Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Idea #11 for Bono's consideration: GO AWAY
Normally, the New York Times tends to piss me off with its overbearing erudition and pompous undertones. However, I read it anyway, if only because there's nothing more hilarious than reading the Grey Lady's attempts at making a review of a Soulja Boy Tell 'Em album excessively literary. I also like to supplement my knowledge of New York local news from the greatest publication in the history of print journalism (the NY Post, duh), because I miss New York and there's usually more interesting stuff going on there than in Seattle. And I like to bust on Maureen Dowd simply because she's so oblivious to her own stupidity, and her hair color is appalling.
Guess what? Noel Gallagher had a great idea for Bono back in 2007. Play "One" and shut the fuck up about Africa. That idea might be three years old, but it's still as timely as ever, now that Bono fancies himself the next Thomas L. Friedman and has taken it upon himself to encourage Times readers' participation in his dumb New Year's resolutions. Take a gander at this aberration and see if you want to follow the lead of a media whoring asshole so delusional he apparently thinks that egregiously making multiple self-referential "rock star" comments is self-deprecating.
There is one thing, however, that I truly cannot abide in the Times. On what seems like a quarterly basis, Bono decides to show the staff of the Times how a REAL pretentious tool does it, and writes some heavy-handed op/ed that makes me want to go on a destruction spree against any business that has ever allowed anything from the (failed) Product (RED) line to pollute its shelves.
I could see why Bono might have some credibility if, in spite of his insufferable tone, he actually came up with some "great" ideas. Bono's ideas are as stupid, self-important, and unnecessary as those ubiquitous D&G shades he's been wearing for the past 25 years. Let's review his top ten list of ways for dumbasses who think they are smart and globally conscious to achieve new levels of obnoxious hypocrisy, just like their rose bespectacled messiah.
1. Return of the Automobile as a Sexual Object. Apparently, most American cars from the past couple decades have been too fat and boxy for Bono's taste, and he's calling upon the powers that be in Detroit to start making cars he'd be willing to fuck. Which basically means he wants Steve Jobs to design a next-gen hybrid Ford Focus.
2. Intellectual Property Developers. While this "idea" is pretty vague, it actually means that Bono wants the internet to use China's model for suppressing dissention to keep people from illegally downloading U2 albums for free. He also blames internet service providers for "reverse Robin Hooding," stealing from the "poor" (AKA record labels and movie studios) by allowing file sharing networks to flourish in cyberspace. Though I've got no love for Comcast, Bono is about as sympathetic a victim to lost profits from downloaded music as Lars Ulrich was back in the Napster era. Loathsome as the idea of having U2 songs on my iTunes might be, I might just illegally download The Joshua Tree out of fucking spite.
3. An Equal Right to Pollute (and the Polluter-Pays Principle). Per Bonoconomics, a starving Ethiopian subsistence farmer can sell all the carbon they don't emit to "mild greens" in the developed world who want to pollute freely without a guilty conscience, and somehow this will reduce carbon emissions. That way, Bono can't take his private jet across the Atlantic to satisfy a craving for New York style pizza without first writing a check to some poor person in Africa. Because nothing assuages the shame of glaringly obvious hypocrisy like having a receipt to say you are paid in full.
4. A Person (Dr. William Li) and a Word (Angiogenesis). Bono explains that the study of angiogenesis (the formation of new blood vessels) and its role in tumor growth (tumors need a blood supply to grow and spread). How does Bono know so much about cancer? Well, admittedly he doesn't have a "medical pedigree," luckily his pal The Edge apparently does. Well, The Edge has given money to Dr. William Li, anyway, and he runs some foundation promoting the study of...angiogenesis. According to Dr. Li, studying the role of angiogenesis in malignancy is "the first medical revolution of the 21st century." That would be nice, if studying angiogenesis in cancer hadn't already been pioneered by the late Dr. Judah Folkman, who first proposed this notion in 1971, nearly 30 years before the advent of the 21st century. I guess Dr. Edge didn't review the historical literature while he was obtaining his medical degree from the University of Tax-Deductible Donations to Dr. Li's Foundation.
5. Matter Doesn't Matter. Although Bono humbly admitted his lack of knowledge in medicine, quantum physics is another MATTER entirely. Apparently, Bono once experienced quantum teleportation backstage in Berlin in the early 1990s (what a great joke, Bono, and thanks for reminding us again that you are a rock star!), and is thus qualified to comment on Dr. Anton Zeilinger's work in this field. Per Dr. Bono, "E=mc2 ends in a cosmic punchline," which is that Dr. Zeilinger is inventing a way to beam people up, and this means God is both a nerd and a Trekkie.
6. Festival of Abraham. Are you tired of keeping track of which religious holidays your friends celebrate? Bono is, and furthermore, he has deduced that this is the source of all those unpleasant political problems in the Middle East. Thankfully, Bono has played concerts all over the world and has used his extensive worldliness to come up with a solution. Festivus! Actually, he wants to call it the "Festival of Abraham," after the ancient, pious horndog common to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Furthermore, being from Ireland and all, Bono knows that terrorists will be compelled to lay down their pipe bombs if bands play songs and get famous. Therefore, politicians can't participate in this inclusive, Mideast peace-brokering political holiday. Good thinking, Bono! Maybe U2 can calm down Hamas like they singlehandedly calmed down the IRA with songs like "Sunday Bloody Sunday"!
7. People Power and the Upside-Down Pyramid. Um...Hillary Clinton is saving Africa by meeting with local leaders instead of corrupt government officials in some kind of reverse pyramid scheme.
8. Taking the Fight to Rotavirus. I guess I can't complain that Bono is pro-childhood vaccination.
9. Viva la (Nonviolent) Revolucíon. Obama got elected, the Berlin Wall came down, and that poor Neda woman was killed in Iran. According to the Gospel of Bono, these things wouldn't have happened if not for Martin Luther King, Jr. and other peaceful protestors. Well, except that Neda mess, but Bono thinks that Ahmadinejad and his fellow tyrannical dictators (Kim Jong Il, dude in charge of Myanmar, etc.) will watch Gandhi and change their evil, oppressive, human rights-violating ways thanks to the commanding performance of Sir Ben Kingsley. I mean, the Berlin Wall came down thanks to the musical stylings of David Hasselhoff, so I guess anything's possible.
10. The World Cup Kicks Off the African Decade. Bono just watched Invictus, and he wants Nelson Mandela to attend the World Cup in South Africa. Oh, and for those of you who thought that they wouldn't build the stadiums in Pretoria or Cape Town or Johannesburg or wherevs? Suck some Afrikaner dick, fools, because they're ready for some hard core SOCCER down there. Bono saves the world again with his keen insights and unsurpassed understanding of the global community.
Seriously, Bono, the only thing you are any good for these days are annoying mobile device endorsements (although not that good, as U2's iPod commercial from five years ago singlehandedly discouraged me from getting an iPod until three months ago). There are many places for Bono's "great ideas": his Twitter, a U2 album liner, the trash, etc. The New York Times op/ed page is not one of them. If Bono wants to do anything for the new year, he should consider not writing any more columns. Now that is a "great idea" that I could celebrate. Slainte!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, I HATE Bono, media whores, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Screw U2, says Dublin. I heart Dublin, says me
I laughed scornfully today when I read an article about how U2's tour promoters were crying about being behind schedule on their European tour because their very own countrymen were fed up with their bullshit. Specifically, they were pissed that after three shows at Ireland's largest stadium, local residents were treated to some around-the-clock raucous related to dismantling their elaborate stage set-up. Therefore they decided to protest, and as a result, the "more than 50 trucks carrying much of the band's 390-ton stage, TV screens, lighting, and sound equipment missed their intended morning ferry." Consequently, the tour manager has noted, "It affects the tour schedule."
