Wednesday, July 15, 2009

 

It's okay to avoid like leprosy

I did not think it possible, but I have managed to find an ad campaign that makes me even more furious than Twitter whore Ashton Kutcher's COOLPIX ads. In fact, they make my feelings toward Ashton's buffoonery seem downright warm and charitable. This is the single most unappealing pitch for a dating site ever. It's even worse than that gross, snaggletoothed old Christian dude that used to sell e-Harmony with a lot of soporific jabber about compatibility and a lot of ugly couple success stories. These ads make e-Harmony, a company that is currently being sued for refusing to match gay couples and that seems to regard marrying a fat guy with a cell phone clipped to his belt a perfect outcome, seem like my ideal dating site. The horror of which I speak is the match.com "It's okay to look" ad campaign.

I am not sure what upsets me more, the slogan or the representative match.com singles from the commercials that I will ostensibly meet should I decide to partake of their services. The slogan is pretty bad. I don't need some disembodied female voice with the patronizing yet facile intonations of an overcompensating day care supervisor informing me that it's cool to cruise the internets for ass. I know plenty of people who get laid thanks to the miracle of the world wide web. I also think it's find to look for hookups at bars, clubs, restaurants, coffee shops, work, the gym, the park, the library, the designer mall, the waiting room at Planned Parenthood...hey, you never know when you might find someone. Really, the only place it's NOT okay to look is at a family reunion (although I have been hit on at one of those...but that's a whole other story). I am always looking, so thanks for stating the obvious about how "okay" it is to be doing so, match.com. I suppose next you're going to tell me that it's okay to drink coffee or it's okay to eat breakfast or it's okay to walk my dogs. Fuck off, match.com, with trying to make me feel validated enough to shell out for your subscription fee.

If I'm going to PAY to look, then I had better be looking at some hot pieces of ass who aren't insane. One of the biggest reasons people avoid internet dating (myself included) is the possibility of meeting a complete lunatic and/or stalker. I do a good enough job finding those without any e-assistance, so if I'm going to actually pay to peep at some frisky honeys on the prowl themselves, they better not be ugly and/or behaving like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. However, according to match.com's own promotional material, that's EXACTLY what they are selling.

If you go to match.com's website, you'll see SmilesforMiles01 and devco2000, AKA Fake Liz Phair and Pauly Shore/John C. Reilly's bastard child, letting us know in one sentence the dumbest, least interesting thing about both of them.

I only know a mere phrase worth of information about either of these people and already I hate them. You can tell that SmilesforMiles01 uses that lawn mowing line as part of her nagging routine. I can practically hear her shrill, shrewish voice issuing forth from within the unattractive folds of the Liz Claiborne blouse she's rocking: "Mow the lawn. It's THERAPEUTIC. Take out the garbage. IT'S THERAPEUTIC." And devco2000 would just rather that I think he's some kind of Jimmy Buffett-meets-Balthazar Getty rather than a sorry impersonator of the lead in Bio Dome. I should add, these are just the still promotional shots on the match.com website. The singles I'm supposed to get excited about looking at in the TV spots are infinitely more infuriating.


Take, for example, LaSirene7, who wants her potential sex partners to know that she can't roller skate, she shrieks a lot, she has an annoying laugh, and she wears ugly dresses gleaned from the "Misses" section at the Puyallup Ross Dress for Less. In other words, she's basically walking birth control.

There's also 1Eamonn4U, a Kevin Federline-meets-Channing Tatum knockoff who thinks that chuckling and chasing around a butterfly will get him laid. Although I must commend him on going this route rather than his usual Ed Hardy shirt-wearing and roofie-slipping, I don't know many ladies who will eagerly follow a butterfly right into the awkwardly flailing arms of a low-functioning buffoon. He's so confident in his strategy that at the end of his ad, he says, "Heh heh heh, I can't wait 'til my ex-girlfriend sees this." Because she's going to be soooooooooooo jealous of all those girls who won't be able to resist 1Eamonn4U's lack of coordination and baffling lepidopteran amusements.

Or NYCGingerGirl, a low-rent Jami Gertz knockoff who can't seem to master the complex technical nuances of a chef hat. I can see why her name isn't NYCRocketScientist.

And then there's Buddy20, whose seduction game involves putting on his jaunty Robin Hood feathered cap and jogging in place in a suit while giggling maniacally. (SPOILER ALERT: Buddy20 is also totally a serial killer.)

