So, one Saturday, she invited him into our apartment for a glass of wine. I had spent the day over at my grandmother's house, because she was doing the home hospice care thing (dying). It was not fun. When I arrived home that evening, I was ready for a drink. Miss Corbutt and this guy were already on the same page, and in fact, were WAY ahead of me. They had exhausted three bottles of merlot, and were working on a bottle of Shih Wu Chih, which is this gross alcoholic Chinese herbal elixir that makes you CRAZY. Tequila and Jaegermeister have nothing on Shih Wu Chih in terms of liquor-induced madness and insanity. There was no way I was going to catch up with them, but I felt like having a drink nonetheless. So we piled into my car and met MillerTime at Hank's Tavern, a place that looks just like it sounds: decorated largely with beer advertisements and frequented by grizzled old individuals with emphysema, a fixed income, and a burning addiction to pull tabs. Once there, we drank about four pitchers of Kilt Lifter, this beer with a high alcohol content (like 9%). I was tipsy, but they were EXTREMELY drunk. So we went back to the crib, where Miss Corbutt decided she wanted to get physical, and not in a sexy way.

"Let's wrassle!" she shouted. Neither MillerTime nor myself were drunk enough to be feeling that, but the guy sure was. However, it was obvious he didn't want to hit or otherwise manhandle a girl, because he was holding back. To egg him on, Miss Corbutt TURNED OVER OUR COFFEE TABLE, smashing glasses and spilling Shih Wu Chih (which is black) all over the carpet. Then, she punched the guy in the nose, causing him to bleed everywhere. We lost part of our deposit on account of that night. After watching the entertaining spectacle, MillerTime and I went to bed and the guy presumably crashed on our couch.

The next morning, we went out to breakfast on Miss Corbutt's way to work. At his request, we went to this place called Wow's, because they had some taco omelette that he loved. Wow's is next to this other bar called Magoo's that I went to all the time, but I had never been to Wow's because every time I'd look in the window, the bar was largely populated with morose-looking elderly people in USS Indianapolis hats staring sadly into their glasses of Cutty Sark. I haven't been back to Wow's since that morning, because their food was disgusting and our waitress suggested that we come back at 10 on Monday morning to watch "The Price is Right" with the regulars...apparently, this is such an event at Wow's that they have Plinko drink specials. I gave the waitress my regrets, explaining that I had a 9-to-5 job, and thus would be unavailable for Monday morning drinking/estimating the value of shitty prizes during the showcase showdown with old folks. However I was more than happy to start my Sunday morning off right, and started drinking Bloody Marys. I had two while at Wow's, and they pour their drinks stiff. Art class guy was thinking like me, so he ordered a couple as well.

Then, I took MillerTime home and Miss Corbutt to work. Since she worked at a restaurant called Rock Pasta, and they had a bar, art class guy wanted to know if I was interested in going inside and having another Bloody Mary. I had nothing better to do, so I said, "What the hell? Why not?" Three more vodka cocktails later, we decided to switch to beer, so we went next door to the Swiss. After several more high alcohol content microbrews, it was three p.m., and I was shitfaced. Suddenly he seemed a lot better looking, and a lot funnier. Plus, he thought I was a riot, so I was having fun. However, I wasn't trying to be a waste at work the next day, so I wisely decided that it was time to go home. However, art class guy and I unwisely decided on the way home to stop by the Stadium Thriftway and EACH buy a case of Vitamin R, the official watered-down swill of Pierce County. Because drinking Rainier at home is definitely a good way to sober up. That's the kind of smart thinking that got me into an Ivy League graduate school.

We got back to my apartment, cracked open our Rainiers, and the next thing I know, we're making out. At this point I completely forgot that I found him physically repugnant, and decided that I was going to get laid. Being the pushy, libidinous bitch that I am, I dragged him to my bedroom and commenced disrobing. Once we'd both gotten our clothes off, I realize that something was amiss. More specifically, something was missing. His dick. Where was it???

I checked it out more closely and realized that he did, in fact, have a penis, but it's the smallest one I've EVER seen. It was literally the size of my thumb. I was momentarily dumbfounded by this, and thought he must be having some kind of alcohol-related problem with his erection. So I grabbed his dick, and realized that it was HARD.

