Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Chidi Ogbuta
DOB: ???
Occupation: bridezilla
Current residence: Allen, Texas
Douchebaggery: I'm sure that Chidi Ogbuta is a nice enough person, but she is a great example of how fucking crazy bitches can get about their weddings. I may not be the type of girl who wastes a lot of time fantasizing about her "big day" (especially since in my fantasy world, my "big day" refers to the day that I buy my NFL team and not the day I get my MRS degree), but even if I were more marriage-minded, I doubt that I would do something like this.
Chidi has apparently always wanted a doll modeled in her own likeness, and she decided that, since she's not friends with Rack and thus isn't getting a "My Bitches" figurine anytime soon, she would go ahead and drop thousands of dollars on a wedding cake shaped like a life-sized replica of herself. It required her coordinating with a pastry chef and a head sculptor in two different states, which if you ask me is a lot of work just to imitate the hideously ugly bridal gown Chidi chose for her nuptials.
I do not understand why chicks go to such ridiculous, obviously expensive lengths for their narcissistic, pointless wedding fantasies. If I were getting married (sha), I'd be like, "Honey, let's go to the courthouse," have a cheap-ass civil ceremony, and spend all the thousands that would go toward a wedding on some fabulous vacation so I could consummate my marriage by boning my new husband in some exotic locale. Or buy a house. Or do something more constructive than waste money having edible replicas made of myself in a revolting dress to satisfy my own overpowering sense of bridal vanity. Because even though at the reception I'm sure the guests were either all, "Ooooh, cool cake!" or (my reaction) "That cake is creepy," like anyone really cares that much about the damn cake! In ten years, nobody is going to be reminiscing fondly about Chidi's cake. In fact, unless they got laid there, nobody is going to even remember anything about Chidi's wedding, except maybe that her bridal gown was totally butt. Given that, having that cake made just seems like an awful lot of trouble for a minimal return on what was probably a large investment.
Chidi is stupid, and she has bad taste in dresses. And pastries. But congratulations to her and her husband on their recent matrimony! I hope the relationship is more beautiful than the cake and/or the bride.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, gluttony, holy fucking matrimony, intentional buffoonery, sluts, vanity, you're ugly
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Acne Vulgaris
DOB: Puberty
Occupation: Fucking bitches' faces up
Hometown: clogged pores
Current residence: my face
Douchebaggery: I am twenty-nine years old. ALMOST THIRTY. So why am I still getting zits like a damn teenager fifteen years my junior? Granted, right now I have one solitary blemish (that picture above is NOT my face, by the way...I'm just too vain to even stick a picture of myself with even one unsightly pimple up on the internets so I looked up some grossness on the internets to illustrate my point). However, one blemish is one too many. Besides, it's huge.
Last night, I was bitching to J-Sexy about this and she said, "Oh, please, I didn't even notice it until you pointed it out." Well, maybe it's not that noticeable to everyone else, but every time I look in a mirror, I feel like I'm witnessing the eruption of Mount Saint Helens on my right cheek. It might be only one (giant, obvious, disgusting) zit, but I still feel like Pizza the Hut from Spaceballs nonetheless:
Even worse is the fact that I am not big into makeup. I suck at aesthetic girl stuff, like fixing hair (I can't even French braid) and applying cosmetics. Therefore, I don't have the skills to cover up this zit without having what my friend MillerTime calls "Krissy Grant face." Krissy Grant was this girl we went to high school with who had bad skin and always laid the foundation on thick, even though it didn't match her skin tone. Therefore, she'd always have a noticeable line where the foundation left off and her real skin began. Even worse, because the pancake was so thick, it would cake up on "problem areas," thus drawing even more attention to her dermatological imperfections rather than disguising them. I'd have felt sorry for her if the dumb whore hadn't sucker punched me (actually, it was more like a sucker bitch-slap) in the student center during our senior year for making a snide comment about how she was already a mother with a crackhead baby daddy at the ripe old age of 16. I just remember feeling a jarring blow to the back of my head and a glimpse of a retreating orange face that screamed, "Don't talk shit about my kid, you fucking bitch!" Maybe I would have been more sympathetic if she hadn't slapped me with my back turned and run away like a damn coward. Needless to say, I didn't hit her back or tattle on her, but I didn't stop talking shit, either...as I am obviously doing so over a decade later. Her MySpace tells me that she had another couple bastard kids and lives on a military base somewhere; I clearly won the game of Life. But I digress.
The point is that I am not skilled enough with a makeup sponge to disguise my unsightly zit without giving myself a serious case of Krissy Grant face, so I just have to suck it up and face the world with this damn thing uglying me up. I'd rather go au naturel and hope that, as J-Sexy said, it is less noticeable to other people than it is to me. What I want to know, however, is when will this stop? I wash my face, I try to drink enough water, and I don't eat fast food. Why am I still getting freaking zits now that I am pushing senior citizenship? I better not be getting pimples along with my AARP newsletters, because I thought that one of the perks of aging was not having to put up with teenager crap like acne anymore. I don't want to be using Proactiv when I'm thirty! It's time for my skin to start acting its age. Why can't I have some wrinkles instead? At least those would make me seem distinguished and mature.
Labels: aging, Daily Douchebag, overcompensation, vanity, you're ugly
Monday, November 26, 2007
Daily Douchebag: Dr. Donda West
DOB: 1949
DOD: November 10, 2007
Occupation: former English professor, Kanye West's manager
Hometown: Atlanta, Georgia
Current residence: a cemetery somewhere--Chi-town?
Douchebaggery: As much as I hate Kanye West for being an insufferable, obnoxious asshole, I did feel bad when his mother died. I would be devastated if my mother passed long before her time, and I don't wish family tragedy on anyone, even an annoying egomaniacal sell-out like Kanye. That said, however, the media should SHUT UP about Donda West.
Donda is being discussed in the same way that people discuss those who died in the Holocaust. She's being portrayed as the innocent victim of some nefarious evil force, and her departure from this mortal coil is the most tragic untimely death since Martin Luther King or John F. Kennedy. While from what I've read, it seems like Donda was a brilliant scholar, a loving mother, and an all-around good person, I had no idea who the fuck Donda West was until she croaked. The bitch was busy doing things like getting Kanye airmailed $4000 worth of transatlantic Indian food and marketing Kanye merchandise. She might have been a good person, but it's not like she was Mother Teresa, and I am tired of hearing her described as though she was. In my view, if it weren't for her, we wouldn't be listening to Kanye's asinine demagoguery about everything from conflict diamonds to Jesus, and that would make the world a better fucking place. Thanks a lot for giving birth to that asshole, Donda, and even worse, thanks for ENCOURAGING him to be a blowhard.
Furthermore, Donda didn't die from an assassin's bullet or some other martyr-type death. She died having plastic surgery from a doctor whose credentials she didn't check after a different doctor told her that she wasn't a candidate for a tummy tuck or tumescent lipo or whatever. Basically, she went against medical advice for the sake of vanity. I'm not saying that anyone who wants plastic surgery deserves to die, but it shouldn't be so fucking unexpected when a doctor refuses to operate on you because you're such a high-risk patient, and you instead turn to some unscrupulous quack without board certification. Donda decided to risk her life for her looks, and paid the price. That sucks, but it's not like she died rescuing puppies from a burning building, and if I hear one more entertainment news report portraying her death as some type of horrible unforeseen tragedy from which the world is paralyzed with grief, I'm going to swear off watching "Access Hollywood" and "The Insider" forever. Whatever will I do now that Donda West is dead? As challenging as it will be for me, I'll probably keep slanging rhinovirus, pounding Heinekens, watching reruns of "I Love New York 2," and hating on her son. In other words, BUSINESS AS USUAL.
