Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The real player-haters of Atlanta
In this economy, you can't blame a bitch for trying to hustle a little extra paper on the side. In Lawrenceville, Georgia, this hot construction worker (and certifiable clam digger...trust this) decided to help offset her mortgage payments by converting her home into a part-time business. Normally, this would be a triumph of the American spirit, a heartwarming pull-oneself-up-by-the-bootstraps type of tale. Unfortunately, a bunch of player-hating neighbors and police had something else to say. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution has the entire tragic story of how this bold young entrepreneur is being persecuted for building a successful cottage industry.
Since Constance Trahan didn't want to do something really degrading like sell Amway or crack to make ends meet, she decided to start peddling something even more American and to her liking: good, old-fashioned amateur pussy. According to police, evidence provided by a sign stating "1 dollar jello shots," a whiny-ass fun-hating neighbor, and some snitch busted on a minor possession charge was sufficient to arrest Connie for "keeping a disorderly house." Apparently that means she let a bunch of hoes shake their cakes for cash in her garage and basement and freely dispensed cocktails of grain alcohol and gelatin without the proper permits.
I fail to see why this should even be illegal, or at least illegal enough to merit a trip to the pokey. First off, if "keeping a disorderly house" is a crime, then it's damned lucky I don't live anywhere near Lawrenceville, Georgia, because I'd constantly run afoul of the law in that regard. Second, how can anyone blame a hard-working American like Constance cooking up a practical way to pay off her Home Depot charge account? Constance was providing a service that was clearly in demand by consumers at affordable prices. If you've ever been to a strip club, you know that you can't get anything there for $1, so those jello shots were definitely a bargain. I can only imagine that she was slinging lap dances at bargain basement, Big Lots-type prices. Too bad Constance's fun-killing communist neighbor couldn't be bothered with a simple pair of earplugs and decided to hate on the fact that Con was the baddest ass competitor in the DIY basement suburban Atlanta strip club game.
I thought we were supposed to celebrate ingenuity and can-do attitudes as key attributes to patriotism, facets of our national spirit as American as NASCAR and Budweiser. I guess all it takes is one freedom-hating dickbag of a neighbor filing a noise complaint to undermine the most cherished principles of American capitalism. Free Constance Trahan! Or, as I think she is free on bond, at least acquit her from this grossly unfair misdemeanor charge. First the government takes away your home strip club, then it's the rest of your freedoms! Tell the player-haters that all Americans should feel secure in their right to get their hustle on. USA! U! S! A!
Labels: capitalism, crime and punishment, nudity, stank vaginas
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
But George W. Bush IS a...
Not that I give a flying underwater scissor-style fuck about what Whoopi Goldberg says or does, because she annoys me and because Hell will look like the vast and tempestuous Bering Sea halfway to freaking Kamchatka in January before I pay much attention to anyone affiliated with the travesty known as "The View," but apparently she's in trouble because last year she called George W. Bush a cunt. Well she actually didn't even drop the big "C-word" that everyone seems to find so offensive. She just made the obvious vagina joke about Bush's last name and said something like "keep Bush where it belongs and out of the White House." This was all in support of John (LOSER) Kerry's pathetic attempt at obfuscating his way into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. For some reason, Whoopi is now getting heat for calling President Bush a cunt, and she's quick to remind everyone that she just made a play on his last name, and never uttered the dreaded "C U Next Tuesday."
Girls go crazy when you say "cunt"...except me, that is. I don't think "cunt" is all that bad of a word. It's just a synonym for vagina, so why is it any worse than "cooze" or "poon"? I actually think it has more zing old standbys like "pussy" and "twat," and I'll use it any day over lame cutesy euphemisms like "vajayjay." Frankly, there's other words (ie: "gash") that I think conjure up much grosser and more repugnant associations. But for some reason, it's been universally accepted that "cunt" is probably the worst thing you can call a woman. If you're a little pissed, you call a woman a bitch. If you're furious and want to establish that your ire is NO JOKE, you drop a c-bomb on that ho. That's like declaring a fucking blood feud. On those grounds, I don't understand why an avowed Bush-hater like Whoopi is saying, "Oh, I didn't call him a CUNT. I pointed out to the mentally slow, self-righteous rich assholes attending some lame Murder, DNC (what some of my wonk friends called their employer, the Democratic National Committee, circa 2003) $1000-a-plate fundraising dinner for Kerry that his name doubles as a coarse slang term for vagina. THAT'S VERY DIFFERENT! Calling the president a cunt would be SOOOOO INAPPROPRIATE. That would mean business. You know it's a joke because I just called him a Bush! Which he is! LOL! Watch more pointless discussion about my not using the c-word on 'The View.'"
Well, he's also a cunt. And if Whoopi doesn't have the stones to go there, lucky for everyone I do.
GEORGE W. BUSH IS A CUNT.
That said, vote libertarian.
Girls go crazy when you say "cunt"...except me, that is. I don't think "cunt" is all that bad of a word. It's just a synonym for vagina, so why is it any worse than "cooze" or "poon"? I actually think it has more zing old standbys like "pussy" and "twat," and I'll use it any day over lame cutesy euphemisms like "vajayjay." Frankly, there's other words (ie: "gash") that I think conjure up much grosser and more repugnant associations. But for some reason, it's been universally accepted that "cunt" is probably the worst thing you can call a woman. If you're a little pissed, you call a woman a bitch. If you're furious and want to establish that your ire is NO JOKE, you drop a c-bomb on that ho. That's like declaring a fucking blood feud. On those grounds, I don't understand why an avowed Bush-hater like Whoopi is saying, "Oh, I didn't call him a CUNT. I pointed out to the mentally slow, self-righteous rich assholes attending some lame Murder, DNC (what some of my wonk friends called their employer, the Democratic National Committee, circa 2003) $1000-a-plate fundraising dinner for Kerry that his name doubles as a coarse slang term for vagina. THAT'S VERY DIFFERENT! Calling the president a cunt would be SOOOOO INAPPROPRIATE. That would mean business. You know it's a joke because I just called him a Bush! Which he is! LOL! Watch more pointless discussion about my not using the c-word on 'The View.'"
Well, he's also a cunt. And if Whoopi doesn't have the stones to go there, lucky for everyone I do.
GEORGE W. BUSH IS A CUNT.
That said, vote libertarian.
Labels: celebrities, free fucking speech, intentional buffoonery, libertarians rule, overcompensation, politics, stank vaginas
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
To revadge or not to revadge?
Last week, BigBagel, who is obviously VERY busy covering health issues on the Gulf Coast of the mighty Mississip in his waning days as a newspaper reporter, sent out the following query to LL Cool Jew and some of her friends:
In case you didn't read the above article, it's all about how vaginoplasty (cosmetic reconstruction of the vadge and/or surrounding lady bits) has come into vogue either to improve one's genital appearance or to make a new fake hymen for crazy Christian bitches who want to physically repent for their old, sluttish ways. The article explores concerns among surgeons about vaginoplasty being an unnecessary and potentially dangerous procedure. LL Cool Jew was mortified that BigBagel had decided this was a move sanctioned by the very beautiful and sweet marriage vows they exchanged back in April:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Rack (rack@fashiondesignhouse.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandistnonprofit.org), Jersey Girl (jerseygirl@thirdrankedcablenewscompany.com), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), MillerTime (mtime@tacomahmo.com), Motherbucker (mbucker@somepoliticalplaceoranother.com), HotLawyer (hotlawyer@criminaldefenselawfirm.com), Morrissey'sHair (morrisseyshair@bankruptcylawfirm.com)
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: being that i am now a married man...
ah, the funny things I come across as a health journalist. anyway, I feel a little more comfortable asking about this now that I am a married man, well, really since I now have access to a network of female friends.
http://www.reuters.com/article/healthNews/idUSN3125637420070831
this is a totally unscientific survey entirely for non-professional curiosity reasons. this is also an attempt to deal with my senioritis issues at work, even though I have a fuckload to do right now. Anyway, what do y'all think of the vaginoplasty procedure? Would you consider it for yourself? If so, under what cirucmstances? Cosmetic ever be a consideration? Performance-based reasons? "revirgination"? I can tell you from my perspective, no goddamn way i'd let anyone get a knife near my johnson unless it was somehow the only way to prevent it from falling off.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listI then felt the need to respond, not because I was shocked BigBagel decided to solicit this informal poll, but because this topic has interested me ever since I saw some old bitch get vaginoplasty on an episode of "Nip/Tuck" a couple seasons back and since I heard the rumors on the internet about the horrors that befell Jenna Jameson when she underwent this procedure:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandistnonprofit.org)
zomg, i cannot *believe* my husband just sent a vaginoplasty article to all my friends...it was an unsanctioned move, fyi, and btw bigbagel, hotlawyer and morrissey'shair are men...
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listI felt that pretty much covered it, and so did FalloniusMonk, albeit for apparently different reasons. I'm assuming she was referring to point #5 about fucking dudes with penis piercings, since she's a big ol' lesbo.
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
NO FUCKING WAY.
1. My vagina is a goddamn work of art, and it has many admirers who agree with me (including certain unnamed parties on this e-mail list).
2. Because of this procedure, Jenna Jameson's vagina looks like Petra after the hot Nazi stupidly brought the Grail over the Seal at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. In fairness, I haven't seen her post-surgical modifications, but if the work she's had done on the rest of her is any indication of her surgeon's skill, I sincerely doubt its appearance has been improved.
3. I don't know why any woman would consider this unless her cooch looks like the Mines of Moria. If your vadge is too loose, there's this little exercise called a Kegel that EVERY woman should know about and do on the regs, and that can fix it up.
4. As to the notion that I might have unattractive external or internal genitalia...SHA RIGHT. Like I said, my shit looks like a freakin' Georgia O'Keefe lily. Except better.
5. After a particularly memorable (in a most unpleasant way) one-night stand with a dreadlocked retard who had eleven penis piercings and experienced the extremely painful process of healing from a vaginal shredding, including walking bow-legged (and not in the good way promised to strippers by R. Kelly in "R&B Thug"), I have decided not to let anything sharp and metal near my twat ever again. That dude also gave me a visible hickey and a urinary tract infection...bastard.
You might also be interested to know that there is also a type of collagen injection called "The G Shot" that, per its website (www.thegshot.com), "can temporarily augment the Grafenburg spot in sexually active women with normal sexual function." MAYBE I would consider something like that because I'm down for more intense orgasms and it's just a little shot...except in this case, the lengthy list of risks (http://thegshot.com/risks.htm ) including "vesico-vaginal fistula (hole between the bladder and vagina)," "erosion," "exposed material," and "local tissue infarction and necrosis," mitigates the reward. NO THANKS! I'll stick to my regular old orgasms and leave my lady parts unsullied by medical intervention.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listMotherbucker, likewise a big ol' lesbo, decided to take a more snarky approach in her response:
From: FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com)
They should call it Revagination.
I leave the eloquence to Dr. Raz. For wildly different reasons, BigBagel, I concur with her - and you, for that matter: hell motherfucking no.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listJerseyGirl, as all of our friends would have predicted, responded with a typical "ew, gross!" sentiment. JerseyGirl once almost threw up when I was discussing some of the messier aspects of anal sex, so this topic didn't suit her rather squeamish temperament.
From: Motherbucker (mbucker@somepoliticalplaceoranother.com)
I would definitely get it. I want my twat to remain forever tight for all the hot dick I regularly get involved with...
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listSo far, with the exception of Motherbucker who was being 100% sarcastic, nobody has taken a pro-vaginoplasty stance. However, to relieve BigBagel's insatiable curiosity about the wild world of revagination, I thought I'd bring the debate to the internets. If anyone has an opinion about whether they'd personally would or would not get vaginoplasty or why they would or would not encourage their bitch to get a Twat 2.0, spend those two cents on the comment page, y'all! Maybe BigBagel can write another Pulitzer-worthy investigative report on it. Also, I'm still waiting to hear from HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair about what they think as far as their vaginas are concerned.
From: JerseyGirl (jerseygirl@thirdrankedcablenewscompany.com)
That is gross. No.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, gross, HotLawyer, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, MillerTime, Motherbucker, oh the horror, plastic surgery, Rack, science, sex, stank vaginas
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Best. Defense Title. Ever.
Tomorrow some person I don't know is defending their dissertation, and there are signs all over advertising the defense seminar for it. This is the greatest defense seminar title in the history of science Ph.D.s:
Okay, so the project isn't actually all that exciting unless you're into worm genitalia. This student is from a lab that works on Caenorhabditis elegans, a microscopic worm which is a model organism for developmental genetics. Presumably coming up with extraordinary new takes on "thinking outside the box" where "box" means "twat" is actually code for "I developed some mutants in genes not having anything to do with pussy, but there you go...these worms have fucked-up pussies anyway." I've always found developmental genetics in model organisms, and particularly in Drosophila melanogaster (flies) or C. elegans to be appallingly tedious. I remember I interviewed at NYU for grad school and they wouldn't stop gushing about their new fly lab, which made me immediately think "scratch NYU off my list." However, maybe I would have given it more thought if I had anticipated that my dissertation would have such an amazing title. "Thinking Outside the Vulva" is a hell of a lot catchier than "Development and Characterization of a Mouse Model of Rhinovirus Pathogenesis."
Thinking Outside the Vulva:
A Non-Vulval Perspective on Vulval Development
A Non-Vulval Perspective on Vulval Development
Okay, so the project isn't actually all that exciting unless you're into worm genitalia. This student is from a lab that works on Caenorhabditis elegans, a microscopic worm which is a model organism for developmental genetics. Presumably coming up with extraordinary new takes on "thinking outside the box" where "box" means "twat" is actually code for "I developed some mutants in genes not having anything to do with pussy, but there you go...these worms have fucked-up pussies anyway." I've always found developmental genetics in model organisms, and particularly in Drosophila melanogaster (flies) or C. elegans to be appallingly tedious. I remember I interviewed at NYU for grad school and they wouldn't stop gushing about their new fly lab, which made me immediately think "scratch NYU off my list." However, maybe I would have given it more thought if I had anticipated that my dissertation would have such an amazing title. "Thinking Outside the Vulva" is a hell of a lot catchier than "Development and Characterization of a Mouse Model of Rhinovirus Pathogenesis."
Labels: grad school bullshit, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, nerd alert, science, stank vaginas
Monday, August 13, 2007
Rosie, leave the FUCKING LESBIANS out of it!