Get an eyeful of Kumnandi, who is apparently suffering from dissociative schizophrenia and is letting her "Lenny Kravitz" personality manage her internet dating life.

One of my most hated ads is the one promoting HablawithMe, some mid-40s divorcee who is apparently obsessed with butchering simple phrases in German and Spanish. At the end of her asinine monologue (which is mostly comprised of her saying "um" and laughing at herself for no reason), she says "puedo no hablar el español," then guffaws and says, "Maybe someone out there understood that, somewhere." Maybe, bitch, because it's completely unfathomable that anyone out there speaks Spanish. And it doesn't take a wise Latina to realize that you said "I can't speak Spanish," which is frankly pretty fucking obvious.

And without fail, the worst, most loathsome installment in the "It's Okay To Look" serial shitshow, is the intolerable Adventure90. Every time I hear, "I'm just a goof, looking for my ball!" I want to pull out my strap and lay the bitch out, and in the rap way, not the hot girl-on-girl kind of way.

Seriously, who wants to go on a single date with ANY of these people? All these ads do is confirm the worst about internet dating: everyone on match.com is a weirdo and a freak, and irritating as fuck to boot. It's like these people exist in the world solely to work my very last nerve. It is okay to look, and it's also okay to say "HELL THE FUCK NO, MATCH.COM." Call me conservative and call me old-fashioned, but I'm going to pull my ass the traditional way: drag their drunk ass home from a bar!

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:19 AM 12 Comments Links to this post

Monday, July 06, 2009

 

And they say romance is dead

I was busy celebrating America's birthday with my dearest college pals LL Cool Jew and Wmania this weekend in San Francisco, so I wasn't really paying attention to my text messages until we left the party we attended and got back to Wmania's condo.  Once there I noticed that one of my honeys back in the P-N-Dub had undoubtedly been watching all the many exploding fireworks and naturally thought of me, and sent me a text sharing his feelings.  What followed was an exchange of brief messages so romantic and sentimental they make The Notebook look like it's about a one-night stand.  And not a nice, respectful type of one-night stand either, but the kind of drunken, why-the-hell-did-I-bone-this-idiot one-night stand where you say you have to go see a guy about a thing immediately afterward, use his shirt to wipe the jizz off your chest without asking or thanking him, run the fuck out of there, and then put him on permanent send-to-voicemail status.

Anyway, this series of texts is way, WAY more romantic than any of that.  I wouldn't be surprised if the fine folks over at Harlequin Publishing hit me up asking me to write a book with Fabio lording over a heaving bosom on the cover based on these texts, because they are just that beautiful.  Cue the violins:
Dude: Hey Razzy?
Razzy: Yes Dude?
Dude: I want to put my wiener in your vagina.
Razzy: Well duh.
Dude: I was trying to sweet talk you.
Razzy: Mission accomplished.  You better pen me in tomorrow, because I missed choking on your dick all weekend.
Dude: Oh I'll pencil you in all night long, if you know what I mean.
Jealous?  It's okay...I know that every girl dreams of one day sharing drunken texts with a silver-tongued Prince Charming of her very own.  Maybe, just maybe, if you drink enough scotch and sodas and add enough random pieces of dick to your stable, you too can live the dream, single ladies, and start receiving poetic sentiments such as these.  Dream big! 

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# posted by Razzy @ 10:34 AM 26 Comments Links to this post

Friday, June 19, 2009

 

Coozin' for a bruisin'

The other night I was banging one of my honeys and as always had a grand old time...until the next day, when I went to get in the shower and realized that I looked like I'd been beat down.  I have bruises on both arms, my left tit, my right thigh, my left ass cheek, and my left hip, which are not my favorite reminders of a torrid night of passion.  This is surprising, because I do not recall sustaining these injuries, and I wasn't even that drunk.

Mystery sex bruises have bedeviled me since I started boning dudes.  Thanks to my Scandinavian-Irish heritage, I bruise easily, and there have been times when I've woke up and wondered why I look like a domestic violence PSA.  I can never figure out why sometimes I emerge without a scratch, and other times I look like a UFC fighter after a bad night in the Octagon.  Granted, I like it rough, and I grow bored if not given a healthy measure of spanking and hair pulling, but I've been satisfied in that manner many times without developing hematomas.  I didn't think I got such a dose of the roughness the other night as to warrant looking like I just showed up at the YWCA asking for a bed and a new identity.  