Kid Rock had it right at the AMAs when he took the stage and asked everyone who was busy with the clusterfuck of public lamentation about Donda West's death to remember the thousands of U.S. soldiers who died in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well. It's true that all those soldiers have done as much if not more for the world than Donda West, and who gave their lives serving their country rather than their own narcissistic desire for smaller saddlebags, and they're not getting shit besides the odd "here's who died in Iraq today" cable news segment. Donda West's death has served only to showcase how completely skewed our priorities as a society are, as we care more about Kanye's stupid mother than the fucking WAR that's destroying our economy, ruining our credit with the world, and killing our citizens and soldiers. So fuck Donda West. She's dead. Move on.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, media whores, people who died, plastic surgery, rap, vanity
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Daily Douchebag: the DMV
Occupation: making one's life miserable every few years
Current residence: that clusterfuck of post offices and overpriced Irish pubs across from Madison Square Garden
Douchebaggery: Being that it is my birthday on Saturday, I now have to take care of an errand I've dreaded ever since moving to the fair isle of Mannahattas...exchanging my beloved Washington state driver's license which lists my address as 1007 North K St, Tacoma AKA the City of Destiny, WA for a New York license. My license expires on Saturday as my last year in my twenties commences, so unless I want to take another driving test at some later date (I DO NOT!), I've got to schlep my sorry ass over to the DMV and cough up a dollar or eighty for my official government issued ID. On the bright side, this means I'll have an ID that has a shot at being marginally okay-looking. Not that I really mind TOO much that my Washington state ID really makes me look like a true Tacoma girl. The kind of girl who likes spiral perms, NASCAR, banana clips, and breast-feeding while a stolen Costco-sized shipment of pseudoephedrine dissolves in a heating bucket of anhydrous ammonia:
Hopefully I'll look all sophisticated and shit on my new ID, which will list my address as the sexy-sounding New York, New York. Chances are, however, that with my track record of non-photogenic ID pictures, I'll probably just look like a slightly more urban meth cookin' PWT hooker. Oh well. It's better than my passport photo (taken my senior year of college), in which I look like I should be on the cover of a Smith admissions brochure engaging in spirited intellectual conversation about gender politics with all my smart Smithie friends under some lovely blazing New England fall foliage beneath the caption "SMITH COLLEGE: Where Women's Minds Matter":
Labels: Daily Douchebag, driving, NYC, oh the horror, Razzification, vanity, you're ugly
Monday, October 29, 2007
It's Razzy, bitch!
So hot off the press is the first glimpse of this year's Halloween costume and its execution for the annual grad student party I attend every year:
My Britney look went pretty well considering I did it all at the very last minute. I went out for brunch Saturday morning with LL Cool Jew and BigBagel, Rack and TheOldGuy, Fallonius Monk, JerseyGirl and Kodiak, and J-Sexy. Then I went over to hang out at LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's hotel for a moment, but that was thwarted when LL Cool Jew became violently ill from drinking one too many Campari-and-sodas the night before with yours truly. I was pretty hung over myself from drinking from 5 pm, throughout the Morrissey concert, after the Morrissey show with Miss Corbutt and her boyfriend, and then after that with LL Cool Jew at two different bars. I got to bed at 4 in the morning and had to get up again at 10.
However, in spite of having a busy schedule of cocktail consumption, concerts, and catching up with all my tightest bitches, I knew that I could get the costume shopping done in around an hour by heading for Manhattan nexus of places to buy cheap, slutty underwear, fake hair, and glue-on French manicure fingernails for my "Gimme More" Britney outfit: 125th Street.
I first stopped at Rainbow, a trashtastic store where you can buy 15 different styles of hoop earrings for under $3 per pair, the most painful, shabbily made stripper shoes imaginable, and bras that cost less than $5. I initially found the perfect black, sparkly bra, but as I went through the rack, I noticed that the entire stock was a little too big. I have pretty big tits for a girl my size, but 48DD is a whole other species of gigantic rack compared to my comparatively modest 34C. "Why the fuck are all these damn bras so big?" I wondered, then noticed that all the matching boy-short panties were also quite voluminous. Again, I have a pretty big ass for a girl my size, but not so big as to warrant a "3X"-sized panty. After another examination of the merchandise, I realized I'd accidentally stumbled into "plus-size" territory. Crap! Those black, sparkly bras were only available in size 14, and despite aspersions concerning my weight advanced by some Razzy Haters on the comments page of this very blog I am nowhere NEAR being a size 14. Thus, I had to give up on the perfect bras and get the closest substitute in my size. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do.
Then, I picked up some tacky nails at the nearby Rite-Aid, and tried fruitlessly to explain the concept of my costume to the mostly non-English speaking Haitian guy working at the beauty supply store J-Sexy recommended. In spite of the fact that he seemed determined to sell me $50 skeins of copper-colored hair, I managed to find some $6 Barbie hair. I picked up an iced tea at Starbucks (I know, I should have gotten a caramel Frappuccino, but I just wasn't in the mood to consumer 15,000 liquid calories in any other form besides beer), snagged a pack of Marb lights, glued nail tips to all my fingers but the right ring, and behold...I AM the legendary Ms. Britney Spears:
I may have gotten the costume at the last minute, but I didn't work out for a full month to achieve this perfect Britney body. No sit-ups, no Gauntlet, not even so much as a single, short, mile-long trot around the park, just so I could have the perfect quantity of love handle to spill over the waistband of my $3.50 Rainbow boy shorts. That's dedication. I've successfully trashy-slutted up another Halloween party, and I knew this to be true when Captain Jack Sparrow stumbled up to me and informed me that I was "the most beautiful woman in the history of the world" right before he locked himself into the bathroom to regurgitate the bottle of Captain Morgan's he'd unwisely chugged in a little over an hour. Halloween: mission accomplished.
However, in spite of having a busy schedule of cocktail consumption, concerts, and catching up with all my tightest bitches, I knew that I could get the costume shopping done in around an hour by heading for Manhattan nexus of places to buy cheap, slutty underwear, fake hair, and glue-on French manicure fingernails for my "Gimme More" Britney outfit: 125th Street.
I first stopped at Rainbow, a trashtastic store where you can buy 15 different styles of hoop earrings for under $3 per pair, the most painful, shabbily made stripper shoes imaginable, and bras that cost less than $5. I initially found the perfect black, sparkly bra, but as I went through the rack, I noticed that the entire stock was a little too big. I have pretty big tits for a girl my size, but 48DD is a whole other species of gigantic rack compared to my comparatively modest 34C. "Why the fuck are all these damn bras so big?" I wondered, then noticed that all the matching boy-short panties were also quite voluminous. Again, I have a pretty big ass for a girl my size, but not so big as to warrant a "3X"-sized panty. After another examination of the merchandise, I realized I'd accidentally stumbled into "plus-size" territory. Crap! Those black, sparkly bras were only available in size 14, and despite aspersions concerning my weight advanced by some Razzy Haters on the comments page of this very blog I am nowhere NEAR being a size 14. Thus, I had to give up on the perfect bras and get the closest substitute in my size. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do.
Then, I picked up some tacky nails at the nearby Rite-Aid, and tried fruitlessly to explain the concept of my costume to the mostly non-English speaking Haitian guy working at the beauty supply store J-Sexy recommended. In spite of the fact that he seemed determined to sell me $50 skeins of copper-colored hair, I managed to find some $6 Barbie hair. I picked up an iced tea at Starbucks (I know, I should have gotten a caramel Frappuccino, but I just wasn't in the mood to consumer 15,000 liquid calories in any other form besides beer), snagged a pack of Marb lights, glued nail tips to all my fingers but the right ring, and behold...I AM the legendary Ms. Britney Spears:
Labels: Britney Spears, FalloniusMonk, fat fucks, Halloween, Harlem world, J-Sexy, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, nudity, NYC, Rack, Razzification, sluts, vanity
Monday, October 01, 2007
HELP
This is an impassioned plea to all my Razzyphiles. I need your advice and assistance with an extremely important matter. Every year, I set the standard for incorporating nudity and general whorishness into my Halloween costume.
Two Halloweens ago, I won a windfall of liquor (and respect) in a costume contest which was most certainly judged by a bunch of drunk and horny dudes for my "King Slut(ankhamen)" ensemble. This outfit consisted of a Pharaoh hat, gold jewelry, and five rolls of Rite-Aid gauze. Five rolls sounds like a lot more gauze than it actually is:
Then last year, there were no prizes, but I nonetheless was lauded for my interpretation of Kimberly "Lil' Kim" Jones's legendary VMA dress:
The problem I'm having is that this year, I simply cannot think of anything short of going as Lady Godiva and just walking into the party butt naked that can match my previous efforts at costuming. This is unacceptable because having an outrageous Halloween costume is kind of one of my things. I have been trying desperately to think of how I can top my previous efforts, but I am uninspired and need some suggestions. So PLEASE, if you have any ideas about how I can partially or fully expose one or more breasts as part of a funny or clever costume, holler at your bitch in the comments or by e-mail! Seriously, if you come up with a great idea, I'll consider blowing you. No joke! Help a hooker out! I have a reputation to uphold.
Two Halloweens ago, I won a windfall of liquor (and respect) in a costume contest which was most certainly judged by a bunch of drunk and horny dudes for my "King Slut(ankhamen)" ensemble. This outfit consisted of a Pharaoh hat, gold jewelry, and five rolls of Rite-Aid gauze. Five rolls sounds like a lot more gauze than it actually is:
Labels: intentional buffoonery, nudity, Razzification, vanity
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
I'm Not Buying It: Aveeno Positively Ageless Active Naturals with Active Shiitake Complex
COOL JEW NOTE: This is the first installment in a new series identifying beauty and lifestyle products that even I – a JAP who is completely and eternally obsessed with her weight, clothes, skin, weight, hair, clothes, and weight and willing to drop serious dimes on anything that promises to slim, shine, clarify or otherwise titivate me – would never purchase. Advertisers be warned: if you're hawking your creams, pills, shadows, concealers and push-ups so poorly that even I won't waste my money and time, you're going to want to head back to the drawing board.