God, Rosie O'Donnell needs to quit blogging almost as much as she needs to learn how to capitalize and spell pronouns and helping verbs. This is what she wrote about an incident over the weekend with a lesbian-hating biker guy outside the TGIFriday's where Rosie was stuffing her fat face with deep-fried green beans:
Ugly lesbians have been ruining it for the rest of us for years now. Making it worse is the fact that like their champion Rosie, these bitches overcompensate for their physical lack of appeal by being patronizing, outspoken fucktards. Combining stupidity, self-righteousness, and an exceptional drive to overcompensate is always a dangerous thing. Thanks to these hordes of unattractive, pretentious, fat, frumpily sacked, loudmouthed, toady, curmudgeonly lezbots, people almost always associate "lesbian" with trolls such as these:
I and probably the rest of the sensible world would much rather have it conjure up these images:
You know bitches like Rosie are seriously screwing things up when I think scenes from Showgirls are a preferable connotation. All the lesbians I know are fine-ass bitches, and have better things to do than let some tiny-dicked, overcompensating tool on a Harley goad them into a screaming match in a mall parking lot. Of course, there's no reason why any self-respecting same-sex loving lady shouldn't get pissed when a homophobic loser is dim-witted enough to think that disparaging a person's sexual orientation is an acceptable retort, but in Rosie's case, she asked for it. Bitch says she's a lesbian more than she says she's a mother or a comedian or an actress or a talk-show host or a woman. I don't think anyone needs to "cower, to fall 2 r knees, ashamed" in the face of an irate and unbalanced motherfucker slinging petty insults, but Rosie should hardly be surprised this asshole brought it up. Her name is becoming synonymous with lesbian, so she need look no further than her own constant harping on the topic to determine why this moron with the motorcycle went there. And given her atrocious conduct in general, it's understandable why this moron thought "lesbian" could be used as a disparaging term.
Rosie needs to just sit down before she does permanent damage to the lesbian community. Her obnoxious qualities have nothing to do with her being a lesbian, but she seems bound and determined to inextricably link them, and I'm tired of it. Hollywood needs to anoint a new prominent lesbian and start ignoring everything Rosie says and does. I can think of a few candidates who would be far better for giving women-loving women the awesome reputation we deserve (yes, I'm including bisexual bitches like myself in that...we count too).
Portia De Rossi is way hot, and she was on "Arrested Development," which was a funny show. She also seems sane and smart, and I think is generally a great example for admirable qualities to associate with lesbians.
Briana Banks may only be bisexual due to her profession, but she also seems sane and certainly can teach some bitches a thing or two about licking snatch. Her love for Jenna is also well-known. Okay, I admit a porn star probably isn't the greatest representative in terms of giving the girlie gays some credibility, but I think Briana Banks should be the damn president of the world and I'm always looking for an excuse to give her a shout-out.
Michelle Rodriguez may be a self-loathing drunk, but her girlfriend Kristanna Loken is pretty hot, and they look pretty sexy swordfighting in their Xena fetish wear. They'd do, if Michelle would ever get over herself, quit driving after a few Mojitos at the LA equivalent of Henrietta Hudson's, and come out, already.
She might look a little scary sometimes, but Suze Orman is not only a proud lesbian, she's a financially responsible one, as well. She shows the world that not only are lesbians cheerful, they can make shrewd investments, get out of debt, and plan one hell of an estate.
Christ, even Miss Cleo the fradulent Ja-Fake-An TV psychic would be better than Rosie. At least Miss Cleo's sales pitches are entertaining. The cards never lie!
Rosie needs to GO AWAY and quit dropping the L word, because she's setting acceptance of lesbians back by decades every time it issues forth from her mouth. People like my crazy Aunt Jesus see Rosie spout off at the mouth and instantly get that much more ammunition for their retarded "Gods Hates Fags" prayer meetings. When she lets an altercation with an unstable person who isn't even remotely worth it escalate into a screaming match about her sexual orientation, or trashes Kelli Ripa for covering Clay (In the Closet) Aiken's mouth, or accusing "heteros" of being backstabbing bitches while on a concert tour promoting friendship between people of all genders and gender preferences all under her ubiquitous "I'm a LESBIAN" rubric, you can almost hear the rest of the world's lezzies lift their faces out of their girlfriends' twats and collectively groan. It's time for Rosie to sit the fuck down on her whopping ass, plug that gaping, hemorrhaging cakehole of hers with a rack of Chili's babyback ribs, and hand over the "I'm a lesbian" reins to someone more worthy. No more ugly bitch bloetry!
alongSHUT UP, ROSIE! You embarrass all of us who like some hot girl-on-girl action by belaboring this point. We all know you're a big old dyke, but you play "the trump card" just as much as all those men you seemingly despise. These idiot-hetero-is-picking-on-me-cause-I'm-a-big-hippo-ass-dyke are the main anecdotes you usually decide to share in your barely readable bloetry (blog + poetry=blows, hence "bloetry"...get it?), and I for one am sick of having your bloated, busted ass spring to mind every time I think "lesbian."
came a bald screaming infuriated man
it's always a man
i tell ya …
as i buckled my belt
he ran towards r car
angry
"MY MOTORCYCLE BLAH BLAH !!!"
"chill dude -
we didn't touch it"
he got madder
pupils big - snorting like a dragon
FUCK LESBIANS
he screamed
the trump card
always
and we r supposed to cower
to fall 2 r knees ashamed
not good enough
unworthy
not tonight
mr bald muscle man
with a pimped out hog
not tonight
i stood up in the front seat
hands above my head
smiled and yelled
CORRECT SIR - FUCKING LESBIAN!!!
he stormed back to his table
right there in the lincoln mall
Ugly lesbians have been ruining it for the rest of us for years now. Making it worse is the fact that like their champion Rosie, these bitches overcompensate for their physical lack of appeal by being patronizing, outspoken fucktards. Combining stupidity, self-righteousness, and an exceptional drive to overcompensate is always a dangerous thing. Thanks to these hordes of unattractive, pretentious, fat, frumpily sacked, loudmouthed, toady, curmudgeonly lezbots, people almost always associate "lesbian" with trolls such as these:
I and probably the rest of the sensible world would much rather have it conjure up these images:
Rosie needs to just sit down before she does permanent damage to the lesbian community. Her obnoxious qualities have nothing to do with her being a lesbian, but she seems bound and determined to inextricably link them, and I'm tired of it. Hollywood needs to anoint a new prominent lesbian and start ignoring everything Rosie says and does. I can think of a few candidates who would be far better for giving women-loving women the awesome reputation we deserve (yes, I'm including bisexual bitches like myself in that...we count too).
Portia De Rossi is way hot, and she was on "Arrested Development," which was a funny show. She also seems sane and smart, and I think is generally a great example for admirable qualities to associate with lesbians.
Briana Banks may only be bisexual due to her profession, but she also seems sane and certainly can teach some bitches a thing or two about licking snatch. Her love for Jenna is also well-known. Okay, I admit a porn star probably isn't the greatest representative in terms of giving the girlie gays some credibility, but I think Briana Banks should be the damn president of the world and I'm always looking for an excuse to give her a shout-out.
Michelle Rodriguez may be a self-loathing drunk, but her girlfriend Kristanna Loken is pretty hot, and they look pretty sexy swordfighting in their Xena fetish wear. They'd do, if Michelle would ever get over herself, quit driving after a few Mojitos at the LA equivalent of Henrietta Hudson's, and come out, already.
She might look a little scary sometimes, but Suze Orman is not only a proud lesbian, she's a financially responsible one, as well. She shows the world that not only are lesbians cheerful, they can make shrewd investments, get out of debt, and plan one hell of an estate.
Christ, even Miss Cleo the fradulent Ja-Fake-An TV psychic would be better than Rosie. At least Miss Cleo's sales pitches are entertaining. The cards never lie!
Rosie needs to GO AWAY and quit dropping the L word, because she's setting acceptance of lesbians back by decades every time it issues forth from her mouth. People like my crazy Aunt Jesus see Rosie spout off at the mouth and instantly get that much more ammunition for their retarded "Gods Hates Fags" prayer meetings. When she lets an altercation with an unstable person who isn't even remotely worth it escalate into a screaming match about her sexual orientation, or trashes Kelli Ripa for covering Clay (In the Closet) Aiken's mouth, or accusing "heteros" of being backstabbing bitches while on a concert tour promoting friendship between people of all genders and gender preferences all under her ubiquitous "I'm a LESBIAN" rubric, you can almost hear the rest of the world's lezzies lift their faces out of their girlfriends' twats and collectively groan. It's time for Rosie to sit the fuck down on her whopping ass, plug that gaping, hemorrhaging cakehole of hers with a rack of Chili's babyback ribs, and hand over the "I'm a lesbian" reins to someone more worthy. No more ugly bitch bloetry!
Labels: assholes, Aunt Jesus, fat fucks, lezbollah, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, stank vaginas, you're ugly
Monday, July 16, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Jessica Simpson
DOB: July 10, 1980
Occupation: Singer, actress, spokeswhore, dumbass
Hometown: Abilene, Texas
Current Residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: When it comes to being annoying, Jessica Simpson is a triple threat. She sings annoying songs (most of which are piss-poor covers of songs that were stupid to begin with such as Robbie Williams's "Angels"), she plays annoying characters opposite other annoying actors (Johnny Knoxville, Dane Cook) in annoying movies, and she is an annoying personality ubiquitously stinking up my E! celebrity countdown shows whether she's hanging with her creepy dad, arguing with her fucktarded sister about breath mints, hawking Proactiv solution, or hanging on the emotional, caterwauling, curly-haired sack of fug known as John Mayer. I don't know why this bitch is even famous in the first place.
I thought Jessica Simpson was lame back in 1999 when she was trying to compete with the hotness that was Britney and Xtina in their prime by being as unsexy as possible. Then she became a household name for being monumentally stupid on "Newlyweds," and I suffered through endless gossip blog news stories about how she claimed to have a genius IQ in spite of her lack of epicurean knowledge concerning chicken and tuna fish. Not that I'm any kind of Nick Lachey fan (something about him--whether his unnecessary tats or the sleeveless muscle shirts he favored to show them off--just screams "pencil dick" to me), but I was absolutely astonished that Nick could put up with her disabling ditziness and its accordant marketing for as long as he did. I would have been out the door the second that bitch's dad told me that I should take my public humiliation to the next level by doing "The Nick and Jessica Variety Hour."
Since her show went off the air on account of Nick and Jessica's unfortunate (but not for Nick) divorce, Jessica has spread her contagion throughout the media like never before. Since I would rather be anally electrocuted like a chinchilla at a fur farm than sit through a screening of Employee of the Month, I cannot for the life of me understand why films starring Jessica Simpson continue to get greenlighted, but it seems that there is a slice of America that just can't get enough of her giggling vacantly like an institutionalized and heavily medicated schizophrenic. The dumb prostitute can't act, and as her video for "These Boots are Made For Walkin'" from The Dukes of Hazzard proved, she's not even capable of writhing around in a bikini while washing the General Lee or serving draft beer in a trashtastic slut costume convincingly. I've seen porn stars with far more dramatic range and theatrical ability. Her latest shitshow is some remake of Working Girl called Blonde Ambition, and surely Melanie Griffith isn't losing any sleep over the prospect that her performance as a boss-fucking corporate whore might be overshadowed by Jessica Simpson's interpretation of it. I'm sure that's going to be a blockbuster, and by "Blockbuster" I mean the store and its straight-to-video section.
In addition to fancying herself as a master thespian, she's also under the delusion that she's some sort of aesthetic expert and fashion maven. I don't know about you ladies, but I'd just be thrilled to take style tips from a woman who dresses like this:
Most of the time, she looks like she either belongs in the chorus line of a drag show, giving rub-and-tugs at a dilapidated "massage parlor," or picking up her ugly, squalling brood from soccer practice, none of which are looks I'd care to emulate. She's also all over QVC, selling a bunch of shit that nobody in their right mind should want to buy. First she had a line of beauty products called Dessert that was supposed to taste good, like cupcake-flavored face masks and shit like that. All the ads showed her sucking some whipped cream-esque moisturizing mousse off her finger seductively, as though using Dessert products would make you as devastatingly delicious as her. Tell me, Jess, is that facial expression "Blue Steel" or "Magnum"?
Jessica is also designing all sorts of clothes, the latest being a collection of swimwear. Somehow I don't anticipate seeing much of this at the beach, as wearing hideous patterns and cuts that make even anorexic models look fat aren't in style this season (or ever):
Donatella Versace can rest easy, as I don't think Jess is going to be stealing any fashion awards from her anytime soon. I mean, waist fringe? Come ON.
Seriously, why does this hooker have enough of a market share to warrant the launch of all these shiteous products? I am aware that the world is full of stupid people, and that is presumably her consumer base, but does she really do well enough to warrant such a diverse onslaught of products? Jessica Simpson needs to find a new boyfriend or go discuss her tits with her creepy dad or whatever she does to occupy her spare time and just duck the fuck out of the spotlight before even the morons patronizing her brand wise up and realize what a bimbotic tool she is. Just go away, Jess!
Labels: Daily Douchebag, John Mayer sucks, media whores, sluts, stank vaginas
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Paris Hilton
Real Name: Paris Whitney Hilton
DOB: February 17, 1981
Occupation: Drunk driver, probation violator, cultural succubus, infectious disease hazard, whore
Hometown: New York, NY
Current Residence:
Douchebaggery: Unfortunately for everyone, Paris was released from jail around midnight. During and before her stint in the clink, she was using every excuse imaginable to keep her slut ass out of jail. First she had ADD (translation: speed addiction), then she found Jesus and/or possibly Buddha, and then when all else failed, she turned on the waterworks. Hot-Ass LA City Attorney Rocky Delgadillo and the judge were unmoved, and ho did her time
Now that she's probably got some extra-strength prison-caliber clap, the CDC should take notice, as there will probably be an outbreak of killer VD on the Hollywood club scene. Brody Jenner, the entire male cast of "The Hills", and random dudes late of the "Desperate Housewives" set will be reporting unpleasant discharges/odors, itching, and burning by the end of the week. Greasy oil heir Brandon Davis will undoubtedly have some festering pustules to go along with his apparent glandular problem, and Stavros Niarchos will be getting some antibiotics to go along with the refills on his Valtrex scrip. I wish this ho would have caught that multidrug-resistant strain of the consumption and thus wound up in quarantine along with that globe-trotting personal injury lawyer. As a microbiologist, I find it reprehensible and dangerous that public health officials are not more concerned that her pathogenic ass has been unleashed upon an unsuspecting public.