My current hypothesis about how this occurred concerns the fact that the dude is what I call a baker.  There are some common guy bedroom archetypes that I call the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker.  A butcher is a dude who likes to dick-slap your ass like he's tenderizing a roast, a candlestick maker is a dude who likes to jerk off in front of you, and a baker is a dude who likes to grab your tits and/or ass hard like he's kneading bread dough.  This guy was a baker, which explains the T and A marks.  However, I still can't figure out how a week ago, this guy knocked this thang out without leaving a single blemish, and how today, he made me look like I'm trying to imitate J-Lo in Enough.  The timing is further terrible, because tomorrow is my friends and Razzyphile Black card holders HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair's birthday party, and they're both big fans of breasts, and I was planning to honor their natal day by dressing accordingly.  That's not going to work with big black-and-blue thumbprint marks on my cans.  Damn you, mystery sex bruises!  

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# posted by Razzy @ 10:43 AM 3 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, June 04, 2009

 

Read the Bible: Jesus was very pro-whore

Yesterday HotLawyer sent me a link to a local news story from the intellectual backwater and hallowed site of white supremacist history known as Whidbey Island.  Of course, megachurch evangelical Christianity has seduced many of Whidbey's native yokels, and not much goes on there, so the hard-hitting journalists over at the Whidbey News-Times decided to write a story showcasing exactly what a bunch of lameasses these people are.
Never been kissed: Bride-to-be waits for her wedding day

When Todd Ritter is told to kiss the bride at the altar this July in front of 277 of their closest friends and family, people will understand if it’s a little clumsy.

It will be the couple’s very first kiss.

“I’m wondering, will I be a good kisser? Do I know what I’m doing? I’m nervous, but excited,” says Rachel Welch, 21, who is marrying 23-year-old Ritter in Oak Harbor.

The couple instated a “no-kissing” policy, to keep things from getting out of hand before marriage. Welch decided at age 14 to save kissing for someone special, and hoped that her first lip-lock would shortly follow “I do.”
Personally, I think this kind of bullshit is actually very anti-Christian.  If you read the Gospels, you'll notice that Jesus is kissing all over everyone on the regular.  He kisses babies, lepers, homeless dudes, and whores, and doesn't think twice about it.   The skankiest prostitutes in all of Galilee were JC's roll dogs, and one would think that such a devout couple of youth ministers would have at least considered that before instituting such a rigid policy.  Especially since, judging by their chattiness regarding their Eskimo kissing, chaperone policies, and foot massaging, they apparently have no problem being media whores.  They even gave the Whidbey News-Times a frightening, look-we're-scary-super-Christians picture in which you can practically hear them condemning evolution and elaborating on how gay marriage and anyone who helps it become legal is going to burn in eternal damnation.

And since I have been kissed before–on numerous parts of my body and usually as a prelude to getting my sinful nonmarital fuck on–let me explain to Rachel and Todd exactly how lame their marriage is going to be thanks to their policy of extreme abstinence.  Since neither of them have any idea what they are doing and are probably taking pointers from the Michael W. Smith "I Will Be Here for You" video, their first heavy makeout sesh is going to be nothing short of disgusting.  Todd looks like one of those guys who thinks that hot tongue kissing involves licking and slobbering all over every part of your face except your mouth, so I hope Rachel enjoys a good spit shine.  And as far as Rachel is concerned, if Todd thinks that once he's made an honest uptight prude out of her it's going to be all hot legit Christian sex, he's gravely mistaken.  Bitches don't go from Eskimo kisses and love letters to blowjobs and anal overnight, and Rachel strikes me as the type who won't put out on her wedding night.  In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if both of them are so abysmally bad at sex that they wind up doing it as infrequently as possible.  After all, who even needs a sex life when you have the rapture to look forward to?

This is why I always fuck on the first date.  I'm not going to invest my time and emotion in someone without giving them a test drive and making sure they are competent at turning me out.  As a result of this policy, if I ever do get married, please believe that my future spouse will be a tiger in the sack and will likewise benefit from my extensive experience in this area.  I also take umbrage with Todd's assertion that Rachel's no-kissing purity vow is an indicator of her "awesome" self-respect, thus implying that sleeping around means I don't respect myself.  I have an awesome amount of respect for myself (you can't fancy yourself the most awesome human being on earth EVER without having a healthy amount of self-esteem), and I can't think of any better way to demonstrate that than by giving myself the gift of plenty of varied hot ass.  I think it's actually disrespectful to yourself and your partner not to be the best lay you can be, especially if you're about to take vows promising to never hit the sheets with anyone else ever again.  It's a sacred duty to your future spouse to get out there and practice on as much strange as possible before you limit genital privileges to just one person.  Then again, since neither Todd nor Rachel have any basis for comparison, maybe they won't even know what they are missing when they are rutting clumsily away at one another with the lights off and their shirts on.  Ignorance is bliss for the abstinent purity ring set, I guess.

