Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Douchebag of the Moment: Rick Reilly
So, it's been awhile, and I've decided to limit my lame excuses for my absence from the internets to two short sentences. I was dating this guy (any blog about that would be boring and bad for my relationship), I was really busy at work (any blog about that would be just plain boring), and I just needed a long break from being Razzy. I felt like this blog was a chore rather than a relaxing hobby, and I didn't want to catch shit about it with my man and at work. Well, my work is plugging along, I've returned to my natural state (single, Razzified), and I thought I'd just get back to doing what I do best: going off on those deserving of my bitchy ire.
Currently, this is a certain Mr. Rick Reilly. Rick Reilly is a sportswriter specializing in bullshitting about golf. This makes him particularly beloved amongst middle-to-retired-aged men with bad backs and money to burn. But let's be real. Unless you are a determined gold digger (and an incompetent one, if you're going for a sportswriter...even a successful sportswriter), Rick Reilly is at heart a GOLF fanboy douche so inept that he wears one of those shirts bearing gigantic Polo logos. Because the assholes looking at said shirt have such shitty vision in their old age, they can't tell whether it is a Ralph Lauren shirt that retails for 80 bucks at the South Hill Mall (aka Puyallup) Macy's without seeing the Polo logo cantering all over most of it. This is Rick fucking Reilly:
As a matter of disclosure, I should inform you that I once purchased a book written by this man as a Christmas gift for my father, who is notoriously difficult to shop for, but who loves golf in a major way. He manufactures golf clubs for fun. He watches the Golf Channel. When he golfs at the local course in Puyallup, Lipoma Firs, I tell him that his golf course is named after a fatty tumor and he takes affront at my pointing that out. The man loves to hit the damn links, so I bought him a Rick Reilly book because it was about golf, and my dad kept the book on his bedside table for years. I'm not sure if he actually read it, or kept it there because he planned to read it but it actually sucked. Regardless, its nightstand staying power made that Rick Reilly book a far better Dad present than most of what I've ever purchased for him at the holidays. There ends my affection for Rick Reilly. The rest of him, I totally hate.
Case in point: an article he wrote about the recent Masters tournament. As described above, I don't give a fuck about the Masters. However, I do give a fuck about celebrities being shamed in the public eye, because it's frankly entertaining. I have been following Tiger Woods' case, I obviously know all about how he removed some bitch's tampon to do her doggystyle against his Yukon in the parking lot of a Perkins, and that apparently Ambien is the new Viagra for illicit porn star side-piece sex. I'll watch and comment on his mildly disturbing recent Nike commercial in which his dead adulterous father scolds him from beyond the grave. I'm the first person to hop on the observation deck watching the Tiger Woods trainwreck, and I will follow this shitshow until it stops being interesting. I actually don't really think that the infidelity-mediated shattering of the Tiger Woods mystique means much of anything, other than that Tiger is a horny dude prone to the same temptations all human beings face. However, when it comes to Tiger's performance in the Masters, I don't really care how he does. I'd rather hear more about this Ambien sex thing, which I am still somewhat confused about. Doesn't Ambien just make you go to sleep?
Rick Reilly is apparently not focused on the pertinent points of this story. First, he starts off his coverage of the end of the Masters by noting that Phil Mickelson's triumph is "a lipstick-sized victory" for women everywhere. I can't speak for the rest of the XX-bearing members of the human race, but I LOVE when backhanded feminist triumphs are afforded by middle-aged male golf writers with bad taste in shirts. I feel that those triumphs are particularly relevant and not remotely condescending when they are predicated exclusively on the fact that some old perennial silver medalist managed to beat Tiger Woods and somehow managed not to fuck around on his wife, who looks like a cut-rate Elin Nordegren with breast cancer ("a walking rainbow that could put a smile on a mortician's face," per Rick Reilly). Thank you, Rick Reilly, for pointing out that Phil Mickelson, by virtue of winning a tournament while keeping his dick in his pants, has taken all us women on a lipstick-sized trip through the fucking glass ceiling.
I am not suggesting that I wish ill on Phil and Amy Mickelson, but even if I cared about the Masters, I wouldn't begrudge Tiger Woods winning it if he had done so. Conversely, I don't think Phil Mickelson–who apparently won by playing great golf–should have to endure having his win parceled off as some sort of feminist triumph which, if not actually the moronic misunderstanding of feminism by a dude who wears the previously discussed terrible shirts, is pyrrhic at best. Should anyone be judged by whether or not they fucked around? And does a man who doesn't fuck around winning a top-tier sporting event signal a victory for women everywhere? Phil MIckelson put on a green fucking jacket. Give the dude a minute to be appreciated for besting everyone, at the very least because both women and Phil Mickelson deserve far better than Rick Reilly's derivative assessment of the situation.
Tiger Woods fucked around, basically admitted it, lost a lot of money in the process, and...what the fuck ever. So he was a dick to some of his mistresses, so he lied to his wife, so he was an asshole. Just because you can't be running around fucking D-list porn stars on the side doesn't mean that it's a feminist victory when someone who also hasn't done that wins a tournament. Especially if said marriage-honoring winner also boasts a family full of women with malignancy-riddled tits. And especially if said marriage-honoring winner deserves accolades for his accomplishment, without having it belittled by Rick Reilly's pathetically misogynistic and patronizing added subtext.
And finally, "lipstick" is the term I use to describe a dog's penis. Even a small human penis in my vocabulary is a "chapstick dick." While I'm not sure that chapstick is an improvement, to call something "lipstick-sized" in my book is to equate them forever with canine genitals. I went to Smith College, and in my authoritative opinion, that is not a triumph for feminism, or Phil Mickelson's victory. Rick Reilly, go back to reporting on fucking golf. Isn't that your fucking job?!
Labels: assholes, sluts, small penises, sportsmen
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Faith Hill is in league with Satan (there's no other explanation)
If there's anything that could fire me up enough to brush the dust off my blog and return to a more prolific state of active bitchery, it's Faith Hill killing my figurative boner for Sunday Night Football. Every week I've been watching this bitch and her tranny equine countenance trying to do her best "sexy Hank Williams" routine to segue between "Football Night in America" and the actual game. And every week I've been getting progressively more pissed off.
