Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Dolla is Dead
In today's sad news, Roderick "Dolla" Burton II was shot and killed at a mall in Beverly Hills, California, probably while he was trying to either get some brain in the Hummer, mashing out in something European, smoking Steve Urkel by the ton, or generally owning the club. If you just asked, "Who the fuck is that?," well, you may remember a song named just that which was hot on "106 and Park" for two seconds last summer.
That was Dolla's song! "Who the fuck is that?" By Dolla. Who used to drop stacks at the bar on the Louis XIII but is dead now. Too bad, although I wouldn't be surprised if he was capped on account of those ratty braids he was rocking. Those are an insult to hair braiders everywhere, and certainly would not pass muster with the fine lady who creates fine braided creations with a certain Robert Sylvester Kelly's hair.
Anyway, Dolla was only 21, and that's sad. Just so you know who you're pouring liquor out for, here is who the fuck Dolla is:
RIP, Dolla. Say hi to Pimp C for me.
Labels: people who died, rap, tragedy
Sunday, December 28, 2008
This shit had dog death written all over it...literally
The other day, my dog-hating friend J-Sexy asked if I planned to go see Marley and Me. Specifically, she asked, "Are you going to see that movie? It has one of those disgosting dogs you like in it." She was making fun of me, because recently I had been telling her about the plot to the world's most upsetting cartoon, The Plague Dogs, and started choking up about it. A few tears even leaked out. J-Sexy laughed at me, because she's evil like that.
Mark my words: I will never, EVER see this movie. TRUST.
"Hell to the no!" I responded. "That dog is obviously going to die and I cannot deal." Apart from the fact that Jennifer Aniston and Owen Wilson's very existence offends me and I wouldn't see a "dramedy" (AKA shitshow by definition) about these two fucktards enduring the trials and tribulations of domestic life, dog death is a movie theme that I simply cannot cope with. I still have bad dreams about Where the Red Fern Grows. I start to sniffle if anyone brings up White Fang, and don't even MENTION Old Yeller around me. I cried during I Am Legend when the dog died. Hell, I cried during the remake of The Hills Have Eyes when one of the dogs died!
A while later, LL Cool Jew and I were Gchatting about how much Will Smith's new stinkbomb Seven Pounds is going to suck because that's all Will Smith does, and the topic came up again:
LL Cool Jew: that 7 pounds thing just looks so sure-to-be-shiteous
LL Cool Jew: i wonder which is worse, that or marley and me?
LL Cool Jew: although the latter might be worse because i sense it involves dog death
LL Cool Jew: which is obviously unacceptable
LL Cool Jew: the dog will inevitably die
Razzy: i KNOW that it involves dog death
LL Cool Jew: there is a part in the trailer where owen wilson is sitting in a field with a very graybearded marley
Razzy: i don't like that one bit
LL Cool Jew: and says to himself, "dogs don't care if you're rich or poor..."
LL Cool Jew: which indicates - dog death.
Razzy: "immortal marley without those two d-bags" sounds like a much better movie
Razzy: dude, dogs always die in movies
Razzy: i don't know why i think otherwise
LL Cool Jew: no, no way will i subject myself to that
LL Cool Jew: crying at a jennifer aniston movie
LL Cool Jew: NO THANKS
Razzy: hell to the FUCKING NO!
LL Cool Jew: too humiliating
LL Cool Jew: almost as embarrassing as it was crying at a will smith movie (i am legend)
Razzy: dude i cried at that shit too!
Razzy: jerseygirl leaned over to her boyfriend and was like, "dude, check it out...RAZZY'S CRYING!!"
Razzy: then they laughed at me!
Razzy: i was like "that dog is so sweet and caesary!"
LL Cool Jew: um yes
LL Cool Jew: graphic scenes of doggie violence!!!!
LL Cool Jew: marley and me would be worse
LL Cool Jew: because it would be more along the lines of how our dogs are going to go
Razzy: i know, at least the dog in "i am legend" died in the line of duty
LL Cool Jew: old and infrim
LL Cool Jew: buh
Razzy: can. not. deal.
LL Cool Jew:i can't even think about it
Needless to say, I have not gone to see Marley and Me and I likely never will given the high probability of canine mortality. However, thanks to some intrepid soul who selflessly braved this cinematic disaster so as to save the rest of us, I now know that this was a wise decision based on an accurate hypothesis:
Labels: doggity style, LL Cool Jew, movies, oh the horror, tragedy
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
This is your porn star on drugs
Awhile back, I posted about some videos that porn producer and notorious asshole Donny Long uploaded to YouTube starring the once-great and now extremely cracked out porn star Chasey Lain. Sadly, I have been up to my tits in bullshit lab work, and haven't had the time to follow up on what Chasey has been doing since she threatened to have her mafioso boyfriend kill Donny Long for not letting her bang the male talent with a tampon in (and EW, gross). Chasey drove off in her Rolls Royce, crack pipe ablaze, and I thought that might be the last of her. I was saddened, because what a tragic end to such a luminous career in sucking dick on camera for cash.
Thank goodness my Razzyphiles are picking up my slack. Today I received an e-mail with the subject line "Chasey Lain–from bad to worse!" from PackMan, a Razzyphile who has been diligently following this story in my stead (which, I should add, I really appreciate because nobody is more depressed about my lack of bloggery lately than myself, and I need all the help I can get). Attached were two photographs proving that even when you think someone has hit bottom, there's always a little further that they can fall. It also proves that I can scream "WHY, CHASEY, WHY?!" a little louder than I did when I saw her trying to negotiate the going rate for hardcore stills in fluent tweaker gibberish.
This right here is exactly why you shouldn't do drugs, especially those generally bought and sold in crystalline form. Chasey looks like what would result if one of the "Faces of Meth" procreated with something from a George A. Romero movie. She looks like she's more interested in eating brain than giving it, and trust that's not something I want to rub one off to. Chasey looked pretty beat before, but now she looks like the human equivalent of the residue that accumulates on the bottom of a crack pipe. I imagine she smells like a combination of anhydrous ammonia and a Porta-Potty on the last day of Burning Man that has been filled with an endless stream of unbathed, tripping-balls drunken hippies while sweltering in the hot desert sun for three days. Sister needs to be on "Intervention" AND "Extreme Makeover," not cavorting around industry functions with male talent that seemingly can't wait to escape her necrotic clutches before some of her coochie cooties get on his Pacers jersey.
Even more disturbing than Chasey's cadaveric appearance is the fact that she's apparently executing some kind of twisted revenge scheme posing here with Donny Long's personal archnemesis, ChristianXXX. ChristianXXX did a few gay titles in the past, and this has led to a vicious feud in which Donny Long has accused him of being a "tranny fucker" and discouraged other women from working for him due to "safety concerns" (because only gay dudes have STDs, right, Donny, you homophobe?). ChristianXXX has responded by attempting to fight him in a parking lot (Donny Long ran away) and authoring the world's most soporific porn blog about his workout routine and what he likes to order at Chili's. I've never had any problem with ChristianXXX myself because I don't really pay much attention to the male talent in porn unless the dude is gross (in which case I have to actively try to not look at him), and ChristianXXX seems generally well-groomed and unintrusive. However, he may have just jumped into gross-out territory with this ill-advised unholy anti-Donny Long alliance, if the above photos suggest that he did a scene with the decrepit remnants of what was once one of the hottest pieces of ass in the entire adult world. That's really too bad, because the other day I saw a clip of Christian banging Eva Angelina and it was pretty hot. Now I can't even watch it again, because the second his bald, Mr. Clean-looking ass shows up I'm going to conjure up images of Chasey's ghoulish visage. I don't even think the hotness that is Eva Angelina will be able to quell my compulsive and violent urge to vomit all over my computer screen, and that's saying a lot, because she's pretty hot.
And speaking of compulsive, violent urges, I have to stop now due to uncontrollable shuddering.
Labels: correspondence, drugs, gross, oh the horror, porn, Razzyphiles, sluts, tragedy
Monday, October 06, 2008
My brave, stoic, it's-all-gonna-be-okay face
No, it's not because of the failing economy, the War in Iraq, the lack of affordable health care for all Americans, or any other reason why it sucks to exist in the present era...it's because I had to sit in a New York City football bar after the New York football Giants summarily smote the Seahawks' ruin on the proverbial mountainside while wearing a Seahawks jersey. I think the picture my friend I'mNotRussianGoddammit took of me sometime in the third quarter sums it all up precisely:
I realize that the above photograph is certainly not the most attractive photo of me that's ever been committed to iPhone. However, it is one of the few photographs in existence of me putting on a brave face in spite of the shameful fact that I'm wearing the jersey of and cheering for a team that didn't even show up to play. Nobody took a picture of me after the Seahawks got their asses kicked by the Packers last January, but it would have looked something like this (although I take back what I said about my attractiveness in this state, because if memory serves correctly, .the Seahawks may not have shown up at Lambeau Field, but a hot dude with a thing for blondes showed up at the bar I watched the game at, took me home, and consoled me with an epic dicking). Sadly, I did not get laid by a sympathetic Giants fan, and spent my evening watching the various NFL pundits recap exactly how much stank ass the Seahawks sucked. During "Football Night in America" halftime, Bob Costas announced that "the Giants just CLOBBERED the Seahawks," and I actually thought this was an understatement. The Giants bent the Seahawks over and ass-raped them like a prag in a prison shower.
Hopefully the Sea-chickens will start acting more like the birds of prey for which they are named and save our season by kicking some Cheesehead ass next week, because my mental state can't take many more episodes like the one that occurred yesterday.
