Thursday, June 11, 2009
Big ass LOL
The other day when Faheem "T-Pain" Najm posted photographs of his unique new diamond jewelry on his Facebook, he obviously neglected to upload the most hilarious shot of them all.
Yes, you're seeing that right. That's Taylor Swift, the Lolita of crossover pop country music, rocking the urban camo to seem more convincingly thugged out and aiming to steal Vanessa Hudgens's Ecko Red spokesmodel job. Taylor probably spent hours practicing her Ice Cube scowl in the mirror just so she could take her Kevin Federline game to the next level in this photo shoot. Apparently she and Teddy Pinnedherassdown are collaborating (cut to my friend HotLawyer exploding with excitement), which means that the world's burning curiosity to hear Taylor Swift sing through an autotuner will finally be satiated. FINALLY.
Seriously, I don't know who thought this was a good idea. I definitely blame this on the Henny.
Labels: celebrities, hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Monday, June 08, 2009
Who has the biggest chain I've seen thus far?
I'm friends with Faheem "T-Pain" Najm on Facebook, and he's probably one of my favorite Facebook friends. He updates his status all the time, and it's usually something hilarious. It's also nice to know that T-Pain can descend from the lofty peaks of the Tallahassee McMansion where he spends the days sipping Nuvo and Patron to dick around on Facebook when he's bored like the rest of us little people (ie: accompanying a link to the Adult Swim website with the commentary "full episode of aqua teen hunger force. fuck i am good.") Because of this I know all sorts of information about T-Pain, including that he named his most recent child Kaydnz Kodah (!) and he and his wife like to have orgies with strippers in Costa Rica. I'm not even kidding.
T-Pain also likes to post photos frequently, especially of the many custom products he commissions. Teddy Pinnedherassdown is a man of refined tastes, and he likes to bless the Facebook masses with visual evidence that he's a little more sophisticated than your average rappa ternt sanga. For example, this lovely and touching tribute to his late dear friend, the recently departed Roderick "Dolla" Burton II.
After all, anyone can send flowers or sympathy cards or make a charitable donation, but there's really not more of a sentimental memorial than airbrushing your one-hit wonder collaborator's image on the hood of your vintage Chevelle. Tallahassee Pain is nothing but class. He makes the Queen of England look like a stinking derelict begging for change on a freeway offramp in comparison.
Anyway, today I was pleased to see that T-Pain continues to set the standard for elegance with a recent piece of diamond jewelry he obviously made to dazzle the other social elites he clearly rubs elbows with on the regular. I knew something was going to be good when my news feed alerted me that T-Pain had prefaced a new photo on his wall with the declaration, "I told everybody I'm not playing no more anybody wanna try to out do me then we goin at it like next door neighbors. Believe dat." I believed dat, and immediately looked at the picture and was nearly blinded with the intensity of this ice. Seriously, get a sweater, because the man and his Louis Vuitton purses (see background in second picture) are more frozen than Antarctica:
Dayum, shawty snappin! All I want to know is whether or not this is causing any drama in T-Pain's relationship with pretend cocaine kingpin/former correctional officer William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts II, AKA the self-proclaimed biggest boss I've seen thus far. Previously, Rick Ross has prided himself on wearing the largest, most ridonkulous chains in the entire Sunshine State. Rick Ross is so serious about his extremely large jewelry that he was deeply insulted when one of his baby mamas and Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson accused him of renting his signature giant self-portrait yellow diamond pendant. However, his sometime collaborator, purported friend, and fellow Floridian T-Pain has clearly challenged him when making Facebook wall statements like "DUDES AND GIRLS I JUST WANNA GIVE A QUICK PREVIEW OF THE LAST CHAIN ULL EVER LIKE. IM SHUTTIN IT DOWN."
Them's fightin' words. I think the next logical course is for Rick Ross to pick up the "Big Ass Chain"-shaped gauntlet T-Pain has thrown and get something so large and absurd that he walks hunched over when he wears it. That would be quite the achievement, since Rick Ross is a pretty big fella with a great deal of heavy chain-rocking experience, and probably has the neck weightbearing capabilities of an Oregon Trail cart ox. Break out the candy-colored rocks and let's take this battle to the next level!
Labels: Facebook, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Monday, March 30, 2009
Raise your voice
Yesterday I was reading Dlisted, my main go-to site for celebrity e-bitchery, and laughed out loud when its author Michael K. wrote that Ashton Kutcher is the type to "give his peen a 'voice' while you're trying to blow him." Not only does that sound about right concerning the bedroom habits of the insufferably juvenile Mr. Kutcher, but it reminded me of the infrequently discussed but nonetheless relevant topic of talking on behalf of your genitalia and I felt compelled to weigh in on the matter.
Years ago, when I lived in beautiful Tacoma, Washington, the City of Destiny, I banged this dude who would translate for his penis while we were getting sexy. Specifically, he referred to it as "the boy" or "his boy," and wanted to relay its opinion to me throughout our drunken fucking. We were doing it and he said something like, "My boy feels great." Initially I was confused about what he meant and ignored it. However, he continued in this vein with comments like "Damn, my boy thinks you have a great pussy" and "the boy isn't going to last much longer if you keep going like this," and then attempted to engage me about it. He said something completely idiotic like "my boy wants to know if he's the best you've ever had?" I laughed in his face and responded with something like, "Tell your boy to shut up and fuck me."
This dude was definitely the Ashton Kutcher type. I knew him from around the Tacoma bar scene and from my interactions with him at such storied establishments as Hank's and Magoo's, I knew that he hung drywall or did construction or something and his life's ambition was to take surfing lessons. He had a tattoo of a sun with an ankh or a yin-yang or something along those lines on his upper back, even though he was the farthest thing imaginable from an eastern mystic. He also had an armband tat of some fake-me-out Celtic design and a Chinese character (that I like to think was the symbol for "tool") on his ankle like a damn girl. I had been at his apartment one time and he had taped torn-out pages from the Victoria's Secret catalog all over the walls by the toilet. I have no problem with dudes who keep their spank literature in plain view. In fact, I respect the brazen attitude of a dude who will leave his stack of Hustlers next to the john in plain view. However, taping ripped out pages of Heidi Klum selling 2 for 1 Angel bras for $49.99 as bathroom decor is a whole other level of douchebaggery, and cheap douchebaggery at that. Can't you at least buy a Maxim or something if you insist on decorating your bathroom with softcore jerk-off material? If this guy weren't cute in a Tacoma kind of way (meaning just okay) and I hadn't consumed half the stock of Sapphire gin at Magoo's that night, I probably wouldn't have seriously considered bagging him or his United Nations tattoos. In fact, my friend MillerTime had a crush on him and I wasn't going to go there out of deference for our friendship; however, she wasn't at the bar that night, and he was moving to Florida the next day. I figured that she'd never get her shot, and I might as well not let the dick go to waste.
Unfortunately, I didn't realize I'd be getting color commentary courtesy of "his boy" about the awesomeness of my vagina and its compatibility with said name-bearing penis. He didn't even stop when I laughed at him. In fact, he kept babbling on about "his boy" without saying anything in particular. It was like listening to Dick Vitale call our one-night stand. Then after "his boy" finished the job and retreated to its resting state, he bitched at me for smoking in my own apartment and plugged my toilet! He was a real charmer.
Since then, I've fortunately not come across anyone who said such asinine things on behalf of his penis during sex. I have had other guys say some silly stuff, like demanding that I compare their cock to smoked meat, shouting "DRAINAGE!" while ejaculating on my ass, or promising that I was about to be "split in half by (his) big, black snake." Luckily, however, I've never had another dude either attempt to interpret for his penis or assume the guise of his penis and chat me up. I don't think there is any way to make that hot.
Oh the other hand, I have successfully managed to talk with someone's genitalia myself, so I should never say never. A while back, I was banging this dude who set the tone by turning on some Skinemax original programming prior to us hooking up. I usually go straight to the internet for my porn because I don't like to trifle with any boring softcore bullshit, so I hadn't seen anything in that genre for awhile. It turns out that it's not the "Red Shoe Diaries" that I remember, which was sort of fake-classy (at least it referred to its actresses as "glamour models") and rarely showed much besides tits. Today's Skinemax, however, showed constant, close-up, full-frontal pussy shots and Randy Spears was in it! However, there still was not any real fucking in it, and the acting was TERRIBLE. Not that I expect an Oscar-worthy performance from the cast of "Co-Ed Confidential," but given that half of them are actual porn stars, I would expect them to at least believably simulate sex. There was one chick pretending to give a dude a blow job and her head was bouncing around so vigorously she looked like a damn jack-in-the-box. I started ranting indignantly about this, and after a few minutes, the honey took matters into his own hands and asked why I was wearing so many clothes. That reminded me that I did not go over to his apartment to critique the acting on Cinemax, and got down to business.
However, I couldn't get over the shoddiness of the travesty on television, and continued to jabber on about it while we were hooking up. Granted, my statements on the matter became much more terse, but I wasn't going to rest until I had vented. So I said something like, "This is what a fucking blow job looks like," and started fellating him between brief statements excoriating the unconvincing product that Cinemax was selling. I finally shut up once we started actually fucking, because only then was I distracted enough by my imminent orgasm to get over my critical disappointment in today's original softcore programming. Afterward, we were chatting while waiting for the dude to recharge, and he said, "I was really impressed with the way you were able to carry on a conversation at the same time as giving me head. I wasn't even annoyed."
"Uh, thanks," I said, then I noticed that Wild Orchid was now on Skinemax. "Hey, young Mickey Rourke! Now that's hot."
My dude was undeterred and continued, "Seriously, feel free to argue with my dick any time. It was a great blow job, and you made many excellent points."
"And you only made one," I said, grabbing his dick and realizing he was good to go again. Mollified, I proceeded to spend the rest of the night doing him with no complaints. Now, thinking back, I realized what a fine line there is between talking to and for your genitals. Talking to is clearly hot and sexy when done correctly by a pro ho like myself. Talking for, however, is just not okay. Ever. Fellas, if I want to talk to your cock, I will. Otherwise, tell it to keep its yap shut and just do its damn job. So let it be written, so let it be done.
Labels: perversion, ranting, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts, weiners
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Some (un)cut
I've been skanking it up hard with the fellas since July 26th, 1995, and in that time I've gotten a lot of random dick under my belt, so to speak. Although she used to be more of a relationship-type lady, my friend JerseyGirl has since caught up with me with a great deal of gusto. In the course of her recent adventures, JerseyGirl managed to stumble across a phenomenon that you don't often encounter with native-born American fellas:
JerseyGirl: met this brit at brunch
Razzy: uh huh...
JerseyGirl: went back to my place
JerseyGirl: and did it
JerseyGirl: like 5x
Razzy: LOL
JerseyGirl: it was NUTS
JerseyGirl: BUT razzy
JerseyGirl: i was bugging
JerseyGirl: bc when he got naked
Razzy: let me guess...not circumcised
JerseyGirl: it was UNCIRCUMSIZED!!!
JerseyGirl: i was DYING
JerseyGirl: i was like "ewe"
JerseyGirl: he goes that's not very nice to say
JerseyGirl: i'm like sorry but it looks gross
Razzy: dude euros are always uncircumcised unless they're jewish
Razzy: i can't believe you said "ewe" about his D OUT LOUD!
JerseyGirl: haha
JerseyGirl: i know
JerseyGirl: but i was so wasted i didnt care
JerseyGirl: it was HUGE though
I likewise have never personally encountered an uncut schlong, probably because of my propensity for fucking red-blooded Americans and/or Jews. I keep waiting for the day when I will stumble across one, because I'm intensely curious about it. I've certainly seen pictures, so I doubt my response will be to say "ew" when I see that homeslice's weiner is wearing a turtleneck. In fact, I remember this girl I knew in college was dating an uncut dude, and she showed me and a few other intensely curious girls photos of her inflating his foreskin. I remember laughing hysterically because they were really some of the most absurdly ridiculous sex pictures I'd ever seen. I also remember vowing that should I ever come across a honey with extra casing on his sausage I would promptly make like this bitch and blow it up like a balloon for humor value alone. Combining goofy jokes and fellatio sounds like a win-win to me.
JerseyGirl clearly got over her shock about this dude's foreskin because she subsequently planned a trip to England to go get more strange of the tea-and-crumpets variety in spite of the likelihood of encountering more peek-a-boo dick. She was telling me about the new international mark she was wooing via Facebook, and I was encouraging her to whore us up proud.
Razzy: toss it up
Razzy: as i think they say in england
Razzy: i know "tosser" means "slut"
JerseyGirl: haha
JerseyGirl: i just emailed you his pic
Razzy: yeah he's cute
Razzy: although i'm getting MAJOR pencil dick vibes from him
Razzy: i think it's the 5 o'clock 'stache but NOT beard
Razzy: how tall is he?
JerseyGirl: no he's tall
JerseyGirl: i've touched it before
JerseyGirl: it's big
Razzy: well pencils can be long
Razzy: they're just skinny
Razzy: i call a long pencil a "cervical spear"Razzy: i fucked a dude like that once, it felt like fucking a pap smear
JerseyGirl: well i'll let you know!
Razzy: please do!
JerseyGirl: although i dont think it's pencil
JerseyGirl: i have a good feeling
Razzy: i hope i'm wrong, i hate pencil
JerseyGirl: it's probably all skinned up though
JerseyGirl: nasty
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: well now you're an old pro with the uncut weinersJerseyGirl: i know. it's so nast though
Upon her return from Merry Olde Englande, JerseyGirl was pleased to report that her man was a European rarity: not Jewish or Muslim and yet still trimmed. I was a little disappointed, if only because I wanted to hear about JerseyGirl insulting the appearance of her partner's package as foreplay. Now that she's back stateside, she dumped her original skinjob and has no future prospects from the United Kingdom or continental Europe in her sights, so that well of uncircumcized weiner follies has run dry. So now I guess I'm going to have to go out and find some uncut dick of my own for amusement. So take notice all you Razzyphiles of British, Australian, other European, or Americans with hippie parents extraction...for any fellas rocking Shar-pei schlongs, I'm currently enrolling subjects in my personal study. Holler at your skank.
Labels: international intrigue, JerseyGirl, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts, weiners
Monday, February 16, 2009
The biggest beef I've seen thus far
I always enjoy a nice entertaining public dispute between two rappers, particularly if the dispute is over something as stupid as who is more real, or to borrow some of the industry lingo, who keeps it more trill. I especially love it when the conflict over whose superior realness arises because one of the parties' feelings were hurt. Somehow exactly such an argument arose between one Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson and William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts II, and over the past week, it has gotten completely out of control. My boyfriend Curtis may have finally met his match in petty public multimedia squabbling.
Apparently, Rick Ross took a break from being the biggest boss that we've seen thus far to feeling sad about getting snubbed socially by Fitty when they crossed paths at the BET awards. Fitty didn't say hi or something, and this hurt Rick Ross's feelings. So instead of just getting over it because it's really not that big of a deal, Rick vented his frustrations about his wounded self-esteem via a diss track titled "Mafia Music," in which he suggested that 50 Cent burnt down his baby mama's house because he's a "jealous, stupid motherfucker." This comment did not go over well with 50.
Not one to back down from an argument, 50 responded with a song of his own entitled "Officer Ricky," reminding everyone that Rick Ross is actually a former Florida state corrections officer rather than some kind of criminal overlord trafficking huge quantities of cocaine in and out of Miami. Rick Ross was unimpressed by Fitty's work and gave him 24 hours to come up with something better. So Fitty went to Florida family court records and tracked down Tia Kemp, the mother of one of Rick Ross's children, who is currently embroiled in a bitter paternity/child support suit against him. After declaring on his website thisis50.com that he plans to "fuck up (Rick Ross's) life," took her shopping for fur coats in New York. In the course of their shopping spree/filming a video entitled "Curtis and Tia Go to the Furrier", Tia advised my man Curtis that Rick Ross is not exactly financially as established as he boasts in his songs. According to her, his jewelry is rented, his cars are leased, and he only makes $200,000 a year. I'm a little suspicious of Tia's story, though, because really...where do you rent jewelry like this?
Gigantic chains that feature either "RR" or "Carol City Cartel" spelled out in diamonds, or a yellow diamond portrait of Rick Ross seem like pretty personalized products. I can't imagine that Jacob the Jeweler just keeps a stash of those in case Rick Ross (or possibly Suge Knight) needs to rent one for a special occasion. In any event, true or not, Tia's writing a book about how poor and law-abiding Rick Ross allegedly is outside of his musical boasting, and plans to release it the same day as Rick's new album Deeper Than Rap. This inspired a rebuttal from the goddamn boss.
Rick Ross called up Miss Info to rant about how he was just glad his baby mama was making money, and adds that 50 Cent was a "parody of hip-hop." He also added that his Floridian friends down South don't take him seriously, and refer to him as "Curly" on account of his frequent antics. He tried to get the "Curly" sobriquet to take off by then releasing a song called "Kiss my Pinky Ring, Curly." Then he put out a video of him pouring out Formula 50 Vitamin Water, in a presumed tribute to a dead homie/implied threat of deadly retaliation for Fitty's myriad insults. Then he went back on the radio to say that 50's talent or lack thereof is actually resulting in the depreciation of Dr. Dre's music, and repeatedly refer to 50 Cent as a monkey. "I don't get sidelined with monkey talk," Rick Ross explained. At this point, Inga "Foxy Brown" Marchand took issue with an oblique reference Fitty made to her brief affair with Rick Ross ("the cop fucked a fox") and demanded he retract his insult lest she handle him "Brooklyn style." Since 50 isn't going to be working on Foxy's nails anytime soon, he's probably safe for now, but I wouldn't be surprised if there's a cell phone-throwing or bitch-slapping incident in the near future.
Meanwhile, 50 Cent was busy going on every radio show possible to insult Rick Ross's financial situation and general trilla status. In addition to tracking down Rick Ross's baby mama, he managed to track down fellow Carol City Cartel member DJ Khaled's actual mother and film her at work apparently sleeping on the job.
Rick Ross called up Miss Info to rant about how he was just glad his baby mama was making money, and adds that 50 Cent was a "parody of hip-hop." He also added that his Floridian friends down South don't take him seriously, and refer to him as "Curly" on account of his frequent antics. He tried to get the "Curly" sobriquet to take off by then releasing a song called "Kiss my Pinky Ring, Curly." Then he put out a video of him pouring out Formula 50 Vitamin Water, in a presumed tribute to a dead homie/implied threat of deadly retaliation for Fitty's myriad insults. Then he went back on the radio to say that 50's talent or lack thereof is actually resulting in the depreciation of Dr. Dre's music, and repeatedly refer to 50 Cent as a monkey. "I don't get sidelined with monkey talk," Rick Ross explained. At this point, Inga "Foxy Brown" Marchand took issue with an oblique reference Fitty made to her brief affair with Rick Ross ("the cop fucked a fox") and demanded he retract his insult lest she handle him "Brooklyn style." Since 50 isn't going to be working on Foxy's nails anytime soon, he's probably safe for now, but I wouldn't be surprised if there's a cell phone-throwing or bitch-slapping incident in the near future.
Meanwhile, 50 Cent was busy going on every radio show possible to insult Rick Ross's financial situation and general trilla status. In addition to tracking down Rick Ross's baby mama, he managed to track down fellow Carol City Cartel member DJ Khaled's actual mother and film her at work apparently sleeping on the job.
I was more puzzled by the fact that DJ Khaled's mom appears to work as...an inventory clerk at the Men's Wearhouse? I can't think of any other reason why she is in a room full of men's jackets sleeping at her computer. And why does she look like she's dressed like there's a blizzard outside. Doesn't she live in Miami? I wish Fitty would have explained some of this, but unfortunately he did not because he apparently had second thoughts about this approach and removed it from his website after a day. Some people agreed this was below-the-belt since DJ Khaled's mom has nothing to do with any of this and has not committed any transgressions besides sleeping on the job and giving birth to DJ Khaled, thus cursing us all with his annoying trademark "WE THE BEST!" proclamations at the beginning and end of every song he appears on.
Rick Ross responded with a video blog of his own implying that the members of the G-g-g-g Unit are g-g-g-gay and that 50 Cent takes steroids. The best part of the video is when 50 is depicted showering with Lloyd Banks and Tony Yayo with no penis, and a disclaimer pops up that informs the viewer, "This ain't a joke–steroids make ya junk smaller!" He also continued his simian-themed retorts, by noting that he is not frightened of Fitty's empty threats because he's "understanding the monkey," and started a website entitled thisiscurly.com where pictures of 50's son Marquise's head were photoshopped onto a monkey's body. Unfortunately, this coincided with the Smoking Gun releasing court transcripts in which Rick Ross's lawyer and a Miami Beach police officer who agreed that he had no gang affiliation or notable criminal reputation whatsoever.
Fitty has since put out a song entitled "Pimpin' Curly," and continues the absurd bloggery/vloggery. Currently on thisis50.com you can go watch a cartoon entitled "Officer Ricky: Everybody Hates Chris," which features Rick Ross arresting Chris Brown, followed by a bizarre sequence in which DJ Khaled accidentally ends up in Afghanistan and is blown up by Osama Bin Laden, and that is where this beef stands as of today. I'm sure Rick Ross is putting together another song and/or homemade cartoon criticizing 50. Personally, if I were him, I'd dig Jeffrey "Ja Rule" Atkins out of whatever obscurity he's wallowing in and get that classic beef going again. Either that, or he could flex his current event muscles and rip on the fact that currently 50 Cent is in the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela celebrating Hugo Chavez's recent election to dictator-for-life. I've never heard anyone involved in a rap beef imply that an adversary is a socialist who consorts with autocratic tyrants, and I think it's high time for such politically-themed hatery.
I also would like to suggest to 50 that he put his photoshop skills to good use with this magazine cover, which may be one of the most nauseating images I have ever seen. Whatever might be going on with Fitty allegedly taking steroids to bolster his muscled physique, I think it's safe to say that nobody suspects Rick Ross is doing the same thing. It's an honor for a rapper to appear on the cover of XXL magazine, but it seems less boastworthy when the title of the magazine also describes the size of the shirt said rapper so unfortunately discarded prior to the shoot.
Shudder. I don't see why Flo Rida couldn't have been the one to be sans shirt for this cover. Jesus, even the normally portly DJ Khaled looks well-built in comparison. I can only imagine the kind of fun 50 Cent could have with this. It would go well as the latest chapter in this whole ridiculous saga. Have at it, fellas! For the sake of my entertainment, I hope they never squash it.
Labels: 50 cent, Dirrty Dirrty, hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The greatest "youth mentor" ever
I got bored with the Eagles' wholesale massacre of the Cleveland Browns last night, so I flipped over to "Keyshia Cole: The Way it Is" on BET. In this episode, Keyshia was getting the key to the city of Oakland, California. In the course of this, she stopped by some non-profit dedicated to job training or something, before donating ten grand to their cause. I was surprised and delighted by the appearance of Oakland's most famous rapper, a certain Todd "Too $hort" Shaw. 
While seeing $hort Dog loitering around Oak-town would not in itself seem shocking, as that is the subject of most of his songs, he certainly has cultivated a novel persona for the sake of good PR. The show listed his occupation as "Rapper/Youth Mentor."
"Youth mentor?!" I thought. "Since when has $horty the Pimp been a youth mentor?" If Too $hort's entire lyrical catalog is any indication, the only thing he is qualified to mentor youth about is how aspiring pimps might break hoes. I guess he can also probably give them excellent tips on how to get blown on an extremely regular basis (as much of his music features a recurring "nuts-on-tonsils" theme), and how to evade the criminal justice system should his misadventures in fellatio result in the accidental death of the tragic woman allowing Too $hort and a host of other men to run a train on her face. Asking Too $hort to give Oakland's youth any sort of non-pimping advice besides "get a good lawyer, like Johnny Cochrane, swear to tell the truth: hell, no, I didn't pop him" might be a stretch. I suppose that Too $hort indirectly mentored some youth from a demographic he didn't expect (loud white girls at expensive New England women's colleges) in that he was one of my go-to guys for music that would piss off the uptight womynists I loved to offend for my own entertainment. However, since East Oakland is a long way from Smith College and I doubt that Youth UpRising is frequently disturbed by rallies or candlelight vigils protesting the patriarchal oppression of women, I can't imagine this is the kind of mentoring that Too $hort provides.
While seeing $hort Dog loitering around Oak-town would not in itself seem shocking, as that is the subject of most of his songs, he certainly has cultivated a novel persona for the sake of good PR. The show listed his occupation as "Rapper/Youth Mentor."
"Youth mentor?!" I thought. "Since when has $horty the Pimp been a youth mentor?" If Too $hort's entire lyrical catalog is any indication, the only thing he is qualified to mentor youth about is how aspiring pimps might break hoes. I guess he can also probably give them excellent tips on how to get blown on an extremely regular basis (as much of his music features a recurring "nuts-on-tonsils" theme), and how to evade the criminal justice system should his misadventures in fellatio result in the accidental death of the tragic woman allowing Too $hort and a host of other men to run a train on her face. Asking Too $hort to give Oakland's youth any sort of non-pimping advice besides "get a good lawyer, like Johnny Cochrane, swear to tell the truth: hell, no, I didn't pop him" might be a stretch. I suppose that Too $hort indirectly mentored some youth from a demographic he didn't expect (loud white girls at expensive New England women's colleges) in that he was one of my go-to guys for music that would piss off the uptight womynists I loved to offend for my own entertainment. However, since East Oakland is a long way from Smith College and I doubt that Youth UpRising is frequently disturbed by rallies or candlelight vigils protesting the patriarchal oppression of women, I can't imagine this is the kind of mentoring that Too $hort provides.
After watching a little longer, I was disappointed to gather that Too $hort isn't even giving pimping lessons of any sort. I didn't hear him say anything along the lines of "she looked kind of young but my dick can't tell" or "I just want to fuck you and cut, treat you like a trampy slut." In fact, the only instructional activities he mentioned were the beat-making and lyrics-writing workshops he leads. However, in spite of $hort Dog's failure to instruct aspiring youth in "puttin' fine-ass bitches on the streets in the hood, every year trade for a new Fleetwood," he does at least seem to be teaching the youth of Oakland how to have nothing but game coming out their mouths. I suppose this is more constructive than learning how to actually manage a flock of top notches, as Too $hort himself has ultimately selected a career as a musician rather than an actual pimp engaged in brokering prostitution services. Probably being a multi-platinum-selling rapper is a more sensible occupation than street pimp in terms of maintaining that California lifestyle that Too $hort lives.
I would just like to take a moment to recognize one of the finest pieces of mentoring Too $hort has engaged in. Okay, well, it's not so much "mentoring" as running down a laundry list of all the conquests who "throw that P" his way in his classic song "Cocktales." Sadly, because Sir Too $hort's language is so salty, classic lines like "Tina, Tina, the sperm cleaner" and "I go diggin' in them guts like a gardener, and if she scream, I'm-a fuck the bitch harder." At least the part with the girl named Angie in the song isn't edited, only because she shows up at Too $hort's house and simply states, "Do me, player." I can't recall ever banging Too $hort, but that nonetheless sounds about right. I see great things in store for Oakland's disadvantaged youth with a mentor like this.
Labels: hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Too $hort, TV
Friday, September 26, 2008
My new goal: whatever I like
The other day, LL Cool Jew Gchatted me, fretting about the current economic situation. Don't let any stereotypes you may harbor about her religious extraction fool you; that bitch is about as interested in banking and economics as she is in particle physics, Harlequin romance novels, or doing home repairs, which is to say not at all. However, in this frightening financial climate, even those of us who are usually blissfully unaware of what goes on in the world of investments and equity and whatnot are forced to pay attention to the dire news coming from Wall Street. Since as a graduate student and a highly educated humanities grant specialist about to enter the job market, respectively, myself and LL Cool Jew are completely impotent as far as finding any kind of rational solace about how we might cope with the travails currently facing the world. Therefore, we occupy ourselves with the next best thing: discussion regarding diminutive rapper and self-proclaimed "King of the South" Clifford "T.I." Harris's current single "Whatever You Like," an ode to buying all sorts of luxurious shit for the chick he's banging, and rapper ternt sanga Faheem "T-Pain" Najm's current single "Can't Believe It," which is basically about the same thing except flavored with T-Pain's inexplicable desire for cold-weather real estate. Our employment prospects may be grim and our country may be headed for utter ruin and disaster, but at least we can fantasize about dating ballers with the means to make us say, "Economy? What economy?"
LL Cool Jew: stacks on deck
LL Cool Jew: patron on ice
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: (who drinks patron on ice?)
LL Cool Jew: dear t.i., i will tell you what i would like: to listen to this jam on repeat for the remainder of the hour. many thanks, llcj.
LL Cool Jew: TYXO!
Razzy: LOL
LL Cool Jew: i am really dumb but also, what are stacks on deck?
LL Cool Jew: i am so white
LL Cool Jew: TOTZ WHITE
Razzy: i'm assuming it means money that he's going to make
Razzy: future money
Razzy: projected income
LL Cool Jew: AAAAH
Razzy: let me check urban dictionary
LL Cool Jew: yes please
Razzy: oh oops
Razzy: it's soulja boy's record label!
Razzy: AKA "SOD Money Gang"
LL Cool Jew: really????
LL Cool Jew: that's dumb
Razzy: oh, also urban dictionary says it means "to have a lot of money" or "to have money when u need it. Never run out"
LL Cool Jew: You know them old sugar daddies...they be trickin', they tell them...
LL Cool Jew: see you were 100% right on!!
LL Cool Jew: "projected income"!
LL Cool Jew: dude
LL Cool Jew: when i listen to this song
LL Cool Jew: i realize how awesome it would be to be screwing a multimillionaire.
Razzy: well YEAH
Razzy: gas up the jet and you can go wherever you like
Razzy: if you date t.i.
LL Cool Jew: i wish someone would tell ME i won't never, never have to go in my wallet. :(
Razzy: get a mansion in wisconsin if you date t-pain
Razzy: i KNOW
Razzy: the last date i went on I PAID
LL Cool Jew: and i love the really insistent way he goes, MY CHICK GET WHATEVER SHE WANT!
Razzy: that was my choice
Razzy: i volunteered to pay because i like the guy and i'm all modern like thatRazzy: although like many of my speculative ventures, that investment turned out to be a bust
Razzy: but still, i only date poor or at best middle class people
LL Cool Jew: srsly
LL Cool Jew: no big boy ice for us.
Razzy: i have to be I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T
LL Cool Jew: LAME.
Razzy: i know, especially since i can't afford all the gucci that lil' boosie and webbie claim their independent women bestow on them
LL Cool Jew: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Razzy: at least there's still hope for me
Razzy: you're married to a journalist
LL Cool Jew: yeah but maybe one day i'll be the executive director of a rich-ass charitable foundation...
Razzy: well exax
LL Cool Jew: stacks on deck, patron on ice...
LL Cool Jew: (see, repeat)
Razzy: hahaha
LL Cool Jew: (TI is giving me what i like)
Razzy: will you really drink patron on ice?
Razzy: i guess i would if that's what ti wanted me to drink
LL Cool Jew: i mean i don't really fuck with tequila
Razzy: tequila on the rocks, no less
Razzy: why can't rappers be into scotch?!
LL Cool Jew: maybe if it were watered down
LL Cool Jew: i mean, if ti's buying, i'm trying
Razzy: i guess "dalmorangie on ice" doesn't quite have the same ring to it
LL Cool Jew: i could probably look right into his eyes in heels...
Razzy: lol
LL Cool Jew: he's so lil.
Razzy: that's why he's buying whatever you like
Razzy: he's overcompensating
LL Cool Jew: dude if t.i. gave me his black card he would so regret it
LL Cool Jew:i would destroy him
LL Cool Jew: he needs to put you up in a condo way up in toronto
Razzy: or a log cabin in aspen
LL Cool Jew: neither of those sound particularly attractive right???
LL Cool Jew: certainly not Wiscansin
LL Cool Jew: why is tpain so into cold weather if he's from Miami?Razzy: he's from tallahassee, actually, that's what the "t" stands for, but whatevs
Razzy: t-pain was hard up for places that rhymed with condo, cabin, and mansion
Razzy: and he wants what he doesn't know...it's all exotic
LL Cool Jew: hate to break it to you tpain, there is nothing exotical about wiscansin
LL Cool Jew: ooh, so what is a Marcialago or whatever?
LL Cool Jew: faincy car?
Razzy: i believe a murcielago is a type of lamborghini
Razzy: i am amazed that he can pronounce "murcielago" but not "wisconsin"
LL Cool Jew: the car is more expensive
Razzy: than a mansion in wisconsin? probably
LL Cool Jew: probably!!!!!
Razzy: i imagine real estate in america's dairyland is cheap
LL Cool Jew: esp. in those heinous suburban subdivisions
Razzy: do you think t-pain means a mcmansion?
LL Cool Jew: definitely
Razzy: or something like designed by frank lloyd wright
LL Cool Jew: i am pretty sure he doesn't care much for historic architecture
Razzy: probably not
LL Cool Jew: since those places rarely include revolving jasmine-scented hottubs
I think it's pretty much decided. I need to become some type of rap star, or at least start screwing one. This grad school bullshit isn't going to give me "whatever I like." I'm not sure what exactly that entails, but revolving jasmine-scented hot tubs sounds pretty good, as does "stacks on deck," any kind of premium liquor on ice, and a private jet at my disposal. And since the reality is that I'll probably be a Ph.D-educated bread line lingerer once our country's economy totally collapses, I might as well shoot for the stars and make "whatever I like" my new career ambition.
Labels: capitalism, correspondence, LL Cool Jew, overcompensation, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Monday, September 08, 2008
He's no Kells, but he can still make an entrance
I was busy with football yesterday for the most part, but that doesn't mean I couldn't take time at commercial to see what's going on over at the VMAs (answer: not much, but the legendary Ms. Britney Spears did manage to crush the competition in three categories with her "Piece of Me" video). There was a pretty awesome performance by Lil' Wayne and T-Pain (or "T-Wayne," as they've taken to calling their partnership), but otherwise I was more interested in laughing at the Bears helped the Colts break in their ugly new stadium by summarily kicking their bitch asses.