I'm Not Buying: Aveeno Positively Ageless Active Naturals with Active Shiitake Complex
AKA: Face cream
Price: $14.99 at Walgreens.com
The Shill: "Natural Shiitake Complex, a blend of Shiitake and Mannentake mushrooms, has been shown to help accelerate skin's natural cell renewal process to leave skin looking and feeling fresher, younger, and more radiant. Natural Shiitake Complex works similarly to a natural enzyme that we have in our skin, which releases the chemical bonds that hold dead skin cells together. The result: "increased cell renewal that allows younger skin to come to the surface without overdrying."
The Real: "Shiitake complex"? Really? Every time this commercial comes on the set and those mushrooms start bouncing across the screen, I snort and guffaw disdainfully. Apparently, this face spooge contains a microbial coagulant known as Mucor miehei, which happens to be found
in most mushrooms. Shiitakes may be delicious, but they have a ridiculous name and I highly doubt that a drug store product is going to make my face as supple as a mushroom's backside. The word "shiitake," naturally, makes me think of shit, which makes sense since mushrooms grow on shit. And all that really makes me want to rub it on my face. Sha.
I'd Rather Buy: La Prairie Skin Caviar Luxe Cream, $650 for three ounces, available at high-end department stores. Sure, the active ingredient here got spurted out of a sturgeon's fuckhole and the concept may be just as inane as the "shiitake complex." But this is the most expensive face cream you can buy, caviar is delicious and La Prairie is way too cool for television commercials, so I want it. Duh.
RAZZY EDIT: I know this says it was by me, but it was actually written by LL Cool Jew, she just asked me to post it for her. For one thing, I am not a JAP, but rather shikse PWT from the P-N-Dub who looks no further than my local Rite-Aid for skin care and knows not of this "La Prairie" business. Like I told LL Cool Jew, that shit might as well be "La Choy" discount soy sauce. For another, my idea of personal care involves shaving my pussy without slipping in the bathtub and dying, picking a shirt that showcases as much cleavage as possible, wearing cheap heels, and a lot of drugstore eyeliner and cocksucker red lipstick. This type of thing is totally LL Cool Jew's department.
I'm Not Buying: Aveeno Positively Ageless Active Naturals with Active Shiitake Complex
AKA: Face cream
Price: $14.99 at Walgreens.com
The Shill: "Natural Shiitake Complex, a blend of Shiitake and Mannentake mushrooms, has been shown to help accelerate skin's natural cell renewal process to leave skin looking and feeling fresher, younger, and more radiant. Natural Shiitake Complex works similarly to a natural enzyme that we have in our skin, which releases the chemical bonds that hold dead skin cells together. The result: "increased cell renewal that allows younger skin to come to the surface without overdrying."
The Real: "Shiitake complex"? Really? Every time this commercial comes on the set and those mushrooms start bouncing across the screen, I snort and guffaw disdainfully. Apparently, this face spooge contains a microbial coagulant known as Mucor miehei, which happens to be found
in most mushrooms. Shiitakes may be delicious, but they have a ridiculous name and I highly doubt that a drug store product is going to make my face as supple as a mushroom's backside. The word "shiitake," naturally, makes me think of shit, which makes sense since mushrooms grow on shit. And all that really makes me want to rub it on my face. Sha.
I'd Rather Buy: La Prairie Skin Caviar Luxe Cream, $650 for three ounces, available at high-end department stores. Sure, the active ingredient here got spurted out of a sturgeon's fuckhole and the concept may be just as inane as the "shiitake complex." But this is the most expensive face cream you can buy, caviar is delicious and La Prairie is way too cool for television commercials, so I want it. Duh.
RAZZY EDIT: I know this says it was by me, but it was actually written by LL Cool Jew, she just asked me to post it for her. For one thing, I am not a JAP, but rather shikse PWT from the P-N-Dub who looks no further than my local Rite-Aid for skin care and knows not of this "La Prairie" business. Like I told LL Cool Jew, that shit might as well be "La Choy" discount soy sauce. For another, my idea of personal care involves shaving my pussy without slipping in the bathtub and dying, picking a shirt that showcases as much cleavage as possible, wearing cheap heels, and a lot of drugstore eyeliner and cocksucker red lipstick. This type of thing is totally LL Cool Jew's department.
Labels: I'm Not Buying It, LL Cool Jew, vanity
Monday, August 06, 2007
Eddie Murphy is no longer alone
It looks like Scary Spice's baby daddy has a new "poker buddy" in the form of Calvin "Snoop Dogg" Broadus. This is Snoop and Vaniity, a Mexican tranny porn star, getting cozy.
I'm not buying this "I didn't know she was a man" line that guys like to pull when they get caught indulging in a little she-male action. Snoop has expanded his marketing empire into pornography, so this picture was probably taken at an industry party where it's no secret that Vaniity was originally named Pedro, as she took home the 2004 AVN Award for Best Transsexual Performer. Furthermore, Vaniity is pre-op as far as her nether genitalia is concerned, so Snoop must have felt her porn star dick rubbing against his leg through her miniskirt. No wonder he came out of the gate talking about putting his nuts on other dudes' tonsils. He probably really did want to get a BJ from all the men of Ruthless Records.
I can't wait to hear what kind of lame excuse Snoop gives to explain why he's copping a feel on a tranny. Eddie Murphy gave some kind of unbelievable schtick about being a Good Samaritan and a mentor when he got busted pulled over on a dark street with a known (and obvious) M2F ho. I've seen dudes on "To Catch a Predator" giving more credible explanations for why they wrote "i luv doing anal w 14yo gurls omg lol" than this "I didn't know she was a prostitute or biologically a man, I was just trying to convince her that dropping out of school was a mistake" bullshit. Whatever similarly unconvincing alibi Snoop has, don't believe it. Dude occasionally likes a schlong in a lacy thong. End of story.
I can't wait to hear what kind of lame excuse Snoop gives to explain why he's copping a feel on a tranny. Eddie Murphy gave some kind of unbelievable schtick about being a Good Samaritan and a mentor when he got busted pulled over on a dark street with a known (and obvious) M2F ho. I've seen dudes on "To Catch a Predator" giving more credible explanations for why they wrote "i luv doing anal w 14yo gurls omg lol" than this "I didn't know she was a prostitute or biologically a man, I was just trying to convince her that dropping out of school was a mistake" bullshit. Whatever similarly unconvincing alibi Snoop has, don't believe it. Dude occasionally likes a schlong in a lacy thong. End of story.
Labels: gender bending, overcompensation, porn, rap, sex, vanity, vulgar display of faggotry, weiners
Monday, June 11, 2007
This is not why I'm hot
I am an idiot when it comes to the sun. Because of the decided lack of melanin in my skin, I burn very easily, but that doesn't stop me from running around on the beach all day without reapplying sunscreen. Then, when I've inevitably been sunburned, I bitch and moan about my own stupidity concerning sun protection. A couple years ago, I got burned so badly in Belize that my chest was blistered and literally bleeding. This year, I've decided to take my sun safety more seriously, since getting melanoma is decidely uncool. So when J-Sexy and I went to beach it up on Fire Island yesterday, I made sure to bring SPF 40 waterproof sunscreen.
Even though it was somewhat overcast, I still started diligently applying my sunscreen. This was "Sport" sunscreen that came in a spray bottle, and after spritzing myself with it, decided to make a dirty joke.
"Hey J-Sexy, what does this look like?"
"Huh?" she looked up from sunscreening herself. "Oh my God, Razzy, you disgosting whore!"
Then we sat around drinking large quantities of Hawaiian punch and rum, swimming, and having a lovely day. However, when we returned to Nieuw Amsterdam after a long ride on the LIRR I noticed that my face was a little sore and peeked at myself in the mirror. Apparently I should have imitated a sunscreen facial as opposed to a pearl necklace because today I look like this:
I look like one of those bitches from Discovery Health surgery shows about people with port-wine birthmarks and other disfiguring anomalous medical conditions. It doesn't help that my straggly hair makes me seem like I should be hooking under a freeway overpass somewhere. It seems like I won't be reeling in any fly honeys this week with this freakish dermatological condition, at least since I'm not going to be anywhere near Puyallup, WA, one of the few places in the world where.the exploded meth lab survivor look is considered super hot. I'm about to head into lab, and I can't wait to hear from everyone how busted I look. It's going to be a great week.
Even though it was somewhat overcast, I still started diligently applying my sunscreen. This was "Sport" sunscreen that came in a spray bottle, and after spritzing myself with it, decided to make a dirty joke.
"Hey J-Sexy, what does this look like?"