Labels: NFL football, Seahawks, tragedy, you're ugly
Thursday, July 31, 2008
How the mighty have fallen
Chasey Lain is a famous porn star from the 1990s. Even people who aren't total pervs like me and follow the smut industry to the point of reading porn blogs may have heard of Chasey Lain, because the Bloodhound Gang (of "you and me, baby, ain't nothin' but mammals so let's do it like they do on the Discovery Channel" fame) had a song entitled "The Ballad of Chasey Lain." As you might imagine, that was an incredibly romantic love song featuring lines like "show 'em them titties", "as your biggest fan, I must demand that you let me eat your ass", "you've had a lotta dick, Chasey, but you ain't had mine," and "would you fuck me for blow?"
Well, it turns out that Chasey probably would. In fact, if a would-be paramour was fresh out of powder cocaine, she'd probably fuck the lucky guy for crack. Or meth. Or spray glue. While ten years ago, Chasey was a pretty hot piece of ass and plied her cinematic craft to make numerous rubworthy masterpieces (and some pretty boring couples-oriented boy-girl scenes too–and even though that link is to some seriously snoreworthy porn, mind clicking it at work). She was a Vivid contract girl and undoubtedly inspired a respectable amount of fan masturbation.
Unfortunately, the years have not been kind to Chasey, and she DOES NOT look like that anymore. In the past, there have been all sorts of rumors going on about her. She's been reported as dead several times, was involved with a boyfriend's murder, and has supposed links to the Russian mob. While thanks to her porn fortune or her rumored ties to organized crime, she drives a $250,000 Rolls Royce, recent evidence surfaced indicating that she has also picked up a raging drug habit and a bad case of busted crackwhore in the looks department.
The other week, Chasey went to shoot a scene with Donny Long, who is a dickhead director and producer notorious for shooting his mouth off to the adult industry blogs about people he hates. Most recently, he's been catching a lot of flack for getting into a feud with male talent ChristianXXX, and calling him a "tranny-fucker" and a big flaming 'mo. ChristianXXX is pissed because even though he did a few gay titles early in his career, he thinks (probably correctly) that Donny Long is hurting his industry reputation by telling young actresses that he'll give them AIDS and they shouldn't work with (ie: be anally reamed by) him. ChristianXXX has responded in the respectable way one would expect a porn star of his sophistication and elegance to: by saying that Donny Long literally stinks and whining about it on his blog. Because the porn "press" has nothing better to do than cover every bit of backstabbing trash talk, you can read all about their petty squabbles by searching either of their names on any given porn news site. It's all very mature, which is why I follow it. I'm hoping to pick up some pointers on professionalism from these classy guys.
Anyway, Donny Long was supposed to shoot a scene with Chasey Lain, and needless to say, she showed up acting like a full-on raging tweaker mess. Unfortunately for her, Donny Long just discovered YouTube, and shared the whole debacle with the world. Chasey shows up, dicks around, makes a zillion completely incoherent arguments about wanting "a handwritten contract" stipulating more money to shoot hardcore stills as well as video, claims she's going to wear a tampon throughout (GROSS), and eventually threatens to send her hit man boyfriend after Donny Long. At that point, Long fires her ("get your meth out of my studio, you fucking crack whore") and follows her out of his studio, where he captures her supposedly lighting up her crack pipe in the backseat. The videos are sort of long, but nonetheless worth watching, particularly if you're in a crappy mood and wondering if there's any way your life could get worse. Your life could be much, much worse. You could be Chasey Lain.
Labels: drugs, gross, oh the horror, porn, sluts, tragedy
Friday, July 18, 2008
In today's horrible news...
What the hell happened to Nathaniel "Nate Dogg" Hale? I haven't been keeping up with Nate Dogg-related news lately and I just assumed he was up to his usual hijinx: hitting the east side of the LBC on a mission trying to find Mr. Warren G, telling women that if they can't fuck that day to just lay back and open their mouths, having hoes in area codes, smoking weed every day, and the like. I was shocked out of this complacent attitude about Nate Dogg's current activities when I saw some startling news on the gossip internets.
Yesterday the master of West Coast hook-singing showed up in a Compton courthouse to be arraigned on felony charges of stalking! Apparently, his estranged wife accused him of sending some threatening e-mails and following her on a freeway. Obviously, this must have been a misunderstanding, because I can only imagine he was just trying to coax her to the East Side Motel or something far less sinister than actually doing any kind of felony stalking. Nate Dogg hired Mark Geragos and pled not fucking guilty, posted his $100,000 bond, and is ready to clear his venerated name.
I am also suspicious of these charges, because Nate Dogg isn't all that threatening these days. He showed up to court looking feeble and rolling in a wheelchair, and a quick search of the internets informed me that this is due to the STROKE he had last Christmas!
How did I not know that Nate Dogg was rocking it until the wheels fall off in a damn WHEELCHAIR? This is an inexcusable oversight on my part. No wonder he hasn't been singing any catchy hooks lately. He's been in occupational therapy. This also makes me wonder about the plausibility of him making any credible threats against his wife. I mean, what the hell is Nate Dogg going to do, drool at her? I can't imagine that being tailed by an emaciated, partially paralyzed hook singer in a Lark scooter could have been all that frightening. I'm confident that Nate Dogg will prove his innocence and get back to recovering from his cerebrovascular accident.
And to prevent any further ignorance on my part, I'm setting a Google alert for "Nate Dogg" as of now-thirty.
Labels: crime and punishment, hot dudes, tragedy
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Sherlock Razzy, Ph.ake Doctor on Patrick Swayze
Most of the time, my fluency in science lingo doesn't really come in handy. If people ask me about my thesis project, and I start discussing anything beyond "I'm trying to give a mouse the common cold," non-science types immediately zone the fuck out. In fact, even science types likewise zone the fuck out because most of us are so sick of hearing about the problems everyone is having with their damn western blots or whatever. Science chatter can make me sound smart but still boring to the layperson, and tedious but still boring to the scientist, so most of the time I devote my small talk to things like R. Kelly, Seahawks, Yankee hatred, television, Captain Sigurd Hansen of the F/V Northwestern, my dogs, the book sTori Telling by Tori Spelling, and blowjobs. Whenever I write about some science crap, the internets typically respond with either "get well soon," "I hope you're dying of AIDS-related Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, whore!," or deafening silence. I've long accepted that not many people find the ins and outs of viral pathogenesis that interesting, and even those who do don't want to read about it when they cruise over to my blog.
That's why I'm really excited that finally I may have found a reason to break out my skill set at scientific jibber-jabbery. These past five years that I've endured in graduate school getting my geek on are worth it if only to provide this investigative report. My two Masters degrees and almost-Ph.D will actually be good for something besides the copious production of negative data! I know that for the last month or so, one question has been foremost in everyone's mind. I don't care if you are Hillary or Obama (or totally awesome McCain), if you are rich or poor, if you are a highly-educated snot or woefully ignorant. Every American with the slightest shred of national identity and cultural awareness has been concerned about one thing and one thing only, and I can put my training to good use for once by playing medical detective and answering this burning question: WHAT IS UP WITH PATRICK SWAYZE'S PANCREATIC CANCER?!?!?!?!
Patrick Swayze is a national treasure, having singlehandedly perpetrated some of the greatest acts of patriotism ever. Namely, he kicked some invading commie ass via terrorist insurgency in Red Dawn and he proved that even sensitive types with NYU Philosophy Ph.D's can rip a bitch's throat out when aggravated by statements like "I used to fuck guys like you in prison!" in Road House. USA! U!S!A! U! S! A!
Perez Hilton stated that pancreatic cancer is incurable while reporting that Patrick Swayze has responded well to treatment. I think Perez Hilton's medical education has likely been based on pamphlets relating the dangers of meth addiction at free gay health clinics (pamphlets that, based on his hypocritical manhunt.net profile anyway, were largely ignored), so I am going to take this opportunity to discuss how a national hero like the Swayze is actually handling his cancer therapy.
According to the gossip internets, Patrick is seeing Dr. George Fisher at Stanford University Cancer Center. Patrick supposedly had a non-resectable tumor, a cancer that you can't just cut out and call it a day. That means that cancer cells from his initial pancreatic tumor packed up and went on the road via his lymphatics to set up little franchise tumors in his other vital organs. While his medical press team hasn't publicized the details of his patient records, I would imagine that their early references to his "limited amount of disease" means that there is minimal lymph node involvement. Since Swayze is supposedly receiving "experimental" treatment, he's most likely enrolled in one of the clinical trials Dr. Fisher is sponsoring at Stanford. I decided to check out the details of these trials to get some more insight into Patrick Swayze's battle against metastatic malignancy.
Currently, Dr. Fisher is running two adult clinical trials currently enrolling adult patients. The first is the Swayz-meister's most likely therapy if he truly has a lower stage version of cancer. This trial involves using conventional treatments (or "therapeutic modalities," to use some hilarious industry parlance) such as combination drug therapy and radiation treatment. They are using some new kind of means of delivering the radiation therapy (specifically, a new imaging technology which helps to better place radioactive seeds within the tumor to kill it), which is what is experimental about this protocol. This is for patients who have metastatic pancreatic cancer that has not spread far beyond the actual pancreas or its associated draining lymph nodes.