It's really a shame that Paris didn't molest any children, because if she had, there would be a chance she'd be stuck into one of those offender programs that holds pedophiles and rapists indefinitely. The world would be a better place if she was permanently imprisoned. Maybe they could get one of those puzzle boxes like from the Hellraiser movies and find some configuration that will send her forever into the Cenobite dimension or something. Just keep her off the streets, and off my internet celebrity gossip pages!
Labels: crime and punishment, Daily Douchebag, sluts, stank vaginas
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Behold...the world's most embarrassing lesbian
No, not Kelli. As far as I can tell, she does nothing but maintain that snappy Anne Heche-during-the-Ellen-years haircut:
Nor Boy George:
I'm talking exclusively about this repugnant scourge of all humankind:
Up until today, I made a conscious effort to avoid talking about my hatred for Rosie O'Donnell. Many things about her bother me. For one thing, her blog is like a poetry-inclined crybaby Smith girl meets one of the super kewl pedophiles from "To Catch a Predator." This, for example, is what Rosie had to say about her feud with Donald Trump over her remarks about the hot drunken coked-up lesbo former Miss USA Tara Conner:
so what happens
when u say the emperor has no clothes
the comb over goes ballistic
via phone to mr king
choices
every minute
every day
everyone
i imagine it is interesting
as celeb feuds tend 2 b
so here r my thoughts
didnt watch
didnt u tube
restrict
i have no time 2 make art now
i am only off friday
which is never enuf
to detox
the pipes get full
bits of sludge
clog the flow
so tiny books
now
express in torn images
my inside
No shit, her pipes are full of sludge. I would have said bullshit, but whatever. I refuse to believe that, however bad her childhood or upbringing, this bitch can't spell a FUCKING BASIC PRONOUN LIKE "YOU". It goes on like that for about three pages of unintelligible, meandering, stream-of-consciousness verse, and if you are into masochism you can read pages upon pages of similar material on her blog to your heart's content.
I willed myself to ignore this and refrain from commenting, if only because that heifer doesn't deserve any more attention and fame than her fat ass already gets. I even ignored it (despite feeling completely traumatized and like a hollow shell of a human being) when she made a guest appearance on "Nip/Tuck", one of my favorite TV shows, and this happened:
I would have absolutely lost it when my boyfriend Dr. Christian Troy porked Rosie on his super classy zebra skin rug if her character on the show hadn't paid his ass 400 grand to do so. Although the show was also redeemed in a later episode when James "Jim Walsh" Eckhouse guest-starred as a preachy Scientologist OB/GYN, I'm never going to be able to rub one off to the hotness that is Dr. Troy without the above horrible image jumping into my head.
Add to her transgressions against the sanctity of "Nip/Tuck" and her incomprehensible introspective poetry blogging the fact that she's unrepentantly fat, and probably calls herself a BBW. Fat bitches who insist that they are beautiful in any physical realm not populated exclusively by the blind really piss me off. Don't run around telling me that I have to like your cellulite because your Hot Pockets-eating ass is too lazy to go to the fucking gym or give up your nightly gallon of Chunky Monkey. I'm not encouraging women to diet unnecessarily or develop huge issues about their bodies, but when you are Rosie's size, your body is most definitely an issue. Unless, of course, you don't consider heart disease, diabetes, and the astronomical health bills that most people who aren't as rich as Rosie will be burdening all us hardworking taxpayers with to be issues. So her morbid obesity is strike three against Rosie Ho'Donnell.
Anyway, I would have just let all this anti-Rosie aggression fester within me, turning my soul ever more black, if she didn't open her big fat pizzahole and sound off with some seriously intolerant bullshit that worked me into a frenzy of righteous outrage. Since maturely storming off "The View" after a catfight with a vapid, possibly retarded woman who can list achievements like "Survivor" loser on her CV, Rosie has been keeping busy by rolling with Cyndi Lauper's True Colors tour. While performing her lamentable standup routine, Rosie announced:
Now, before anyone is like, "But you make fun of (gays/straights/transgendered/all human beings/insert your group of choice here), Razzy! Where do YOU get off?", let me state clearly that I really wouldn't care that she said this had she not appointed herself the biggest gay mouthpiece on the planet. She organizes gay cruises. She promotes gay concert tours. She turned her lesbian wedding into a media event. She called Kelly Ripa a homophobe simply because she didn't appreciate Clay Aiken clapping his hand over her mouth, and as much as Kelly Ripa annoys me, I wouldn't want some dude physically silencing me in that manner either. Even worse, Clay Aiken--despite being one of the most obvious fruitcakes on the planet--isn't even out of the closet. Granted, the fear of being associated with Rosie in any way is certainly strong incentive to stay closeted. Whenever some sort of gay issue comes up, Rosie takes it upon herself to sound off on behalf of everyone rocking it on the same-sex tip, and as a practicing bisexual, I don't appreciate it one bit. The last thing I want to think about when my face is firmly entrenched in some hot bitch's crotch is Rosie congratulating herself for standing up for my right to do so. Furthermore, although I make fun of EVERYONE (because there are stupid gay, lesbian, bi, tranny, and straight people in the world to make fun of), I don't think that making fun of all straight people because of a childish personal grudge against one's former colleagues is any way to score points for the gay rights cause. Not only does it antagonize and alienate heterosexuals who support the LGBT community, but it makes you look every bit as bad as the "God Hates Fags" types of intolerant bigoted assholes.
I'm sure the True Colors tour organizers really appreciated Ho'Donnell using their concert as a forum for some quality breeder bashing, given that their promotional material includes a prominent quote from Ms. Lauper stating "We should all have the right to live with the same dignity, opportunity, and safety. It shouldn't matter what anyone's sexual orientation is." That underscores better than anything else what an embarrassment Rosie is as a mouthpiece for the gays. Bitch needs to stuff some Ho-Hos in that fucking hetero-bashing yap of hers and go back to tending her duckies or whatever the hell she does in her spare time, and quit giving those of us who like hot girl-on-girl (or guy-on-guy, or whatever) action a bad name.
so what happens
when u say the emperor has no clothes
the comb over goes ballistic
via phone to mr king
choices
every minute
every day
everyone
i imagine it is interesting
as celeb feuds tend 2 b
so here r my thoughts
didnt watch
didnt u tube
restrict
i have no time 2 make art now
i am only off friday
which is never enuf
to detox
the pipes get full
bits of sludge
clog the flow
so tiny books
now
express in torn images
my inside
No shit, her pipes are full of sludge. I would have said bullshit, but whatever. I refuse to believe that, however bad her childhood or upbringing, this bitch can't spell a FUCKING BASIC PRONOUN LIKE "YOU". It goes on like that for about three pages of unintelligible, meandering, stream-of-consciousness verse, and if you are into masochism you can read pages upon pages of similar material on her blog to your heart's content.
I willed myself to ignore this and refrain from commenting, if only because that heifer doesn't deserve any more attention and fame than her fat ass already gets. I even ignored it (despite feeling completely traumatized and like a hollow shell of a human being) when she made a guest appearance on "Nip/Tuck", one of my favorite TV shows, and this happened:
Add to her transgressions against the sanctity of "Nip/Tuck" and her incomprehensible introspective poetry blogging the fact that she's unrepentantly fat, and probably calls herself a BBW. Fat bitches who insist that they are beautiful in any physical realm not populated exclusively by the blind really piss me off. Don't run around telling me that I have to like your cellulite because your Hot Pockets-eating ass is too lazy to go to the fucking gym or give up your nightly gallon of Chunky Monkey. I'm not encouraging women to diet unnecessarily or develop huge issues about their bodies, but when you are Rosie's size, your body is most definitely an issue. Unless, of course, you don't consider heart disease, diabetes, and the astronomical health bills that most people who aren't as rich as Rosie will be burdening all us hardworking taxpayers with to be issues. So her morbid obesity is strike three against Rosie Ho'Donnell.
Anyway, I would have just let all this anti-Rosie aggression fester within me, turning my soul ever more black, if she didn't open her big fat pizzahole and sound off with some seriously intolerant bullshit that worked me into a frenzy of righteous outrage. Since maturely storming off "The View" after a catfight with a vapid, possibly retarded woman who can list achievements like "Survivor" loser on her CV, Rosie has been keeping busy by rolling with Cyndi Lauper's True Colors tour. While performing her lamentable standup routine, Rosie announced:
"I got to tell you, I've been hanging around with these heteros for a full year and it's not fun! Turn around one minute and they'll stab you in the back with a high heel. They will."I almost punched my computer screen when I read this. Where the hell does this bitch get off blaming her unprofessionalism on the sexual orientation of her co-stars on "The View"? It's really a crying shame that Rosie had such a bad experience being paid millions of dollars to sit around dishing with a bunch of feminine "heteros" instead of the insufferably self-righteous softball dykes she'd obviously rather be drinking chamomile tea and complaining about George Bush with.
Now, before anyone is like, "But you make fun of (gays/straights/transgendered/all human beings/insert your group of choice here), Razzy! Where do YOU get off?", let me state clearly that I really wouldn't care that she said this had she not appointed herself the biggest gay mouthpiece on the planet. She organizes gay cruises. She promotes gay concert tours. She turned her lesbian wedding into a media event. She called Kelly Ripa a homophobe simply because she didn't appreciate Clay Aiken clapping his hand over her mouth, and as much as Kelly Ripa annoys me, I wouldn't want some dude physically silencing me in that manner either. Even worse, Clay Aiken--despite being one of the most obvious fruitcakes on the planet--isn't even out of the closet. Granted, the fear of being associated with Rosie in any way is certainly strong incentive to stay closeted. Whenever some sort of gay issue comes up, Rosie takes it upon herself to sound off on behalf of everyone rocking it on the same-sex tip, and as a practicing bisexual, I don't appreciate it one bit. The last thing I want to think about when my face is firmly entrenched in some hot bitch's crotch is Rosie congratulating herself for standing up for my right to do so. Furthermore, although I make fun of EVERYONE (because there are stupid gay, lesbian, bi, tranny, and straight people in the world to make fun of), I don't think that making fun of all straight people because of a childish personal grudge against one's former colleagues is any way to score points for the gay rights cause. Not only does it antagonize and alienate heterosexuals who support the LGBT community, but it makes you look every bit as bad as the "God Hates Fags" types of intolerant bigoted assholes.
I'm sure the True Colors tour organizers really appreciated Ho'Donnell using their concert as a forum for some quality breeder bashing, given that their promotional material includes a prominent quote from Ms. Lauper stating "We should all have the right to live with the same dignity, opportunity, and safety. It shouldn't matter what anyone's sexual orientation is." That underscores better than anything else what an embarrassment Rosie is as a mouthpiece for the gays. Bitch needs to stuff some Ho-Hos in that fucking hetero-bashing yap of hers and go back to tending her duckies or whatever the hell she does in her spare time, and quit giving those of us who like hot girl-on-girl (or guy-on-guy, or whatever) action a bad name.
Labels: assholes, fat fucks, lezbollah, oh the horror, overcompensation, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, stank vaginas, you're ugly
Monday, June 18, 2007
One of the biannual instances in which I was embarrassed
I don't get embarrassed very easily, but every once in awhile, I feel strange burning sensations in my face that puzzle me until I remember that's what shame feels like. Oddly enough, I tend to only feel this way because of something that's not really my fault, like I spill a bunch of buffer on my crotch at work and thus look like I wet my pants or something. It's not my fault the way that me getting drunk, flashing my tits to everyone in sight, and pissing in full view of the traffic on 14th Street is my fault; I'm not embarrassed about doing stuff like that, so it's odd that I get embarrassed about accidents. However, I do, and this weekend I got to experience that firsthand.
I spent most of the weekend safely tucked away working where nothing too embarrassing could occur (and even if it did, it's not like anyone was there to see; J-Sexy was getting her hair done and the other girl in our lab NEVER goes in on weekends). However, on Saturday night, I went out with Rack and her boyfriend The Old Guy for some cocktails and fried foods at McAleer's, this bar we frequent on the Upper West Side. We go there because we can sit outside, and because it's relatively cheap. We all had a nice time, drinking summery beverages (scotch and beer), talking about David Lynch movies and cocaine and my sex life and The Old Guy's 14-year-old son's punk friends and this very website. (Rack, in fact, complained that she doesn't get enough shoutouts, so...HEY RACK, WHAT'S UP? I'M JUST SAYING HI TO MY FRIEND RACK! LET'S GO TO McALEER'S WITH JERSEYGIRL SOMETIME THIS WEEK AGAIN, OKAY?) We had a nice time, and then decided to head our separate ways.
As I was about to leave, it did not escape my notice that there was a Tasti-D-Lite across the street from McAleer's. Tasti-D-Lite is this frozen yogurt-type substance that has like three calories in it. You could eat your weight in Tasti-D and probably not gain a pound. The same is not true for their wide selection of toppings, as I'm pretty sure their chocolate chips and M&Ms aren't fat free, but nonetheless, I always gladly rush to Tasti-D for a large cup of whatever-the-hell-their-frozen-dessert is with cookie crunch on top. I decided that this would be nice for my cab ride home and my mild buzz.
I said adios to Rack and The Old Guy, then trekked across Amsterdam, eager to see what flavors they had. There was a bit of a line, so while I waited for some bitch to hem and haw about what she wanted in her waffle cone, I got to check out the selection of both flavors and other customers. This couple came in behind me and the girl was really annoying. She was treating everyone to a loud debate with herself about whether she should get Oreo or cheesecake-flavored Tasti-D. I turned around to see if she looked as irritating as she sounded (she did), and caught a glimpse of her boyfriend. He was hot. Such a shame, I thought, that a perfectly fuckable specimen like him was stuck with such a nagging, shrill shrew of a woman.
Then it was my turn to order, and while the Tasti-D-Lite employee set up my cup of Oreo with cookie crunch on top, I kept giving covert looks in the direction of the annoying girl's hot boyfriend. Every time I'd look back out of the corner of my eye, I saw him looking at my ass. "Ha!" I thought to myself. "While you're busy being indecisive about which Tasti-D flavor you like, your hot boyfriend is checking out my ass! Razzy wins again and as usual! Stupid bitch!" As I grabbed my frozen treat and prepared to depart, I swiveled around all the way to give him a view of my tits, since I was wearing a typically cleavage-baring halter top. We made eye contact and I gave him what I thought was my standard I'm-sexy-and-I-know-it smirk. He smirked back, but in a way that was pointedly less sexy and more amused (at me, not with me), and slightly pitying. I was taken aback and rushed out in a state of confusion and turmoil. I was expecting some fuck me eyes, not the look he gave me. Why did he look at me so weird?