"Huh?" she looked up from sunscreening herself. "Oh my God, Razzy, you disgosting whore!"
Then we sat around drinking large quantities of Hawaiian punch and rum, swimming, and having a lovely day. However, when we returned to Nieuw Amsterdam after a long ride on the LIRR I noticed that my face was a little sore and peeked at myself in the mirror. Apparently I should have imitated a sunscreen facial as opposed to a pearl necklace because today I look like this:
I look like one of those bitches from Discovery Health surgery shows about people with port-wine birthmarks and other disfiguring anomalous medical conditions. It doesn't help that my straggly hair makes me seem like I should be hooking under a freeway overpass somewhere. It seems like I won't be reeling in any fly honeys this week with this freakish dermatological condition, at least since I'm not going to be anywhere near Puyallup, WA, one of the few places in the world where.the exploded meth lab survivor look is considered super hot. I'm about to head into lab, and I can't wait to hear from everyone how busted I look. It's going to be a great week.
Labels: J-Sexy, oh the horror, Razzification, vanity, you're ugly
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Amen!
My e-mail blew up today with my friends sending me the quote of the fucking year. As LL Cool Jew simply explained, "Truer words have never been spoken." Indeed not. Of course, the person who said these words is none other than my boyfriend and true love, Chicago's own R&B thug, Mr. Robert Sylvester Kelly:
When asked whether he's concerned that his competition might defeat him for the title of "the R-uh in R&B" and/or "the king of R&B", he confidently replied:
At first I thought this thing was some type of sex toy (and immediately considered buying it), but then realized that it's not anatomically correct in the sense that it just has that generic lump in the crotch instead of a weiner. However, I think every girl who ever played Barbies can attest that proportionally, Kells's package is considerably more sizable than Ken's.
All the gossip sites are acting all bitchy about Robert Sylvester's statement, suggesting that he won't be quite so cocky on trial, but that's because they're all run by gay men and old women. They've never heard Kells sing "The World's Greatest," a song that basically says the same thing, except with more natural metaphors ("I'm that star up in the sky", "I'm a swift wind movin' over the country", "I am a tall tree", "I am a mountain", etc.) If they had given that a listen, they'd know that it is right up there with "the sky is blue" and "grass is green" in the pantheon of undisputably true facts. R. Kelly rules so hard.
I am having a REALLY bad day (I managed to annoy a bevy of people in my personal life--especially my mother who is still pissed about me flashing my tits at the Crab Feed--and am now trying to do damage control, not one but two experiments failed in lab, I'm swamped with work and thus cannot drink my problems away, I'm concerned that Natasha won't win "America's Next Top Model" tonight, my apartment looks like a frat party happened here and is so dirty that even I am disgusted, my season two "Beverly Hills, 90210" DVD delivery is late, Chingy! has diarrhea, and I got my period) so this is exactly what I needed to hear to put the wind back in my sails.
Oooh, Kelly, you make me holla! Keep on jumpin' like an Impala!
(UPDATE: My "Beverly Hills, 90210" DVD just mercifully arrived. Thank Christ! I mean, thank R. Kelly!)
"My greatest competition is, well, me . . . I'm the Ali of today. I'm the Marvin Gaye of today. I'm the Bob Marley of today. I'm the Martin Luther King, or all the other greats that have come before us. And a lot of people are starting to realize that now."You hear that, Jamie Foxx? Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up with your arrogant prattle about your superior singing skills, before R-dot reminds you who really is the king of R&B. Only a truly regal figure like Kells can rock a royal all-purple ensemble--complete with gun holster suspenders--with a blinged-up tongue-sticking-out belt buckle right over his--wait, what in the name of God is going on with those pants?! It's like the bastard child of the Pit of Sarlacc and the Purple Pieman. Anyway, you know Martin Luther King would be doing the same if his ass hadn't gotten shot before being iced out came into style. I realized this long ago. Besides, I don't think anyone can dispute this statement, given that Robert Sylvester has inspired a LIFE-SIZE KEN DOLL of himself.
All the gossip sites are acting all bitchy about Robert Sylvester's statement, suggesting that he won't be quite so cocky on trial, but that's because they're all run by gay men and old women. They've never heard Kells sing "The World's Greatest," a song that basically says the same thing, except with more natural metaphors ("I'm that star up in the sky", "I'm a swift wind movin' over the country", "I am a tall tree", "I am a mountain", etc.) If they had given that a listen, they'd know that it is right up there with "the sky is blue" and "grass is green" in the pantheon of undisputably true facts. R. Kelly rules so hard.
I am having a REALLY bad day (I managed to annoy a bevy of people in my personal life--especially my mother who is still pissed about me flashing my tits at the Crab Feed--and am now trying to do damage control, not one but two experiments failed in lab, I'm swamped with work and thus cannot drink my problems away, I'm concerned that Natasha won't win "America's Next Top Model" tonight, my apartment looks like a frat party happened here and is so dirty that even I am disgusted, my season two "Beverly Hills, 90210" DVD delivery is late, Chingy! has diarrhea, and I got my period) so this is exactly what I needed to hear to put the wind back in my sails.
Oooh, Kelly, you make me holla! Keep on jumpin' like an Impala!
(UPDATE: My "Beverly Hills, 90210" DVD just mercifully arrived. Thank Christ! I mean, thank R. Kelly!)
Labels: Bev Niner, boyfriends, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly, vanity
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Feeling the hate for the baby collector
I used to have a huge, HUGE girl crush on Angelina Jolie, back when she used to do all sorts of lunatic shit, like collect knives, fuck girls, get tattoos, and make out with her brother. she might have been a little insane, but in a really hot way.
You'd never know when she'd haul off and do something completely, ridiculously nuts. I even liked her when she was wearing a vial of Billy Bob Thornton's blood around her neck and talking about jumping enthusiastically on his manorexic trailer park dick in the limo on the way to the SAG awards. She was slutty, bizarre, out of her mind, and did not give a fuck. Consequently, I thought she was one of the most smoking pieces of ass on the planet.
Unfortunately, then Angelina's priorities changed and the U.N. appointed her their international spokeswhore, and it all went downhill from there. She decided that it would be much better to morph into what she calls "a citizen of the world" and what I call a STUCK-UP FUCKING BITCH, and a homewrecking, uptight, baby-stealing adoption junkie to boot. Before everyone jumps all over me for being mean to Saint Angelina, let me just catalogue her numerous asshole moves so that you can all see for yourselves what a fucking haughty hypocrite this cuntface ho-bag is.
First, in spite of claiming that Madonna's an asshole and that she would NEVER adopt a kid illegally, she hired a shady adoption agent who bribed Cambodian officials and bought first baby Maddox from his impoverished mother for a measly hundred clams. This prompted Cambodia to tighten up their adoption laws. You know you've seriously fucked up when an impoverished and underdeveloped nation famous for its killing fields decides that its orphans would be better off staying put instead of being sold to wealthy celebrities. Thanks to the tougher Angelina-prompted adoption laws, Casey Johnson, heiress to the Johnson and Johnson Band-Aid fortune, is bitching that Angelina ruined her chances of illegally adopting a Cambodian urchin of her own. Now, she's apparently fucked up again while acquiring the latest child for her collection because the kid's mom, a heroin addict named Dung, didn't sign off on the adoption and is supposedly going to demand she return him. I can't wait until Dung rallies all the Human Rights organizations to start denouncing Angelina for what she is: a fetishistic baby thief. Don't they have any orphans in Vietnam who are actually orphans that she could snag for her collection instead? On top of that, the kid is three, and upon getting him, she changed his name to Pax Thien from Pham Sang Quang. One would think that with all her world travels and experience with childrearing, she would know that there IS a difference between a human toddler and a stray dog at the pound, and one of those differences is that they KNOW THEIR OWN FUCKING NAMES BY THE AGE OF THREE. I hopes she socks some of the money she makes whoring out pictures of her new kids away for Pax's therapy when he's older. And for that matter, her biological baby Shiloh, who she called a "blob" and who is obviously her least favorite child. Shiloh never gets to go along with mommy and the rest of the brood when they pick out new siblings.
Also, instead of humanitarian aid, she figured that it would be much better to bring along a team of photographers on her latest vacation to the refugee camps in Chad and Darfur. I'm sure that kid really appreciates you telling him that he's seventy pounds underweight after you forced his ass onto that digital scale for the cameras. Bring his ass some food and medicine, instead, ho!
Furthermore, she had Newsweek tag along and take these photos of Angelina in action can market herself as the "voice of the victims." Yeah, there's nothing posed about these at all. I can just hear this bitch directing her team of stylists, makeup artists, and photographers to make the shots extra poignant:
Hey, let's do this in BLACK AND WHITE, to show everyone that I'm SUPER serious about this. Okay, first show me debriefing the U.N. humanitarian force. Hang on, I have to put on my $500 Marc Jacobs aviator shades on. They make me look like an army general. It shows people that I'm serious about this shit! Hey, and try to not to get too much of my private Gulfstream IV jet in the background...I want people to think I'm travelling with the riffraff, I mean, with the aid workers.