Dr. Fisher's second trial involves a high-dose regimen of currently available chemotherapy drugs and a second regimen of an experimental drug. This experimental drug blocks the action of tyrosine kinases, proteins that normally determine how cells decide whether or not they divide, recruit a blood supply by creating new tributaries of the circulatory system, or move around in the body. Cancer cells--especially pancreatic cancer cells--like to divide, like having blood vessels and go on physiological road trips, which is why this type of cancer is particularly nasty. In theory, the combination of conventional chemotherapy drugs (proven to kill some cancer cells) with a compound that tells cancer cells to stop acting cancerous should work. In reality, this doesn't work for a lot of patients, and that's why the enrollment criteria for this trial defines eligibility as having a life expectancy greater than or equal to twelve weeks. If this trial is recruiting patients who have a minimum of three months to live, then this is a last gasp at proving efficacy in the first place. I hope Patrick Swayze isn't involved in this trial, because it is designed for the desperate, almost-certainly-going-to-die patient to dare their final hope for survival.
I hope that my science-dropping has better informed the masses of Swayziacs regarding the ongoing treatment for his pancreatic cancer. No matter what the esteemed Perez Hilton might state, pancreatic cancer is not incurable, and although the cure rate is very low, his good response to what I hope is the therapy defined by the first trial I described is an indication that he will help beef up the grave five-year survival statistics concerning this disease. Swayze MUST survive! Patrick Swayze's death would be tantamount to R. Kelly's conviction in my book: it would send me into a deep and possibly insurmountable depression. Thanks to my medical detective work, I am now convinced that hope is not lost. Patrick Swayze will still be with us in case the Russians invade Colorado, or in case a redneck Missouri dive bar needs to be liberated from the corrupt stranglehold of a local small-town organized crime boss.
Labels: celebrities, nerd alert, Patrick Swayze, science, tragedy
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Pourin' out for Pourin' Up
Sadly, Chad "Pimp C" Butler passed away two days ago from as-yet-undisclosed causes. His mom says he died in his sleep, which makes me think "codeine and promethazine overdose," but I'm down to make a friendly wager on this matter if you have another idea. My thoughts are that 33-year-old dudes don't just up and die for no reason, and given that he was a man from the South who noted in "Big Pimpin'" (while helping Jay-Z make Grey Goose vodka rain all over the tits of a veritable army of bikini-clad video hoes) that he's "keepin' lean up in his cup." Other notable Houston-based rappers (ie: DJ Screw) have died from overdoing their Jolly Rancher-Sprite-prescription cough syrup-vodka concoctions, so my money's on the sizzurp.
Anyway, it's sad that the world was deprived of this great artist at such a young age. Pimp C's fans have already crafted beautiful and moving tributes to his memory, and to help his longtime partner Bernard "Bun B" Freeman cope with his loss. I know it hurts, but stay trill!
To keep his memory alive, I will conclude this memorial with a few lines that Pimp C penned himself. Pimpalation will always be proceeding so long as we cherish Pimp C's contribution within our hearts. Bow your head and take a moment to reflect.
Anyway, it's sad that the world was deprived of this great artist at such a young age. Pimp C's fans have already crafted beautiful and moving tributes to his memory, and to help his longtime partner Bernard "Bun B" Freeman cope with his loss. I know it hurts, but stay trill!
To keep his memory alive, I will conclude this memorial with a few lines that Pimp C penned himself. Pimpalation will always be proceeding so long as we cherish Pimp C's contribution within our hearts. Bow your head and take a moment to reflect.
Smokin out, pourin up, puttin dick up in yo slutFather-Son-Holy Spirit, Amen.
All my car got leather and wood, in my hood we call it buck
I'm smokin out, pourin up, keep it lean up in my cup
All my car got leather and wood, in my hood we call it buck
Labels: drugs, people who died, rap, tragedy
Monday, November 19, 2007
Daily Douchebag: my wallet
Douchebaggery: While my birthday party on Saturday was a smashing success, one aspect of it totally SUCKED. I LOST MY FUCKING WALLET! I had to pay for a Metrocard with dimes--like a damn homeless person--to get to Josie Woods yesterday for birthday weekend football. Then the boys had to buy my beers and nachos, and NeisMan lent me twenty bucks for use until I can get to the bank and get a new debit card. Losing your wallet SUCKS.
Luckily, I didn't lose the new driver's license that I have yet to get, but I lost my damn monthly Metrocard, all my credit cards, my social security card, $50, a vintage Razzy business card from my old job slanging T cells, my scuba diving certification card, some free movie tickets that I had, and some of my favorite Catholic medals, including the old one that said "I am Catholic; In Case of an Accident, Please Call a Priest" and the medal of St. Anthony, who ironically is the patron saint of lost items. I am understandably pissed about this. I don't know if my wallet was stolen or just fell out of my purse, but I am not pleased that I have to replace some crap and other stuff is probably gone for good. I'm holding on to the slim hope that it fell out and the bar manager has it locked in their office, which is where the bartender on duty last night told me it would be if it had been found. Say a prayer to St. Anthony for me.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Razzification, tragedy
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Owen Wilson
DOB: November 18, 1968
Occupation: extremely irritating actor
Hometown: Dallas, Texas
Current residence: Santa Monica, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I actually hate Owen Wilson. I thought that Zoolander was funny, but when he's not being the So-Hot-Right-Now Hansel, I have zero interest in Owen Wilson. Most of his movies are either asinine romantic comedies or asinine slapstick comedies, and I have no time or patience for either one. I think his nose looks like Mad Eye Moody meets a genital wart, and I hate dudes who specialize in lovable doofus roles. So why is he my Daily Dude I Want to Hit, you ask?
Because over the weekend, Owen Wilson did the greatest, most honorable, most selfless act of his entire vapid, irksome life: he tried to kill himself. Although the official story is that he's either dehydrated or suffering from an "undisclosed medical condition," my trusty gossip internets have informed me that he was removed from his house by an ambulance after being found with bleeding wrists and an empty bottle of Percocet. I can just imagine how this went down.
Owen actually watched one of his own movies, and the shame and horror of what he hath wrought upon the world overcame him. Much as Oedipus, shocked by the realization that he'd boned his freshly suicided mom and consequently cursed Thebes with the disfavor of the gods, put out his eyes, Owen seemingly decided that his crimes against the moviegoing public were the disgrace of his life and moved to make things right. He didn't succeed, but this has all the makings of a great Greek tragedy. I don't think Sophocles or Aeschylus could have scripted anything better about the grave price one pays for hubris.
Anyway, hats off to Owen for trying to make amends with the world by removing himself from it. Next time, dude, remember that cutting your wrists horizontally is just an amateurish cry for help. If you want to get this done, go vertical and make sure you really open up those veins! Just a suggestion. I really want Owen's efforts to pay off (and by "pay off," I mean "non-extant and thus no longer able to pollute the media with shitshows like You, Me, and Dupree or Shanghai Knights").
Labels: crazies, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, intentional buffoonery, tragedy
Monday, May 14, 2007
Pour Some Liquor for The Source
It's always nauseating for man to come face to face with his inherent insignificance. History may repeat itself in perpetuity, but time is linear in nature--all things come to an end at some point, even the most seemingly indestructible monuments to civilization: the ancient empires of Egypt, Greece, Rome; even the mighty "Northwestern" will one day find itself moored at the depths of the Puget Sound or the Behring Sea. And yet, I don't think I could have ever prepared myself for the metaphysical ball-kick I received last week as I was reading our trade journal, the "Bankruptcy Law Reporter". Imagine my shock and anger when I stumbled across the following:
"...Source Magazine and its affiliate Source Entertainment, Inc., April 30 announced that they have filed for Chapter 11 protection in the U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the Southern District of New York after dishonest business practices by former management caused the hip-hop media outlet's advertisers to pull out, according to news reports. The company, which publishes The Source, a monthly magazine devoted to hip-hop music and culture, also markets audio features, including cell phone ring tones and wallpaper, and produces promotional hip-hop music events, including the Source Awards, news reports indicate.
...Source founder David Mays and company president Raymond "Benzino" Scott were fired in 2006, after the magazine lost significant support from advertisers. The company also reportedly issued bad checks to former employees and creditors, and abruptly stopped sending magazines to some 140,000 subscribers...Three creditors filed an involuntary Chapter 7 bankruptcy petition for affiliate Source Enterprises, Inc. last July, claiming the company owed them $562,693.00. That proceeding was converted to a Chapter 11 proceeding in September.
...The Source was once considered the premier hip-hop publication in the U.S. The company listed consolidated assets of about $1.3 million and liabilities of $35 million on December 31."
There won't be a 300th.
Apparently all those Bentleys and Rolexes were leased after all. Or at least bought on credit. $35,000,000.00 of unsecured debt?! Chapter 11 exists to afford an insolvent company the opportunity to restructure its debt, reorganize its business operations, or a combination of both in the hope that it can emerge from bankruptcy protection as a viable economic entity capable of paying its creditors. Given the debt to asset ratio depicted in the Source filings, however, I think successful reorganization is unlikely. And that's sad. Deeply so.
In the wake of this discovery, I've already commenced the grieving process. My sadness is waning at this point, though I can already feel the anger and denial bubbling to the surface. Deal making is hardly a week away.
And so it goes. Another giant of civilization succumbs to the dust from whence it arose. R.I..P., Source. Por Vida.
"...Source Magazine and its affiliate Source Entertainment, Inc., April 30 announced that they have filed for Chapter 11 protection in the U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the Southern District of New York after dishonest business practices by former management caused the hip-hop media outlet's advertisers to pull out, according to news reports. The company, which publishes The Source, a monthly magazine devoted to hip-hop music and culture, also markets audio features, including cell phone ring tones and wallpaper, and produces promotional hip-hop music events, including the Source Awards, news reports indicate.