However, there was one notable exception to the general soporific boredom that was the VMAs, and that is Faheem "T-Pain" Najm's entrance. Apparently, the "rapper ternt sanga" and hair-in-mouth-hating world's most hilarious critic of Ray-J's penis ("the man got a huge meat on him...no homo, but the man is swangin'") decided to really continue with the circus ringmaster theme he's been cultivating as of late, and arrived on a T-Pain chain-wearing ELEPHANT surrounded by a cadre of midget clowns and slutty acrobat chicks.
Say what you will about Teddy Pinnedherassdown, like he can't actually sing without an auto-tuner, or his lyrics are ridiculous (they are), or that "mansion" doesn't really rhyme with "Wisconsin," or he can't properly spell "in love with,""drink," or "rapper turned singer," but you have to admit that the man can rock some ridiculously funny style. His chain-rocking elephant is considerably more awesome than one of those Kanye West sunglass-wearing Care Bear plushies and furries that preceded his troupe of skank carnies to the VMAs. In fact, I think any time you show up ANYWHERE cruising in a pachydermal whip you're going to win the awesomeness award, even if you are a fat guy from Tallahassee with nappy dreads and a fondness for garish satin top hats. T-Pain definitely wins.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Don't hate the player; steal his bags
Tatum Bell is one of those running backs whose actual career in the National Football League parallels his career in virtually everyone's Fantasy league. Overblown news blurbs touting his potential (but never seen) abilities on-field result in his starting the season comfortably on someone's roster. Then, after his inability to do anything besides fumble the ball results in negligible offensive production, his ass is disgustedly and unceremoniously flung back to the mercy of the waiver wire.
Well, it seems after learning that the Detroit Lions had replaced his useless ass with Rudi Johnson following yet another lackluster preseason, Tatum Bell was a little pissed off that he wasn't going to be allowed to consistently rack up negative yardage this year. Instead of getting together with (Central Washington University alum and former Seahawk) Jon Kitna for some serenity prayers about the situation, he decided to respond with all the grace and tact of an irascible third grader.
Tatum stole Rudi's bags and drove them to his girlfriend's house. I can just imagine Tatum Bell rubbing his hands sinuously, or perhaps stroking his goatee with a villainous air, saying, "Rudi Johnson, you may have taken my job, but I'm about to take your precious Perry Ellis boxer shorts! Mwahahahahaha."
Too bad for Tatum's diabolical scheme that the Lions have video surveillance in their team headquarters, and he was quickly pegged as the culprit. His girlfriend brought back the bags, after Tatum emptied them of Rudi's unmentionables, $200, and some credit cards. Rudi later claimed it was "real shyster, conniving stuff." I would disagree that the plot was actually pretty poorly conceived and may have even been a big misunderstanding, if you believe Tatum's feeble protests of "I ain't no thief." Rudi Johnson does not.
This all bodes ill for Tatum Bell. After being released by the Lions and painted as a petty underwear thief, I doubt he's going to get picked up by any other team anytime soon. There's also the matter of him being a totally shiteous running back. Shaun Alexander is going to find a home for 2008 before Tatum Bell's bitch ass does.
Labels: crime and punishment, NFL football, ridiculous absurdity, vengeance is sweet
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Eight bad reasons to trust CNN sex column advice
Every once in awhile, CNN sneaks a really lame feature article about women onto their site which usually results in my blood boiling. These articles are usually about how you should wait to have sex with a guy as long as possible, don't dress like a slut, and don't make trouble in the workplace even if it's warranted (ie: don't complain about sexual harassment or unfair pay because it will piss off the male establishment). Today I noticed that CNN's arbiters of ladylike behavior have dumped the contents of their most recent menstrual cup for women to thoughtfully peruse, entitled "Eight bad reasons to have sex." The author, who apparently is CNN's sex columnist, declares that "sometimes a lady finds herself doing all the right things for all the wrong reasons" and cautions women to "please extricate yourself as quickly as possible" from sexual congress for any of the following reasons:
Revenge: The most popular very-wrong reason to have sex, revenge sex never ends well.
Hooking up with his best friend because you're angry at your boyfriend will get you nowhere. If you do manage to break up their friendship, then you're stuck with an untrustworthy dude (if he did it to him, he'll do it to you).
Even worse, there's always the (strong) possibility that he went right back and told his buddy and the two of them are now comparing notes over high-fives and hot wings.
I've never been big on revenge sex, because I consider depriving a worthless bitch of my presence to be punishment enough. Besides, doing something like that just indicates to the first asshole that you care enough to get back at him. If I was actually pissed enough to perpetrate some kind of sexually-mediated vengeance scheme (and I can't think of a single instance in which I have been, at least in my adult life...I made out with my ex-girlfriend's new girlfriend when I was 16 and sucked another guy's dick to trick my high school boyfriend into dumping me, but those were youthful indiscretions that don't really count), I'd prefer to serve it more originally than something as trite as banging his BFF. For example, I'd rather go fuck his new girlfriend. Or I'd just fuck him, make a big deal about not enjoying it, and then neg his dick on my triumphant way out the door.
I also don't like the implication that fucking your boyfriend's best friend means you are "stuck with an untrustworthy dude." Since when has revenge fucking been synonymous with revenge dating? Does this author actually think women only have sex in the context of a relationship?
Ego gratification: You must be fine if that scorching hot bartender took you home. Or not. Men have been known to do some unsavory things for physical gratification. The fact that he's willing and able doesn't say squat about your appeal.
I suppose that some women have sex with hot dudes strictly to feel better about themselves. Sadly, there is no shortage of insecure bitches in the world. If there were, the Mystery Method wouldn't work for pussy acquisition and half the dickhead i-banker assholes who employ "negging" as their premiere pick-up method on the New York City bar scene would get laid a lot less. However, I'd encourage the author to consider another possibility besides assuaging her low self-esteem for the woman in this scenario's motives: she took the scorching hot bartender home because she likes fucking scorching hot guys. While I've been known to exchange some knuckle pounds with my girls after nailing a particularly choice specimen, my ego hardly relies on the ass I'm pulling. I consider doing hot dudes perfectly in line with an ambition I share with the immortal Todd "Too $hort" Shaw: a lifelong dream to be a player.
Appliance envy: Your roommate "doesn't believe" in air conditioning. You can't afford premium cable and are addicted to "Weeds." You're desperate to try out Wii Fit. All of these desires are perfectly rational.
However, they are absolutely not worth the price of waking up next to someone you otherwise cannot stand. (Well, except for the AC, but that's only if it's above 100 Fahrenheit.)
Wait, women actually fuck guys for their consumer electronics? That actually happens? I don't know ANYONE who has boned a loser because he has air conditioning. This is a bad reason to have sex, but frankly, you've got bigger problems than whether or not you like your sex partner if you are willing to prostitute yourself for a guy's Showtime subscription. I like "Weeds" too, but not enough to trick for it.
Weight loss: Yes, you may have read those women's magazine articles about how being physically intimate can help you shed pounds. However, a 120-pound woman burns only 57 calories during 15 minutes of sex. That's less than half a Hostess Ho-Ho. The sweat could do nice things for your skin, but your waist will remain the same size.
What kind of sex is this bitch having? Because I am certain that I burn more than 57 calories during 15 minutes of energetic dick riding. I suppose that if you're just laying there like a rag doll passively receiving your partner's weiner in the missionary position, you might burn 57 calories, but that's not how I roll when I hit the sheets. I like to change positions and move around and generally be an active participant in the sexual hotness. I also like to do it more than once a night, so even if this calorie burning count is correct, I'll still burn a solid 200 calories in one night.
Clarity: Ever since you were nine years old and saw that topless Kate Moss Calvin Klein ad, you've had a hunch you were same-sex oriented.
Unfortunately, the thought of sharing this with anyone scares you, so you get yourself a boyfriend. But you can't stop thinking about that ad....
Or, alternatively, you might fuck a dude and realize that you are bisexual. And once again, you don't have to get a BOYFRIEND to do this. Most of my lesbian friends have wanted to try dick at one point or another, but they didn't go through the trouble of actually dating a guy to sate their curiosity, any more than my straight friends got a lesbian girlfriend to experiment with girls. Then again, none of my lesbian friends are so lame as to rely on a fucking Calvin Klein ad for clues regarding their sexual identity.
Mercy: Empathy for a sad soul is one thing; holding an intimate pity party is quite another. Oh, and you know that saying, "no good deed goes unpunished?" It goes triple in this instance. Misery loves company -- good luck getting him out of your apartment.
It's a miracle. I actually agree with the author on this one. Mercy fucks are indeed a bad idea. However, she misses another negative consequence of mercy fucking a mopey sad sack of nuts: not only are they notoriously hard to get rid of, they usually suck in bed.
Quid pro quo: I'm not knocking or talking about the sex professionals out there -- this is for the amateurs among us. Just because he bought you a lobster doesn't mean you need to give up dessert. Catch my drift?
Um, DUH! I guess I probably fall into the "sex professional" category, but even when I was running on the amateur circuit I never put out because a dude bought me dinner. In fact, I distinctly recall one time when I was finishing my first year of college (characterized by my tearing around Amherst College fucking every snotty country club frat boy piece of shit I could get my hands on and not feeling very good about it), I spent the summer working at this Italian restaurant and went on a date with one of the sauté chefs. He bought me a huge steak dinner, drinks, and champagne that we drank on a beach. However, he was also insecure, whiny, depressed, had a bunch of gargoyle posters in his apartment, and was generally unattractive, and I didn't even kiss his ass. I may not have been a total amateur at the time, but I certainly wasn't the hardened slut I am today either, and I knew that his price of entrance to my pussy was more than a fucking filet mignon.
Fame by association: He's famous, you want to be. Contrary to what you might've surmised from that old Pamela Des Barres book, "I'm With The Band: Confessions Of A Groupie," fame is not transmissible through intimate contact. However, lots of other things are, so watch out.
Oh, PLEASE. The last reason on this list is that GROUPIE SEX is a bad idea? The bitch who wrote this must have really been racking her brains to round out the list. How many women have been in a position to even have groupie sex? I have never had the opportunity to fuck someone famous, and if I did, I would hardly be so deluded as to think that banging that person would somehow be my ticket to fame and fortune. However, that wouldn't mean groupie sex wouldn't be fun and/or make for a great story. In fact, groupie sex is probably one situation in which I absolutely should have sex.
The woman who wrote this must really have a low opinion of women's intelligence to think that this list is actually useful advice that bitches should keep in mind when selecting their sex partners. Unbelievably, up until Sarah Palin announced that her daughter isn't the skank who popped out her maybe-fake son Trig because she's already pregnant with another bastard product of skankery, this was the NUMBER FUCKING THREE MOST POPULAR story on CNN.
I honestly can't believe that a bunch of single women were reading this and finding it remotely applicable to their lives. What kind of self-respecting bitch needs to be told not to fuck a guy for his appliances? Fucking DUH, CNN! This is the kind of article that one of my married, actively procreating cousins would read and think, "Hey, I bet Razzy could use this information. I've seen 'Sex and the City'...dating in New York is hard! Maybe this will help her find a husband!" I'm surprised this hasn't actually shown up in my inbox yet, since some of my extended family members are doing whatever they can to make me respectable and help me obtain my MRS degree (which to them is far more valuable than the Ph.D I've pursued instead), even though my prospects for husband catching are now considerably dimmed since passing age 25 and officially becoming an old maid.
In fact, thanks to my lengthy stint as a single woman, I could probably outdo CNN's lame columnist with far less effort in terms of coming up with eight valid reasons not to fuck someone.
1. He's ugly. This should be obvious, but I'm constantly amazed at how many butt-ass hideous trolls get laid regularly by having a modicum of charm. Don't be fooled just because he's nice or funny; fucking ugly guys will get you nowhere but embarrassed.2. He has a girlfriend/wife. Take it from someone who has been "the other woman" on more than one occasion: fucking any dude with a serious significant other brings nothing but trouble.3. He has herpes. This needs no explanation, but just be sure you check that peen for ulcerating lesions before you sit on it.4. He's a dick to your friends. He'll be a dick to you too.5. He lives with his parent(s). Again, this needs no explanation.6. He talks about marriage or kids–and specifically how you might fit into his plans regarding either of these things–before you so much as kiss. RUN, don't walk from this type of douchebag. He's going to be even harder to get rid of than a mercy fuck.7. He has kids. If they're part of his life, you'll be expected to hang out with them, tolerate them, and actually behave in a maternal fashion. If they're not, he's probably a deadbeat. Either way, steer clear.8. He doesn't like dogs. A dog-hater is morally bereft, unreliable, disloyal, and untrustworthy. Stay away.
If CNN insists on giving women advice on their love lives, I strongly recommend they hire me. Not only do I have the experience fucking losers to dish out pragmatic tips for avoiding said bitch-ass punks, I am not stupid enough to think that most of my fellow single bitches are banging guys for their air conditioners.
Labels: retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Mike Lowry had "so many bitches"?
As long as I'm on the subject of Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter and his ridiculousness today, I might as well bring up something that mystifies me almost as much as his fetish for female police officers making siren sounds during coitus. One of the many singles from the sublime Tha Carter III is a song called "A Milli." In the third verse of this jam, Lil' Wayne is talking about his success with the ladies, and he says, "I got so many bitches, I'm like Mike Lowry."
Mike Lowry? Did he really say "Mike Lowry"? As in the toady, bug-eyed Rodney Dangerfield-esque former Washington state Governor Mike Lowry? THAT Mike Lowry?
No, it can't be. While there may be something somewhat endearing about the way Mike Lowry joins fellow former Washington state Governor Gary Locke in laughing at a hilarious story being enacted by yet another former Washington state Governor Booth Gardner, I don't see him having sufficient charm to merit having "so many bitches" that it garners Tha Carter's admiration.
A quick internets search determined that Will Smith's character in the Bad Boys movies is named "Mike Lowrey." While I would actually prefer to hang out with a former governor of the great Evergreen State and Thornton Mellon doppelganger than Will Smith's annoying closet homo Scientologist ass, I do seem to recall something about "Mike Lowrey" being a womanizer in those particular Michael Bay orgies of explosions. When making such a comparison, I assume that Lil' Wayne is more likely to know the details about sluts from Bad Boys than elderly liberal governors from the P-N-Dub. Then again, Governor Mike Lowry chose not to run for a second gubernatorial term amidst a sexual harassment scandal in which he was accused of talking dirty to and fondling his deputy press secretary, so he did at least make a half-assed attempt at ho-running. Maybe Lil' Wayne is just showing respect to all the Mike Lowries who have flashed their player's cards at one point or another in their careers, and hoping to follow in their pussy-stacking footsteps.
Mike Lowry? Did he really say "Mike Lowry"? As in the toady, bug-eyed Rodney Dangerfield-esque former Washington state Governor Mike Lowry? THAT Mike Lowry?
Labels: Lil' Wayne, P-N-Dub, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Like a cop car
The other day, J-Sexy and I were IMing about this girl I was jocking, and I quoted Faheem "T-Pain" Najm's masterpiece "Buy You a Drank" with respect to my seduction strategy. This got our chat going off on a whole other tangent concerning Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter's masterpiece about cop-suspect sex, "Mrs. Officer."
Razzy: i'm totally wearing that gray and black dress
Razzy: like a straight up SLIZUT
J-Sexy: hahaha
J-Sexy: that is a great dress
J-Sexy: wear heels too
Razzy:: i'll buy her a drank
Razzy: maybe we'll be in the bed like ooo ooo ooo ooo
J-Sexy: we-o-we-o-we
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: like a cop car
J-Sexy: like a cop car
J-Sexy: jinx
Razzy:: all she want me to do is fuck the police
J-Sexy: i am actually lol-ling
Razzy: i am too!
J-Sexy: i like lil wayne
Razzy: me too
J-Sexy: he is super funny
Razzy: i just turned that song on
Razzy: what an awesome song
J-Sexy: it is so silly
J-Sexy: my god
J-Sexy: amazing
Razzy: lil wayne and kells both love to make their women make car noises
J-Sexy: it's so odd
Razzy: i have personally never simulated a vehicle in the throes of passion
Razzy: i certainly have never emulated a cop car
Razzy: although maybe i should
J-Sexy: i routinely make a honking noise
J-Sexy: the men love it
Razzy: are you serious???
J-Sexy: of course not!
J-Sexy: ewwww
Razzy: i am seriously LOLing hard
Razzy: imagining you honking at your boyfriend!
J-Sexy: that would be so retarded
Razzy: rodney king baby, beat it like a cop
Razzy: i think the next time i get laid
Razzy: i'm going to make some vehicular noises
J-Sexy: do it!!
J-Sexy: you have to
Razzy: and see how it goes over
Razzy: i'll do a kells/lil wayne medley
Razzy: we-o we-o wee
Razzy: toot toot beep beep
J-Sexy: haha
J-Sexy: man, if the dude doesn't know this kinda music he will think that you are nuts
Razzy: which will be even more hilarious
J-Sexy: but if he does, what a laugh!
J-Sexy: either way it will be hilarious
J-Sexy: toot toot
Razzy: beep beep
J-Sexy: i dare you to
Razzy: i'm going to!
The last time I got laid, I forgot to get automotive on the lucky fella's ass while we were getting down. However, the next time I get some action, I am definitely going to break out the literal car talk and see how that works out. I have to make sure the lights are on so I can see the other party's expression, which I only assume will be a combination of shock, confusion, and amusement. Then the person will probably be like, "Why the hell are you making a siren noise?" and I'll be like, "DUH, you're making my body sing like a cop car!" Unless, of course, due to some miracle of fate the next visitor to my boudoir is either R. Kelly or Lil' Wayne, in which case they'll probably congratulate themselves on a job well done.
Labels: hilarious shit, J-Sexy, Lil' Wayne, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
I know I've heard a lot of tracks, but Twelve Play's what I want
Thanks to Google alerts, I was advised yesterday that, to my extreme excitement, an album by a certain Mr. Robert Sylvester Kelly has leaked onto the internets in its entirety. I pray to the gods of R&B that this is a harbinger of TP Fourth Quarter bumping Tha Carter III from its lofty position as the almost constantly played collection of jams on my iTunes. I've been waiting for this day since LL Cool Jew and I heard the R-uh in R&B announce it as he bade adieu after blessing us with his mackadelic nightspot realness for two and a half hours on R. Kelly's Double Up tour.
01. Wanna Make A Baby: I think the subject of this song is pretty self-explanatory. Given the number of lyrics Kells has devoted to this topic (to the point of even including "making a baby" as one of his possible reasons for not picking up his cell in his amazing musical voicemail greeting "Leave Your Name"), I can't believe that there aren't about ten million little FitzKellses running around. If he's to be believed, he procreates almost every time he has sex, which is OFTEN.
03. Skin: I'm pretty sure I know what this song is about too, and it sure as hell isn't dermatology. I predict that this song has potential for a lot of awesome metaphors concerning the color and texture of the titular epidermis, specifically in the context of when Kells is showcasing his skills as the "winner in bed" he purports to be.
04. Screamer: Considering R. Kelly's legendarily large "love jones" (which he has previously claimed "makes the room go back" when unleashed from his pants), his apparent fecundity, and lines like "inside of your walls there will dwell a Capricorn," I can't fathom why any woman coupling with Kells wouldn't be a screamer.
06. Whole Lotta Kisses: This one's a toss-up, since on one hand it could be one of those slow, serious Kells love songs where he says nothing funny or ridiculous (ie: "You're My Angel"), or it could be some awesome narrative concerning either Kells's tryst with a stripper or his ability to spice up a mundane relationship with some quality oral skills, including but not limited to kissing, L'ing P, and salad tossing.
08. Son of a Bitch: This is either about Kells's rough upbringing busking for cash on the south side of the Chi, or a vicious assault on the many haters who have derided him for his recent legal problems.
11. Two Seater: An update on what R. Kelly's done to continue swelling his stable of whips since he last addressed the topic in the song "Rollin." That song was primarily devoted to his various Maybachs and his fleet of "jeeps" (none of which are actually manufactured by Jeep).
12. Playas Get Lonely: I feel this song deeply. At first I didn't like it because it seemed a little more introspective than the usual "rolling in my drop, tinted on top" sentiment I prefer from Kells. However, as LL Cool Jew pointed out, "playas get lonely is a funny and rather original sentiment...it's about you!" I can't fight the truth.
Because I'm approaching the ancient age of thirty, I have no idea how to find secretly leaked TP Fourth Quarter tracks available for illegal download. I don't know how these torrent doohickeys all the kids are using work! Sadly, I thus can't follow the instructions given by Kells in "Like a Real Freak" and "go up to your internet and download me, get my computer love right off the screen." I assume they don't make leaked mp3's that are compatible with the dual cassette boom box technology us old crones are familiar with. What I do know is that Kells better hurry up and release this damn album, because I am fiending HARD for it! I want him to make like he did for TP-2.com and put it on me like drawers, because Lord knows I can hang since he's horny as hell tonight. I'm ready for him to either sex my body like what, like diamonds in the cut, or alternatively tear my shit out, new millenium style!
In the absence of the actual songs, at least the internets have advised me what the titles of the songs are. Since, with the exception of the exquisite ode to sex at the beauty salon, "Hair Braider" and the contemplative slow jam "Playas Get Lonely," I haven't heard any of these songs, I'm going to have to rely on my imagination to get a taste of what Kells cooked up in the Chocolate Factory this time around.
01. Wanna Make A Baby: I think the subject of this song is pretty self-explanatory. Given the number of lyrics Kells has devoted to this topic (to the point of even including "making a baby" as one of his possible reasons for not picking up his cell in his amazing musical voicemail greeting "Leave Your Name"), I can't believe that there aren't about ten million little FitzKellses running around. If he's to be believed, he procreates almost every time he has sex, which is OFTEN.
02. Hair Braider: I've already discussed "Hair Braider" at length, but it never gets old. I'd like to meet this fabled hair stylist. Luckily, Kells's website gives me the opportunity to check out the stylings of many women who have their hair comb grease ready hoping the Pied Piper will roll through and rain on them like confetti.
03. Skin: I'm pretty sure I know what this song is about too, and it sure as hell isn't dermatology. I predict that this song has potential for a lot of awesome metaphors concerning the color and texture of the titular epidermis, specifically in the context of when Kells is showcasing his skills as the "winner in bed" he purports to be.
04. Screamer: Considering R. Kelly's legendarily large "love jones" (which he has previously claimed "makes the room go back" when unleashed from his pants), his apparent fecundity, and lines like "inside of your walls there will dwell a Capricorn," I can't fathom why any woman coupling with Kells wouldn't be a screamer.
05. At the Same Time: Please, please, PLEASE let this be another ode to threesomes. I don't know how Kells can top descriptions of his adventures in group sex with two chicks who both got dizzy legs like "one massage my toes while one braid my hair," "the way they took me down like a forty," or "three's company, bitch, call me Jack Tripper," but I have faith that he can.
06. Whole Lotta Kisses: This one's a toss-up, since on one hand it could be one of those slow, serious Kells love songs where he says nothing funny or ridiculous (ie: "You're My Angel"), or it could be some awesome narrative concerning either Kells's tryst with a stripper or his ability to spice up a mundane relationship with some quality oral skills, including but not limited to kissing, L'ing P, and salad tossing.
07. Might Be Mine: At least Kells can write a song acknowledging that his penchant for both riding bareback and associating with loose women can result in some difficult paternity situations.
08. Son of a Bitch: This is either about Kells's rough upbringing busking for cash on the south side of the Chi, or a vicious assault on the many haters who have derided him for his recent legal problems.
09. Go Low: Based on the title alone, I'm going to go ahead and call club banger on this one.
10. Freaky Sensation: If there were ever a song with the potential for some true Kells ridiculousness, this is it. I predict he'll address topics along the lines than "you say you want to take first-class trips, well I want to work those first-class hips," "I got many styles when it comes to sex positions," "I promise it will be painless as we journey to Uranus," and "betcha I can make your body talk to me...all I need is my CD, a bag of weed, and some Cristie."
11. Two Seater: An update on what R. Kelly's done to continue swelling his stable of whips since he last addressed the topic in the song "Rollin." That song was primarily devoted to his various Maybachs and his fleet of "jeeps" (none of which are actually manufactured by Jeep).
12. Playas Get Lonely: I feel this song deeply. At first I didn't like it because it seemed a little more introspective than the usual "rolling in my drop, tinted on top" sentiment I prefer from Kells. However, as LL Cool Jew pointed out, "playas get lonely is a funny and rather original sentiment...it's about you!" I can't fight the truth.
13. Relief: What I'm going to feel when I finally get my hot little computer hands on this damn album! Hurry up and drop it already, R-uh!
Labels: I LOVE IT, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the Hip-Hop Magician
DOB: ???
Occupation: who the celebrities call for their kids' birthday parties
Hometown: Brooklyn, New York
Current residence: Brooklyn, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Because who doesn't want a "hip-hop magician" that all the celebrities hire for their kids' birthday parties? I certainly do, even though I'm not sure what "celebrities" these are. Somehow I can't really see Donald Trump, Kimora Lee Simmons, or Madonna being swayed by his ads (which are usually on during "I Love Money" and other similar trashtastic Vh1 reality shows), but I'd settle for hiring any "hip-hop" celebrity magician/clown who brings a magic show, balloon animals, games, a popcorn maker, a cotton candy machine, and a bouncy castle to all of his gigs. That's assuredly much better than what magicians usually bring, which if Criss Angel is any indication, includes trucker hats, body jewelry from Hot Topic, a soundtrack composed solely of Korn, Linkin Park, and Drowning Pool songs, and an insufferable sense of condescending superiority that is supposed to pass as mysterious intrigue. Frankly, I'm tempted to call 718-892-0760 just to see if I can afford his rates for my thesis defense party next year. That would be a welcome departure from the usual cheap champagne and Saigon Grill takeout selection that typically mark a grad student's passage from academic serfdom to a real job. I dare you not to want Uncle Majic to demonstrate his arts at your next special occasion after watching his video:
AD WIZARDS: Hip Hop Magician
As it turns out, I was wrong about the celebrities he's been hired by. I went to hiphopmagician.com and it turns out Kimora Lee Simmons DID book him for her kids' birthday party! He's also performed for the likes of Alan Houston, Wendy Williams, and Treach, as well as warmed up crowds for Mike Epps, Chris Rock, and Dave Chappelle. He claims that "the only thing that separates me from David Blaine is a few thousand dollars." I would argue that he's also separated from David Blaine by accomplishing a feat of illusion that no other magician has yet done: a mere glance at him doesn't make me hate him and wish for his violent death, as is the case with Mr. Blaine and his contemporaries in faux magical bullshit. In fact, even more miraculous and amazing is the fact that I actually LIKE the hip-hop magician and experience feelings of wanting him to perform for me rather than explode in a freak balloon animal accident. I'm not a celebrity, and I don't have kids, but nonetheless I want to call him for my birthday party anyway.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, magick is bullshit, ridiculous absurdity, TV
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Just another day in the life of the goddamn boss
I have always had a somewhat suspicious view of thug rappers who brag about all the crimes they've committed and continue to commit in spite of being rich celebrities. I just don't believe that Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins is taking time out from recording club bangers with the likes of Usher and Christina Milian to cook crack in his microwave and sell it down at his local trap, any more than I believe that Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter and Brian "Birdman" Williams earned those teardrops tattooed on their faces by murdering a combined five people or I believe that Sean Kingston can show me about the slums of the city from which he got his surname without having his fat ass robbed of his ridonk Crayola crayon chain. Like the vast majority of people who listen to gangsta rappers and R&B thugs, I find all the macho posturing incredibly entertaining but not necessarily believable. It doesn't matter that Khaled "DJ Khaled" Khaled probably only has occasion to outrun DEA strike teams at 60 miles per hour in reverse in his Bentley for the sake of music videos rather than actual major league drug trafficking. I enjoy watching it and listening to it and it's fun.
However, the lack of veracity backing many of these dudes' claims to major case perpetrator status has not gone unnoticed, particularly by The Smoking Gun. A while back, they discovered that Aliuane "Akon" Thiam's claims of running a notorious interstate stolen car syndicate were inspired more by playing Grand Theft Auto than any actual personal experience. Now, they've followed up on a photo from MediaTakeOut concerning William "Rick Ross" Roberts's inflated criminal past.
In case you don't know who Rick Ross is, he's cornered the niche market of cocaine kingpin rap. His stage name was appropriated from a famous Los Angeles cocaine trafficker named Freeway Ricky Ross, and he routinely refers to himself as "the boss" and claims to run something called the "Carol City Cartel," as though he's some type of morbidly obese Floridian version of Pablo Escobar. This might seem kind of believable, since he always has a really menacing expression, he's always smoking a cigar, he pays a lot of lip service to staying trill (which means "keeping it real" with regard to thug exploits) and he looks like Suge Knight's long lost twin. I will, however, say that I think his intimidating air is somewhat mitigated by his absurd self-portrait yellow diamond pendant:
Anyway, I was a little suspicious of how Rick Ross managed to find the time to build an international drug trafficking operation when he was busy attending Albany State University on a football scholarship, so I wasn't terribly surprised when MediaTakeOut posted a picture featuring Rick Ross working at his first job after college...as an officer for the Florida Department of Corrections.
Yes, I'm sure that on his graduation day from prison guard school, the biggest boss that I've seen thus far was keeping it trill, indeed. To recapture some of that trillness, Rick Ross responded by claiming that these were Photoshopped, and that he's never worked keeping his colleagues in the drug-running industry confined in the clink. Unfortunately, The Smoking Gun decided to get in on the story, and they managed to dig up old personnel records for the same "William L. Roberts" in the photo above with the same social security number belonging to Rick Ross. I can see why he got out of the DoC business, since he was hardly able to blow 15 million in one week (one of his favorite hobbies according to his lyrics, although I would interject that it's not the most sensible financial planning strategy) making 23 grand a year as a corrections officer.
I can't hold it against Rick Ross too much for simply trying to stack that paper. And again, it's not like I really believed his criminal CV, since all you have to do to suspect him of not being quite the trilla he claims is watch one of his videos. For example, the video for "Speedin," which is one of my favorite Rick Ross jams because the hook is sung by a certain ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY. I defy you to watch this video and think that Rick Ross is entirely truthful about his legendary exploits in the criminal underworld:
I'm not sure what is more absurd, the notion that Rick Ross could actually escape the police by leaping off a Miami bridge and swimming to freedom (while callously leaving DJ Khaled in the Maybach with their slut masseurs to bribe the police), "Kells and Ross on the Hollywood scene" after engaging in some kind of Fast and the Furious-esque street racing, or Ross asking Kells to "meet me at the helipad" in order to evade pursuit by some law enforcement types. Hell, it might be completely ridiculous, but it sure is fun.
Labels: hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Talk ridiculously to me
The other day, I was Gchatting with Twathopper and she was telling me some of the more offensive things her ex-paramour Superlez pulled during their brief stint dating. Apparently, although Superlez didn't seem very interested in having real-life sex, she loved phone sex. Granted, this was the lamest phone sex ever, since she spent 99% of it telling Twathopper how cute she was and what she liked about her. In the brief times they actually managed some light physical coupling, Superlez apparently also liked to dirty talk. One time she started bossing Twathopper around about her "cunt," and while the C-bomb doesn't really bother me, it's not one of Twathopper's favorite words and she had to argue with Superlez about whether or not it turned her on. Another time, Superlez pulled one of the grossest, most off-putting instances of dirty talk I've ever heard. Whilst hovering over Twathopper, she said, "Feed me!"
"Uh...what?" Twathopper didn't know what she was talking about.
"Feed me!" repeated Superlez, who then began suckling on Twathopper's tits like some sort of demented baby from hell. This was such a huge turn-off that Twathopper–in spite of being hard-up for lezzie sex–stopped their hooking up in its tracks, because in her words "I'm not into baby fantasies and shit" as having "a grown woman suck on my tits like a fucking infant" was off-putting to say the least. As she put it, "equating the adult act of sex with children" is "not hot at all," and I couldn't agree more. For one thing, I hate kids, and for another...if there's one thing that doesn't go together it's HOT SEX and IMITATING CHILDREN. Another one of my friends was dating this guy a while back, and he used to baby talk all the time. It was mildly disturbing enough that he would routinely say things like "I wuv wu, sweetie-weetie" and stuff like that in front of her friends at bars and restaurants. In the bedroom he was even worse. He would say stuff to her like "Baby, will wu sucky wucky my cocky wocky?" When she told me about this, I thought that if any dude ever said something like that to me, my first response would be, "EW! Oh my GOD, NO! Never again!"
When it comes to dirty talk, there's a fine line between hot and creepy that clearly some people cross with flying leaps. I have certainly engaged in my fair share of dirty talk, but luckily I've never had anyone try to baby talk me in bed. I have, however, on many occasions had some sexy talk turn really fucking funny quickly. Obviously, I'm the kind of person who gets turned on by humor and laughing, so this isn't a problem except in the realm of phone sex. I am terrible at phone sex because I get about two lines deep and start cracking up. In the past I've tried a few times and haven't gotten farther than "...and then I pull your giant, hard cock out of your pants..." before I dissolve into giggles like the totally mature, sophisticated lady that I am. I'm a lot better at dirty talk when I'm actually getting it on, but even then I sometimes can't control myself if something surprisingly hilarious comes out.
For example, the guy who told me that I performed fellatio with a great deal of "flair" made me snicker on his dick, which could have turned into a very bad situation with my gag reflex had I been deep throating rather than doing some between-swallowing head work at that particular moment. I could not control the full belly-laugh that happened when this dude (who I apparently lured back to my web of sin and depavity with my incredibly seductive rendition of the Scorpions' "Wind of Change") blowing his load all over my ass shouted "DRAAAAIIINAGE!" Luckily he had a good sense of humor and wasn't put off by my clutching my side laughing at his money shot move. I've had some other instances of pretty hilarious dirty talk, as well. One of my former booty calls would always start fucking me and demand, "TELL ME ABOUT MY COCK!" I'd then proceed to come up with all sorts of outlandish stuff, like comparing his dick to a Johnsonville brat, telling him to buck like a raging stallion, and complimenting his ability to drill me like a Texas oil rig. Another dude I was dating would always ask me to "play with his chest," which was code for giving him vicious titty twisters. Seemingly pinching his nipples encouraged him to say incredibly ridiculous stuff along the lines of "I'm going to split you in half with my big black snake, girl" and "I'm fucking you so deep my dick's going to come out the top of your head." And yet another dude who was apparently really into artistic ejaculation techniques asked if I wanted some jewelry before giving me a pearl necklace. And yet another Mr. Right Now who I dated for a few months back in Seattle told me that my pussy tasted like the duck sauce Chinese restaurants give you to dip egg rolls in (I disagree...I think my pussy–like most pussy–tastes like a milder version of salt and vinegar potato chips).