Cut the crap, soldier, where's the morgue? I need a shot of me grieving over some dead fucker's body.
Perfect. Alright, let's lighten things up a little. People need to see how I'm the only thing that can bring these people joy. Get some kids over here, and tell those lazy fucks in wardrobe that I need a head scarf. Now tell these kids some knock-knock jokes to get them smiling. What? You say they're not in a joking mood after the Sudanese government bombed the shit out of their villages and killed their entire families? Well, how do you say, "I just called Dominos, the pizza should be here any minute" in Arabic? No, wait, how do you say, "If you're good and you smile at me, I'll adopt you?" Yeah, that's it! Make it look like I'm the only thing that's ever brought hope to their worthless lives!
Maybe I will adopt one. I've got Zahara already, and if I could get a little African boy, I can complete the set.
Hey, here's a good one. Get a picture of me hugging his emaciated ass. Make sure I look REALLY empathetic.
Touching. That's perfect. It's the cover shot! Now get one of just me contemplating this great human tragedy.
Boo hoo, this is sad. Hey, "sad" rhymes with "Chad." I think that makes for a snappy headline! Are you writing this down, people? Nobody's going to care unless they see how sad I am, because I'm an expert on the world's problems. Nobody's going to give a shit about stupid Darfur unless they can see how much it's affecting ME!
Jesus Christ, I hate this woman. I know all about Darfur without this bullshit faux photojournalism. They have ads all over the damn subway about the hundreds of thousands who have died there, so it's not like I'm shocked to see that the situation over there seriously blows for the refugees. Furthermore, Angelina sold the first pictures of her and Pax Thien to Hello! magazine for $2 million dollars. Now she's saying that she's going to use $100,000 of that to build a hospital in the Sudan. While that's nice, WHAT'S SHE DOING WITH THE OTHER $1.9 million?
For someone who professes to care so deeply for her family, she also doesn't seem to have much respect for anyone else's. It's not that I'm on "Team Aniston", as I think Jennifer Aniston is a fugly, humorless, no-talent sourpuss without feminine features or really any endearing qualities. Given that her greatest impact on society was popularizing stupid layered haircuts and starring in one of the most annoying sitcoms in the history of television, I have no love for her. Also, if I were Brad Pitt, I'd probably jump at the opportunity to stick my dick in Angelina. However, she was simply the latest to have her man stolen by Angelina. Previously, Billy Bob Thornton was engaged to Laura Dern, and he dumped her by phone on the way to the Vegas chapel to marry Angelina. Angelina also hates her father, Jon Voight, without mercy. Interestingly enough, the reason she hates him is because he cheated on her mother and ruined their marriage. Way to break the cycle of adultery, Angelina. Nothing says "family values" like breaking up marriages and hating your dad for doing exactly that.
Then there's the matter of her insufferably snotty attitude. She has claimed to dislike American traditions such as Thanksgiving (because it's gluttonous and self-indulgent) and awards shows (supposedly she gave Ryan Seacrest the silent treatment on the red carpet at the Golden Globes this year because she considers awards shows to be "a waste of time and money.") I actually enjoy this trash, as do many other people, and they keep a lot of people fed and employed. For example, all the lesser judging staff on "America's Next Top Model" (Mr. and Miss J) and Joan and Melissa Rivers. You know those crones would starve if they didn't have shit to talk on the red carpet. In any event, awards shows are far less of a waste of time and money than THESE:
Wait, there's more...
And let's not forget the EXTREMELY worthwhile contributions to improve the quality of life for masturbating video game addicts everywhere with her performance in this powerful cinematic franchise:
And where would society be without THESE extremely useful contributions? Nominate her for a Nobel Peace Prize, already!
And don't overlook these oldies but not-goodies:
A waste of time and money? That basically describes Angelina's ENTIRE movie career, with the exceptions of Gia and Girl, Interrupted. I only liked Gia because there's was all sorts of hot girl-on-girl action in that with the chick who currently plays the fertility doctor on "Lost", and while I thought Girl, Interrupted sucked, apparently she was good in it because she played a mentally deranged slut. In other words, she played herself. Both movies continue to positively impact our society by getting lots of replay on the Lifetime Movie Network. It takes some serious nerve to be such a pompous cunt about what you're wearing at the Golden Globes when you've played second fiddle to Jack Palance in Cyborg 2.
It's funny that up until she started cruising the third-world for kids, telling everyone else what an inferior job they're doing solving the world's problems, and stinking up movie screens with her piss-poor film projects, she was getting along with her (totally awesome) dad John Voight. She hasn't spoken to him since made the appallingly rude request to merely meet his grandchildren and subsequently said she has "serious emotional problems." I guess she was more stable back when she was collecting knives and frenching her brother. That Angelina is dead to me now. The only remnant of her old life is that fact that for awhile Maddox was sporting the same faux-hawk popularized by her ex-girlfriend:
I never thought I'd say this, but I'd rather attend a weeklong seminar dedicated exclusively to Bono talking about AIDS and debt than see more footage of Angelina riding around on her high horse and acting like the world's greatest humanitarian. That would be like a luxury vacation compared to bearing witness to any more Angelina worship. Finally, the mainstream media seems to agree with me, as Us Weekly has decided that the beatification of Angelina for all her saintly deeds has gone far enough. Behold, this week's cover:
It's about damn time the media turned on her, because I swear the next time I see this snatch parading around acting like the second coming of Christ on one of my internet gossip sites, I'm going to punch out my computer monitor. Thank you, Us Weekly, for feeling the hate!
You'd never know when she'd haul off and do something completely, ridiculously nuts. I even liked her when she was wearing a vial of Billy Bob Thornton's blood around her neck and talking about jumping enthusiastically on his manorexic trailer park dick in the limo on the way to the SAG awards. She was slutty, bizarre, out of her mind, and did not give a fuck. Consequently, I thought she was one of the most smoking pieces of ass on the planet.
Unfortunately, then Angelina's priorities changed and the U.N. appointed her their international spokeswhore, and it all went downhill from there. She decided that it would be much better to morph into what she calls "a citizen of the world" and what I call a STUCK-UP FUCKING BITCH, and a homewrecking, uptight, baby-stealing adoption junkie to boot. Before everyone jumps all over me for being mean to Saint Angelina, let me just catalogue her numerous asshole moves so that you can all see for yourselves what a fucking haughty hypocrite this cuntface ho-bag is.
First, in spite of claiming that Madonna's an asshole and that she would NEVER adopt a kid illegally, she hired a shady adoption agent who bribed Cambodian officials and bought first baby Maddox from his impoverished mother for a measly hundred clams. This prompted Cambodia to tighten up their adoption laws. You know you've seriously fucked up when an impoverished and underdeveloped nation famous for its killing fields decides that its orphans would be better off staying put instead of being sold to wealthy celebrities. Thanks to the tougher Angelina-prompted adoption laws, Casey Johnson, heiress to the Johnson and Johnson Band-Aid fortune, is bitching that Angelina ruined her chances of illegally adopting a Cambodian urchin of her own. Now, she's apparently fucked up again while acquiring the latest child for her collection because the kid's mom, a heroin addict named Dung, didn't sign off on the adoption and is supposedly going to demand she return him. I can't wait until Dung rallies all the Human Rights organizations to start denouncing Angelina for what she is: a fetishistic baby thief. Don't they have any orphans in Vietnam who are actually orphans that she could snag for her collection instead? On top of that, the kid is three, and upon getting him, she changed his name to Pax Thien from Pham Sang Quang. One would think that with all her world travels and experience with childrearing, she would know that there IS a difference between a human toddler and a stray dog at the pound, and one of those differences is that they KNOW THEIR OWN FUCKING NAMES BY THE AGE OF THREE. I hopes she socks some of the money she makes whoring out pictures of her new kids away for Pax's therapy when he's older. And for that matter, her biological baby Shiloh, who she called a "blob" and who is obviously her least favorite child. Shiloh never gets to go along with mommy and the rest of the brood when they pick out new siblings.
Also, instead of humanitarian aid, she figured that it would be much better to bring along a team of photographers on her latest vacation to the refugee camps in Chad and Darfur. I'm sure that kid really appreciates you telling him that he's seventy pounds underweight after you forced his ass onto that digital scale for the cameras. Bring his ass some food and medicine, instead, ho!