Oh, NO!!!! Now the rest of Europe might have to wait a day or two before they can plunk down their $250 to watch a gigantic Blackberry ad. Maybe Bono can do something about this. After all, he is singlehandedly solving Africa's poverty, political upheaval, and AIDS crises. However, when reached for comment after just stepping down from his private jet in Nice, France, Africa's savior sent his PR flunky out to throw down some bullshit about how the band feels "pure disappointment. It's just really put a damp squib (that is Irish for sponge, not a person with non-magical abilities born to wizarding stock) on something that was a fantastic experience and a fantastic show." He forgot to add, "It's treasonous for anyone of Irish heritage to disrupt, piss off, disappoint, mock, disparage, or otherwise speak in non-reverent tones about U2, and these freedom haters will be summarily labeled enemy combatants and sent to the Irish equivalent of Gitmo. Well, if such a thing existed anyway."
Clearly Bono, The Edge, and whatever other stupidly-named Irishmen are in U2 are devastated. However, Bono is mostly likely taking life's lemons and using them to make lemonade for those legions of starving, AIDS-ridden Africans he likes to lecture everyone about. Or maybe just being so incredibly disappointed that he can barely enjoy any of the earthly delights the French riviera has to offer. This is clearly what an extremely depressed megalomaniac with delusions of messianic grandeur looks like:
Poor Bono. I guess he'll have to drown his sorrows in a combination of sanctimonious lectures about the excesses of the developed world and some random Katy Perry-meets-Zoey Deschanel cooze. I mean, Bono knows hard times, and nothing is harder than depriving continental Europe of halfassed, corporate-retooled performances of "With or Without You" and "One." Oh, the humanity!
Clearly Bono, The Edge, and whatever other stupidly-named Irishmen are in U2 are devastated. However, Bono is mostly likely taking life's lemons and using them to make lemonade for those legions of starving, AIDS-ridden Africans he likes to lecture everyone about. Or maybe just being so incredibly disappointed that he can barely enjoy any of the earthly delights the French riviera has to offer. This is clearly what an extremely depressed megalomaniac with delusions of messianic grandeur looks like:
Poor Bono. I guess he'll have to drown his sorrows in a combination of sanctimonious lectures about the excesses of the developed world and some random Katy Perry-meets-Zoey Deschanel cooze. I mean, Bono knows hard times, and nothing is harder than depriving continental Europe of halfassed, corporate-retooled performances of "With or Without You" and "One." Oh, the humanity!
In other news, I still totally hate the shit out of U2. The protestors in Dublin get a Razzy Medal of Service to Humanity for disrupting the well-greased wheels of dickbaggery. Well played, Croke Park neighborhood coalitions.
Labels: assholes, international intrigue, media whores, retard rage, scathing indictments
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
It's okay to avoid like leprosy
I did not think it possible, but I have managed to find an ad campaign that makes me even more furious than Twitter whore Ashton Kutcher's COOLPIX ads. In fact, they make my feelings toward Ashton's buffoonery seem downright warm and charitable. This is the single most unappealing pitch for a dating site ever. It's even worse than that gross, snaggletoothed old Christian dude that used to sell e-Harmony with a lot of soporific jabber about compatibility and a lot of ugly couple success stories. These ads make e-Harmony, a company that is currently being sued for refusing to match gay couples and that seems to regard marrying a fat guy with a cell phone clipped to his belt a perfect outcome, seem like my ideal dating site. The horror of which I speak is the match.com "It's okay to look" ad campaign.
I am not sure what upsets me more, the slogan or the representative match.com singles from the commercials that I will ostensibly meet should I decide to partake of their services. The slogan is pretty bad. I don't need some disembodied female voice with the patronizing yet facile intonations of an overcompensating day care supervisor informing me that it's cool to cruise the internets for ass. I know plenty of people who get laid thanks to the miracle of the world wide web. I also think it's find to look for hookups at bars, clubs, restaurants, coffee shops, work, the gym, the park, the library, the designer mall, the waiting room at Planned Parenthood...hey, you never know when you might find someone. Really, the only place it's NOT okay to look is at a family reunion (although I have been hit on at one of those...but that's a whole other story). I am always looking, so thanks for stating the obvious about how "okay" it is to be doing so, match.com. I suppose next you're going to tell me that it's okay to drink coffee or it's okay to eat breakfast or it's okay to walk my dogs. Fuck off, match.com, with trying to make me feel validated enough to shell out for your subscription fee.
If I'm going to PAY to look, then I had better be looking at some hot pieces of ass who aren't insane. One of the biggest reasons people avoid internet dating (myself included) is the possibility of meeting a complete lunatic and/or stalker. I do a good enough job finding those without any e-assistance, so if I'm going to actually pay to peep at some frisky honeys on the prowl themselves, they better not be ugly and/or behaving like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. However, according to match.com's own promotional material, that's EXACTLY what they are selling.
If you go to match.com's website, you'll see SmilesforMiles01 and devco2000, AKA Fake Liz Phair and Pauly Shore/John C. Reilly's bastard child, letting us know in one sentence the dumbest, least interesting thing about both of them.
I only know a mere phrase worth of information about either of these people and already I hate them. You can tell that SmilesforMiles01 uses that lawn mowing line as part of her nagging routine. I can practically hear her shrill, shrewish voice issuing forth from within the unattractive folds of the Liz Claiborne blouse she's rocking: "Mow the lawn. It's THERAPEUTIC. Take out the garbage. IT'S THERAPEUTIC." And devco2000 would just rather that I think he's some kind of Jimmy Buffett-meets-Balthazar Getty rather than a sorry impersonator of the lead in Bio Dome. I should add, these are just the still promotional shots on the match.com website. The singles I'm supposed to get excited about looking at in the TV spots are infinitely more infuriating.
If you go to match.com's website, you'll see SmilesforMiles01 and devco2000, AKA Fake Liz Phair and Pauly Shore/John C. Reilly's bastard child, letting us know in one sentence the dumbest, least interesting thing about both of them.
I only know a mere phrase worth of information about either of these people and already I hate them. You can tell that SmilesforMiles01 uses that lawn mowing line as part of her nagging routine. I can practically hear her shrill, shrewish voice issuing forth from within the unattractive folds of the Liz Claiborne blouse she's rocking: "Mow the lawn. It's THERAPEUTIC. Take out the garbage. IT'S THERAPEUTIC." And devco2000 would just rather that I think he's some kind of Jimmy Buffett-meets-Balthazar Getty rather than a sorry impersonator of the lead in Bio Dome. I should add, these are just the still promotional shots on the match.com website. The singles I'm supposed to get excited about looking at in the TV spots are infinitely more infuriating.
Take, for example, LaSirene7, who wants her potential sex partners to know that she can't roller skate, she shrieks a lot, she has an annoying laugh, and she wears ugly dresses gleaned from the "Misses" section at the Puyallup Ross Dress for Less. In other words, she's basically walking birth control.
There's also 1Eamonn4U, a Kevin Federline-meets-Channing Tatum knockoff who thinks that chuckling and chasing around a butterfly will get him laid. Although I must commend him on going this route rather than his usual Ed Hardy shirt-wearing and roofie-slipping, I don't know many ladies who will eagerly follow a butterfly right into the awkwardly flailing arms of a low-functioning buffoon. He's so confident in his strategy that at the end of his ad, he says, "Heh heh heh, I can't wait 'til my ex-girlfriend sees this." Because she's going to be soooooooooooo jealous of all those girls who won't be able to resist 1Eamonn4U's lack of coordination and baffling lepidopteran amusements.
Or NYCGingerGirl, a low-rent Jami Gertz knockoff who can't seem to master the complex technical nuances of a chef hat. I can see why her name isn't NYCRocketScientist.
And then there's Buddy20, whose seduction game involves putting on his jaunty Robin Hood feathered cap and jogging in place in a suit while giggling maniacally. (SPOILER ALERT: Buddy20 is also totally a serial killer.)
Get an eyeful of Kumnandi, who is apparently suffering from dissociative schizophrenia and is letting her "Lenny Kravitz" personality manage her internet dating life.
One of my most hated ads is the one promoting HablawithMe, some mid-40s divorcee who is apparently obsessed with butchering simple phrases in German and Spanish. At the end of her asinine monologue (which is mostly comprised of her saying "um" and laughing at herself for no reason), she says "puedo no hablar el español," then guffaws and says, "Maybe someone out there understood that, somewhere." Maybe, bitch, because it's completely unfathomable that anyone out there speaks Spanish. And it doesn't take a wise Latina to realize that you said "I can't speak Spanish," which is frankly pretty fucking obvious.