Faith Hill's "Drag Queen Kim Zolciak" look is not sexy, it does not make me believe that my rowdy friends have gathered anywhere nearby or accessible, and it most definitely does not get me ready for some football. On the contrary, it gets me ready for a cerebrovascular accident. Faith Hill is so talentless and dumb that she couldn't even write her own football song, and thus shamelessly stole "I Hate Myself for Loving You" from Joan Jett. This song has not been improved with new lyrics reminding me that the Gollum of sideline reporters, Andrea Kremer, will be prowling the sidelines and irritating me even more all evening. The entire atrocity is like when you're about to hook up with a really hot guy, only to achieve trouser access and realize he's rocking a golf pencil. That's hardly the way you want to start out a goddamn football game.
And this isn't just any movie about football, it's a movie about football starring Sandra Bullock, a veteran of about 8,000 shiteous chick flicks. So it makes sense for the NFL to give this movie some free press, as football fans are a demographic teeming with fans of The Lake House. What does not make sense is thinking that featuring Tim McGraw will butch this movie up for the NFL audience. Tim McGraw designed not one but TWO colognes. He probably doesn't even drive a damn truck, or if he does, it only has two-wheel drive. He's certainly no Toby Keith. He
Even worse, Al Michaels and Cris Collinsworth are contractually obligated to constantly name-check this appalling introduction. This evening, the punting unit took the field after a lackluster drive by the Bears' offense, and Al Michaels thought this would be a perfect opportunity to remind everyone what a sour note the game began on, stating, "Unlike Faith Hill, Jay Cutler has NOT been waiting all week for Sunday night...his confidence has definitely been shaken." Thanks for the Faith Hill-based analysis of Jay Cutler's humanity, Al. It really helps me understand the game better. One thing NFL fans has been missing and, in fact, clamoring for is more commentary revolving around FAITH HILL AND HER PLAGIARIZED STUPID FUCKING SUNDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL INTRO SONG!
Really, what marketing executive decided that the key to getting more people to watch Sunday Night Football on NBC was Faith Hill? I forgot that this bitch even fucking existed. Didn't Taylor Swift make her irrelevant? Nonetheless, she seems to be the executive producer of "Football Night in America," since the entire game is filled with Faith Hill references. In fact, it's not just NBC. The NFL can't seem to get enough of Faith Hill-related endorsements. Last week, I received an e-mail from NFL.com touting Tim McGraw's bit part in a movie about football.
I do not understand why the NFL and its affiliates have entered into this unholy alliance with Tim McGraw and Faith Hill. Granted, the NFL has made some questionable marketing choices in the past (such as sending me a Super Bowl XL Commemorative Steelers' Gear Catalog), but I'm completely at a loss as to why the celebrities leading their marketing efforts are these two washed-up pieces of country-fried trash. Seriously, these two must have sold their souls, or are in league with the Freemasons, or found a magic genie-filled lamp at some point, because there's just no other logical reason for them to be on my television ruining football.
Labels: cuntry singers, NFL football, ranting, sluts
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
It's okay to avoid like leprosy
I did not think it possible, but I have managed to find an ad campaign that makes me even more furious than Twitter whore Ashton Kutcher's COOLPIX ads. In fact, they make my feelings toward Ashton's buffoonery seem downright warm and charitable. This is the single most unappealing pitch for a dating site ever. It's even worse than that gross, snaggletoothed old Christian dude that used to sell e-Harmony with a lot of soporific jabber about compatibility and a lot of ugly couple success stories. These ads make e-Harmony, a company that is currently being sued for refusing to match gay couples and that seems to regard marrying a fat guy with a cell phone clipped to his belt a perfect outcome, seem like my ideal dating site. The horror of which I speak is the match.com "It's okay to look" ad campaign.
I am not sure what upsets me more, the slogan or the representative match.com singles from the commercials that I will ostensibly meet should I decide to partake of their services. The slogan is pretty bad. I don't need some disembodied female voice with the patronizing yet facile intonations of an overcompensating day care supervisor informing me that it's cool to cruise the internets for ass. I know plenty of people who get laid thanks to the miracle of the world wide web. I also think it's find to look for hookups at bars, clubs, restaurants, coffee shops, work, the gym, the park, the library, the designer mall, the waiting room at Planned Parenthood...hey, you never know when you might find someone. Really, the only place it's NOT okay to look is at a family reunion (although I have been hit on at one of those...but that's a whole other story). I am always looking, so thanks for stating the obvious about how "okay" it is to be doing so, match.com. I suppose next you're going to tell me that it's okay to drink coffee or it's okay to eat breakfast or it's okay to walk my dogs. Fuck off, match.com, with trying to make me feel validated enough to shell out for your subscription fee.
If I'm going to PAY to look, then I had better be looking at some hot pieces of ass who aren't insane. One of the biggest reasons people avoid internet dating (myself included) is the possibility of meeting a complete lunatic and/or stalker. I do a good enough job finding those without any e-assistance, so if I'm going to actually pay to peep at some frisky honeys on the prowl themselves, they better not be ugly and/or behaving like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. However, according to match.com's own promotional material, that's EXACTLY what they are selling.
If you go to match.com's website, you'll see SmilesforMiles01 and devco2000, AKA Fake Liz Phair and Pauly Shore/John C. Reilly's bastard child, letting us know in one sentence the dumbest, least interesting thing about both of them.
I only know a mere phrase worth of information about either of these people and already I hate them. You can tell that SmilesforMiles01 uses that lawn mowing line as part of her nagging routine. I can practically hear her shrill, shrewish voice issuing forth from within the unattractive folds of the Liz Claiborne blouse she's rocking: "Mow the lawn. It's THERAPEUTIC. Take out the garbage. IT'S THERAPEUTIC." And devco2000 would just rather that I think he's some kind of Jimmy Buffett-meets-Balthazar Getty rather than a sorry impersonator of the lead in Bio Dome. I should add, these are just the still promotional shots on the match.com website. The singles I'm supposed to get excited about looking at in the TV spots are infinitely more infuriating.