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:39 AM 5 Comments Links to this post

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

 

Boo-cock-ay

Yesterday I was at work being awesome when I checked my Gmail and saw that LL Cool Jew had an urgent matter for my attention.
LL Cool Jew: did you get my text?
Razzy: no my phone's been off all morning!
Razzy: meetings, viruses, etc.
Razzy: let me check
LL Cool Jew: k thanks
I checked my phone to see the following text message from LL Cool Jew: "What is bukkake and how do you pronounce?"
Razzy: lol
Razzy: bukkake is pronounced "boo-cock-ee"
Razzy: or "boo-cock-ay"
 Razzy: which is probably the more correct japanese pronunciation
LL Cool Jew: k
Razzy: it is the specific genre of porn--or the act in general--of ejaculating all over a girl
LL Cool Jew: k that makes sense
Razzy: in classic bukkake, it's usually multiple men acting as the bukkake-ers
Razzy: but sometimes it's misused to just describe a garden variety facial from one dude although that isn't really "bukkake" if you want to be a purist about it
Razzy: of course this all originated in japan
Razzy: why, did bigbagel ask if you'd be into it or something?
Razzy: and ps--it's fucking typical that I know all this minutiae about the true definition of bukkake
LL Cool Jew: i knew you would be the right person to ask
As it turns out, LL Cool Jew has not decided to spice up her marriage by inclusion of bukkake.  She noticed mention of bukkake in the context of some snarky jokes on Dlisted and got curious.  However, she wisely recognized that whatever bukkake was, it was probably best not to have a search for its Wikipedia page turn up on her work computer browser history.  So she went to the next best thing to the "perv" section of Wikipedia: yours truly.   JerseyGirl must have told her what an informative resource I was when I explained to her how ass to mouth differs from a conventional rim job.

This is not to say that I have ever been bukkaked.  I wouldn't rule it out, because I've been known to do stuff that's not even particularly appealing to me just to tell the story later, but I don't really see the appeal, in spite of my pronounced semen fetish.  I mean, I like dudes to get creative when blowing their loads and I am a champion swallower, but I also like to get off in the course of eliciting said climax.  In fact, I insist upon it.  Squatting uncomfortably and watching a host of dudes jerk is not going to make me have an orgasm, so I'll pass on taking a ride on the bukkake express.  

I'm not really sure how I'd find myself in a situation where there were multiple dudes with whom I'd even consider the prospect.  I know plenty of horny dudes, but I can't imagine calling them up and saying something like, "So, I've been interested in getting bukkaked...got plans this Friday night?"  Nor can I even imagine getting wasted with a bunch of dudes and somehow thinking that would be a great afterparty.  The closest I've ever come to that was one time when a dude I was banging came over with his best friend, and said best friend asked if I'd be willing to let the run a train on me.  I declined immediately (although not because I'm a prude who would never consider taking two guys in immediate succession but because the best friend was fat).  Since I've not had a similar offer since, I can't imagine this scenario is going to be frequent enough to consider going the extra mile and getting bukkaked instead of gangbanged.  I also would never in a million years find a bukkake crew from Craigslist, because I can only imagine the types of winners trolling that shitshow for random people to jizz on.  That's not an option due to sheer public health considerations alone.

I am now curious to know if bukkake ever occurs outside of porn or other branches of the sex industry.  I'm sure there are people who have bukkake parties out there, but is this something that's even remotely common?  Please leave any information you might have on the topic on the comment pages.  Inquiring perverts would like to know.

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# posted by Razzy @ 9:51 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

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.   

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:53 AM 0 Comments Links to this post

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 weiners
JerseyGirl: 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. 

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:09 AM 6 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, November 20, 2008

 

Ugly "betty"

Since I went brunette last week, I've gotten a surprisingly large number of queries about whether or not I dyed the "hair down there" to match the curtains.  This served to remind me how ignorant many people are on the topic of girls' pubes.  Back when I was blonde, I got a lot of questions about this from my paramours, especially those of the male variety.  This was probably because a lot of people didn't realize that my blonde hair color was from a bottle too.

