Sunday, November 29, 2009
Now I know what to get my mom for Christmas
Looking for something special to get your favorite Rammstein fan this Christmas, but can't find anything they don't already have? Well, look no further. Rammstein is selling limited edition box sets of their new album, Liebe Ist Für Alle Da (which I'm pretty sure means "Our Band Sucks" in German) that comes complete with a six-pack of dildos, handcuffs, and some lube.
Now, while I normally make it a policy not to look a gift dildo in the mouth, I don't think I would really welcome this present. The fact that these dildos are packed with a Rammstein CD is a big turnoff, since that basically seems like it screams "loser." I suspect that most of the people who rushed out and bought this have no reason to use handcuffs or dildoes on anyone, much less six at a time. In fact, I bet the main demographic targeted by this item are sad, lonely shut-ins with little to do besides cash unemployment checks who rant incoherently on the internet, and have no experience with sex toys other than posing for self-portraits with them. I can't imagine that anyone I'd be fucking would get remotely excited that I was offering them a choice of custom Rammstein dildoes, especially since these fake weiners are supposed to represent each member of the band. So not only are you pulling a dildo out of a custom Rammstein case, you can imagine that you are actually banging one of the guys in Rammstein. Danke, but I'll pass.
For those of you who have not heard of Rammstein before, they Germany's answer to Ministry. They do a lot of shouting (which is doubly frightening because it's in German), they wear a lot of ridiculous outfits, and, despite their tendency to write songs with titles like "Pussy," they always take a lot of really homoerotic pictures.
Yeah, these dudes look like a bunch of major pussyhounds to me. Regardless of their lyrical content, I do NOT believe for a second that their expertise in the dildo department has anything to do with their alleged love of vagina. Therefore, if you are looking for the perfect gift for your favorite angry closeted loser, you can thank Rammstein for this option. Seriously, nothing screams "I need to get a fucking life" than this box of weiners.
Yeah, these dudes look like a bunch of major pussyhounds to me. Regardless of their lyrical content, I do NOT believe for a second that their expertise in the dildo department has anything to do with their alleged love of vagina. Therefore, if you are looking for the perfect gift for your favorite angry closeted loser, you can thank Rammstein for this option. Seriously, nothing screams "I need to get a fucking life" than this box of weiners.
Labels: gross, ridiculous absurdity, sehr gut, weiners
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
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