If you go to match.com's website, you'll see SmilesforMiles01 and devco2000, AKA Fake Liz Phair and Pauly Shore/John C. Reilly's bastard child, letting us know in one sentence the dumbest, least interesting thing about both of them.
I only know a mere phrase worth of information about either of these people and already I hate them. You can tell that SmilesforMiles01 uses that lawn mowing line as part of her nagging routine. I can practically hear her shrill, shrewish voice issuing forth from within the unattractive folds of the Liz Claiborne blouse she's rocking: "Mow the lawn. It's THERAPEUTIC. Take out the garbage. IT'S THERAPEUTIC." And devco2000 would just rather that I think he's some kind of Jimmy Buffett-meets-Balthazar Getty rather than a sorry impersonator of the lead in Bio Dome. I should add, these are just the still promotional shots on the match.com website. The singles I'm supposed to get excited about looking at in the TV spots are infinitely more infuriating.
Take, for example, LaSirene7, who wants her potential sex partners to know that she can't roller skate, she shrieks a lot, she has an annoying laugh, and she wears ugly dresses gleaned from the "Misses" section at the Puyallup Ross Dress for Less. In other words, she's basically walking birth control.
There's also 1Eamonn4U, a Kevin Federline-meets-Channing Tatum knockoff who thinks that chuckling and chasing around a butterfly will get him laid. Although I must commend him on going this route rather than his usual Ed Hardy shirt-wearing and roofie-slipping, I don't know many ladies who will eagerly follow a butterfly right into the awkwardly flailing arms of a low-functioning buffoon. He's so confident in his strategy that at the end of his ad, he says, "Heh heh heh, I can't wait 'til my ex-girlfriend sees this." Because she's going to be soooooooooooo jealous of all those girls who won't be able to resist 1Eamonn4U's lack of coordination and baffling lepidopteran amusements.
Or NYCGingerGirl, a low-rent Jami Gertz knockoff who can't seem to master the complex technical nuances of a chef hat. I can see why her name isn't NYCRocketScientist.
And then there's Buddy20, whose seduction game involves putting on his jaunty Robin Hood feathered cap and jogging in place in a suit while giggling maniacally. (SPOILER ALERT: Buddy20 is also totally a serial killer.)
Get an eyeful of Kumnandi, who is apparently suffering from dissociative schizophrenia and is letting her "Lenny Kravitz" personality manage her internet dating life.
One of my most hated ads is the one promoting HablawithMe, some mid-40s divorcee who is apparently obsessed with butchering simple phrases in German and Spanish. At the end of her asinine monologue (which is mostly comprised of her saying "um" and laughing at herself for no reason), she says "puedo no hablar el español," then guffaws and says, "Maybe someone out there understood that, somewhere." Maybe, bitch, because it's completely unfathomable that anyone out there speaks Spanish. And it doesn't take a wise Latina to realize that you said "I can't speak Spanish," which is frankly pretty fucking obvious.
And without fail, the worst, most loathsome installment in the "It's Okay To Look" serial shitshow, is the intolerable Adventure90. Every time I hear, "I'm just a goof, looking for my ball!" I want to pull out my strap and lay the bitch out, and in the rap way, not the hot girl-on-girl kind of way.
Seriously, who wants to go on a single date with ANY of these people? All these ads do is confirm the worst about internet dating: everyone on match.com is a weirdo and a freak, and irritating as fuck to boot. It's like these people exist in the world solely to work my very last nerve. It is okay to look, and it's also okay to say "HELL THE FUCK NO, MATCH.COM." Call me conservative and call me old-fashioned, but I'm going to pull my ass the traditional way: drag their drunk ass home from a bar!
Seriously, who wants to go on a single date with ANY of these people? All these ads do is confirm the worst about internet dating: everyone on match.com is a weirdo and a freak, and irritating as fuck to boot. It's like these people exist in the world solely to work my very last nerve. It is okay to look, and it's also okay to say "HELL THE FUCK NO, MATCH.COM." Call me conservative and call me old-fashioned, but I'm going to pull my ass the traditional way: drag their drunk ass home from a bar!
Labels: capitalism, I'm Not Buying It, intentional buffoonery, overcompensation, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, ranting, retard rage, sex, sluts, you're ugly
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Washington state ride or die
Those of you who are not addicted to the gossip internets may not be familiar with Katie Price, a sophisticated English lady who became famous posing topless for London's version of the New York Post. She got so famous showing her tits–sorry, I mean glamour modeling–that she decided to get a new set of modest F cups installed. Then she banged out a bunch of British footballers, starred in approximately 50 British reality shows, and married some boy bander named Peter Andre.
After spitting out some kids with Peter, things went south for the happy couple, and they split up. She has clearly tried to handle her public divorce with all the care and consideration of any celebrity mother of three concerned about making it as easy as possible on her children: by dumping the kids with her ex and heading to Ibiza to slut it up with her new (gay) boy toy.
I'd normally have approximately ZERO interest in this story if it weren't for the shirt her main homo is wearing. I could be mistaken due to the deep cleavage-baring scoop neck on that shirt, but I do believe it says "Washington State Riders."
I have been to Ibiza and I live in Washington state, and you frankly could not have two more incongruous places. I have no idea why this shirt was being peddled in Europe, much less represents something fashionable for Katie Price/Jordan's rebound queen to rock around Ibiza's many soap bubble clubs. This reminds me of the time I was in Belize and some local who had clearly never been off Ambergris Cay to mainland Belize, much less western Massachusetts, rode by on a beat up old Schwinn wearing a Smith College Biology shirt. Somehow I don't have a Smith College Biology shirt, and I graduated from Smith College with a fucking degree in biology, but a dude living in a corrugated metal shanty on an island off the coast of Belize with no paved roads and sporadic running water somehow managed to rock this fashion.