And without fail, the worst, most loathsome installment in the "It's Okay To Look" serial shitshow, is the intolerable Adventure90. Every time I hear, "I'm just a goof, looking for my ball!" I want to pull out my strap and lay the bitch out, and in the rap way, not the hot girl-on-girl kind of way.
Seriously, who wants to go on a single date with ANY of these people? All these ads do is confirm the worst about internet dating: everyone on match.com is a weirdo and a freak, and irritating as fuck to boot. It's like these people exist in the world solely to work my very last nerve. It is okay to look, and it's also okay to say "HELL THE FUCK NO, MATCH.COM." Call me conservative and call me old-fashioned, but I'm going to pull my ass the traditional way: drag their drunk ass home from a bar!
Seriously, who wants to go on a single date with ANY of these people? All these ads do is confirm the worst about internet dating: everyone on match.com is a weirdo and a freak, and irritating as fuck to boot. It's like these people exist in the world solely to work my very last nerve. It is okay to look, and it's also okay to say "HELL THE FUCK NO, MATCH.COM." Call me conservative and call me old-fashioned, but I'm going to pull my ass the traditional way: drag their drunk ass home from a bar!
Labels: capitalism, I'm Not Buying It, intentional buffoonery, overcompensation, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, ranting, retard rage, sex, sluts, you're ugly
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Are you a moron? Maybe you should become a porn producer like Donny Long!
I saw with sadness but without much surprise that earlier this month, a porn actress tested positive for HIV. Per usual, the organization primarily responsible for testing porn stars, AIM, was not cooperating with public health officials. The last time an outbreak occurred in the porn community, AIM also refused to assist the health department, and then publicly disclosed the names of possibly infected talent when their press went accordingly south for being incompetent and more interested in self-preservation than the safety and health of people who work in the business.
As an interested follower and consumer of the pornographic industry, I promptly went to some of the industry blogs to see what sort of chatter was going on there. I was disappointed to see much of the usual: a lot of speculation about which actress was "responsible" for costing the production companies so much money. Because it's that unfortunate woman's fault for an industry standard that rejects condom use and relies on an organization run by an inept, self-serving media whore named Sharon Mitchell whose public health credentials include being a former junkie porn star and holding a bullshit Ph.D from an unaccredited institution.
I was even more disappointed to see that the loudmouth idiots working as producers in this industry took this as an opportunity to demonstrate what a bunch of accomplished homophobes they all are. In particular, this dumbass named Donny Long went to his equivalent at the cathedral at Wittenburg (aka the gofuckyourself.com message board) and nailed up the following theses regarding his concerns for the health of his employees:
HIV, fags, and tranny fuckers doing straight scenes in this businessSo the time has came. Huge HIV break out in Los Angeles and I dont even live or run a business there any more hahahha. THANK GOD.
I have posted countless times about this issue and I want it to be known because the real news is about to come out.
I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO.
When you have a faggot agent that rep's trannies and faggots as well as more straight girls in this business than anyone you are asking for it. I am sitting in Florida laughing my ass off at all the idiots in LA that hire trannyfuckers for straight scenes and fag male talent for straight scenes. I wont even book from girls from the fags anymore because I have no need to and everyone that knows the agencies in LA know who I am talking about. All I can say is I feel bad for the victims of others stupidity, but I TOLD YOU ALL SO.
Anyone want some content from a place where we dont hire fags or trannyfuckers to fuck straight girls and or have HIV problems HIT ME UP!
Yes, Donny, the time has indeed came. And I'm hardly surprised, considering that the porn industry seems to be replete with idiots like Donny who seem to think that only gay men can transmit HIV, and that having a gay agent alone is enough to taint an actress. The worst part is that Donny's colleagues reading his message board thread all seem to agree with him, saying things like "most of the gays have HIV" and "when you hire gay talent to shoot straight...you are asking for this shit to happen."
Did I somehow get into a fucking Delorean going 88 miles per hour? Because reading the opinions put forth by the gfy.com brain trust, I'd think I was in 1985, since that's the last time anyone with a shred of intelligence thought that HIV might be an epidemic specific to the gay community. Then again, since I once heard a dude getting a Ph.D in biology at Columbia tell me that straight people can only swap HIV during anal, I should hardly marvel over the ignorance exhibited by these high school dropouts, especially considering said fucktards are all raging homophobes.
While there are probably far too many polysyllabic words on this website for an imbecile like Donny Long to cope with, I would like to offer my own professional opinion on the subject. ANYBODY CAN GET HIV FROM HAVING UNPROTECTED SEX WITH ANYONE ELSE AND **PLENTY** OF STRAIGHT PEOPLE ARE HIV POSITIVE. And by "straight" I mean people who never have had any kind of hot same-sex action whatsoever and contracted HIV from heterosexual sex, probably with someone who also contracted their HIV from heterosexual sex. Furthermore, given that porn producers always complain that condoms will cost them dearly by cutting them out of supposedly lucrative fetish markets like ass-to-mouth and facials and whatnot, it would be easy for a cohort of exclusively heterosexual performers to start spreading HIV around with one another. In fact, if you look at the statistics, in 1985, only 3% of new HIV infections were transmitted heterosexually in the United States. In 2004, 31% of new HIV infections were heterosexual. Worldwide, 85% of HIV transmission occurs from heterosexual sex. When you work in an industry where people are having unprotected sex with multiple partners and rely on an organization run by an inept woman whose sole medical credential is her chronic viral hepatitis infection, you are always at a higher risk of contracting HIV. Period.
In case anyone wants to criticize me for not "understanding" how the porn industry works because I am not a part of it, I'd like to acknowledge that may be true. However, I do have a Ph.D in microbiology from Columbia, and my current specialty is hepatitis C, which is transmitted EXACTLY THE SAME WAY AS HIV. Given that AIM doesn't routinely test for either hep B or hep C, I wouldn't be surprised if those are completely endemic among no condom performers, gay and straight. In my work, I have to undergo extensive training to avoid occupational exposure to hep C, HIV, and other bloodborne pathogens. I cannot work with any human samples without wearing proper protective equipment, and I'm issued a prophylactic antiviral drug cocktail to take on the way to the emergency room should I ever have an accidental exposure such as a needle stick. The porn industry has no such safety standards in place. Furthermore, you will not test positive for HIV the second you contract it. Even the most sensitive test can't detect infection for several days. Considering most performers are tested once or twice a month, it's easy to see how HIV could spread rapidly in this community.
Donny Long should just be honest about why he's laughing at those unfortunate enough to have contracted HIV occupationally. It's because he's a fucking homophobe and a prick, which accounts for his completely asinine epidemiological theories. When Donny Long decides to stick his dick in some porn bitch who meets his criteria of not being represented by a "fag agent" or who has not shot scenes with a "tranny fucker" and contracts HIV or viral hepatitis anyway, I will be the one saying "I TOLD YOU SO."
HIV is a bloodborne pathogen that doesn't care what your sexual orientation is, or what gender you are, or what gender you have adopted. As a virus, its sole objective is to find a new host, and condom-free pornography of any genre is a great way to facilitate that process. Donny Long ought to grow a fucking brain and a pair of fucking balls and just admit that he's a fucking bigot of the highest and most idiotic order.
Labels: epidemic geekery, porn, retard rage, scathing indictments, viruses rule
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
The Naomi-Wolf-Is-Smart Myth
I guess the editors at Harper's Bazaar decided to smarten up a cover full of pronouncements about summer's sexiest dresses and looking chic at any price by getting Naomi Wolf to write the latest installment in the canon of Angelina Jolie worship. Naomi Wolf raving about the Baby Collector's beauty in a fashion magazine is particularly awesome, considering Naomi Wolf made her name trashing the fashion and beauty industry for being a tool of the patriarchal hegemony meant to keep us ladies too busy being insecure.