Furthermore, she had Newsweek tag along and take these photos of Angelina in action can market herself as the "voice of the victims." Yeah, there's nothing posed about these at all. I can just hear this bitch directing her team of stylists, makeup artists, and photographers to make the shots extra poignant:
Hey, let's do this in BLACK AND WHITE, to show everyone that I'm SUPER serious about this. Okay, first show me debriefing the U.N. humanitarian force. Hang on, I have to put on my $500 Marc Jacobs aviator shades on. They make me look like an army general. It shows people that I'm serious about this shit! Hey, and try to not to get too much of my private Gulfstream IV jet in the background...I want people to think I'm travelling with the riffraff, I mean, with the aid workers.
Cut the crap, soldier, where's the morgue? I need a shot of me grieving over some dead fucker's body.
Perfect. Alright, let's lighten things up a little. People need to see how I'm the only thing that can bring these people joy. Get some kids over here, and tell those lazy fucks in wardrobe that I need a head scarf. Now tell these kids some knock-knock jokes to get them smiling. What? You say they're not in a joking mood after the Sudanese government bombed the shit out of their villages and killed their entire families? Well, how do you say, "I just called Dominos, the pizza should be here any minute" in Arabic? No, wait, how do you say, "If you're good and you smile at me, I'll adopt you?" Yeah, that's it! Make it look like I'm the only thing that's ever brought hope to their worthless lives!
Maybe I will adopt one. I've got Zahara already, and if I could get a little African boy, I can complete the set.
Hey, here's a good one. Get a picture of me hugging his emaciated ass. Make sure I look REALLY empathetic.
Touching. That's perfect. It's the cover shot! Now get one of just me contemplating this great human tragedy.
Boo hoo, this is sad. Hey, "sad" rhymes with "Chad." I think that makes for a snappy headline! Are you writing this down, people? Nobody's going to care unless they see how sad I am, because I'm an expert on the world's problems. Nobody's going to give a shit about stupid Darfur unless they can see how much it's affecting ME!
Jesus Christ, I hate this woman. I know all about Darfur without this bullshit faux photojournalism. They have ads all over the damn subway about the hundreds of thousands who have died there, so it's not like I'm shocked to see that the situation over there seriously blows for the refugees. Furthermore, Angelina sold the first pictures of her and Pax Thien to Hello! magazine for $2 million dollars. Now she's saying that she's going to use $100,000 of that to build a hospital in the Sudan. While that's nice, WHAT'S SHE DOING WITH THE OTHER $1.9 million?
For someone who professes to care so deeply for her family, she also doesn't seem to have much respect for anyone else's. It's not that I'm on "Team Aniston", as I think Jennifer Aniston is a fugly, humorless, no-talent sourpuss without feminine features or really any endearing qualities. Given that her greatest impact on society was popularizing stupid layered haircuts and starring in one of the most annoying sitcoms in the history of television, I have no love for her. Also, if I were Brad Pitt, I'd probably jump at the opportunity to stick my dick in Angelina. However, she was simply the latest to have her man stolen by Angelina. Previously, Billy Bob Thornton was engaged to Laura Dern, and he dumped her by phone on the way to the Vegas chapel to marry Angelina. Angelina also hates her father, Jon Voight, without mercy. Interestingly enough, the reason she hates him is because he cheated on her mother and ruined their marriage. Way to break the cycle of adultery, Angelina. Nothing says "family values" like breaking up marriages and hating your dad for doing exactly that.
Then there's the matter of her insufferably snotty attitude. She has claimed to dislike American traditions such as Thanksgiving (because it's gluttonous and self-indulgent) and awards shows (supposedly she gave Ryan Seacrest the silent treatment on the red carpet at the Golden Globes this year because she considers awards shows to be "a waste of time and money.") I actually enjoy this trash, as do many other people, and they keep a lot of people fed and employed. For example, all the lesser judging staff on "America's Next Top Model" (Mr. and Miss J) and Joan and Melissa Rivers. You know those crones would starve if they didn't have shit to talk on the red carpet. In any event, awards shows are far less of a waste of time and money than THESE:
Wait, there's more...
And let's not forget the EXTREMELY worthwhile contributions to improve the quality of life for masturbating video game addicts everywhere with her performance in this powerful cinematic franchise:
And where would society be without THESE extremely useful contributions? Nominate her for a Nobel Peace Prize, already!
And don't overlook these oldies but not-goodies:
A waste of time and money? That basically describes Angelina's ENTIRE movie career, with the exceptions of Gia and Girl, Interrupted. I only liked Gia because there's was all sorts of hot girl-on-girl action in that with the chick who currently plays the fertility doctor on "Lost", and while I thought Girl, Interrupted sucked, apparently she was good in it because she played a mentally deranged slut. In other words, she played herself. Both movies continue to positively impact our society by getting lots of replay on the Lifetime Movie Network. It takes some serious nerve to be such a pompous cunt about what you're wearing at the Golden Globes when you've played second fiddle to Jack Palance in Cyborg 2.
It's funny that up until she started cruising the third-world for kids, telling everyone else what an inferior job they're doing solving the world's problems, and stinking up movie screens with her piss-poor film projects, she was getting along with her (totally awesome) dad John Voight. She hasn't spoken to him since made the appallingly rude request to merely meet his grandchildren and subsequently said she has "serious emotional problems." I guess she was more stable back when she was collecting knives and frenching her brother. That Angelina is dead to me now. The only remnant of her old life is that fact that for awhile Maddox was sporting the same faux-hawk popularized by her ex-girlfriend:
I never thought I'd say this, but I'd rather attend a weeklong seminar dedicated exclusively to Bono talking about AIDS and debt than see more footage of Angelina riding around on her high horse and acting like the world's greatest humanitarian. That would be like a luxury vacation compared to bearing witness to any more Angelina worship. Finally, the mainstream media seems to agree with me, as Us Weekly has decided that the beatification of Angelina for all her saintly deeds has gone far enough. Behold, this week's cover:
It's about damn time the media turned on her, because I swear the next time I see this snatch parading around acting like the second coming of Christ on one of my internet gossip sites, I'm going to punch out my computer monitor. Thank you, Us Weekly, for feeling the hate!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, media whores, movies, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, vanity
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Yet another blow to my dreams of modeling
Because grad students make no money, I'm always on the lookout for some easy extra work to subsidize my alcoholism. My mother is also on the lookout on my behalf, because when extra work is hard to come by, she ends up arranging yet another specialty interest-free loan from the Bank of Razzy. She called me a while ago to tell me that she'd pimped out my services professionally to one of her friends.
My mother is an ultrasound technician by trade, and one of her favorite ultrasound-manufacturers is a company that is hilariously called Siemens (and yes, it's pronounced "semens".) I'm always making jokes to her about how she takes classes to improve her handling of Siemens probes and how she thinks every radiology department should have Siemens machines in them. I've covered this topic with her so much that at Christmas she actually dug out a t-shirt that says "You can't afford to gamble on your ultrasound purchase--INVEST IN SIEMENS."
Anyway, Siemens apparently hires models for ultrasound conferences to demonstate their superior ultrasound equipment, and they pay like $150 an hour. My mom gave me some woman's name and insisted that I e-mail her to offer my services. After all, my mom has scanned me a zillion times (when I was a kid and she was getting some new certification, she would practice on me and my little brother), and knows that I'm comfortable with it. In the course of doing all these abdominal ultrasounds on me, she has established that I have a "textbook pancreas." It would be easy money for me to just lay there and let the Siemens people demonstrate on me. Since I was talking to my mother, I refrained from any cracks about how I'm also accustomed to having Siemens all over my torso. I told my mother, "What does this involve? Because with my luck I'll end up on the vagina machine."
"Oh, Razzy, I doubt they do public demonstrations of the transvaginal probe. Besides, that's usually for pregnant women....you aren't pregnant are you?"
"No! I just don't feel like having all the people at the ultrasound conference getting a weiner's eye view of my cooch and female plumbing."
"Razzy!" I don't know why my mother is shocked any more when I say shit like this.
"Well, I don't! I'll do abdominal, or vascular, or an echo, or even breast, but I don't want to spend the day in a pair of stirrups."
"Just e-mail the Siemens lady and find out if there are any modeling jobs available. I'm sure you won't have to do anything besides pull up your shirt."
So I e-mailed this woman and finally heard back from her about modeling. The response was negative. Last night I was talking to my mom on the phone, and the first question was not "How are you?" or "Are you busy?", but "Did you hear back from the Siemens people yet about modeling?"
"Yes, Mom. They e-mailed me back last Friday and rejected me."
"Why? Do they already have enough people? Did you tell them you're used to being scanned?"
"Yes, Mom, I totally sold myself. I said that I have no modesty or shame and that I am an old veteran of being ultrasounded for demonstrative purposes. I even bragged about my sexy pancreas."
"Well, what was the problem?"
"Gender discrimination. Not that it's surprising given their name, but Siemens is biased toward men. They only hire male models for their trade shows."
"I wonder why that is?"