My Tasti-D-Lite was nowhere near as much of a tasty delight as it should have been because I was trying to solve the riddle of the hot guy giving me weird looks. Unfortunately, when I arrived home, I changed into loungewear and discovered with shock and horror what the problem was: a huge PERIOD STAIN on my skirt!
I thought my period was over, and since I'm on the pill, usually when it's over, it's completely over. Not this weekend. I must have had some spotting or something and thus had a bloodstain the size of a baseball right below my ass. Even though I was home alone when I finally discovered why hot boyfriend guy was giving me such strange face, I was completely mortified. I know I'm not the first girl ever to have this type of feminine accident, but since we ladies have an unspoken compact with the rest of the world to keep our menstrual cycles as under wraps and out of the public eye as possible, it was nonetheless humiliating. I'd rather have my mom find a hundred pictures of me flashing my tits at the Crab Feed on her computer desktop than suffer unknown period stain ignonimy at the Tasti-D-Lite at the hands (or actually, the eyes) of a hot guy. If anyone could have seen me at home, they'd see my face growing to a deeper shade of magenta than the linen skirt I'd soiled.
Unfortunately, this whole incident made the Tasti-D more bitter than the herbs Jews eat at Passover to remind them of their days of captivity in Goshen. Alas, I was humiliated. On the bright side, however, that means I've gotten one instance of being ashamed out of the way for this year. That means I'll have to suffer through this once (maybe twice, tops) more this year. Hopefully the next time I get embarrassed, there will be neither a period stain nor a hot guy involved. Uff da.
I spent most of the weekend safely tucked away working where nothing too embarrassing could occur (and even if it did, it's not like anyone was there to see; J-Sexy was getting her hair done and the other girl in our lab NEVER goes in on weekends). However, on Saturday night, I went out with Rack and her boyfriend The Old Guy for some cocktails and fried foods at McAleer's, this bar we frequent on the Upper West Side. We go there because we can sit outside, and because it's relatively cheap. We all had a nice time, drinking summery beverages (scotch and beer), talking about David Lynch movies and cocaine and my sex life and The Old Guy's 14-year-old son's punk friends and this very website. (Rack, in fact, complained that she doesn't get enough shoutouts, so...HEY RACK, WHAT'S UP? I'M JUST SAYING HI TO MY FRIEND RACK! LET'S GO TO McALEER'S WITH JERSEYGIRL SOMETIME THIS WEEK AGAIN, OKAY?) We had a nice time, and then decided to head our separate ways.
As I was about to leave, it did not escape my notice that there was a Tasti-D-Lite across the street from McAleer's. Tasti-D-Lite is this frozen yogurt-type substance that has like three calories in it. You could eat your weight in Tasti-D and probably not gain a pound. The same is not true for their wide selection of toppings, as I'm pretty sure their chocolate chips and M&Ms aren't fat free, but nonetheless, I always gladly rush to Tasti-D for a large cup of whatever-the-hell-their-frozen-dessert is with cookie crunch on top. I decided that this would be nice for my cab ride home and my mild buzz.
I said adios to Rack and The Old Guy, then trekked across Amsterdam, eager to see what flavors they had. There was a bit of a line, so while I waited for some bitch to hem and haw about what she wanted in her waffle cone, I got to check out the selection of both flavors and other customers. This couple came in behind me and the girl was really annoying. She was treating everyone to a loud debate with herself about whether she should get Oreo or cheesecake-flavored Tasti-D. I turned around to see if she looked as irritating as she sounded (she did), and caught a glimpse of her boyfriend. He was hot. Such a shame, I thought, that a perfectly fuckable specimen like him was stuck with such a nagging, shrill shrew of a woman.
Then it was my turn to order, and while the Tasti-D-Lite employee set up my cup of Oreo with cookie crunch on top, I kept giving covert looks in the direction of the annoying girl's hot boyfriend. Every time I'd look back out of the corner of my eye, I saw him looking at my ass. "Ha!" I thought to myself. "While you're busy being indecisive about which Tasti-D flavor you like, your hot boyfriend is checking out my ass! Razzy wins again and as usual! Stupid bitch!" As I grabbed my frozen treat and prepared to depart, I swiveled around all the way to give him a view of my tits, since I was wearing a typically cleavage-baring halter top. We made eye contact and I gave him what I thought was my standard I'm-sexy-and-I-know-it smirk. He smirked back, but in a way that was pointedly less sexy and more amused (at me, not with me), and slightly pitying. I was taken aback and rushed out in a state of confusion and turmoil. I was expecting some fuck me eyes, not the look he gave me. Why did he look at me so weird?
My Tasti-D-Lite was nowhere near as much of a tasty delight as it should have been because I was trying to solve the riddle of the hot guy giving me weird looks. Unfortunately, when I arrived home, I changed into loungewear and discovered with shock and horror what the problem was: a huge PERIOD STAIN on my skirt!
I thought my period was over, and since I'm on the pill, usually when it's over, it's completely over. Not this weekend. I must have had some spotting or something and thus had a bloodstain the size of a baseball right below my ass. Even though I was home alone when I finally discovered why hot boyfriend guy was giving me such strange face, I was completely mortified. I know I'm not the first girl ever to have this type of feminine accident, but since we ladies have an unspoken compact with the rest of the world to keep our menstrual cycles as under wraps and out of the public eye as possible, it was nonetheless humiliating. I'd rather have my mom find a hundred pictures of me flashing my tits at the Crab Feed on her computer desktop than suffer unknown period stain ignonimy at the Tasti-D-Lite at the hands (or actually, the eyes) of a hot guy. If anyone could have seen me at home, they'd see my face growing to a deeper shade of magenta than the linen skirt I'd soiled.
Unfortunately, this whole incident made the Tasti-D more bitter than the herbs Jews eat at Passover to remind them of their days of captivity in Goshen. Alas, I was humiliated. On the bright side, however, that means I've gotten one instance of being ashamed out of the way for this year. That means I'll have to suffer through this once (maybe twice, tops) more this year. Hopefully the next time I get embarrassed, there will be neither a period stain nor a hot guy involved. Uff da.
Labels: gross, hot dudes, NYC, oh the horror, Rack, Razzification, stank vaginas
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Steer clear of ADULTSPACE
While I am accustomed to having webcam whores and people hawking free (but not actually free) iPods and various gift cards blowing up my spot on MySpace, it's rare that I'm so violently revolted by the person doing so. However, today I checked my MySpace inbox, and found this piece of correspondence awaiting me:
I tried to reply and tell her to take the solicitations for casual sex with her morbidly obese ass elsewhere, but I was immediately prompted to enter my name and password. Since I was already logged into MySpace, I was like, "What the fu...HEY! This ho is trying to steal my password!" I really cannot imagine why this hooker was Phishing for my MySpace account login information, but I imagine it was probably to similarly spam all my friends in the guise of me.
In order to respond without stupidly divulging my private MySpace information, I went to her MySpace page, and after I willed myself not to have an epileptic seizure on account of the holocaust of animated glitter Playboy Bunny logos on her profile, I grew progressively even more annoyed with "sweetnspoiled25" Mistie. In keeping with the Playboy wallpaper, she has about 8 million glitter .gifs on her site that say shit like, "I taught your boyfriend how to do that thing you like!" Unless "that thing I like" is achieving the female superior position without him dying from either suffocation beneath a prodigious FUPA or sheer crushing force, I can't imagine what kind of tricks she is teaching any men unfortunate and/or drunk enough to stick their dicks anywhere near what I suspect is her frighteningly flappy vadge. Needless to say, I did not mince words in the message I sent her:
If for some reason I decided that I must resort to scraping the bottom of the internet barrel and use Adult Friend Finder or some similar online sex-with-gross-losers clearinghouse to get laid, I sure as shit would not accept references for such from a sloppy, spiral-permed cow like yourself. The prospect of even logging on to such a site and seeing naked pictures of your undoubtedly heavily dimpled ass has caused me to start dry heaving.
Also, since not only was this spam, but because replying directly to the e-mail required me to enter my MySpace password although I was already logged in, I suspect you're also involved in some type of Phishing scam. So consider your tubby self reported to MySpace, as well as called out on my blog:
http://www.razzy.org/RazzyBlog/razzyblog.html
Enjoy!
Razzy
PS-And please, please, please, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY put a picture of Gisele or old school pre-Restalyne/anorexia Jenna or someone hotter than yourself (God, even Paris Hilton would be more appealing, and I never thought I'd say that) if you plan to continue encouraging most of MySpace to sign up and have casual sex with you.
Wow, that was mean-spirited, even for me. That's what happens when I receive correspondence like hers when I'm overworked, sleep deprived, starving, cigarette-free, and crabbier than Walter Matthau in one of those Grumpy Old Men movies. Crap, I can't even make good jokes. I'm just going to stop now.
I tried to reply and tell her to take the solicitations for casual sex with her morbidly obese ass elsewhere, but I was immediately prompted to enter my name and password. Since I was already logged into MySpace, I was like, "What the fu...HEY! This ho is trying to steal my password!" I really cannot imagine why this hooker was Phishing for my MySpace account login information, but I imagine it was probably to similarly spam all my friends in the guise of me.
In order to respond without stupidly divulging my private MySpace information, I went to her MySpace page, and after I willed myself not to have an epileptic seizure on account of the holocaust of animated glitter Playboy Bunny logos on her profile, I grew progressively even more annoyed with "sweetnspoiled25" Mistie. In keeping with the Playboy wallpaper, she has about 8 million glitter .gifs on her site that say shit like, "I taught your boyfriend how to do that thing you like!" Unless "that thing I like" is achieving the female superior position without him dying from either suffocation beneath a prodigious FUPA or sheer crushing force, I can't imagine what kind of tricks she is teaching any men unfortunate and/or drunk enough to stick their dicks anywhere near what I suspect is her frighteningly flappy vadge. Needless to say, I did not mince words in the message I sent her:
If for some reason I decided that I must resort to scraping the bottom of the internet barrel and use Adult Friend Finder or some similar online sex-with-gross-losers clearinghouse to get laid, I sure as shit would not accept references for such from a sloppy, spiral-permed cow like yourself. The prospect of even logging on to such a site and seeing naked pictures of your undoubtedly heavily dimpled ass has caused me to start dry heaving.
Also, since not only was this spam, but because replying directly to the e-mail required me to enter my MySpace password although I was already logged in, I suspect you're also involved in some type of Phishing scam. So consider your tubby self reported to MySpace, as well as called out on my blog:
http://www.razzy.org/RazzyBlog/razzyblog.html
Enjoy!
Razzy
PS-And please, please, please, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY put a picture of Gisele or old school pre-Restalyne/anorexia Jenna or someone hotter than yourself (God, even Paris Hilton would be more appealing, and I never thought I'd say that) if you plan to continue encouraging most of MySpace to sign up and have casual sex with you.
Wow, that was mean-spirited, even for me. That's what happens when I receive correspondence like hers when I'm overworked, sleep deprived, starving, cigarette-free, and crabbier than Walter Matthau in one of those Grumpy Old Men movies. Crap, I can't even make good jokes. I'm just going to stop now.
Labels: correspondence, fat fucks, gross, MySpace, oh the horror, perversion, retard rage, stank vaginas
Monday, May 14, 2007
From the Smith College vault: Tangling with the PAGANS
I was reminiscing about good times at Smith earlier today, and then my ex-boyfriend Benzo texted me:
I'm in Northampton and there are smithies everywhere
I responded:
Offend some for me
It seemed relevant to write something about Smith, and I haven't written one of these "From the Smith College vault" things for awhile, so I thought I would relate the story of the newspaper staff's face-off with the Association of Smith Pagans, because every time I think of it, it makes me snicker. And it probably makes everyone else involved snicker, as well. Well, everyone except the pagans, who apparently have no sense of humor.
The Smith pagans were a very active religious group on campus even though there were around 5 or 6 of them in total. It seems they always had some type of equinox, solstice, or other miscellaneous celestial event to celebrate, and they would plaster the campus in flyers and sidewalk chalk trying to recruit people. I would often entertain my fellow editors at the Smith College Sophian with dramatic readings of their flyers. I remember there was some event called Samhain where they were going to be running around campus performing "the laying of soul cakes." We soon deduced that "soul cakes" meant "Oreos or other assorted cookie items stolen from the Tyler House dining room" and I suggested writing an editorial that decried leaving food to molder and decay all over our picturesque New England campus right at the peak of foliage season. I never ended up writing that because 5 or 6 pagans with unappealing yet dogged marketing instincts celebrating some holiday by littering weren't really important enough to make the news, even by our standards, which were EXTREMELY low.
That doesn't mean we forgot about the pagans though. The next spring, we put out our April Fool's edition of the paper. The April Fool's edition, known as the So Fine, was always entertaining (to us), because it was all made up, all written under assumed names (mine was Dr. Unk N. Stoned, of course), and all hilarious. At least the parts I wrote were. One thing we did was make a fake calendar of events, and we decided to have some fun at the Association of Smith Pagans' expense. We included a calendar entry that said something along the lines of, "P.A.G.A.N. rally. The Smith chapter of the People Against Goodness and Normalcy will be sacrificing the virgin Connie Swail at Helen Hills Hills Chapel this Tuesday. BYO Goat Leggings." This isn't the most original thing in the world, since it's entirely a reference to the underappreciated but totally awesome movie Dragnet starring Dan Aykroyd, Tom Hanks, and Captain Von Trapp as the head P.A.G.A.N. We were amused and probably drunk, so we put the paper to bed and congratulated ourselves for putting together yet another brilliant edition of the So Fine.
One thing I should say right here about the paper was that most people did not read it, so we very rarely had anyone take issue with stuff written there. Occasionally we'd get an angry letter to the editor, but for the most part, people largely ignored this fine publication that our tireless staff put so much work into every week. In fact, people generally liked us overall. The Smith cops were always stopping by our office to say hi, we'd get discounts at Davis student center, and our neighbors in Capen Annex, the building where our office was housed, liked us for the most part. There was one incident where I hung a sign on the door that said something like, "New rule for Capen Annex: no vampyres, vampire slayers, demons, ogres, ghosts, ghouls, elves, orcs, hobbits, goblins, dragons, dragonslayers, witches, warlocks, wizards, mages, spaceship captains, time travelers, shapeshifters, shades, or other forms of mythical beasts permitted. BEGONE, beings most foul! By order of the Roman Catholic Church." This was directed at members of the Smith Science Fiction and Fantasy Society (SSFFS), who had their "reading room" upstairs and who had bothered us with several minor complaints about things that interrupted their reading Philip K. Dick novels in peace, like blasting "Armageddon It" while laying out the Features page or me smoking pot in the darkroom. Our managing editor was a member of SSFFS and she immediately tore the sign down and yelled at me, thus ensuring that relations with SSFFS did not further deteriorate. Apart from those types of largely insignificant incidents, nobody really had a problem with us.