In case you actually had some sort of life and desire for fun and not a bunch of feminist grousing in 1990, you may have missed Naomi Wolf's book The Beauty Myth. This book became notorious for heralding the birth of third-wave feminism, which is basically the idea that feminists need to start being really intellectually condescending about the same bullshit feminists have always been super bitchy about. All the women's studies types thought this was great except that hot bitch Camille Paglia, who started a beef because she thought (correctly) that The Beauty Myth made feminists seem really annoying and stupid due to the fact that Naomi Wolf is both. Naomi Wolf spends most of the book blabbing on about how our concept of beauty is all a giant patriarchal conspiracy designed to keep women in place and punish them for breaking free from male domination. Currently, I think Naomi Wolf needs to lighten the fuck up, but then again I may just be bitter that back in the day, her ideas and intellectual influence were largely responsible for THIS lamentable fashion misstep (and many, MANY like it):
Think of how many skanky titty shirts I could have purchased with the stacks I was dropping for ill-fitting fleece and bulky wool Cosby sweaters at Eddie Bauer and REI! Be assured that I was wearing a pair of dark brown suede Birkenstock clogs and a pair of Woolrich socks on my feet, to top off this ill-fitting and shapeless ensemble. Subverting the patriarchy Naomi Wolf-style is not a pretty sight and it barely got me laid. Thanks a lot, Naomi Wolf. Team Paglia.
Anyway, now I have another reason to hate Naomi Wolf besides her indirect effect on my regrettable style choices in high school. She wrote this article for a fashion and beauty magazine about how stupid, obnoxious Angelina Jolie is the perfect woman, "bosomy and wasp-waisted, with that curtain of hair and those crazy pillowy lips, she is an obvious male sex fantasy." Naomi Wolf goes on to gush that through deft PR, image management, and Brad Pitt-fucking, Angelina has transcended the banality of being a mere mortal to achieve the status of female archetype. She also manages to work in an insinuation that the patriarchy killed Princess Di and that Angelina Jolie has become the dominant female "ego ideal." The entire article is one lengthy, excessively devoted fan letter bearing the nauseating title "Why Women Want Angelina Jolie's Life."
If Naomi Wolf could pull her clueless academic head out of her own ass, she might take note that I do NOT want Angelina Jolie's life, and I bet there are a lot of other women who don't either. Brad Pitt seems like an asshole with stupid tattoos, and I would hate all those kids running around. Not to mention that with all the media whoring Angelina so graciously includes her children in those brats are going to grow up to be absolute monsters. In approximately eight years, TRUST that Maddox Jolie-Pitt is going to be the Paris Hilton for the next generation: attention-seeking, disgustingly overindulged, and one of the most loathsome individuals on earth. No fucking thank you to being legally and morally responsible for unleashing that upon the Hollywood club scene and the world.
Even moreso than a brood of spoiled tyrants, I do not want a life where I'm constantly reminding everyone what a big hypocrite I am. I wouldn't want to bring a swarm of photographers to document me getting off a private jet to "help" starving refugees in Chad by merely standing in their presence and posing. I also wouldn't want to run around giving impassioned speeches against poverty and chastising everyone else in the world for not doing their part, and then go with my common-law dickbag movie star boyfriend to drop half a million dollars on a gold couch. In fairness, Angelina is more visible than me and can thus raise more awareness about important issues like poverty and civil upheaval in Chad and Sudan. I'd just like to know how much of that raised awareness has fixed things in Darfur. Angelina Jolie pretends to do shit when in reality she just promotes herself and her haughty-ass persona. Sorry, but I'd rather actually do shit and back up my haughtiness with substance rather than duplicitous media skankery.
Then again, I can see why Naomi Wolf appreciates Angelina Jolie's self-promoting fakery, since she's been using the same scam for years to get the academic types to think she's not an intellectual lightweight. She makes her name declaring that fashion, beauty, and the cult of female celebrity are forms of patriarchal subjugation, and then twenty years later she writes in a fashion magazine about how a female celebrity's beauty has entranced modern women everywhere, most certainly including herself. Naomi Wolf's scholarly credentials involve specializing in wrapping the same overbearing, tired whining about the patriarchy in a thin veneer of hypocritical bullshit and selling it to people stupider than her (like me aged 15). Feminism deserves better than this vapid slag telling us that Angelina Jolie is the best thing to happen to women since vibrators were invented. STFU, Naomi Wolf!
Labels: celebrities, feminazism, media whores, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Read the Bible: Jesus was very pro-whore
Yesterday HotLawyer sent me a link to a local news story from the intellectual backwater and hallowed site of white supremacist history known as Whidbey Island. Of course, megachurch evangelical Christianity has seduced many of Whidbey's native yokels, and not much goes on there, so the hard-hitting journalists over at the Whidbey News-Times decided to write a story showcasing exactly what a bunch of lameasses these people are.
Never been kissed: Bride-to-be waits for her wedding day
When Todd Ritter is told to kiss the bride at the altar this July in front of 277 of their closest friends and family, people will understand if it’s a little clumsy.
It will be the couple’s very first kiss.
“I’m wondering, will I be a good kisser? Do I know what I’m doing? I’m nervous, but excited,” says Rachel Welch, 21, who is marrying 23-year-old Ritter in Oak Harbor.
The couple instated a “no-kissing” policy, to keep things from getting out of hand before marriage. Welch decided at age 14 to save kissing for someone special, and hoped that her first lip-lock would shortly follow “I do.”
Personally, I think this kind of bullshit is actually very anti-Christian. If you read the Gospels, you'll notice that Jesus is kissing all over everyone on the regular. He kisses babies, lepers, homeless dudes, and whores, and doesn't think twice about it. The skankiest prostitutes in all of Galilee were JC's roll dogs, and one would think that such a devout couple of youth ministers would have at least considered that before instituting such a rigid policy. Especially since, judging by their chattiness regarding their Eskimo kissing, chaperone policies, and foot massaging, they apparently have no problem being media whores. They even gave the Whidbey News-Times a frightening, look-we're-scary-super-Christians picture in which you can practically hear them condemning evolution and elaborating on how gay marriage and anyone who helps it become legal is going to burn in eternal damnation.
And since I have been kissed before–on numerous parts of my body and usually as a prelude to getting my sinful nonmarital fuck on–let me explain to Rachel and Todd exactly how lame their marriage is going to be thanks to their policy of extreme abstinence. Since neither of them have any idea what they are doing and are probably taking pointers from the Michael W. Smith "I Will Be Here for You" video, their first heavy makeout sesh is going to be nothing short of disgusting. Todd looks like one of those guys who thinks that hot tongue kissing involves licking and slobbering all over every part of your face except your mouth, so I hope Rachel enjoys a good spit shine. And as far as Rachel is concerned, if Todd thinks that once he's made an honest uptight prude out of her it's going to be all hot legit Christian sex, he's gravely mistaken. Bitches don't go from Eskimo kisses and love letters to blowjobs and anal overnight, and Rachel strikes me as the type who won't put out on her wedding night. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if both of them are so abysmally bad at sex that they wind up doing it as infrequently as possible. After all, who even needs a sex life when you have the rapture to look forward to?
This is why I always fuck on the first date. I'm not going to invest my time and emotion in someone without giving them a test drive and making sure they are competent at turning me out. As a result of this policy, if I ever do get married, please believe that my future spouse will be a tiger in the sack and will likewise benefit from my extensive experience in this area. I also take umbrage with Todd's assertion that Rachel's no-kissing purity vow is an indicator of her "awesome" self-respect, thus implying that sleeping around means I don't respect myself. I have an awesome amount of respect for myself (you can't fancy yourself the most awesome human being on earth EVER without having a healthy amount of self-esteem), and I can't think of any better way to demonstrate that than by giving myself the gift of plenty of varied hot ass. I think it's actually disrespectful to yourself and your partner not to be the best lay you can be, especially if you're about to take vows promising to never hit the sheets with anyone else ever again. It's a sacred duty to your future spouse to get out there and practice on as much strange as possible before you limit genital privileges to just one person. Then again, since neither Todd nor Rachel have any basis for comparison, maybe they won't even know what they are missing when they are rutting clumsily away at one another with the lights off and their shirts on. Ignorance is bliss for the abstinent purity ring set, I guess.