"Probably so nobody has to see my offensive tits when they're trying to do show their Doppler heart valve thingies on their echocardiogram machine."
"Razzy! It is a conference of medical professionals. I don't think they find the sight of breasts offensive." She had a somewhat accusatory tone, like it was my ideas or uncouth behavior that discouraged Siemens from hiring women.
"Well, it wasn't my idea not to hire chicks. That's just their policy for this upcoming conference, anyway."
"What about other conferences besides the one coming up?" I could see where this was going. My mom wanted me to pester the Siemens model scout about future work.
"I don't know, Mom, she said she would keep me in mind," I replied. The Siemens rep had said that, but given that this is one of the greatest blowoff lines of all time, I wasn't particularly hopeful. "What else am I supposed to do? I'm not e-mailing her every day to ask if there's another conference coming up. She knows I'm interested and she has my contact information."
My mother sounded slightly crestfallen. I wonder if she thought that, in addition to me hitting her up for less extra cash, she'd be able to boast in her office break room that her daughter is a Siemens girl. I guess Siemens is the Prada of ultrasounds, and getting paid to let them image my internal organs is the equivalent of a runway show at fashion week in Milan.
"I'll tell you what, Mom. Next time I'm home I'll go into your office and you can scan me and we'll shoot a portfolio. Then I can get an agent, and hopefully I'll be America's Next Top Ultrasound Model."
"You're making fun of me, aren't you, Razzy?"
"Just a little. As you know, I use humor to disguise the pain of being rejected. I have to make jokes to compensate for my crushed spirit pursuant to having my dream of being a Siemens model cruelly snatched away."
"Stop it! I get it, I get it."
"Don't worry, Mom, I can make money on the side other ways. I have that part-time job as an technology analyst for the university's patent office, and any day now my website will take off."
"So anyway, what are you up to now?" she asked. The quickest way to initiate a subject change with my parents is to act like I'm about to start telling them about my website. My mom read it once in summer 2005, when it was basically nothing but a review of a 50 Cent album and a biography page, and there were too many "f-words" then. Fortunately, at that time she swore off reading it ever again, and now pretends like it doesn't exist, because I shudder to think what she would say if she decided to catch up on my blog archives.
In any event, I'm too short to model based on my external features and too female to model based on my internal features, so it looks like I must placate myself with dreams of what it would be like to use my legendary features selling Siemens machines while I toil away doing virology research. And on that note, I have to go to lab now.
My mother is an ultrasound technician by trade, and one of her favorite ultrasound-manufacturers is a company that is hilariously called Siemens (and yes, it's pronounced "semens".) I'm always making jokes to her about how she takes classes to improve her handling of Siemens probes and how she thinks every radiology department should have Siemens machines in them. I've covered this topic with her so much that at Christmas she actually dug out a t-shirt that says "You can't afford to gamble on your ultrasound purchase--INVEST IN SIEMENS."
Anyway, Siemens apparently hires models for ultrasound conferences to demonstate their superior ultrasound equipment, and they pay like $150 an hour. My mom gave me some woman's name and insisted that I e-mail her to offer my services. After all, my mom has scanned me a zillion times (when I was a kid and she was getting some new certification, she would practice on me and my little brother), and knows that I'm comfortable with it. In the course of doing all these abdominal ultrasounds on me, she has established that I have a "textbook pancreas." It would be easy money for me to just lay there and let the Siemens people demonstrate on me. Since I was talking to my mother, I refrained from any cracks about how I'm also accustomed to having Siemens all over my torso. I told my mother, "What does this involve? Because with my luck I'll end up on the vagina machine."
"Oh, Razzy, I doubt they do public demonstrations of the transvaginal probe. Besides, that's usually for pregnant women....you aren't pregnant are you?"
"No! I just don't feel like having all the people at the ultrasound conference getting a weiner's eye view of my cooch and female plumbing."
"Razzy!" I don't know why my mother is shocked any more when I say shit like this.
"Well, I don't! I'll do abdominal, or vascular, or an echo, or even breast, but I don't want to spend the day in a pair of stirrups."
"Just e-mail the Siemens lady and find out if there are any modeling jobs available. I'm sure you won't have to do anything besides pull up your shirt."
So I e-mailed this woman and finally heard back from her about modeling. The response was negative. Last night I was talking to my mom on the phone, and the first question was not "How are you?" or "Are you busy?", but "Did you hear back from the Siemens people yet about modeling?"
"Yes, Mom. They e-mailed me back last Friday and rejected me."
"Why? Do they already have enough people? Did you tell them you're used to being scanned?"
"Yes, Mom, I totally sold myself. I said that I have no modesty or shame and that I am an old veteran of being ultrasounded for demonstrative purposes. I even bragged about my sexy pancreas."
"Well, what was the problem?"
"Gender discrimination. Not that it's surprising given their name, but Siemens is biased toward men. They only hire male models for their trade shows."
"I wonder why that is?"
"Probably so nobody has to see my offensive tits when they're trying to do show their Doppler heart valve thingies on their echocardiogram machine."
"Razzy! It is a conference of medical professionals. I don't think they find the sight of breasts offensive." She had a somewhat accusatory tone, like it was my ideas or uncouth behavior that discouraged Siemens from hiring women.
"Well, it wasn't my idea not to hire chicks. That's just their policy for this upcoming conference, anyway."
"What about other conferences besides the one coming up?" I could see where this was going. My mom wanted me to pester the Siemens model scout about future work.
"I don't know, Mom, she said she would keep me in mind," I replied. The Siemens rep had said that, but given that this is one of the greatest blowoff lines of all time, I wasn't particularly hopeful. "What else am I supposed to do? I'm not e-mailing her every day to ask if there's another conference coming up. She knows I'm interested and she has my contact information."
My mother sounded slightly crestfallen. I wonder if she thought that, in addition to me hitting her up for less extra cash, she'd be able to boast in her office break room that her daughter is a Siemens girl. I guess Siemens is the Prada of ultrasounds, and getting paid to let them image my internal organs is the equivalent of a runway show at fashion week in Milan.
"I'll tell you what, Mom. Next time I'm home I'll go into your office and you can scan me and we'll shoot a portfolio. Then I can get an agent, and hopefully I'll be America's Next Top Ultrasound Model."
"You're making fun of me, aren't you, Razzy?"
"Just a little. As you know, I use humor to disguise the pain of being rejected. I have to make jokes to compensate for my crushed spirit pursuant to having my dream of being a Siemens model cruelly snatched away."
"Stop it! I get it, I get it."
"Don't worry, Mom, I can make money on the side other ways. I have that part-time job as an technology analyst for the university's patent office, and any day now my website will take off."
"So anyway, what are you up to now?" she asked. The quickest way to initiate a subject change with my parents is to act like I'm about to start telling them about my website. My mom read it once in summer 2005, when it was basically nothing but a review of a 50 Cent album and a biography page, and there were too many "f-words" then. Fortunately, at that time she swore off reading it ever again, and now pretends like it doesn't exist, because I shudder to think what she would say if she decided to catch up on my blog archives.
In any event, I'm too short to model based on my external features and too female to model based on my internal features, so it looks like I must placate myself with dreams of what it would be like to use my legendary features selling Siemens machines while I toil away doing virology research. And on that note, I have to go to lab now.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, family matters, science, vanity
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
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Kiss my brass
I've gotten a few comments here and there about the color of my hair. Specifically, several astute readers have pointed out that my color, L'Oreal Feria Pure Diamond Extra Light Natural Blonde, isn't exactly "natural" and sometimes has a brassy tone. I am well aware of this, although I don't really mind it. "Brassy" also means ballsy, brazen, saucy, and loud, attributes which certainly apply to me. I ldefinitely think of myself as a brassy broad. Also, Tonya Harding was a pretty brassy bitch, being PWT from the P-N-Dub and all, and there's no shame in channeling a bit of her scrappy, cheating spirit by having a similar hair color:
I do, however, draw the line at rocking the deflating bangs and partially grown-out Fantastic Sam's spiral perm. Also, I certainly wouldn't be smiling if I had whatever the hell is going on with her teeth. Anyway, my defense of brassiness and my conflicted feelings about Ms. Harding aside, I don't really have a choice about the whole hair color situation. Getting your hair professionally colored in New York City is pricey, and in order to afford it, I'd have to give up drinking. I am a dedicated alcoholic, and not about to let vanity get in the way of my quest to destroy my liver, so that is not an option. Therefore, I see myself in fucking Feria.
I have naturally blonde hair, but it's what my mom calls "dishwater" blonde. I used to have really light, almost white blonde hair when I was a small child, but as I got older, it got darker. I think it's really boring and blah, so I hit the bottle to brighten it up. Big deal. Most blondes don't sport their natural color, so it's not like I'm the only bitch in the room with a bleach job.