One day, shortly after the So Fine dropped, we heard some very authoritative stomping on the Capen Annex front porch. LL Cool Jew, Wmania, myself, and other various members of the newspaper staff had been in the main room, where I was having a field day tearing apart a press kit sent to us by Ani DiFranco's marketing staff that said "Eat pussy not cows" all over it. It took a place of honor right next to the press kit for M.O.T. (Members of the Tribe), a hardcore Orthodox Jewish rap group, on our bulletin board. Suddenly the door flew open, and we were faced with a half-dozen furious Smith pagans.
Their leader was this computer science major named Nicole Shields. She was dressed in her usual style, which was Dune meets The Crow by way of a medieval whorehouse. Nicole was a big girl, and notable for her monstrous breasts. Her tits were like the continental shelf protruding from her chest, and she always strapped them into some kind of absurd corset or something. It was like being set upon by Jabba the Hutt if he were masquerading as some sort of cross-dressing prostitute at a Cure concert. I couldn't find an actual picture of her on MySpace or the internets, but I found a couple close approximations:
You get the idea. Anyway, Nicole was accompanied by her cadre of wiccans, who were likewise clad in crushed velvet capes and Kiss Army boots, and generally looked like extras off the set of The Craft. She got her massive tits right up in our faces and shook a copy of the So Fine angrily at us.
"This is RELIGIOUS INTOLERANCE!" she shouted. "People WILL NOT TAKE US SERIOUSLY if you write stuff like this."
I wondered whether there was a chance anyone would ever take these pentagram jewelry aficionados seriously, but bit my tongue.
"We do not wear GOAT LEGGINGS," she continued. "This piece is full of misconceptions and bigotry. We are a LEGITIMATE RELIGION, and it is totally unacceptable to mock us."
Someone, probably the diplomatic editor Coolbeans, then advised them that the So Fine is obviously a parody, so it was doubtful that anyone would change their opinion of paganism or wicca or whatever based on a three-line joke from the fictional event calendar.
Nicole shot back, "Well, you wouldn't make fun of other religions, would you?! You wouldn't, say, write that Hillel is making matzoh with the blood of Christian children! "
I blurted out, "Of course not. That isn't funny."
"Funny? You call being persecuted FUNNY?"
We all looked at each other, and said, "Well, yes. In this case, it is."
"We demand a retraction."
I started snickering derisively. The pagans stared at me furiously. Coolbeans then stated that we only made retractions for factual errors, and not for anything in the So Fine. Defeated, Nicole gathered up her angrily heaving bosom and stalked out with her coven in tow.
"Dude, Razzy, they're probably forming a sacred circle and invoking the spirits of fire and wind or whatever against you right now," cautioned Coolbeans.
"Yeah, if by that you mean organizing a panel discussion/teach-in that nobody will attend," I said. "Regardless, bring on the hexing. I've got Jesus Christ and all the power of the Vatican on my side. We smoked their idol-worshipping asses during the Inquisition, and I'll have no trouble destroying them in a rematch."
Unfortunately, the Smith chapter of the People Against Goodness and Normalcy never bothered us again, so I didn't get the opportunity to put any of them in an Iron Maiden or otherwise elicit confessions via torture like an accomplished Inquisitor. Nicole Shields graduated that year and took her giant cans off to California to write code for PlayStation games. I have yet to experience the ill effects of any curse they may or may not have placed upon me.
I'm in Northampton and there are smithies everywhere
I responded:
Offend some for me
It seemed relevant to write something about Smith, and I haven't written one of these "From the Smith College vault" things for awhile, so I thought I would relate the story of the newspaper staff's face-off with the Association of Smith Pagans, because every time I think of it, it makes me snicker. And it probably makes everyone else involved snicker, as well. Well, everyone except the pagans, who apparently have no sense of humor.
The Smith pagans were a very active religious group on campus even though there were around 5 or 6 of them in total. It seems they always had some type of equinox, solstice, or other miscellaneous celestial event to celebrate, and they would plaster the campus in flyers and sidewalk chalk trying to recruit people. I would often entertain my fellow editors at the Smith College Sophian with dramatic readings of their flyers. I remember there was some event called Samhain where they were going to be running around campus performing "the laying of soul cakes." We soon deduced that "soul cakes" meant "Oreos or other assorted cookie items stolen from the Tyler House dining room" and I suggested writing an editorial that decried leaving food to molder and decay all over our picturesque New England campus right at the peak of foliage season. I never ended up writing that because 5 or 6 pagans with unappealing yet dogged marketing instincts celebrating some holiday by littering weren't really important enough to make the news, even by our standards, which were EXTREMELY low.
That doesn't mean we forgot about the pagans though. The next spring, we put out our April Fool's edition of the paper. The April Fool's edition, known as the So Fine, was always entertaining (to us), because it was all made up, all written under assumed names (mine was Dr. Unk N. Stoned, of course), and all hilarious. At least the parts I wrote were. One thing we did was make a fake calendar of events, and we decided to have some fun at the Association of Smith Pagans' expense. We included a calendar entry that said something along the lines of, "P.A.G.A.N. rally. The Smith chapter of the People Against Goodness and Normalcy will be sacrificing the virgin Connie Swail at Helen Hills Hills Chapel this Tuesday. BYO Goat Leggings." This isn't the most original thing in the world, since it's entirely a reference to the underappreciated but totally awesome movie Dragnet starring Dan Aykroyd, Tom Hanks, and Captain Von Trapp as the head P.A.G.A.N. We were amused and probably drunk, so we put the paper to bed and congratulated ourselves for putting together yet another brilliant edition of the So Fine.
One thing I should say right here about the paper was that most people did not read it, so we very rarely had anyone take issue with stuff written there. Occasionally we'd get an angry letter to the editor, but for the most part, people largely ignored this fine publication that our tireless staff put so much work into every week. In fact, people generally liked us overall. The Smith cops were always stopping by our office to say hi, we'd get discounts at Davis student center, and our neighbors in Capen Annex, the building where our office was housed, liked us for the most part. There was one incident where I hung a sign on the door that said something like, "New rule for Capen Annex: no vampyres, vampire slayers, demons, ogres, ghosts, ghouls, elves, orcs, hobbits, goblins, dragons, dragonslayers, witches, warlocks, wizards, mages, spaceship captains, time travelers, shapeshifters, shades, or other forms of mythical beasts permitted. BEGONE, beings most foul! By order of the Roman Catholic Church." This was directed at members of the Smith Science Fiction and Fantasy Society (SSFFS), who had their "reading room" upstairs and who had bothered us with several minor complaints about things that interrupted their reading Philip K. Dick novels in peace, like blasting "Armageddon It" while laying out the Features page or me smoking pot in the darkroom. Our managing editor was a member of SSFFS and she immediately tore the sign down and yelled at me, thus ensuring that relations with SSFFS did not further deteriorate. Apart from those types of largely insignificant incidents, nobody really had a problem with us.
One day, shortly after the So Fine dropped, we heard some very authoritative stomping on the Capen Annex front porch. LL Cool Jew, Wmania, myself, and other various members of the newspaper staff had been in the main room, where I was having a field day tearing apart a press kit sent to us by Ani DiFranco's marketing staff that said "Eat pussy not cows" all over it. It took a place of honor right next to the press kit for M.O.T. (Members of the Tribe), a hardcore Orthodox Jewish rap group, on our bulletin board. Suddenly the door flew open, and we were faced with a half-dozen furious Smith pagans.
Their leader was this computer science major named Nicole Shields. She was dressed in her usual style, which was Dune meets The Crow by way of a medieval whorehouse. Nicole was a big girl, and notable for her monstrous breasts. Her tits were like the continental shelf protruding from her chest, and she always strapped them into some kind of absurd corset or something. It was like being set upon by Jabba the Hutt if he were masquerading as some sort of cross-dressing prostitute at a Cure concert. I couldn't find an actual picture of her on MySpace or the internets, but I found a couple close approximations:
You get the idea. Anyway, Nicole was accompanied by her cadre of wiccans, who were likewise clad in crushed velvet capes and Kiss Army boots, and generally looked like extras off the set of The Craft. She got her massive tits right up in our faces and shook a copy of the So Fine angrily at us.
"This is RELIGIOUS INTOLERANCE!" she shouted. "People WILL NOT TAKE US SERIOUSLY if you write stuff like this."
I wondered whether there was a chance anyone would ever take these pentagram jewelry aficionados seriously, but bit my tongue.
"We do not wear GOAT LEGGINGS," she continued. "This piece is full of misconceptions and bigotry. We are a LEGITIMATE RELIGION, and it is totally unacceptable to mock us."
Someone, probably the diplomatic editor Coolbeans, then advised them that the So Fine is obviously a parody, so it was doubtful that anyone would change their opinion of paganism or wicca or whatever based on a three-line joke from the fictional event calendar.
Nicole shot back, "Well, you wouldn't make fun of other religions, would you?! You wouldn't, say, write that Hillel is making matzoh with the blood of Christian children! "
I blurted out, "Of course not. That isn't funny."
"Funny? You call being persecuted FUNNY?"
We all looked at each other, and said, "Well, yes. In this case, it is."
"We demand a retraction."
I started snickering derisively. The pagans stared at me furiously. Coolbeans then stated that we only made retractions for factual errors, and not for anything in the So Fine. Defeated, Nicole gathered up her angrily heaving bosom and stalked out with her coven in tow.
"Dude, Razzy, they're probably forming a sacred circle and invoking the spirits of fire and wind or whatever against you right now," cautioned Coolbeans.
"Yeah, if by that you mean organizing a panel discussion/teach-in that nobody will attend," I said. "Regardless, bring on the hexing. I've got Jesus Christ and all the power of the Vatican on my side. We smoked their idol-worshipping asses during the Inquisition, and I'll have no trouble destroying them in a rematch."
Unfortunately, the Smith chapter of the People Against Goodness and Normalcy never bothered us again, so I didn't get the opportunity to put any of them in an Iron Maiden or otherwise elicit confessions via torture like an accomplished Inquisitor. Nicole Shields graduated that year and took her giant cans off to California to write code for PlayStation games. I have yet to experience the ill effects of any curse they may or may not have placed upon me.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, intentional buffoonery, nerd alert, overcompensation, Smith College Vault, stank vaginas
Friday, April 13, 2007
Alaska has got it together
Not that I've ever had much love for Alaska, but clearly the online publication the Alaska Report has the right idea when it comes to covering infectious disease:
My Uncle Flavivirus is an infectious disease specialist for the CDC in Alaska, and I wonder if he had anything to do with this. Granted, he works on hepatitis and H. pylori, not the clap, but still...I'd like to think that when the Alaska Review was putting their story together, they called up Uncle Flav and asked for a picture of Neisseria gonorrheae, and he just told them to throw up a picture of Paris Hilton instead.
So awesome. Between this and the fact that the hotness that is Sig Hansen is kicking it in Dutch Harbor with the rest of the "Deadliest Catch" fellas, Alaska's starting to grow on me. Maybe I'll have to take a cruise there or something one of these days.
My Uncle Flavivirus is an infectious disease specialist for the CDC in Alaska, and I wonder if he had anything to do with this. Granted, he works on hepatitis and H. pylori, not the clap, but still...I'd like to think that when the Alaska Review was putting their story together, they called up Uncle Flav and asked for a picture of Neisseria gonorrheae, and he just told them to throw up a picture of Paris Hilton instead.
So awesome. Between this and the fact that the hotness that is Sig Hansen is kicking it in Dutch Harbor with the rest of the "Deadliest Catch" fellas, Alaska's starting to grow on me. Maybe I'll have to take a cruise there or something one of these days.
Labels: epidemic geekery, gross, I LOVE IT, sluts, stank vaginas
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Britney might kill us all
I'm so glad this insane, out-of-control bitch is in rehab after seeing this picture. Homegirl looks like she might eat the motherfucker toying with her panty line because he's there and she's hungry. However, anyone not living on the recently demoted Kuiper Belt body Pluto knows that Britney is hungry only in the sense that she might eat you for bad publicity.
She might be taking entirely too much vitamin E and doing her part to subsequently bolster the Bolivian economy and fund guerilla insurgents battling for de facto control of Colombia, but Britney Spears is NO JOKE. Did you ever see Dune? Because this fierce hooker looks as though she's about to grab her crude yet effective Fremen blade and engage her tattooist in mortal combat to negotiate ancient intergalactic feudal family bullshit concerning planetary fiefdoms and control of the spice trade. Don't fuck with House Atreides! Holy God, I just fully revealed my nerdiness. Next I'm going to start making "Battlestar Galactica" references, a la "Britney looks like she could be one of the five unrevealed Cylons!" I need to not blog when drunk alone after spending the entire night bonding with LL Cool Jew about how she meets friends in the Dirrty Dirrty based on well-placed references to lembas bread.
Regardless, would YOU fuck with that? I surely would not.
She might be taking entirely too much vitamin E and doing her part to subsequently bolster the Bolivian economy and fund guerilla insurgents battling for de facto control of Colombia, but Britney Spears is NO JOKE. Did you ever see Dune? Because this fierce hooker looks as though she's about to grab her crude yet effective Fremen blade and engage her tattooist in mortal combat to negotiate ancient intergalactic feudal family bullshit concerning planetary fiefdoms and control of the spice trade. Don't fuck with House Atreides! Holy God, I just fully revealed my nerdiness. Next I'm going to start making "Battlestar Galactica" references, a la "Britney looks like she could be one of the five unrevealed Cylons!" I need to not blog when drunk alone after spending the entire night bonding with LL Cool Jew about how she meets friends in the Dirrty Dirrty based on well-placed references to lembas bread.
Regardless, would YOU fuck with that? I surely would not.
