Tuesday, December 02, 2008
This is your porn star on drugs
Awhile back, I posted about some videos that porn producer and notorious asshole Donny Long uploaded to YouTube starring the once-great and now extremely cracked out porn star Chasey Lain. Sadly, I have been up to my tits in bullshit lab work, and haven't had the time to follow up on what Chasey has been doing since she threatened to have her mafioso boyfriend kill Donny Long for not letting her bang the male talent with a tampon in (and EW, gross). Chasey drove off in her Rolls Royce, crack pipe ablaze, and I thought that might be the last of her. I was saddened, because what a tragic end to such a luminous career in sucking dick on camera for cash.
Thank goodness my Razzyphiles are picking up my slack. Today I received an e-mail with the subject line "Chasey Lain–from bad to worse!" from PackMan, a Razzyphile who has been diligently following this story in my stead (which, I should add, I really appreciate because nobody is more depressed about my lack of bloggery lately than myself, and I need all the help I can get). Attached were two photographs proving that even when you think someone has hit bottom, there's always a little further that they can fall. It also proves that I can scream "WHY, CHASEY, WHY?!" a little louder than I did when I saw her trying to negotiate the going rate for hardcore stills in fluent tweaker gibberish.
This right here is exactly why you shouldn't do drugs, especially those generally bought and sold in crystalline form. Chasey looks like what would result if one of the "Faces of Meth" procreated with something from a George A. Romero movie. She looks like she's more interested in eating brain than giving it, and trust that's not something I want to rub one off to. Chasey looked pretty beat before, but now she looks like the human equivalent of the residue that accumulates on the bottom of a crack pipe. I imagine she smells like a combination of anhydrous ammonia and a Porta-Potty on the last day of Burning Man that has been filled with an endless stream of unbathed, tripping-balls drunken hippies while sweltering in the hot desert sun for three days. Sister needs to be on "Intervention" AND "Extreme Makeover," not cavorting around industry functions with male talent that seemingly can't wait to escape her necrotic clutches before some of her coochie cooties get on his Pacers jersey.
Even more disturbing than Chasey's cadaveric appearance is the fact that she's apparently executing some kind of twisted revenge scheme posing here with Donny Long's personal archnemesis, ChristianXXX. ChristianXXX did a few gay titles in the past, and this has led to a vicious feud in which Donny Long has accused him of being a "tranny fucker" and discouraged other women from working for him due to "safety concerns" (because only gay dudes have STDs, right, Donny, you homophobe?). ChristianXXX has responded by attempting to fight him in a parking lot (Donny Long ran away) and authoring the world's most soporific porn blog about his workout routine and what he likes to order at Chili's. I've never had any problem with ChristianXXX myself because I don't really pay much attention to the male talent in porn unless the dude is gross (in which case I have to actively try to not look at him), and ChristianXXX seems generally well-groomed and unintrusive. However, he may have just jumped into gross-out territory with this ill-advised unholy anti-Donny Long alliance, if the above photos suggest that he did a scene with the decrepit remnants of what was once one of the hottest pieces of ass in the entire adult world. That's really too bad, because the other day I saw a clip of Christian banging Eva Angelina and it was pretty hot. Now I can't even watch it again, because the second his bald, Mr. Clean-looking ass shows up I'm going to conjure up images of Chasey's ghoulish visage. I don't even think the hotness that is Eva Angelina will be able to quell my compulsive and violent urge to vomit all over my computer screen, and that's saying a lot, because she's pretty hot.
And speaking of compulsive, violent urges, I have to stop now due to uncontrollable shuddering.
Labels: correspondence, drugs, gross, oh the horror, porn, Razzyphiles, sluts, tragedy
Friday, November 14, 2008
Supreme Court rules 5-4 against Hayden Panettiere
I've never watched "Heroes," but that hasn't stopped me from hating Hayden Panettiere. First off, "Heroes" looks like a dumb show, and second, this dumb bitch was annoying me before she could vote. About a year ago, Hayden decided to get together with her whale-saving friends to make a failed attempt at disrupting a traditional Japanese long-pole dolphin hunt. LL Cool Jew's "low-simmer distaste...overboiled into full-fledged disgust" at this incident to the point that she actually took a moment to douchebag her. I proceeded to get even more irritated with her when she decided to open up her dicksucking hole during the democratic primaries and declare her allegiance for whichever candidate loves the whales. That irritation grew into a heartfelt deathwish once she started trashing my ancestral homeland. Now, Hayden has managed to piss off an even more august body of critics than myself and LL Cool Jew. Specifically, she has gotten on the bad side of these respectable titans of constitutional justice:
Yes, the other day, the United States Supreme Court ruled 5-4 against Hayden Panettiere. Okay, so of COURSE David Souter and Ruth Bader Ginsburg dissented entirely, but I can't trust a bitch who wears a doily around her neck anyway. And okay, FINE, they weren't exactly ruling against Hayden Panettiere so much as the Greenpeace hippie types trying to stop the Navy from playing with their underwater sonar equipment, but they basically said a big "fuck you" to echolocating whales off the coast of southern California. Assuming that Hayden's dumb ass decides to put down her elderly Japanese fisherman-disrupting surfboard and pick up a newspaper, she might recognize that it's not just a handful of rural folk from other cultures wreaking havoc on her beloved whales. It's the entire United States Navy, and her precious cetaceans aren't going to get in the way of the War on Terror.
Of course, Hayden is probably too busy showing off her coochie-cutter boxer briefs to Ellen Degeneres (adding further credence to LL Cool Jew's prophecy that Hayden's whale-loving ways doesn't mean she doesn't have a seat saved at the sushi bar, if you get my drift-net) to pay attention to the Supreme Court's decision that national security is more important than whales jabbering at each other in their John Tesh instrumental-esque language. I'm sure, however, once she realizes that our highest judicial body gave the finger to terrorist whalesong, she'll trade in those Ellen granny panties and taped-up strapless sweetheart top for an ugly sweatshirt demanding that everyone boycott the Navy along with Japanese, Norwegian, and Icelandic exports.