And I'm not even sure what the "Washington State Riders" are, but I'm equally indignant that somehow this shirt is hot in España but not in Washington state. I Googled "Washington State Riders" and found a bunch of stuff about motorcycles, although no group named exactly that. However, I could be wrong, but it looks like there's a horse on that lemon meringue pie of a top he's wearing. How do eurotrash fame whores know about some "riding" club in my home state that neither I or the internets are privy to?
Or maybe, squinting at it a little more, that's actually a picture of a rooster on his shirt. If that's the case, that makes a little more sense. I can understand why the Washington State (Cock) Riders club doesn't have much of an internet presence, being that we're a more discreet bunch of sluts (ha). I certainly believe that should Katie Price/Jordan's man get a model/acting gig in Seattle, he'll likewise join this club with a quickness.
Labels: celebrities, international intrigue, P-N-Dub, sluts, vulgar display of faggotry
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
The Naomi-Wolf-Is-Smart Myth
I guess the editors at Harper's Bazaar decided to smarten up a cover full of pronouncements about summer's sexiest dresses and looking chic at any price by getting Naomi Wolf to write the latest installment in the canon of Angelina Jolie worship. Naomi Wolf raving about the Baby Collector's beauty in a fashion magazine is particularly awesome, considering Naomi Wolf made her name trashing the fashion and beauty industry for being a tool of the patriarchal hegemony meant to keep us ladies too busy being insecure.
In case you actually had some sort of life and desire for fun and not a bunch of feminist grousing in 1990, you may have missed Naomi Wolf's book The Beauty Myth. This book became notorious for heralding the birth of third-wave feminism, which is basically the idea that feminists need to start being really intellectually condescending about the same bullshit feminists have always been super bitchy about. All the women's studies types thought this was great except that hot bitch Camille Paglia, who started a beef because she thought (correctly) that The Beauty Myth made feminists seem really annoying and stupid due to the fact that Naomi Wolf is both. Naomi Wolf spends most of the book blabbing on about how our concept of beauty is all a giant patriarchal conspiracy designed to keep women in place and punish them for breaking free from male domination. Currently, I think Naomi Wolf needs to lighten the fuck up, but then again I may just be bitter that back in the day, her ideas and intellectual influence were largely responsible for THIS lamentable fashion misstep (and many, MANY like it):
Think of how many skanky titty shirts I could have purchased with the stacks I was dropping for ill-fitting fleece and bulky wool Cosby sweaters at Eddie Bauer and REI! Be assured that I was wearing a pair of dark brown suede Birkenstock clogs and a pair of Woolrich socks on my feet, to top off this ill-fitting and shapeless ensemble. Subverting the patriarchy Naomi Wolf-style is not a pretty sight and it barely got me laid. Thanks a lot, Naomi Wolf. Team Paglia.
Anyway, now I have another reason to hate Naomi Wolf besides her indirect effect on my regrettable style choices in high school. She wrote this article for a fashion and beauty magazine about how stupid, obnoxious Angelina Jolie is the perfect woman, "bosomy and wasp-waisted, with that curtain of hair and those crazy pillowy lips, she is an obvious male sex fantasy." Naomi Wolf goes on to gush that through deft PR, image management, and Brad Pitt-fucking, Angelina has transcended the banality of being a mere mortal to achieve the status of female archetype. She also manages to work in an insinuation that the patriarchy killed Princess Di and that Angelina Jolie has become the dominant female "ego ideal." The entire article is one lengthy, excessively devoted fan letter bearing the nauseating title "Why Women Want Angelina Jolie's Life."
If Naomi Wolf could pull her clueless academic head out of her own ass, she might take note that I do NOT want Angelina Jolie's life, and I bet there are a lot of other women who don't either. Brad Pitt seems like an asshole with stupid tattoos, and I would hate all those kids running around. Not to mention that with all the media whoring Angelina so graciously includes her children in those brats are going to grow up to be absolute monsters. In approximately eight years, TRUST that Maddox Jolie-Pitt is going to be the Paris Hilton for the next generation: attention-seeking, disgustingly overindulged, and one of the most loathsome individuals on earth. No fucking thank you to being legally and morally responsible for unleashing that upon the Hollywood club scene and the world.
Even moreso than a brood of spoiled tyrants, I do not want a life where I'm constantly reminding everyone what a big hypocrite I am. I wouldn't want to bring a swarm of photographers to document me getting off a private jet to "help" starving refugees in Chad by merely standing in their presence and posing. I also wouldn't want to run around giving impassioned speeches against poverty and chastising everyone else in the world for not doing their part, and then go with my common-law dickbag movie star boyfriend to drop half a million dollars on a gold couch. In fairness, Angelina is more visible than me and can thus raise more awareness about important issues like poverty and civil upheaval in Chad and Sudan. I'd just like to know how much of that raised awareness has fixed things in Darfur. Angelina Jolie pretends to do shit when in reality she just promotes herself and her haughty-ass persona. Sorry, but I'd rather actually do shit and back up my haughtiness with substance rather than duplicitous media skankery.
Then again, I can see why Naomi Wolf appreciates Angelina Jolie's self-promoting fakery, since she's been using the same scam for years to get the academic types to think she's not an intellectual lightweight. She makes her name declaring that fashion, beauty, and the cult of female celebrity are forms of patriarchal subjugation, and then twenty years later she writes in a fashion magazine about how a female celebrity's beauty has entranced modern women everywhere, most certainly including herself. Naomi Wolf's scholarly credentials involve specializing in wrapping the same overbearing, tired whining about the patriarchy in a thin veneer of hypocritical bullshit and selling it to people stupider than her (like me aged 15). Feminism deserves better than this vapid slag telling us that Angelina Jolie is the best thing to happen to women since vibrators were invented. STFU, Naomi Wolf!