I was confused. I'd never seen an erect dick that small before. But I'm a trooper, and at that point I didn't realize it was feasible to have such a tiny weiner that it's mechanically impossible to get it to stay in your cooch. So I shrugged and proceeded to attempt to mount it. Attempt is the key word here, because I literally could not figure out how to fuck him. I've put bigger tampons in my vagina. So I start trying different positions. Still, I couldn't get it to stay in. Finally, I said, "Oh fuck it, this isn't going to work." I figured he would get dressed and slink away in shame with his pitiful member between his legs. I would, if I were rocking a cock the size of a Chapstick. No wonder he spent the previous night going down on my roommate...it seems that's the only sexual act he's anatomically capable of.

Normally, I wouldn't have subjected this poor sucker to internet ignonimy for having a physical problem beyond his control. However, what happened next was INEXCUSABLE. He started talking to me about my DYING GRANDMOTHER. I don't know why he thought this was the appropriate topic for conversation after a failed attempt at intercourse with a pro ho like myself, but whatever his reasoning, I was not amused. I most certainly did not want to discuss that in my drunken state with his sorry ass, and told him so. He persisted, giving me all this bullshit about understanding my situation and trying to process with me like a damn Smith girl. I grew progressively more and more pissed off. Eventually I must have said something really bitchy (I don't remember what), because he started crying and told me he loved me. I have no patience for insincere motherfuckers casually tossing around the L word, so I lost my drunken temper.

"That's it!" I said. "Get out!"

He couldn't really believe that I was kicking him out, and kept trying to talk about feelings or whatever, so I was like, "I really need to be alone. You really need to leave. I'm not kidding. Go. Get out."

Then, he got dressed, and since it was dark, I failed to realize that he was committing one of the greatest crimes possible against a girl from Puyallup: this audacious motherfucker put on my authentic 1987 Def Leppard Hysteria tour t-shirt and STOLE IT! Since it was dark, and I was drunk, and having a difficult time mentally grappling with the outrageous events that had transpired, I didn't realize that he had switched up his crappy Severus shirt or whatever for my priceless buttrock relic. When I saw his shirt and didn't see my shirt about an hour later, I put two and two together and was RIPSHIT PISSED. Miss Corbutt came home from work, saw that I was distraught, and proceeded to comfort me. We both wondered how an ugly tool who drives a Ford Ranger with flame accents (really hot, by the way) was able to insidiously sneak his toothpick cock into both of our bedrooms in a single weekend. We didn't wonder long, since obviously it was on account of the magical effects of consuming ethyl alcohol.

Because we blamed it on the booze, Miss Corbutt gave him one more chance and went to art class with him the next weekend. When they came back, I was on the couch watching the first round of March Madness, and this fucker actually started complaining about me watching sports on MY television in MY apartment, because he had rented some horrible indie movie in an attempt to enhance his artfag street cred with Miss Corbutt. I was like, "Fuck you, I'm trying to see whether or not Kansas will beat Syracuse," and he said that sports were for the "simple minded" and made fun of my brackets! I grew outraged all over again, and asked, "What's your major malfunction? Did you get beat up by the quarterback one too many times in high school or something?" I secretly hoped so, because he went to Lincoln, and my cousin was their QB. To further insult his manhood, I added, "I thought all men appreciated sports." Then I said menacingly, "By the way, the next time you come over, you damn well better bring my fucking Def Leppard shirt."

The next time he came over, he did so uninvited, which was the last straw for Miss Corbutt. He was out of the circle at that point, and when we'd see him at Magoo's he would pretend not to know us and slink away like the tiny-dicked pussy that he is. I never thought much about him after that except to tell the story of the smallest penis I'd ever seen, and to lament the loss of my irreplacable shirt. However, last Christmas, I was visiting my friend G-Boner and noticed that her house had a lot of paintings signed with his last name. I inquired, and found out to my horror that Chapstick Dick is G-Boner's roommate and landlord! She assured me that he was never around, so I wouldn't have to worry about running into him. Famous last words. We went to open another bottle of wine, and there he was, skulking around her kitchen. He took one look at me and fled down the stairs to the safety of his basement lair. The next time I am in the P-N-Dub, I'm going to make G-Boner let me into her house when he's not home so that I can rummage through his shit and get my damn shirt back. I'm like an elephant when I've been wronged: I NEVER forget it. And while a lot of bastards have gotten away with not fucking me properly, it will be a cold day in hell before I let some dickless SOB make off with my Def Leppard paraphernalia. Mark my words: I will get that shirt back if it's the last fucking thing I ever do. Be warned, Chapstick Dick. You will pay.

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