Labels: alcoholism, Britney Spears, epic geekery, oh the horror, PWT, ridiculous absurdity, stank vaginas
Thursday, February 15, 2007
I didn't even have to go 88 miles per hour
My lab bench might resemble Doc Brown from Back to the Future's workshop (minus all the alarm clocks) in terms of messy disorganization, but unlike that esteemed fictional scientist, I haven't come up with anything as cool as the flux capacitor. However, I wondered if I hadn't accidentally found a way to travel through time without the help of a Delorean and plutonium-having Libyan terrorists, because when I checked my e-mail today, I could swear it was 1999 and I was back at Smith.
From: Some Feminazi Ho
To: All the Columbia Grad Students
Subject: LUNAFest Tonight! & ICECREAM for charity & the Vagina Monologues!
Come out and support CUMC's V-DAY Campaign--the fight (no pun intended!) against VIOLENCE towards women:
1.) CHECK OUT tonight's LUNAFEST: A screening of short films and documentaries by women. Here's their website for the list of movies:
http://www.lunabar.com/community/lunafest2006.cfm?DocumentId=406
DATE: Thurs, Feb 15
LOCATION: Hammer 401
Time: 8.30pm
DONATIONs will be greatly APPRECIATED! (5$ donation suggested)
All proceeds go to Project FAITH (an organization providing aid/services to victims of Domestic abuse) and to the Breast Cancer Fund.
2.) ICECREAM: the Cold Stone Creamery on 162 W 72nd will be having a fundraising event for CUMC's V-Day 2007. From the total of all sales made in the shop between 5 and 9 PM, 20% will be donated to Project FAITH.
3.) Also, be sure to check out the VAGINA MONOLOGUES next week:
Friday, Feb 23rd 10pm
Saturday, Feb 24th 7pm
Sunday, Feb 25th, 3pm (SPANISH show)
Thanks in advance for ALL your support!
My inbox was always blowing up with e-mails like this at Smith, advertising events with similarly stupid names. LUNAfest...why is "luna" always the prefix of choice for womynist bullshit like this? At Smith they even renamed ultimate frisbee "Lunadisc" to make it more girly. MUST feminist bitches try to rally us ladies together under the banner of our menstrual cycles? And that's an inaccurate use of the lunar calendar anyway; I don't know about other bitches, but my period is scheduled by Ortho Tri-Cyclen, not the phases of the goddamned moon. Furthermore, LUNAfest seems like a serious fucking drag. I checked out the LUNAfest website and these awesome "movies" they are going to show include the following:
-A music video starring some singer named Shubda Mudgal (seriously, her last name is MUDGAL) about this other chick who married an abusive asshole, how she gained the courage to leave his wife-beating ass, her struggles to get a driver's license, and her triumphant rebirth as...a VAN DRIVER in Ahmedabad, India.
-Plum Flower, a thrilling tale of female infanticide in rural China.
-Slip of the Tongue, a movie exploring body image...basically four minutes of BBWs who got rejected from the Dove Real Women ad campaign.
-Breached, a movie about some knocked up Mexican chick who goes through a bunch of border-hopping bullshit in hopes of giving birth in the good old U.S. of A. This sounds like something my high school Spanish teacher Senora "La Bruja" Rossi would have shown my class. She tormented me for a year with bad Chayanne videos and a slew of disturbing movies. She showed us this movie called El Norte once about the illegal alien children of a beheaded Guatemalan insurgent who are attacked by rats while crawling through Tijuana sewer tunnels to the U.S. and then subsequently die of plague. Seeing film was pointless for me learning more conversational Spanish (although I did pick up the useful verb chingar), but it traumatized me more than even the unsettling Julio Iglesias poster above her blackboard that seemed to watch you no matter where you went in the classroom.
-City Paradise, six minutes detailing the adventures of some Japanese woman who doesn't speak a word of English in London. She stumbles upon a secret world "inhabited by friendly little aliens and beautiful blossoms." I don't even want to know.
-Top of the Circle, a movie exploring the concept of the food chain and centering on one of the world's best meat products ever: bacon. If this movie were celebrating bacon for its sheer overpowering awesomeness, I'd be first in line to see it. However, I suspect this movie is going to diss bacon and encourage vegetarianism. Fuck that.
-Some movie about a woman who is totally going to die of breast cancer giving advice that her newborn daughter will supposedly find useful later. Tip #1: don't get fucking breast cancer.
-A documentary about an adopted Chinese girl named Kylie Goldstein, and how she's so American she plays baseball. BOOOOORRRRING.
-Agricultural Report, a cartoon that appears to be about a cow who becomes angry that her teats are being exploited by the nefarious dairy industry.
If LUNAfest wasn't already totally unappealing based on its name and the fact that the moment people start arriving, they're going to be bombarded with a bunch of depressing facts about smacked-up bitches and tit cancer only to watch a festival of shitty-ass movies for chicks. I guess that's why they're sending the fat armpit-hair-having bitches attending this thing for ice cream afterward, although that's poor compensation for putting up with the evening of torture-by-feminist-art-films. I'd be pissed as hell if I got through the cinematic selections of period-fest only to discover there isn't fucking booze, and told instead to go get some fucking ice cream on the Upper West Side in the middle of BITTER-COLD FEBRUARY. It's fucking sixteen degrees outside!
I guess the LUNAfest-throwing sluts running this show thought that the Columbia Medical Center campus would have only whet their appetites for estrogenic entertainment. Not only they are they having LUNAfest tonight (which, as I'm not feeling particularly hot today, I will decline to attend), but next week we have not one, not two, but THREE performances of The Vagina Monologues (!!!). And one of them is en espanol! Boy, I never thought I would get enough of this play where bitches sing the praises of their cooches...it never gets old. Back at Smith this event was so celebrated that the bitches running it hung two-story tall banners spelling out "VAGINA" on Seelye Hall to get the girls all excited for it.
Man, I am so glad this bullshit isn't limited to Smith College. I would feel like the dumb bitches at Columbia didn't care about doing pointless vadgetastic crap as much as the dumb bitches at Smith. Then again, I sort-of hoped that the dumb bitches at Columbia would be too busy doing their thesis projects in lab to spend their days putting together a week-long calendar of twatcentric events WITH NO ALCOHOL. I miss industry so much...when the hell am I going to get out of this ivory vagina tower?
From: Some Feminazi Ho
To: All the Columbia Grad Students
Subject: LUNAFest Tonight! & ICECREAM for charity & the Vagina Monologues!
Come out and support CUMC's V-DAY Campaign--the fight (no pun intended!) against VIOLENCE towards women:
1.) CHECK OUT tonight's LUNAFEST: A screening of short films and documentaries by women. Here's their website for the list of movies:
http://www.lunabar.com/community/lunafest2006.cfm?DocumentId=406
DATE: Thurs, Feb 15
LOCATION: Hammer 401
Time: 8.30pm
DONATIONs will be greatly APPRECIATED! (5$ donation suggested)
All proceeds go to Project FAITH (an organization providing aid/services to victims of Domestic abuse) and to the Breast Cancer Fund.
2.) ICECREAM: the Cold Stone Creamery on 162 W 72nd will be having a fundraising event for CUMC's V-Day 2007. From the total of all sales made in the shop between 5 and 9 PM, 20% will be donated to Project FAITH.
3.) Also, be sure to check out the VAGINA MONOLOGUES next week:
Friday, Feb 23rd 10pm
Saturday, Feb 24th 7pm
Sunday, Feb 25th, 3pm (SPANISH show)
Thanks in advance for ALL your support!
My inbox was always blowing up with e-mails like this at Smith, advertising events with similarly stupid names. LUNAfest...why is "luna" always the prefix of choice for womynist bullshit like this? At Smith they even renamed ultimate frisbee "Lunadisc" to make it more girly. MUST feminist bitches try to rally us ladies together under the banner of our menstrual cycles? And that's an inaccurate use of the lunar calendar anyway; I don't know about other bitches, but my period is scheduled by Ortho Tri-Cyclen, not the phases of the goddamned moon. Furthermore, LUNAfest seems like a serious fucking drag. I checked out the LUNAfest website and these awesome "movies" they are going to show include the following:
-A music video starring some singer named Shubda Mudgal (seriously, her last name is MUDGAL) about this other chick who married an abusive asshole, how she gained the courage to leave his wife-beating ass, her struggles to get a driver's license, and her triumphant rebirth as...a VAN DRIVER in Ahmedabad, India.
-Plum Flower, a thrilling tale of female infanticide in rural China.
-Slip of the Tongue, a movie exploring body image...basically four minutes of BBWs who got rejected from the Dove Real Women ad campaign.
-Breached, a movie about some knocked up Mexican chick who goes through a bunch of border-hopping bullshit in hopes of giving birth in the good old U.S. of A. This sounds like something my high school Spanish teacher Senora "La Bruja" Rossi would have shown my class. She tormented me for a year with bad Chayanne videos and a slew of disturbing movies. She showed us this movie called El Norte once about the illegal alien children of a beheaded Guatemalan insurgent who are attacked by rats while crawling through Tijuana sewer tunnels to the U.S. and then subsequently die of plague. Seeing film was pointless for me learning more conversational Spanish (although I did pick up the useful verb chingar), but it traumatized me more than even the unsettling Julio Iglesias poster above her blackboard that seemed to watch you no matter where you went in the classroom.
-City Paradise, six minutes detailing the adventures of some Japanese woman who doesn't speak a word of English in London. She stumbles upon a secret world "inhabited by friendly little aliens and beautiful blossoms." I don't even want to know.
-Top of the Circle, a movie exploring the concept of the food chain and centering on one of the world's best meat products ever: bacon. If this movie were celebrating bacon for its sheer overpowering awesomeness, I'd be first in line to see it. However, I suspect this movie is going to diss bacon and encourage vegetarianism. Fuck that.
-Some movie about a woman who is totally going to die of breast cancer giving advice that her newborn daughter will supposedly find useful later. Tip #1: don't get fucking breast cancer.
-A documentary about an adopted Chinese girl named Kylie Goldstein, and how she's so American she plays baseball. BOOOOORRRRING.
-Agricultural Report, a cartoon that appears to be about a cow who becomes angry that her teats are being exploited by the nefarious dairy industry.
If LUNAfest wasn't already totally unappealing based on its name and the fact that the moment people start arriving, they're going to be bombarded with a bunch of depressing facts about smacked-up bitches and tit cancer only to watch a festival of shitty-ass movies for chicks. I guess that's why they're sending the fat armpit-hair-having bitches attending this thing for ice cream afterward, although that's poor compensation for putting up with the evening of torture-by-feminist-art-films. I'd be pissed as hell if I got through the cinematic selections of period-fest only to discover there isn't fucking booze, and told instead to go get some fucking ice cream on the Upper West Side in the middle of BITTER-COLD FEBRUARY. It's fucking sixteen degrees outside!
I guess the LUNAfest-throwing sluts running this show thought that the Columbia Medical Center campus would have only whet their appetites for estrogenic entertainment. Not only they are they having LUNAfest tonight (which, as I'm not feeling particularly hot today, I will decline to attend), but next week we have not one, not two, but THREE performances of The Vagina Monologues (!!!). And one of them is en espanol! Boy, I never thought I would get enough of this play where bitches sing the praises of their cooches...it never gets old. Back at Smith this event was so celebrated that the bitches running it hung two-story tall banners spelling out "VAGINA" on Seelye Hall to get the girls all excited for it.
Man, I am so glad this bullshit isn't limited to Smith College. I would feel like the dumb bitches at Columbia didn't care about doing pointless vadgetastic crap as much as the dumb bitches at Smith. Then again, I sort-of hoped that the dumb bitches at Columbia would be too busy doing their thesis projects in lab to spend their days putting together a week-long calendar of twatcentric events WITH NO ALCOHOL. I miss industry so much...when the hell am I going to get out of this ivory vagina tower?
Labels: artfaggotry, Dumb Smith bitches, feminazism, retard rage, scathing indictments, stank vaginas
Monday, February 12, 2007
Nuthin' special
LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party Yahoo! group is certainly attracting its fair share of interested adult entertainers. Previously we had Not-Shy George instructing us to "not be afraid to touch" on the big night while passive-aggressively advertising his disrobing services. Today, Motherbucker forwarded the latest unsolicited correspondence from a net surfing stripper to the party planners:
From: Motherbucker (motherbucker@somecampaignofficeoranother.org)
To: FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: FWD: APPROVE -- i_iwanna wants to join llcooljewsparty
lol - dudes...this ho wants to be a part of our group...so she can "Strip" for us, despite the fact that she's "nuthin' special"
Forwarded message:
Hello,
The following person would like to join the llcooljewsparty group:
Email address: i_iwanna <iwanna4253@aol.com>
Comment from user:
would love to strip for ll cool jew and you other girls, im nuthin special but willing to do a show for you gals
I don't know exactly what "I wanna 4253" was thinking when designing this particular sales pitch, but it needs a little work. I can't imagine the situation where us planners, all a group of debauched drunks, dykes, and general titty aficionados, would willingly hire someone who describes herself as "nuthin' special" for our dear friend's last night of unmarriedness. At the very least, we ought to salute LL Cool Jew's graduating from Smith summa cum laude with her English degree and the highest honors her thesis on Graham Greene won with a stripper who can spell "nothing" properly.
So I wrote the stripper back to advise her that we weren't interested, and, in the spirit of compassion, to give her some tips on how to improve her cold-calling technique. My sales skills are a little rusty, but I did sell over $10,000 worth of fine kitchen cutlery one summer in college, and I didn't do that by telling motherfuckers that Cutco knives were "nothin' special," so I figured I could help the bitch out a little bit. And by "help the bitch out a little bit", I mean make her reconsider ever making a similar proposition by filling my letter with disdain and palpable sarcasm.
To: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Recently, our party planning group has engaged in a heated debate over whether or not "nuthin special" is a valid criterion for selecting the strippers we plan to employ for the pleasure of the bride-to-be. Despite my passionate argument for "nuthin special" strippers, the pro-special contigent has won out, and thus I regret to inform you that we will be unable to accept your generous offer.
Thank you for your interest, and best of luck in your future endeavors and solicitations.
Cordially,
Razzy
Director of Strippers, LL Cool Jew's Bachelorette Party
We have done nothing to advertise our little Yahoo! group, and I believe it's even designated "private" (although given that so far two degenerate unemployed strippers have attempted to join it, I'm not sure that "private" means anything at all). Nonetheless, we seem to be attracting the deepest, darkest dregs of the stripper world. Fucking typical...even though we try to keep our business on the low, there's still ugly bitches pestering us without provocation. Do we just give off a "we went to Smith, so therefore we're tolerant of stank twats offering the same for our amusement" vibe or something? Just because we all went to Ugly Bitch U does not mean we'll put up with some Betty Friedan-looking cooches slutting around LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party with a set of tasseled pasties and a feather boa, so to all other marginally attractive, fat, "nuthin' special" exotic dancers considering submitting a bid...DON'T BOTHER!