Labels: celebrities, feminazism, media whores, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Monday, June 08, 2009
Rock of NEXT
There has yet to be an iteration of any exploitive trashtastic reality shitshow at Vh1 called "_____ of Love" that I won't watch. In fact, I'll watch any show involving the word "love" produced by Mark Cronin and Cris Abrego Vh1 cares to air. "Flavor of Love," "Rock of Love," "I Love New York," "Real Chance of Love," "For the Love of Ray J," and of course "I Love Money": I will watch them all. Trust that there's more than one episode of "Daisy of Love" saved on my DVR.
Of these shows, I have had a major love-hate affair with "Rock of Love." I LOVED season one, yawned through season two until finally giving up out of boredom, and started paying attention halfway through season three when I realized they'd abandoned all pretense of Bret Michaels finding love and made no effort to disguise casting a posse of utterly shameless, drunken sluts with careers in the adult film, "glamour modeling," webcam whoring, prostitution, and stripping industries. However, I'm a little sick of Bret Michaels. I'm totally over listening to him whine about his damn diabetes and laud the (WORST TEAM IN THE NFL EVER HATE HATE HATE) Steelers. I wouldn't mind if they traded him in for a newer model of washed-up rock star. Give Nikki Sixx or Richie Sambora a season on the casino tour circuit with a busload of skank-ass hoes because I'm so sick of hearing "don't need NO-THIN...but a GOOD TIME..."
Apparently all the theater queens on Broadway thought so too, because as Bret sang that very song at the (*snicker*) Tony Awards this past weekend, some sort of stage prop "accident" nearly ripped his cheap-ass HairDO by Jessica Simpson QVC clearance bin tracks out from under his bandana.
Bret should take heed the signs and at least take a leave of absence. He should pass the torch before he is too overexposed to keep booking shows at the Emerald Queen casino–AKA "the entertainment capital of the Northwest"–in my charming hometown of Puyallup. Seriously, hang up the decorative cowboy hats and give some other has-been a chance to share pubic lice with the tattoos-and-fishnets set.
Labels: buttrock, Rock of Love, sluts, TV, Vh1
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Read the Bible: Jesus was very pro-whore
Yesterday HotLawyer sent me a link to a local news story from the intellectual backwater and hallowed site of white supremacist history known as Whidbey Island. Of course, megachurch evangelical Christianity has seduced many of Whidbey's native yokels, and not much goes on there, so the hard-hitting journalists over at the Whidbey News-Times decided to write a story showcasing exactly what a bunch of lameasses these people are.
Never been kissed: Bride-to-be waits for her wedding day
When Todd Ritter is told to kiss the bride at the altar this July in front of 277 of their closest friends and family, people will understand if it’s a little clumsy.
It will be the couple’s very first kiss.
“I’m wondering, will I be a good kisser? Do I know what I’m doing? I’m nervous, but excited,” says Rachel Welch, 21, who is marrying 23-year-old Ritter in Oak Harbor.
The couple instated a “no-kissing” policy, to keep things from getting out of hand before marriage. Welch decided at age 14 to save kissing for someone special, and hoped that her first lip-lock would shortly follow “I do.”
Personally, I think this kind of bullshit is actually very anti-Christian. If you read the Gospels, you'll notice that Jesus is kissing all over everyone on the regular. He kisses babies, lepers, homeless dudes, and whores, and doesn't think twice about it. The skankiest prostitutes in all of Galilee were JC's roll dogs, and one would think that such a devout couple of youth ministers would have at least considered that before instituting such a rigid policy. Especially since, judging by their chattiness regarding their Eskimo kissing, chaperone policies, and foot massaging, they apparently have no problem being media whores. They even gave the Whidbey News-Times a frightening, look-we're-scary-super-Christians picture in which you can practically hear them condemning evolution and elaborating on how gay marriage and anyone who helps it become legal is going to burn in eternal damnation.
And since I have been kissed before–on numerous parts of my body and usually as a prelude to getting my sinful nonmarital fuck on–let me explain to Rachel and Todd exactly how lame their marriage is going to be thanks to their policy of extreme abstinence. Since neither of them have any idea what they are doing and are probably taking pointers from the Michael W. Smith "I Will Be Here for You" video, their first heavy makeout sesh is going to be nothing short of disgusting. Todd looks like one of those guys who thinks that hot tongue kissing involves licking and slobbering all over every part of your face except your mouth, so I hope Rachel enjoys a good spit shine. And as far as Rachel is concerned, if Todd thinks that once he's made an honest uptight prude out of her it's going to be all hot legit Christian sex, he's gravely mistaken. Bitches don't go from Eskimo kisses and love letters to blowjobs and anal overnight, and Rachel strikes me as the type who won't put out on her wedding night. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if both of them are so abysmally bad at sex that they wind up doing it as infrequently as possible. After all, who even needs a sex life when you have the rapture to look forward to?
This is why I always fuck on the first date. I'm not going to invest my time and emotion in someone without giving them a test drive and making sure they are competent at turning me out. As a result of this policy, if I ever do get married, please believe that my future spouse will be a tiger in the sack and will likewise benefit from my extensive experience in this area. I also take umbrage with Todd's assertion that Rachel's no-kissing purity vow is an indicator of her "awesome" self-respect, thus implying that sleeping around means I don't respect myself. I have an awesome amount of respect for myself (you can't fancy yourself the most awesome human being on earth EVER without having a healthy amount of self-esteem), and I can't think of any better way to demonstrate that than by giving myself the gift of plenty of varied hot ass. I think it's actually disrespectful to yourself and your partner not to be the best lay you can be, especially if you're about to take vows promising to never hit the sheets with anyone else ever again. It's a sacred duty to your future spouse to get out there and practice on as much strange as possible before you limit genital privileges to just one person. Then again, since neither Todd nor Rachel have any basis for comparison, maybe they won't even know what they are missing when they are rutting clumsily away at one another with the lights off and their shirts on. Ignorance is bliss for the abstinent purity ring set, I guess.
Labels: assholes, Dear God, HotLawyer, media whores, retard rage, sex, sluts
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.
Labels: gross, LL Cool Jew, perversion, porn, sex, sluts
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Excuse me, but WHAT, BITCH NAMED KATE GOSSELIN?!?!?!?!