...Source founder David Mays and company president Raymond "Benzino" Scott were fired in 2006, after the magazine lost significant support from advertisers. The company also reportedly issued bad checks to former employees and creditors, and abruptly stopped sending magazines to some 140,000 subscribers...Three creditors filed an involuntary Chapter 7 bankruptcy petition for affiliate Source Enterprises, Inc. last July, claiming the company owed them $562,693.00. That proceeding was converted to a Chapter 11 proceeding in September.
...The Source was once considered the premier hip-hop publication in the U.S. The company listed consolidated assets of about $1.3 million and liabilities of $35 million on December 31."
There won't be a 300th.
Apparently all those Bentleys and Rolexes were leased after all. Or at least bought on credit. $35,000,000.00 of unsecured debt?! Chapter 11 exists to afford an insolvent company the opportunity to restructure its debt, reorganize its business operations, or a combination of both in the hope that it can emerge from bankruptcy protection as a viable economic entity capable of paying its creditors. Given the debt to asset ratio depicted in the Source filings, however, I think successful reorganization is unlikely. And that's sad. Deeply so.
In the wake of this discovery, I've already commenced the grieving process. My sadness is waning at this point, though I can already feel the anger and denial bubbling to the surface. Deal making is hardly a week away.
And so it goes. Another giant of civilization succumbs to the dust from whence it arose. R.I..P., Source. Por Vida.
Labels: hilarious shit, media whores, Morrissey'sHair, overcompensation, rap, Title 11 United States Code, tragedy
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
The P-N-Dub versus the Volcano
One of the things about the P-N-Dub (and that means PACIFIC NORTHWEST, to the many people who STILL haven't figured that out in spite of my explaining it several different times) that is notable besides the abundance of salmon, coffee, Costcos, and Windows billionaires, is our lovely natural scenery. We have beautiful bays, verdant year-round evergreen forests, mighty rivers (as anyone who, like me, repeatedly failed at successfully sailing their wagon down the Columbia River from the Dalles at the end of the elementary school "Oregon Trail" computer game can attest), crashing Pacific surf, and majestic mountains. Our largest and most famous mountain, for which our tastiest and most famous local beer Vitamin R is formally named, can be seen here in all its snow-capped glory: Mt. Rainier, known as "Tahoma" by the local Native American tribes, towering over Tacoma, a city whose name is also derived from its magnificence.
Yes, it's very breathtaking and awe-inspiring (as is the hideously triangular outdoor wallpaper design on the Tacompton Dome). Adding to its impressiveness is the fact that Mt. Rainier is an active volcano. It hasn't erupted in 500 years, but apparently it's due any time now. After Mt. St. Helens erupted in 1980, it occurred to the US geological survey that Mt. Rainier might also blow its top. However, unlike Mt. St. Helens, which is in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, Mt. Rainier towers over the heavily populated Seattle-Tacoma metropolitan area, the land that spawned yours truly. Therefore, the possibility for mass casualties and subsequent FEMA ineptitude in the event of a catastrophic eruption is considerably more worrisome regarding Rainier than St. Helens.
Apparently the big eruption, when it occurs, will not be like those you see on a tropical island or like what happened at the end of LOTR: Return of the King after the One Ring was destroyed, with lava spouting out and flowing everywhere. There will be plenty of lava, but nobody will be able to see it unless they are inside the crater at the time of eruption, a vantage point that equates to instant death. All that magma trying to spurt out of the mountain will hit the underside of Rainier's scenic snowy peak, which is actually billions of gallons of water frozen into several huge-ass glaciers. Those glaciers will instantly liquefy, forming clouds of superheated sulfuric acid gas (called the "pyroclastic flow") and giant walls of boiling mud (called "lahars") that will rocket down the mountainside at the speed of an F-16 fighter jet. While the pyroclastic flow can mix with the hot ash flying out of the mountain to create severe lightning storms and sulfuric acid rainstorms and that's pretty dangerous, the lahars are worse. They will pick up everything, from houses to giant boulders to entire forests, as they speed down the mountain to destroy the towns below. Obviously when the geologists realized that this has a very high probability of happening sometime within the next century, they concluded that maybe a little planning was in order.
My high school best friend G-Boner grew up about ten minutes away from my parents' house in a town called Orting. Orting is located in a valley at the confluence of several riverbeds formed by ancient glaciers leaking off Mt. Rainier. If the mountain erupts, geologists say it's highly likely that a lahar 30-100 feet in height will bury Orting almost immediately. They estimate that the people in Orting will have 30-40 minutes to evacuate before its curtains for them. This is so imminent that when I was in college, a lot of my friends took a Rocks for Jocks course called "Natural Disasters." The hypothetical eruption of Mt. Rainier formed the basis for the ENTIRE COURSE, and everyone in it had to form a group and make a detailed presentation about all the ways my hometown and the surrounding areas are seriously, unequivocally, unfixably fucked. A couple of my friends formed a group and actually incorporated video footage of an interview with me answering questions like, "How does it feel to live in the shadow of impending destruction?" and "Do you experience any anxiety that your friends, family, dog, and everything you grew up knowing might be wiped out at any moment?" and (my favorite) "Are you terrified of seismic activity?" (One popular theory is that an earthquake might set off an eruption).
Fortunately, I don't have to experience constant anxiety while I'm home visiting the P-N-Dub, because the area is prepared. Valleys that will presumably be buried in lahars have installed sirens, and there are various emergency notification alert systems using phones, radio, and TV announcements that will warn us to drop what we're doing and get the fuck out of the lahar zone. For several years, signs advising people of "volcano evacuation routes" have been placed at the bottom of various elevated areas, and basically instruct people that in the event of an eruption, they should literally head for the hills.
I arrived back in the P-N-Dub right in time for a Pierce County-wide lahar drill. Apparently, a bunch of the sirens in such distinguished towns as McMillen and Alderton didn't work, and now the county is freaking out. Apparently, even though these towns have a killer view of the Rainier, none of the inbred dumbasses living there will be perturbed when they hear really loud EXPLODING SOUND, look up, and notice A GIANT FUCKING MUSHROOM CLOUD COMING OUT OF IT:
By the way, that's Mt. St. Helens, and it's like Rainier's kid sister. St. Helens was way smaller, with substantially less glacial mass on top of it, and this is what it did. Mt. Rainier's emissions will be at least twice as big and frightening. If you can't see the fucking mushroom cloud coming out of Rainier, then you had better be blind, because I don't see how you could miss it otherwise. Even if one of these valley-dwellers is too blind or stupid to see an intact mushroom cloud, one would think that sky being blotted out by a huge Apocalyptic-looking curtain of volcanic ash would suggest that it might be time to check out that volcano evacuation route. This is another picture from when St. Helens erupted in 1980. I guarantee that if I walked outside and saw this going on, I wouldn't respond by shrugging and noting, "Wow, the sky sure does look weird today." I mean, we are also famous for our cloudy skies here in the P-N-Dub, but there's overcast with a slight chance of rain and then there's overcast with a 100% chance of Biblically proportioned fire and brimstone, and this is the latter.
My personal opinion is that if the mountain blows and you need a siren or a phone call from the county sheriff to tell you that it's time to make like a tree and leave your double-wide behind alongside the Orting-Kapowsin highway, you would be doing our species a favor by staying right where you are and allowing the lahars to crush you and all those in your inferior gene pool to dust. Who needs eugenics when we've got mother nature, right?
On the bright side, when the mountain blows, my family and I will probably all get FEMA checks to spend on bags of oo-wee and baby mama's new weaves. Since all the dumb people will have succumbed to the fury of the lahars because they were too busy sitting around their sketchily financed Rent-a-Center flatscreens watching NASCAR and cooking meth to evacuate, and will subsequently be dead, there will be plenty of disaster relief to go around for the rest of us to spend inappropriately. Score!
Apparently the big eruption, when it occurs, will not be like those you see on a tropical island or like what happened at the end of LOTR: Return of the King after the One Ring was destroyed, with lava spouting out and flowing everywhere. There will be plenty of lava, but nobody will be able to see it unless they are inside the crater at the time of eruption, a vantage point that equates to instant death. All that magma trying to spurt out of the mountain will hit the underside of Rainier's scenic snowy peak, which is actually billions of gallons of water frozen into several huge-ass glaciers. Those glaciers will instantly liquefy, forming clouds of superheated sulfuric acid gas (called the "pyroclastic flow") and giant walls of boiling mud (called "lahars") that will rocket down the mountainside at the speed of an F-16 fighter jet. While the pyroclastic flow can mix with the hot ash flying out of the mountain to create severe lightning storms and sulfuric acid rainstorms and that's pretty dangerous, the lahars are worse. They will pick up everything, from houses to giant boulders to entire forests, as they speed down the mountain to destroy the towns below. Obviously when the geologists realized that this has a very high probability of happening sometime within the next century, they concluded that maybe a little planning was in order.