Granted, I am a natural blonde, and when I was a little kid, I looked like the poster child for the Hitler Youth.  However, once I hit puberty, my hair started to get darker.  I was tired of being what my mother calls a "dishwater blonde" and I had a very unfortunate admiration for Courtney Love's personal style, so at 16 I bought a box of Clairol Maxi-Blonde and peroxided it so hard my hair was probably emitting free radicals.  Since that day, I'd been coloring it various brighter shades of blonde until I decided to get down with brown for my thirties, but my pubes have always been the same color of light brown.  Despite the carpet always being darker than the drapes, I've never, EVER taken my L'Oreal anywhere near my southerly hedgerows, nor considered it.

I've hooked up with blond chicks and dudes and I have yet to see a "natural blonde" in that sense.  In my experience, all people with naturally blonde hair of varying degrees have light to medium brown crotch curls, and thus I've never felt the need to match since it's hardly going to be shocking if my twat topiary isn't the exact same color as the hair on my head.  It's not like the fact that my hair color isn't natural is some big secret, and besides, coloring hair is a real pain in the ass.  It damages the fuck out of it, and you have to constantly maintain your roots.  The last thing I need is to start the same drama with my short and curlies.  

Sadly, now there's a pube dye being marketed in drugstores nationwide, and now I feel there is added pressure to get all matchy-matchy.  In fact, a month or two ago, I was discussing the general issue regarding becoming a "natural" blonde upstairs and down with my fellow dye-assisted natural blonde ElCyd and we both expressed our disdain and suspicion about such a product.
Razzy: when i get a hot job soon
Razzy: i'm going to hit the salon
Razzy: for riz
ElCyd: fo sho
Razzy: dyeing is such a hassle
Razzy: and as much as i like the PWT aesthetic
ElCyd: it's worth it to not have my arms hurt for a day afterwards
Razzy: truly
Razzy: plus it's nice to have it look sorta "natural"
Razzy: because people who aren't blonde
Razzy: don't realize that it's fake
Razzy: because we are "natural" blondes
Razzy: although there's been more than one retard who got my pants off and was like, "wait, you're a brunette?"
Razzy: and i'm like, "what?"
Razzy: and they're all, "the carpet doesn't match the drapes"
ElCyd: zomg
ElCyd: so they've clearly never boned a blonde
Razzy: i'm like "NO SHIT, loser. there are no blondes who have platinum pubes"
Razzy: have you seen this pube dye they're selling now?
ElCyd: yes
ElCyd: because THAT is what need
ElCyd: to deal with more than the hair on my head
Razzy: http://www.bettybeauty.com/
Razzy: "betty"

Razzy: i'm like, bitch, look at my eyebrows! look at the hair on my arms and legs! it's blonde, loser
Razzy: pubes are always brown
ElCyd: except for the firecrotches
ElCyd: their shit is RED
ElCyd: ew
Razzy: i know
Razzy: and it's TRUE too
Razzy: i've f'd a couple and their shit was totally red
ElCyd: oh christ
ElCyd: p.s.
ElCyd: why would anyone want blue pubes
ElCyd: srsly
Razzy: oh i KNOW
Razzy: hipsters would, probs
Razzy: that's so dumb
ElCyd: fucking stupid
ElCyd: i hate hipsters
Razzy: i mean if i saw that on someone
Razzy: i would laugh in their face
Razzy: and call them stupid
ElCyd:i mean
ElCyd: that takes some initiative
ElCyd: which means you are completely lame
Razzy: who is like "you know what would be fun? PINK PUBES"
ElCyd: gezus
ElCyd:right?
Razzy: dude what about THIS?
Razzy: http://www.bettybeauty.com/charmcils.php

ElCyd: dude
ElCyd: don't even get me started
Razzy: like make a fucking dollar sign on your "betty"?
Razzy: (which is the stupidest term ever for PUBES)
ElCyd: i think i saw a real sex once that had some chick getting her pubes dyed pink wtih a stencil
ElCyd: from like, a million years ago
ElCyd: oh, did you see the thongs that say "my betty is ready"?
ElCyd: lame
Razzy: that is so dumb
Razzy: those thongs are pricey
Razzy: although pube dye is nothing in comparison to bad woman ideas when you consider the services offered by c'elle: www.celle.com
Razzy: PERIOD STEM CELLS
ElCyd: omg
And I'll stop there, because I don't think anyone needs a digression into the world of companies specializing in cryopreserving a girl's "monthly miracle."  In any event, rest assured, there will be no pubic hair matching going on around my vagina anytime soon, much less any flamboyant colors or peace sign designs painted onto my racing stripe.  Sorry to disappoint those proponents of color matching, but to be perfectly honest, it's not like anyone believes I'm a natural brunette anyway.  Besides, in my experience nobody has particularly cared what my rug matched before they started munching it, and until that happens, there will be no Betty on my pubes.