I am a glutton for punishment, and I really couldn't help myself. I went to the gossip internets and read more completely unsubstantiated, totally unreliable, and most likely false bullshit about the entirely loathsome "Jon and Kate Plus 8" family drama. It seems that there isn't much going on with real famous people, because the Gosselin parents are being thoroughly owned for their incompetence at media whorecraft. I could pretend that I'm the level of classy that stops after one glass of Franzia and takes the high road about obviously obnoxious twats, but let's be real about it: my new life goal apart from professional success and landing lots of hot ass is that THE GOSSELINS MUST BE STOPPED. I don't want to see them or hear about them and their gigantic litter of brats any longer, and I'm more than content to see the tides turn against them so severely that they are uniformly hated by the world and thus fade into the obscurity where they belong.
I'm clearly not the only one. The esteemed journalists at Us Weekly are obviously feeling me. The only thing they fail to point out is that she looked like a massive cunt even when she was just "a mom". She looks like the kind of mom who would force you to drink milk, eat raisins, and say unfamiliar Protestant prayers when you went over to hang out with her kids. This one girl I was friends with in sixth grade had a mom who did that, and she looked just like pre-monster Kate Gosselin. I bet if fleeting reality fame/infamy hadn't come her way, Kate Gosselin would have presumptuously overparented other people's children and decorated with God's eyes, framed needlepoint, and gingham-patterned geese just like Mrs. Gesch.
And due to their highly competent reportage, Us Weekly has managed to distill everything I hate about Kate Gosselin into a quick blurb, courtesy of a probably misappropriated quote from an obscure Associated Press features brief published in 2005:
Kate Gosselin said she feels society has a responsibility to help with the children, since modern medicine promotes the use of fertility drugs, which can lead to multiple births.
Kate Gosselin ought to get down on her knees and thank OctoMom's shameless social parasitism for distracting everyone from the fact that she is the true pioneer of egregious, infuriating media gaffes. However, Kate is finally getting the credit she deserves for her equally obnoxious attitude about subverting nature to achieve such a massive brood and then passing the responsibility off on the rest of us, and that's not going to translate into great "Jon and Kate Plus 8" ratings. Much like a predatory lender or American auto executive, it's a bad time to be a money hungry not-actually-that-famous reality star with eight mouths to feed and a broke-ass equally subfamous stump of a man who may or may not be banging some lesbian fifth grade teacher on the side. Probably because HOW *DARE* YOU BLAME SOCIETY FOR YOUR OWN VAIN BABY-OBSESSED CRAZY BITCH PSYCHOSIS THAT MY TAX DOLLARS SUBSIDIZE YOU FUCKING STUPID UGLY SELF-RIGHTEOUS TROLLOP-ASS CYPRESS MOSS-ESQUE-LABIA-HAVING PROSTITUTE!!!!
I would like to go around telling everyone that society has an obligation to support me because it encourages me to rule their faces off, but for reasons of not seeming like a delusional lunatic, I refrain from doing so. The vast majority of the society that supposedly encouraged Kate to take fertility drugs certainly won't embrace an annoying, shrewish, totally unendearing frigid nagfest pompously informing them that they need to pick up the tab for her own manifest selfishness. As someone who works in the field of "modern medicine" and an avowed child hater, I assuredly did not encourage Kate Gosselin or anyone else to take fertility drugs, and I strongly resent the implication that this bitch did so at my behest rather than her own arrogant desire to overbreed. And her suggestion that somehow I need to shoulder the burden of her own bad decisions makes me want to kill a bitch.
Kate's about to learn the hard way that it doesn't pay to be a mega cunt (literally and figuratively) with a detestable reproductive history and a fucking HORRIBLE Rosie O'Donnell circa 2002-meets-rabid Old Yeller's raised hackles haircut. People are going to quit that bitch and her show's going to get canceled, and she can go back to firing nannies and emasculating her husband without having a television audience to detest her. As far as I'm concerned, that joyous moment can't come soon enough. Down with the Gosselins!
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Jon and Kate Plus HATE
An ill wind blows. Lately, every time I go onto the internets for some celebitchery, I am confronted with the unattractive visage of Jon and/or Kate Gosselin. Even worse, I'm confronted with headlines suggesting that one or both of them has been getting freaky with their busted asses...and not with each other. Either I have to picture Jon's fugly pedophile eyes humping drunkenly on some bitch with low self-esteem who thinks he's a celebrity, or I have to picture Kate's haircut doing ANYTHING sexy, which is about as titillating as the notion of watching two rabid prairie dogs mating.
For those of you who may be unfamiliar with this fugly little pair, they are the stars of the TLC reality show "Jon and Kate Plus 8." This show is basically about these two IVF junkies who wound up churning out a set of sextuplets to go with their twins, and all the consequent grossness that ensues. I watched this show once, and in that hilarious installation all eight kids had rotavirus or some kind of nasty gastrointestinal virus. As much as I love watching eight toddlers simultaneously shitting their pants and puking everywhere, I almost immediately flipped the channel to something more classy and palatable, like "Rock of Love Bus." Hey, I'd WAY rather watch drunken strippers and porn stars fall off a pole and puke on Bret Michaels during the "White Trash Olympics" or whatever than watch 60 minutes of this:
I am never going to get into a show about two assclowns whose own outrageous vanity compelled them to bring not one or two but EIGHT bratty kids into the world. I hate kids, and watching eight of them raise hell while these two make annoying commentary (or more accurately, while Kate bitches incessantly in an obnoxious, authoritarian "I'm a MOM!" tone at Jon) is not my idea of must see TV. So while I'm laughing internally that their heavily marketed marriage is falling apart per the gossip internets, I also can't fathom for the life of me why I have to hear unpleasant tales about these two getting some strange on the side.
I can't really blame Jon for straying from his marital bed. I'd probably want to screw faux lesbian kindergarten teachers too, if I had to fight with this harpy about getting some on the regular.