My high school best friend G-Boner grew up about ten minutes away from my parents' house in a town called Orting. Orting is located in a valley at the confluence of several riverbeds formed by ancient glaciers leaking off Mt. Rainier. If the mountain erupts, geologists say it's highly likely that a lahar 30-100 feet in height will bury Orting almost immediately. They estimate that the people in Orting will have 30-40 minutes to evacuate before its curtains for them. This is so imminent that when I was in college, a lot of my friends took a Rocks for Jocks course called "Natural Disasters." The hypothetical eruption of Mt. Rainier formed the basis for the ENTIRE COURSE, and everyone in it had to form a group and make a detailed presentation about all the ways my hometown and the surrounding areas are seriously, unequivocally, unfixably fucked. A couple of my friends formed a group and actually incorporated video footage of an interview with me answering questions like, "How does it feel to live in the shadow of impending destruction?" and "Do you experience any anxiety that your friends, family, dog, and everything you grew up knowing might be wiped out at any moment?" and (my favorite) "Are you terrified of seismic activity?" (One popular theory is that an earthquake might set off an eruption).
Fortunately, I don't have to experience constant anxiety while I'm home visiting the P-N-Dub, because the area is prepared. Valleys that will presumably be buried in lahars have installed sirens, and there are various emergency notification alert systems using phones, radio, and TV announcements that will warn us to drop what we're doing and get the fuck out of the lahar zone. For several years, signs advising people of "volcano evacuation routes" have been placed at the bottom of various elevated areas, and basically instruct people that in the event of an eruption, they should literally head for the hills.
I arrived back in the P-N-Dub right in time for a Pierce County-wide lahar drill. Apparently, a bunch of the sirens in such distinguished towns as McMillen and Alderton didn't work, and now the county is freaking out. Apparently, even though these towns have a killer view of the Rainier, none of the inbred dumbasses living there will be perturbed when they hear really loud EXPLODING SOUND, look up, and notice A GIANT FUCKING MUSHROOM CLOUD COMING OUT OF IT:
By the way, that's Mt. St. Helens, and it's like Rainier's kid sister. St. Helens was way smaller, with substantially less glacial mass on top of it, and this is what it did. Mt. Rainier's emissions will be at least twice as big and frightening. If you can't see the fucking mushroom cloud coming out of Rainier, then you had better be blind, because I don't see how you could miss it otherwise. Even if one of these valley-dwellers is too blind or stupid to see an intact mushroom cloud, one would think that sky being blotted out by a huge Apocalyptic-looking curtain of volcanic ash would suggest that it might be time to check out that volcano evacuation route. This is another picture from when St. Helens erupted in 1980. I guarantee that if I walked outside and saw this going on, I wouldn't respond by shrugging and noting, "Wow, the sky sure does look weird today." I mean, we are also famous for our cloudy skies here in the P-N-Dub, but there's overcast with a slight chance of rain and then there's overcast with a 100% chance of Biblically proportioned fire and brimstone, and this is the latter.
My personal opinion is that if the mountain blows and you need a siren or a phone call from the county sheriff to tell you that it's time to make like a tree and leave your double-wide behind alongside the Orting-Kapowsin highway, you would be doing our species a favor by staying right where you are and allowing the lahars to crush you and all those in your inferior gene pool to dust. Who needs eugenics when we've got mother nature, right?
On the bright side, when the mountain blows, my family and I will probably all get FEMA checks to spend on bags of oo-wee and baby mama's new weaves. Since all the dumb people will have succumbed to the fury of the lahars because they were too busy sitting around their sketchily financed Rent-a-Center flatscreens watching NASCAR and cooking meth to evacuate, and will subsequently be dead, there will be plenty of disaster relief to go around for the rest of us to spend inappropriately. Score!
Labels: natural disaster, oh the horror, P-N-Dub, tragedy
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Back to his little grass shack
As if I wasn't already depressed enough by having to work and the fact that there is an unseasonable Nor'easter unleashing hell upon the city today, a very important early influence on my life kicked the bucket. It is with deep sadness that I acknowledge the passing of this giant of Hawaiian music...the utterly incomparable Don Ho:
There aren't very many dudes in the world who can make raspberry-tinted glasses and a Ukelele their trademarks and actually pull it off, but Don Ho managed to do so. I've adored Don Ho as much as the hot younger chick in the above picture, because he's been an influential force in my life almost since I was born.
When I was around two or three, I had this tape full of songs that I would sing along to. I don't really remember this much, but every once in a while I'll be making fun of some trashy song from the late 70s or early 80s, and my mom will say, "That was on your 'Favorite Songs' tape. You used to sing it all the time." From what I have discerned so far, this tape contained some AWESOME musical selections such as "Wildfire" by Michael Martin Murphy (song about a chick and her horse, I think), "If You Like Pina Coladas" by Rupert Holmes (song about 70s swinging and striking out on the newspaper personal ad scene), "Freeze Frame" by J. Geils Band (song about ?????), "Angie" by the Rolling Stones (duh), "Leader of the Band" by Dan Fogelberg (song about his elderly father), "Maneater" by Darryl Hall and John Oates (song about an unrepentant slut), "Bette Davis Eyes" by Kim Carnes (song about a super hot bitch in New York), "Urgent" by Foreigner (song about needing to get laid IMMEDIATELY), and "Tiny Bubbles" by Don Ho (song about drinking champers in Hawaii).
Apart from my instinctive attraction to "Tiny Bubbles" because of its alcohol-related theme, I used to really enjoy singing this song soulfully for my parents and their friends (then, as now, I was a zealous attention-seeker). When I was only about three, my ability to enunciate wasn't quite as well developed, and I would sing "Tiny Buboes...in the WINE." Perhaps it was due to my underdeveloped toddler's soft palate, and perhaps it was just an ode to things I would eventually like. "Bubo" could refer to two things:
1. The mechanical owl who assisted Perseus in his valiant struggles against Kalybos, his vengeful mother the goddess Thetis, and the evil Gorgon Medusa to save his beloved Andromeda from the fury of the Kraken in one of the greatest movies ever next to Varsity Blues and the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Clash of the Titans:
I was crooning "Tiny Buboes" right around the time Clash of the Titans came out, and I was immediately entranced by it, so it's entirely possible that my rendition of Don Ho's masterpiece was indeed a tribute to Perseus's charming robotic owl.
2. An extremely enlarged, inflamed, painful, swollen, darkened lymph node characteristic of infection with Yersinia pestis. This is why the plague is called "black death," because the lymph nodes get full of hemorrhagic material and scar tissue (as you can see in the transverse H&E-stained section below) and become necrotic and black, which is called a "bubo", hence the "bubonic plague":
Although I've never had plague and don't study it, I think that singing about microbial diseases at a young age certainly prepped me for doing it as a career. I'm sure if there were a song that had lyrics which sounded like "allergic airway hypersensitization" or "paralytic poliomyelitis" I'd have sung that accidentally too.
In any event, whether I took Don Ho's classic to primarily mean "buy Clash of the Titans on DVD" or "pursue a career in microbiology", I ended up doing both. "Tiny Bubbles" was as much of an influence on the person I am today as The Sun Also Rises or Too $hort's Cocktails album.
Rest in peace, Don Ho(tness)...I hope wherever you are, the humuhumunukunukuappu'aa'aa are swimming by.
When I was around two or three, I had this tape full of songs that I would sing along to. I don't really remember this much, but every once in a while I'll be making fun of some trashy song from the late 70s or early 80s, and my mom will say, "That was on your 'Favorite Songs' tape. You used to sing it all the time." From what I have discerned so far, this tape contained some AWESOME musical selections such as "Wildfire" by Michael Martin Murphy (song about a chick and her horse, I think), "If You Like Pina Coladas" by Rupert Holmes (song about 70s swinging and striking out on the newspaper personal ad scene), "Freeze Frame" by J. Geils Band (song about ?????), "Angie" by the Rolling Stones (duh), "Leader of the Band" by Dan Fogelberg (song about his elderly father), "Maneater" by Darryl Hall and John Oates (song about an unrepentant slut), "Bette Davis Eyes" by Kim Carnes (song about a super hot bitch in New York), "Urgent" by Foreigner (song about needing to get laid IMMEDIATELY), and "Tiny Bubbles" by Don Ho (song about drinking champers in Hawaii).
Apart from my instinctive attraction to "Tiny Bubbles" because of its alcohol-related theme, I used to really enjoy singing this song soulfully for my parents and their friends (then, as now, I was a zealous attention-seeker). When I was only about three, my ability to enunciate wasn't quite as well developed, and I would sing "Tiny Buboes...in the WINE." Perhaps it was due to my underdeveloped toddler's soft palate, and perhaps it was just an ode to things I would eventually like. "Bubo" could refer to two things:
1. The mechanical owl who assisted Perseus in his valiant struggles against Kalybos, his vengeful mother the goddess Thetis, and the evil Gorgon Medusa to save his beloved Andromeda from the fury of the Kraken in one of the greatest movies ever next to Varsity Blues and the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Clash of the Titans:
I was crooning "Tiny Buboes" right around the time Clash of the Titans came out, and I was immediately entranced by it, so it's entirely possible that my rendition of Don Ho's masterpiece was indeed a tribute to Perseus's charming robotic owl.
2. An extremely enlarged, inflamed, painful, swollen, darkened lymph node characteristic of infection with Yersinia pestis. This is why the plague is called "black death," because the lymph nodes get full of hemorrhagic material and scar tissue (as you can see in the transverse H&E-stained section below) and become necrotic and black, which is called a "bubo", hence the "bubonic plague":
Although I've never had plague and don't study it, I think that singing about microbial diseases at a young age certainly prepped me for doing it as a career. I'm sure if there were a song that had lyrics which sounded like "allergic airway hypersensitization" or "paralytic poliomyelitis" I'd have sung that accidentally too.
In any event, whether I took Don Ho's classic to primarily mean "buy Clash of the Titans on DVD" or "pursue a career in microbiology", I ended up doing both. "Tiny Bubbles" was as much of an influence on the person I am today as The Sun Also Rises or Too $hort's Cocktails album.