I'm somewhat amazed, however, that I seem to have way more stories about this than most of my friends. This is in large part due to the fact that I'm the most open about my sluttery, and I seem to attract ridiculous sexual partners more than my friends. This makes sense, because I'll be the first to admit that I'm pretty ridiculous myself. I asked JerseyGirl, who has done enough silly drunk things to last a lifetime, and the best she could think of was that her boyfriend sometimes says how hot she is "in an 'i'mgonnablowmyloadanyminute' kind of way." I also asked this lovely girl I'll call Tits because she has the hottest natural rack I've ever seen in my life. Tits always has to leave everything early so she can fuck her boyfriend, and while she admitted to trying to convince her boyfriend to let her peg him (he declined), she couldn't think of anything funny that happened with her man. Since she then had to go fuck her boyfriend, I told her to get some dirty talk going on and report back. I have yet to be debriefed. At least FalloniusMonk proved to me that she shares my ability to attract the crazy dirty talk. One time, she was hooking up with some dude who "in the same breath" explained that he was a descendant of Mark Antony and wondered if they could still work together IF THEY WERE MARRIED! Because of their semi-work relationship and his obvious craziness, she elected to never hire him for freelance work again. Another time, "a crazy dyke" asked her if she liked fighter jets in the middle of sex. Sadly, FalloniusMonk did not indicate her love for F-16s by popping in "Highway to the Danger Zone" for the rest of their tryst. Then again, nobody ever accused Kenny Loggins of writing effective lesbian sex jams. Still another time, she fucked some girl in a church parking lot, and the girl asked if she thought Jesus was watching. Well, in Catholic school they taught me that Jesus is basically everywhere, so probably...but I can't imagine he'd be doing anything besides wanking it hard to some hot backseat girl-on-girl in the church parking lot. FalloniusMonk I'm sure came up with some similar don't-worry-about-Jesus-worry-about-lesbian-sex sentiment since she's a pro ho at closing the deal with the ladies, or as she puts it, "Can this just happen? Instead of the Katy Perry horseshit? This isn't about chapstick, it's about pussy!"
Anyway, while it's fun to hit the sheets and do a little dirty talk, in my experience it's actually seldom as dirty as it is either hilarious or creepy. I'm sure some of y'all have stories of your own, and I invite you to share. I suspect that there's a lot more silliness (or possibly creepiness) with the sexiness than sexiness alone. Share, bitches!
Labels: FalloniusMonk, gross, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, lezbollah, perversion, ridiculous absurdity, sex, Twathopper
Monday, June 16, 2008
Continue the smears
LL Cool Jew pointed out last week that Barack Obama has a site dedicated to correcting all the idiotic lies that "proven GOP sleazemeisters" in the media are making up about him entitled "Fight the Smears."
This site refutes claims that ignorant, racist morons believe about Barack Obama, like he is supposedly Muslim, is secretly not American, doesn't say the Pledge of Allegiance, Michelle Obama is racist, and other absurd nonsense like that.
Barack Obama got vocal cord implants which is why he sounds like a motivational speaker
I and the R. Kelly defense team told you that, per the now-infamous "Shaggy Defense," it wasn't Kells. You caught him on the counter? It wasn't Kells. You saw him bangin' on the sofa? It wasn't Kells. He even hit it in the shower? It wasn't Kells...it was BARACK OBAMA! Case closed!
This is fun and I could continue this all day, but I have to get to lab. Luckily, there's enough dumbasses out there to ensure that my new totally made-up charges will be discussed on cable news for the next week. I can just see the pundits on FOX News now, discussing how "a blogger charges that Obama may be the man in the R. Kelly sex tape" or "questions have come up on the blogosphere about Michelle Obama's possible adulterous leanings" or whatever. God bless the stupidity of the average American, because I'm going to be swimming in traffic and laughing all the way to the damn bank. I hope for change in my pocketses, and that's exactly what Barack Obama is going to give to me. Thank you, Senator Obama!
This site refutes claims that ignorant, racist morons believe about Barack Obama, like he is supposedly Muslim, is secretly not American, doesn't say the Pledge of Allegiance, Michelle Obama is racist, and other absurd nonsense like that.
LL Cool Jew: dude
LL Cool Jew: THIS
LL Cool Jew: is amazing
LL Cool Jew: http://my.barackobama.com/page/content/fightthesmearshome/
LL Cool Jew: i mean
LL Cool Jew: wow
Razzy: people are so dumb
LL Cool Jew: i bet my relatives are the ones saying this shit
LL Cool Jew: "Proven GOP sleazemeister "
Razzy: "Senator Obama was sworn in with a Koran"
Razzy: "Barack Obama won't say the pledge of allegiance"
LL Cool Jew: dude i'm totz looking at senator obama's birth certificate
LL Cool Jew: maybe we can open a credit card account in his name?
Razzy: YES!
Razzy: then i can go to wmania's wedding!
Razzy: courtesy of losing presidential candidate barack obama!
LL Cool Jew: damn. script too small.
Razzy: no SSN either
Razzy: :(
LL Cool Jew: View video of Barack leading The Pledge of Allegiance in the United States Senate
LL Cool Jew: is this boy scouts????
LL Cool Jew: Barack Obama Loves His Flag and His Country
Razzy: well i can't see him putting his hand over his heart!
Razzy: maybe i should insinuate on my website that he hates freedom and America
Razzy: and then Obama's site can call me a "proven GOP sleazemeister"
Razzy: and i'll get lots of traffic and thus money!
Yes, the anti-Obama smear campaign and its acceptance by the legions of idiots who will believe anything so long as it caters to their latent bigoted paranoia sounds to me like KA-CHING! Seriously, joining the ranks of "proven GOP sleazemeisters" is a golden opportunity to pick up some unique hits! GOP sleazemeisters do well these days, and as am I both voting for the hotness known as Senator John McCain (R-AZ) and I am a total breast-baring skank, I think I fit the bill for the titles of both "GOP" and "sleazemeister." So, without further ado, I'm going to fight Senator Barack Obama's efforts to clear his good name by making up even more ridiculous bullshit.
Barack Obama has a pointy pelvis and fucking him is really uncomfortable.
LL Cool Jew noted that this isn't necessarily a smear, because it's "probz true." I can assert that it is, because for whatever reason, tall, skinny guys usually have huge dicks and I've fucked a lot of them. However, that impressive weiner comes with a price: namely, afterward you feel like someone drilled holes into your hip sockets. Obama's got that going on for sure.
Barack Obama got vocal cord implants which is why he sounds like a motivational speaker
Every time someone tells me that Barack Obama is so inspirational, I just roll my eyes because his voice drives me nuts. However, the Obamaniacs think that he's the Pied Piper of Stump Speeches, so something's going on there. With the way he used to smoke like an Industrial Revolution-era textile mill, his real voice probably sounds like psychic Sylvia Browne from "The Montel Williams Show." In fact, check out Sylvia predicting political and economic happenings in 2007...I wonder if she actually IS Barack Obama in disguise without his vocal modifiers and with a bitchin' set of gel tips:
Michelle Obama loves white people...on the side
As long as it's cool for the GOP sleazemeisters to say that Michelle Obama gives speeches involving the term "whitey," we might as well just go the extra mile and say that she's fucking white people as well as disparaging them. Note the come-hither look she's throwing at Stephen Colbert. They're totally doing it.
A video exists of Michelle Obama having sex with Ray-J
LL Cool Jew came up with this one, as although she isn't a "GOP sleazemeister," she's even worse: an embittered Hillary supporter! After hearing T-Pain admit that "the man is swangin'" with regard to Ray-J's equipment, Michelle Obama answered affirmatively to his "Sexy Can I?" query. Ray-J likes those old cougars, anyway. Frankly, Michelle Obama is an upgrade from his previous MILF Whitney Houston. It's only a matter of time before Vivid releases "Michelle Obama Superstar" to the internets.
LL Cool Jew came up with this one, as although she isn't a "GOP sleazemeister," she's even worse: an embittered Hillary supporter! After hearing T-Pain admit that "the man is swangin'" with regard to Ray-J's equipment, Michelle Obama answered affirmatively to his "Sexy Can I?" query. Ray-J likes those old cougars, anyway. Frankly, Michelle Obama is an upgrade from his previous MILF Whitney Houston. It's only a matter of time before Vivid releases "Michelle Obama Superstar" to the internets.
There is a tape of Barack Obama asking anyone if they'll run to the deli and grab him a sandwich. The deli happens to be halal.
Duh, Obama is MUSLIM! Okay, maybe he's a fake-me-out Muslim, sort of like Ice Cube getting excited for his mama cooking the breakfast with no hog but otherwise observing no Islamic customs, but I think we all know what it means to eat at a halal deli...it means you're Muslim! And we all know that means "terrorist"! Oh crap, I ate an egg-and-cheese sandwich from my neighborhood halal deli the other day...fuck. Nevermind.
Duh, Obama is MUSLIM! Okay, maybe he's a fake-me-out Muslim, sort of like Ice Cube getting excited for his mama cooking the breakfast with no hog but otherwise observing no Islamic customs, but I think we all know what it means to eat at a halal deli...it means you're Muslim! And we all know that means "terrorist"! Oh crap, I ate an egg-and-cheese sandwich from my neighborhood halal deli the other day...fuck. Nevermind.
Barack Obama fucked Gina Gershon.
And who wants a President content with Bill Clinton's sloppy seconds? NOT ME, even if Gina Gershon is the greatest portrayer of lipstick lesbians in Hollywood history and star of two of Smith College's favorite movies ever, Bound and Showgirls. Speaking of Showgirls, I bet Nomy was way hotter in the sack than Barack.
And who wants a President content with Bill Clinton's sloppy seconds? NOT ME, even if Gina Gershon is the greatest portrayer of lipstick lesbians in Hollywood history and star of two of Smith College's favorite movies ever, Bound and Showgirls. Speaking of Showgirls, I bet Nomy was way hotter in the sack than Barack.
Barack Obama spends a lot of time playing "one-on-one" with his assistant Reggie Love.
Thanks to that dude who wrote that expose about "the DL," everyone knows what "poker night" is all about these days, and it's not just a spirited game of Texas Hold 'Em. They play "stud" and it's got nothing to do with cards. Since that's out now, the new down low lingo is "one on one." As in, one on one, I want to play that game tonight in the Daryl Hall/John Oates context. Translation: SODOMY!
Thanks to that dude who wrote that expose about "the DL," everyone knows what "poker night" is all about these days, and it's not just a spirited game of Texas Hold 'Em. They play "stud" and it's got nothing to do with cards. Since that's out now, the new down low lingo is "one on one." As in, one on one, I want to play that game tonight in the Daryl Hall/John Oates context. Translation: SODOMY!
Barack Obama claims his pets as dependents on his tax returns, which he won't release.
I don't even know if Barack Obama has pets, and supposedly he HAS released his tax returns, but trust that most of the folks reading the works of "proven GOP sleazemeisters" don't know that! And like they're going to read his tax returns anyway, except possibly to perpetrate some of the dumbest identity theft schemes in the history of crime.
I don't even know if Barack Obama has pets, and supposedly he HAS released his tax returns, but trust that most of the folks reading the works of "proven GOP sleazemeisters" don't know that! And like they're going to read his tax returns anyway, except possibly to perpetrate some of the dumbest identity theft schemes in the history of crime.
Barack Obama hates baseball, Bruce Springsteen, domestic lagers, and apple pie
Hey, if you'll believe that he agrees with his minister that AIDS and crack are government conspiracies and the traditional African outfit his grandfather gave him is evidence of his extreme Black Panther-style radicalism, you'll believe anything!
Hey, if you'll believe that he agrees with his minister that AIDS and crack are government conspiracies and the traditional African outfit his grandfather gave him is evidence of his extreme Black Panther-style radicalism, you'll believe anything!
Barack Obama loves belly dancing, Moroccan food, and reruns of "Sleeper Cell"
If you see this in someone's DVD collection, I think it's safe to go ahead and call "terrorist." In fact, if it weren't for my love of "Weeds" and "Dexter," I'd boycott Showtime altogether. Well, by "boycott" I mean I'd quit illegally downloading their shows, but same difference. Those "Sleeper Cell" terrorists are kind of hot, though. I think that guy on the right was in Resident Evil: Apocalypse, and I'd close my eyes, pretend he's American instead of an Islamist evildoer, and hit that hard. Oh, wait, he's Israeli in real life? Well, hell, that's still as un-American as BARACK HUSSEIN OSAMA!
If you see this in someone's DVD collection, I think it's safe to go ahead and call "terrorist." In fact, if it weren't for my love of "Weeds" and "Dexter," I'd boycott Showtime altogether. Well, by "boycott" I mean I'd quit illegally downloading their shows, but same difference. Those "Sleeper Cell" terrorists are kind of hot, though. I think that guy on the right was in Resident Evil: Apocalypse, and I'd close my eyes, pretend he's American instead of an Islamist evildoer, and hit that hard. Oh, wait, he's Israeli in real life? Well, hell, that's still as un-American as BARACK HUSSEIN OSAMA!
When Barack Obama saw Rachael Ray wearing Yasser Arafat's keffiyeh on TV, he went out and bought a shit-ton of Dunkin Donuts
Someone told me that after this commercial aired, Obama maxed out his credit card at Urban Outfitters buying keffiyehs for his entire staff because Rachael Ray's freedom-hating was so inspiring to him. He also started tossing around the idea of providing a lifetime supply of Munchkins for anyone who votes for his terror ticket. I'm glad his staff talked him down from that, because I might forsake John McCain if offered enough complimentary Dunkin Donuts swag. Their iced coffee is the chronic, even if it's the choice beverage of freedom-haters everywhere.
Someone told me that after this commercial aired, Obama maxed out his credit card at Urban Outfitters buying keffiyehs for his entire staff because Rachael Ray's freedom-hating was so inspiring to him. He also started tossing around the idea of providing a lifetime supply of Munchkins for anyone who votes for his terror ticket. I'm glad his staff talked him down from that, because I might forsake John McCain if offered enough complimentary Dunkin Donuts swag. Their iced coffee is the chronic, even if it's the choice beverage of freedom-haters everywhere.
Malia Obama will only play with Muslim Barbies
Not only does she play with Muslim Barbies, I bet she doesn't make all her Barbies lesbians like mine were (owing to a shortage of Ken dolls more than my latent girl-on-girl desires but ANYWAY...that's another story).
Not only does she play with Muslim Barbies, I bet she doesn't make all her Barbies lesbians like mine were (owing to a shortage of Ken dolls more than my latent girl-on-girl desires but ANYWAY...that's another story).
Barack Obama got the "Ba" added to his first name to make something hot-sounding like "Rack" sound more lame and terroristy, because those JIHADISTS HATE BOOBS AND WOMEN
He totally identified with Alfred Molina's wife-beating Iranian gynecologist from that movie, too. You know he did.
And speaking of misogyny, Barack Obama tried to get Reading Lolita in Tehran banned from public libraries because he thinks Iran rules.
And speaking of misogyny, Barack Obama tried to get Reading Lolita in Tehran banned from public libraries because he thinks Iran rules.
LL Cool Jew told me that he hates on The Kite Runner something serious, too.
In keeping with his Persophilia, Barack Obama reads Ahmadinejad's blog every day and believes the Holocaust is a myth. Moreover, he wants to reopen Buchenwald in Boca Raton, Florida.
In keeping with his Persophilia, Barack Obama reads Ahmadinejad's blog every day and believes the Holocaust is a myth. Moreover, he wants to reopen Buchenwald in Boca Raton, Florida.
I can't really fault him for the Ahmadinejad's blog-reading, because that shit is hilarious. However, the whole Holocaust myth business is pretty shady, as is that business about wanting to reopen concentration camps in the U.S. of A. LL Cool Jew told me that, and she's my resident Druish expert, so it's got to be one of the gravest true lies I'm advocating here. From there, it's just a short intellectual leap to OBAMA IS A NAZI! Yes, a terrorist Muslim Nazi! TRUST.
Barack Obama only ran for the U.S. Senate AFTER he was rejected by Hamas for suicide bombing detail.
Barack Obama only ran for the U.S. Senate AFTER he was rejected by Hamas for suicide bombing detail.
That's Obama in militant suicide bomber drag at his audition. He decided not to go the pretend woman route once he embarked on his career in U.S. politics, because all the people who will believe the bullshit I'm writing here now hate so hard on the gays. It was a wise move.
Barack Obama is actually the urinating man known only by the moniker "daddy" from the infamous sex tape that was the impetus for R. Kelly's child porn trial
Barack Obama is actually the urinating man known only by the moniker "daddy" from the infamous sex tape that was the impetus for R. Kelly's child porn trial
I and the R. Kelly defense team told you that, per the now-infamous "Shaggy Defense," it wasn't Kells. You caught him on the counter? It wasn't Kells. You saw him bangin' on the sofa? It wasn't Kells. He even hit it in the shower? It wasn't Kells...it was BARACK OBAMA! Case closed!
This is fun and I could continue this all day, but I have to get to lab. Luckily, there's enough dumbasses out there to ensure that my new totally made-up charges will be discussed on cable news for the next week. I can just see the pundits on FOX News now, discussing how "a blogger charges that Obama may be the man in the R. Kelly sex tape" or "questions have come up on the blogosphere about Michelle Obama's possible adulterous leanings" or whatever. God bless the stupidity of the average American, because I'm going to be swimming in traffic and laughing all the way to the damn bank. I hope for change in my pocketses, and that's exactly what Barack Obama is going to give to me. Thank you, Senator Obama!
Labels: Barack Obama, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, media whores, politics, ridiculous absurdity
Friday, May 16, 2008
Now, usually I don't do this, but...
...go ahead and break 'em off with a little preview of the remix.
While normally you'd expect to hear "Now I'm not tryin' to be rude, but hey, pretty girl, I'm feelin' you, the way you do the things you do, reminds me of my Lexus coupe, that's why I'm all up in your grill, tryin' to get ya to my hotel, you must be a football coach the way you got me playin' the field" after that, but alas, this isn't a song by the World's Greatest R&B Thug, Robert Sylvester Kelly. This is, however, something almost as awesome: the dance remix of that video of O'Reilly flipping out at the "Inside Edition" teleprompter.
dddddd...FUCK IT!...dddddd...FUCK IT!
dddddd...FUCK IT!...dddddd...FUCK IT!
Genius.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Most hilarious Presidential biopic EVER
I usually don't like Oliver Stone movies. In fact, the only ones I can think of that I did like were Platoon and Born on the Fourth of July. Oh, I also liked Wall Street. I guess JFK had its moments, but I got bored and all I remember is that Kevin Bacon was some kind of gigolo butt boy for closeted homo politicians. I think. I would have liked Any Given Sunday if it weren't for the constant annoying presence of Jamie Foxx, and when I was in high school my ex-boyfriend was always listening to the Natural Born Killers soundtrack, but otherwise Oliver Stone can lick my twat. I would rather let Dick Cheney buttfuck me with a birdshot-loaded hunting rifle than watch that 9/11 movie he made, and if one of his movies doesn't have something to do with the Vietnam War or young Michael Douglas playing an asshole yuppie, I'm not really interested.
However, I can't fucking WAIT to see his new movie W., about none other than our current commander-in-chief. First, he cast Josh Brolin as Dubya, and I've had a hard-on for Brolin ever since he was the hottest Pony Express employee in the history of mail carriers on "The Young Riders."
Also, a script leaked to Cindy Adams of the peerless New York Post indicates that this movie is going to be absolutely fucking hilarious. Choice snippets of dialogue include:
- Bush to General Tommy Franks: "I don't want to fire no $2 million dollar missile at a $10 dollar empty tent and hit a camel in the ass."
- Bush on Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton: "My mother waddles faster than that lardass."
- Bush on Gitmo: "We'll move these terr'ists to Guantanamera."
- Bush on being corrected by Cheney that the place in Cuba is actually called "Guantanamo": "Vice, when we're in meetings, I want you to keep a lid on it. Keep your ego in check. Remember, I'm the president."
- Bush, Sr. to a college age Dubya: "You never kept your word once...you're only good for partying, chasing tail, driving drunk."
- Bush during his decision to go to war in Iraq: "Wolfowitz, got any Maalox on you? And trim your ear hairs while you're at it."
- Bush on Saddam Hussein: "Saddam's been dicking us around for 11 years. I told my father to get rid of the sucker."
- Bush to education reformers: "Rarely is the question asked, 'Is our children learning?'"
The Post has all sorts of other details about the film, including descriptions of scenes featuring Dick Cheney stepping in cow shit while visiting the ranch in Crawford and Bush eating his favorite meal (a bologna sandwich) in the White House. I would watch this movie just to see Brolin call Colin Powell "Balloonfoot" and bitch at him for not being more punctual. It sounds like it's going to be The Naked Gun of presidential biopics. Compared to films like All the President's Men (which I fell asleep during) and JFK (which, again, the only part I remember is Kevin Bacon's turn as a gay man-whore), this sounds like a rollicking good time. Props to Oliver Stone for striking comedy gold. Come opening day, I'm going to eat some "special" brownies and prepare to laugh until my stomach hurts.
Labels: hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, movies, politics, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Judicial membership has its privileges
I just read a funny story over at MSNBC about a judge currently facing an inquiry for her behavior since ascending to her judgeship. Elizabeth Halvorsen, some district court judge in Nevada, has been locked out of her own courtroom for being straight-up ridiculous. Among her offenses:
- Riding around on a motorized scooter
- Ordered her bailiff to put her shoes on for her and massage her feet and back
- Ordered her bailiff to put a blanket over her and refill her oxygen tank
- Asked bailiff if he would prefer to "worship (her) from near or afar."
- Swore her husband in so she could ask him under oath if he finished his household chores
- Hiring her own posse of security-exempt Blackwater guards to protect her
- Called 911 on court administrators stopping by her office
- Caused mistrials in sexual assault cases by improperly meeting with jurors
- Falling asleep at the bench
I'm surprised that she didn't force her courtroom visitors to play croquet against her and threaten decapitation for painting her roses red. This bitch is a piece of shit as a public servant, but in terms of earning rock star points for ridiculous behavior, she's a fucking champion diva. I always figured being a judge would allow you to do cool stuff like hold people in contempt of court just for being assholes and fuck hot attorneys. I never knew you could demand worship and foot massages. I should have gone to law school.
Labels: crime and punishment, I LOVE IT, legal drama, ridiculous absurdity
Monday, May 05, 2008
Send me a normal e-mail already, loser
About a week and a half ago, some hater sent me this lame self-destructing anonymous e-nastygram advising me that I'm making the world an uglier place. Naturally I wrote a post in response telling said hater to lick my ugly twat.
Well, this particular hater decided that they hadn't really gotten the point across, and decided to clarify with an e-mail that won't self-destruct until August. Except by "clarify," I mean "totally confuse me."
You know what sounds like a joke? Phrases like "It is not such a hard thing you achieving" and "As for the out ugliness" to explain truths that are apparently eluding my understanding of my own inherent ugly/beautiful dichotomy. I'm "at (my) 30"s" and I "still think beauty in terms of pinkiness"? HUH? Clearly I do have loads to learn, starting with this incomprehensible dialect of English. I am glad that the author seems to clarify that while I'm internally hideous, externally I'm "the hottest thing on earth." And this person is a good judge of that because they're not a judgmental hater, or something. And what's this P.S. about "my staff"? I'll have to let Caese and Chingy! know that my emotional contagion could be affecting them. Undoubtedly it casts a sleeping spell on them, because that's the activity they're both currently engaged in at the foot of my bed. This dread illness apparently makes Chingy! snore and Caesar dream about chasing sticks and squirrels, given that his paws are twitching and he's making weird little barking noises.
As if this weren't confusing enough, this was followed up with yet ANOTHER self-destructing e-mail issuing a challenge to me.
The gauntlet has been thrown! It appears a debate is in order. I just need to brush up on my befuddling gibberish and it's ON. The only problem is that I don't know who to send my rebuttal self-destructing anonymous e-mail to. It's pretty hard to debate a person whose desire for anonymity extends to using third-party websites for sending self-destructing "you're ugly" e-mails. So send me a real e-mail and we'll get it on. And by "get it on" I mean I'll make you look even dumber than your own prose already does.
Labels: correspondence, Razzy Haters, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity
Friday, April 25, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Hilary Duff
DOB: September 28, 1987
Occupation: former tween idol, current destroyer and usurper of the best show in the history of television AKA "Beverly Hills, 90210"
Hometown: Houston, Texas
Current residence: Hollywood, California
Douchebaggery: I haven't had much occasion to see any of the trash Hilary Duff has produced since I don't watch Nickelodeon, don't listen to Z100, and don't watch movies about dance contests, singing contests, singing/dancing contests, and/or horses. However, now it appears that I'm going to be forced to see Hilary in action since Dlisted is reporting that she's going to be playing the "Brenda Walsh" of the highly anticipated new remake of "Beverly Hills, 90210"!
If there's one name that does NOT spring to mind when I think "reincarnation of Shannen Doherty at the peak of her bitchery," it's Hilary Duff. There is no way Hilary Duff can bring the same passionate rage to lines like "Look, I hate you both! Never talk to me again!" Furthermore, there's no way Hilary can flawlessly execute a convincing French or Brooklyn-ish accent like the inimitable Ms. Doherty. In fact, there's no way Hilary Duff will be able to pull off any of the great scenes that a complex character like Brenda Walsh must be able to do. For example, she will not be able to overcome her ineptitude at waitressing by reimagining herself as the saucy Laverne:
She will not be able to adequately fake fear when confronted with Dylan's drinking and subsequent flowerpot-smashing outside the Bel Age Hotel:
Or when robbed at gunpoint at the Peach Pit:
Or when getting her benign breast lump biopsied:
She will not be able to adequately capture the heat of losing your virginity to a hot piece like Dylan McKay at the Spring Dance:
She will not be able to upstage a hot cougar MILF like Jackie Taylor as an inexplicable bridesmaid at her wedding:
She will not be able to regulate when she finds out that her boyfriend brought some skank named Stacy to Baja with him on his last Mexican surfing vacation:
She will not be able to use her sex appeal, as well as her top-notch acting skills and Southern accent fakery, to secure the role of Maggie the Cat in Roy Randolph's California University production of Tennessee Williams's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof:
Hilary Duff just doesn't have the acting chops to capture the wide range of emotion needed for a complex character like Brenda Walsh, from the tears to the hot teen sex scenes to the moral self-righteousness.
Send that horse Hilary back to the barn and find someone with a sufficient caliber of bitchiness to be the new Brenda.
Labels: Bev Niner, Daily Douchebag, oh the horror, ridiculous absurdity, sluts, TV
Friday, April 18, 2008
Breakin' the laws
NO, I'm not talking about laws regarding defamation and libel. I take those very seriously, no matter what some crazy assholes might say. I'm talking about laws regarding sex. These used to make the news a lot more when they were seen as a way to harass and pester gay people. So-called "sodomy" laws made it illegal to be gay in some states, and rightfully these were overturned by the 2003 Supreme Court decision Lawrence vs. Texas. However, did you know that there are still some really stupid fucking sex laws on the books in various places? The "sodomy" laws (pertaining to oral and/or anal sex) are no longer valid as of 2003, but as far as I know, the rest of them are still technically enforceable.
It turns out, I'm a criminal in several states and municipalities. This just goes to show that no matter how much I try to abide by the law, I still somehow manage to be a bad, bad girl. It's in my nature, I guess.
Here's my rap sheet:
1991: I showered nude in Florida.
1997: I engaged in "private sexual behavior" with a Marine (actually a Navy dude) in the bathroom of baggage claim 4 at Bradley International Airport in violation of Connecticut state law.
2002: I had sex in the female superior and doggystyle positions in Washington, DC, where the only legal position is missionary. Well, and I fell off the bed headfirst while we were doing it doggystyle, so you could make the argument that for about five to ten seconds, I was executing a textbook reverse piledriver as well. I'm pretty sure I also gave the lucky fella a blow job, but it's unclear as to whether this law would apply to that.
1998 and 2003: I slept naked in Minnesota.
1998: I reached climax before my partner in California during foreplay ("foreplay"=69). Several times. This law is not only obviously antiquated, but it was also clearly written by an insecure one minute man, because these days a guy who can make his girlfriend bust more than once before he finishes up is considered a keeper and a hot lay.
2003-present: I regularly break New York's state law forbidding me from wearing "body-hugging clothing." Luckily New York state law also allows women to go topless in public so I'm in the clear there when I try to get some vitamin D for my tits every summer on Long Beach or Fire Island.
Now all I have to do is have anal sex in Cincinnati, bang someone I'm not married to in Georgia, suck someone off in Indiana, engage in a public display of affection with someone in Idaho for longer than 18 minutes, fuck a porcupine in Florida, conduct business in Nevada while wearing a penis costume, fuck in a graveyard in North Carolina (good thing that law's not in Puyallup, Washington because I did that there in 1996), get laid in a meat freezer in Newcastle, Wyoming, and have sex in a parked car in Carlsbad, New Mexico without the curtains drawn. I'll be a criminal legend on par with Akon. Now I better keep an eye out for a warrant-wielding cop as well as a process server.
Labels: crime and punishment, hilarious shit, legal drama, perversion, ridiculous absurdity, sex
Daily Douchebag: Akon
Name: Aliuane Badara Thiam
DOB: April 30, 1973
Occupation: R&B singer, record producer, big old phony
Hometown: Dakar, Senegal
Current residence: Atlanta, Georgia
Douchebaggery: I never spent much time thinking about whether Akon's claims of being imprisoned for various crimes ranging from operating a car theft ring to illegal weapons possession to drug dealing were true. Akon has a nice voice and he sounds sweet when he sings "I wanna fuck you." I also figure that with a few exceptions, most of the dudes in R&B and hip-hop are embellishing a little when it comes to their criminal resumés. For example, when I hear R. Kelly singing the hook for Young Jeezy's "Go Getta," I don't believe for a second that Kells is"trapping all day." Robert Sylvester Kelly may be a R&B thug, but he's not taking a break from blessing the world with his mackadelic nightspot realness to sling crack on the street corner. And I believe Lil' Wayne a lot more when he says things like "hoes kiss the dick with no mistletoes" over "I put 'em in ya head and watch the holes bleed." In spite of his claims to the contrary, I don't think anyone actually believes that his tattooed teardrops represent three different lives that he's personally taken via homicidal means. The only crimes he's committed are the ones he's routinely arrested for: rolling around with pounds of weed (literally), smoking the same in public, and enough Vicodin to supply every prescription pill-popper on "Intervention" for life.
Akon, however, has apparently been doing a lot of talking about how critical his past record of illustrious criminal exploits have directly influenced his music. He even named his record label "Konvict" to demonstrate how critical his felonious history is to his art. A recent investigation by The Smoking Gun, however, raises some issues about Akon's personal credibility. As the author of the piece notes regarding his most recent album Konvicted, "Kontrived may have been a more accurate choice."
It seems Akon has made all sorts of claims in interviews, from being the "ringleader of a notorious car theft operation" specializing in exotic luxury vehicles to being a "champion" of prison fighting while doing a three-year sentence to "facing 75 years." With the exception of a solitary reporter at the Washington Post, the media largely accepted Akon's criminal autobiography as fact until The Smoking Gun did some fact-checking and declared Akon "James Frey with catchy hooks and an American Music Award."
In reality, Akon has only one felony conviction to his name (for gun possession), and apart from several months spent in the DeKalb jail for a stolen car charge he ended up getting three years probation for, he hasn't done any time. In fact, he conceived his son in the middle of his supposed term.
Akon has gone above and beyond to make himself seem like some kind of don of the urban underworld. Much like Vanilla Ice before him who made claims of being stabbed in the ass during a gang altercation, Akon presumably felt that this would enhance his marketability. He should have paid more attention to what happened to Vanilla Ice. The false claims of being grievously injured during a gang turf war were the nail in that idiot's coffin. Granted, Akon has produced far more in terms of hits than Vanilla Ice, but considering his outlandish fabrication of being a hardened criminal and maximum security prison veteran, I wonder how well his next album, Acquitted, will fare now that he's been outed as a total fake. Now nobody will ever be able to listen to lyrics like "you know my pedigree, street dealer used to move 'phetamines" without a sarcastic eye-roll. Then again, if nobody cares and Acquitted sells well, maybe I should think about marketing myself this way.
Here's my real autobiography:
I was born November 17, 1978 in Tacoma, Washington and raised in nearby Puyallup, in a house down the street from a trailer park and a mobile home dealership. I attended private Catholic school for twelve years. During this time my hobbies included writing, playing classical piano, and editing the school paper and literary magazine. I received a bachelor's degree in biological sciences from Smith College in 2000. I worked for a small biotechnology company in Seattle for three years and drove a '94 Honda Civic. I was then accepted into a Ph.D program at Columbia University, received two masters degrees, and expect to earn my doctorate in late 2008 or early 2009. I love dogs, beer, sex, and football. I have received only one criminal citation in my life (a misdemeanor "possession of drug paraphernalia" charge in South Dakota for having a pipe and half a joint in my car during a cross-country trek that amounted to no arrest and a fine of $250).