The prospect of Kate's stretch marks alone should be considered a mitigating factor in Jon's adultery. And you know this bitch hasn't given him a BJ in ten years (if ever.) Instead, she uses her mouth to constantly berate and belittle him, so I can understand how a frustrated little fella like Jon might eventually get frustrated and look for a less fortified, non-industrial strength vagina to scribble on with his golf pencil. I don't blame him for making like the Ying Yang Twins and deciding that he's sick and tired of listenin' at ya naggin'. In these pictures from the past weekend, you can almost hear Kate's shrewish bossing-around.
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
The only thing I'm curious about is why anyone would want to fuck either of these tools. As discussed previously, Kate's naked torso probably looks like a leather hobo bag that got dropped on the subway tracks and run over by a speeding A train and her hair looks like the nexus of a lesbian book club and a tragic Flowbee accident. And for any dumb chick who thinks she's star fucking on Jon, should I remind her that he has EIGHT CHILDREN? That means not only will you have to put up with eight uncontrollable monsters every other weekend, but he will always be broke and trying desperately to keep up with his child support. Any self-respecting skank will not settle for Z-list fame and no fortune, especially when he's a stumpy, easily dominated pussy. In the wise words of Lil' Kim, I'll pass; the dick is trash.
The moral of this story is that kids don't guarantee a happy marriage or a happy family, so don't have eight of them. That will take an already fragile and ill-advised marriage and turn it into fucking around and miserable birthdays. In fifteen years, please believe these kids are going to go on the "Jon and Kate Plus 8 E! True Hollywood Story" to describe in graphic detail how much they loathe their reality whore parents for forcing them to publicly perpetuate their sham of a marriage. Just throw in the towel, Jon and Kate, for your kids' sake and for those of us who don't want your fertile asses cluttering up their gossip pages.
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, media whores, oh the horror, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Monday, March 30, 2009
Raise your voice
Yesterday I was reading Dlisted, my main go-to site for celebrity e-bitchery, and laughed out loud when its author Michael K. wrote that Ashton Kutcher is the type to "give his peen a 'voice' while you're trying to blow him." Not only does that sound about right concerning the bedroom habits of the insufferably juvenile Mr. Kutcher, but it reminded me of the infrequently discussed but nonetheless relevant topic of talking on behalf of your genitalia and I felt compelled to weigh in on the matter.
Years ago, when I lived in beautiful Tacoma, Washington, the City of Destiny, I banged this dude who would translate for his penis while we were getting sexy. Specifically, he referred to it as "the boy" or "his boy," and wanted to relay its opinion to me throughout our drunken fucking. We were doing it and he said something like, "My boy feels great." Initially I was confused about what he meant and ignored it. However, he continued in this vein with comments like "Damn, my boy thinks you have a great pussy" and "the boy isn't going to last much longer if you keep going like this," and then attempted to engage me about it. He said something completely idiotic like "my boy wants to know if he's the best you've ever had?" I laughed in his face and responded with something like, "Tell your boy to shut up and fuck me."
This dude was definitely the Ashton Kutcher type. I knew him from around the Tacoma bar scene and from my interactions with him at such storied establishments as Hank's and Magoo's, I knew that he hung drywall or did construction or something and his life's ambition was to take surfing lessons. He had a tattoo of a sun with an ankh or a yin-yang or something along those lines on his upper back, even though he was the farthest thing imaginable from an eastern mystic. He also had an armband tat of some fake-me-out Celtic design and a Chinese character (that I like to think was the symbol for "tool") on his ankle like a damn girl. I had been at his apartment one time and he had taped torn-out pages from the Victoria's Secret catalog all over the walls by the toilet. I have no problem with dudes who keep their spank literature in plain view. In fact, I respect the brazen attitude of a dude who will leave his stack of Hustlers next to the john in plain view. However, taping ripped out pages of Heidi Klum selling 2 for 1 Angel bras for $49.99 as bathroom decor is a whole other level of douchebaggery, and cheap douchebaggery at that. Can't you at least buy a Maxim or something if you insist on decorating your bathroom with softcore jerk-off material? If this guy weren't cute in a Tacoma kind of way (meaning just okay) and I hadn't consumed half the stock of Sapphire gin at Magoo's that night, I probably wouldn't have seriously considered bagging him or his United Nations tattoos. In fact, my friend MillerTime had a crush on him and I wasn't going to go there out of deference for our friendship; however, she wasn't at the bar that night, and he was moving to Florida the next day. I figured that she'd never get her shot, and I might as well not let the dick go to waste.
Unfortunately, I didn't realize I'd be getting color commentary courtesy of "his boy" about the awesomeness of my vagina and its compatibility with said name-bearing penis. He didn't even stop when I laughed at him. In fact, he kept babbling on about "his boy" without saying anything in particular. It was like listening to Dick Vitale call our one-night stand. Then after "his boy" finished the job and retreated to its resting state, he bitched at me for smoking in my own apartment and plugged my toilet! He was a real charmer.
Since then, I've fortunately not come across anyone who said such asinine things on behalf of his penis during sex. I have had other guys say some silly stuff, like demanding that I compare their cock to smoked meat, shouting "DRAINAGE!" while ejaculating on my ass, or promising that I was about to be "split in half by (his) big, black snake." Luckily, however, I've never had another dude either attempt to interpret for his penis or assume the guise of his penis and chat me up. I don't think there is any way to make that hot.
Oh the other hand, I have successfully managed to talk with someone's genitalia myself, so I should never say never. A while back, I was banging this dude who set the tone by turning on some Skinemax original programming prior to us hooking up. I usually go straight to the internet for my porn because I don't like to trifle with any boring softcore bullshit, so I hadn't seen anything in that genre for awhile. It turns out that it's not the "Red Shoe Diaries" that I remember, which was sort of fake-classy (at least it referred to its actresses as "glamour models") and rarely showed much besides tits. Today's Skinemax, however, showed constant, close-up, full-frontal pussy shots and Randy Spears was in it! However, there still was not any real fucking in it, and the acting was TERRIBLE. Not that I expect an Oscar-worthy performance from the cast of "Co-Ed Confidential," but given that half of them are actual porn stars, I would expect them to at least believably simulate sex. There was one chick pretending to give a dude a blow job and her head was bouncing around so vigorously she looked like a damn jack-in-the-box. I started ranting indignantly about this, and after a few minutes, the honey took matters into his own hands and asked why I was wearing so many clothes. That reminded me that I did not go over to his apartment to critique the acting on Cinemax, and got down to business.