From: Motherbucker (motherbucker@somecampaignofficeoranother.org)
To: FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: FWD: APPROVE -- i_iwanna
lol - dudes...this ho wants to be a part of our group...so she can "Strip" for us, despite the fact that she's "nuthin' special"
Forwarded message:
Hello,
The following person would like to join the llcooljewsparty group:
Email address: i_iwanna <iwanna4253@aol.com>
Comment from user:
would love to strip for ll cool jew and you other girls, im nuthin special but willing to do a show for you gals
I don't know exactly what "I wanna 4253" was thinking when designing this particular sales pitch, but it needs a little work. I can't imagine the situation where us planners, all a group of debauched drunks, dykes, and general titty aficionados, would willingly hire someone who describes herself as "nuthin' special" for our dear friend's last night of unmarriedness. At the very least, we ought to salute LL Cool Jew's graduating from Smith summa cum laude with her English degree and the highest honors her thesis on Graham Greene won with a stripper who can spell "nothing" properly.
So I wrote the stripper back to advise her that we weren't interested, and, in the spirit of compassion, to give her some tips on how to improve her cold-calling technique. My sales skills are a little rusty, but I did sell over $10,000 worth of fine kitchen cutlery one summer in college, and I didn't do that by telling motherfuckers that Cutco knives were "nothin' special," so I figured I could help the bitch out a little bit. And by "help the bitch out a little bit", I mean make her reconsider ever making a similar proposition by filling my letter with disdain and palpable sarcasm.
To: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Recently, our party planning group has engaged in a heated debate over whether or not "nuthin special" is a valid criterion for selecting the strippers we plan to employ for the pleasure of the bride-to-be. Despite my passionate argument for "nuthin special" strippers, the pro-special contigent has won out, and thus I regret to inform you that we will be unable to accept your generous offer.
Thank you for your interest, and best of luck in your future endeavors and solicitations.
Cordially,
Razzy
Director of Strippers, LL Cool Jew's Bachelorette Party
We have done nothing to advertise our little Yahoo! group, and I believe it's even designated "private" (although given that so far two degenerate unemployed strippers have attempted to join it, I'm not sure that "private" means anything at all). Nonetheless, we seem to be attracting the deepest, darkest dregs of the stripper world. Fucking typical...even though we try to keep our business on the low, there's still ugly bitches pestering us without provocation. Do we just give off a "we went to Smith, so therefore we're tolerant of stank twats offering the same for our amusement" vibe or something? Just because we all went to Ugly Bitch U does not mean we'll put up with some Betty Friedan-looking cooches slutting around LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party with a set of tasseled pasties and a feather boa, so to all other marginally attractive, fat, "nuthin' special" exotic dancers considering submitting a bid...DON'T BOTHER!
Labels: correspondence, crazies, holy fucking matrimony, LL Cool Jew, Motherbucker, real-life rejects, ridiculous absurdity, sluts, stank vaginas, Wmania, you're ugly
Thursday, February 08, 2007
TrimSpa, baby!
Remember those early Anna Nicole TrimSpa ads where she was writhing around a beach saying, "Like my body?" (except it sounded more like, "Lahk my bahhhhdy?", similar to what I imagine what one of the banjo-picking locals in Deliverance would sound like if afflicted with Downs syndrome).
Well, the only one whose opinion of Anna Nicole's body is of any relevance now is the Broward County Medical Examiner, because she just DROPPED DEAD.
My e-mail and text messages have been going berserk between LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, FalloniusMonk, Wmania, Rack, and myself all corresponding. Examples include FalloniusMonk e-mailing "#1 in HOODIA GORDONII!! Be envied!" and Rack responding "Yall bitches are terrible and I love ya for it!" Our need to share thoughts on this breaking story is more urgent, fast, and furious than when Britney dumped K-Fed or when Aaron Spelling moved to that great elite zip code in the sky.
Anyway, I definitely care what the coroner has to say about Vicky Lynn "Anna Nicole Smith" Hogan's body because I'm trying to get anyone and everyone to wager whether it was suicide or accidental overdose. I'm leaning toward the latter, as it's not a stretch imagining some sort of ill-conceived publicity stunt gone horribly wrong. Can't you just see her thinking that spiking a huge bolus of methadone directly and wandering around the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel babbling incoherently would intrigue people to the point where they'd forget about the court-order compelling her daughter to take a paternity test or something? (And on that note, how long do you think it will take Howard K. Stern, her grieving lawyer/sham husband and fake baby daddy, to sign away his paternity rights? My guess is he'll have the papers drawn up to pass off that kid before Anna's even in the ground).
Accidental methadone OD is my bet, and I'm sticking to it like cellulite to the late Vicky Lynn Hogan's thighs. Seriously, what are all y'all's thoughts? The betting window is open.
Well, the only one whose opinion of Anna Nicole's body is of any relevance now is the Broward County Medical Examiner, because she just DROPPED DEAD.
My e-mail and text messages have been going berserk between LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, FalloniusMonk, Wmania, Rack, and myself all corresponding. Examples include FalloniusMonk e-mailing "#1 in HOODIA GORDONII!! Be envied!" and Rack responding "Yall bitches are terrible and I love ya for it!" Our need to share thoughts on this breaking story is more urgent, fast, and furious than when Britney dumped K-Fed or when Aaron Spelling moved to that great elite zip code in the sky.Anyway, I definitely care what the coroner has to say about Vicky Lynn "Anna Nicole Smith" Hogan's body because I'm trying to get anyone and everyone to wager whether it was suicide or accidental overdose. I'm leaning toward the latter, as it's not a stretch imagining some sort of ill-conceived publicity stunt gone horribly wrong. Can't you just see her thinking that spiking a huge bolus of methadone directly and wandering around the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel babbling incoherently would intrigue people to the point where they'd forget about the court-order compelling her daughter to take a paternity test or something? (And on that note, how long do you think it will take Howard K. Stern, her grieving lawyer/sham husband and fake baby daddy, to sign away his paternity rights? My guess is he'll have the papers drawn up to pass off that kid before Anna's even in the ground).
Accidental methadone OD is my bet, and I'm sticking to it like cellulite to the late Vicky Lynn Hogan's thighs. Seriously, what are all y'all's thoughts? The betting window is open.
Labels: celebrities, fat fucks, people who died, PWT, stank vaginas
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
From the Smith College vault: Tangling with the Dead Gays
People seem to like my stories about Smith, and since very little has gone on with me lately besides work, work, work (and who the hell wants to hear about my mice? NOBODY, myself included), I figured that I would relate one instead of talking about how lame my life is at present. Besides, I was thinking of this because that fat little bastard Chingy! got into a box that had some of my old college photos and letters in it, and cleaning up the destroyed remnants of assorted college treasures (such as the masticated remnants of my old Metallica And Justice For All tape) that he scattered all over the floor inspired a wave of reminiscing. I ended up grabbing my old binder of my newspaper clippings from my Smith days and leafing through it.
My senior year, I wrote a column for The Sophian, our page-turner of a newspaper, called "Angie's Weekly Rant," which was sort of the proto-RazzyBlog, except with less swearing. Since I was the associate editor, I would strongarm the editorial board into letting me write about whatever the fuck I felt like. This meant that every week, I would get half a page in the Op/Ed section to bitch about whatever was pissing me off that week. That meant that sometimes I tackled "real" issues (ie: articles entitled "Family weekend is a crock") and other times I just tore apart people who I didn't like (ie: "Morrow: Worst of the Quad"). Right before Christmas 1999, the Y2K hysteria was in full effect, and I decided to compile a list of reasons why I hoped the world was ending. It was like the Razzy version of Martin Luther's nailing his theses to the cathedral at Wittenburg, but instead of complaining about the selling of indulgences, simony, lay investiture, etc., I took issue with virtually every flavor of stupid cunt at Smith. I had 99 problems, and a bitch could account for every single one of them.
(P.S. I know this didn't scan well but that's what you get when you pay <$100 for a shitty HP printer/copier/scanner)
In this article, "Waiting patiently for the Apocalypse", I basically had a bulleted list of all the things that make me mad or annoy me, such as "annoying introspective female folk/pop singers", "MTV game shows which simulate our judicial system", "Jewel's burgeoning career as a poet and actress," "idiotic discourse on how to shave your pubic hair on the Smith Daily Jolt (Smith-specific internet bulletin/message board)," and "dirty hippies." Like I said, this was the proto-RazzyBlog. Anyway, one of the things I listed was "dead gay performance art," which immediately got me into hot water with the Dead Gays.
Every year there was a party in the Quad, where I lived, called Celebration of Sisterhood. It was started in response to a "homophobic incident" in the early 90s, where some retarded cow started distributing signs that said something along the lines of "Smithies, reclaim your pearls and penny loafers!", insinuating that the increasingly vocal lesbian population on campus had no business being at Smith, and that the college would be better served to hearken back to a time when it was a blueblooded finishing school producing mainly upper crust wives and suicidal poets. I mean, what would Anne Morrow Lindbergh or Nancy Reagan say about all these muff divers running around with their shaved heads, Doc Martens, and pride rings?!?!
Anyway, the lesbians and "allies" (straight people who are down with the gays) fought back by staging the Celebration of Sisterhood, which was a combined candlelight vigil/Quad house sketch comedy and talent show. Mainly it was an excuse to get drunk and feel all warm and fuzzy about getting along with people, as well as an excellent opportunity for the curious to give kissing a girl a try. However, my senior year, a group of pretentious snatches decided that Celebration of Sisterhood was sending the wrong message, and decided to crash it.
All of a sudden, Wilson House was in the middle of a skit about acceptance or whatever, when all these bitches storm the stage wearing black robes and white skeleton-esque face paint. Their costumes looked like a cross between a Carmelite nun and the Halloween costumes that Johnny and his henchman from the Kobra Kai dojo wear in the first part of The Karate Kid, where they beat the living shit out of Daniel-san.
Anyway, these people started swarming through the crowd handing out flyers that said "Resist heteronormativity!" and "Marriage=Death", then performed some type of grim funerary wedding mock ritual thing...I think. I remember not having any idea what the fuck they were doing, while simultaneously my Smith Dumb Bitch detector was going berserk. When they left the stage, I think they were all congratulating themselves at having done something revolutionary and groundbreaking. However, most of the people in the crowd were just puzzled, not having any idea what their point was. Were they against straight people? Or marriage? Or gay people acting straight? Or gay marriage? What were they getting at? Was "heteronormativity" even a real fucking word?? Their propaganda sheets and presentation were unclear and confusing, so people just shrugged and went back to the cute "we're sisters...yay!"-themed skits and then got drunk and fingerbanged their friends, or whatever. I probably went back to my room and took bong hits and then hit a bar with my boyfriend Benzo.
Anyway, a couple days later, the people behind this disruption identified themselves in the school events calendar as the Dead Gays, and scheduled a "panel teach-in" about their message to clarify why in the hell they interrupted Celebration of Sisterhood. Much to their disappointment, nobody showed up except most of the Sophian editorial staff, who apart from being there to report the story, had been having lots of fun at the Dead Gays' expense during editorial board meetings. The girl who was reporting the news story asked the who, what, when, where, how, and most importantly, why questions, and they went off on some incomprehensible tirade about "performance art pieces facilitating a revolution against conformity" that made no sense. Every time the news reporter would ask, "So, was this intended as art, or as a political statement?" she'd get a bullshit answer like "Neither, and both," and then a heaping helping of condescending artfag gibberish.
Then it was my turn. I raised my hand and began with, "I'm Razzy, and I write an opinion column in the Sophian, and I have a few que-"
The Head Dead Gay in charge raised her hand to silence me (thus instantly earning my eternal disdain), then said in her frostiest possible tone, "We know who you are."
Hmmm....I guess the Dead Gays, some of whom lived in Talbot House, didn't like the article I wrote about their Immorality party in which I discussed their "infirm physiques", their "mediocre DJ and unfriendly, extremely paranoid bartenders," and quoted a male partygoer complaining about "too many fat girls in tight clothes, the girl pouring the keg had a happy strip bigger than mine". It's also possible that they were pissed off by one or more of my many other Sophian editorials, most of which had titles like "Veganism fails to stop human suffering" and "Keep depleting that ozone", not to mention my status as the paper's official "Republican" (I was the closest thing to an actual Republican, what with my ideas about small government and lower taxes, and I liked McCain) in the political point-counterpoint section. In any event, the Dead Gays made their dislike for me quite clear.
"Okay," I said, preparing myself for a hostile exchange. "So, what exactly was the point of your little performance?"
"It was a performance art piece," said the Head Dead Gay.
"Yes, I heard that, but what exactly was it about? What did you hope to accomplish with it?" I asked.
Head Dead Gay and her cohorts all looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then started rattling off more nonsensical bullshit about how performance art doesn't have to have a point, as it is just a means of expression. "What were you trying to express?" I asked. It went on like this for several minutes, with them getting becoming more convoluted and patronizing by the second, and me getting progressively more irritated by the bitch's tone.
I should have known better than to expect any kind of straight answer from the Dead Gays. The Head Dead Gay was this artsy BDOC (Big Dyke on Campus) named K8 Hardy. I'm sure her name was originally Katherine or something, but undoubtedly spelling her name in the style of a text message gave her some authentic artist street cred. It's lucky that K8 has continued her career as a pretentious artfag, because there is no shortage of pictures of her dressed like a fucking idiot when you Google "K8 Hardy".
For example, in this photo, she manages to offset her crotchless pants with the face and hair of the walking dead. I'm betting she totally hired one of George A. Romero's effects guys to style this shoot. I can almost hear her thinking, "Come on, K8, channel your inner uppity feminist zombie, channel it!"
There's also this downright disgusting picture of K8's lopsided tits and stank crotch. I honestly can't tell if that's her gash I can see through these underwear or a fresh period stain, but either way, EWWWW! I just lost my appetite. I love me some naked chicks, but I'd say this definitely falls under the rubric of BAD NUDITY. Close your legs, ho, and while you're at it, SHAVE THEM!