Here's my Akon autobiography:
I was born in 1985 in Tacoma and raised in a vile trailer park in Puyallup, where I began selling illegal firearms at a young age to my equally criminal neighbors. My aptitude in science led to a productive career in clandestine methamphetamine production, so I dropped out of school to pursue riches via the only option available: mastery of the drug trade. My shit was known as the purest tweak in all of Pierce County. After dominating the local market for meth and stunting around town in a stolen Mercedes MacLaren purchased at Akon's infamous chop shop, I set my sights higher. I expanded my portfolio of services to include illegal gun trafficking, money laundering, and interstate transportation of large quantities of marijuana. This backfired after an arrest in South Dakota landed me in maximum security federal prison for five years. While in prison, I was the head dyke in charge and quickly took control of the black market cigarette trade via my ability to beat everyone mercilessly. Upon my release, I migrated east to make a national name for myself amongst the heavy-hitting underground crime syndicates. In New York, I managed to use my prowess in the lab to sell black market illegal poliovirus and rhinovirus to terrorist and mercenary groups. I also began peddling illegal pornography, set up a bootlegging operation, and set up a combination pimping and dogfighting business catering to Michael Vick, Pac Man Jones, Tank Johnson, Ray Lewis, and some of the NFL's most notorious criminals. Today, I am considered a super-don and have several major crime families answering to me. I expect that soon I will be the world's most powerful criminal. And don't fuck with me, because I'm always walking around totally strapped.
Yeah, that's believable. I bet I'm about to get a lot more blog traffic now that I've decided to start marketing myself as a hardened felon with a lengthy rap sheet rather than an upwardly mobile science nerd with a Chopin fetish and a lot of letters bestowed by fancy schools that I can put after my name.
Labels: celebrities, crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, Lil' Wayne, overcompensation, rap, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly, Young Jeezy
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Mariah Carey
Name: Mariah Carey
Place of birth: Huntington, Long Island, New York
Currently Lives: Per MTV “Cribs” circa 2004, a three-story NYC penthouse with four rooms’ worth of closets. Whut whut!
Occupation: Five-time Grammy Award winner best known for her vocal range, power, melismatic style, and use of the “whistle register”; Elvis-sales-records-destroyer; miniskirt rocker; shameless diva
Why I Want to Hit That Hotness: Call me crass and pedestrian, but shut up, because I love Mariah, and secretly, so do you. If you’re “too kewl” to dig on the processed cheese that constitutes her jams, then you have to love the Mariah show.
This bitch is almost 40 years old and she still dresses like a mall rat hoochie. She is never caught without her ass practically hanging out of a spandex miniskirt, her tits busting out of some electric pink cropped snakeskin jacket, and her big ol’ tranny feet straining in six-inch stacked heels. Her signature fragrance, “M by Mariah Carey” (available at Macy’s, duh), is advertised as "floriental with notes of marshmallow." She’s generally a little on the “thick” side of things, but starves herself on chicken broth and the occasional piece of celery prior to album releases and videos and totally admits it to the press; then, on a recent trip to London, she had 11 bodyguards surrounding her restaurant table so nobody could watch her eat.
Despite the fact that Mariah is piling up a veritable greatest-hits album of diva demands (like requiring a $150,000 antique table on which to sign autographs for fans during a recent appearance and requiring a major European hotel to upon her arrival literally roll out a red carpet lined with hundreds of white votive candles), she manages to be pretty circumspect about herself. (I mean, she can’t be totally serious with all the butterflies and the album titles like “Rainbow,” “Daydream,” and “Glitter.” When is “Saccharine” coming out?). When asked about the title of her latest (and super awesome) album E=MC2, she said, “We all know that my album is called E=MC2 but I’m not exactly friggin’ Einstein.”
Later, she mused on the difficulties of finding a suitable mate when you’re a megarich recording artist: “You don't know who is here for the glamour,” she said. “Sometimes you feel like an ATM machine with a wig on it.” I’m not sure I’d be able to maintain that level of humility if I were one No. 1 single short of edging out the Beatles for the all-time record. In her own words: “Nah you ain't seeing things, / Or hallucinating, / I brings that levity, / Take me for a ride.” Levity indeed!
Labels: celebrities, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hilarious shit, LL Cool Jew, ridiculous absurdity
Monday, April 07, 2008
Memoirs of a Hired Twink
Apparently in Japan, the new hot thing for successful women to spend their money on is a "geisha guy," an effeminate companion who will drink champagne with them and say stuff like, "Oooh, girl, those shoes are FIERCE."
Per the article in CNN:
I wouldn't expect anything besides the word "effete" to describe a fella who says the main perk of his high-paying job is indulging in a daily root touch-up and blow-out. Can't businesswomen in Japan afford better than this androgynous metrosexual she-male in terms of company for the evening? Note to self: Japan is definitely a BYO-gigolo situation for girls like me who like their weiners cut from more masculine cloth.
Per the article in CNN:
TOKYO, Japan (CNN) -- At first glance, the man and woman at the nightclub look like any other couple on a date. He flirts and pours champagne. She looks at him and laughs.So, in other words, instead of paying for some hot dude to dick them properly, these ladies are forking over up to 50 grand a night for the privilege of being a fag hag? I mean, seriously. I'd rather pay for a trip or buy something--namely a more masculine male escort--than waste those yen on an evening with a metrosexual girly-boy like Yunosuke:
This isn't a date, though. It's business.
The woman, a successful executive, has joined a growing number of professional women in Japan in forking out from $1,000 to $50,000 a night for male companionship.
They meet their "hosts" in hundreds of clubs that have sprung up around Tokyo - the industry says only compliments are exchanged. The women pay for a man to lavish them with undivided attention.
"There's nothing wrong with a woman paying to be entertained by a man," one female client says. "It's just another step in equality."
It's a dizzying reversal of traditional gender roles in a country long known for geishas pampering male clients with conversation, singing and dancing. Now a new breed of entertainer has cropped up -- think of them as male geishas.
"I give women things that men normally don't do, like complimenting their appearance," says one host, 24-year-old Yunosuke, who only goes by his single host name. "I make women happy."
And they make him happy: Yunosuke says he earned more than $200,000 last year, enough to let him visit a salon once a day to have his hair dyed and blow-dried.
"Women see us as one of their accessories," he says. "They like to wear nice things, so I try to look prettier for them all the time."
What drives the business boom is an increase in the earning power of Japanese women, according to Air Group, a company that owns a chain of "host" clubs.
"Japanese women are now working hard and making more money," says Yuko Takeyama, a woman in her early 30s who manages Air Group. "They see this as a way to de-stress."
Women love being treated well without the pressures that come with dating, she says. Yunosuke's customer from the nightclub agrees.
"This is a gift for myself," she says. "It's the same as spending money on a trip or buying something."
Labels: gender bending, international intrigue, perversion, ridiculous absurdity, sluts
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Whatten hell...?
Apparently Latin America doesn't have the market cornered on zany variety shows. I thought that there could be no three-hour exhibit of cars, stupid human tricks, marital counseling, skanky Fanta girl-esque chicks, singing contests, immigration tips, impromptu weddings, child custody battles, and sketch comedy more wack-tacular than the incomparable "Sabado Gigante." I once saw a hedge-clipping contest on that show once! Seriously, two guys with pruning shears raced each other to trim two long-ass hedges for the glory of being given $50 worth of "El mundo del ingles de Disney" products by the perennially suave hot Chilean Jew, Don Francisco.
I mean, "Whatten hell...?" It's this skinny dude crushing cans between his shoulder blades for no other reason except to drive the crowd wild and, seemingly, impress some cute girls. I love his assistant, who is a poor man's Seann William Scott rocking David Bowie's haircut from the movie Labyrinth. I also love the host of this show, who seemingly appropriated Peter Frampton's hair and Siegfried and Roy's wardrobe as his signature look. HOT.
Well, it seems Germany is giving the Spanish-speaking world a run for its dinero. They have a similar show called "Wetten, dass...?", which Wikipedia also tells me is the most successful television show in Europe. "Wetten, dass...?" means "Wanna bet...?" but watching a little of it, and I'm thinking it must also mean "What the hell...?", because that's the kind of reaction it elicits from me. See if you don't react the same way to THIS:
I mean, "Whatten hell...?" It's this skinny dude crushing cans between his shoulder blades for no other reason except to drive the crowd wild and, seemingly, impress some cute girls. I love his assistant, who is a poor man's Seann William Scott rocking David Bowie's haircut from the movie Labyrinth. I also love the host of this show, who seemingly appropriated Peter Frampton's hair and Siegfried and Roy's wardrobe as his signature look. HOT.
According to Wikipedia, the premise of this show is that ordinary people perform bizarre tasks (examples include igniting a pocket lighter with an excavator's shovel and pushing a car with a spear with tip resting on the contestant's throat), and celebrity guests place friendly wagers with each other regarding the outcome. Some celebrities who have been on this show include Heidi Klum, Grace Jones, Hugh Grant, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and...CURTIS "50 CENT" JACKSON AND ROBERT SYLVESTER KELLY! Why did I not see a video of Fitty betting Kells over how many cans this skinny dude could crush between his scapulae and then trash-talking each other in German?? I need to see that! I'd watch that every morning before going to work!
They need to get a cable channel showing "Wetten, dass...?" over here stateside immediately. If this show can attract over 50% of the German-speaking viewer demographic In Germany, Austria, Liechtenstein, and Switzerland, there's no reason it can't pull some pretty big Nielsen ratings here in the States too. I don't even speak any German besides "bratwurst" and "schiesse" and "guten tag" and I would watch this. I have got to discuss this with my German friend Js and Ps and see if he can hook it up with details about how I might be able to get more "Wetten, dass...?" in my life. Maybe he has some DVDs or something.
Labels: I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, international intrigue, que magnifico, ridiculous absurdity, sehr gut, TV
Thursday, March 20, 2008
My future boyfriends
Last year, Floyd Sr., patriarch of a clan of petty criminals and (per my objective judgment) methamphetamine manufacturers/distributors/addicts, was arrested for crimes against humanity in central Florida. I'm not sure what those crimes were, but I'm willing to bet it involved either possession/sale of drugs, assault in the context of a bar brawl, public intoxication, or domestic battery. Some other time, Justin, one of his eight sons was arrested for a separate but undoubtedly similar offense. These fine fellows were thus given a free pictures for their touching family photo album at the state's expense:
Ah, forehead tattoos. What a treasured tradition those Bebees have cultivated within their family. They're like a clan of redneck Maori. According to The Smoking Gun, Floyd, Sr. also has the words "Got-R-Did" on the back of his head to bookend the old thinking muscle with some class. Apparently to one-up his old man, Justin also has the words "Fuck" and "You" tatted on his eyelids, the aggressive white trash tweaker version of that Smith College girl who writes "Love" and "You" on her eyelids to flash at choice moments (such as when he's trying to spell "neolithic") during Professor Henry "Indiana" Jones's archaeology class in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
The Bebee gentlemen (who apparently work in the "odd jobs" industry) are truly refined gentlemen, and I wish they would move to Puyallup. Not only could I recommend an excellent local criminal defense attorney to them (obviously as necessary to the Bebees as my parents' financial planner is to them), they would have no problem getting employment as either nomadic handymen or tweak dealers, and would undoubtedly rapidly rise to the upper echelons of Puyallup trailer park society. They'd be the toast of Neener's, Nifty's Fifties, Bumpy's, the Roadhouse, Muggs and Juggs, the VFW club, or any of the other local social clubs. Pity they're stuck in Florida, because Puyallup could really benefit from a couple of sophisticated gentlemen like these two.
The Bebee gentlemen (who apparently work in the "odd jobs" industry) are truly refined gentlemen, and I wish they would move to Puyallup. Not only could I recommend an excellent local criminal defense attorney to them (obviously as necessary to the Bebees as my parents' financial planner is to them), they would have no problem getting employment as either nomadic handymen or tweak dealers, and would undoubtedly rapidly rise to the upper echelons of Puyallup trailer park society. They'd be the toast of Neener's, Nifty's Fifties, Bumpy's, the Roadhouse, Muggs and Juggs, the VFW club, or any of the other local social clubs. Pity they're stuck in Florida, because Puyallup could really benefit from a couple of sophisticated gentlemen like these two.
Labels: crime and punishment, hilarious shit, P-N-Dub, PWT, ridiculous absurdity
Monday, March 03, 2008
Have you been high today?
If not, this video LL Cool Jew sent me should do the trick:
I don't know what the hell goes on in India that inspires music videos such as this one, but I do know three things:
1. The guy in this video is a hot piece. If George Michael and Sayid from "Lost" had a baby, it would be this dude. And yes, I'd totally hit that.
2. The dancers in this video better not come stateside, because if they do, the Pussycat Dolls are going to be out of a job.
3. I'm going to start saying "My loony bun is fine, Benny Lava" instead of "don't worry, I'm totally on the pill and I get tested regularly" to the honeys lucky enough to rendezvous with me in a bar bathroom not stocked with complimentary NYC condoms.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Nerds run the rap snacks game
TAFKAMA is on fire in the Razzification department these days. He remembered clearly the time that we were quaffing many Vitamin R tallboys at the bar by his apartment with our buddy Morrissey'sHair, who purchased a couple bags of Rap Snacks ("the official snack of hip-hop") for us to enjoy.
Unfortunately, we didn't really enjoy them. Both the YoungBloodZ Southern Crunk BBQ and the Murphy Lee Red Hot Ripletts were underwhelming, so we didn't finish them. Apparently, however, some people did like the YoungBloodZ flavor, or at least purported to in this amusing video (complete with the theme music from "Doogie Howser, M.D.")that TAFKAMA dug up:
I would be completely unsurprised if Rap Snacks was really run by a couple of nerds with duct taped glasses, because if there's one thing geeks can do well, it's create fictional personas that elevate their coolness via the internets. I've seen about ten million MySpace and Facebook pages belonging to people who I KNOW are huge geeks in real life that make themselves out to be player-ass pimps via their online profiles. In fact, one of them is writing this very blog post. So it's not much of a stretch to imagine that a bunch of mathlete "Battlestar Galactica" fans are the crunkdafied minds behind Rap Snacks.
And I wonder if it's true that the YoungBloodZ rap snacks have really been discontinued. I'm not surprised, because they were pretty fucking gross. The fact that Warren G Cheezie Nacho flavor hasn't been resurrected, however, is a crime. That flavor regulated.
Unfortunately, we didn't really enjoy them. Both the YoungBloodZ Southern Crunk BBQ and the Murphy Lee Red Hot Ripletts were underwhelming, so we didn't finish them. Apparently, however, some people did like the YoungBloodZ flavor, or at least purported to in this amusing video (complete with the theme music from "Doogie Howser, M.D.")that TAFKAMA dug up:
I would be completely unsurprised if Rap Snacks was really run by a couple of nerds with duct taped glasses, because if there's one thing geeks can do well, it's create fictional personas that elevate their coolness via the internets. I've seen about ten million MySpace and Facebook pages belonging to people who I KNOW are huge geeks in real life that make themselves out to be player-ass pimps via their online profiles. In fact, one of them is writing this very blog post. So it's not much of a stretch to imagine that a bunch of mathlete "Battlestar Galactica" fans are the crunkdafied minds behind Rap Snacks.
And I wonder if it's true that the YoungBloodZ rap snacks have really been discontinued. I'm not surprised, because they were pretty fucking gross. The fact that Warren G Cheezie Nacho flavor hasn't been resurrected, however, is a crime. That flavor regulated.
Labels: gluttony, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, Morrissey'sHair, Mullah AntoniHo, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, February 14, 2008
The Deadliest Pug
Yesterday it was very rainy, so I decided to deck Chingy! out in some weather-appropriate gear that one of his dogsitters bought for him. As if Chingy! isn't enough of an asshole, every time he goes to stay with one of his dogsitters, he returns with giant bags of treats, rawhides, bones (which are invariably appropriated by Caesar), personal furniture, toys, and doggity outerwear. I decided to see how Chingy! would like his rain slicker. As one might predict, Chingy! had zero interest in wearing this outfit out in the rain, and upon my putting it on him, returned to his previous position sleeping on my bed.
Somehow, I can't see Chingy! mining the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea for "red gold" like the ballsy crab fisherman of "Deadliest Catch." Chingy! is a far cry from the hotness that is Captain Sig Hansen, and he'd make for the laziest, least mobile, most useless greenhorn ever to set foot aboard the mighty F/V Northwestern. The only thing Chingy! would probably do right is the traditional Norwegian ritual of eating raw cod hearts to invoke favor with the gods of crabbing, and that's solely because Chingy! is known to love consuming disgusting shit. The only practical purpose I can see him serving on a boat is as ballast. His ass would be summarily fired, if he didn't get washed overboard first. Hell, even the Gorton's fisherman would probably fire him for sloth and incompetence, and the Gorton's fisherman is a made-up dude on a box of processed fish sticks.
CHONGAY CHONG, rain slicker!
CHONGAY CHONG, rain slicker!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, Deadliest Catch, doggity style, fat fucks, hilarious shit, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Jack off
I read on the gossip internets that Jack Nicholson claims the world's best pick-up line is as follows:
Why does Jack Nicholson need to use this strategy anyway? I realize that he's a septugenarian, but he's still Jack Fucking Nicholson! He's rich, he's famous, and he sits courtside at Laker games. I would think that even at his ripe old age, he could just pull out his weiner, say "I'm Jack Nicholson," and let the object of his affection put two and two together and start sucking. He doesn't need to waste time inventing negs or developing a lame "avatar" (another key feature of the Mystery Method, this involves coming up with an idiotic nickname like "Ajax" or "The Matador" and wearing absurd fashion ensembles that look like the bastard spawn of a pair of fuzzy dice and an off-the-rack pimp costume from Party World.) Jack Nicholson's star just faded dramatically now that I know he has to rely on seduction tactics commonly employed by socially inept fucktards who spend all their copious down time playing Halo and jacking off to Cinemax.
What a fucking loser. And that's not a neg fishing for action with Jack or anyone else attending Mystery's school of douchebaggery. That's just a straight-up neg for the sake of negativity.
"You walk up to someone you like and you're feeling relaxed, they think, 'Oh, here comes the shark' and you say to them, 'When did you get pregnant?' You will have somebody off balance after that particular line."Are you fucking kidding me? Jack Nicholson uses the fucking MYSTERY METHOD to pick up chicks? In case you don't know what the Mystery Method is, LL Cool Jew once described it as a means of "teaching ugly virgins to insult women they want to sleep with within three minutes of meeting them to confuse and unbalance them, thereby exploiting unstable women's attraction to emotional retards and abusers," resulting in "lots and lots of nerd virgins eager to pay Mystery to teach them what wife-beaters have known for years--that misogyny is a powerful aphrodisiac to insecure women." An essential concept in the Mystery Method skill set involves the use of "negs," which are backhanded compliments intended to lower a mark's "value," thus causing her to want to "qualify" to sleep with the dude doing the "negging" to compensate for her insecurities. I should add that this effect is enhanced by the dude "peacocking," which involves adorning oneself with garish fluffy tophats, chrome aviation goggles, and cloaks that look like something an Anne Rice-loving drag queen would rock at a Renaissance Faire. Woe betide the douchebag who attempts to bed me with such piss-poor game. For one thing, it's unnecessary since I'm a big slut. For another, it will only piss me off, and then we'll see who leaves the situation feeling insecure and unqualified. One time this fat, ugly guy peacocking with a combover, stonewashed jeans, and an appletini (*scoff*) rated me "a seven" after he rated LL Cool Jew--who is married and thus off the market--"a ten." As I was the available girl in our two-set, he was trying to make me want to bang him based on the fact that my friend is hotter than me. It failed. I gave him my best bitch-face and said, "Oh yeah? Well, you're a FOUR." Especially now that I've discovered a hidden talent for drink-throwing, the Mystery wannabes dropping negs on my Razzified ass like bombs on Hiroshima had best keep their distance and behave themselves if they don't want to be scrubbing scotch out of their crushed velvet lapels.
Why does Jack Nicholson need to use this strategy anyway? I realize that he's a septugenarian, but he's still Jack Fucking Nicholson! He's rich, he's famous, and he sits courtside at Laker games. I would think that even at his ripe old age, he could just pull out his weiner, say "I'm Jack Nicholson," and let the object of his affection put two and two together and start sucking. He doesn't need to waste time inventing negs or developing a lame "avatar" (another key feature of the Mystery Method, this involves coming up with an idiotic nickname like "Ajax" or "The Matador" and wearing absurd fashion ensembles that look like the bastard spawn of a pair of fuzzy dice and an off-the-rack pimp costume from Party World.) Jack Nicholson's star just faded dramatically now that I know he has to rely on seduction tactics commonly employed by socially inept fucktards who spend all their copious down time playing Halo and jacking off to Cinemax.
What a fucking loser. And that's not a neg fishing for action with Jack or anyone else attending Mystery's school of douchebaggery. That's just a straight-up neg for the sake of negativity.
Labels: assholes, LL Cool Jew, movies, overcompensation, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts
Friday, February 08, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Joanne Raine
DOB: 1989
Occupation: idiot teenager
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Darlington, United Kingdom
Douchebaggery: Like many teenagers, Joanne thought her relationship with her boyfriend was going to last forever. Therefore, she decided to drop 80 pounds sterling on a tattoo to commemorate her dedication to their legendary love affair. She decided on what she thought were Chinese characters that spelled her boyfriend's nickname, Roo.
As always occurs, the tattoo symbolizing their burning love was more permanent than the relationship. Joanne has since dumped Roo, and a fateful trip to her local City Wok informed her that her tattoo actually spells "supermarket." I've always thought that if I were a tattoo artist, my number one order of business would be learning how to spell "douchebag" in Chinese characters, so that I could tattoo that on every person requesting some dumb sentiment in Chinese. I guess at least one tattoo artist somewhere in England had this same idea, except with "supermarket" instead. I would have inked her with characters meaning "prat" or "wanker" or some other sufficiently British term for "asshole" or "douchebag," but whatever. I guess "supermarket" is still a pretty lame statement to be making with your body ink. On the bright side, at least Joanne's dumb ass isn't stuck with an indelible rendering of her ex-boyfriend's name on her stomach.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, sluts
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Nick Manning
Aliases: Rick Manning, Dand Lee Strickland
DOB: May 28, 1967
Occupation: Per his website, "worldclass athlete, runway & print model, mainstream actor, porn star." He's also a would-be ringtone tycoon and entrepreneur extraordinaire
Hometown: Chicago, Illinois
Current residence: Porn Valley, Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Nick Manning is the star of such memorable films as Chronicles of a Pervert, Sick Girls Need Sick Boys, and Bum Plumbers. His trademark is apparently shouting "dropping loads" during the money shot of the film. I don't know if I've ever seen him performing because I tend to tune out unremarkable male porn stars, and frankly, the heads of their penises are more commonly shown in porn than the heads on their shoulders. I'm pretty sure that I would have remembered a guy who shouted, "droppin' loads all over your face...all over the fuckin' room! Eat it up! Manning mayonnaise." (GROSS!) I did see Island Fever which he supposedly was in, but I don't remember this dude shouting about the loads he was droppin' all over Tera Patrick.
I guess Nick Manning's been watching Donny Deutsch, because he seems intent upon improving recognition and expanding his brand. He's gotten into directing and producing cinematic classics like Squirting Showers and Pretty Little Cum Catchers as well as starring in them. He's gotten into merchandising, and sells unappealingly named sex toys such as Nick Manning's Masturstroke Kit and Nick Manning's Body Slam Masturbator. Finally, he's trying to carve out his own niche the lucrative ringtone business.
A Nick Manning fan might wander over to his website and realize that for a paltry $4.99, they too could have a phone that heralds incoming calls or text messages with "droppin' loads all over your cellphone!" I somehow restrained myself from purchasing one of Nick Manning's signature ringtones, if only because I still haven't yet gotten tired of arriving calls announced via a sultry declaration that "it's Britney, bitch!" Also, it's got to be pretty embarrassing to be associated with a phone that interrupts a meeting with a crude ejaculation reference. However, I must commend Nick for going beyond a somewhat creepy, beat-down cut rate Lorenzo Lamas wannabe who gets paid $50 per dropped load. He's clearly taken the master's degree in "human relations" he claims to have from Loyola University and put it to good use. I expect Nick Manning to get the AVN Jenna Jameson Crossover Award for his business acumen, because he's droppin' loads all over the ringtone game. Nick Manning's media empire is going to be a corporate force to reckon with any time now.
Labels: capitalism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, porn, ridiculous absurdity, sluts
Monday, January 28, 2008
Mary Kay started it
I was just reading the day's headlines on CNN and found an article that suggested that some states were going to crack down on the seemingly recent epidemic of teachers boning their teenaged students. I read it and got annoyed, and not only because Missouri state representative Jane Cunningham thinks she's Theodore Roosevelt:
All these other hater teachers from other states are biting Mary Kay LeTourneau and her beloved Vili Fualaau's style, and it's just not right that this groundbreaking AP investigation didn't go straight to the source and ask Governor Gregoire--or at least some no-name state legislators--what the fuck can be done about it. Washington state was the first to place a student-porking elementary school teacher in the national media spotlight, so it seems only fair that we should get interviewed first. Instead, my former state of residence gets all but ignored in favor of Governor Eliot Spitzer from my current state of residence, saying some bullshit about how teachers who bang their students will get suspended. Let me congratulate New York on its progressive reforms in the area of student-fucking consequences with a resounding DUH! That's not how you handle these situations. In Washington, we hang 'em high! Or at least make them do a few years of hard time at the Purdy Women's Correctional Facility down the highway from my parents' beach house. The point is, Washington figured out how to handle this after Mary Kay and Vili hit the news: fuck this bureaucratic credential-rules-changing bullshit and prosecute the teacher for statutory rape. Then it hits the national news, and the teacher never works again.
Even if Washington and the P-N-Dub's heroic, simple, and totally effective efforts to curb teacher-student sex did get the shaft in this investigation, at least maybe all this media attention on children effing their trusted educators will result in something undeniably positive: an excuse to show reruns of "All-American Girl: The Mary Kay LeTourneau Story" on Lifetime, starring Penelope Ann Miller as MKLT. That was the best Lifetime movie ever. If anything, it shed some light as to why MKLT forsook her husband and four children to bone the overgelled and pubestachioed tween Vili Fualaau. Her husband was a dick, and she had daddy issues, and she wasn't getting any, and that Vili Fualaau was a smooth talker. He may have only been thirteen, but in the movie he was spitting some game straight out of a Billy Dee Williams Colt 45 commercial. God, I probably would have even fucked Vili Fualaau, and I hate kids! I hate kids so much I want to drop-kick them when I see them, but Vili Fualaau had something going on. He was such a pick-up artist that he could teach Robert Sylvester Kelly a thing or two about being a flirt. If Vili Fualaau in real life is anything like the stunningly accomplished actor who played him in the Lifetime movie, I can hardly blame MKLT for succumbing to his seductive wiles. Plus, he looked like he was hot in the sack. Like I said, best. Lifetime. Movie! EVER!
States get tough on classroom sexual misconductExcuse me, "Associated Press" or whatever your name is who wrote this article, but why did you only give Washington state a passing mention? There's nary a single sound bite from someone in the Dub-A about how we're cracking down on teacher molestation, and that's truly an inexcusable journalistic oversight. We started this trend! Remember these two lovebirds?
(AP) Heeding a steady drumbeat of sexual misconduct cases involving teachers, at least 15 states are now considering stronger oversight and tougher punishment for educators who take advantage of their students.
Lawmakers say they are concerned about an increasingly well-documented phenomenon: While the vast majority of America's teachers are committed professionals, there also is a persistent problem with sexual misconduct in U.S. schools.
When abuse happens, administrators too often fail to let others know about it, and too many legal loopholes let offenders stay in the classroom.
Advocates include governors, education superintendents and legislative leaders.
"We've got to be on a bully pulpit with our school districts," said Missouri state Rep. Jane Cunningham.
Cunningham's legislation would eliminate statutes of limitation for sexual misconduct, allowing victims to come forward and bring charges against abusers no matter how many years had passed since the crime.
The ideas emerging in state capitals come at a time when U.S. media have been reporting steadily on individual cases, along with more in-depth examinations of the problem.
A nationwide Associated Press investigation published in October found 2,570 educators whose teaching credentials were revoked, denied, surrendered or sanctioned from 2001 through 2005 following allegations of sexual misconduct. Experts who track sexual abuse say those cases are representative of a much deeper problem because of underreporting.
In eight states, leaders pushing changes said the AP investigation had inspired their proposals. Others said they had grown concerned from individual cases of abuse in their states, or other news reports that looked at the problem locally or in their state.
In New York, Gov. Eliot Spitzer supports automatic suspension of teachers convicted of sex crimes, which now requires lengthy hearings. In Maine, Gov. John Baldacci hopes to share the names of abusive teachers with other states, which a 1913 confidentiality law there prohibits.
In Florida, Gov. Charlie Crist endorsed federal legislation proposed by U.S. Rep. Adam Putnam, a Florida Republican, to create a national databank of abusive teachers, a hot line for complaints and federal funds for state investigators.
Some states are looking to increase penalties, expand background checks or broaden their ability to police charter schools for abuse, like Indiana, Massachusetts and Utah. Kentucky and South Carolina are considering making it illegal for teachers to have sex with older students.
Several states are tackling a major problem -- the loopholes that allow problem teachers to move from one school district to another, or from one state to another.
The AP investigation found that what education officials commonly call "passing the trash" happens when districts allow a teacher to quietly leave a school, or fail to report problems to state authorities, or fail to check with state authorities before hiring a teacher, among other glitches.
In eight states, legislators are pursuing changes to close those gaps, including California, Colorado, Florida, Minnesota, Missouri, Virginia, Washington state and West Virginia.
"Despite acts of misconduct that were threatening and dangerous in schools, there is a track record of people going on to another school district and finding employment," said Missouri state Senate President Pro Tem Michael Gibbons. "The new school district may get the truth, but they don't get the whole truth about this person's background.
They may find out the dates of service, they may find out this person was dismissed, but there really is no other information forthcoming."
His legislation aims to get school employees and districts to share all information about job-hunting teachers, including whether those educators sexually abused their students, by granting administrators civil immunity from lawsuits.
Other states approach the same problem differently. A Colorado measure being drafted would penalize school districts and state officials that fail to report problem teachers, while a West Virginia proposal would open school officials themselves to punishment. Florida would bar any confidentiality agreement between districts and teachers, and require districts to report every firing to the state.
In California, one proposal would close a loophole that bars the teacher credentialing commission from revealing the reason teachers lose their licenses if they plead no contest to an offense.
Under no contest pleas, defendants are punished as if they pleaded guilty, but retain the right to challenge the charges against them in lawsuits and other proceedings. Such deals have meant public records were unclear about why educator licenses were sanctioned in dozens of cases, the AP found.
"You should not be able to plead no contest to a sex offense just so you can continue teaching," said state Sen. Bob Margett. The measure means teachers who plead no contest would immediately lose their license, and the reason for the revocation would be public record.
Some say the latest legislation is just the beginning.
South Carolina has created a new committee of parents, teachers, social workers and prosecutors to study the problem and come back with new ideas.
Though small statistically, the number of abusive teachers is too high, South Carolina Education Superintendent Jim Rex wrote after reading the AP report.
"I am nonetheless outraged by any incident in which an adult entrusted with the care of one of South Carolina's students violates that student. The ramifications for that student, his or her family, and the community as a whole are painful and long lasting," he wrote.
In Utah, the numbers of abuses flat-out shocked state Rep. Carl Wimmer. "These things happen a lot more often than parents would think," he said. "It seems we do have an unacceptable high amount of children who get violated in the classroom. One is too many."
Even if Washington and the P-N-Dub's heroic, simple, and totally effective efforts to curb teacher-student sex did get the shaft in this investigation, at least maybe all this media attention on children effing their trusted educators will result in something undeniably positive: an excuse to show reruns of "All-American Girl: The Mary Kay LeTourneau Story" on Lifetime, starring Penelope Ann Miller as MKLT. That was the best Lifetime movie ever. If anything, it shed some light as to why MKLT forsook her husband and four children to bone the overgelled and pubestachioed tween Vili Fualaau. Her husband was a dick, and she had daddy issues, and she wasn't getting any, and that Vili Fualaau was a smooth talker. He may have only been thirteen, but in the movie he was spitting some game straight out of a Billy Dee Williams Colt 45 commercial. God, I probably would have even fucked Vili Fualaau, and I hate kids! I hate kids so much I want to drop-kick them when I see them, but Vili Fualaau had something going on. He was such a pick-up artist that he could teach Robert Sylvester Kelly a thing or two about being a flirt. If Vili Fualaau in real life is anything like the stunningly accomplished actor who played him in the Lifetime movie, I can hardly blame MKLT for succumbing to his seductive wiles. Plus, he looked like he was hot in the sack. Like I said, best. Lifetime. Movie! EVER!
Labels: crime and punishment, destroy all children, P-N-Dub, politics, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sexual assault, TV
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Angelique from "Rock of Love 2"
Name: Angelique
DOB: ???
Occupation: stripping, having discount breast augmentation and lip plumping injections
Hometown: somewhere in France
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: In case anyone is not clued into the premise of the masterpiece of "celebreality" known as Vh1's "Rock of Love 2," it's basically an effort to find a girlfriend for Poison's lead singer Bret Michaels from a cadre of washed-up musicians, strippers, and webcam whores. The girl who won the inaugural "Rock of Love," Jes, wound up hating Bret and made it sound like she was forced at gunpoint to participate, and now Vh1 is trying again to find the right girl for Bret and the ridiculous extensions that have replaced his bandana as his baldness amelioration technique of choice. Here's Vh1's unintentionally hilarious description of this show:
If there was ever any doubt about Bret Michaels' status as a Rock God, season one of Rock of Love put all those doubts to rest. The enormous success of the show proved two things: Bret continues to draw in fans by the millions -- and his appeal to women has never waned. The women who competed for Bret's heart in season one made one thing very clear from the very beginning -- they wanted Bret, and they were willing to do whatever they could to win his heart. Now, twenty new women will lay it all on the line for their chance at the ultimate rock-and-roll romance. And this time, it will be bigger and better than ever, because as any rock fan knows -- the best part of any rock-and-roll show is always the encore!In other words, this show is Bret's shot at staying relevant, as well as an excuse to treat the audience to clips of "Unskinny Bop" and "Every Rose Has its Thorn" (the go-to song of choice when Bret is tormented trying to select which slags "will face the cruel sting of elimination"). Naturally, Bret has all the tools necessary to select the beat groupie of his dreams: a fully stocked liquor cabinet, a bodyguard/butler, a pool, and a stripper pole. Too bad Bret doesn't even need to put these hookers through all the ridiculous extreme sports-based challenges, because I've already spotted the woman for him. She is French, and therefore the epitome of class and sophistication:
VH1 and 51 Minds Entertainment will give these twenty sexy, saucy ladies a chance to prove they have what it takes to win Bret's heart. After moving into a super-sized rock star mansion, the women will be put to the test. Each week, they will have to prove to Bret they are worthy of sharing his spotlight. They'll show off their own special talents, and demonstrate their mental and physical ferocity in an effort to win some much-coveted one-on-one time with Bret. Can they go all out in the high-adrenaline activities Bret loves, and still clean up for a sexy nightcap? Can they work together to protect Bret's progeny from a group of crazed super fans? And perhaps most importantly, can they fend off the fierce competition from the other women in the house also vying for Bret's attention and affection?