Therefore, before she catches on, I'm going to enjoy my last few remaining days of gloating-over-Hayden-Panettiere sentiment with a nice dolphin-unfriendly tuna melt. It's both a celebration of the Supreme Court owning her bitch ass and a salute to her latent lesbianism. Here's to you, Hayden...or as my whale-devouring Norwegian relatives would say, "Skoal!"
Labels: celebrities, fuck the planet, legal drama, lezbollah, media whores, retard rage, sluts
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.
Labels: capitalism, media whores, Olympics, retard rage, sex, sluts, sportsmen, you're ugly
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.
Labels: John McCain, P-N-Dub, politics, PWT, sex, sluts
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The silver lining
Where is the tabloid magazine footage of one Ms. Jessica Simpson wearing one of her vile pink Cowboys jerseys marching snottily into the stadium to watch her excessively lauded boyfriend Tony Romo get owned by the likes of the Arizona Cardinals? I was expecting to see Jessica rocking a giant dipteran pair of sunglasses and looking like a heavily Mystic tanned, Cowboys logo-adorned, Barbified version of Gregor Samsa with lots of Texas-sized hair extensions and a fetish for handbags large enough to stow a side of beef in, strolling into her luxury suite ready to spread her myiasitic plague of fumbling, badly held snaps, and interceptions to her man once again.
Oddly, Jessica Simpson was nowhere to be found when the Cowboys lost to the the Cards, as she was off singing cuntry music to rednecks in North Carolina at some lame NASCAR race. I found this hard to believe, since it seems that Jessica will neither shut up about Tony Romo or be fewer than 100 yards from him at any given time, but apparently she needed more money to spend in the NFLshop.com Cowboys team store, so she was off titillating the Dale, Sr.-worshiping elite by suggestively working this nozzle-thingy prior to yowling at them in her affected hick twang:
Proving, however, that she's really got her accursed claws deep into Romo's nutsack, he sprained his pinky in spite of her absence and is out for the month! As Brad Johnson, who is currently competing with Kerry Collins, Jeff Garcia, and Brian Griese for the title of New Vinny Testaverde, will now be taking snaps for the Cowboys, I couldn't be happier. For one thing, I hate the fucking Cowboys. For another, any misery befalling NFC teams besides the absolute disgrace that the Seahawks' season has been thus far is fine by me. I encourage Jessica Simpson to continue dating Tony Romo so that her malignant misfortune can eat him up like a cancer. This is the silver lining to what has been a very depressing first quarter of the NFL season.
Oh, and Jessica...just in case it doesn't work out with Tony Romo, I hear Ben Roethlisberger is single. I'm sure the Shitsburgh Steelers would really benefit from your inherent anti-quarterback destructive powers. I know you and Tony are tight, but just in case he gets sick of sitting on his couch watching his team lose while you jabber about purses and fashion during his convalescence, you might think about giving Big Ben a call. Just a suggestion.
Labels: I LOVE IT, media whores, NFL football, sluts, sportsmen, Stealers suck
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Ask not for whom the bell tolls, Dallas Cowboys
...because thanks to your quarterback's love life, it tolls for fucking thee! As of last weekend, the Cowboys are no longer undefeated thanks to the Washington Anti-Native American Racial Slurs, and we all know who to thank. No, it's not the dynamic new offense brought to the Redskins by their new coach, Seahawks legend Jim Zorn (!). It's not the defensive upgrades the Redskins made by adding the likes of Jason Taylor to their roster. In fact, this Redskins victory has nothing to do with the Redskins at all. It doesn't even really have anything to do with the Cowboys directly, at least not with their game on the field.
No, Tony Romo's girlfriend AKA the Cowboys' bad luck charm showed up to work her nefarious magic on their record:
Though she's not wearing that loathsome pink jersey which originally cursed the Cowboys and drew the disdain of the highly opinionated Terrell Owens, it appears that Jessica showing up AT ALL is enough to usher in a Cowboys loss. I sincerely hope that Jessica shows up for every Cowboys game for the rest of the season because a 3-14 Cowboys season is something that will always make me smile contentedly. Please continue standing by your man, Sloppy Tits.
Labels: celebrities, media whores, NFL football, sluts
Thursday, October 02, 2008
My night last night, by JerseyGirl
RAZZY Edit: This may look like it was posted by me, but is actually an e-mail I received last Friday morning from my friend JerseyGirl. She swore up and down she wanted to turn this into a blog posting of her own, but has been so busy with work that she hasn't gotten a chance. Plus, she's afraid to look at my website from work because her office is full of annoying snoops that read her computer over her shoulder and would maybe have a negative opinion of her professionalism if a picture of my tits popped up. Anyway, she asked me to retool her "high five me, bitches, because I'm a himalaya playa" e-mail as a post, which I'm only too glad to do since I've been seriously remiss in the useless bullshit production department this week. I wish I had a better excuse than lab is busting my balls...or it would be, if I had balls. You get the idea. Anyway, enjoy JerseyGirl's story about juggling her man-harem.
Okay -
As many of you know, I was supposed to go out with M.A. on a date. M.A. is my boyfriend from summer before college and 1st semester in college–we haven't spoken in ten years, and he found me on Facebook. Yesterday was so dreary and I hadn't washed my hair, so around 5 o'clock I said I had to work late and blew off the date. On my way home from work riding the short bus, I started listening to "Burning Up" by Madonna, and I started to get a little excited. So I decided to text M.C. with: "What are you doing tonite?"
Okay -
As many of you know, I was supposed to go out with M.A. on a date. M.A. is my boyfriend from summer before college and 1st semester in college–we haven't spoken in ten years, and he found me on Facebook. Yesterday was so dreary and I hadn't washed my hair, so around 5 o'clock I said I had to work late and blew off the date. On my way home from work riding the short bus, I started listening to "Burning Up" by Madonna, and I started to get a little excited. So I decided to text M.C. with: "What are you doing tonite?"