If you just swallowed your vomit, then relax, this next picture isn't gross, unless you're disgusted by shameless plagiarism and unnecessary displays of tricep definition. It's just K8 Hardy biting the personal style of Jeffrey Sebelia, equally smug deconstructionist tool and "Project Runway" winner:
And this last one, in which K8 Hardy attends the annual outdoor costume picnic of the American Association of Performance Tardists dressed as a combination of Kermit the Frog, that guy from A Clockwork Orange, and Stands with a Fist from Dances With Wolves, is my favorite. Bitch totally stuffed her codpiece. Wait for it, wait for it...
Anyway, that's the Head Dead Gay. She was such an insufferably obnoxious cunt at the Dead Gays' "panel teach-in" that I immediately added a line in my Sophian column about the end of the world listing "Dead Gay performance art" as a reason why I was eagerly waiting for the Apocalypse.
The Dead Gays were not pleased about this. For one thing, the news article about them was very small and, since they didn't give us a coherent explanation about whatever the hell it was they were trying to accomplish besides getting people's undivided (and totally befuddled) attention, it made it sound as though that were the only point they were trying to make. For another, I think they were pissed that they were included on my pro-Apocalypse list between "the Zappa children" and "aerosol cheese," as it all meant that we DIDN'T TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY.
For the rest of the year, the Dead Gays tried all sorts of passive aggressive shit to get back at us. After Senior Ball, they showed up at the afterparty LL Cool Jew and Wmania were having at their campus apartment and tried to bring in this giant cardboard wave decoration thing they stole from the dance (Senior Ball's theme was "Enchantment Under the Sea"...just like in Back to the Future, I shit you not). They were causing all sorts of trouble by being assholes to all of the guests. I remember getting into it with K8 Hardy and her monstrously fat, mustachioed dyke-along Monica, and being about this close to bathing them in my bottom-shelf gin and tonic. Finally, Wmania had enough, got bossy, and told them to leave. When they refused, she took the big cardboard wave they brought and threw it off the back staircase. When they went after it, she locked them out.
The night before we graduated, I threw a party on the Jordan second floor and those bitches showed up to drink the keg beer I bought with my "Award for excellence in research in microbiology and immunology" prize money. Since we had to move out soon, my shit was all over my room in the packing process. Those skanks brazenly walked into my room and started competing in feats of strength involving lifting my deer head. My deer head is one of my most prized possessions (it's still on my wall to this day), even if it is only a 6-point buck, so I'd be damned if it was going to get a cracked antler or something at the hands of a Dead Gay. I tossed them out with the help of the rest of the party (I think that one of the townies there may have given them an impromptu beer shower), and pretty much forgot about them.
However, when I attended my two-year reunion (Smith has reunions all the time to milk the alumnae for the sake of our endowment), LL Cool Jew brought us to some campus party in the very apartment where KatieScarlett and Miss Corbutt used to live. I quickly realized whose party it was...Monica, K8 Hardy's obese sidekick. She was still fat, still ugly, and still hadn't waxed off her pube 'stache. Fortunately, Benzo's stepbrother and his male friends from Vassar were with us, and they were fucking with so many Smith girls that ultimately Public Safety kicked us all out. On our way out, Wmania and I managed to swipe some typed up "sexual manifesto" off their apartment corkboard, which we read aloud outside to our hysterical drunken delight. Given that it was three pages of bad metaphors about lady unicorns in caves, it was apparent that this bitch had never had sex beyond the few times when she likely had too much peach schnapps and engaged in some reckless boobmashing with some equally repellant demi-Dead Gay.
According to Google, K8 Hardy lives in New York, so it's always possible that I could run into her. In fact, being that I associate with some artfags myself (although KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser are actually good at what they do and are not so pretentious as to try to claim that pictures of some old pervert whacking off is anything but a jerker, and Miss Corbutt doesn't really frequent the artfag circuit), it's always possible that our paths could cross at some sort of art function. If and when I see K8, I'm going to hope that narcissistic slut has come across this by Googling herself, so that we can throw down just like back in the 'Hamp. It's ALWAYS good times fucking with stupid Smith bitches. Always.
My senior year, I wrote a column for The Sophian, our page-turner of a newspaper, called "Angie's Weekly Rant," which was sort of the proto-RazzyBlog, except with less swearing. Since I was the associate editor, I would strongarm the editorial board into letting me write about whatever the fuck I felt like. This meant that every week, I would get half a page in the Op/Ed section to bitch about whatever was pissing me off that week. That meant that sometimes I tackled "real" issues (ie: articles entitled "Family weekend is a crock") and other times I just tore apart people who I didn't like (ie: "Morrow: Worst of the Quad"). Right before Christmas 1999, the Y2K hysteria was in full effect, and I decided to compile a list of reasons why I hoped the world was ending. It was like the Razzy version of Martin Luther's nailing his theses to the cathedral at Wittenburg, but instead of complaining about the selling of indulgences, simony, lay investiture, etc., I took issue with virtually every flavor of stupid cunt at Smith. I had 99 problems, and a bitch could account for every single one of them.
(P.S. I know this didn't scan well but that's what you get when you pay <$100 for a shitty HP printer/copier/scanner)
In this article, "Waiting patiently for the Apocalypse", I basically had a bulleted list of all the things that make me mad or annoy me, such as "annoying introspective female folk/pop singers", "MTV game shows which simulate our judicial system", "Jewel's burgeoning career as a poet and actress," "idiotic discourse on how to shave your pubic hair on the Smith Daily Jolt (Smith-specific internet bulletin/message board)," and "dirty hippies." Like I said, this was the proto-RazzyBlog. Anyway, one of the things I listed was "dead gay performance art," which immediately got me into hot water with the Dead Gays.
Every year there was a party in the Quad, where I lived, called Celebration of Sisterhood. It was started in response to a "homophobic incident" in the early 90s, where some retarded cow started distributing signs that said something along the lines of "Smithies, reclaim your pearls and penny loafers!", insinuating that the increasingly vocal lesbian population on campus had no business being at Smith, and that the college would be better served to hearken back to a time when it was a blueblooded finishing school producing mainly upper crust wives and suicidal poets. I mean, what would Anne Morrow Lindbergh or Nancy Reagan say about all these muff divers running around with their shaved heads, Doc Martens, and pride rings?!?!
Anyway, the lesbians and "allies" (straight people who are down with the gays) fought back by staging the Celebration of Sisterhood, which was a combined candlelight vigil/Quad house sketch comedy and talent show. Mainly it was an excuse to get drunk and feel all warm and fuzzy about getting along with people, as well as an excellent opportunity for the curious to give kissing a girl a try. However, my senior year, a group of pretentious snatches decided that Celebration of Sisterhood was sending the wrong message, and decided to crash it.
All of a sudden, Wilson House was in the middle of a skit about acceptance or whatever, when all these bitches storm the stage wearing black robes and white skeleton-esque face paint. Their costumes looked like a cross between a Carmelite nun and the Halloween costumes that Johnny and his henchman from the Kobra Kai dojo wear in the first part of The Karate Kid, where they beat the living shit out of Daniel-san.
Anyway, these people started swarming through the crowd handing out flyers that said "Resist heteronormativity!" and "Marriage=Death", then performed some type of grim funerary wedding mock ritual thing...I think. I remember not having any idea what the fuck they were doing, while simultaneously my Smith Dumb Bitch detector was going berserk. When they left the stage, I think they were all congratulating themselves at having done something revolutionary and groundbreaking. However, most of the people in the crowd were just puzzled, not having any idea what their point was. Were they against straight people? Or marriage? Or gay people acting straight? Or gay marriage? What were they getting at? Was "heteronormativity" even a real fucking word?? Their propaganda sheets and presentation were unclear and confusing, so people just shrugged and went back to the cute "we're sisters...yay!"-themed skits and then got drunk and fingerbanged their friends, or whatever. I probably went back to my room and took bong hits and then hit a bar with my boyfriend Benzo.
Anyway, a couple days later, the people behind this disruption identified themselves in the school events calendar as the Dead Gays, and scheduled a "panel teach-in" about their message to clarify why in the hell they interrupted Celebration of Sisterhood. Much to their disappointment, nobody showed up except most of the Sophian editorial staff, who apart from being there to report the story, had been having lots of fun at the Dead Gays' expense during editorial board meetings. The girl who was reporting the news story asked the who, what, when, where, how, and most importantly, why questions, and they went off on some incomprehensible tirade about "performance art pieces facilitating a revolution against conformity" that made no sense. Every time the news reporter would ask, "So, was this intended as art, or as a political statement?" she'd get a bullshit answer like "Neither, and both," and then a heaping helping of condescending artfag gibberish.
Then it was my turn. I raised my hand and began with, "I'm Razzy, and I write an opinion column in the Sophian, and I have a few que-"
The Head Dead Gay in charge raised her hand to silence me (thus instantly earning my eternal disdain), then said in her frostiest possible tone, "We know who you are."
Hmmm....I guess the Dead Gays, some of whom lived in Talbot House, didn't like the article I wrote about their Immorality party in which I discussed their "infirm physiques", their "mediocre DJ and unfriendly, extremely paranoid bartenders," and quoted a male partygoer complaining about "too many fat girls in tight clothes, the girl pouring the keg had a happy strip bigger than mine". It's also possible that they were pissed off by one or more of my many other Sophian editorials, most of which had titles like "Veganism fails to stop human suffering" and "Keep depleting that ozone", not to mention my status as the paper's official "Republican" (I was the closest thing to an actual Republican, what with my ideas about small government and lower taxes, and I liked McCain) in the political point-counterpoint section. In any event, the Dead Gays made their dislike for me quite clear.
"Okay," I said, preparing myself for a hostile exchange. "So, what exactly was the point of your little performance?"
"It was a performance art piece," said the Head Dead Gay.
"Yes, I heard that, but what exactly was it about? What did you hope to accomplish with it?" I asked.
Head Dead Gay and her cohorts all looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then started rattling off more nonsensical bullshit about how performance art doesn't have to have a point, as it is just a means of expression. "What were you trying to express?" I asked. It went on like this for several minutes, with them getting becoming more convoluted and patronizing by the second, and me getting progressively more irritated by the bitch's tone.
I should have known better than to expect any kind of straight answer from the Dead Gays. The Head Dead Gay was this artsy BDOC (Big Dyke on Campus) named K8 Hardy. I'm sure her name was originally Katherine or something, but undoubtedly spelling her name in the style of a text message gave her some authentic artist street cred. It's lucky that K8 has continued her career as a pretentious artfag, because there is no shortage of pictures of her dressed like a fucking idiot when you Google "K8 Hardy".
For example, in this photo, she manages to offset her crotchless pants with the face and hair of the walking dead. I'm betting she totally hired one of George A. Romero's effects guys to style this shoot. I can almost hear her thinking, "Come on, K8, channel your inner uppity feminist zombie, channel it!"
If you just swallowed your vomit, then relax, this next picture isn't gross, unless you're disgusted by shameless plagiarism and unnecessary displays of tricep definition. It's just K8 Hardy biting the personal style of Jeffrey Sebelia, equally smug deconstructionist tool and "Project Runway" winner:Anyway, that's the Head Dead Gay. She was such an insufferably obnoxious cunt at the Dead Gays' "panel teach-in" that I immediately added a line in my Sophian column about the end of the world listing "Dead Gay performance art" as a reason why I was eagerly waiting for the Apocalypse.
The Dead Gays were not pleased about this. For one thing, the news article about them was very small and, since they didn't give us a coherent explanation about whatever the hell it was they were trying to accomplish besides getting people's undivided (and totally befuddled) attention, it made it sound as though that were the only point they were trying to make. For another, I think they were pissed that they were included on my pro-Apocalypse list between "the Zappa children" and "aerosol cheese," as it all meant that we DIDN'T TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY.
For the rest of the year, the Dead Gays tried all sorts of passive aggressive shit to get back at us. After Senior Ball, they showed up at the afterparty LL Cool Jew and Wmania were having at their campus apartment and tried to bring in this giant cardboard wave decoration thing they stole from the dance (Senior Ball's theme was "Enchantment Under the Sea"...just like in Back to the Future, I shit you not). They were causing all sorts of trouble by being assholes to all of the guests. I remember getting into it with K8 Hardy and her monstrously fat, mustachioed dyke-along Monica, and being about this close to bathing them in my bottom-shelf gin and tonic. Finally, Wmania had enough, got bossy, and told them to leave. When they refused, she took the big cardboard wave they brought and threw it off the back staircase. When they went after it, she locked them out.
The night before we graduated, I threw a party on the Jordan second floor and those bitches showed up to drink the keg beer I bought with my "Award for excellence in research in microbiology and immunology" prize money. Since we had to move out soon, my shit was all over my room in the packing process. Those skanks brazenly walked into my room and started competing in feats of strength involving lifting my deer head. My deer head is one of my most prized possessions (it's still on my wall to this day), even if it is only a 6-point buck, so I'd be damned if it was going to get a cracked antler or something at the hands of a Dead Gay. I tossed them out with the help of the rest of the party (I think that one of the townies there may have given them an impromptu beer shower), and pretty much forgot about them.
However, when I attended my two-year reunion (Smith has reunions all the time to milk the alumnae for the sake of our endowment), LL Cool Jew brought us to some campus party in the very apartment where KatieScarlett and Miss Corbutt used to live. I quickly realized whose party it was...Monica, K8 Hardy's obese sidekick. She was still fat, still ugly, and still hadn't waxed off her pube 'stache. Fortunately, Benzo's stepbrother and his male friends from Vassar were with us, and they were fucking with so many Smith girls that ultimately Public Safety kicked us all out. On our way out, Wmania and I managed to swipe some typed up "sexual manifesto" off their apartment corkboard, which we read aloud outside to our hysterical drunken delight. Given that it was three pages of bad metaphors about lady unicorns in caves, it was apparent that this bitch had never had sex beyond the few times when she likely had too much peach schnapps and engaged in some reckless boobmashing with some equally repellant demi-Dead Gay.
According to Google, K8 Hardy lives in New York, so it's always possible that I could run into her. In fact, being that I associate with some artfags myself (although KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser are actually good at what they do and are not so pretentious as to try to claim that pictures of some old pervert whacking off is anything but a jerker, and Miss Corbutt doesn't really frequent the artfag circuit), it's always possible that our paths could cross at some sort of art function. If and when I see K8, I'm going to hope that narcissistic slut has come across this by Googling herself, so that we can throw down just like back in the 'Hamp. It's ALWAYS good times fucking with stupid Smith bitches. Always.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, feminazism, Razzification, retard rage, Smith College Vault, stank vaginas
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