Tonight J-Sexy is having a party, and while the prospects of getting laid there are slim (I'm so NOT trying to bang 99% of my fellow science nerds...no offense, grad school guys), there are some people that J-Sexy knows from elsewhere attending. Therefore, on the off chance that there is some cute random single Jamaican boozing it up at J-Sexy's tonight, I decided to touch up my roots this morning while I was catching reruns of "90210" on SoapNet.
As I was pulling on my vinyl gloves and mixing up the chemicals in my bathroom, I noticed that the Feria box was lauding their improved conditioner formula. The concerned readers who have expressed dismay or displeasure regarding my hair color can rest easy now, because the conditioner is now a special formula for blondes called ANTI-BRASS. Presumably the use of this conditioner will reduce the color-treated look of my hair and make it seem more natural. I don't see how conditioner, which is basically grease you put on your hair AFTER you wash out the actual dye, will accomplish this, but it's supposedly "shimmer enhancing" and claims that it will "bring out multi-faceted shine in my hair." So the next time I put up a picture of myself and people are like, "Your hair looks like a yellow crayon" or "Quit dyeing your hair!", instead you can tell me how natural, shimmering, and multi-faceted it looks. And regardless of how my hair actually looks, I'll probably respond brassily.
I do, however, draw the line at rocking the deflating bangs and partially grown-out Fantastic Sam's spiral perm. Also, I certainly wouldn't be smiling if I had whatever the hell is going on with her teeth. Anyway, my defense of brassiness and my conflicted feelings about Ms. Harding aside, I don't really have a choice about the whole hair color situation. Getting your hair professionally colored in New York City is pricey, and in order to afford it, I'd have to give up drinking. I am a dedicated alcoholic, and not about to let vanity get in the way of my quest to destroy my liver, so that is not an option. Therefore, I see myself in fucking Feria.
I have naturally blonde hair, but it's what my mom calls "dishwater" blonde. I used to have really light, almost white blonde hair when I was a small child, but as I got older, it got darker. I think it's really boring and blah, so I hit the bottle to brighten it up. Big deal. Most blondes don't sport their natural color, so it's not like I'm the only bitch in the room with a bleach job.
Tonight J-Sexy is having a party, and while the prospects of getting laid there are slim (I'm so NOT trying to bang 99% of my fellow science nerds...no offense, grad school guys), there are some people that J-Sexy knows from elsewhere attending. Therefore, on the off chance that there is some cute random single Jamaican boozing it up at J-Sexy's tonight, I decided to touch up my roots this morning while I was catching reruns of "90210" on SoapNet.
As I was pulling on my vinyl gloves and mixing up the chemicals in my bathroom, I noticed that the Feria box was lauding their improved conditioner formula. The concerned readers who have expressed dismay or displeasure regarding my hair color can rest easy now, because the conditioner is now a special formula for blondes called ANTI-BRASS. Presumably the use of this conditioner will reduce the color-treated look of my hair and make it seem more natural. I don't see how conditioner, which is basically grease you put on your hair AFTER you wash out the actual dye, will accomplish this, but it's supposedly "shimmer enhancing" and claims that it will "bring out multi-faceted shine in my hair." So the next time I put up a picture of myself and people are like, "Your hair looks like a yellow crayon" or "Quit dyeing your hair!", instead you can tell me how natural, shimmering, and multi-faceted it looks. And regardless of how my hair actually looks, I'll probably respond brassily.
Labels: bleach blonde, celebrities, P-N-Dub, PWT, Razzification, Tonya Harding, vanity
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Memo to guys with full beards: shave
I hate guys who sport really full beards. I can put up with guys who have a five o'clock shadow, or a neatly trimmed goatee, or a soul patch (although that usually looks stupid). For example, that guy from "Six Feet Under" is always rocking varying degrees of stubble, but it's short and doesn't interfere with him being hot:
Same with the smoking hot Christian Bale. He sometimes rocks a beard, but it's always neatly shorn:
Justin Timberlake needs a beard, in spite of it making him resemble David Silver from "90210", to make himself sexy (since otherwise he looks like he's 12), but wisely keeps it very short:
Even though my boyfriend Ernest Hemingway usually has a full-face beard, he keeps it trimmed even when hanging out in a safari cabin full of elephant tusks, and thus is squeaks by as a marginally acceptable quantity of facial hair:
However, when I see a guy with a really voluminous beard reminiscent of Jerry Garcia, Santa Claus, or guy from ZZ Top, I just want to attack him with a can of Barbasol and a razor. Hence, Karl Marx gets no love:
There are a lot of general issues I have with these really full beards. They are favored by hippies, probably because they are a style achievable through laziness and poor hygiene. Also, hooking up with guys who have beards is typically a very irritating experience. Apart from beards' kinship with shitty grooming habits and their ability to chafe faces (and sometimes inner thighs and labias), the biggest problem with beards is that they can get downright disgusting.
Roald Dahl was one of my favorite authors as a kid, and he wrote a book called The Twits about "the most revolting couple in the world." The Twits made that family from Pink Flamingoes look sophisticated and refined. I remember that Mr. Twit had a full beard, and he had all kinds of food trapped in it: cornflakes, ketchup, hot dogs, chicken tenders, etc. Whenever he got hungry, he would just start licking his beard to coax out some crusted-on food from meals past. I imagine that the food-trapping issue is a real problem for any man with a beard large enough to obscure the mouth. I'm not down with acquiring sticky, perishable shit in one's hair.
I have long hair, and I usually wear it back because I don't like getting shit in it. Sometimes my hair gets in the way when I'm eating or doing something gross in lab. I've gotten French onion soup and puttanesca and soy sauce with wasabi in my hair. I've gotten don't-let-me-hold-your-unvaccinated-baby polio-ridden mouse spinal exudate in my hair. I've lit my hair on fire. I've dunked my hair in a crock pot. My hair is already unruly due to years of vicious chemical treatments, so I restrain that shitshow when I come across situations, like cooking or working, that have a splash risk. However, dudes with beards can't just tie that shit back. Their facial hair is always there, always in the way, and always ready to mop up whatever type of liquid comes in the vicinity of the mouth. I can't imagine why guys would willingly embrace this personal style. Motherfuckers with beards clearly just don't get it. Beards are gross, and if you have a big one, you should immediately shave.
Same with the smoking hot Christian Bale. He sometimes rocks a beard, but it's always neatly shorn:
Justin Timberlake needs a beard, in spite of it making him resemble David Silver from "90210", to make himself sexy (since otherwise he looks like he's 12), but wisely keeps it very short:
Even though my boyfriend Ernest Hemingway usually has a full-face beard, he keeps it trimmed even when hanging out in a safari cabin full of elephant tusks, and thus is squeaks by as a marginally acceptable quantity of facial hair:
However, when I see a guy with a really voluminous beard reminiscent of Jerry Garcia, Santa Claus, or guy from ZZ Top, I just want to attack him with a can of Barbasol and a razor. Hence, Karl Marx gets no love:
There are a lot of general issues I have with these really full beards. They are favored by hippies, probably because they are a style achievable through laziness and poor hygiene. Also, hooking up with guys who have beards is typically a very irritating experience. Apart from beards' kinship with shitty grooming habits and their ability to chafe faces (and sometimes inner thighs and labias), the biggest problem with beards is that they can get downright disgusting.
Roald Dahl was one of my favorite authors as a kid, and he wrote a book called The Twits about "the most revolting couple in the world." The Twits made that family from Pink Flamingoes look sophisticated and refined. I remember that Mr. Twit had a full beard, and he had all kinds of food trapped in it: cornflakes, ketchup, hot dogs, chicken tenders, etc. Whenever he got hungry, he would just start licking his beard to coax out some crusted-on food from meals past. I imagine that the food-trapping issue is a real problem for any man with a beard large enough to obscure the mouth. I'm not down with acquiring sticky, perishable shit in one's hair.
I have long hair, and I usually wear it back because I don't like getting shit in it. Sometimes my hair gets in the way when I'm eating or doing something gross in lab. I've gotten French onion soup and puttanesca and soy sauce with wasabi in my hair. I've gotten don't-let-me-hold-your-unvaccinated-baby polio-ridden mouse spinal exudate in my hair. I've lit my hair on fire. I've dunked my hair in a crock pot. My hair is already unruly due to years of vicious chemical treatments, so I restrain that shitshow when I come across situations, like cooking or working, that have a splash risk. However, dudes with beards can't just tie that shit back. Their facial hair is always there, always in the way, and always ready to mop up whatever type of liquid comes in the vicinity of the mouth. I can't imagine why guys would willingly embrace this personal style. Motherfuckers with beards clearly just don't get it. Beards are gross, and if you have a big one, you should immediately shave.
Labels: assholes, hot dudes, overcompensation, ranting, scathing indictments, vanity, you're ugly
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