No response.
So I send another text: "Come over"
About 30 seconds later he writes me back telling me that he's at some movie premiere that wont be over till about 10, but he'll come over then. Sweet...I am so excited.
I chillax, drink a Molson Golden, take a shower, eat some Easy Mac, watch "The Office," drink a couple more MGs, and smoke a little when my phone rings about about 10:01. It's O.D. It's really noisy in the background and I ask him what's going on. He's at some event, he tells me, and wants to know what I'm doing. I ask him if this was a booty call and he starts dying laughing. He tells me he really wants to see me, and can he come over? I say no, I have to get up early for work tomorrow, sorry. Come meet me out on Friday. He agrees and asks me to send him more dirty pics to his BlackBerry.
About five minutes later my phone rings and it's this guy from college, D.J., who called me randomly 2 weeks ago after not being in touch for three years. We chatted briefly two weeks ago and since then he's called me at least two times. I finally call him back last night, and we start chatting, and he brings up that our mutual friend from college's wedding is this weekend. He then goes:
"That's sort of the reason I was calling, I was wondering what you were up to this weekend, and if maybe you wanted to go with me to the wedding."
Ummmmmmmm, guy, I haven't laid eyes on you in 3 years, are you straight up CRAZY right now? I respectfully decline, telling him I have my friend's engagement party (which I do), and hurriedly hang up the phone.
About a minute later I get a text from M.C. saying that he's having some stomach issues and might not be able to make it. So, I promptly text O.D. saying "I can't stop thinking about you." He writes back, "Want me to come over?" to which I respond "YES!" He says, "Okay give me about 30 minutes."
M.C. then calls me to tell me that he really wants to see me, but that he is having stomach issues and it's probably in everyone's best interest if he goes home. At first I'm like "Suuuure, no big deal! Some other time." As we're chatting, I get a text from O.D. saying, "I'm sorry to say it, but I think I'm too drunk to drive." Way to go, 40-year-old guy. So then I start pouting a little bit on the phone with M.C., trying my damnedest to make him come over. Alas, his stomach issues are too great. I hang up the phone dejected.
I text O.D. back "Ok wastoid." He writes back "Send me pictures," to which I write back "um no retard I want to get laid!" to which he responds "your gonna get it all on Friday." He is the WORST TEXTER EVER , I mean what does that even mean????
I snuggle into bed, lights out, all ready to pleasure myself courtesy of my Sharper Image back massager when my phone starts ringing. It's M.C.
"I've changed my mind … I'm coming over," he tells me.
Double crisis averted!!! I was about to go to bed alone, and I was also playing with fire by potentially inviting two guys over to my apartment at 11:30pm–not a good sitch at all. What's also not a good sitch at all is that O.D. bought a 12 pack of condoms a couple weeks ago, and we used 2 when we hung out. Now there's only 8 left. I hope he's not too good at math!!!!
M.C. and I fucked until the break of dawn and I feel ready to conquer the world today.
About 30 seconds later he writes me back telling me that he's at some movie premiere that wont be over till about 10, but he'll come over then. Sweet...I am so excited.
I chillax, drink a Molson Golden, take a shower, eat some Easy Mac, watch "The Office," drink a couple more MGs, and smoke a little when my phone rings about about 10:01. It's O.D. It's really noisy in the background and I ask him what's going on. He's at some event, he tells me, and wants to know what I'm doing. I ask him if this was a booty call and he starts dying laughing. He tells me he really wants to see me, and can he come over? I say no, I have to get up early for work tomorrow, sorry. Come meet me out on Friday. He agrees and asks me to send him more dirty pics to his BlackBerry.
About five minutes later my phone rings and it's this guy from college, D.J., who called me randomly 2 weeks ago after not being in touch for three years. We chatted briefly two weeks ago and since then he's called me at least two times. I finally call him back last night, and we start chatting, and he brings up that our mutual friend from college's wedding is this weekend. He then goes:
"That's sort of the reason I was calling, I was wondering what you were up to this weekend, and if maybe you wanted to go with me to the wedding."
Ummmmmmmm, guy, I haven't laid eyes on you in 3 years, are you straight up CRAZY right now? I respectfully decline, telling him I have my friend's engagement party (which I do), and hurriedly hang up the phone.
About a minute later I get a text from M.C. saying that he's having some stomach issues and might not be able to make it. So, I promptly text O.D. saying "I can't stop thinking about you." He writes back, "Want me to come over?" to which I respond "YES!" He says, "Okay give me about 30 minutes."
M.C. then calls me to tell me that he really wants to see me, but that he is having stomach issues and it's probably in everyone's best interest if he goes home. At first I'm like "Suuuure, no big deal! Some other time." As we're chatting, I get a text from O.D. saying, "I'm sorry to say it, but I think I'm too drunk to drive." Way to go, 40-year-old guy. So then I start pouting a little bit on the phone with M.C., trying my damnedest to make him come over. Alas, his stomach issues are too great. I hang up the phone dejected.
I text O.D. back "Ok wastoid." He writes back "Send me pictures," to which I write back "um no retard I want to get laid!" to which he responds "your gonna get it all on Friday." He is the WORST TEXTER EVER , I mean what does that even mean????
I snuggle into bed, lights out, all ready to pleasure myself courtesy of my Sharper Image back massager when my phone starts ringing. It's M.C.
"I've changed my mind … I'm coming over," he tells me.
Double crisis averted!!! I was about to go to bed alone, and I was also playing with fire by potentially inviting two guys over to my apartment at 11:30pm–not a good sitch at all. What's also not a good sitch at all is that O.D. bought a 12 pack of condoms a couple weeks ago, and we used 2 when we hung out. Now there's only 8 left. I hope he's not too good at math!!!!
M.C. and I fucked until the break of dawn and I feel ready to conquer the world today.