Girls who are successful in the challenges will reap the rewards afforded to a Rock God's companion: dates, presents and jet-setting trips that will truly embody what it means to "party like a rock star". The unfortunate women who fail to entice Bret will face the cruel sting of elimination. And as the world saw last season, the competition will be intense - because in the end, Bret will choose only one lucky lady to be his "Rock of Love".
Rock On!
Angelique doesn't rest on her laurels and let all her discount surgeon's hard work go to waste. She immediately gets busy demonstrating her talents and impeccably done physical enhancements by making herself right at home:
Okay, sing it with me...you know the words since it's been cued at least five times in this episode so far: Don't need nothin'...but a good time...how can I resist?
As the incomparable Robert Sylvester Kelly once said, "she comin' down the pole, no secret why I'm here...it's cause you keep my donk on swole." If Bret Michaels's donk is anything but "on swole" after such a performance he might want to talk to his doctor about options for managing his ED as well as his male pattern baldness.
Once bitten by the stripping bug, Angelique just can't stop. Later, Bret decides to photograph the girls, and Angelique decides that this is her chance to make a good impression.
Usually I detest all things French (except the food...I love me some cream sauces and steak au poivre), but in Angelique's case, I will make an exception. I expect her to be a beloved television personality on par with Omarosa, Tila Tequila, or even the inimitable Tiffany "New York" Pollard, at least assuming she can continue to "entice" the discriminating Mr. Michaels. Last episode she finished second-to-last, and I'm concerned that Bret's dumb ass might once again make the wrong choice. There is no better woman in this competition than Angelique. She is tres hot and sexy, and Bret would be a fool not to at least have sex wis her in zis pool.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, nudity, ridiculous absurdity, Rock of Love, sluts, Vh1
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Mae yao jeh huan
Last Friday was my platonic life partner J-Sexy's farewell party for her tits. She's getting a breast reduction this Friday. Before all the breast men and women out there gasp, never fear. She's going from a triple D to just a single D, so she'll still have a great rack, but considerably less back pain.
Anyway, to wish her cans Godspeed and safe passage, we went to this restaurant on the Upper West Side which has the distinction of offering FREE WINE with dinner. Of course the wine comes from a box labeled "Franzia," but swill is swill and drunks like us will suck it down anyway with cheap-ass Chinese food.
After dinner, I realized that in addition to the free hooch and the tasty scallion pancakes, they actually have the most accurate fortune cookies in the world. Most of the time I immediately forget my fortune, unless it's something too striking to ignore. In college, I got a fortune that said, "You have a future in medical research." TRUE! I kept that one in my wallet for years. In fact, I might still have it in my box of college crap. On Friday, I got another equally true fortune.
"Holy shit, dudes," I said as I opened it. "On the back, my fortune is teaching me how to say 'still single' in Chinese. Mae yao jeh huan. It even clarifies that 'still single' means 'not married'!"
"You lying bitch!" said J-Sexy. "That is ridicolos. It does not say 'still single'!"
"Yes, it does!" I showed her. Then I flipped it over to see my fortune. Nothing could be more fitting than this:
The only way that cookie could be more right is if it said "SHA RIGHT" instead of "yeah, right!" And it was a true predictor of the future. Indeed, I did not avoid the opposite sex. Or the same sex, for that matter. It might as well have just taught me how to say "I'm a slut" in Chinese. Which, now that I think of it, would be useful to know.
Anyway, to wish her cans Godspeed and safe passage, we went to this restaurant on the Upper West Side which has the distinction of offering FREE WINE with dinner. Of course the wine comes from a box labeled "Franzia," but swill is swill and drunks like us will suck it down anyway with cheap-ass Chinese food.
After dinner, I realized that in addition to the free hooch and the tasty scallion pancakes, they actually have the most accurate fortune cookies in the world. Most of the time I immediately forget my fortune, unless it's something too striking to ignore. In college, I got a fortune that said, "You have a future in medical research." TRUE! I kept that one in my wallet for years. In fact, I might still have it in my box of college crap. On Friday, I got another equally true fortune.
"Holy shit, dudes," I said as I opened it. "On the back, my fortune is teaching me how to say 'still single' in Chinese. Mae yao jeh huan. It even clarifies that 'still single' means 'not married'!"
"You lying bitch!" said J-Sexy. "That is ridicolos. It does not say 'still single'!"
"Yes, it does!" I showed her. Then I flipped it over to see my fortune. Nothing could be more fitting than this:
The only way that cookie could be more right is if it said "SHA RIGHT" instead of "yeah, right!" And it was a true predictor of the future. Indeed, I did not avoid the opposite sex. Or the same sex, for that matter. It might as well have just taught me how to say "I'm a slut" in Chinese. Which, now that I think of it, would be useful to know.
Labels: hilarious shit, J-Sexy, NYC, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, sluts
Friday, December 14, 2007
My gambling problem
So yesterday my ex-boyfriend Benzo, outspoken Boston sports fan extraordinaire, expressed interest in making a friendly wager with me concerning my prediction that the Miami Water Dogs will defeat the New England Patriots, thus spoiling their unbeaten record a week from this Sunday. He thinks otherwise, and is willing to back it up with a bet. I am willing to stand by my prediction, however improbable it might seem. It's just ridiculous enough to work! And I will gladly accept his wager, though I am too poor to make the stakes financially interesting.
Well, he doesn't know how to bet without money, so he wants me come up with the terms. I figured if I lose, I will write a lengthy blog posting extolling the virtues of the Hatriots, exploring the sweatshirt-mediated disgust that has evolved into a so-wrong-it's-right lust to hate-fuck Bill Belichick, and rhapsodizing over Tom Brady's rugged good looks AND sweet passer rating. I will celebrate their perfect season, join the Randy Moss fan club, and offer my services as a spy to them any time they need it. I will also post pictures of myself topless with "Go Patriots" or something like written on my tits. In fact, if anyone has Patriot gear they want to loan me, I'll wear that too (sorry, I draw the line at investing in wearable Pats logo products I'd rather wipe my ass with). Basically, I will humiliate myself publicly if I lose this bet.
However, since I'm NOT going to lose and the Dolphins WILL beat the Patriots, I need to come up with something good for Benzo to do if HE loses. At first I was like, "He should wear a Seahawks shirt every Sunday for the rest of the season," but that's not very creative and there's not a lot of 12th men here in New York to appreciate that. Besides, how would I know he was making good on the bet? I correspond with Benzo via e-mail and blog comments much more than I see him in person, so how could I even be sure he was wearing Seahawks gear as promised? I also think that, since Vegas probably has the Patriots winning this game by approximately 10,000 points, the payoff should be bigger if I am right. Therefore, in the interest of appeasing Patriots haters everywhere, I am posing this question to the internets.
What would you really like to see an (obnoxious, mouthy, smartassed) Boston sports fan do if the Patriots lose to the Dolphins (short of nudity or suicide, because I can tell you right now Benzo won't do either of those things)? What is the most humiliating thing a Patriots fan could do?
I have some other ideas, but why have all the fun myself? I may as well share it with my lovely Pats-despising Razzyphiles. So weigh in with some commentary.
And in the meantime, enjoy this video of Tom Brady's greatest pouty sadfaces:
Well, he doesn't know how to bet without money, so he wants me come up with the terms. I figured if I lose, I will write a lengthy blog posting extolling the virtues of the Hatriots, exploring the sweatshirt-mediated disgust that has evolved into a so-wrong-it's-right lust to hate-fuck Bill Belichick, and rhapsodizing over Tom Brady's rugged good looks AND sweet passer rating. I will celebrate their perfect season, join the Randy Moss fan club, and offer my services as a spy to them any time they need it. I will also post pictures of myself topless with "Go Patriots" or something like written on my tits. In fact, if anyone has Patriot gear they want to loan me, I'll wear that too (sorry, I draw the line at investing in wearable Pats logo products I'd rather wipe my ass with). Basically, I will humiliate myself publicly if I lose this bet.
However, since I'm NOT going to lose and the Dolphins WILL beat the Patriots, I need to come up with something good for Benzo to do if HE loses. At first I was like, "He should wear a Seahawks shirt every Sunday for the rest of the season," but that's not very creative and there's not a lot of 12th men here in New York to appreciate that. Besides, how would I know he was making good on the bet? I correspond with Benzo via e-mail and blog comments much more than I see him in person, so how could I even be sure he was wearing Seahawks gear as promised? I also think that, since Vegas probably has the Patriots winning this game by approximately 10,000 points, the payoff should be bigger if I am right. Therefore, in the interest of appeasing Patriots haters everywhere, I am posing this question to the internets.
What would you really like to see an (obnoxious, mouthy, smartassed) Boston sports fan do if the Patriots lose to the Dolphins (short of nudity or suicide, because I can tell you right now Benzo won't do either of those things)? What is the most humiliating thing a Patriots fan could do?
I have some other ideas, but why have all the fun myself? I may as well share it with my lovely Pats-despising Razzyphiles. So weigh in with some commentary.
And in the meantime, enjoy this video of Tom Brady's greatest pouty sadfaces:
Labels: Assachusetts, Benzo, fuck the Pats, NFL football, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Mutton Bustin'
Shockingly, this is not the title of some redneck porn. Not shockingly, this is apparently a sport that goes down every year at my hometown's annual claim to fame, the Puyallup Fair. A local country music station sponsors this fake bullriding competition to facilitate fairgoers better Doing the Puyallup, but to ensure that all the fat trailer trash and enfeebled meth addicts from the outlying areas aren't injured, they ride sheep instead...hence, the "mutton" in "Mutton Bustin'."
Thanks a lot, Puyallup Fair, for allowing this event and for letting some slag put up a clip of it on YouTube. As if my town doesn't already have enough of a bad reputation for doing cracker-type stuff, you have to actually sponsor an exhibit based on a sheep-riding theme. Given that our state's need for anti-bestiality legislation was apparently precipitated by activities going on in the greater Puyallup metropolitan area ("metropolitan"=used EXTREMELY loosely here), I don't think that offering the opportunity to mount a bucking sheep is helping people Do the Puyallup in any kind of wholesome way. You can do it at a trot, you can do it at a gallop, and you can do it to a sheep? Puyallup doesn't need its already dismal reputation concerning the prevalence of daffodils and criminal man-on-livestock sex brought further down by our eponymous Fair condoning bareback sheep rides. I'm totally writing a letter to the editor of the Tacoma News Tribune and the Pierce County Herald when I drop into the P-N-Dub next week. The good, non-animal-fucking people of Puyallup and unincorporated Pierce County will not have the name of our beloved Fair besmirched in such a vulgar and perverted manner. Down with Mutton Bustin'!
Thanks a lot, Puyallup Fair, for allowing this event and for letting some slag put up a clip of it on YouTube. As if my town doesn't already have enough of a bad reputation for doing cracker-type stuff, you have to actually sponsor an exhibit based on a sheep-riding theme. Given that our state's need for anti-bestiality legislation was apparently precipitated by activities going on in the greater Puyallup metropolitan area ("metropolitan"=used EXTREMELY loosely here), I don't think that offering the opportunity to mount a bucking sheep is helping people Do the Puyallup in any kind of wholesome way. You can do it at a trot, you can do it at a gallop, and you can do it to a sheep? Puyallup doesn't need its already dismal reputation concerning the prevalence of daffodils and criminal man-on-livestock sex brought further down by our eponymous Fair condoning bareback sheep rides. I'm totally writing a letter to the editor of the Tacoma News Tribune and the Pierce County Herald when I drop into the P-N-Dub next week. The good, non-animal-fucking people of Puyallup and unincorporated Pierce County will not have the name of our beloved Fair besmirched in such a vulgar and perverted manner. Down with Mutton Bustin'!
Labels: bestiality, gross, hilarious shit, P-N-Dub, PWT, ridiculous absurdity, sexy delicious animals
Friday, November 30, 2007
The wit and wisdom of Lil' Wayne
A site that LL Cool Jew got me reading, Bossip.com, has some choice quotes from Dwayne "Lil' Wayne" Carter's interview with Complex magazine. The cover of the magazine itself has a choice quote ("I'm a Martian, and if you understand me, then you're Jesus") that seems to answer the question asked by the cover: Is Lil' Wayne crazy?
The answer would seem to be yes, especially when reading some of the other sound bites Weezy Fuckin' Baby spouts in the article. For starters, his conversations with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. about how to handle beef personally:
Then again, has Lil' Wayne actually killed anyone? I don't know anyone he has issues with besides the dudes who defected from Cash Money ages ago, and last time anyone checked, Terius "Juvenile" Gray was still eating fish and shrimp po' boys while checking out the finest corpulent asses strolling by on St. James. Who is that teardrop for if not the enemy that Martin Luther King condones him offing?
Also, I know Dr. King also didn't make any mention of how being arrested multiple times for possession of weed and/or enough vicodin to knock out an army and being one's adopted father's (a pigeon-call spouting cocaine dealer prior to taking the helm of Cash Money records) down-low sloppy bottom fits into his dream of a harmonious society, but I guess we can thank Lil' Wayne, fresh off planet Mars, for his brilliant modern interpretation of Dr. King's civil rights goals. Tha Carter continues to serve mankind most admirably, and this I understand. Does that now make me Jesus?
You’d expect me to pay somebody to do it? You supposed to be able to do anything in this world. That’s what Martin Luther King told me. He ain’t never put a specific on what to [do]. He said you can do anything. "Kill" falls under that.Ah, yes, Tha Carter is surely living in a nation where he is judged not by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character. I'm sure that if he hadn't been murdered himself, MLK would surely suggest that Lil' Wayne's tattoo teardrops were representative of how the civil rights movement has achieved its goals. Lucky for Lil' Wayne there wasn't a specific clause against murdering those who talk shit about you in their rap songs in the "I Have a Dream" speech, because the lack therof has allowed Weezy to do his part to ensure the realization of Dr. King's dream.
Then again, has Lil' Wayne actually killed anyone? I don't know anyone he has issues with besides the dudes who defected from Cash Money ages ago, and last time anyone checked, Terius "Juvenile" Gray was still eating fish and shrimp po' boys while checking out the finest corpulent asses strolling by on St. James. Who is that teardrop for if not the enemy that Martin Luther King condones him offing?
Also, I know Dr. King also didn't make any mention of how being arrested multiple times for possession of weed and/or enough vicodin to knock out an army and being one's adopted father's (a pigeon-call spouting cocaine dealer prior to taking the helm of Cash Money records) down-low sloppy bottom fits into his dream of a harmonious society, but I guess we can thank Lil' Wayne, fresh off planet Mars, for his brilliant modern interpretation of Dr. King's civil rights goals. Tha Carter continues to serve mankind most admirably, and this I understand. Does that now make me Jesus?
Labels: Birdman, crazies, down with OPB (other people's blogs), hilarous shit, Lil' Wayne, ridiculous absurdity
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Details magazine
DOB: ??
Occupation: giving men some bullshit ideas
Douchebaggery: I take back what I said a while back about Details being a useful men's magazine after seeing the above cover of their "Power and Influence" issue. While I certainly agree with a polemic against fake tits and I think all parents should ask themselves whether they are raising douchebag children, I simply cannot fathom why KEVIN FUCKING FEDERLINE is the poster boy for the world's 50 most influential men under 45. WHAT?
Okay, K-Fed looks like parent of the year compared to his ex-wife, but the kid-eating witch from "Hansel and Gretel" could probably seem more competent at child-rearing than the legendary Ms. Britney Spears. I wouldn't call that "influential," unless somehow men are all being influenced to not procreate wildly with meth-smoking, club-hopping, vadge-flashing, nappily beweaved trainwrecks. Even worse, K-Fed tied with Anna Nicole's twink baby daddy for number SEVEN on the list, right between fools defaulting on their mortgages and Muqtada al-Sadr! Granted, the whole list reads like it was put together by some thirteen-year-old asshole who decided to get high and pick bullshit names out of a hat. The top ten include:
1. Zac Efron, Shia LeBouef, and the Disney kids
2. The Surge (as in Iraq war troop surge)
3. Mark Zuckerberg (inventor of Facebook...I guess Tom from MySpace is obsolete)
4. The Bible Beaters (because they're all turning out to be homo-ass hypocrites, probably)
5. Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold (even after EIGHT FUCKING YEARS, the Trenchcoat Mafia influences countless Details readers...to shoot up their schools)
6. The Subprime Sucker/Mortgage Defaulter (WHAT?!)
7. Kevin Federline and Larry Birkhead
8. Muqtada al-Sadr
9. The word "faggot" (I'm not kidding...Details declares this word "forever young")
10. Howard Wolfson, polical consultant for Hillary Clinton (wait, Hill's consultant makes the list but no Barack Obama? I thought he would be #1! Details is apparently endorsing the Efron-LeBouef presidential ticket. High School Musical in the White House!)
Details should be taken out of print immediately for having such asinine ideas about "power and influence." The only dudes up there who seem to be in the right spot on the list are the Facebook guy and the neo-con Jesus freaks. The solitary thing I can think of in praise of this magazine is that they put K-Fed on the cover rather than Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold getting ready to shoot the fuck out of Columbine High School. Otherwise, this list is just mystifying. How are K-Fed and Larry Birkhead more influential than the head Shiite cleric in charge over in Iraq? Sorry, but I think that commanding an armed militia of religious warriors constitutes greater power and influence than dudes who hit the jackpot by knocking up rich white trash. Details just lost all credibility with me in spite of their campaigns against fake tits and douchebag children. The devil's in the Details!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, intentional buffoonery, oh the horror, overcompensation, ridiculous absurdity
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Happy Kellsgiving!
Here in the glorious United States of Asskickery, the day after Thanksgiving is known as "Black Friday." From now on, for LL Cool Jew and myself anyway, it will be known as "Black, Handsome, Sings, Plus is Rich, and Is a Flirt Friday." Because that's the day we saw the mind-blowing awesomeness that is Robert Sylvester Kelly LIVE IN CONCERT ON LONG ISLAND!!!!!!!!--hold on, this isn't accurately conveying how I feel about this experience--!!!!!!!!!!****!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!****
The R. Kelly concert was every bit as unbelievable as you might imagine. Or maybe you wouldn't imagine it to be so eventful, since it's come to my attention that in spite of Kells attracting a new audience of despicable hipsters thanks to the IFC's embracing of "Trapped in the Closet," a lot of people still don't appreciate the genius of Robert Sylvester Kelly. However, as Kelefah Sanneh of the New York Times promised, it is indeed two and a half hours of "nothing but climax" and the incomparable King of R&B being "thrilling, hilarious, and downright mystifying, often all at once."
Even the trip to Long Island was thrilling, hilarious, and downright mystifying, because the dumbass morons who built the Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum DIDN'T BUILD IT ON THE LIRR. Who the fuck builds a stadium in a place where it is as difficult to reach by public transportation as possible? To get there, we had to take the LIRR to some godforsaken stop an hour from the city and then take a Nassau County bus. We made the train at the last minute and proceeded to get down to business acting like a couple of dumb kids, taking pictures of ourselves with what LL Cool Jew refers to as her "teenager phone" (due to its garish orange color and fancy pop-out texting keyboard and windows):
As we neared the Hempstead stop, it became apparent that all the other passengers were also going there for one reason: KELLS. Why the hell else would anyone go to Hempstead? I guess Hofstra is right by there, but our train was devoid of college kids. Instead there was this cute Haitian couple on a date to the Kells show with what seemed like one of their little brothers tagging along, all conversing excitedly in rapid French, and a drunk guy who offered us all pre-Kells swigs from his brown-bagged bottle of Remy.
Upon our arrival in Hempstead, we were relieved to see that the bus stop was indoors, since the N70 bus we had to take wasn't there. When it did arrive, everyone piled on, including a group of very excited women led by a gold-toothed vixen named Keyshia. After listening to her discuss with her friends who the hottest Keyshia would be at the show (her or Keyshia Cole), they proceeded to get everyone on the bus worked up. "The RRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" she was shouting with her friends, which prompted the unnaturally friendly bus driver to get on his intercom and say, "Who here is going to see the RRRRRRRRRR?" When that got a favorable reaction from the bus riders, he added, "Who is going home with the RRRRRRRRRR?"
Keyshia and her crew went berserk. "He's the R in R&B!" one of them exclaimed.
"I think you mean the R-uh in R&B," I corrected her.
"The R-uh! Hell yes!" they crowed, pouring more liquor into their coffee cups. They then proceeded to tell us about all the times they've seen R. Kelly live, and explained that the reason he was playing at such a bitch-to-get-to venue rather than Madison Square Garden was on account of a lawsuit relating to the collapse of the R. Kelly/Jay-Z Best of Both Worlds tour, when Kells cut a set short after seeing someone with a gun in the audience and was maced in the face by some of Jay-Z's people. Alas, it would have been much easier to take the A train a few stops from my crib to the Garden, but then we probably never would have met Keyshia et al and been so remarkably entertained.
When we arrived at the Coliseum stop, we realized we had to cross the Hempstead Turnpike and a gargantuan parking lot. There was no crosswalk, so we were hesitant to race across a six-lane highway, particularly LL Cool Jew, who was wearing one of her standard pairs of cripplingly high stiletto heels. However, Keyshia once again took charge, and announced, "Bus people! Follow me!" before barging right into the road. Luckily we all made it across, and LL Cool Jew was able to snap a picture of me behind a line of the aforementioned "bus people."
After getting to the coliseum and getting through the metal detectors which preceded the ticket takers ("they didn't have these when I came here to see J.T. and Christina Aguilera," noted LL Cool Jew dryly), we proceeded to get situated with Bud Lights in our nosebleed section seats and ignore J. Holiday's opening set. To pass the time until Robert Sylvester Kelly's grand entrance, we speculated on what type of awesomeness could happen. I mentioned that earlier in lab that day, J-Sexy had said to me, "What if you got to meet R. Kelly? Oh my GOD, how ridicolos would it be if you got to DO R. Kelly, Razzy?!?!" LL Cool Jew and I decided to explore that fantastic notion.
"So, if Kells wanted to double up with us, would BigBagel give you a pass?" I asked LL Cool Jew. Her married status generally eliminates the possibility of her having groupie sex, but you never know. Some couples have arrangements. Or so I've heard.
"No WAY," said LL Cool Jew. "You'd have to take it for the team. But just so you know, I'd HAVE TO WATCH." Wouldn't be the first time I've had sex with an audience, but that's another story.
"You'd be the one in the chair, then," I said. This is a reference to the lyric "one in the bed, one in the chair, one massage my toes while one braid my hair" from the R-uh in R&B's album moniker and ode to threesomes "Double Up."
"Yeah, you'd have to be the one on the bed. I'd be in the chair, on braiding detail," agreed LL Cool Jew.
Shortly thereafter, Keyshia Cole came on stage, and after LL Cool Jew and I agreed that she's got a banging body and a great voice but is nonetheless not Mary J. Blige, we were getting impatient for Kells. Both of us were relieved that Ne-yo had dropped out of the tour and thus our Kells-related gratification wouldn't be further delayed by live renditions of "Sexy Love."
Then, after Keyshia went off and there was some hurried stage rearrangement, the moment we waited for arrived. Kells! LL Cool Jew was clever enough to write down his TWO AND A HALF HOUR LONG SET LIST, to augment this very blog posting.
The Champ: For the opening song, Kells ran out in an entirely bedazzled hooded robe saying "The Champ" on the back, with a pair of matching disco ball sneaks. Kells's grand entrance was augmented by an impressive pyrotechnical display. This was followed by a medley of R. Kelly's contributions to his many great collaborations:
That's That Shit: If you're lookin' for some good sex, holler at a player.
Fuckin' You Tonight: Although Kells didn't sing my favorite song in the "I spend money on you, now time to put out" vein, "Don't You Say No," this hook from his collaboration with the legendary Notorious B.I.G. was nonetheless well-received.
Hotel: We in our throwbacks, this is for the ladies, we got room keys. Isn't everything for the ladies? Sadly, Kells did not don a Bears throwback jersey during the show, nor did he offer us a room key. Oh well. Next time.
Wonderful: Kells is at the top of the world and life's a pussy buffet.
So Sexy: Isn't he, though? Twista, however, is NOT, and fortunately, his corpulent ass was not around to
We Thuggin': Take my relief at Twista's absence and multiply it by ten thousand, and you have my feelings about Fat Joe not showing up to duet this one with Kells.
Gigolo: If only Kells were a male prostitute, I know where my next paycheck would be going.
Snake: Nothing--and I mean NOTHING--compares to hearing "I like the way you move your cho-cha, it makes me wanna get to know ya" sung live.
Thoia Thoing: Kells from Chi-town live is even better than Kells "Japan via satellite," whatever the hell that means. I told LL Cool Jew about how I sang this song once at a karaoke bar to great effect, because nothing spices up a lesbian birthday party like me attempting to do the "Thoia Thoing" dance while singing about being "butt-naked with sweat socks and house shoes." What are "house shoes," anyway? Slippers?
Double Up: It's like routine, player.
Tryin' To Get a Number: I somehow suspect that neither Kells nor Nelly have to try that hard.
Hook It Up: Anytime.
An old school rap song that I'm pretty sure was Big Daddy Kane's "Brooklyn Style": Unnecessary, but who knew Kells could rap?
TP-2: Imagine thousands of overweight people singing "I'm horny as hell" and "It's about to get real kinky." Yikes.
Strip For You: When R. Kelly followed "three knocks at the door, now, baby...trenchcoat hits the floor, now baby," with a simulated cunnilingus move with his tongue, all the ladies (translation: 80-90% of the audience) went insane.
"The Loneliest Tongue": I don't know if this is just something Kells made up for this concert, but nothing follows up a silhouetted striptease designed to keep the audience busy during a wardrobe change like an acapella ode to licking snatch. "I'm just a lonely tongue," crooned a close-up of Kells's mouth on the big screens, "Looking for some BODY to lick, looking for some BODY to nibble on." LL Cool Jew and I were speechless. For the rest of the night I preceded everything with, "Well, as I'm just a lonely tongue..."
Seems Like You're Ready: This song ushered in the moment we had anticipated from the Times review. Namely, when R. Kells describes how he won't keep things tame because the audience is ready in the form of having their hair done, nails done, toes done, car washed, and...SIX! HUN! DRED! DOLLAR! WEAVE! Granted, I suspect that most of the weaves I saw went for considerably less than $600, but nonetheless, the ladies in the audience rocking fake hair clearly touched it up in preparation for the hotness that is Kells.
Down Low (Remix): I wonder if Kells and Ronald "Mr. Biggs" Isley regret the title of this song given what being on the down low means these days in the modern urban lexicon.
When a Woman's Fed Up: Not a single one in the audience was fed up from what I could see, but at least one must have been, because she sent her date up by our section to smoke blunts in peace, well away from her. Blunt Guy spent the rest of the concert blowing trees, at least until he fell asleep. Lightweight.
Your Body's Callin': I could hear it calling me.
R&B Thug: YES! YES! YES! I actually got to hear Kells sing, "And when you leave up out my room, you'll be walkin' bow-legged" and "ooh, Kelly, you make me holla, keep on jumpin' like an Impala" LIVE. I can die now. Also, I should add that this was prefaced by Kells noting that "every woman wants a thug with some church in him." True that.
Feelin' On Yo Booty: Yet another classic. The only thing that would be better is if he took out half his impeccably-braided cornrows like in the hotness that is the video for this song.
Ignition (Remix): And not a single bitch in the audience was singing Dave Chapelle's "Piss on You" lyrics to this classic Kells jam.
Fiesta: It was, with my homie from the Midwest-a.
I Wish: LL Cool Jew went nuts, since this is her favorite Kells "serious" song. Mine is "The World's Greatest," which sadly was omitted from this performance.
Real Talk: Kells said, "You're not going to believe this, but I just got a phone call. Hold on just one second while I take care of this." He whips out a cell phone and before he even started in on the "I was at a club with who? GET THE FUCK OUT," LL Cool Jew and I turned to each other and said, "REAL TALK. See, girl."
Make It Rain: As noted before, Fat Joe mercifully did not show up to sing along and to get sexy alongside my beloved Robert Sylvester. Even more mercifully, R. Kelly did not start a riot by pulling a Pac Man Jones and actually "making it rain" on the hoes in the front row. Shit would have gotten crazy had he actually started chucking $100 bills around. However, LL Cool Jew and I did discuss how much more this could have kicked ass had Dwayne Carter, AKA Lil' Wayne AKA Weezy Fuckin' Baby AKA Tha Carter, showed up to do his "yeeeah, I'm in this bitch with the Terror" hook to the song. Sadly, he's probably in jail somewhere and thus indisposed.
I'm a Flirt: While this was awesome, LL Cool Jew and I were seriously lamenting the fact that T-Pain was absent on this tour. I think that if T-Pain and R. Kelly were to tour together, my head might explode with excitement.
The big screens then showed footage of all Kells's entertainer friends wishing him luck on tour, including T-Pain, Common, Fat Joe, Kanye West, Ciara, and Snoop Dogg.
N Luv Wit a Stripper (Remix): "I'm gonna go down on my knees and ask that ass to marry me." Exactly the type of proposal every stripper wants, especially when they have so much in common, as Kells points out ("she's a stripper, I'm a freak"). What woman could say no to a sexy man with lines like "you keep my donk on swole" and "I wanna stick it, I wanna kiss it, if I could I'd stick my whole damn head in it." That's being n luv wit a stripper, trust.
Kells then showed a hilarious segment intended to appease the dudes who had been dragged along to his show on their dates, about all the silly antics he gets up to while he's on tour. "Don't fall asleep, that's the rule," he explained, before showing the consequences of doing so, which primarily involve sticking objects (pen, tissue paper, paper clips) up the slumberer's nose. If he's feeling creative, he might squirt mustard on you, too. That Kells is such a zany prankster!
Go Getta: When I first heard Kells sing "Young Jeeeeeezzzzzzy" I was like, "WHERE THE HELL IS THE SNOWMAN?" I was so hoping he would jiggle out on stage to augment Kells with some ad libs. For all I know, he could have been backstage with his alleged (ex-?) girlfriend Keyshia Cole. Alas, it seems Young Jeezy was back at his Hotlanta trap or whatever, but Kells still sang about coming up out the club with a shitload-a women, so I was happy.
"Make It Purple Rain": I'm unclear as to whether Kells was lauding or mocking Prince or not, but in any event he better watch out. Prince is suing everyone who uses anything that even hints at being about Prince. He's been suing dumbasses putting their YouTube vlogs to the tune of "1999" and "I Feel For You" right and left, and while I would die of happiness and delight if Prince secured an injunction forbidding Smith College acapella groups from ever butchering "When Doves Cry" again, it would be truly sad if he shut down the "Double Up" tour for copyright infringement. Hopefully Kells's tour managers worked out a licensing deal beforehand.
Next to You: Snore. I totally forgot about this song that Kells did with Ciara, but this would have been better spent singing either "The World's Greatest," "Sex Me," or "Leave your Name," all sad omissions from the setlist.
Same Girl: Since Usher is off getting pegged by his tranny man-wife, Kells asked our side of the auditorium to sing Usher's part to this song. Luckily, LL Cool Jew, myself, and every other bitch there knew the words to this song by heart, and were only too happy to oblige by singing "did she go to Georgia Tech?", "does she work for TBS?," and "does she love some Waffle House?" at the proper time.
Put My T-Shirt On: This song was accompanied by a cadre of dudes carrying those t-shirt shooting guns that they used to have at Sonics games. During halftime, when the Squatch was doing a variety of gymnastically impressive, springboard-assisted dunks, dudes in Sonics sweatsuits would shoot team logo shirts into the stands at Key Arena. Apparently, Kells thought this would be a nice touch to augment a song about how he wants to bang his woman because she looks so hot in his t-shirt.
Freaky In the Club: Does Kells get anything else besides freaky in the club? I think not.
Kells's next wardrobe change was augmented by a video tribute to his musical idols: Marvin Gaye, Bob Marley, Tupac Shakur, Biggie, his kids, and HIMSELF. God, I love this man. LOVE HIM!
Let's Get it On: As we just learned, Marvin Gaye is one of Kells's idols, so we were unsurprised that he was singing this. In fact, Marvin Gaye's influence is pretty obvious, considering that with the exception of the odd serious or religious song, almost every song Kells has ever sung
I Wanna Sex You Up: No WAY! Shout out to Color Me Badd? REALLY?! I wonder if Kells really loves this song (thematically it's consistent with his repertoire) or if he just decided to sing it because he pre-funked for his concert by watching the seminal "Beverly Hills, 90210" episode where Donna catches her mom having an affair at the Bel Age Hotel while she's trying to meet Color Me Badd, who end up meeting Kelly, who convinces them to end the episode by cheering up Donna singing "I Adore Mi Amor" acapella to her at the Peach Pit over megaburgers with the gang. I'd be lying if I didn't say that the idea of Robert Sylvester Kelly preparing to bless us with his mackadelic nightspot realness by watching classic episodes of Bev Niner doesn't make me more than just a little bit wet.
Bump 'n' Grind (Old School Remix): Yes! I just heard Kells sing "show me some ID, before I get too deep" LIVE!
You Remind Me of Something: Morrissey'sHair told me that this is the official Razzy ringtone when I call him. It's because I remind him of his jeep, his sound, his car, and his bank account. OBVIOUSLY.
Bump 'n' Grind (Original): Like Tasti-D-Lite or multiple orgasms, you can never really have too much "Bump 'n' Grind." My mind's telling me no...actually no it's not. My mind is saying YES, YES, YES! KELLS!