However, I couldn't get over the shoddiness of the travesty on television, and continued to jabber on about it while we were hooking up. Granted, my statements on the matter became much more terse, but I wasn't going to rest until I had vented. So I said something like, "This is what a fucking blow job looks like," and started fellating him between brief statements excoriating the unconvincing product that Cinemax was selling. I finally shut up once we started actually fucking, because only then was I distracted enough by my imminent orgasm to get over my critical disappointment in today's original softcore programming. Afterward, we were chatting while waiting for the dude to recharge, and he said, "I was really impressed with the way you were able to carry on a conversation at the same time as giving me head. I wasn't even annoyed."
"Uh, thanks," I said, then I noticed that Wild Orchid was now on Skinemax. "Hey, young Mickey Rourke! Now that's hot."
My dude was undeterred and continued, "Seriously, feel free to argue with my dick any time. It was a great blow job, and you made many excellent points."
"And you only made one," I said, grabbing his dick and realizing he was good to go again. Mollified, I proceeded to spend the rest of the night doing him with no complaints. Now, thinking back, I realized what a fine line there is between talking to and for your genitals. Talking to is clearly hot and sexy when done correctly by a pro ho like myself. Talking for, however, is just not okay. Ever. Fellas, if I want to talk to your cock, I will. Otherwise, tell it to keep its yap shut and just do its damn job. So let it be written, so let it be done.
Labels: perversion, ranting, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts, weiners
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Some (un)cut
I've been skanking it up hard with the fellas since July 26th, 1995, and in that time I've gotten a lot of random dick under my belt, so to speak. Although she used to be more of a relationship-type lady, my friend JerseyGirl has since caught up with me with a great deal of gusto. In the course of her recent adventures, JerseyGirl managed to stumble across a phenomenon that you don't often encounter with native-born American fellas:
JerseyGirl: met this brit at brunch
Razzy: uh huh...
JerseyGirl: went back to my place
JerseyGirl: and did it
JerseyGirl: like 5x
Razzy: LOL
JerseyGirl: it was NUTS
JerseyGirl: BUT razzy
JerseyGirl: i was bugging
JerseyGirl: bc when he got naked
Razzy: let me guess...not circumcised
JerseyGirl: it was UNCIRCUMSIZED!!!
JerseyGirl: i was DYING
JerseyGirl: i was like "ewe"
JerseyGirl: he goes that's not very nice to say
JerseyGirl: i'm like sorry but it looks gross
Razzy: dude euros are always uncircumcised unless they're jewish
Razzy: i can't believe you said "ewe" about his D OUT LOUD!
JerseyGirl: haha
JerseyGirl: i know
JerseyGirl: but i was so wasted i didnt care
JerseyGirl: it was HUGE though
I likewise have never personally encountered an uncut schlong, probably because of my propensity for fucking red-blooded Americans and/or Jews. I keep waiting for the day when I will stumble across one, because I'm intensely curious about it. I've certainly seen pictures, so I doubt my response will be to say "ew" when I see that homeslice's weiner is wearing a turtleneck. In fact, I remember this girl I knew in college was dating an uncut dude, and she showed me and a few other intensely curious girls photos of her inflating his foreskin. I remember laughing hysterically because they were really some of the most absurdly ridiculous sex pictures I'd ever seen. I also remember vowing that should I ever come across a honey with extra casing on his sausage I would promptly make like this bitch and blow it up like a balloon for humor value alone. Combining goofy jokes and fellatio sounds like a win-win to me.
JerseyGirl clearly got over her shock about this dude's foreskin because she subsequently planned a trip to England to go get more strange of the tea-and-crumpets variety in spite of the likelihood of encountering more peek-a-boo dick. She was telling me about the new international mark she was wooing via Facebook, and I was encouraging her to whore us up proud.
Razzy: toss it up
Razzy: as i think they say in england
Razzy: i know "tosser" means "slut"
JerseyGirl: haha
JerseyGirl: i just emailed you his pic
Razzy: yeah he's cute
Razzy: although i'm getting MAJOR pencil dick vibes from him
Razzy: i think it's the 5 o'clock 'stache but NOT beard
Razzy: how tall is he?
JerseyGirl: no he's tall
JerseyGirl: i've touched it before
JerseyGirl: it's big
Razzy: well pencils can be long
Razzy: they're just skinny
Razzy: i call a long pencil a "cervical spear"Razzy: i fucked a dude like that once, it felt like fucking a pap smear
JerseyGirl: well i'll let you know!
Razzy: please do!
JerseyGirl: although i dont think it's pencil
JerseyGirl: i have a good feeling
Razzy: i hope i'm wrong, i hate pencil
JerseyGirl: it's probably all skinned up though
JerseyGirl: nasty
Razzy: LOL
Razzy: well now you're an old pro with the uncut weinersJerseyGirl: i know. it's so nast though
Upon her return from Merry Olde Englande, JerseyGirl was pleased to report that her man was a European rarity: not Jewish or Muslim and yet still trimmed. I was a little disappointed, if only because I wanted to hear about JerseyGirl insulting the appearance of her partner's package as foreplay. Now that she's back stateside, she dumped her original skinjob and has no future prospects from the United Kingdom or continental Europe in her sights, so that well of uncircumcized weiner follies has run dry. So now I guess I'm going to have to go out and find some uncut dick of my own for amusement. So take notice all you Razzyphiles of British, Australian, other European, or Americans with hippie parents extraction...for any fellas rocking Shar-pei schlongs, I'm currently enrolling subjects in my personal study. Holler at your skank.
Labels: international intrigue, JerseyGirl, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts, weiners
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
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