XOBJBS,
JerseyGirl
Labels: hilarious shit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, sex, sluts
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
And may we officially welcome you to the clam bake, Linds
Well over a year ago, my BFF LL Cool Jew astutely observed Lindsay Lohan's Smith College hat and postulated that indeed she had pulled up a seat at the sushi bar with clam-digging DJ Samantha Ronson. I concurred that Lindsay Lohan had most likely decided that she liked her tacos pink, and spent all the time since highlighting evidence (like dispatching missives from rehab signed "Lindsay Ronson" and making out on random yachts on the French riviera and talking marriage) supporting our theory.
Of course, we weren't the only ones promoting this hypothesis. The buzz about Samantha Ronson getting face-deep in Lohan's firecrotch really exploded when scenes like this started occurring regularly, contradicting Fat Joe's (unbelievable and totally nast) claim that Lindsay Lohan is his "O-jam":
However, the other night Sam called into "Loveline" to talk about how DJ AM's face has melted off, and because like any good lesbian couple these two may as well be conjoined, Linds was listening in and snagged the phone at one point. She then confirmed that indeed they moved Sam's turntables into Lindsay's condo many menses ago and have been delighting in their season tickets to the Sparks ever since. LL Cool Jew and I immediately took to bragging about how we SO called it.
LL Cool Jew: lezlo confirms relationship!!!
Razzy: i know i saw
Razzy: i mean, so anticlimactic
Razzy: like "i hope dj am gets better. duh we're gay"
LL Cool Jew: LOL
Razzy: but let's be real
Razzy: WE knew she had a reserved table at the sushi bar the day she donned that smith college hat!
LL Cool Jew: i love how their nine-month relationship counts as "a very long time" in Lohan Years
Razzy: 9 months?
Razzy: haven't they been having tacos for two for like 3 years?
Razzy: you first spotted that smith hat in like 2005 or 2006!
Razzy: oh nevermind, that was may 2007
LL Cool Jew: TOTALLY!
Razzy: according to my blog date
Razzy: so one year at least!
LL Cool Jew: we should crow about that for the rest of our lives
Now it is even more official than our respective Smith College diplomas: LL Cool Jew and I have lesbadar beyond reproach, and we can spot a pair of boobmashers long before the story hits the mainstream press. Our gayelle detection skills are more precise than an atomic fucking clock. Seriously, we can pick a Birkenstock jock out of a crowd from a mile away even if she's wearing a sickeningly expensive pair of Louboutins and a set of cocksucker leggings instead of something sensible and shapeless. I suspect that LL Cool Jew is correct when she notes that we should crow about how on point we are when it comes to picking muff divers out of a lineup for the rest of our lives. I have no doubt that we will.
Labels: celebrities, lezbollah, LL Cool Jew, media whores, sluts
Saturday, September 20, 2008
The Cowboys' offense can start sucking any time now
The other night Jessica Simpson, a woman whose existence I like to block out of my mind altogether, was performing at some show in Vegas. Yes, for some inexplicable reason, some presumably hearing-impaired people actually pay to listen to this bitch sing, and she takes the opportunity between songs to gab about her love life.
Tony is a great quarterback, but he's a better boyfriend. I'm seriously proud of myself for letting him into my life. Through all the chaos and torment and everything I go through, I can lay in his arms and finally rest.Chaos? Torment? Since when was Jessica Simpson a fucking character in a Greek tragedy? Bitch, the last time I checked you were not named Iphigenia or Hecuba or anything like that! The only Jessica Simpson-related thing that can accurately be described as "chaos and torment" is watching one of her acting performances. Getting slaughtered by the US Weekly fashion police for wearing some heinous polyester Ken Paves extensions may be a little embarrassing, but it's hardly worthy of being described with such grave, dramatic language. The last time I checked, Jessica was famous for the undeserved feat of being a big-titted caterwauling dumbass, not suffering for all eternity in perdition. Frankly, the closest she's come to meeting those standards are perpetuating horrifying scenes such as this one with her beloved:
Furthermore, I guess Jessica should be proud of herself for her taste in boyfriends, since Tony Romo is assuredly an upgrade from her previous paramour, King of the Douchebags John Mayer. She should also be proud for getting Tony to stick with her in spite of the fact that she is a game-killer of the highest order. Last year, her pink jersey-wearing presence fucked up Tony's passing game so severely that even T.O. complained about it. In fact, her attendance at Cowboys games was so universally regarded as the cause of Tony Romo's late-season fuckups that The Onion wrote an extra-believable story about it and an entire website was founded dedicated to supplying fans of teams opposing the Cowboys with Jessica Simpson masks. Even Perez Hilton was supporting this opinion, and trust me when I say that ridiculous gossip fags are not known for their NFL coverage.
Given her history of being viciously reviled by the notoriously, obnoxiously bellicose Cowboys fans, Jessica Simpson has some cojones to be flapping her big frog mouth publicly about Tony Romo letting her "lay in his arms and finally rest." Well, either she has stones of steel or she's too stupid to realize that every last despicable human being wearing a despicable Cowboys jersey will seek to hang her head from the ramparts of Texas Stadium if Tony Romo throws any picks after spouting off about this. Since Romo is not on my Fantasy team and I hate the Cowboys, that can't happen soon enough. Keep up the good work, Jessica.
Given her history of being viciously reviled by the notoriously, obnoxiously bellicose Cowboys fans, Jessica Simpson has some cojones to be flapping her big frog mouth publicly about Tony Romo letting her "lay in his arms and finally rest." Well, either she has stones of steel or she's too stupid to realize that every last despicable human being wearing a despicable Cowboys jersey will seek to hang her head from the ramparts of Texas Stadium if Tony Romo throws any picks after spouting off about this. Since Romo is not on my Fantasy team and I hate the Cowboys, that can't happen soon enough. Keep up the good work, Jessica.
Labels: media whores, NFL football, retard rage, sluts
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Rock the SNORE
I was just having lunch ("lunch"=Sugarfree Red Bull covertly slugged down in lab) and checking my Facebook page. I noticed that one of my Facebook friends, who works in Washington, DC registering voters or something political and civic dutiful like that, had changed her status message to "ready to rock the vote with Talib and Solange. FREE concert in Philly. 3 PM. Come on out!"