Labels: assholes, Dear God, HotLawyer, media whores, retard rage, sex, sluts
Monday, June 01, 2009
Will the real Slim Shady please sit the fuck down?
Last night the MTV Movie Awards were on, and it was basically a big snorefest, except for this choice moment:
Having Sacha Baron Cohen's junk in my face would be a sublime experience. He's swarthy, hot, and hilarious, plus he's like 10 feet tall so I'd wager he's packing. Should SBC–as himself, Brüno, or anyone else–ever descend from above like a flamboyant, ridiculous angel, my response would be similar to Eminem's "Are you fuckin' serious?" However, my response would NOT be in the vein of the humorless crybaby attitude exhibited by Mr. Mathers. I would be shocked at being in such great luck as to be blessed with a live closeup of SBC's business end, not demonstrating that I'm the asshole who can't take a joke.
Eminem is really one to get pissed off about this, considering that his signature videos mock many of his colleagues in the entertainment industry. Speaking from experience, if you dish it out, you'd better learn to take it because you will get it. He should have learned this in 2002 when he stormed out of the VMA's because Triumph the Insult Comic Dog ragged on him. Eminem's apparent steadfast inability to accept a little criticism continues to support my suspicions about his diminutive penis size. Also supporting my Eminem small weiner theory is his knee-jerk homophobia, and I do mean PHOBIA, since the mere proximity of Brüno's crotch sent him running from the theater.
As he's trying desperately to claw his way back from obese complacency to cultural relevance, he should be glad for the association with a hot movie that's about to drop and will most likely be very successful. Hell, considering the state of his career's stagnation, he should be glad he even got an invitation to the MTV Movie Awards, whether his seat came with surprise SBC ass or not. Being on the radio for the first time in four years with that forgettable "Crack a Bottle" song does not restore the kind of celebrity gravitas excusing being a whiny, insecure bitch who can't take a joke. Can Eminem's comeback just fail and send him back to Detroit to verbally abuse his immediate family members, get fat again, and generally drink a tall glass of bitch, shut your trap? Because his very presence just reminds me of how over him current popular culture ought to be. Please, Eminem, make like your song and LOSE YOURSELF...in obscurity.
Labels: assholes, ranting, rap, retard rage, TV
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
This is a threat?
You'd think that with all the important stories in today's news (new ho shooting to dethrone Ruth Bader Ginsberg as hottest bitch on the Supreme Court, prop 8 sadly stands, economic collapse, etc.), CNN could come up with a better use of their journalistic resources than THIS FUCKING STORY:
I've really had it with bitches who fall for this fucktard's antics. Ashton Kutcher is a snake oil charlatan with no talent save that of being inexplicably tolerable to stupid people. Everything about this motherfucker is despicable, and I don't know why people haven't recognized that since the late 90s or whenever "That '70s Show" was on. I basically hated him from the moment I gazed upon his guffawing, trucker hatted visage. A quick review of his CV reminds me that he came on the scene playing a dumb, lazy, unemployable stoner, then morphed into an annoying pest playing contrived pranks on people. Then he was mistaken for a celebrity anyone cares about by fucking and marrying Demi Moore. Then he became disgustingly overappreciative of his own value, made two years' worth of absolutely terrible films, and obnoxiously embraced Kabbalah. Now he's become my own personal multimedia gadfly, goading me with a deft combination of COOLPIX camera ads and self-aggrandizing pretensions that I should care about how this knuckle-dragger's Twitter habits influence his fickle relationship with his own media whorishness. Big deal: more assholes follow Ashton's Twitter feed than CNN's. He probably has more Facebook friends too. WHO CARES?! Larry King, please explain why you cluttered up your valuable primetime cable news space with this asshole's Twattery. It takes the average person about 30 seconds to not feel sorry for Ashton Kutcher being impaled upon his own proverbial e-sword. I'm losing approximately NO sleep knowing that Ashton worrying that someone might intrude upon and irritate him via the very media conduit he has used to torment the entertainment industry-consuming public for the past decade. Karma's a bitch, and so are you, Kutcher!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, internet domination, ranting, retard rage, TV
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Excuse me, but WHAT, BITCH NAMED KATE GOSSELIN?!?!?!?!
I am a glutton for punishment, and I really couldn't help myself. I went to the gossip internets and read more completely unsubstantiated, totally unreliable, and most likely false bullshit about the entirely loathsome "Jon and Kate Plus 8" family drama. It seems that there isn't much going on with real famous people, because the Gosselin parents are being thoroughly owned for their incompetence at media whorecraft. I could pretend that I'm the level of classy that stops after one glass of Franzia and takes the high road about obviously obnoxious twats, but let's be real about it: my new life goal apart from professional success and landing lots of hot ass is that THE GOSSELINS MUST BE STOPPED. I don't want to see them or hear about them and their gigantic litter of brats any longer, and I'm more than content to see the tides turn against them so severely that they are uniformly hated by the world and thus fade into the obscurity where they belong.
I'm clearly not the only one. The esteemed journalists at Us Weekly are obviously feeling me. The only thing they fail to point out is that she looked like a massive cunt even when she was just "a mom". She looks like the kind of mom who would force you to drink milk, eat raisins, and say unfamiliar Protestant prayers when you went over to hang out with her kids. This one girl I was friends with in sixth grade had a mom who did that, and she looked just like pre-monster Kate Gosselin. I bet if fleeting reality fame/infamy hadn't come her way, Kate Gosselin would have presumptuously overparented other people's children and decorated with God's eyes, framed needlepoint, and gingham-patterned geese just like Mrs. Gesch.
And due to their highly competent reportage, Us Weekly has managed to distill everything I hate about Kate Gosselin into a quick blurb, courtesy of a probably misappropriated quote from an obscure Associated Press features brief published in 2005:
Kate Gosselin said she feels society has a responsibility to help with the children, since modern medicine promotes the use of fertility drugs, which can lead to multiple births.
Kate Gosselin ought to get down on her knees and thank OctoMom's shameless social parasitism for distracting everyone from the fact that she is the true pioneer of egregious, infuriating media gaffes. However, Kate is finally getting the credit she deserves for her equally obnoxious attitude about subverting nature to achieve such a massive brood and then passing the responsibility off on the rest of us, and that's not going to translate into great "Jon and Kate Plus 8" ratings. Much like a predatory lender or American auto executive, it's a bad time to be a money hungry not-actually-that-famous reality star with eight mouths to feed and a broke-ass equally subfamous stump of a man who may or may not be banging some lesbian fifth grade teacher on the side. Probably because HOW *DARE* YOU BLAME SOCIETY FOR YOUR OWN VAIN BABY-OBSESSED CRAZY BITCH PSYCHOSIS THAT MY TAX DOLLARS SUBSIDIZE YOU FUCKING STUPID UGLY SELF-RIGHTEOUS TROLLOP-ASS CYPRESS MOSS-ESQUE-LABIA-HAVING PROSTITUTE!!!!
I would like to go around telling everyone that society has an obligation to support me because it encourages me to rule their faces off, but for reasons of not seeming like a delusional lunatic, I refrain from doing so. The vast majority of the society that supposedly encouraged Kate to take fertility drugs certainly won't embrace an annoying, shrewish, totally unendearing frigid nagfest pompously informing them that they need to pick up the tab for her own manifest selfishness. As someone who works in the field of "modern medicine" and an avowed child hater, I assuredly did not encourage Kate Gosselin or anyone else to take fertility drugs, and I strongly resent the implication that this bitch did so at my behest rather than her own arrogant desire to overbreed. And her suggestion that somehow I need to shoulder the burden of her own bad decisions makes me want to kill a bitch.
Kate's about to learn the hard way that it doesn't pay to be a mega cunt (literally and figuratively) with a detestable reproductive history and a fucking HORRIBLE Rosie O'Donnell circa 2002-meets-rabid Old Yeller's raised hackles haircut. People are going to quit that bitch and her show's going to get canceled, and she can go back to firing nannies and emasculating her husband without having a television audience to detest her. As far as I'm concerned, that joyous moment can't come soon enough. Down with the Gosselins!