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# posted by Razzy @ 8:16 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, October 30, 2008

 

Phinish Phelps

I'm officially sick of Michael Phelps.  I was actually sick of him the second the swimming part of the Olympics ended, but now I'm REALLY sick of his fug ass showing up everywhere.  It was bad enough having my gossip pages cluttered up with reports of all the random pussy he was hauling with the help of his sheaf of gold medals, followed by denials from Michael Phelps's handlers that his Olympic gold turned him into a man-slut of the highest caliber.  Now I have to endure him in commercials hawking everything from cell phones to cereal to Visa check cards.  The other day when I saw him learning Mandarin with a Rosetta Stone do-it-yourself language lesson, I actually cursed at the television.  I heard that he's currently negotiating with world-class dipshit Ashton Kutcher and his succubus wife for a reality show, which I can't imagine will consist of anything besides Michael Phelps eating ungodly amounts of food and flashing his ugly mug for the camera.  Meanwhile, Page Six is reporting that he got paid 100K for showing up at some big shot television douchebag's wife's birthday party and swimming some laps.


I have no problem with dudes selling out in order to stack that paper before everyone forgets who they are.  Surely, in Michael Phelps's case, he's MAYBE got one more Olympics to remind us all that he's got an allele or two in his genome that confers phenotypic traits more common to aquatic mammals, and then he'll be an afterthought at best.  Like Mark Spitz before him, after his Olympic glory days are over we'll only hear about Phelps when he's sitting bitterly in the stands at the 2028 or 2032 Olympics trying to make backhanded compliments concerning his successor to an aging Bob Costas sound slightly less backhanded.  I can't blame him for being completely shameless about his media whoring while demand still exists.  However, I am over seeing his disturbingly Eli Manning-esque visage hawking Corn Pops, and I can't imagine why any woman who is married to an obviously rich old man would want to live the dream of having him strip down and swim for her.  I can think of about 50 guys I'd rather see dripping wet in a Speedo, and most of them would do it for less than a hundred grand.

I'm not sure what it is about Phelps that I'm so tired of, but it may have something to do with the fact that he looks like this one dude I banged last year.  This guy and I got along pleasantly enough at most grad school functions, and then one night we fucked while in advanced states of intoxication.  After that, the dude proceeded to be an aggressively snubbing asshole every time our paths crossed.  When I asked him why he was being such a prick, he informed me that he's a "relationship guy" not mature enough to deal with a no-strings roll in the proverbial hay and that my very existence was something he no longer cared to acknowledge as a result.  As I was (not surprisingly) drunk, I decided this would be a great opportunity to show him that nobody–not even some dumbass Michael Phelpsian science nerd in his early twenties with bad social skills and a whole host of personal issues–ignores me...by hurling the contents of a freshly refilled glass of Johnnie Walker all over his button-down.  That event has since led to some extremely awkward occasional social run-ins, and a persistent sense of distaste for Michael Phelps ever since.  In fact, when I was watching the Olympics at a party and another grad student pointed out the resemblance between this guy and Michael Phelps and followed that with, "So, what does Michael Phelps's dick look like?," I was so perturbed that I couldn't even mitigate my involuntary glowering while shouting "U! S! A!  U! S! A!" to celebrate him winning another gold medal for our great country.  Between Michael Phelps's media whoring and the consequences of my own personal whoring, I am through with this dude.  Maybe in another four years I'll be ready to watch him prostitute himself for the sake of consumerism, but for now this butterface needs to get the fuck off my television. 

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# posted by Razzy @ 6:41 AM 1 Comments Links to this post

Thursday, October 16, 2008

 

To all the Joe Sixpacks I've fucked before...