Wait, this concert is being headlined by Talib Kweli and Solange? Not to trash this friend's job or anything, but if this is the best Rock the Vote can do to lure young voters, it's hardly surprising that so many people are apathetic at best about participating in the democratic process. I would imagine that half of you reading this are scratching your heads and saying, "Uh, who are Talib Kweli and Solange?"
Talib Kweli is probably best known for being in the group Black Star with Mos Def. He's one of those socially conscious rappers who spends way more time bitching about poverty and racism and other serious stuff rather than bragging about his awesomeness, like popping bottles and models or driving ridiculous customized luxury cars or blowing $15 million in 1 week or his prowess as a make-believe cocaine trafficker.
See, Talib Kweli looks like he's always about to get mad when you crack a joke and say "I don't know how you can laugh when there are innocent men dying of AIDS in prison!" or something similarly sobering and unpleasant. He's not talking about popping champagne like he just won a championship game or how he went from shitting in a cell to shitting on a jet or about all his cars "automative automatic." I guess listening to him whine about society might get you all fired up to vote, but it's not like his concert is a great fucking time.
See, Talib Kweli looks like he's always about to get mad when you crack a joke and say "I don't know how you can laugh when there are innocent men dying of AIDS in prison!" or something similarly sobering and unpleasant. He's not talking about popping champagne like he just won a championship game or how he went from shitting in a cell to shitting on a jet or about all his cars "automative automatic." I guess listening to him whine about society might get you all fired up to vote, but it's not like his concert is a great fucking time.
Solange is even worse. She is best known for being Beyoncé's younger, uglier, more trans-tastic sister.
I can't think of a time when I've ever heard Solange emit a single musical note. Most of the time she's skulking after her sister's fat ass down a red carpet at some cut-rate awards show (ie: the Teen Choice Awards) in an outfit that looks like a French maid's feather duster bred with a disco ball. Usually you can also almost see the mustache she just waxed off before throwing on her tacky House of Dereon Barbie cocktail dress and mugging for the camera in a pathetic attempt to be noticed. The only kind of vote she inspires me to cast is one AGAINST seeing Solange out in public.
I can't think of a time when I've ever heard Solange emit a single musical note. Most of the time she's skulking after her sister's fat ass down a red carpet at some cut-rate awards show (ie: the Teen Choice Awards) in an outfit that looks like a French maid's feather duster bred with a disco ball. Usually you can also almost see the mustache she just waxed off before throwing on her tacky House of Dereon Barbie cocktail dress and mugging for the camera in a pathetic attempt to be noticed. The only kind of vote she inspires me to cast is one AGAINST seeing Solange out in public.
I don't care if this concert is free. Between Solange's annoying desperate bids for fame and Talib Kweli's humorless social commentary, free is still too pricey. You'd have to pay me to go, because this lineup makes me wish I was disenfranchised.
Labels: media whores, politics, ranting, rap, sluts
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
A circumstance in which hygiene and sex actually DON'T go well together
Normally, I think that good oral hygiene practices are a must for anyone who wants to stick their face in my crotch. I don't like the idea of some person with furry teeth or bleeding gums or gaping tooth-holes going to town on my holiest of holies, so I always scope a honey out to ensure that their mouth meets my standards for cleanliness. This is advisable because usually if someone bothers with a regular dental care routine, they also shower and shave and do other necessary personal maintenance regimens. I may like fellow dirty minds, but I do NOT like dirty bodies or mouths, so good hygiene is a must for me. However, I just learned that too much hygiene can actually be bad, at least as far as getting head is concerned.
I just received an email containing a link advising me that I'm not supposed to floss 30 minutes to 4 hours before performing oral sex on some lucky guy or gal. Flossing can make your gums bleed a little, and this can increase the risk of passing on the HIV and basically every other gross form of twat rot known to man.
Is it safe to floss before oral sex?
Experts say various things about oral sex and flossing, but agree flossing is not recommended before engaging in oral sex. The advice varies anywhere from 30 minutes to 4 hours, regarding how long to wait. It takes 4 hours for membranes around your gums to heal.
The risk of contracting HIV from oral sex is relatively low, but other STIs can be transmitted through mouth to genital contact. If you have sores or cuts in your mouth or gums or an inflammation from an infection in your throat or mouth, you are at greater risk for contracting an infection or HIV.
Oral sex is a common sexual behavior. People enjoy various combinations of positions and techniques when engaging in cunnilingus and fellatio, but it is the mouth and tongue that provide the pleasure in all cases. (RAZZY Edit: Um, DUH!)
I'm a little curious as to who these uncited "experts" are. As a virologist, I recognize that it's theoretically possible to transmit the HIV by oral if you have a cut there, but extremely unlikely. It's a lot MORE likely you'll get it by swallowing a big load of HIVved up jizz (at least per this 1996 article that I totally wish I'd written, because getting a Science paper about blowjobs rules), but that's got nothing to do with flossing. Unless you have some serious gum disease, I can't imagine that flossing would cause copious enough mouth bleeding to significantly increase the risk of HIV transmission. Frankly, if your mouth is in such bad shape that flossing causes a gingival hemorrhage, you probably aren't flossing regularly anyway.
I'm getting really annoyed with all these articles highlighting the supposed dangers of oral sex. I love oral sex, and I really hate the notion that I'm going to have to start using condoms, or even worse, the albatross of prophylactics AKA dental dams. I'm already constantly worried about throat cancer since apparently sucking more than 6 dicks increases your risk more than smoking, and as many Razzyphiles have observed, I've done a shitload of both. I'm also especially annoyed that this might discourage people from flossing. Ultimately, that's going to lead to more bad breath, which is going to lead to my not hooking up with people, and thus no oral sex anyway. Everyone loses!