Rest in peace, Don Ho(tness)...I hope wherever you are, the humuhumunukunukuappu'aa'aa are swimming by.
Labels: alcoholism, epidemic geekery, I LOVE IT, people who died, Razzification, tragedy
Friday, January 19, 2007
Stand by
My site has been down because my hosting company's servers are cheap and shitty. If, on some random chance, you actually get to connect to the site and read this, rest assured that I'm currently working on the problem (by "working on" I mean sending hostile e-mails to Website Source threatening to move my site to some other $6 per month hosting company, because we all know that the only type of computer-based "work" I'm capable of is typing bitchy useless bullshit.)
Hopefully, I will have sufficiently frightened the Website Source tech support staff with my righteous outrage and inspired them to drop their usual activity of sitting around sending condescending and only marginally helpful e-mails and fix my fucking FTP server or whatever the hell is wrong with my site. Obviously, civilization will fall to pieces if deprived of RAZZY.org too long, so I expect this to be rectified by tonight at the latest.
Hopefully, I will have sufficiently frightened the Website Source tech support staff with my righteous outrage and inspired them to drop their usual activity of sitting around sending condescending and only marginally helpful e-mails and fix my fucking FTP server or whatever the hell is wrong with my site. Obviously, civilization will fall to pieces if deprived of RAZZY.org too long, so I expect this to be rectified by tonight at the latest.
Labels: computer incompetence, internet domination, tragedy
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Mourning
I cannot speak of what happened during overtime in the Seahawks game today, but I will say this:
GO SAINTS! Please please please knock the piss out of Rex Grossman and those asshole Bears next week during the NFC Championship game. And make sure Reggie (Get in My) Bush is featured prominently during the game, too.
GO SAINTS! Please please please knock the piss out of Rex Grossman and those asshole Bears next week during the NFC Championship game. And make sure Reggie (Get in My) Bush is featured prominently during the game, too.
Labels: NFL football, Seahawks, tragedy
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Sympathy all around
My deepest and most heartfelt sympathies go out to BigBagel, Dirrty Dirrty expatriate and Jersey native, on the Giants' loss to the Eagles tonight in the NFC Wild Card game. I know that he's probably sitting in some Mississippian bar, surrounded by a cadre of empty jalapeno popper plates and mammoth piles of the bones of many vanquished hot wings, despairing as the Giants' season ended with that last-second David Akers field goal. Even though I hate the Giants, I hate the Eagles more, and imagining a despondent BigBagel over the Giants falling to the hated Philadelphia fills me with a sense of deep sadness. I pray that BigBagel's wish comes true and Tom Coughlin's cranky ass gets unceremonially and decisively sent packing from the Meadowlands. Although unlikely, I think that the Giants would be wise to lose Eli "FAS" Manning ("FAS" is BigBagel's nickname for him; it stands for "Fetal Alcohol Syndrome") as well and start with a clean slate next year.
Incidentally, I'd also like to extend my condolences to BigBagel's fiancee and my dear friend LL Cool Jew, because, given BigBagel's presumable fugue state, she probably isn't getting laid tonight.
Incidentally, I'd also like to extend my condolences to BigBagel's fiancee and my dear friend LL Cool Jew, because, given BigBagel's presumable fugue state, she probably isn't getting laid tonight.
Labels: BigBagel, LL Cool Jew, NFL football, tragedy
Saturday, December 30, 2006
2006: The Year of the Slut
It's that time again: the year in review. Here are the top hits that I knew about for the year - lovingly dubbed "The Year of the Slut" by my buddy Garbo. NEW YEAR'S EVE: We rang it in with more than good cheer. It's Rack's birthday, assholes, so the New Year is the least important of the relevant events. There were spankings from a Bettie Page look-alike, potfulls of thrice-spiked cider, a Harppon-employee (ergo free beer for three solid days), make-out sessions on linoleum floors, probably table-dances (can't remember), and more drastic instances of misbehavior. Well worth the drive and looking forward to the sequel tonight.
THE FIFA WORLD CUP: If you forget about the TOTAL shock of its outcome, the raucous good times of floating boozily through Irish bars in Manhattan, and the really remarkable number of hookups that invariably accompany this sort of endless social event, the title goes to Zinedine-I'm'a-fuck-your-face-up-Zidane. I was so drunk for a month that I couldn't feel my face when he cracked skull on the field, but I sure felt my jaw drop. Right into my next beer.
THE O.J. BOOK: Don't matter if Murdock prints it or not, which is great because he won't. But what FUCKING SHIT WAS THAT. Just when we thought that this pivotal post-Rodney King, pre-Dialo racial moment couldn't get any weirder, we are reminded why models and football players are not allowed to speak.
SADDAM HUSSEIN: [...]
AMERICA VOTES: The Democrats swept the nation in the 2006 elections. The outcomes hangs in the balance to see what can get done in this political gridlock, as our Commandante in Chief struggles with English and leadership, and the threat of any level of disaster to a Democratic Senator can upset the balance, but hell - the victory parties have been unrivaled.
TEJ OFFENSIVE: An evil plot to silence Razzy is foiled. Still ugly. But foiled. NOICE!
PLUTO DEMOTED: After millienia of devoted service, Pluto is kicked back down the cosmic ladder to middle management. No gold-plated watch. Just the outer ranks of outerspace. Qouth my father, "It throughs astrology into a tailspin." All I wanna know is, who's fucking head can I cut off for this? MY SALARY: In contrast to Pluto's diminished status, my shit hit a seismic spike. make no bones about it: it pays to be experiential. Fingers crossed for my bonus, when I can finally silence those rat bastard credit cards.
NORTH KOREA'S NUKES: Bless.
MY MOM IS DONE WITH MENOPAUSE: Score!
NASA: Three cheers for these poor sons of bitches for getting their shit together. They saved their funding, they pulled off three launches and they're thinking big on four for next year, they got shit on Mars, and they actually studied their data to apply it to the Orion - shit is rosy for America in SPACE Space space. Here's to you, JFK. TEACHER'S HIGH SCHOOL REUNION: My buddies Teach and Tubby hit their South Kakalaka high school reunion where the Most Popular Guy in their class, piss drunk and hard up for cash, tried to sell Tubby a dime bag. Almost simultaneously, M.P.G.'s remarkably drunker girlfriend made a confession to Teach that she and M.P.G. had met on MySpace, and requested discretion. Both bits of news hit the floor about eight minutes later. Luckily, M.P.G. was involved in a fist fight at the punch table for other reasons, and was forcibly ejected by security.
PLASTIC SURGERY: That is, my grandmother, at 80, has decided to close the door on face lifts.
MICROSOFT VISTA: At long fucking last, Gates takes a cue from Apple. If it ever comes out, we'll maybe have computers we can use. After all, the only criticism comes from Forbes.com is that it's not "people-ready". Quote they, "The new system is bloated and overly complex. Why wait?"
JACK BAUER: First of all, Keifer Southerland's career is officially saved. After Flatliners, we weren't sure, but things are on the up and up for the son of the Donald.
STEP DOWN: Lance Armstrong abdicates. David Beckham steps aside. Rumsfeld is out. But Jigger's back, bitches, and that's all that matters.
NATURAL DISASTER: 2004 gave us the Thai tsunami. 2005 was back with a vengeance with hurricanes so extraordinary, Katrina included, that we ran out of letters and had to start with the Greek alphabet. Fingers crossed that we make it through the next seven hours.
SNAKES ON A PLANE: Best line ever, forgive me if I paraphrase, the Samuel L. wrach delievred: "Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!" I mean, after holiday travel, who isn't?
SMOKING GUN: Paris announces it will shortly ban smoking. I can't hear you.
TOM CRUISE: L. Ron strikes again. But on Oprah this time.
JACK PALANCE & GERALD FORD: Rest your souls, gents.
WATCH OUT, WILT CHAMBERLAIN: Cuz Kobe Bryant is the close saludatorian on all your titles, bro. But in this instance, I'm only talking about the game against the Raptors.
PAUL McCARTNEY: He gets that one-legged hooker to stand down, and also Rack and I stood within eight feet of him at JFK. He fucking smiled at her. Eat that, Beatle lovers. And also, no more Beatles died this year. With any luck, Death will focus on the Bay City Rollers for a while.
K-FED-ED: I need not say more. Free at last, Miss Britney, to reclaim your battered rock stardom.
LOYD IS GONE: With his charges mostly resolved, the renovations mostly done, and his rent mostly paid, Loyd is no longer employed as the Schnieder of the Blythewood Fallon household. No more advances on the paycheck, no more half-assed networking attempts of the dental laboratory technology, and no more visits for fucking nothing at 7 am. My parents fired his moochin ass, Pax Fallonia regained. Fuck that last unhung door.
BLYTHEWOOD, S.C.: Maybe y'all 'on'y know 'bout Doko, but Blythewood is on the climbin track this year. There are now five - count them, five - stoplights in my one-stoplight town. Four gas stations, three hotels, two grocery stores, partridge and shit, and a high school. And not just any high shcool. in its first year out of the gate, the highly anticipated Blythewood Bengals spank fat AAA-ass to take the state title in their first season. First of all, this just don't happen. And second of all - this just don't happen. Let's hear it for country ass in motion. 
JACK SPARROW: He lives, and so does Keith Richards, steadily enough to pop up in the next Pirates of the Caribbean. This is a monumentous occasion, and let us give thanks for both.