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Jon and Kate Plus HATE
An ill wind blows. Lately, every time I go onto the internets for some celebitchery, I am confronted with the unattractive visage of Jon and/or Kate Gosselin. Even worse, I'm confronted with headlines suggesting that one or both of them has been getting freaky with their busted asses...and not with each other. Either I have to picture Jon's fugly pedophile eyes humping drunkenly on some bitch with low self-esteem who thinks he's a celebrity, or I have to picture Kate's haircut doing ANYTHING sexy, which is about as titillating as the notion of watching two rabid prairie dogs mating.
For those of you who may be unfamiliar with this fugly little pair, they are the stars of the TLC reality show "Jon and Kate Plus 8." This show is basically about these two IVF junkies who wound up churning out a set of sextuplets to go with their twins, and all the consequent grossness that ensues. I watched this show once, and in that hilarious installation all eight kids had rotavirus or some kind of nasty gastrointestinal virus. As much as I love watching eight toddlers simultaneously shitting their pants and puking everywhere, I almost immediately flipped the channel to something more classy and palatable, like "Rock of Love Bus." Hey, I'd WAY rather watch drunken strippers and porn stars fall off a pole and puke on Bret Michaels during the "White Trash Olympics" or whatever than watch 60 minutes of this:
I am never going to get into a show about two assclowns whose own outrageous vanity compelled them to bring not one or two but EIGHT bratty kids into the world. I hate kids, and watching eight of them raise hell while these two make annoying commentary (or more accurately, while Kate bitches incessantly in an obnoxious, authoritarian "I'm a MOM!" tone at Jon) is not my idea of must see TV. So while I'm laughing internally that their heavily marketed marriage is falling apart per the gossip internets, I also can't fathom for the life of me why I have to hear unpleasant tales about these two getting some strange on the side.
I can't really blame Jon for straying from his marital bed. I'd probably want to screw faux lesbian kindergarten teachers too, if I had to fight with this harpy about getting some on the regular.
The prospect of Kate's stretch marks alone should be considered a mitigating factor in Jon's adultery. And you know this bitch hasn't given him a BJ in ten years (if ever.) Instead, she uses her mouth to constantly berate and belittle him, so I can understand how a frustrated little fella like Jon might eventually get frustrated and look for a less fortified, non-industrial strength vagina to scribble on with his golf pencil. I don't blame him for making like the Ying Yang Twins and deciding that he's sick and tired of listenin' at ya naggin'. In these pictures from the past weekend, you can almost hear Kate's shrewish bossing-around.
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
The only thing I'm curious about is why anyone would want to fuck either of these tools. As discussed previously, Kate's naked torso probably looks like a leather hobo bag that got dropped on the subway tracks and run over by a speeding A train and her hair looks like the nexus of a lesbian book club and a tragic Flowbee accident. And for any dumb chick who thinks she's star fucking on Jon, should I remind her that he has EIGHT CHILDREN? That means not only will you have to put up with eight uncontrollable monsters every other weekend, but he will always be broke and trying desperately to keep up with his child support. Any self-respecting skank will not settle for Z-list fame and no fortune, especially when he's a stumpy, easily dominated pussy. In the wise words of Lil' Kim, I'll pass; the dick is trash.
The moral of this story is that kids don't guarantee a happy marriage or a happy family, so don't have eight of them. That will take an already fragile and ill-advised marriage and turn it into fucking around and miserable birthdays. In fifteen years, please believe these kids are going to go on the "Jon and Kate Plus 8 E! True Hollywood Story" to describe in graphic detail how much they loathe their reality whore parents for forcing them to publicly perpetuate their sham of a marriage. Just throw in the towel, Jon and Kate, for your kids' sake and for those of us who don't want your fertile asses cluttering up their gossip pages.
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, media whores, oh the horror, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Monday, May 18, 2009
Seattle is already pissing me off
Don't get me wrong, because I'm excited to be back in the P-N-Dub. Although there are many things I miss about New York, my time in Seattle so far has basically ruled. I have appliances that I've merely fantasized about for the last six years, and I'm very happy doing chores around my comparatively gigantic apartment and listening to my icemaker thump steadily and rapturously. I have a Costco membership, my buddies Morrissey'sHair and TAFKAMA are practically my next-door neighbors, my fridge is loaded with Vitamin R, I partied with Sig Hansen AGAIN at CatchCon, the Mariners are at least doing a little better than they were last year, and I managed to cap off a night of lame wall painting with some hot unexpected lesbian sex. Oh, AND I get to have dinner at my parents' house every weekend! As soon as I identify the location of the nearest Taco Time, life will be all sunshine, Mexi-Fries, and cunnilingus.
However, in spite of my happiness at being back in the verdant corner of the country from whence I came, aspects of Seattle that I consider less than appealing have already begun to draw my ire. I knew it was only a matter of time before this happened. When I lived in Tacoma, Seattle used to piss me off to no end. It turns out, this is still true. While I'm generally enjoying life, a few things have emerged to push my internal "KILL A BITCH" button.
1. Stupid fucking eco-asshole-themed bumper stickers. People in Seattle love to be greener than the Prius driver next door, and they aren't shy about covering their hybrid or their Subaru in stickers proclaiming this. I actually saw a Saturn hybrid (LOSER) that had a bumper sticker reading "TREEHUGGER." This was in the company of a variety of obnoxious self-righteous stickers along the lines of "Ignore the Environment...It Will Go Away," "Have You Thanked a Green Plant Today?," and "The Revolution Will Not Be Motorized." Sha. The Terminator movies have indicated that any major revolution will, in fact, be motorized, and that franchise is more credible than an asshole who puts a "< / car >'" sticker ON HIS FUCKING CAR! Buy some REI fleece instead of blowhard bumper stickers bragging about how "My Prius Accelerates Faster Than Your SUV" and shut your tempeh hole, hippie-crite. Oh, and BT-dubs. That duo of Kucinich '04 and '08 stickers on the back window of your Outback? You should be embarrassed about that.
2. SoapNet is not included in the Seattle Comcast basic digital cable package. The other day I went to watch a rerun of the greatest show in the history of television AKA "Beverly Hills, 90210" and flipped through my new digital cable until I found SoapNet. I was all excited to see Dan Rubin, hot Jewish English nerd, flirt with Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman while she whines condescendingly about the self-loathing Jew running the Alpha Omega sorority, Steve Sanders pledge the KEG house while laying the groundwork for major drama with the nefarious John Sears, David Silver experiment with meth, and Brenda fail miserably at being Jim Walsh's office bitch. Alas, my hopes were dashed when I flipped to SoapNet and discovered that I have to upgrade to a more expensive cable package to get my Bev Niner fix! The fact that I have seen every Bev Niner episode at least five times and own the DVDs is irrelevant. Bev Niner-showing channels should ALWAYS be considered "basic" and included in cable packages accordingly. I also discovered that National Geographic Channel is likewise considered semi-premium when I DVR'd an hour of a blank screen that should have showed me "Locked Up Abroad: Indonesia." I never thought I'd say anything nice about the knuckle-dragging morons who work at Time Warner Cable, but at least they have their priorities in order more than Seattle Comcast.
3. My local pizza place sells RAW pizza. Seriously. I live down the street from this place called 'Zaw, which is not only a stupid fucking name, but they sell uncooked pizza. At first I thought this was one of those places that serves actual raw pizza, but after checking out their website, I realized that it's actually a take-and-bake place. I guess that's slightly better, but it's probably the most self-inflated bake-at-home pizza place–excuse me, I mean "artisan pizza in the raw" place–I've ever seen. On their website their pizza is described as "tummy-nourishing" and "life enhancing." They add snottily, "Not all pizza comes in a grease-stained box. (Ick!)" Parenthetical Ick! is right, at least if we're talking about the asshole who actually managed to make a take-and-bake pizza menu pretentious. Parenthetical Ick! is how I feel about trying to order something called "The Arizawna" or "Formaggio the IV" when I'm drunk and hungry for some grease-stained box pizza and then having to actually cook it. (Fucking hella ICK!)