Labels: medical drama, science, sex, sluts, viruses rule
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Homeopathy is bullshit
I slept weird the other night and now have an annoyingly painful kink in my neck. I've been taking ibuprofen and fielding all sorts of advice on how to deal with it. My boss suggested I get some of that cream that has aspirin in it, but "not the kind that makes you smell like an old person." My colleague and platonic life partner, J-Sexy, simply cackled and reminded me that I am getting up there in years and joint, neck, and back problems are going to be par for the geriatric course in my thirties. "Perhaps you should get a heating pad, Oldilocks! Or perhaps you should acquire a boyfriend to rub it for you!"
I gave her a withering look. "Aren't you from the Jamaicubahaitican Republic? Can't you do some of that santeria hoodoo shit to fix me up? Like kill a chicken, smoke a cigar, and blow dust at me or whatever. Help a rheumatic bitch out, Miss Cleo!"
"No, I can only tell the future. The cards never lie," said J-Sexy. "I predict your neck will get better. Now come over here and I suppose I can rub it for you."
While I appreciated J-Sexy's deigning to rub my neck, it didn't provide a long-term solution. Last night when I got home, I popped a couple more ibuprofen and went to dig through my medicine cabinet to see if I had anything that might further improve the situation. The best I could find was a tube of this stuff called "The Rub."
I've had this tube since the day after I fucked this guy who was a piercing apprentice in 2003. This dude's metal bodily adornments absolutely ruined me. Not only was my twat shredded thanks to his ELEVEN penis piercings, I had a raging urinary tract infection and a huge hickey on my neck. I recalled that while drunkenly hooking up with him the night before, he had really been licking and sucking on my neck a lot. In addition to spending a humiliating morning at the gynecologist's office the next day for a very unfortunately timed annual checkup, I had to actually wear a scarf to work thanks to Lestat leaving a hematoma the size of Texas on my neck. The scarf was not an effective disguise, and within five minutes of arriving, my cubicle neighbor T-Bag took a break from reading ZagsHoops.com to ask loudly, "Hey, Miss Ang, what's that on your neck?! What could that be? You've got something on your neck!"
Several of our other co-workers/drinking buddies joined in, and I spent a morning enjoying the ignonimy of being the office slut. Granted, this wasn't exactly a new position for me to be in, but having an obvious hickey was even more embarrassing than usual. So at some point I was outside increasing my risk of cancer and heart disease with my office smoking buddy, T-Bag's sort-of girlfriend the receptionist.
"What do I do about this? Freeze a spoon? Who the fuck gives someone a hickey at all, much less a visible one?!" I raged.
"I heard that freezing a spoon thing doesn't work," said Receptionist. "But I heard that Preparation H works within a couple hours."
"Preparation H? Like for hemorrhoids? Really?" I thought about it. It's true that hemorrhoids have something to do with clotted blood and fucked-up blood vessels, which is basically what a hickey is all about. It seemed like a reasonable hypothesis.
"Well, yeah, I mean I think a hemorrhoid is kind of like a hickey on your ass," said Receptionist.
"Okay, dude, we have to go to Bartell's," I said, and dragged Receptionist to the drug store down the street from our office. "Keep an eye out and make sure nobody from work is around." I really didn't want to get caught buying Preparation H on the same day I showed up to work wearing glasses and a hickey-(ineffectively) hiding scarf. I grabbed a tube of Preparation H and went to purchase it. I placed the box label-side down and tried to act casual. The cashier grabbed the tube, examined the box, smirked at me, and took his sweet time ringing it up. It felt like an eternity.
Back at the office, Receptionist stood guard while I applied Preparation H to my hickey in the ladies' room. It was surprisingly thick and greasy, and had an unpleasant medicinal smell that I identified with my grandmother's bathroom. However, I sucked it up and waited all day for the Preparation H to shrink my hickey before my eyes.
Unfortunately, by the time I left the office, I realized that the hickey hadn't changed at all. I grew alarmed, because I only owned one scarf, and as it was June, turtlenecks were not an option. I thought I might have to call in sick from work unless I somehow got rid of the hickey. On the way home, I swung by this fancy grocery store to buy some stuff for dinner. Because Queen Anne Thriftway was so fancy, they didn't have a regular drug store section that might have other anti-hickey options. Instead, they had a "homeopathic" section full of herbal tinctures and vitamins and bullshit like that. I think herbal cures are generally bullshit, but I was desperate. I found this stuff called "The Rub" that claimed to treat muscle soreness and "minimize bruising," which sounded to me like "snake-oil hickey cure." I purchased it.
I spent the rest of the evening rubbing The Rub into my neck, eating frozen pizza, and drinking a bottle of shiraz. The next day, to my extreme delight, the hickey was gone! I could have kissed that tube of The Rub. I put it in my medicine chest just in case I ever got another hickey. While I have since banged some real losers, none of them has ever been so despicable as to give me a prominent hickey, and I haven't needed it.
However, with my ouchy neck, I decided that it was high time I saw if The Rub was as good at relieving muscle pain as curing hickeys. I was full of hopes that if The Rub could perpetrate the miracle cure of shrinking my hickey by at least 90% overnight, it could provide some respite from the discomfort in my neck.
Too bad my neck is just as sore as it was when I fell asleep last night. Granted, last night I was eating delivery pizza and drinking Pilsner Urquell, so maybe my change of routine from the first time I used The Rub sapped its effectiveness as a magic neck malady cure-all. Or maybe homeopathic products are just a lot of inert bullshit dressed up in a lot of lame hippie marketing, and they don't work at all. Maybe my prior success using The Rub was more indicative of a placebo effect occurring due to my desperation to rid myself of that troublesome hickey rather than a panacea for slut problems in 2003. In any event, my neck still hurts, I'm probably going to spend the next week smelling like Ben Fucking Gay, and I'm pissed that I ever had hope in this homeopathic quackery.
Labels: aging, medical drama, ranting, Razzification, sex, sluts
Friday, September 12, 2008
This is why internet dating is for losers
I have a firm and unimpeachable policy against internet dating. Partly this is because after acquiring a zillion unsolicited rejects from Friendster a few years back, I realized that the majority of people trolling for dates online are hideous degenerates I wouldn't want to stand next to on the subway, much less meet under romantic pretexts. Validating this is my now-passé MySpace account, the inbox of which is regularly filled with tempting solicitations like these:
Uh, "muah" to you too. Consider that a kiss OFF. Why, indeed.