THE DA VINCI CODE: The American public still spends money on Tom Hanks. Cuz after all, life is a box of chocolates. And that's what Ron Howard gives his boyfriend.
BORAT: Ali G's years of underground genius finally make him some fucking money. High five. PINK TUTU: That is, my mom suggested that I wear one while I do dishes. This may sound insane to some of you, but the reality is that, had you placed a bet ten years ago as to which one I do first, you'd'a a fifty-chance of winning. Now that I support myself, I do, on occasion, wash dishes, so she was just testing the limits. Rest assured, though, that if your bet was on dishes, you won.
THE REAL WORLD: My sister is a college ga-gaduala, got a real job, and has a really good relationship in the works. And she has the CUTEST DOG. Gold medal for my bitch.
PLAYING THE FIELD: The Duke Lacrosse team is back. Into what, you ask? Remains to be seen.
PARIS HILTON: Still fucking famous, someone help me understand.
MICHAEL RICHARDS: Fuck bird flu. This erstwhile semi-celebrity gets foot-in-mouth disease by bringing back that old Ku Klux favorite joke, LYNCHING BLACK PEOPLE. Lest we think En Vogue's "Colorblind" made headway, beware ye hostile stand-ups and Seinfield hasbeens.
MEL GIBSON LEARNS TO DRIVE SLOWER: The miracle is, Russell Crowe's been off the grid for too long for comfort - watch out, 2K7.
REHAB: Robin Williams and Keith Urban. Their tell-all novel will def sell out.
MARGARET SANGER: The morning after pill cracks the glass ceiling. OU812 and RU486 step aside for drugs and concepts with names.
LOCAL DOG DISCOVERS ASPIRIN: As New York canines make confessions to their therapists, South Carolina native pooch Toby renews his own lease on life with aspirin for his arthritis, and gets back to his bee-biting, possum-cornering, car barking, ear scratching, and Alpo at seven[-ish].
TORINO: The Flying Tomato takes all.
MARDI GRAS: It happened, motherfuckers. And so did the Jazz Festival. Big fuck you, Mother Nature. Our boozing ceases not.
MR. T.: Sheds chains and still has TV career. I pity the naysayin' fool.
GET YOUR GAME ON: X-box 360 or Nintendo Wii, that is - either way, these gadgets had folks in line like it was a Star Wars premier - and fortunately, with better execution.
RESPITE OF THE SITH: Thanks be to the benevolence of Baby Jesus, George Lucas remained silent on the scriptwriting front, and our minds were able to rest from bungled romantic space operas. The capacity of Americans to show affection and have feelings dramatically rises. HD-DVD VERSUS BLU-RAY: Either begins or continues "taking digital perfection to a higher level."
NEW MEXICO: Chosen for Branson's Virgin Galactic SPACE Space space flight landing dock. Just a $20K deposit and you too can be on the waiting list to look at a lot of stars and then a whole lot of fucking sand. So spake my hero Han Solo, "This ain't like dustin' crops, boy. "
MADONNA REINSTATES SLAVE TRADE: But the kid will invariably get an awesome track suit from H&M in exchange for his daddy.
THE BIG RED HOOTER: Mal discovers the cocktail of the year, from across the great waters. Two shots tequila, one shot amaretto, fill the shit with pineapple juice and splash in some grenadine. Drunk dial me after three. I FOLD: After a decade of arbitrary resistance, I finally agree to watch Buffy: The Vampire Slayer with my family. My sister doesn't home and fucks up the plan, but the concession stands.
NATIVITY: The Greatest Story Ever Told. Told again. And again. And again. You guys ever heard of this guy, Jesus? Wicked plot. CANCER: Not cured. Again. Raz, you're still up.
BRANGELINA: Still being seen. Again. Good news is, whatever Brad's doing has put an end to her making out with her brother on-screen.
ON HUMAN BOND-AGE: Daniel Craig returns for a James Bond renewal in Casino Royale. He can't drive stick, he's afraid of water, and hates guns just like what'sit in Layer Cake, but goddamnit he's hot, and Sean Connery didn't protest, so it's all good. At least Bond lives on.
JONBENET RAMSEY: Still dead. But we got a revisitation with the possibility that her killer had finally been located. Since it turned out to be shoite, we have great hopes for more thrilling updates in 2007. And by the way, she's buried in the same graveyard as my old Georgia family.Labels: alcoholism, assholes, Britney Spears, crime and punishment, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, Johnny Depp, Kevin Federline, movies, Mr. T, Razzy Haters, smoking, tragedy
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Fuck the sphinx
Last Saturday I woke up with a terrible, brutal, hangover. I was nauseated and retching, and I had such a splitting headache that it felt as though my skull would split sagittally and Athena would pop out, clad in battle armor with gray eyes flashing. Nonetheless, I was determined to make a dim sum date with KatieScarlett and Bienvenido-a-Miami, so around noon I steeled myself for the arduous process of exiting my bed, making myself look slightly less like the bastard child of Bret Michaels and Aileen Wuornos, walking the dogs, fighting off the urge to dry heave all over the A train, and battling counterfeit purse-seeking tourists on Canal Street.
It took me a few minutes to even begin the process of moving the blankets off me, much less actually change from a supine posture to an upright one. The night before I was in serious revelry mode: I rocked a cocksucker red dress (it's a very Christmassy color), drank half a gallon of Smirnoff vodka with a very light splash of tonic, and tore up various grad student holiday parties. I was in BAD shape. And while I tried to cope with being awake and being this severely hung over, I looked down and noticed something that made me frown.
My fucking pubes were shaved crookedly. The day before, I had trimmed the hedges, so to speak, and I obviously hadn't used a level to shape my racing stripe. The shit looked like the trajectory of a bad Golden Tee shot. How could I have done this? It's not like it's THAT hard to shave in a straight fucking line. I had done said shaving during my morning shower, so it's not like I was drunk. I was completely sober, and still managed to do a hack job on what is a normal part of my routine. Maybe it was the hangover, but I was really bothered by this.
When I finally made it to the shower, I resolved to correct it. However, the sheer magnitude of punishment that my massive vodka consumption laid upon me dictated that I was physically unable to wield a sharp object around my nether regions with great precision. I didn't want to have a terrible accident with my Mach 3, and since I've already cheated death once while trying to shave my crotch, I didn't want to push it. However, I knew that if I didn't correct the crooked pubes, it would bother me all day. Lacking other options, I foolishly elected to do something very extreme. I shaved everything off.
Some might ask, "Why do you bother shaving? If you just go get waxed, you only have to do it every four weeks, and you don't have to worry about shaping it." I got waxed once, and it was horrible. LL Cool Jew made this appointment for us right before we went to Belize two years ago, and she asked what I wanted. "A Brazilian," I responded. "With a little racing stripe. Like Clark Gable's mustache, except vertical." LL Cool Jew called the waxing place, which claimed to be NYC's ONLY "exclusively wax studio", and told me, "They made up new names for all the standard waxes. Your procedure is called the deep Playboy bikini with buttocks strip instead of a good, old-fashioned Brazilian. If you want it all taken off, that's called the Sphinx. You don't want the Sphinx, right?"
"No way," I said. "I think that's kind of weird."
We went to get waxed and I walked into the room. The very massive non-English speaking Russian woman who was to wax my crotch indicated via some subtle hand gesticulations that I should take off my pants. I dropped trou, but didn't take them off. I'm comfortable being naked, but I wasn't sure what the procedure was for having someone else wax your pussy. Certainly at the gynecologist there's a certain amount of decorum involved in getting naked and sticking your feet in the stirrups, followed by some careful gown draping. I didn't know how this was done at the waxing salon. The woman shook her head and clucked at me sharply, then gestured more insistently that the pants and panties were to come all the way off. I obliged, and got up on the table.
The waxer smacked her meaty hands together with a loud slapping sound, reached down and grabbed my ankles, and roughly wrenched my legs apart. She began to apply the wax. I thought, "Well, it's not too hot. This isn't too bad." As if the waxer could read my mind, she smirked sadistically at the prospect of shattering my false sense of security, and slapped on a piece of paper and RIPPED.
I bit my lip, determined not to audibly express how excruciatingly painful it is to have hair torn out by the root from your labia majora. She continued this for about ten agonizing minutes, and seemed to be taking great pleasure in the amount of punishment she was inflicting upon me. Every time it was actually painful enough to warrant a gasp on my part, she got this look on her face that I can only describe as tremendous satisfaction. I swear to God that before this woman came to the U.S., she probably ran a backpacker torture-for-hire facility similar to the one in the movie Hostel.
I am no stranger to pain in my nether regions. I was born with a congenital urethral defect which, although surgically repaired when I was three, has resulted in me experiencing a lifetime of urinary tract infections and being catheterized for tests several times. I've also had an abnormal pap smear which prompted several less-than-delightful cervical biopsies, the last of which involved slicing off pieces of dysplasia from my cervix with an electrified loop of wire. I also developed a benign mole on my chode (AKA the perineum AKA "the taint" as my brother calls it, which is the region from your vadge to your asshole, and in order for the doctor to remove it, I had to get a shot of anesthetic IN MY CHODE. So it's not like waxing has been the only pelvic trauma I've ever faced, but I have to say, it's right up there with the supremely bad traumas.
When we finally left the waxing studio and LL Cool Jew helped me hobble back to the 1 train, I could barely stand to wear pants that night because my goodies were so sore and inflamed. It was much better by the next day, and I looked hot in my bikini in Belize, but I swore that I'd never do that again. Besides, it was $60, and that's a steep price to pay to be willfully tortured. It's even worse being obligated to tip your torturer.