4. There is a Lady Gaga song on any given radio station at any given time. Yes, Lady Gaga annoyed me plenty in New York too, but I don't recall Hot97 playing "Just Dance" every two seconds. They may have played "Right Now" by Akon or anything by Ne-Yo every two seconds, but not Lady Gaga. Here, I discovered to my extreme chagrin that "Poker Face" was simultaneously eliciting homicidal anger from me on THREE different radio stations. Because my hot Cam'ry doesn't yet have a CD player and I can't be bothered to dig out my old cassette tapes (which consists Vanilla Ice's To The Extreme, NKOTB's entire early 90s repertoire, Out of Time by REM, the Metallica black album, and the Cocktail soundtrack, if I recall), I'm stuck with the radio. Hearing that fug disco skank belt out a casino-themed ode to her own sick game (and I do mean sick...bitch is a blight upon humanity and her face should be reclassified as a disease) does not give me a peaceful attitude about rolling to Taco Time in the Cam'. Lady Gaga sucks and yet the people of western Washington (at least those listening to KUBE 93, Movin' 92.5, or KISS 106) seem to compulsively require regular dosing with the electronically augmented wailing of this club banshee at 5 minute intervals. Please, dear God, can the backlash bred by such relentless overexposure start ruining this hooker's life already?
5. Spiders. In six years in New York City, I maybe saw five spiders. They were all small and manageable. The worst spider incident in NYC involved me discovering a daddy long-legs residing in a corner of the ceiling in my shower, and I had to ask this dude I was banging to exterminate it for me. Here, I have pleasant dreams about daddy long-legs. The spiders in the P-N-Dub are no fucking joke. This weekend I was hanging out with my friend TAFKAMA at his girlfriend's house. We left to go hit the bars, and on the way out, TAFKAMA says something like, "Check that out, Razzy." I look at where he is pointing, and see ONE OF THESE FUCKING THINGS. I freaked out and fled the scene at a sprint, babbling "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod." Once outside, TAFKAMA apologized, saying he didn't realize I was THAT arachnophobic, in spite of having heard anecdotal tales of my great spider-related freakouts for nearly 20 years. I am not pleased about the fact that there is plenty more spider action where this came from.
6. People who can't fucking drive. The greater Seattle-Tacoma region has some of the worst traffic in the country, and this isn't just because state officials have the transportation engineering skills of Paris Hilton. While it is completely asinine that people seem to believe that the solution to all of Seattle's horrible congestion problems is to extend the novelty monorail built as a tourist attraction for the 1962 World's Fair, the real problem is not just based on flawed transit planning. The real problem is all the stupid assholes who can't drive in the rain. If you live in Seattle, your ass really has no excuse AT ALL for going 35 on the freeway just because it's sprinkling. You should be used to driving in the rain since everyone drives here and it rains all the fucking time. You should not freak out and go at a snail's pace, and then stop to let an entire freeway ramp merge in front of you because you drive like a fucking pussy, oblivious to the giant line of cars slowing to a miserable halt on the freeway behind you. I'm not a super aggressive or pissed-off driver, but I also don't act like a passive dick by being "nice" and letting more than one car bust into line in front of me.
I could go on for pages, except I have to go to work. My new job is definitely not giving me a honeymoon period. I already have business cards and a full Outlook schedule! And I have a meeting this morning, which should be sufficiently dull as to allow me to organize my thoughts about the next 6+ points about what to hate in Seattle.
Labels: P-N-Dub, ranting, Razzification, retard rage
Sunday, April 12, 2009
World War 6E
I haven't been writing much lately because I've been finishing up my thesis (which will finally be fully done tomorrow) and trying to get everything in order for a cross country move and generally doing a bunch of boring stuff that nobody wants to hear about. In fact, the only notable thing I've been up to is waging a blood feud with my upstairs neighbor. Okay, well maybe it's not quite so bad that blood will be spilled over it, but it's a feud and there's a whole lot of fuming and stomping going on.
Several years ago, I noticed that there was a lot of pounding coming from my ceiling coincident with occasions when I'd bump some Southern ass rap or Kells. Loud jams echoing through my building, and in fact through my building from other nearby buildings, are a normal part of life in my neighborhood. Still, my suspicions about the nature and purpose of these pounding noises were quickly confirmed when my upstairs neighbor advised me that my music disturbed him. I initially tried to keep it low. However, when I would hear him practicing his piano, I figured he was awake and it was okay to chillax with a little Rick Ross at medium volume. Furthermore, I figured I wasn't the only one on his shit list, since he sometimes stomped when I was reading or sleeping and generally not making any noise at all. I figured he'd direct his ire to his other, louder neighbors.
Well, I was wrong. I am this asshole's whipping bitch for every noisy motherfucker in the vicinity. Apparently, because this douche fancies himself some kind of jazz piano composer, I need to to stay quiet as a fucking churchmouse (and, apparently, keep my neighbors quiet too) so he can fully focus on the bullshit "jazz music" he churns out. He plays that hippie sort of jazz that never really begins or ends. In other words, it's a fucking one-man jam session all day. It's like living downstairs from Bruce Hornsby. An even more annoying Bruce Hornsby who first asked me to keep it down, then whined that it interfered with his daily piano abuse, then threatened to call the landlord. Then he apparently did call the landlord, because I received an enlarged photocopy of the section of my lease detailing rules concerning noise in the mail from the management office. Rather than fight, I just kept my music extremely low. And this had, until recently, resulted in an uneasy truce between us.
I understand that he probably feels the same way about my music as I feel about his, but just because he writes terrible music from his rodent-infested slum doesn't mean that it's more important than my right to do what I want in my own apartment. The notion that his bullshit takes precedence over mine just because really pisses me off. And I must have subconsciously been listening to my music a little louder than normal, because a couple months ago the stomping began again in earnest. This time, however, instead of opting for peace, I decided that I was going to piss this obnoxious prick off just as much as he pisses me off.
One day he decided to cool down from a vigorous stomping session by loitering aimlessly outside the building front door. As I passed on my way out he bawled, "Your music's too loud." I mustered the most cunty expression in my repertoire of don't-fuck-with-me-son looks, and said in my most icy tone, "So is yours." And thus, it's on.
He has taken to stomping at the slightest provocation. Originally he took issue with just my rap and R&B collections, but now he's stomping with equal fervor to music as varied as Brahms piano sonatas, Heart, and David Bowie. Unfortunately, I don't have any bootlegged tracks from bands jamming live at Bonnaroo or whatever to test whether or not he'd stomp at something he'd presumably consider more palatable. I think at this point he would stomp regardless of his preferences, because we hate each other that much.
The other day we literally had a pounding contest, and not in a hot way. As a matter of fact, there's no way that sexual diplomacy can resolve this matter, because he is revolting. He looks like he has Marfan's syndrome, because he's built like Abe Lincoln: extremely skinny and tall, with freakishly long limbs. He also is almost bald, but the patchy, thinning Friar Tuck salt-and-pepper hair ringing his ashy-ass skull is long and obviously unfamilar with a brush. When he rocks his beret over the overcompensating, undergroomed mess that is his coiffure, he looks like a skeezy child molester in a Lawrence Ferlinghetti costume. Add to it that he's probably in his mid-40s and still living in a shithole like my building and can't afford a studio or practice space, which suggests to me that most consumers agree with my assessment of his art. There is unequivocally NO WAY even in the most extreme or ridiculous circumstances, I would ever consider standing two feet away from this man, much less fucking him. Our pound-off therefore consisted of me listening to Muse, him stomping, me changing the music to "Fireman" from Tha Carter II, him stomping louder, and me grabbing a broom and pounding on my ceiling in response while shouting "GO FUCK YOURSELF!" through my light fixtures.
Because this situation is rapidly escalating, I decided that it was time to quit fucking around and demand surrender. He spent today working on some major construction project and then had the audacity to stomp when I took a writing break to bounce around to The R. in R&B. So it's time to regain the psychological upper hand in this war, and break his fucking spirit. I took it upon myself to craft a letter full of real talk to be taped to his apartment door like it's the damn church at Wittenberg. Sun Tzu would approve.