Charlie Chaplin vaudeville sequence: Part of the show that falls under the heading of "downright mystifying." I don't know if Kells secretly loves silent film slapstick, but this was bizarre. It was even more bizarre in the context of a segue to what came next:
Beethoven's Fifth Symphony/laser light show: Ummm...I don't know if Kells was inspired by a trip to the Philharmonic or something, but I knew it was about to get real when Kells grabbed an oversized conductor's baton and the first dramatic chords of Beethoven's Fifth began echoing through the venue.
The Zoo: And thus began the beginning of the "extended jungle fantasia" that I was so eagerly anticipating. On an aside, LL Cool Jew does the funniest impression of the "ooo ooo ooo ooo aaa aaa aaa aaa" monkey noises from this song. I could listen to her do this all day.
Slow Wind: Finishing off the smoke machine-heavy, Kells-taken-prisoner-by-a-tribe-of-horny-video-vixen-Amazons jungle segment of the performance was J-Sexy's favorite song ever, topped off by a lengthy "You're a Jamaican queen...I'm an American king..." chorus. Beautiful. When I told J-Sexy that she hasn't lived until she's been exhorted by Kells to "put your voodoo on me, babe, kiss my lips and curse me, babe," she agreed that next time his tour comes around, she's getting a ticket.
Step In the Name of Love: An excuse to pull bitches out of the audience and force them to do the stepping dance in unison with R. Kelly. Steppin' is not just a dance, it's a culture, it's the way we live. As there were some big girls dragged up on stage, this was not only highly amusing, it's assured that indeed steppin' is what they eat, think, and breathe.
Happy People featuring extended TV theme medley: I don't know what the "Welcome Back, Kotter" theme song has to do with doubling up or happy people, but I'm not questioning Kells. It was a tremendous finale to a spectacular night. Actually, the most tremendous finale was when he announced that next year, he's blessing us with a new album, TP Fourth Quarter. Trust that I'm preordering that shit!
And speaking of happy people, here are two:
I don't even care that I look fat (because I'm American and I showed my patriotism by being gluttonous as hell on Thanksgiving...U!S!A! U!S!A!). All I know is that LL Cool Jew and I are sipping on the sizzurp (AKA $7 stadium plastic bottle Bud Light) and standing in front of a six-foot high airbrushed image of Kells chomping on a toothpick and looking hot as hell, because he's a player, homie, and that's a well-known factor.
The R. Kelly concert was every bit as unbelievable as you might imagine. Or maybe you wouldn't imagine it to be so eventful, since it's come to my attention that in spite of Kells attracting a new audience of despicable hipsters thanks to the IFC's embracing of "Trapped in the Closet," a lot of people still don't appreciate the genius of Robert Sylvester Kelly. However, as Kelefah Sanneh of the New York Times promised, it is indeed two and a half hours of "nothing but climax" and the incomparable King of R&B being "thrilling, hilarious, and downright mystifying, often all at once."
Even the trip to Long Island was thrilling, hilarious, and downright mystifying, because the dumbass morons who built the Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum DIDN'T BUILD IT ON THE LIRR. Who the fuck builds a stadium in a place where it is as difficult to reach by public transportation as possible? To get there, we had to take the LIRR to some godforsaken stop an hour from the city and then take a Nassau County bus. We made the train at the last minute and proceeded to get down to business acting like a couple of dumb kids, taking pictures of ourselves with what LL Cool Jew refers to as her "teenager phone" (due to its garish orange color and fancy pop-out texting keyboard and windows):
Upon our arrival in Hempstead, we were relieved to see that the bus stop was indoors, since the N70 bus we had to take wasn't there. When it did arrive, everyone piled on, including a group of very excited women led by a gold-toothed vixen named Keyshia. After listening to her discuss with her friends who the hottest Keyshia would be at the show (her or Keyshia Cole), they proceeded to get everyone on the bus worked up. "The RRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" she was shouting with her friends, which prompted the unnaturally friendly bus driver to get on his intercom and say, "Who here is going to see the RRRRRRRRRR?" When that got a favorable reaction from the bus riders, he added, "Who is going home with the RRRRRRRRRR?"
Keyshia and her crew went berserk. "He's the R in R&B!" one of them exclaimed.
"I think you mean the R-uh in R&B," I corrected her.
"The R-uh! Hell yes!" they crowed, pouring more liquor into their coffee cups. They then proceeded to tell us about all the times they've seen R. Kelly live, and explained that the reason he was playing at such a bitch-to-get-to venue rather than Madison Square Garden was on account of a lawsuit relating to the collapse of the R. Kelly/Jay-Z Best of Both Worlds tour, when Kells cut a set short after seeing someone with a gun in the audience and was maced in the face by some of Jay-Z's people. Alas, it would have been much easier to take the A train a few stops from my crib to the Garden, but then we probably never would have met Keyshia et al and been so remarkably entertained.
When we arrived at the Coliseum stop, we realized we had to cross the Hempstead Turnpike and a gargantuan parking lot. There was no crosswalk, so we were hesitant to race across a six-lane highway, particularly LL Cool Jew, who was wearing one of her standard pairs of cripplingly high stiletto heels. However, Keyshia once again took charge, and announced, "Bus people! Follow me!" before barging right into the road. Luckily we all made it across, and LL Cool Jew was able to snap a picture of me behind a line of the aforementioned "bus people."
"So, if Kells wanted to double up with us, would BigBagel give you a pass?" I asked LL Cool Jew. Her married status generally eliminates the possibility of her having groupie sex, but you never know. Some couples have arrangements. Or so I've heard.
"No WAY," said LL Cool Jew. "You'd have to take it for the team. But just so you know, I'd HAVE TO WATCH." Wouldn't be the first time I've had sex with an audience, but that's another story.
"You'd be the one in the chair, then," I said. This is a reference to the lyric "one in the bed, one in the chair, one massage my toes while one braid my hair" from the R-uh in R&B's album moniker and ode to threesomes "Double Up."
"Yeah, you'd have to be the one on the bed. I'd be in the chair, on braiding detail," agreed LL Cool Jew.
Shortly thereafter, Keyshia Cole came on stage, and after LL Cool Jew and I agreed that she's got a banging body and a great voice but is nonetheless not Mary J. Blige, we were getting impatient for Kells. Both of us were relieved that Ne-yo had dropped out of the tour and thus our Kells-related gratification wouldn't be further delayed by live renditions of "Sexy Love."
Then, after Keyshia went off and there was some hurried stage rearrangement, the moment we waited for arrived. Kells! LL Cool Jew was clever enough to write down his TWO AND A HALF HOUR LONG SET LIST, to augment this very blog posting.
The Champ: For the opening song, Kells ran out in an entirely bedazzled hooded robe saying "The Champ" on the back, with a pair of matching disco ball sneaks. Kells's grand entrance was augmented by an impressive pyrotechnical display. This was followed by a medley of R. Kelly's contributions to his many great collaborations:
That's That Shit: If you're lookin' for some good sex, holler at a player.
Fuckin' You Tonight: Although Kells didn't sing my favorite song in the "I spend money on you, now time to put out" vein, "Don't You Say No," this hook from his collaboration with the legendary Notorious B.I.G. was nonetheless well-received.
Hotel: We in our throwbacks, this is for the ladies, we got room keys. Isn't everything for the ladies? Sadly, Kells did not don a Bears throwback jersey during the show, nor did he offer us a room key. Oh well. Next time.
Wonderful: Kells is at the top of the world and life's a pussy buffet.
So Sexy: Isn't he, though? Twista, however, is NOT, and fortunately, his corpulent ass was not around to
We Thuggin': Take my relief at Twista's absence and multiply it by ten thousand, and you have my feelings about Fat Joe not showing up to duet this one with Kells.
Gigolo: If only Kells were a male prostitute, I know where my next paycheck would be going.
Snake: Nothing--and I mean NOTHING--compares to hearing "I like the way you move your cho-cha, it makes me wanna get to know ya" sung live.
Thoia Thoing: Kells from Chi-town live is even better than Kells "Japan via satellite," whatever the hell that means. I told LL Cool Jew about how I sang this song once at a karaoke bar to great effect, because nothing spices up a lesbian birthday party like me attempting to do the "Thoia Thoing" dance while singing about being "butt-naked with sweat socks and house shoes." What are "house shoes," anyway? Slippers?
Double Up: It's like routine, player.
Tryin' To Get a Number: I somehow suspect that neither Kells nor Nelly have to try that hard.
Hook It Up: Anytime.
An old school rap song that I'm pretty sure was Big Daddy Kane's "Brooklyn Style": Unnecessary, but who knew Kells could rap?
TP-2: Imagine thousands of overweight people singing "I'm horny as hell" and "It's about to get real kinky." Yikes.
Strip For You: When R. Kelly followed "three knocks at the door, now, baby...trenchcoat hits the floor, now baby," with a simulated cunnilingus move with his tongue, all the ladies (translation: 80-90% of the audience) went insane.
"The Loneliest Tongue": I don't know if this is just something Kells made up for this concert, but nothing follows up a silhouetted striptease designed to keep the audience busy during a wardrobe change like an acapella ode to licking snatch. "I'm just a lonely tongue," crooned a close-up of Kells's mouth on the big screens, "Looking for some BODY to lick, looking for some BODY to nibble on." LL Cool Jew and I were speechless. For the rest of the night I preceded everything with, "Well, as I'm just a lonely tongue..."
Seems Like You're Ready: This song ushered in the moment we had anticipated from the Times review. Namely, when R. Kells describes how he won't keep things tame because the audience is ready in the form of having their hair done, nails done, toes done, car washed, and...SIX! HUN! DRED! DOLLAR! WEAVE! Granted, I suspect that most of the weaves I saw went for considerably less than $600, but nonetheless, the ladies in the audience rocking fake hair clearly touched it up in preparation for the hotness that is Kells.
Down Low (Remix): I wonder if Kells and Ronald "Mr. Biggs" Isley regret the title of this song given what being on the down low means these days in the modern urban lexicon.
When a Woman's Fed Up: Not a single one in the audience was fed up from what I could see, but at least one must have been, because she sent her date up by our section to smoke blunts in peace, well away from her. Blunt Guy spent the rest of the concert blowing trees, at least until he fell asleep. Lightweight.
Your Body's Callin': I could hear it calling me.
R&B Thug: YES! YES! YES! I actually got to hear Kells sing, "And when you leave up out my room, you'll be walkin' bow-legged" and "ooh, Kelly, you make me holla, keep on jumpin' like an Impala" LIVE. I can die now. Also, I should add that this was prefaced by Kells noting that "every woman wants a thug with some church in him." True that.
Feelin' On Yo Booty: Yet another classic. The only thing that would be better is if he took out half his impeccably-braided cornrows like in the hotness that is the video for this song.
Ignition (Remix): And not a single bitch in the audience was singing Dave Chapelle's "Piss on You" lyrics to this classic Kells jam.
Fiesta: It was, with my homie from the Midwest-a.
I Wish: LL Cool Jew went nuts, since this is her favorite Kells "serious" song. Mine is "The World's Greatest," which sadly was omitted from this performance.
Real Talk: Kells said, "You're not going to believe this, but I just got a phone call. Hold on just one second while I take care of this." He whips out a cell phone and before he even started in on the "I was at a club with who? GET THE FUCK OUT," LL Cool Jew and I turned to each other and said, "REAL TALK. See, girl."
Make It Rain: As noted before, Fat Joe mercifully did not show up to sing along and to get sexy alongside my beloved Robert Sylvester. Even more mercifully, R. Kelly did not start a riot by pulling a Pac Man Jones and actually "making it rain" on the hoes in the front row. Shit would have gotten crazy had he actually started chucking $100 bills around. However, LL Cool Jew and I did discuss how much more this could have kicked ass had Dwayne Carter, AKA Lil' Wayne AKA Weezy Fuckin' Baby AKA Tha Carter, showed up to do his "yeeeah, I'm in this bitch with the Terror" hook to the song. Sadly, he's probably in jail somewhere and thus indisposed.
I'm a Flirt: While this was awesome, LL Cool Jew and I were seriously lamenting the fact that T-Pain was absent on this tour. I think that if T-Pain and R. Kelly were to tour together, my head might explode with excitement.
The big screens then showed footage of all Kells's entertainer friends wishing him luck on tour, including T-Pain, Common, Fat Joe, Kanye West, Ciara, and Snoop Dogg.
N Luv Wit a Stripper (Remix): "I'm gonna go down on my knees and ask that ass to marry me." Exactly the type of proposal every stripper wants, especially when they have so much in common, as Kells points out ("she's a stripper, I'm a freak"). What woman could say no to a sexy man with lines like "you keep my donk on swole" and "I wanna stick it, I wanna kiss it, if I could I'd stick my whole damn head in it." That's being n luv wit a stripper, trust.
Kells then showed a hilarious segment intended to appease the dudes who had been dragged along to his show on their dates, about all the silly antics he gets up to while he's on tour. "Don't fall asleep, that's the rule," he explained, before showing the consequences of doing so, which primarily involve sticking objects (pen, tissue paper, paper clips) up the slumberer's nose. If he's feeling creative, he might squirt mustard on you, too. That Kells is such a zany prankster!
Go Getta: When I first heard Kells sing "Young Jeeeeeezzzzzzy" I was like, "WHERE THE HELL IS THE SNOWMAN?" I was so hoping he would jiggle out on stage to augment Kells with some ad libs. For all I know, he could have been backstage with his alleged (ex-?) girlfriend Keyshia Cole. Alas, it seems Young Jeezy was back at his Hotlanta trap or whatever, but Kells still sang about coming up out the club with a shitload-a women, so I was happy.
"Make It Purple Rain": I'm unclear as to whether Kells was lauding or mocking Prince or not, but in any event he better watch out. Prince is suing everyone who uses anything that even hints at being about Prince. He's been suing dumbasses putting their YouTube vlogs to the tune of "1999" and "I Feel For You" right and left, and while I would die of happiness and delight if Prince secured an injunction forbidding Smith College acapella groups from ever butchering "When Doves Cry" again, it would be truly sad if he shut down the "Double Up" tour for copyright infringement. Hopefully Kells's tour managers worked out a licensing deal beforehand.
Next to You: Snore. I totally forgot about this song that Kells did with Ciara, but this would have been better spent singing either "The World's Greatest," "Sex Me," or "Leave your Name," all sad omissions from the setlist.
Same Girl: Since Usher is off getting pegged by his tranny man-wife, Kells asked our side of the auditorium to sing Usher's part to this song. Luckily, LL Cool Jew, myself, and every other bitch there knew the words to this song by heart, and were only too happy to oblige by singing "did she go to Georgia Tech?", "does she work for TBS?," and "does she love some Waffle House?" at the proper time.
Put My T-Shirt On: This song was accompanied by a cadre of dudes carrying those t-shirt shooting guns that they used to have at Sonics games. During halftime, when the Squatch was doing a variety of gymnastically impressive, springboard-assisted dunks, dudes in Sonics sweatsuits would shoot team logo shirts into the stands at Key Arena. Apparently, Kells thought this would be a nice touch to augment a song about how he wants to bang his woman because she looks so hot in his t-shirt.
Freaky In the Club: Does Kells get anything else besides freaky in the club? I think not.
Kells's next wardrobe change was augmented by a video tribute to his musical idols: Marvin Gaye, Bob Marley, Tupac Shakur, Biggie, his kids, and HIMSELF. God, I love this man. LOVE HIM!
Let's Get it On: As we just learned, Marvin Gaye is one of Kells's idols, so we were unsurprised that he was singing this. In fact, Marvin Gaye's influence is pretty obvious, considering that with the exception of the odd serious or religious song, almost every song Kells has ever sung
I Wanna Sex You Up: No WAY! Shout out to Color Me Badd? REALLY?! I wonder if Kells really loves this song (thematically it's consistent with his repertoire) or if he just decided to sing it because he pre-funked for his concert by watching the seminal "Beverly Hills, 90210" episode where Donna catches her mom having an affair at the Bel Age Hotel while she's trying to meet Color Me Badd, who end up meeting Kelly, who convinces them to end the episode by cheering up Donna singing "I Adore Mi Amor" acapella to her at the Peach Pit over megaburgers with the gang. I'd be lying if I didn't say that the idea of Robert Sylvester Kelly preparing to bless us with his mackadelic nightspot realness by watching classic episodes of Bev Niner doesn't make me more than just a little bit wet.
Bump 'n' Grind (Old School Remix): Yes! I just heard Kells sing "show me some ID, before I get too deep" LIVE!
You Remind Me of Something: Morrissey'sHair told me that this is the official Razzy ringtone when I call him. It's because I remind him of his jeep, his sound, his car, and his bank account. OBVIOUSLY.
Bump 'n' Grind (Original): Like Tasti-D-Lite or multiple orgasms, you can never really have too much "Bump 'n' Grind." My mind's telling me no...actually no it's not. My mind is saying YES, YES, YES! KELLS!
Charlie Chaplin vaudeville sequence: Part of the show that falls under the heading of "downright mystifying." I don't know if Kells secretly loves silent film slapstick, but this was bizarre. It was even more bizarre in the context of a segue to what came next:
Beethoven's Fifth Symphony/laser light show: Ummm...I don't know if Kells was inspired by a trip to the Philharmonic or something, but I knew it was about to get real when Kells grabbed an oversized conductor's baton and the first dramatic chords of Beethoven's Fifth began echoing through the venue.
The Zoo: And thus began the beginning of the "extended jungle fantasia" that I was so eagerly anticipating. On an aside, LL Cool Jew does the funniest impression of the "ooo ooo ooo ooo aaa aaa aaa aaa" monkey noises from this song. I could listen to her do this all day.
Slow Wind: Finishing off the smoke machine-heavy, Kells-taken-prisoner-by-a-tribe-of-horny-video-vixen-Amazons jungle segment of the performance was J-Sexy's favorite song ever, topped off by a lengthy "You're a Jamaican queen...I'm an American king..." chorus. Beautiful. When I told J-Sexy that she hasn't lived until she's been exhorted by Kells to "put your voodoo on me, babe, kiss my lips and curse me, babe," she agreed that next time his tour comes around, she's getting a ticket.
Step In the Name of Love: An excuse to pull bitches out of the audience and force them to do the stepping dance in unison with R. Kelly. Steppin' is not just a dance, it's a culture, it's the way we live. As there were some big girls dragged up on stage, this was not only highly amusing, it's assured that indeed steppin' is what they eat, think, and breathe.
Happy People featuring extended TV theme medley: I don't know what the "Welcome Back, Kotter" theme song has to do with doubling up or happy people, but I'm not questioning Kells. It was a tremendous finale to a spectacular night. Actually, the most tremendous finale was when he announced that next year, he's blessing us with a new album, TP Fourth Quarter. Trust that I'm preordering that shit!
And speaking of happy people, here are two:
Labels: hilarious shit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, rap, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Monday, November 12, 2007
Hunger strike update: no dead hippies yet
Last week I scribed a nice, satisfying polemic about the annoying undergrads who were going to go on a "hunger strike" in order to force Columbia's administration into acquiescing to their vague and open-ended demands. I've since been deleting e-mail after e-mail updating me as to the "success" of this protest, "success" being defined as a whopping FIVE students decided to starve themselves for their poorly elucidated principles. Yesterday I received yet another action update, and almost deleted it until I realized that it was a trove of between-the-lines information all supporting the sole, inescapable conclusion that I AM RIGHT THAT THESE TYPES OF PROTESTS ARE A FUCKING WASTE OF EVERYONE'S TIME:
1. Include more Alice Walker and Rita Mae Brown books in freshman English classes at Columbia, because bitches are tired of Beowulf and its patriarchal, misogynistic, white supremacist themes.
2. More money for Ethnic Studies, since it's underfunded. I mean, never mind that academic disciplines are underfunded ACROSS THE BOARD in the current climate, because Bush isn't the world's biggest fan of funding any kind of research that's got to do with evolution, or stem cells, or any type of artfaggotry. Aretha, Bryan, Emilie, Sam, and Victoria want a bigger library to sit around and organize pointless hunger strikes in, and if you don't have the money, Columbia, then you're RACIST!
3. Okay, it was pretty fucked up that Columbia didn't cooperate with the police investigating the Teacher's College noose incident, but I think they learned their lesson the hard way. The Post was all over that, and Columbia looked like sneaky assholes because of it. Chances are, the next time they'll be better about it.
4. Given the tone of the rhetoric, I'm thinking they are AGAINST the Manhattanville expansion, but in fairness, all they say for their fourth demand is that this is being voted on in December.
With four points of light like those, I can't understand why every self-involved asshole walking past their campus tent doesn't drop his or her iPod and jump on the hunger train too. I mean, those are some galvanizing meandering and confused points these people are making!
From: Christina Chen (satori.at.sunrise@gmail.com)Wait, one of the hunger strikers ended up in the fucking hospital? Good riddance! One down, four to go! I love how they make it sound like this bitch was rushed to the ICU, when really she probably was given an IV and a PowerBar, told that if she didn't want to be hypoglycemic, she should fucking eat something, and shooed out of the St. Luke's ER. Somehow, I am sure she'll be okay, too, since it takes more than a low blood sugar-induced dizzy spell two days after giving up food to keep an overprivileged bitch at an Ivy League school from succumbing to her mortal fragility. What she won't recover from so quickly is the fact that there seem to be a lot of people who agree with me that these hunger strikers are a bunch of despicable, self-righteous morons.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject:[sceg-body] Would your club like to take a support shift, sponsor a vigil, or sponsor a dormstorming session
Hello beautiful peoples,
Sorry for spamming you guys, I'll try to keep the flow of emails minimal! First of all, thank you for all your well wishes for Aretha's speedy recovery- we are very encouraged by the amount of progress that she has made since leaving St Luke's, and we are sure that she will be okay! And thank you for keeping Bryan, Emilie, Sam, and Victoria in your hearts - they are resilient, strong brother and sisters in the struggle, and your prayers and attendance at events are spiritually enriching to the souls of the hungry...your presence means more than words can convey!
That said...those who stand against us think that they can dampen our spirits by beating us down. We are getting attacked by bad press (and lacking press as well), drunk passerbys knocking stuff over at our tent sites, hecklers shouting egregious things like "mmm I want a nice juicy burger right now", Columbia administration officials giving negotiators blank stares at a meeting when we reported Aretha's rushing to St. Luke's Hospital because of low blood sugar, and perhaps the biggest blow to our our faith in our peers, and a terrible thing to see from our fellow students; anti-strikers websites that have propped up and counter-rallies with racist, homophobic, and xenophobic rhetoric being held right by our tents in public.Oh, boo hoo! You guys are so PERSECUTED! Drunk people are knocking over your bongo drums as they're staggering back to their dorms from the local bars, hecklers are making fun of you for thinking you're Gandhi, and the administration doesn't care that one of your number came down with a self-imposed and completely NON-LIFE THREATENING condition. Also, I wonder if my blog is one of the websites that has "propped up" to spew "racist, homophobic, and xenophobic rhetoric." I don't think I'm racist or xenophobic (although these people are the types who regard opinions contrary to theirs as "racist" regardless of whether or not they actually are), and any homophobic rhetoric I've used is allowable on account of the fact that I'm a Smith College graduate who licks snatch and can therefore say "fag" and "dyke" to my heart's content. I am not against the hunger strikers because I'm pro-racism or whatever else; I'm against the hunger strikers because they're morons, and I don't support stupidity even when it's cloaked in the trappings of patronizing social consciousness. Hey, maybe you'd have more supporters if you assholes could clearly articulate your demands...?
But as Bryan has said, we cannot confuse those who are simply weak-willed and prejudiced, with those who we can potentially reach and educate about our demands. That said, we ABSOLUTELY NEED folks to help us do outreach... there's a lot of misconceptions floating out there right now about what our demands are, and we need to address them.Okay...SO ADDRESS THEM, already!
And just to reiterate, our demands are rooted in a campus in which 1) our core education reinforces the norms of a system that marginalizes people of color, people of faith, queer folks and other groups; 2) Ethnic Studies programs in which we learn about the histories of our own communities (most of which was founded after the 1996 hunger strike led by Latino, Asian American, Black, and American students for Ethnic studies) are under-resourced and swept aside by this university; 3) the administrative organization of our university right now does not allow adequate/ prompt responses to hate crimes, such as t he noose that was hung on a black professor's door at TC; 4) an official expansion / eviction plan that will displace 5000 residents of West Harlem and will be voted on early December, a plan that bulldozes entire communities in Harlem and uproots real people.In other words, your demands are as follows:
1. Include more Alice Walker and Rita Mae Brown books in freshman English classes at Columbia, because bitches are tired of Beowulf and its patriarchal, misogynistic, white supremacist themes.
2. More money for Ethnic Studies, since it's underfunded. I mean, never mind that academic disciplines are underfunded ACROSS THE BOARD in the current climate, because Bush isn't the world's biggest fan of funding any kind of research that's got to do with evolution, or stem cells, or any type of artfaggotry. Aretha, Bryan, Emilie, Sam, and Victoria want a bigger library to sit around and organize pointless hunger strikes in, and if you don't have the money, Columbia, then you're RACIST!
3. Okay, it was pretty fucked up that Columbia didn't cooperate with the police investigating the Teacher's College noose incident, but I think they learned their lesson the hard way. The Post was all over that, and Columbia looked like sneaky assholes because of it. Chances are, the next time they'll be better about it.
4. Given the tone of the rhetoric, I'm thinking they are AGAINST the Manhattanville expansion, but in fairness, all they say for their fourth demand is that this is being voted on in December.
With four points of light like those, I can't understand why every self-involved asshole walking past their campus tent doesn't drop his or her iPod and jump on the hunger train too. I mean, those are some galvanizing meandering and confused points these people are making!
People who stand against us, people who are not conscious of the history of student and community struggle, think that they can dismiss us because they see a handful of people camped outside the tents and assume there's only a few of us who feel like shit needs to change. A lot of us are overextended right now and haven't been able to go into people's dorms, circulate petitions, and do support outside and we need to show that all of us, we who number in the hundreds, maybe even thousands, want to see change happen in this university. Nevermind the haters - we got people power and it's time for us to use it...and show folks that we're able to back shit up with concrete demands in their dorms, in their classes, and outside in the cold! We've been telling individuals what they can do to help, but hey! your club can ::I hate to tell you this, Christina, but nobody thinks they can dismiss you because they assume there's only a few who feel that "shit needs to change." People dismiss you because your cause is poorly articulated, you come across as a bunch of preachy, humorless assholes, and if people don't agree with you wholeheartedly then you either call them "weak-willed and prejudiced" or imply that they are ignorant and uncouth. The fact is, most people would agree that Columbia could benefit from expanding its curriculum, providing better funding to many departments including Ethnic Studies, SHOULD cooperate with the police in investigating campus hate crimes, and should be ethical and transparent with regard to the Manhattanville expansion. However, you do such a pathetic job of explaining your action items and such an impressive job alienating and marginalizing people who might not agree but would be open to a dialogue about it that nobody WANTS to ride your loser train, Christina. Nobody gives an inverted piledriver fuck that one of your attention whore hippie friends came down with the deadly and insidious condition known as low blood sugar from her half-assed attempt at protest by starvation, and chances are 99% of the "beautiful peoples" on your e-mail list delete your lame manifesto/newsletters the second they grace their inboxes. Congratulations. You've managed to make four reasonable and sound demands seem petty, retarded, pointless, and annoying. Keep up the good work...maybe you'll do us all a favor and STARVE TO DEATH!
1) Sponsor a vigil, like the wonderful folks at LUCHA are doing tomorrow by emailing sam.rennebohm@gmail.com
2) Take a support shift, in which representatives of your club can sign up for by emailing crystalktang@gmail.com
3) Sponsor a dormstorming session by emailing me at satori.at.sunrise@gmail.com
4) Join the solidarity listserve to get running updates on the conditions of the strikers and on what the support team needs - email heiroku@gmail.com
DO IT!!!!
love,
Christina
Labels: grad school bullshit, intentional buffoonery, overcompensation, ranting, Razzification, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, scathing indictments
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
I'm amazed Chingy! hasn't done this yet
Meet Jerry, this big jock-type dude's new Pug. Jerry doesn't much appreciate not having a soft bed to stink up and people food to eat, and he makes this known in the style of his people: namely, through aggressive and offensive use of bodily functions. I'm glad Chingy! was asleep when I watched this YouTube, because I don't want his fat ass getting any ideas of new revolting tricks to complement his repertoire of shit-eating, decomposing animal-eating, stamping of ass-prints on white or pale-colored pants, vomiting spontaneously, etc.:
http://view.break.com/388970 - Watch more free videos
CHONGAY CHONG, Jerry the Pug!
http://view.break.com/388970 - Watch more free videos
CHONGAY CHONG, Jerry the Pug!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, October 11, 2007
I'm doublin' up with them
J-Sexy is always going off about how "silly" R. Kelly has become since the good old days (AKA "1993...check out this freaky style").
"I like 'Sex Me' and the origonal Twelve Play," she'll say. "But this sex in the kitchen...sex in his jeep...sex in outor space...it's all too ridicolos for me."
I would argue that Kells has grown like a majestic oak tree in terms of his artistic genius, and like a fine wine, continues to improve with each passing season. To prove this, I showed her some recent R. Kelly videos. After I got her to stop laughing at T-Pain for being a "fat, silly man" in the "I'm a Flirt" video and to quiet her praises for the excellent tightness and technical execution of R. Kelly's cornrows, I showed her the brilliant masterpiece of a video known as Sylvester Films' production of "Same Girl."
Since some of you might not watch the YouTubes I embed up here, I'm going to just walk those of you who are Robert Sylvester Kelly amateurs through this. You can't really just jump right into R. Kelly as a virgin. That's like a Pop Warner wannabe trying to start at blocking fullback in the NFL...it's just asking for trouble. If you are just waking up to the phenomenal human being that is Robert Sylvester Kelly, you need a true scholar, who has spent years attempting to master the knowledge that the Pied Piper of R&B has blessed us mere mortals with, to guide you through it. Behold, I present to you..."Same Girl." Seriously, this shit is better than an episode of "Melrose Place" circa season four.
The video begins with Kells in his tony Chicago condominium, gazing out his floor-to-ceiling windows at the Sears Tower and hollering at his manager about his busy schedule. R. Kelly didn't become the R-uh in R&B for nothing; he has a lot of yelling at flunkies to do on the phone:
Meanwhile, at his posh mansion in the Atlanta suburbs, Usher Raymond IV is doing the same thing. He has an album coming out, and a tranny wife who hates his mom giving birth soon, and he was inexplicably supposed to be in Cleveland yesterday, and he is BUSY. So he's pretty much regulating on the assistant tip as well:
Anyway, to relax, Usher and R. Kelly both take a step back and consider their options for chilling out. Since Kells doesn't have any time to twist trees and Usher doesn't have NEARLY the time to go unwind with a high colonic, they do the next best thing...call fellow R&B thugs to dish about their love lives, of course!
Kells reaches for his phone, in which Usher is in his top five, along with "Twon" (as in the recent ex-con, nearly bulletproof brother-in-law from "Trapped in the Closet"???) and the "Studio" (natch), and dials his favorite confidant:
Usher, exasperated, is pleased to see that even though he can't properly punctuate entries in his cell phone address book, "Kell's" is calling to give his ATL BFF the 411 on his new piece of ass:
Kells: Yo Ush!
Usher: What up, Kells?
Kells: Wanna introduce ya to this girl, I think I really love this girl.
Usher: Yeah?
Kells: Man, she's so fine.
Usher: Straight up, dog?!
Kells: She stands about 5'4"...Coca-Cola redbone...
R. Kelly, despite the fact that Usher presumably isn't having a webcam chat with him, manually demonstrates the silhouette of said love interest's voluptuous body.
Usher is impressed.
Usher: Damn.
Kells: She drives a black Durango...license plate say "ANGEL." Plus she makin' pesos, got a crib on Peach Street, right on 17th Street, and I call her "TT"...
No offense, Kells, but by your own standards, if she's driving a fucking DODGE DURANGO, then mere pesos is exactly what she's making. I'm sure a Durango is a fine mid-sized utility vehicle, but it's not exactly the world's most impressive whip. I guess it's pragmatic for the single mom, though.
Usher is suspicious. Apparently, he's heard these curriculum vitae bullet points before.
Usher: Wait a minute, hold on, dog...
Usher: Do she got a kid?
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Love some Waffle House?
Who doesn't? But this is getting to be too much of a coincidence, and Kells is now on guard as well. After all, he didn't just wake up and start pissing on teenagers yesterday.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Do she got a beauty mark on the left side of her mouth?
Forensic evidence!
Kells: Man...?
Usher: Went to Georgia Tech?
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Works for TBS?
On an aside, I'd like to know if this "Angel" AKA "TT" is responsible for all those "Everybody Loves Raymond" episodes they always show on TBS, because that shit SUCKS! I don't know ANYBODY who loves Raymond. That show is one of the most irritating, repugnant sitcoms of all time. If "TT" is behind that, then I hope she's not "makin' pesos" for long, because scheduling four reruns of that show a day should be a straight-up career killer. But I digress.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Man, I can't believe this shit...damn.
Kells, in spite of his curiosity, hasn't quite grasped the bigger picture yet. His intellect revolves around crafting absurd metaphors about sex, not detective work, after all.
Kells: Tell me, what's wrong, dog? What the hell you talkin' bout?
To reassure Usher, Robert Sylvester reminds him of their dear and treasured relationship, and their commitment to communication and honesty.
Kells: I'm your homie, so just say what's on your mind.
Usher: Man, I didn't know that you was talkin' bout her
Kells: So man, you're tellin' me you know her?
Usher: Like a pastor know his word.
HOLY SHIT! EUREKA! As the infinitely wise counselor, spiritual leader, and Thug Misses Khia would say, "somethin' in the milk ain't clean," and he's got enough of a whiff of some untoward shit going on to hop on his private jet and frustratedly toy with a rubber band while he and Usher continue to slog through their concerns:
Kells and Usher: We messin' with the same girl, same girl, same girl
Usher: How could the apple of my eye...
Kells: ...and my potential wife be the same girl, same girl, same girl?