Is that a hint, Justin? You want me to Yahoo messenger you? Sorry, but apart from my oft-referenced beauty, I am not sure how much I'd have to chat about with a fella whose handle is "Sweeetdicwilly." Usually because guys who imply they answer to a name like that usually have a dic/willy that is anything but "sweeet."
Well, that's a nice sentiment. I cute and good looking. I also, unfortunately for this dude, have an annoying habit of expecting my correspondents to use punctuation. I am indeed a "very chill cool person" but I'm somewhat of an intellectual elitist in the sense that I expect my paramours to have mastered the basics of second grade grammar.
This is in reference to the picture of me straddling a male stripper's face. I'd like to remind Fat Joe here that the gentleman in that photograph was paid to do that. Although I can't see what Joe looks like from the neck down, I am willing to wager that he doesn't quite have the physique of Brad the Butterface Stripper and thus can't get into that line of work. Keep wishing, Joe.
Well, I don't get 200 e-mails like that a day, but I have banged a few lawyers here and there. In fact, it would probably benefit my cause to bang a lawyer with some expertise in online free speech and defamation law, given some of my history with crazy dickheads and the civil court system. However, given that this message completely failed to persuade me to MySpace him back, I can't imagine that this guy would do much to persuade a judge or jury on my behalf in court. Not to mention I've never met a fuckworthy guy of any profession who essentially begged me to return his social networking message. PASS.
I'm the sexiest woman on all of MySpace? Even sexier than Tila Tequila? NO WAY! Too bad that given that overcompensating muscly topless photo of George, I'm willing to bet that he has THE smallest penis on this whole damn site! Wow!!!
Ah, yes, you've got to love the guys trying to fix up a threesome on MySpace. They're the ones who figure that dropping a few keywords like "naughty" and "curious" are a surefire method to get any bisexual chick into their pants. And even though this guy looks like a bizarre amalgam of a fisherman from "Deadliest Catch" and a contestant on "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," I just can't be persuaded to go "play with" anyone who doesn't know that "a lot" is TWO WORDS. Besides, like I'm going to the Bronx. I broke up with a guy once because he moved to the Bronx. Well, that, and he had weird nipples, didn't know how to use a condom, and said "cummed" instead of "came" (which REALLY bothered me for some reason), but the dealbreaker was the ride to the end of the D train I'd have to take to see him. Fuck that.
Apparently not. But that's probably because I don't e-flirt with small children.
Well, thank God. I am glad that my looking good in all of my pictures is something to laugh out loud about.
Uh, "muah" to you too. Consider that a kiss OFF. Why, indeed.
Is that a hint, Justin? You want me to Yahoo messenger you? Sorry, but apart from my oft-referenced beauty, I am not sure how much I'd have to chat about with a fella whose handle is "Sweeetdicwilly." Usually because guys who imply they answer to a name like that usually have a dic/willy that is anything but "sweeet."
Well, that's a nice sentiment. I cute and good looking. I also, unfortunately for this dude, have an annoying habit of expecting my correspondents to use punctuation. I am indeed a "very chill cool person" but I'm somewhat of an intellectual elitist in the sense that I expect my paramours to have mastered the basics of second grade grammar.
This is in reference to the picture of me straddling a male stripper's face. I'd like to remind Fat Joe here that the gentleman in that photograph was paid to do that. Although I can't see what Joe looks like from the neck down, I am willing to wager that he doesn't quite have the physique of Brad the Butterface Stripper and thus can't get into that line of work. Keep wishing, Joe.
Well, I don't get 200 e-mails like that a day, but I have banged a few lawyers here and there. In fact, it would probably benefit my cause to bang a lawyer with some expertise in online free speech and defamation law, given some of my history with crazy dickheads and the civil court system. However, given that this message completely failed to persuade me to MySpace him back, I can't imagine that this guy would do much to persuade a judge or jury on my behalf in court. Not to mention I've never met a fuckworthy guy of any profession who essentially begged me to return his social networking message. PASS.
I'm the sexiest woman on all of MySpace? Even sexier than Tila Tequila? NO WAY! Too bad that given that overcompensating muscly topless photo of George, I'm willing to bet that he has THE smallest penis on this whole damn site! Wow!!!
Ah, yes, you've got to love the guys trying to fix up a threesome on MySpace. They're the ones who figure that dropping a few keywords like "naughty" and "curious" are a surefire method to get any bisexual chick into their pants. And even though this guy looks like a bizarre amalgam of a fisherman from "Deadliest Catch" and a contestant on "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," I just can't be persuaded to go "play with" anyone who doesn't know that "a lot" is TWO WORDS. Besides, like I'm going to the Bronx. I broke up with a guy once because he moved to the Bronx. Well, that, and he had weird nipples, didn't know how to use a condom, and said "cummed" instead of "came" (which REALLY bothered me for some reason), but the dealbreaker was the ride to the end of the D train I'd have to take to see him. Fuck that.
Apparently not. But that's probably because I don't e-flirt with small children.
Well, thank God. I am glad that my looking good in all of my pictures is something to laugh out loud about.
Man, if I had a dollar for every time someone on MySpace saluted me with "hey sexy," I'd be a very rich woman. Clearly all the Razzy Haters who like to tell me that I'm fat, old, or ugly haven't been spending enough time perusing my MySpace profile.