Last night when I was watching officer and a hot piece Senator John McCain debate old Pointy Pelvis Obama, I have to admit that I got a little tired of hearing about "Joe the Plumber" and his fate.  Yeah, yeah, I get it...Obama's a pinko who hangs out with ex-terrorist professors and is in bed with the Trotskyite community organizations my BFF LL Cool Jew used to work for.   In fact, I'm getting a little tired of hearing about all these "Joe" characters.   The McCain campaign needs to quit naming the average hardworking American "Joe" because it's getting old.


I know about the kind of (blue collar PWT) American McCain is referring to, because I grew up surrounded by Joe Sixpacks and Joe the Plumber, except none of them were named Joe.  There's my uncle Don the Boeing machinist, my dad Rick the schoolteacher and former Teamster/dairyman/truck driver, my uncle Beau the Frito Lay deliveryman, my uncle Merle the carpenter, my uncle Gene the mental hospital handyman, my cousin Josh the county sheriff, my uncle John the shipping clerk, my cousin Kyle the drug addict/petty criminal, and so forth.  Then, when I grew up and returned to my humble county of origin after college, I encountered plenty more Joe Six- Twelve- 24-Packs in the greater Tacoma-Puyallup non-metropolitan area.  Among others, I fucked Chris the roof shingler,  Carson the Alaska tour guide and metalworker, Don the piercing and tattoo apprentice, L.J. the meth dealer (my discovery of his particular small business venture marked the end of our affair), and Brent the day laborer.  None of these guys, who I presume are the people McCain and Palin are talking to and about, are named "Joe."  

Furthermore, the majority of these guys probably don't vote, and many of them probably don't pay taxes, much less care about tax breaks.  Mike the proud deadbeat dad/drywall hanger was way more interested in fucking me up the ass while we watched WWE Smack Down (I was REALLY drunk) than he probably ever would be about the middle class share of the tax burden.  Furthermore, since he actually bragged that he couldn't be bothered paying his child support, I doubt he was on top of getting anything out to the IRS.  When Nick the landscaper came over and got shitfaced with me on two $7 bottles of wine that he pronounced "classy" prior to banging me to the point of vomiting said wine into my hand as I ran to the bathroom (that was obviously the classiest part), I sincerely doubt that he was concerned about the merits of trickle-down versus trickle-up economics.  In fact, his main concern after I gargled the regurgitated cheap merlot out of my mouth and we resumed chafing rug burns into my ass was that my dog Caesar ate his entire bag of weed while we were screwing on my living room floor.  

These "Joe Sixpacks" aren't even watching the debate to hear the message Senator McCain is trying to say to them and on their behalf.  They probably don't even know there's a debate going on.  To give you an idea of their general awareness of the greater world, Jeff the airplane mechanic, a dude who was trying to court me in a clumsy and ineffective way, asked if I'd ever heard of Thai food.  Not if I'd ever tried Thai food or if I liked Thai food, but if I'd ever HEARD of it at all.  I told him that I heard rumors of a mysterious land in southeast Asia called Thailand, and that they have food there.  He completely missed my sarcasm and thought this represented an opportunity to introduce me to rare culinary treats like coconut curry and spring rolls.  I decided that he was too dumb and annoying to continue banging, and dumped him before he could make a big show about putting me face to face with an exotic delicacy like a plate of fucking pad thai, and he commenced stalking me all over Tacoma, which culminated in him molesting me at a bar and my slapping him and getting him thrown out.  Wherever Jeff the airplane mechanic is now, I have no doubt that his taste for mee krob comprises his sole interest in foreign policy, and he could give a shit less what ACORN does or what the Bush tax cuts are or what either candidate thinks about incorporating clean coal technology into their energy plans.  Like most of the Joe Sixpacks I know, he's probably more interested in the Seahawks injury report than overhauling the tax code.  I would wager that his sole expertise on the matter of taxes is that if you drive to the Puyallup reservation, you don't have to pay them on your cigarettes or chaw.

John McCain needs to quit talking to Joe Sixpack and Joe the Plumber and whoever else.  He needs to start talking to his other constituencies.  For example, I would like to hear him say something about how he's going to make sure Razzy the Impoverished Skankified Microbiology Graduate Student won't have any problem whatsoever getting an insanely high-paying job when she graduates, so that she can continue to look snobbishly down at all the Joe Sixpacks she bones whenever she's home in the P-N-Dub.  They obviously need a fourth debate where John McCain can address this small but critical part of the American voting public, because these Joes have been hogging all the attention.

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# posted by Razzy @ 7:52 AM 2 Comments Links to this post

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