Usher: Man I can't believe we been messin' with the same girl, same girl, same girl
Kells: Thought she was someone I can trust, and she's been doubling up with us
Well, buck up Kells. At least you managed to work in a brand reference to the title of the album that this song is on. And give props to this chick for not only realizing Lil' Kim's dream of fucking some R&B dick, but being astronomically successful at doing so. This bitch isn't juggling Eric Benet and Avant or some other low-ren shit like that. She's totally playing the King and Queen of R&B, and that's impressive. Then again, I'd expect no less from such a Tera Patrick-looking cable network employee with an ankle tat, a personalized license plate, and a passion for smothered chicken and waffles:
After Usher picks up Kells at the airstrip in his Bentley, they get to comparing war stories about how this flighty temptress crossed paths with them. It is a heated discussion.
Usher: See, I met her at this party in Atlanta.
Kells: Well, I met her at this party in Chicago.
Usher: She came right up to me, givin' me conversation...
Usher fondly recalls how his first impression was of a woman who would peg him with such ferocity that he wouldn't shit right for a week.
Usher: I said, "Do you got a man?" She said "no," with no hesitation.
And so it was on. But apparently, this two-timing slut had a great video ho scoring average batting with this strategy, because Kells has his own variation.
Kells: Well it must be a music thing, cause she said the same to me. She had her body all in my face, while I’m laughin' and buyin' her drinks.
Or, more specifically, some type of rose-colored liqueur best enjoyed by a pool wearing $400 sunglasses at night:
Usher: She whispered in my ear and said, "Can you take me home?"
Kells: Me too. Man, she was in the Chi singin' the same tune.
Usher (alarmed): Is that true!?
Kells: Man, it was true confessions when she said, "I love ya."
Not to leave his beloved homie's shoutout to his infamous hit "Confessions" hanging, Usher proceeded to work the name of a classic Kells jam into his analogous tale:
Usher: Man, I thought her body was calling when she said, "I want you."
Distracted for a moment by the memory that he ACTUALLY thought her strap-on was calling when she said that, Usher covers up nicely with a segue into the portion of the conversation where he breaks out the visual evidence.
Usher: See, I even got some pictures on my phone...
Not to be outdone, Kells whips out his Sidekick.
Kells: Look there, man, she is with some boy shorts on:
I think that solves this mystery. Why is this bitch still shuffling papers and setting up programming schedules or whatever for TBS while in her spare time she's juggling interstate relationships with Robert Sylvester Kelly and Raymond Usher IV? This bitch is a pro ho at multitasking. Hats off to her. Seriously.
Anyway, after Kells and Ush together melodiously lament what a small world it is, and so full of loose, faithless women, they continue to process. In fact, they go to Usher's plush, dark cigar lounge for a snifter of fine cognac and a Macanudo to finalize their therapy sesh and tie up all the lose factual ends. We're being cuckolded by the same woman...CHEERS!
Kells: She said she got me on her ringtone
Usher: Are you talking about the pink phone?
Kells: Uh-huh, the blue one.
I don't know how pink is blue, and I actually thought those colors were totally different, but maybe they're color-blind. That would explain a lot of both men's sometimes questionable and garish fashion choices. It seems, though, at the point where one sings with an echo for emphasis, the difference between pink and blue is a moot point. In fact, more important is demonstrating their prowess at hoops:
Kells: Man, she told me that was turned off. It's obvious that she's been playing us, playing us.
Usher: Cause constantly she’s been lyin' to us, lyin' to us.
By the way, that was a fast yet exhausting game of HORSE. Usher is sweating so much it looks like Kells gave HIM a golden shower (you know Usher wants it!). It's time to take a seat and rehydrate.
Kells: Don’t like the way that she’s been goin bout it, goin' bout it.
Usher: Kells, what you think that we should do about it, do about it?
Good thing you asked, because Kells is a master at scheming. He is, after all, a flirt...and if a man who is Teflon to child porn charges and a twink who married and impregnated a M2F tranny can't come up with a clever solution to this dilemma, who can? Tricksy R&B singers, these two.
Kells: Call her up at her home, she won’t know I'm on the phone...
Usher: Yeah, man, that’s a plan.
The old listen-silently-in-on-the-phone-conversation sting operation is a classic but effective plan, indeed. How could this not work in wreaking vengeance on adulterous whores? Usher likes:
Seriously, put R. Kelly and Usher in charge of the war in Iraq, because these two managed to solve a very serious problem in a matter of mere minutes. They are commendably efficient, managing to investigate, crack the case, and plot revenge without breaking a sweat. Well, okay, Usher broke a sweat trying to defend against R. Kelly's mad penetration skills on the court, but that doesn't really count. They've figured this shit out. Don't double up on a flirt and a closeted teen idol. They'll school you every time with their competence.
Kells: Homie, we about to bust this trick
Usher: Man, just tell her to meet up with you and I'm gonna show up too...
Kells: And she won't know what to do!
Usher: We'll be standing there singing...
They decide that Usher's panic room would be the best place to film their final, most triumphant chorus summarizing their trials and tribulations with this clever and unscrupulous same girl:
Kells and Usher once again sum up the bullet points of how this bitch has wronged them. Same girl, apple of eye and potential wife, doubling up, etc. They'd be upset, but they are too smug and excited at the prospect of really sticking it to this prostitute publicly:
Unfortunately, life is full of surprises, and, much like an episode of "Law and Order" a shocking plot twist turns the whole story upside down! Rather than toying adulterously with the affections of two multi-platinum-selling R&B artists, this "same girl" was actually TWINS! Didn't see that one coming, now, did you? Again...R. Kelly=EINSTEIN/PICASSO/HEMINGWAY/INSERT GREAT CONTRIBUTOR TO THE ANNALS OF COLOSSALLY IMPORTANT CULTURAL ACHIEVEMENT HERE.
HEY GUYS, the jokes on you! High five, TT squared!
This is certainly surprising. Good thing R. Kelly has mastered ridiculousness, and will somehow succeed in making this less awkward once his obvious astonishment has worn off:
Okay, so they may be twins with identical cars sporting the same custom plate, an identical tattoo on the same body part, and an aggressive seduction technique who both answer to the same playful "TT" nickname, but they're still separate people. Honest and virtuous people. So they can go back to being the apple of Usher's eye (apple="BEARD," because unless she's the Adam's apple of his eye, Usher probably isn't concerned for any reason other than appearance's sake) or R. Kelly's potential wife (once he finalizes his divorce from his current wife). Everyone lives happily ever after. Usher is thrilled he has a new chick to offset the pesky gay rumors that circulate about him on the internets, and Kells, being a consummate businessman, is thinking about how this might make for a great song...
And so it does. And if this hasn't sold you, then just watch the damn thing! More people are jumping on the speeding freighter of awesomeness that is the Robert Sylvester Kelly bandwagon every day, and I'm certain that by now you're probably one of them, and will watch "Same Girl" followed by every Sylvester Films joint on YouTube.
R. Kelly is the shit. He is the greatest artist of our time. NO JOKE!
"I like 'Sex Me' and the origonal Twelve Play," she'll say. "But this sex in the kitchen...sex in his jeep...sex in outor space...it's all too ridicolos for me."
I would argue that Kells has grown like a majestic oak tree in terms of his artistic genius, and like a fine wine, continues to improve with each passing season. To prove this, I showed her some recent R. Kelly videos. After I got her to stop laughing at T-Pain for being a "fat, silly man" in the "I'm a Flirt" video and to quiet her praises for the excellent tightness and technical execution of R. Kelly's cornrows, I showed her the brilliant masterpiece of a video known as Sylvester Films' production of "Same Girl."
Since some of you might not watch the YouTubes I embed up here, I'm going to just walk those of you who are Robert Sylvester Kelly amateurs through this. You can't really just jump right into R. Kelly as a virgin. That's like a Pop Warner wannabe trying to start at blocking fullback in the NFL...it's just asking for trouble. If you are just waking up to the phenomenal human being that is Robert Sylvester Kelly, you need a true scholar, who has spent years attempting to master the knowledge that the Pied Piper of R&B has blessed us mere mortals with, to guide you through it. Behold, I present to you..."Same Girl." Seriously, this shit is better than an episode of "Melrose Place" circa season four.
The video begins with Kells in his tony Chicago condominium, gazing out his floor-to-ceiling windows at the Sears Tower and hollering at his manager about his busy schedule. R. Kelly didn't become the R-uh in R&B for nothing; he has a lot of yelling at flunkies to do on the phone:
Kells reaches for his phone, in which Usher is in his top five, along with "Twon" (as in the recent ex-con, nearly bulletproof brother-in-law from "Trapped in the Closet"???) and the "Studio" (natch), and dials his favorite confidant:
Usher, exasperated, is pleased to see that even though he can't properly punctuate entries in his cell phone address book, "Kell's" is calling to give his ATL BFF the 411 on his new piece of ass:
Kells: Yo Ush!
Usher: What up, Kells?
Usher: Yeah?
Kells: Man, she's so fine.
Usher: Straight up, dog?!
Kells: She stands about 5'4"...Coca-Cola redbone...
R. Kelly, despite the fact that Usher presumably isn't having a webcam chat with him, manually demonstrates the silhouette of said love interest's voluptuous body.
Usher is impressed.
Usher: Damn.
Kells: She drives a black Durango...license plate say "ANGEL." Plus she makin' pesos, got a crib on Peach Street, right on 17th Street, and I call her "TT"...
Usher is suspicious. Apparently, he's heard these curriculum vitae bullet points before.
Usher: Wait a minute, hold on, dog...
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Love some Waffle House?
Who doesn't? But this is getting to be too much of a coincidence, and Kells is now on guard as well. After all, he didn't just wake up and start pissing on teenagers yesterday.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Do she got a beauty mark on the left side of her mouth?
Kells: Man...?
Usher: Went to Georgia Tech?
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Works for TBS?
On an aside, I'd like to know if this "Angel" AKA "TT" is responsible for all those "Everybody Loves Raymond" episodes they always show on TBS, because that shit SUCKS! I don't know ANYBODY who loves Raymond. That show is one of the most irritating, repugnant sitcoms of all time. If "TT" is behind that, then I hope she's not "makin' pesos" for long, because scheduling four reruns of that show a day should be a straight-up career killer. But I digress.
Kells: Yep.
Usher: Man, I can't believe this shit...damn.
Kells, in spite of his curiosity, hasn't quite grasped the bigger picture yet. His intellect revolves around crafting absurd metaphors about sex, not detective work, after all.
Kells: Tell me, what's wrong, dog? What the hell you talkin' bout?
To reassure Usher, Robert Sylvester reminds him of their dear and treasured relationship, and their commitment to communication and honesty.
Kells: I'm your homie, so just say what's on your mind.
Usher: Man, I didn't know that you was talkin' bout her
Kells: So man, you're tellin' me you know her?
Usher: Like a pastor know his word.
HOLY SHIT! EUREKA! As the infinitely wise counselor, spiritual leader, and Thug Misses Khia would say, "somethin' in the milk ain't clean," and he's got enough of a whiff of some untoward shit going on to hop on his private jet and frustratedly toy with a rubber band while he and Usher continue to slog through their concerns:
Usher: How could the apple of my eye...
Kells: ...and my potential wife be the same girl, same girl, same girl?
Usher: Man I can't believe we been messin' with the same girl, same girl, same girl
Kells: Thought she was someone I can trust, and she's been doubling up with us
Well, buck up Kells. At least you managed to work in a brand reference to the title of the album that this song is on. And give props to this chick for not only realizing Lil' Kim's dream of fucking some R&B dick, but being astronomically successful at doing so. This bitch isn't juggling Eric Benet and Avant or some other low-ren shit like that. She's totally playing the King and Queen of R&B, and that's impressive. Then again, I'd expect no less from such a Tera Patrick-looking cable network employee with an ankle tat, a personalized license plate, and a passion for smothered chicken and waffles:
After Usher picks up Kells at the airstrip in his Bentley, they get to comparing war stories about how this flighty temptress crossed paths with them. It is a heated discussion.
Kells: Well, I met her at this party in Chicago.
Usher: She came right up to me, givin' me conversation...
Usher fondly recalls how his first impression was of a woman who would peg him with such ferocity that he wouldn't shit right for a week.
And so it was on. But apparently, this two-timing slut had a great video ho scoring average batting with this strategy, because Kells has his own variation.
Kells: Well it must be a music thing, cause she said the same to me. She had her body all in my face, while I’m laughin' and buyin' her drinks.
Or, more specifically, some type of rose-colored liqueur best enjoyed by a pool wearing $400 sunglasses at night:
Kells: Me too. Man, she was in the Chi singin' the same tune.
Usher (alarmed): Is that true!?
Kells: Man, it was true confessions when she said, "I love ya."
Not to leave his beloved homie's shoutout to his infamous hit "Confessions" hanging, Usher proceeded to work the name of a classic Kells jam into his analogous tale:
Distracted for a moment by the memory that he ACTUALLY thought her strap-on was calling when she said that, Usher covers up nicely with a segue into the portion of the conversation where he breaks out the visual evidence.
Usher: See, I even got some pictures on my phone...
Not to be outdone, Kells whips out his Sidekick.
Kells: Look there, man, she is with some boy shorts on:
Anyway, after Kells and Ush together melodiously lament what a small world it is, and so full of loose, faithless women, they continue to process. In fact, they go to Usher's plush, dark cigar lounge for a snifter of fine cognac and a Macanudo to finalize their therapy sesh and tie up all the lose factual ends. We're being cuckolded by the same woman...CHEERS!
Usher: Are you talking about the pink phone?
Kells: Uh-huh, the blue one.
I don't know how pink is blue, and I actually thought those colors were totally different, but maybe they're color-blind. That would explain a lot of both men's sometimes questionable and garish fashion choices. It seems, though, at the point where one sings with an echo for emphasis, the difference between pink and blue is a moot point. In fact, more important is demonstrating their prowess at hoops:
Usher: Cause constantly she’s been lyin' to us, lyin' to us.
By the way, that was a fast yet exhausting game of HORSE. Usher is sweating so much it looks like Kells gave HIM a golden shower (you know Usher wants it!). It's time to take a seat and rehydrate.
Usher: Kells, what you think that we should do about it, do about it?
Good thing you asked, because Kells is a master at scheming. He is, after all, a flirt...and if a man who is Teflon to child porn charges and a twink who married and impregnated a M2F tranny can't come up with a clever solution to this dilemma, who can? Tricksy R&B singers, these two.
Kells: Call her up at her home, she won’t know I'm on the phone...
Usher: Yeah, man, that’s a plan.
The old listen-silently-in-on-the-phone-conversation sting operation is a classic but effective plan, indeed. How could this not work in wreaking vengeance on adulterous whores? Usher likes:
Kells: Homie, we about to bust this trick
Usher: Man, just tell her to meet up with you and I'm gonna show up too...
Kells: And she won't know what to do!
Usher: We'll be standing there singing...
They decide that Usher's panic room would be the best place to film their final, most triumphant chorus summarizing their trials and tribulations with this clever and unscrupulous same girl:
Kells and Usher once again sum up the bullet points of how this bitch has wronged them. Same girl, apple of eye and potential wife, doubling up, etc. They'd be upset, but they are too smug and excited at the prospect of really sticking it to this prostitute publicly:
Unfortunately, life is full of surprises, and, much like an episode of "Law and Order" a shocking plot twist turns the whole story upside down! Rather than toying adulterously with the affections of two multi-platinum-selling R&B artists, this "same girl" was actually TWINS! Didn't see that one coming, now, did you? Again...R. Kelly=EINSTEIN/PICASSO/HEMINGWAY/INSERT GREAT CONTRIBUTOR TO THE ANNALS OF COLOSSALLY IMPORTANT CULTURAL ACHIEVEMENT HERE.
This is certainly surprising. Good thing R. Kelly has mastered ridiculousness, and will somehow succeed in making this less awkward once his obvious astonishment has worn off:
R. Kelly is the shit. He is the greatest artist of our time. NO JOKE!
Labels: boyfriends, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, J-Sexy, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly, sluts
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Robert, you did this, Kells, I heard you did that
Every time I think R. Kelly has set the new benchmark for ridiculous absurdity, he goes and breaks his own record with another offering of awesomeness. I'm so glad that FINALLY the world seems to have taken notice of Robert Sylvester's genius and waits eagerly for his latest blessing in the form of brilliant lyrics, heavily dramatic musical soap operas, or inspired and award-worthy videos.
His latest achievement is the video for "Real Talk," a song in which the listener hears Kells engaging in some domestic hostility with his significant other. Because the R-uh in R&B is on the phone, we don't get to hear her side of the story, but we can infer that she's being unreasonable. Then again, I don't blame his woman for being pissed about him gallivanting about, getting blasted off that Hennessy, being a dog on the prowl when he's walking through the mall on account of being a flirt, steadily tossing that cash flow at various Chicago-area strippers, and assorted other infidelity-related behaviors.
Regardless of whose side you take, it's clear that once again R. Kelly has succeeded in creating a dramatic and supremely entertaining exploration of the complex dynamics of a relationship. I'm also pleased that once again, much like in his classic "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video, Kells has embraced a wacky asymmetrical hairstyle, a look which he alone can rock due to his unique ability to marry the awe-inspiring and the hilarious. Brace yourself, because he's going to get a drink and "do this shit for y'all on YouTube," because God knows we fans all need Robert Sylvester to take a break from his volatile, potentially violent poker game to deliver some real talk for us:
I particularly applaud Robert Sylvester's passionate defense of his Constitutional right to use profanity for emphasis and realism, or as he puts it, "Profanity represents just how real shit gets when you're arguing with your girl and shit." Because as an avid user of profanity myself, I think it's necessary when your woman is spending too much time fucking with old, jealous, no-man-havin' hoes, considering that what they eat don't make him shit, and accusing you unjustly of some old bullshit he's gotten into at the club in the VIP. Not to mention that I can't even begin to count the number of times I've told a smart-mouthed ho who was getting out of line, "Bitch, I wish you would burn my motherfuckin' clothes, with your triflin' ass, and that's real talk." That's totally how I dumped my last boyfriend. I told him the next time he gets horny, he can go fuck one of his funky-ass friends. Isn't that the kind of "real talk" most people engage in during particularly stressful domestic spats?
And yes, I is tweekin'. I love Robert Sylvester Kelly SO MUCH. My love just continues to grow and grow and grow. And that right there is some real talk.
His latest achievement is the video for "Real Talk," a song in which the listener hears Kells engaging in some domestic hostility with his significant other. Because the R-uh in R&B is on the phone, we don't get to hear her side of the story, but we can infer that she's being unreasonable. Then again, I don't blame his woman for being pissed about him gallivanting about, getting blasted off that Hennessy, being a dog on the prowl when he's walking through the mall on account of being a flirt, steadily tossing that cash flow at various Chicago-area strippers, and assorted other infidelity-related behaviors.
Regardless of whose side you take, it's clear that once again R. Kelly has succeeded in creating a dramatic and supremely entertaining exploration of the complex dynamics of a relationship. I'm also pleased that once again, much like in his classic "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video, Kells has embraced a wacky asymmetrical hairstyle, a look which he alone can rock due to his unique ability to marry the awe-inspiring and the hilarious. Brace yourself, because he's going to get a drink and "do this shit for y'all on YouTube," because God knows we fans all need Robert Sylvester to take a break from his volatile, potentially violent poker game to deliver some real talk for us:
I particularly applaud Robert Sylvester's passionate defense of his Constitutional right to use profanity for emphasis and realism, or as he puts it, "Profanity represents just how real shit gets when you're arguing with your girl and shit." Because as an avid user of profanity myself, I think it's necessary when your woman is spending too much time fucking with old, jealous, no-man-havin' hoes, considering that what they eat don't make him shit, and accusing you unjustly of some old bullshit he's gotten into at the club in the VIP. Not to mention that I can't even begin to count the number of times I've told a smart-mouthed ho who was getting out of line, "Bitch, I wish you would burn my motherfuckin' clothes, with your triflin' ass, and that's real talk." That's totally how I dumped my last boyfriend. I told him the next time he gets horny, he can go fuck one of his funky-ass friends. Isn't that the kind of "real talk" most people engage in during particularly stressful domestic spats?
And yes, I is tweekin'. I love Robert Sylvester Kelly SO MUCH. My love just continues to grow and grow and grow. And that right there is some real talk.
Labels: boyfriends, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Soulja Boy Tell 'Em
DOB: July 28, 1990
Occupation: rapper, Internet entrepreneur
Hometown: Batesville, Mississippi
Current residence: Hotlanta, Georgia
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: If you're like me and you're trying to keep your finger on the pulse of what the kiddies are into these days (even though you're an old hag born in 1978 compared to little whippersnappers born IN THE 90s), then you've undoubtedly heard of Soulja Boy and his viral internet hit "Crank That." This song is my hilarious hip-hop jam of the month because, apart from "cranking that," I have no idea what he's talking about. I can hardly pick out any of the words except for "jockin on them haters, mane" and "supersoak that ho" (ew). However, in spite of not understanding the majority of what he says, Soulja Boy is extremely entertaining. He kept LL Cool Jew and I busy for quite some time the other day:
LL Cool Jew: can i just talk to you for one second about that "crank that" song?
LL Cool Jew: which I'm so glad you have featured on the site?
Razzy: yes
Razzy: so silly
LL Cool Jew: so soulja boy is from batesville mississippi
Razzy: his myspace said something along those lines
Razzy: did you meet him or something?
LL Cool Jew: which means he was huge on new orleans radio starting about six weeks ago
right
LL Cool Jew: and all the teenagers were calling in like "crank that soulja boy gibberish gibberish superman"
LL Cool Jew: i love that you pointed out how completely unintelligible that song is
LL Cool Jew: and what's also great is the video
Razzy: i was like, "what the fuck is this song even about???
LL Cool Jew: which obviously has a batesville, mississippi budget
LL Cool Jew: i don't think when they were making it they ever expected it to be on 106 and park
Razzy: talking about "bathin' apes"
LL Cool Jew: because no lie, soulja boy is rocking some sunglasses with message on them WRITTEN IN WITE-OUT PEN.
LL Cool Jew: you must youtube and see.
LL Cool Jew: it's too, too much.
LL Cool Jew: and the kids all over the place are doing the dance.
Razzy: k i'm you tubing now
LL Cool Jew: please report back your reax
Razzy: UM, OMG!
LL Cool Jew: yes???
Razzy: those glasses are the best
Razzy: soulja boy is my new fave
Razzy: what a little character!
LL Cool Jew: i know isn't he an adorable little bumpkin? he's like 15
Razzy: i know in every pic he's got like handfuls of $5 bills
LL Cool Jew: is that not wite-out???
Razzy: TOTALLY it's wite out
Razzy: or white nail polish
Razzy: or elmer's GLOOOOOOO
Razzy: that's my attempt at saying "glue" like soulja boy would
Razzy: bless
LL Cool Jew:: not GLOOOOOO
LL Cool Jew: lolz
Razzy: TRUUUUUUUUUUUUUE
LL Cool Jew: i know, soulja boy is so CUUUUUUUTE
LL Cool Jew: watch him crank it watch him roll
Razzy: superman...something something...superman...something something...supersoak that ho
Razzy: aight i got to walk the dogs and go to work later
Razzy: i'll holler at you in a bit
Razzy: i mean i'll holler at YOUUUUUU
Razzy: ll cool JEWWWWWWWW
Razzy: is that COOOOOOOOOOOL?
LL Cool Jew: i love YOOOOOOU!
Razzy: You TOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Our discussion of Soulja Boy didn't end there. Later that day, LL Cool Jew sent me a link to this typically snotty review of his album by the venerated and pretentious New York Times, which describes Soulja Boy as an "Internet entrepreneur" and declares his music to be "an appealing vision of youth culture at its youthiest."
He’s a 17-year-old rapper, producer and Internet entrepreneur from Atlanta, known officially as Soulja Boy Tell’em, though everyone calls him just plain Soulja Boy. And his breakthrough hit, “Crank That (Soulja Boy),” just might be the most viral song of the decade. Long before it was a No. 1 hit, firmly lodged in pop-radio playlists, it was an underground phenomenon, streaming from countless Web sites, through the shoddy speakers of countless PCs.I might have to invest in Soulja Boy's "simple, ebullient rhymes" over "defiantly unfussy beats" if only to hear the song "Booty Meat," the title of which has most assuredly piqued my curiosity. And the Times piece is right about one thing. It most certainly helps being born in the 90s to perfect the Soulja Boy crank. JerseyGirl, who was born in the early 80s, attempted to demonstrate her version of this dance (which she calls "the butterfly"), without success. Unless success is measured by entertaining ridiculousness or the supremely irritating sound of my voice in the background:
On YouTube.com, you can watch hundreds of so-they-think-they-can-dancers perfect and modify the moves that go with it. (Apparently it helps to have been born in the 1990s.) And on imeem.com, you can shuffle through dozens of cover versions: “Crank Dat (SpiderPig)” pays tribute to “The Simpsons Movie”; “Crank Dat Soulja Boy” (Chipmunks remix) proves that sped-up voices are still funny; “Crank Dat (Folger Boy)” gives the song a brilliantly unnecessary coffee-themed makeover.
And what does any of that have to do with Soulja Boy’s debut album, “Souljaboytellem.com”? Absolutely nothing. The CD gathers about a dozen typically infectious tracks, including “Report Card” (in which a straight-F student quotes the rapper Rich Boy, demanding that his teacher “Throw some D’s” on it), “Sidekick” (which doesn’t seem to have been commissioned by T-Mobile) and “Booty Meat” (a celebration of women’s trousers and their contents).
His simple, ebullient rhymes still sound great over those defiantly unfussy beats; sometimes a few notes and a fake kick drum are all you need. And in his rowdy but curse-free lyrics (Interscope isn’t releasing an explicit-lyrics version), you can hear an appealing vision of youth culture at its youthiest. Although Soulja Boy is just about guaranteed to irritate hip-hop purists, he captures the same playful, often silly energy that drove the genre in its early years.
There’s just one problem: What, exactly, are you supposed to do with this shiny round thing? Play it? All the way through? Even for a fan, 48 minutes is a lot of Soulja Boy. And this album is missing much of what first made him a star: the home-grown dance-offs, the cover versions, the goofy videos of the young star himself with his name Wite-Outed onto the lenses of his sunglasses. “I got a new dance for y’all,” he declares, at the beginning of “Let Me Get ’Em,” but if you’d like to see it, go online — this CD won’t be any help. Good news for Soulja Boy, but not for Interscope: He makes the album-driven music industry seem that much more obsolete. KELEFA SANNEH
Seriously, ladies everywhere better study up on how to crank that booty meat properly to Soulja Boy, because he's here to stay. I can only hope.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dirrty Dirrty, hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Feelin' On Yo Booty
Yesterday I was chatting with Morrissey'sHair, and naturally we were spending some of the time conversating about my favorite flirt/king of R&B...Robert Sylvester Kelly. Morrissey'sHair (being the world's biggest Morrissey fan) is new to the world of amazing genius that is Robert Sylvester Kelly's body of work, so he had never seen the awesomeness that is the "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video.
"Basically, the premise is that R. Kelly is only in town for the weekend, and he is interrupted whilst grooming himself for a hot night at the club, causing him to show up and perform with his hair half-cornrowed and half-Afro puffed. Once he gets there, he just dances slow with a girl, feels on her fabled booty, and then...he's out."
I then proceeded to go on for about ten minutes about all the great things about the video, such as the fact that Lil' Kim is inexplicably in it as one of the R-uh in R&B's love interests and as the target of the song's greatest line: "And your hair weave's lookin' kinda purty...the way you back it up on me, baby, LAWD have mercy." It's hilarious enough that anyone would characterize Lil' Kim's tracks as "kinda purty," but when it's coming from Robert Sylvester, it's right up there with the Seahawks winning a Super Bowl, sex with 50 Cent, or eating pepperoni pizza in my pantheon of favorite things.
Anyway, I just couldn't sleep thinking about how tremendously culturally deprived Morrissey'sHair is for not having witnessed this. It's so kickass that it's almost like the part at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark where Indiana Jones has to close his eyes so as not to be destroyed with the Nazis by witnessing the awesome and terrible power of God himself. Luckily, R. Kelly has not achieved I Am Who Am-like powers (yet), so you can view prime scenes like Kells indulging in a bubble bath with two video hos and a bottle of Cris from the "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video without fear of divine immolation, and I strongly encourage you all to do so IMMEDIATELY. This is my song FOR REAL, no doubt.
Players want to play, ballers want to ball, R. Kelly's takin' off after this dance, and all is right in the world. If it's your birthday, or if you want to get drunk, or if you've got some cash or your own job, then put your hands up. My hands are up. No, seriously...they are. That's what happens when the DJ makes me feel thugged out.
"Basically, the premise is that R. Kelly is only in town for the weekend, and he is interrupted whilst grooming himself for a hot night at the club, causing him to show up and perform with his hair half-cornrowed and half-Afro puffed. Once he gets there, he just dances slow with a girl, feels on her fabled booty, and then...he's out."
I then proceeded to go on for about ten minutes about all the great things about the video, such as the fact that Lil' Kim is inexplicably in it as one of the R-uh in R&B's love interests and as the target of the song's greatest line: "And your hair weave's lookin' kinda purty...the way you back it up on me, baby, LAWD have mercy." It's hilarious enough that anyone would characterize Lil' Kim's tracks as "kinda purty," but when it's coming from Robert Sylvester, it's right up there with the Seahawks winning a Super Bowl, sex with 50 Cent, or eating pepperoni pizza in my pantheon of favorite things.
Anyway, I just couldn't sleep thinking about how tremendously culturally deprived Morrissey'sHair is for not having witnessed this. It's so kickass that it's almost like the part at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark where Indiana Jones has to close his eyes so as not to be destroyed with the Nazis by witnessing the awesome and terrible power of God himself. Luckily, R. Kelly has not achieved I Am Who Am-like powers (yet), so you can view prime scenes like Kells indulging in a bubble bath with two video hos and a bottle of Cris from the "Feelin' On Yo Booty" video without fear of divine immolation, and I strongly encourage you all to do so IMMEDIATELY. This is my song FOR REAL, no doubt.
Players want to play, ballers want to ball, R. Kelly's takin' off after this dance, and all is right in the world. If it's your birthday, or if you want to get drunk, or if you've got some cash or your own job, then put your hands up. My hands are up. No, seriously...they are. That's what happens when the DJ makes me feel thugged out.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, Morrissey'sHair, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
The anti-imperialists strike back
I knew that I probably shouldn't, but I couldn't resist sending the stupid twat leading the "De-Colonization Day" charge a link to my blog entry. When I went to Smith, I really got a great deal of amusement from antagonizing self-righteous bitches by pointing out what a bunch of moronic hypocrites they are, and I have not lost my taste for that. Fortunately, Smith is not the world's exclusive repository of stupid cunts with inflated opinions of their own importance. I had Samantha "De-Colonization" Stanton pegged as that type of dumb broad, and she did not disappoint. Just to ensure that a REAL expert in flawed, personally affronted logic handled this one, Samantha passed the responsibility to a bitch attending Barnard. Nobody can send a pedantic, contradictory attempt at inducing guilt like a slut taking liberal arts classes at a women's college. Seven Sisters throwdown!
From: Samantha Barron (sb2700@barnard.edu)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: RazzyBlog response
Angela--
As a member of the Student Coalition on Expansion and Gentrification (SCEG), I was personally appalled to read your blog entry in response to Samantha Stanton's request for our help with Decolonization Day. Whether or not you agree with the reasoning behind Decolonization Day is beside point-- I will make no attempt to counter the ridiculous argument you presented on your blog.
What I will address, however, is the fact that you publicly attacked someone who was trying to reach out to our group. We envision our listserv as a safe space in which anyone can express their ideas and opinions. This is not to say that we agree with every message that is sent over to us, but we make a point to engage with and criticize ideas, and not to attack individuals personally. Please save your antagonism for another forum, as it is unappreciated and unproductive here.
I also want to remind you that you know nothing of Samantha Stanton. I, for one, would be reluctant to associate the term "white man's guilt" with someone I've never even met. Assumptions can be dangerous.
Lastly, if you are fed up with emails from "humorless, condescending jerkoffs," as you so eloquently describe us, I can do my part to help. Simply say the word and I will be more than happy to remove you from the Student Coalition on Expansion and Gentrification's Ethics of Expansion listserv. If you do choose to remain on our list, and to keep receiving expansion-related emails, I ask you to respect it. Maintain whatever opinions you like, but do not attack those who come to us looking to share ideas.
Thank You.
Samantha Barron
My, my, my...where do I begin? It's so hard to decide which rambling and nonsensical statement to respond to first. I'm truly a despicable and dastardly person, having violated the "safe space" of an E-MAIL LIST, which is ostensibly dedicated to ensuring that people can "express their ideas and opinions." I'm also a terrible human being because I can't relate to a slut who "will make no attempt to counter the ridiculous argument (I) presented on (my) blog" and then repeatedly harangue me for "attack(ing) those who come to us looking to share ideas." I guess that she's down to "engage with and criticize ideas, and not attack individuals personally" only when those ideas are sufficiently similar to hers to not be summarily declared "ridiculous."
I re-read my blog entry, and can only imagine what kind of shit score Samantha Barron got on the reading comprehension questions of her SAT Verbal, because I primarily take issue with the ideas behind De-Colonization day, and do very little personal attacking of Samantha Stanton herself. Most of the issues I discussed were countering her ignorance concerning "the historical myth of conquest," the origin of the name "Columbia," and the pointlessness of her activist cause. The worst thing I did in the personal attack department was to suggest that Samantha and her fellow revisionist historians were dirty hippies who were wasting everyone's time. And contrary to what Samantha Barron asserts, I did not do this in the hallowed hall of warmly accepted and highly intellectual ideas that is the SCEG listserv or some other place where it was "unappreciated and unproductive." I did it on MY BLOG, which, as editrix-in-chief, resident genius, and head bitch in charge, I can decisively say is a most appropriate forum for antagonism.