Dear Fake Bruce Hornsby,For some time now, I have been enduring your presumptuous stomping on my ceiling whenever you perceive a stray bit of noise coming from the direction of my apartment. I am constantly amazed by the acuity of your hearing, as you have on occasion woken me up with your imperative, obnoxious floor-pounding. I can only assume that in such situations, your exquisitely sensitive audio detection skills have made it possible for my restful breathing to annoy you. Either that, or you for some reason expect me to act as your emissary to any of my neighbors who might have the audacity to listen to music, watch television, open and close the doors in their apartments, and generally make the noise that occurs in the course of living. Once a couple years ago you complained to me about one of my neighbors slamming a door too loudly for your taste, and still seemed to think that was somehow my responsibility despite my informing you that the door slammer was not myself.I am certainly not suggesting that I don't make any noise. I listen to my stereo at a reasonable volume during daytime hours (never late at night), and have never had any complaints from any of my other neighbors. In fact, if my other neighbors did ask me to turn it down (which again, they never have), I would gladly comply. When you first asked me to turn it down, I did so. I even accommodated your podiatric demands for lower volume when you have stomped so frequently and with such ardor that my light fixture rattled and it sounded as though a rehearsal for Riverdance was occurring in your apartment.Sometimes I listen to the stereo more often than I normally would, as I need it to drown out the incessant cacophony of jam-session jazz that pours down from your apartment on a regular basis. As long as I'm being forced to suffer through your meandering, uninspired compositions whenever you get a hankering to practice, I figure I can at least block it out with something I enjoy. I've heard you say numerous times that you are a "musician," as if this somehow means that you can commit noise pollution as a matter of professional necessity and everyone else has to not only tolerate it, but provide you with a quiet atmosphere in which to craft your ghastly generic jazz-flavored non-masterpieces.Granted, given the fact that you live in this dilapidated tenement and the fact that you apparently don't have a studio to practice in, your music career hasn't exactly been successful. I feel slightly sorry for your pathetic attempts to parcel together what scraps of a career you can at any and all hours of the night. However, since your tired, desperate grasps for relevance involve me being forced to aurally consume a largely rejected product such as your entire piano repertoire, I am completely justified in instead choosing to listen to something that the market apparently finds much more palatable, including such multi-platinum-selling artists as Lil' Wayne, T.I., T-Pain, and R. Kelly. And Morrissey. And Lionel Richie. And Metallica. You even got stomping mad about Chopin Nocturnes, and I really honestly can't think of anything quieter and less intrusive than those.Therefore, please believe that from now on, when you start composing your next dissonant snorefest of elementary jazz chord progressions, I will turn on my stereo JUST LOUD ENOUGH to drown you out so that I can exist in peace in my apartment. I will not respond to any future stomping, except by possibly adjusting the volume accordingly. And if you like, you can call the landlord, because I'm more than happy to explain that I'm not the only one who likes music around here. However, good luck getting building management to care, since I'm moving in three weeks. I am sure after that, you will enjoy the dulcet tones of ten loud construction workers gutting and converting the apartment into an illegal one-bedroom so that the landlord can fleece some poor college student WHO ALSO LIKES RAP AND/OR ROCK MUSIC AND/OR ANYTHING BESIDES ORDINARY, SOPORIFIC, INTERMINABLE HIPPIE JAZZ PIANO PIECES.In short, sir, I demand that you cease stomping immediately.Regards,The Bitch Directly Downstairs From You
After writing this, I decided that it might be a little longer than necessary. At the very least, it might be so awesomely crushing that he wouldn't glean the larger "QUIT STOMPING" message from it. I wasn't trying to challenge his feeble mind with a comprehensive account of our ongoing hostilities. So I just wrote:
6E,From now on, whenever you rudely stomp on your floor/my ceiling in response to my music, I will turn said music up. If I have to tolerate your music, you can tolerate mine in return. Feel free to complain about it, because I'm moving in three weeks anyway.Regards,5E
I think it gets the point across. I win again and as usual.
Labels: assholes, Harlem world, overcompensation, ranting, Razzification, retard rage, scathing indictments
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
You're exactly my brand of haterade, Twilight
I thought that my loathing toward the Twilight franchise was going to be like a summer fling, except full of boiling hate rather than hot sex. I figured that after some initially intense, explosive feelings of loathing toward this shitshow, my ire would burn itself out and I'd move on to the next pop culture phenomenon worthy of my dedicated abhorrence. In a few months, my comprehensive dislike for the world's lamest Washington coast-dwelling, Volvo-driving, neutered supermodel glitter vampires would fade just like last year's random honeys and I could train the crosshairs of my hateration elsewhere.
Unfortunately, due to my inability to avoid Twilight-related news, it appears that my hatred has been reduced to a slow simmer and is here to stay. I read the news, and there's Twilight, being inexplicably associated with random gang violence. I read my celebrity gossip, and see that Robert Pattinson is grossing everyone out on the set of the Twilight sequel New Moon because of his dislike for showers and generally disturbing lack of personal hygiene. Oddly, the fact that Robert Pattinson has the bathing regimen of a homeless meth addict on the gay hooker stroll and looks accordingly does not seem to deter a disturbingly large number of my female friends from rhapsodizing about his putative hotness, and I get to hear about this frequently via their Facebook status messages. In fact, Facebook is where I am most routinely confronted with unwanted Twilight-related information. Just yesterday, my news feed advised me that my high school ex-girlfriend is "stoked that her nephew gave her the collector's edition of Twilight on DVD for her birthday." Upon reading that, my eyes started rolling so uncontrollably that it probably looked like I was having a really bitchy seizure.
In fact, the only REMOTELY positive thing I can think of about Twilight is a little tidbit my Facebook wife ElCyd shared with me last night. We were Gchatting about the usual (Jayhawk basketball, the latest honeys on our ho rosters, how awesome we are, how much law school/grad school sucks, fucking girls and/or lesbian drama, our plans for world domination, our inherent Scorpio similarities, and how much my defense party is going to rule), and ElCyd decided to bring up Twilight. I can forgive ElCyd's rabid enthusiasm about Twilight, as she fully admits that it's godawful. I guess it's useful, too, since she came up with the only positive thing I've ever heard about the entire brand:
ElCyd: (p.s. best part of twilight the movie is the shout-out to Vitamin R)
Razzy: i did not see, obv
Razzy: but WHAT
Razzy: RAINIER BEER WAS IN TWILIGHT?!
ElCyd:: YES!
ElCyd: and they CALL IT VITAMIN R
ElCyd: IN THE MOVIE
Razzy: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!?!?!?!
Razzy: NO
Razzy: WAY
ElCyd: seriously
Razzy: ZOMG
ElCyd: i know.
Razzy: okay i might have to see twilight now
Razzy: i'm assuming it's not the sparkle vamps who call it that
ElCyd: no no
Razzy: but the redneck teens from forks
ElCyd: lol
ElCyd: redneck parents
Razzy: of course
Razzy: the teenagers don't drink
Razzy: they just build lame bonfires
ElCyd: in reference to a tallboy 6 pack of cans
Razzy: ah yes, the tallboy sixer of vitamin R
Razzy: soon to be a common sight in my refrigerator
Razzy: trust that
ElCyd: oh, i do.
ElCyd: please believe.
Razzy: those tallboy sixers of vitamin R are like $4
Razzy: so awesome
Razzy: i wonder if that clip is on youtube
Razzy: that will save me from having to watch twilight in its entirety
Razzy: which could result in someone's death
Unfortunately, nobody has yet had the presence of mind to save innocent bystanders from my murderous wrath by posting a YouTube of the scene in which Bella Swan's dad gives a shout-out to the greatest beer ever brewed, the sweet nectar of the P-N-Dub, Rainier Beer AKA "Vitamin R." Now maybe if there's a scene in New Moon in which the characters go pick up a crisp beef burrito and some Mexi-Fries from the Forks Taco Time, or take a detour to my hometown to Do the Puyallup, I could muster the inner strength to tolerate this bullshit. In the meantime, Bella Swan can stay addicted to her unshowered sparkling paramour. I have accepted that there is no escape from my hatred for it, and will just remain addicted to hating it.
Labels: ElCyd, librophilia, P-N-Dub, ranting, retard rage
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