Anyway, between the random propositioning on MySpace and the rejects of yore from Friendster, I pretty much decided that if this is the kind of dating scene that materializes without even trying, I can't even imagine the kind of freaks that are on actual dating sites. This supposition has been verified by every friend I know who has tried online dating. Sure, a few of my friends have met the occasional awesome person this way, but they had to kiss a LOT of proverbial frogs first. I've heard all sorts of stories. One of my friends met someone who was actually a porn producer recruiting new talent. Another friend met someone who claimed that he "didn't like fun." My lesbian apprentice Twathopper has made one disastrous crazy bitch acquaintance after another thanks to her forays into online dating. In fact, the only time she met a chick who WASN'T crazy, they became platonic friends and I ended up banging her. Otherwise, Twathopper has racked up a resumé full of lunatics, but this didn't stop her from going online with a fresh sense of hope that maybe–just MAYBE–this time she might meet a nice, normal girl who was down to watch some female singer/songwriters performing live indie folk music and not cause her too much trouble.
Unfortunately, she didn't get past signing in to Match.com before being repelled by the twats on there. She first found this profile, and I think it identifies the exact problem with online dating: a complete lack of touch with reality on the part of the people engaged in this activity.
Yes, how can I make myself look attractive for all the lonely single lesbians on Match.com? I KNOW! I'll style myself like I just walked off a box of Massengill and give myself the most obnoxiously pretentious screen name possible. Nothing turns on the ladies more than a recently douched "artsysociologis" who has conquered that not-so-fresh feeling.
Once again, I firmly espouse my strong "internet dating is for losers" stance. If you want to get laid, just suck it up like a normal, socially functional human being and go get drunk at a bar!
Labels: gross, lezbollah, MySpace, oh the horror, real-life rejects, sluts
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Beauty-disadvantaged is the new ugly
I've never been to Australia, but judging by what I've learned from a spate of Foster's commercials and Mick "Crocodile" Dundee, it's a continent full of awesomely crazy people. Along with other traditional Aussie customs like drinking, barbecuing shrimp, and putting random water buffalo to sleep with some kind of Aboriginal hoodoo hand puppetry, outlandish craziness in all matters is a revered cultural tradition Down Under. That's why I loved reading the news about some mayor of a town called Mount Isa begging ugly women to come visit.
Mayor John Molony wants "beauty-disadvantaged women" to know that they're always welcome in his "bloke-heavy" Australian mining town.
"May I suggest if there are five blokes to every girl, we should find out where there are beauty-disadvantaged women and ask them to proceed to Mount Isa," Molony tells the Townsville Bulletin. "Quite often you will see walking down the street a lass who is not so attractive with a wide smile on her face. Whether it is recollection of something previous or anticipation for the next evening, there is a degree of happiness."
In other words, ugly chicks DEFINITELY get laid in Mount Isa, because all those miners are horny as hell and they'll take anything with three holes and two legs. Actually, I'm not sure the "two legs" part even fits into those standards. I bet the goat population in Mount Isa will be sitting pretty gingerly if Mayor Molony's plea for ugly bitches goes unanswered.
Mayor Molony seems like a dirty guy suggesting that the "beauty disadvantaged" among us head to Mount Isa just because the guys there are desperate to fuck any female in Genus Homo regardless of her facial severity, but he goes on to prove that he's not. Rather than just another bloke in a bloke-heavy mining encampment, he's a profound philosophical thinker who goes so far as citing a fairy tale which may or may not exist to prove the old adage that beauty isn't skin deep.
"Often those who are beauty-disadvantaged are unhappy with their lot. Some, in other places in Australia, need to proceed to Mount Isa where happiness awaits," he says. "And, really, beauty is only skin deep. Isn't there a fairy tale about an ugly duckling that evolves into a beautiful swan?"
Not surprisingly, the few women already in Mount Isa aren't responding to the Mayor's entreaty for more ugly bitches with "a wide smile" on their faces.
One woman tells the Brisbane Times "there just aren't top quality men here."Uh oh. I think the Mayor has stirred up a hornet's nest of trouble. I went to Smith College, and I know all about "beauty disadvantaged" women suffering from a dearth of "quality" sex partners who have caught the protesting bug. I used to blast Too $hort songs about treating fine-ass bitches like dirt and breaking hoes for scrilla at their candlelight vigils for sport. Those girls used to get so mad! Fun times.
Some of the city's women plan to hold a protest.
"It's offensive to women everywhere, let alone women in Mount Isa," Betty Kiernan, a member of the Far North Queensland parliament, tells the Bulletin.
Anyway, ugly, undersexed girls with a mission act like every cause–from encouraging recycling to calling for a protest of Domino's Pizza to petitioning for the residential dining serve to cease serving North African Vegetable Stew–is tantamount to stopping the genocide in Darfur. They will annoy you to death with their shrill, shrewish, inane harping, and will never rest their circular arguments until finally you're finally so bored and irritated with fighting them that you just throw up your hands in surrender and validate them and go get a drink or otherwise occupy your time more productively. The mayor of Mount Isa is about to learn this the hard way, because if there's any cause ugly girls rally for, it's being called "ugly." At Smith, I think these chicks would probably rather see the oceans' ecosystems destroyed by 19th century whaling practices or women's suffrage repealed than be called "ugly." I'm quite certain that the ladies of Mount Ida aren't all that different, judging by the magnitude of their response and their eagerness to commence protesting.
However, I do give the mayor props for his attempt at political correctness with the employ of the term "beauty disadvantaged." That's the kind of roundabout euphemism that usually spastic protestors use to obfuscate logical flaws with pseudo-intellectual excess vocabulary. I'd congratulate the mayor on his caginess for beating the pissed-off women at their own game if I thought it was remotely intentional. Sadly, I bet this poor mayor actually looks like Donk from Crocodile Dundee: a thick-necked, occasionally violent, grimy man with a smell like transmission fluid, Lucky Strike butts, and three years worth of sweat simmered under the unforgiving Queensland sun, a moonshine still behind the corrugated metal lean-to he calls home, and a smile that's more teeth than gums. He probably just wants to get laid so badly that he was hoping to haul a large catch of desperate ugly girls without offending them directly by casting aspersions regarding their appearance. Poor guy doesn't know what he's gotten himself into, but I'm pretty sure it's not going to be beauty-disadvantaged pussy.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, hilarious shit, international intrigue, sluts, you're ugly
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