My favorite part, however, is where Samantha Barron reminds me that I "know nothing of Samantha Stanton" and implies that my use of the term "white man's guilt" is racist because Samantha Stanton isn't white. I was unaware that I had to figure out what race Samantha is or otherwise get to know her personally before suggesting that her ideas are idiotic and completely exemplary of what happened when a bunch of privileged brats take an activist-flavored social studies class at their Ivy League schools and decide to get sanctimonious about it. However, just to make sure I don't fall prey to the dangers of assumption that Samantha Barron cautions me about, I went ahead and checked out Samantha Stanton's Facebook to get to know her better. It's pretty much just as I suspected: Samantha Stanton is a fugly probable lezbot with a penchant for irreverent hand gestures, a disdain for hairbrushes, and a prominent shortage of intellect. I guess she might be Latina too, but as far as I'm concerned, that's irrelevant. In my experience, stupidity has no color.
I was going to interrupt Samantha Stanton's and Samantha Barron's boobmashing, rally-planning, and Motorcycle Diaries viewing with a lengthy treatise on how I still think they're both morons, but I realized that since I already got in trouble for merely READING an e-mail sent via their sacred listserv, I should probably just stick to my own "safe space," which happens to be the mean-spirited internets. So I just sent the following walking-on-eggshells e-mail to advise them of my rebuttal:
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
To: Samantha Barron (sb2700@barnard.edu), Samantha Stanton (shs2121@columbia.edu)
Subject: RE: RazzyBlog response
Ladies,
I would hate to desecrate the sanctity of this most holy of e-mail lists, so please find my response to your complaints and concerns on a more appropriate forum, where antagonism is not only productive and appreciated, but entirely encouraged:
http://www.razzy.org/RazzyBlog/2007/10/anti-imperialists-strike-back.html
Yours in the struggle,
Razzy
Maybe I'll drop by De-Colonization day in a shirt that says "I Heart Imperialism" or something like that just to really goad these bitches. Fun times on Columbus Day!
From: Samantha Barron (sb2700@barnard.edu)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: RazzyBlog response
Angela--
As a member of the Student Coalition on Expansion and Gentrification (SCEG), I was personally appalled to read your blog entry in response to Samantha Stanton's request for our help with Decolonization Day. Whether or not you agree with the reasoning behind Decolonization Day is beside point-- I will make no attempt to counter the ridiculous argument you presented on your blog.
What I will address, however, is the fact that you publicly attacked someone who was trying to reach out to our group. We envision our listserv as a safe space in which anyone can express their ideas and opinions. This is not to say that we agree with every message that is sent over to us, but we make a point to engage with and criticize ideas, and not to attack individuals personally. Please save your antagonism for another forum, as it is unappreciated and unproductive here.
I also want to remind you that you know nothing of Samantha Stanton. I, for one, would be reluctant to associate the term "white man's guilt" with someone I've never even met. Assumptions can be dangerous.
Lastly, if you are fed up with emails from "humorless, condescending jerkoffs," as you so eloquently describe us, I can do my part to help. Simply say the word and I will be more than happy to remove you from the Student Coalition on Expansion and Gentrification's Ethics of Expansion listserv. If you do choose to remain on our list, and to keep receiving expansion-related emails, I ask you to respect it. Maintain whatever opinions you like, but do not attack those who come to us looking to share ideas.
Thank You.
Samantha Barron
My, my, my...where do I begin? It's so hard to decide which rambling and nonsensical statement to respond to first. I'm truly a despicable and dastardly person, having violated the "safe space" of an E-MAIL LIST, which is ostensibly dedicated to ensuring that people can "express their ideas and opinions." I'm also a terrible human being because I can't relate to a slut who "will make no attempt to counter the ridiculous argument (I) presented on (my) blog" and then repeatedly harangue me for "attack(ing) those who come to us looking to share ideas." I guess that she's down to "engage with and criticize ideas, and not attack individuals personally" only when those ideas are sufficiently similar to hers to not be summarily declared "ridiculous."
I re-read my blog entry, and can only imagine what kind of shit score Samantha Barron got on the reading comprehension questions of her SAT Verbal, because I primarily take issue with the ideas behind De-Colonization day, and do very little personal attacking of Samantha Stanton herself. Most of the issues I discussed were countering her ignorance concerning "the historical myth of conquest," the origin of the name "Columbia," and the pointlessness of her activist cause. The worst thing I did in the personal attack department was to suggest that Samantha and her fellow revisionist historians were dirty hippies who were wasting everyone's time. And contrary to what Samantha Barron asserts, I did not do this in the hallowed hall of warmly accepted and highly intellectual ideas that is the SCEG listserv or some other place where it was "unappreciated and unproductive." I did it on MY BLOG, which, as editrix-in-chief, resident genius, and head bitch in charge, I can decisively say is a most appropriate forum for antagonism.
My favorite part, however, is where Samantha Barron reminds me that I "know nothing of Samantha Stanton" and implies that my use of the term "white man's guilt" is racist because Samantha Stanton isn't white. I was unaware that I had to figure out what race Samantha is or otherwise get to know her personally before suggesting that her ideas are idiotic and completely exemplary of what happened when a bunch of privileged brats take an activist-flavored social studies class at their Ivy League schools and decide to get sanctimonious about it. However, just to make sure I don't fall prey to the dangers of assumption that Samantha Barron cautions me about, I went ahead and checked out Samantha Stanton's Facebook to get to know her better. It's pretty much just as I suspected: Samantha Stanton is a fugly probable lezbot with a penchant for irreverent hand gestures, a disdain for hairbrushes, and a prominent shortage of intellect. I guess she might be Latina too, but as far as I'm concerned, that's irrelevant. In my experience, stupidity has no color.
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
To: Samantha Barron (sb2700@barnard.edu), Samantha Stanton (shs2121@columbia.edu)
Subject: RE: RazzyBlog response
Ladies,
I would hate to desecrate the sanctity of this most holy of e-mail lists, so please find my response to your complaints and concerns on a more appropriate forum, where antagonism is not only productive and appreciated, but entirely encouraged:
http://www.razzy.org/RazzyBlog/2007/10/anti-imperialists-strike-back.html
Yours in the struggle,
Razzy
Maybe I'll drop by De-Colonization day in a shirt that says "I Heart Imperialism" or something like that just to really goad these bitches. Fun times on Columbus Day!
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, correspondence, Dumb Smith bitches, grad school bullshit, intentional buffoonery, overcompensation, retard rage, ridiculous absurdity, scathing indictments, sluts
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the SLUT
Name: South Lake Union Trolley
DOB: scheduled for December 2007
Occupation: getting ridden
Hometown: Seattle, Washington
Current residence: reppin' 206
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: The perennially brilliant city planners (ie: Paul Allen) in Seattle decided to solve their many traffic problems using mass transit technology from the turn of the century, by which I mean 1900. A trolley is getting installed in the South Lake Union area of Seattle to carry bitches back and forth from Fred Hutch to the Westlake Center, where they can catch a bus that will take them to another slow-ass bus or a train that doesn't run very often (but has wi-fi!) and basically not solve any kind of traffic problems at all. However, it being Seattle, I'm sure the new trolley is "green," or at least is made out of recycled shit or somehow otherwise has the trappings of earth-friendliness.
Anyway, the trolley's original name was supposedly the South Lake Union Trolley, AKA the "SLUT," and although the name has since officially become the South Lake Union Streetcar, the original acronym has stuck. Finally Seattle does something I heartily approve of besides building Safeco and Qwest Fields. Every town can use more sluts, and Seattle's probably been going through withdrawals since I quit skanking up the biotech scene there and moved out of the P-N-Dub five years ago. Furthermore, as much as it pisses me off just looking at the smarmy faces of these rodeo-inspired part-time baristas/full-time douchebags, I have to grudgingly admit that "Ride the SLUT" t-shirts may be the best thing ever to come out of the annoying Seattle coffeehouse scene:
Like I said, it's priceless. Click this link and go halfway down the page to watch it because it's a must-see. The Seattle PI just jumped into the running for Best Newspaper in the Universe against the inimitable New York Post. And big props to Seattle for making this awesomest of mistakes. Granted, the trolley service will probably suck as hard as what its acronym implies because that's Seattle mass transit for you, but the name alone has boosted my esteem of the Emerald City. Hats off and tits out to you, SLUT.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, P-N-Dub, ridiculous absurdity
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
If you're a blowjob-loving pervert looking for limos in Puyallup or Brandi M. sucking dick, you've come to the right place
Yesterday I was dicking around on my stats page, which is something I do whenever I'm feeling particularly webmasterly. Statcounter has all sorts of statistics I can look at for my amusement, like how long people stayed at my site, what pages they read, what websites referred them here, and the like. I idly clicked on "Recent Keyword Activity" to see what words were driving people to my site from Google, and immediately began laughing out loud:
I don't know how anyone wound up on my blog wondering about the resignation of the pastor of "Empowerment Temple" or who "G Brown" the jock asshole is, but everything else seems right on the money. I'm clearly all about fellatio, cumshots, show-stopping around my hometown in luxury chaffeur-driven vehicles, and "pussyeat dolls" (and that probably was NOT a typo), and if Polish Google directed someone elsewhere besides my site in a search for "slizzing hot game," then I'd say they got their algorithms totally twisted.
To make sure these search trends weren't a fluke, I checked out my keyword activity today, as well. In addition to being completely sure that much of my traffic these days is coming from dudes with a mouse in one hand and his dick in the other hunting for photos of Brandi M. demonstrating her prowess at sucking cock while attempting to flash her bedroom eyes at the webcam, I was pleased to see that I'm getting hits from people presumably enamored with the scorching Norse hotness that is Captain Sigurd Hansen of the F/V Northwestern and that my counterstrike against the Tej Offensive has been successful. I also wish desperately that I had pictures of a white guy (ideally Colonel John Matrix, Commando and current Governor of California) doing Rae Dawn Chong doggystyle.
I am so glad that people are still landing at my site when Googling Tej Bindra, because I plan to make her pay in character capital for as long as I own this damn domain. For those of you who are new to the site, Tej Bindra is an avowed Razzy Hater and all-around dumb Smith bitch who didn't appreciate my ridiculing her dorm room's profile in the Smith Alumnae Quarterly, and REALLY didn't like the e-mail I sent her a year later when she called me an assfuck and demanded a retraction in which I instructed her to eat me. Tej sought to retaliate by having some nefarious consort(s) of hers leave me threatening voicemails, post naked pictures of me on the internet, post more naked pictures of me on the internet, and impersonate me in the hopes that some Craigslist perv would inadvertently rape me. The whole thing worked out, because I got to meet some hot NYPD detectives, and because I vowed thereafter to ensure that RAZZY.org is the first thing potential employers or romantic interests see when they search the internets for "TEJ BINDRA." If that bitch thought making me fear for my sexual safety was a reasonable punishment for not taking down a relatively insignificant blog posting making fun of the room she shared with her dour, titless girlfriend in Wesley House back at my dear old alma mater, then she was dead fucking wrong. This should go to show that if you are some dipshit history major at a liberal arts college who thinks your feelings are paramount to everything else, you should consider VERY carefully the consequences of fucking with a shameless bitch with an internet audience. I hope that stupid, chunky twat is still peddling her worthless internship-replete CV all around the human rights non-profit circuit hoping desperately to come across one that doesn't check references or know about Google.
Anyway, the keywords have it. Not only am I getting the hits I want from the nasty sex pigs seeking free celebreality porn, connoisseurs of "slizzing hot game," and randoms looking for limos or model plastic RoboCops, but also I am getting revenge and man, it is sweet. I win again and as always! It rules being me.
I don't know how anyone wound up on my blog wondering about the resignation of the pastor of "Empowerment Temple" or who "G Brown" the jock asshole is, but everything else seems right on the money. I'm clearly all about fellatio, cumshots, show-stopping around my hometown in luxury chaffeur-driven vehicles, and "pussyeat dolls" (and that probably was NOT a typo), and if Polish Google directed someone elsewhere besides my site in a search for "slizzing hot game," then I'd say they got their algorithms totally twisted.
To make sure these search trends weren't a fluke, I checked out my keyword activity today, as well. In addition to being completely sure that much of my traffic these days is coming from dudes with a mouse in one hand and his dick in the other hunting for photos of Brandi M. demonstrating her prowess at sucking cock while attempting to flash her bedroom eyes at the webcam, I was pleased to see that I'm getting hits from people presumably enamored with the scorching Norse hotness that is Captain Sigurd Hansen of the F/V Northwestern and that my counterstrike against the Tej Offensive has been successful. I also wish desperately that I had pictures of a white guy (ideally Colonel John Matrix, Commando and current Governor of California) doing Rae Dawn Chong doggystyle.
I am so glad that people are still landing at my site when Googling Tej Bindra, because I plan to make her pay in character capital for as long as I own this damn domain. For those of you who are new to the site, Tej Bindra is an avowed Razzy Hater and all-around dumb Smith bitch who didn't appreciate my ridiculing her dorm room's profile in the Smith Alumnae Quarterly, and REALLY didn't like the e-mail I sent her a year later when she called me an assfuck and demanded a retraction in which I instructed her to eat me. Tej sought to retaliate by having some nefarious consort(s) of hers leave me threatening voicemails, post naked pictures of me on the internet, post more naked pictures of me on the internet, and impersonate me in the hopes that some Craigslist perv would inadvertently rape me. The whole thing worked out, because I got to meet some hot NYPD detectives, and because I vowed thereafter to ensure that RAZZY.org is the first thing potential employers or romantic interests see when they search the internets for "TEJ BINDRA." If that bitch thought making me fear for my sexual safety was a reasonable punishment for not taking down a relatively insignificant blog posting making fun of the room she shared with her dour, titless girlfriend in Wesley House back at my dear old alma mater, then she was dead fucking wrong. This should go to show that if you are some dipshit history major at a liberal arts college who thinks your feelings are paramount to everything else, you should consider VERY carefully the consequences of fucking with a shameless bitch with an internet audience. I hope that stupid, chunky twat is still peddling her worthless internship-replete CV all around the human rights non-profit circuit hoping desperately to come across one that doesn't check references or know about Google.Anyway, the keywords have it. Not only am I getting the hits I want from the nasty sex pigs seeking free celebreality porn, connoisseurs of "slizzing hot game," and randoms looking for limos or model plastic RoboCops, but also I am getting revenge and man, it is sweet. I win again and as always! It rules being me.
Labels: I LOVE IT, internet domination, perversion, Razzification, Razzy Haters, ridiculous absurdity, sex, Tej Offensive, vengeance is sweet
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: White House prankstas
DOB: ???
Occupation: dicking around, pimping GOP rides
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: While Karl Rove was kickin' it over a jug of sweet tea with Dubya and the good ol' boys on the porch back in Crawford, some jokesters with nothing better to do decided to have some fun with the Jaguar he left parked at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. They stuck a bumper sticker reading "I (heart) Obama" on the windshield, plastered the windows with Post-Its reading "King Karl," shrink-wrapped it, and mounted two stuffed eagles on the trunk and a stuffed elephant on the hood. Let nobody say those kooks in the Bush White House lack a sense of humor. Apparently this was done as a gesture by staffers who are already deeply sad about the upcoming absence of Rove's puckish manner in strategy meetings.
Apparently, Karl Rove was amused by the modifications to his Jag, but that didn't stop him from immediately tearing them all off. He was assisted by some of the Children of the Corn, who act as his entourage of Satanic bodyguards, his own personal Fedayin, if you will:
Labels: assholes, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hilarious shit, politics, ridiculous absurdity, tyrannical rulers
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The Hottest Houses
FalloniusMonk was kind enough to forward on this dipshit Newsweek ranking of "the hottest colleges" in America, because FINALLY Smith takes a lead spot in rankings. Okay, so we're stagnating at the bottom of the top 20 in U.S. News and World Report's liberal arts college rankings (number 19 two years running...WOO HOO!), and this Newsweek ranking also included categories like "Hottest Liberal Arts College You've Never Heard Of" (Centenary College of Louisiana) and "Hottest for No SAT or ACT Needed" (Bates College), but SO WHAT? Finally Smith is tops at something and not just ugly LUGs (lesbians until graduation).
According to the article, Smith is the "Hottest Woman's College" (and HELLO, people, it's woMEN's--as in plural--not woMAN'S). My alma mater earned this distinction, not because of the precious few hot women actually matriculating there, but because "students who prefer a coed college change their minds when they see the cottage-style houses Smith students reside in." The Smith admissions department propaganda could not have said it any better.
When I went to Smith, it was actually because I didn't get into Harvard and I had been super lesbish in high school, but that didn't stop Smith from endlessly crowing about their awesome housing system. Basically, Smith houses were like sororities without the pledging. They were "self-governed" (ie: electing a powerless cabinet, including officials with lofty titles like "Energy Czarina"--that was the bitch who turned off lights left on), and looked more like fancy manor houses than dorms. All the houses also got their own reputations for attracting different types of people. Since they're so fucking "hot," I might as well explain a little about these charming "cottage-style" abodes which dissuade bitches from their preferred coed experience.
Albright House
In my experience, Albright was one of the lamest houses on campus. LL Cool Jew was once brought up on bogus sexual harassment charges from some dumb, crazy bitch who lived there, and when I was back for my two-year reunion, that's where the alumnae association placed me. In the course of our group of friends' revelry, we managed to piss off every Smith bitch still living there. They complained to us about how our smoking was bad for their asthma, and once we established hostile relations (ie: Motherbucker blew a heavy drag off an American Spirit in the face of Asthma Girl), they started bitching to everyone who would listen. The night before these hos graduated from college, instead of partying and celebrating like they should have been, they were holed up having a meeting about what a bunch of assholes they thought we were. I happened to pass by on my way back from buying more mixers and cigarettes and overheard their heated debate. "That one woman blew smoke in my face!" one indignantly said. "And another one had sex all night long yesterday...with a MALE!" Being that I was the alumna having the offending heterosexual sex (yes, I managed to get laid with a random dude at my women's college reunion...I'm a player...all I gotta do is flirt with him and I get them drawers), and I was eavesdropping with the dude who I was boning, we high-fived and elected to make our passions even louder that night. I think we actually broke the bed. Anyway, those bitches actually had Smith Public Safety throw us out for "bolsterous" behavior, and they permanently cemented my assertion that Albright is LAME. In Albright's defense, however, I did pop my anal cherry there when I was staying in some bitch's room during spring break my junior year. That's probably the coolest thing that has ever gone down within that den of uptight virgins.
Baldwin House
Ah, Baldwin. Albright's neighbor and sister in lameness. That's basically all I know about Baldwin. I never went to a party there, or knew any bitches that lived there. It may as well not exist, but I guess they have to put the hookers with no personalities (even by Smith standards) somewhere.
Capen House
All I know about Capen was that the newspaper editor my sophomore year lived there, and there was some kind of insanely dramatic incestuous lesbian drama going on up in that "example of classical revivalist architecture." Apparently it wasn't all the paper snowflake making and organizing apple-picking trips that the Smith website says Capenites get up to.
Chapin House
I went to a party at Chapin House one time, for no good reason except that there was nothing going on all night. I left almost immediately because the dumb bitch behind the bar wouldn't serve me (I was underage but SO? It's college!) and I responded with some typical Razzy profanity-laden sass. Then I think I tried to get my boyfriend Benzo to get me a drink, and dumb bitch behind the bar wasn't having that. When we left to go use my fake ID at a bar, dumb bitch was in tears crying to her friend about how I was a great big bitch. A rockin' party, if I do say so myself.
Chase House
Chase is the seniors-only house, where hookers move if they don't like whatever house they're in and don't luck out with a Friedman apartment. LL Cool Jew lived there her senior year, and even though she's cool and promptly sought out all the other cool people around, she still managed to have problems with some bitch who said she was too noisy. LL Cool Jew spent most of her senior year writing a thesis about the literary achievements of Graham Greene, which I'm sure was more raucous noise than the even nerdier twat down the hall could possibly manage. I mean, how is she supposed to finish her Fulbright application with LL Cool Jew noisily underlining passages out of The Quiet American right down the hall?
Comstock House
And finally we get to a Quad house. The Quadrangle is 10 houses arranged in accordance with their name, around a central courtyard. The Quad is what passes for the "party houses" at Smith, and "Quad Bunnies" are the booze-swilling, frat boy-banging hotties that live there and garner disdain from snotty bitches elsewhere on campus. Comstock's claim to fame is an annual party called the "Get Lei'd" party, in which everyone gets a lei, which you lose if you say "no" for any reason. The party was a lot less exciting than its name implied, but at least they weren't stingy with the keg beer.
Cushing House
Also a Quad house, Cushing faced the house I lived in (see Awesomest Smith House Ever AKA Jordan House, below). Cushing housed the least attractive women in the Quad, and alongside Gardiner and Morrow houses, the least remarkable.
Cutter House
An architectural blight on the ivy-covered brick New Englandyness that is Smith's general theme, Cutter is a post-modern monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an industrial park in 1974. The rooms inside have linoleum floors, fluorescent lighting, and cinder block walls reminiscent of a state-funded mental ward. The first week of my first year, some fugly lezbot invited me over to her room at Cutter for what I hoped would be beer drinking fun, but my hopes were quickly dashed when she handed me a cup of chamomile tea, cranked the Melissa Ferrick, and asked if I played chess. Needless to say, no fingerbanging went down that night. I never went back to visit anyone living in Cutter ever again.
Dawes House
Dawes is super cute, has a full kitchen for student use, and everyone there has a single room, but there is one little catch: it also goes by "La Maison Francaise." As much as I'd have liked the accommodations, there's no way I could have tolerated French flag decorations everywhere. Furthermore, there's the added problem that I don't speak any French apart from "hors d'oeuvres" and "merde," and fluency in French is a requisite for living there.
Duckett House
Duckett is connected to Chase House, but the only thing I know about it is that it has an elevator, and for some reason, there were always panel discussions happening there in the dining room. For example, the Bitches Who Hate the WTO would have "anti-globalization" lunches and shit there. Obviously, I never managed to make it to one of those shindigs.
Emerson House
Emerson was right next to the house where I lived, and we were connected to them. There were some cool girls in Emerson who used to come party on the Jordan second floor with me and my crew (I actually made an amateur porn with two of them, and NO I'm not posting that here), and there were also some seriously uptight snatches. To seek vengeance, I stole a couch out of their hall sitting room for my dorm, and the night before I graduated, gave the illicit couch to some townies drinking from our illicit keg to throw off the roof. They almost hit a Public Safety cruiser with it. Another time, this girl in my house pulled their fire alarm at 3 a.m. to get back at them for making noise complaints about our house. They were so pissed. It was awesome.
Friedman Apartments
The Friedmans were the only campus apartments, and they were in high demand. Girls would flip out over whether or not they could secure a Friedman. I had a few friends who lived in Friedmans, and there were some kickass parties there for sure. One time I walked into a friend's birthday party at Friedman B-2, and she greeted me at the door in a pair of devil horns and on so much Ecstasy that she looked like one of those people from the "Black Hole Sun" video. She proceeded to greet me with one of the sloppiest, most tongue-filled kisses I've ever received, and then put a drink in my hand. Good times. Friedman residence, however, didn't guarantee that you weren't going to be an impossibly lame typical Smith hag. At my two-year-reunion, we got kicked out of some fat, mustachioed, Fuzzy Navel-drinking bitch's Friedman because my ex-boyfriend Benzo's stepbrother Nate Dogg was harassing her...AKA talking shit about Smith girls because he went to VASSAR. Only at Smith does that get you ejected from a party.
Gardiner House
Gardiner was a real pearls-and-penny loafers type of Smith house, and even though they were in the Quad, they were notorious for their elitist, buttoned-up, WASPy residents. They actually even tried to start a sorority and hung up their letters on their second floor bay window. In response, I started a fraternity my junior year and hung up our letters in the Jordan House window facing Gardiner. I chose the Pi Kappa Epsilon frat, because the Pikes were notorious for date rape and vicious hazing and other egregious fratty violations. For an entire year, I had my PKE letters fixed firmly upon my door, and I think I even drew them on my arm one time for a Gardiner House party. Whether the bitches at Gardiner got it or not is unclear, but they were nonetheless displeased that I'd chosen to make light of what they thought was a brilliant idea. Because a Smith sorority is a great idea...if there's one thing Smith needs more of, it's cadres of stupid bitches reveling in their exclusivity.
Gillett House
I actually know nothing about Gillett House. It's yet another unremarkable bitch trap.
Haven/Wesley House
It's where would-be internet-mediated rape facilitator TEJ BINDRA lived, and I think that says it all. An interesting piece of trivia about the room where Tej lived is that my friend Wmania once vomited Kahlua and Bailey's all over it. Oh, and Sylvia Plath lived there too.
Hopkins House
I know absolutely nothing about Hopkins House, either. Dumb, boring bitch repository!
Hubbard House
Again, dumb, boring bitch repository! The best thing they've got going for them is that Julia Child lived there at the turn of the century, or whenever the hell in antiquity it was that she went to Smith.
Jordan House (AKA AWESOMEST SMITH HOUSE EVER)
Guess where I lived all four years at Smith? Only the most notorious party house at Smith in the history of the college. When I would tell people, "I live in Jordan," I'd get this knowing look, that was full of "oh, you must be a drunk" judgment, concern that I might become unhinged at any moment, and hushed awe. When I first got to Smith, Jordan was on social
According to the article, Smith is the "Hottest Woman's College" (and HELLO, people, it's woMEN's--as in plural--not woMAN'S). My alma mater earned this distinction, not because of the precious few hot women actually matriculating there, but because "students who prefer a coed college change their minds when they see the cottage-style houses Smith students reside in." The Smith admissions department propaganda could not have said it any better.
When I went to Smith, it was actually because I didn't get into Harvard and I had been super lesbish in high school, but that didn't stop Smith from endlessly crowing about their awesome housing system. Basically, Smith houses were like sororities without the pledging. They were "self-governed" (ie: electing a powerless cabinet, including officials with lofty titles like "Energy Czarina"--that was the bitch who turned off lights left on), and looked more like fancy manor houses than dorms. All the houses also got their own reputations for attracting different types of people. Since they're so fucking "hot," I might as well explain a little about these charming "cottage-style" abodes which dissuade bitches from their preferred coed experience.
Albright House
In my experience, Albright was one of the lamest houses on campus. LL Cool Jew was once brought up on bogus sexual harassment charges from some dumb, crazy bitch who lived there, and when I was back for my two-year reunion, that's where the alumnae association placed me. In the course of our group of friends' revelry, we managed to piss off every Smith bitch still living there. They complained to us about how our smoking was bad for their asthma, and once we established hostile relations (ie: Motherbucker blew a heavy drag off an American Spirit in the face of Asthma Girl), they started bitching to everyone who would listen. The night before these hos graduated from college, instead of partying and celebrating like they should have been, they were holed up having a meeting about what a bunch of assholes they thought we were. I happened to pass by on my way back from buying more mixers and cigarettes and overheard their heated debate. "That one woman blew smoke in my face!" one indignantly said. "And another one had sex all night long yesterday...with a MALE!" Being that I was the alumna having the offending heterosexual sex (yes, I managed to get laid with a random dude at my women's college reunion...I'm a player...all I gotta do is flirt with him and I get them drawers), and I was eavesdropping with the dude who I was boning, we high-fived and elected to make our passions even louder that night. I think we actually broke the bed. Anyway, those bitches actually had Smith Public Safety throw us out for "bolsterous" behavior, and they permanently cemented my assertion that Albright is LAME. In Albright's defense, however, I did pop my anal cherry there when I was staying in some bitch's room during spring break my junior year. That's probably the coolest thing that has ever gone down within that den of uptight virgins.
Baldwin House
Ah, Baldwin. Albright's neighbor and sister in lameness. That's basically all I know about Baldwin. I never went to a party there, or knew any bitches that lived there. It may as well not exist, but I guess they have to put the hookers with no personalities (even by Smith standards) somewhere.
Capen House
All I know about Capen was that the newspaper editor my sophomore year lived there, and there was some kind of insanely dramatic incestuous lesbian drama going on up in that "example of classical revivalist architecture." Apparently it wasn't all the paper snowflake making and organizing apple-picking trips that the Smith website says Capenites get up to.
Chapin House
I went to a party at Chapin House one time, for no good reason except that there was nothing going on all night. I left almost immediately because the dumb bitch behind the bar wouldn't serve me (I was underage but SO? It's college!) and I responded with some typical Razzy profanity-laden sass. Then I think I tried to get my boyfriend Benzo to get me a drink, and dumb bitch behind the bar wasn't having that. When we left to go use my fake ID at a bar, dumb bitch was in tears crying to her friend about how I was a great big bitch. A rockin' party, if I do say so myself.
Chase House
Chase is the seniors-only house, where hookers move if they don't like whatever house they're in and don't luck out with a Friedman apartment. LL Cool Jew lived there her senior year, and even though she's cool and promptly sought out all the other cool people around, she still managed to have problems with some bitch who said she was too noisy. LL Cool Jew spent most of her senior year writing a thesis about the literary achievements of Graham Greene, which I'm sure was more raucous noise than the even nerdier twat down the hall could possibly manage. I mean, how is she supposed to finish her Fulbright application with LL Cool Jew noisily underlining passages out of The Quiet American right down the hall?
Comstock House
And finally we get to a Quad house. The Quadrangle is 10 houses arranged in accordance with their name, around a central courtyard. The Quad is what passes for the "party houses" at Smith, and "Quad Bunnies" are the booze-swilling, frat boy-banging hotties that live there and garner disdain from snotty bitches elsewhere on campus. Comstock's claim to fame is an annual party called the "Get Lei'd" party, in which everyone gets a lei, which you lose if you say "no" for any reason. The party was a lot less exciting than its name implied, but at least they weren't stingy with the keg beer.
Cushing House
Also a Quad house, Cushing faced the house I lived in (see Awesomest Smith House Ever AKA Jordan House, below). Cushing housed the least attractive women in the Quad, and alongside Gardiner and Morrow houses, the least remarkable.
Cutter House
An architectural blight on the ivy-covered brick New Englandyness that is Smith's general theme, Cutter is a post-modern monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an industrial park in 1974. The rooms inside have linoleum floors, fluorescent lighting, and cinder block walls reminiscent of a state-funded mental ward. The first week of my first year, some fugly lezbot invited me over to her room at Cutter for what I hoped would be beer drinking fun, but my hopes were quickly dashed when she handed me a cup of chamomile tea, cranked the Melissa Ferrick, and asked if I played chess. Needless to say, no fingerbanging went down that night. I never went back to visit anyone living in Cutter ever again.
Dawes House
Dawes is super cute, has a full kitchen for student use, and everyone there has a single room, but there is one little catch: it also goes by "La Maison Francaise." As much as I'd have liked the accommodations, there's no way I could have tolerated French flag decorations everywhere. Furthermore, there's the added problem that I don't speak any French apart from "hors d'oeuvres" and "merde," and fluency in French is a requisite for living there.
Duckett House
Duckett is connected to Chase House, but the only thing I know about it is that it has an elevator, and for some reason, there were always panel discussions happening there in the dining room. For example, the Bitches Who Hate the WTO would have "anti-globalization" lunches and shit there. Obviously, I never managed to make it to one of those shindigs.
Emerson House
Emerson was right next to the house where I lived, and we were connected to them. There were some cool girls in Emerson who used to come party on the Jordan second floor with me and my crew (I actually made an amateur porn with two of them, and NO I'm not posting that here), and there were also some seriously uptight snatches. To seek vengeance, I stole a couch out of their hall sitting room for my dorm, and the night before I graduated, gave the illicit couch to some townies drinking from our illicit keg to throw off the roof. They almost hit a Public Safety cruiser with it. Another time, this girl in my house pulled their fire alarm at 3 a.m. to get back at them for making noise complaints about our house. They were so pissed. It was awesome.
Friedman Apartments
The Friedmans were the only campus apartments, and they were in high demand. Girls would flip out over whether or not they could secure a Friedman. I had a few friends who lived in Friedmans, and there were some kickass parties there for sure. One time I walked into a friend's birthday party at Friedman B-2, and she greeted me at the door in a pair of devil horns and on so much Ecstasy that she looked like one of those people from the "Black Hole Sun" video. She proceeded to greet me with one of the sloppiest, most tongue-filled kisses I've ever received, and then put a drink in my hand. Good times. Friedman residence, however, didn't guarantee that you weren't going to be an impossibly lame typical Smith hag. At my two-year-reunion, we got kicked out of some fat, mustachioed, Fuzzy Navel-drinking bitch's Friedman because my ex-boyfriend Benzo's stepbrother Nate Dogg was harassing her...AKA talking shit about Smith girls because he went to VASSAR. Only at Smith does that get you ejected from a party.
Gardiner House
Gardiner was a real pearls-and-penny loafers type of Smith house, and even though they were in the Quad, they were notorious for their elitist, buttoned-up, WASPy residents. They actually even tried to start a sorority and hung up their letters on their second floor bay window. In response, I started a fraternity my junior year and hung up our letters in the Jordan House window facing Gardiner. I chose the Pi Kappa Epsilon frat, because the Pikes were notorious for date rape and vicious hazing and other egregious fratty violations. For an entire year, I had my PKE letters fixed firmly upon my door, and I think I even drew them on my arm one time for a Gardiner House party. Whether the bitches at Gardiner got it or not is unclear, but they were nonetheless displeased that I'd chosen to make light of what they thought was a brilliant idea. Because a Smith sorority is a great idea...if there's one thing Smith needs more of, it's cadres of stupid bitches reveling in their exclusivity.
Gillett House
I actually know nothing about Gillett House. It's yet another unremarkable bitch trap.
Haven/Wesley House
It's where would-be internet-mediated rape facilitator TEJ BINDRA lived, and I think that says it all. An interesting piece of trivia about the room where Tej lived is that my friend Wmania once vomited Kahlua and Bailey's all over it. Oh, and Sylvia Plath lived there too.
Hopkins House
I know absolutely nothing about Hopkins House, either. Dumb, boring bitch repository!
Hubbard House
Again, dumb, boring bitch repository! The best thing they've got going for them is that Julia Child lived there at the turn of the century, or whenever the hell in antiquity it was that she went to Smith.
Jordan House (AKA AWESOMEST SMITH HOUSE EVER)
Guess where I lived all four years at Smith? Only the most notorious party house at Smith in the history of the college. When I would tell people, "I live in Jordan," I'd get this knowing look, that was full of "oh, you must be a drunk" judgment, concern that I might become unhinged at any moment, and hushed awe. When I first got to Smith, Jordan was on social