Ever since, I've gladly risked my neck to shave my punani. It's less smooth and has to be done more frequently, but it's considerably more comfortable than the alternative. However, now that I fucked it up, and since I tried to repair it while I was barely in a state to walk upright much less shave precisely around my precious, I'm rocking the goddamn Britney Spears vajayjay. It looks weird. Looking at myself naked, it's like my top half belongs to a grown woman and my lower half belongs to a girl that would appeal more to Humbert Humbert, Warren Steed Jeffs, or R. Kelly. I'm hoping that I won't get laid until it grows back at least a little bit, because I hate it so much that I'm afraid to even let a fuck-and-run honey see it. "The Sphinx" sucks. I want my fucking pubes back.
It took me a few minutes to even begin the process of moving the blankets off me, much less actually change from a supine posture to an upright one. The night before I was in serious revelry mode: I rocked a cocksucker red dress (it's a very Christmassy color), drank half a gallon of Smirnoff vodka with a very light splash of tonic, and tore up various grad student holiday parties. I was in BAD shape. And while I tried to cope with being awake and being this severely hung over, I looked down and noticed something that made me frown.
My fucking pubes were shaved crookedly. The day before, I had trimmed the hedges, so to speak, and I obviously hadn't used a level to shape my racing stripe. The shit looked like the trajectory of a bad Golden Tee shot. How could I have done this? It's not like it's THAT hard to shave in a straight fucking line. I had done said shaving during my morning shower, so it's not like I was drunk. I was completely sober, and still managed to do a hack job on what is a normal part of my routine. Maybe it was the hangover, but I was really bothered by this.
When I finally made it to the shower, I resolved to correct it. However, the sheer magnitude of punishment that my massive vodka consumption laid upon me dictated that I was physically unable to wield a sharp object around my nether regions with great precision. I didn't want to have a terrible accident with my Mach 3, and since I've already cheated death once while trying to shave my crotch, I didn't want to push it. However, I knew that if I didn't correct the crooked pubes, it would bother me all day. Lacking other options, I foolishly elected to do something very extreme. I shaved everything off.
Some might ask, "Why do you bother shaving? If you just go get waxed, you only have to do it every four weeks, and you don't have to worry about shaping it." I got waxed once, and it was horrible. LL Cool Jew made this appointment for us right before we went to Belize two years ago, and she asked what I wanted. "A Brazilian," I responded. "With a little racing stripe. Like Clark Gable's mustache, except vertical." LL Cool Jew called the waxing place, which claimed to be NYC's ONLY "exclusively wax studio", and told me, "They made up new names for all the standard waxes. Your procedure is called the deep Playboy bikini with buttocks strip instead of a good, old-fashioned Brazilian. If you want it all taken off, that's called the Sphinx. You don't want the Sphinx, right?"
"No way," I said. "I think that's kind of weird."
We went to get waxed and I walked into the room. The very massive non-English speaking Russian woman who was to wax my crotch indicated via some subtle hand gesticulations that I should take off my pants. I dropped trou, but didn't take them off. I'm comfortable being naked, but I wasn't sure what the procedure was for having someone else wax your pussy. Certainly at the gynecologist there's a certain amount of decorum involved in getting naked and sticking your feet in the stirrups, followed by some careful gown draping. I didn't know how this was done at the waxing salon. The woman shook her head and clucked at me sharply, then gestured more insistently that the pants and panties were to come all the way off. I obliged, and got up on the table.
The waxer smacked her meaty hands together with a loud slapping sound, reached down and grabbed my ankles, and roughly wrenched my legs apart. She began to apply the wax. I thought, "Well, it's not too hot. This isn't too bad." As if the waxer could read my mind, she smirked sadistically at the prospect of shattering my false sense of security, and slapped on a piece of paper and RIPPED.
I bit my lip, determined not to audibly express how excruciatingly painful it is to have hair torn out by the root from your labia majora. She continued this for about ten agonizing minutes, and seemed to be taking great pleasure in the amount of punishment she was inflicting upon me. Every time it was actually painful enough to warrant a gasp on my part, she got this look on her face that I can only describe as tremendous satisfaction. I swear to God that before this woman came to the U.S., she probably ran a backpacker torture-for-hire facility similar to the one in the movie Hostel.
I am no stranger to pain in my nether regions. I was born with a congenital urethral defect which, although surgically repaired when I was three, has resulted in me experiencing a lifetime of urinary tract infections and being catheterized for tests several times. I've also had an abnormal pap smear which prompted several less-than-delightful cervical biopsies, the last of which involved slicing off pieces of dysplasia from my cervix with an electrified loop of wire. I also developed a benign mole on my chode (AKA the perineum AKA "the taint" as my brother calls it, which is the region from your vadge to your asshole, and in order for the doctor to remove it, I had to get a shot of anesthetic IN MY CHODE. So it's not like waxing has been the only pelvic trauma I've ever faced, but I have to say, it's right up there with the supremely bad traumas.
When we finally left the waxing studio and LL Cool Jew helped me hobble back to the 1 train, I could barely stand to wear pants that night because my goodies were so sore and inflamed. It was much better by the next day, and I looked hot in my bikini in Belize, but I swore that I'd never do that again. Besides, it was $60, and that's a steep price to pay to be willfully tortured. It's even worse being obligated to tip your torturer.
Ever since, I've gladly risked my neck to shave my punani. It's less smooth and has to be done more frequently, but it's considerably more comfortable than the alternative. However, now that I fucked it up, and since I tried to repair it while I was barely in a state to walk upright much less shave precisely around my precious, I'm rocking the goddamn Britney Spears vajayjay. It looks weird. Looking at myself naked, it's like my top half belongs to a grown woman and my lower half belongs to a girl that would appeal more to Humbert Humbert, Warren Steed Jeffs, or R. Kelly. I'm hoping that I won't get laid until it grows back at least a little bit, because I hate it so much that I'm afraid to even let a fuck-and-run honey see it. "The Sphinx" sucks. I want my fucking pubes back.
Labels: oh the horror, Razzification, sex, tragedy, vanity
Monday, September 04, 2006
Crikey! I'm dead.
Oh, what a sad, sad holiday weekend. "Crocodile Hunter" Steve Irwin died over the weekend from...a wild animal attack. Was he eaten by some type of giant carnivorous reptile? Bitten by a poisonous snake? Devoured by a shark? Bludgeoned by his wife Terri for being a weird-looking, hyperactive-to-the-point-of-ADD eco-friendly obnoxious putz? No, his infamous life of deadly animal stunts has ended with him being stabbed through the heart by a normally harmless stingray.
How embarrassing. If I were internationally famous for wrassling with all manner of venomous, dangerous, and otherwise deadly creatures, I'd hate to be offed by an animal that every person who has ever snorkeled in a tropical location has petted, photographed, or stepped on. Apparently, he's only the third known stingray related death in Australia...ever. Somehow I suspect this may not have been an accident. He's been pissing off the aquatic fauna of the Great Barrier Reef for years, and I wonder if they hadn't just had enough and put their boy the stingray up to it. I mean, they could have sent a shark or something, but that's so been done already. Nobody suspects the stingray, although apparently now they should. I had no idea these bad boys were equipped with stabbing weapons up to 20 cm long. Obviously, I was aware that they had the ability to sting, but no snorkeling or scuba diving guide has EVER informed me that these bad boys are packing a bayonet!
The real loser in all this is Australia, though. Now they're stuck with Paul "Crocodile Dundee" Hogan as their sole cultural ambassador to the world (I know that Nicole Kidman, Heath Ledger, and other more famous people are all Aussies, but none of them live there, know how to speak in obscure Aboriginal dialects, or can put a water buffalo to sleep by making the hang loose hand sign, so they're totally a disgrace to their nation). Personally, I always considered him a model Australian and a great man after he almost fed that baby to his pet crocodile at the zoo. I'll join the grieving throngs in pouring out some Foster's as the Land Down Under mourns one of its greatest national figures. Rest in peace, Croc Hunter.
How embarrassing. If I were internationally famous for wrassling with all manner of venomous, dangerous, and otherwise deadly creatures, I'd hate to be offed by an animal that every person who has ever snorkeled in a tropical location has petted, photographed, or stepped on. Apparently, he's only the third known stingray related death in Australia...ever. Somehow I suspect this may not have been an accident. He's been pissing off the aquatic fauna of the Great Barrier Reef for years, and I wonder if they hadn't just had enough and put their boy the stingray up to it. I mean, they could have sent a shark or something, but that's so been done already. Nobody suspects the stingray, although apparently now they should. I had no idea these bad boys were equipped with stabbing weapons up to 20 cm long. Obviously, I was aware that they had the ability to sting, but no snorkeling or scuba diving guide has EVER informed me that these bad boys are packing a bayonet!
The real loser in all this is Australia, though. Now they're stuck with Paul "Crocodile Dundee" Hogan as their sole cultural ambassador to the world (I know that Nicole Kidman, Heath Ledger, and other more famous people are all Aussies, but none of them live there, know how to speak in obscure Aboriginal dialects, or can put a water buffalo to sleep by making the hang loose hand sign, so they're totally a disgrace to their nation). Personally, I always considered him a model Australian and a great man after he almost fed that baby to his pet crocodile at the zoo. I'll join the grieving throngs in pouring out some Foster's as the Land Down Under mourns one of its greatest national figures. Rest in peace, Croc Hunter.
Labels: celebrities, science, tragedy
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