Thursday, September 04, 2008
Don't hate the player; steal his bags
Tatum Bell is one of those running backs whose actual career in the National Football League parallels his career in virtually everyone's Fantasy league. Overblown news blurbs touting his potential (but never seen) abilities on-field result in his starting the season comfortably on someone's roster. Then, after his inability to do anything besides fumble the ball results in negligible offensive production, his ass is disgustedly and unceremoniously flung back to the mercy of the waiver wire.
Well, it seems after learning that the Detroit Lions had replaced his useless ass with Rudi Johnson following yet another lackluster preseason, Tatum Bell was a little pissed off that he wasn't going to be allowed to consistently rack up negative yardage this year. Instead of getting together with (Central Washington University alum and former Seahawk) Jon Kitna for some serenity prayers about the situation, he decided to respond with all the grace and tact of an irascible third grader.
Tatum stole Rudi's bags and drove them to his girlfriend's house. I can just imagine Tatum Bell rubbing his hands sinuously, or perhaps stroking his goatee with a villainous air, saying, "Rudi Johnson, you may have taken my job, but I'm about to take your precious Perry Ellis boxer shorts! Mwahahahahaha."
Too bad for Tatum's diabolical scheme that the Lions have video surveillance in their team headquarters, and he was quickly pegged as the culprit. His girlfriend brought back the bags, after Tatum emptied them of Rudi's unmentionables, $200, and some credit cards. Rudi later claimed it was "real shyster, conniving stuff." I would disagree that the plot was actually pretty poorly conceived and may have even been a big misunderstanding, if you believe Tatum's feeble protests of "I ain't no thief." Rudi Johnson does not.
This all bodes ill for Tatum Bell. After being released by the Lions and painted as a petty underwear thief, I doubt he's going to get picked up by any other team anytime soon. There's also the matter of him being a totally shiteous running back. Shaun Alexander is going to find a home for 2008 before Tatum Bell's bitch ass does.
Labels: crime and punishment, NFL football, ridiculous absurdity, vengeance is sweet
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Hawking a loogie
Last Saturday, some dude in the not-particularly-storied burgh of Port Orchard, Washington decided to take his daughters out for a burger at a local fast-food joint. He dressed for the occasion by glamming himself up in his finest Pittsburgh Steelers regalia.
Wearing anything related to the (sonofabitchbastard) Shitsburgh Stealers is not an advisable move in the middle of redneck Seahawks country. It's even less advisable to begin making asshole quips about how the Stealers co-conspired with Bill Leavy's officiating crew to rob the Seattle Seahawks of the Lombardi trophy in Super Bowl XL. This asshole learned this the hard way, and in this case "the hard way" means via saliva comprising the special sauce atop his burger, according to this riveting report from the Kitsap Sun:
A 24-year-old South Kitsap man — and self-proclaimed Seattle Seahawks fan — was arrested Sunday for allegedly spitting on the hamburger he prepared for a man wearing Pittsburgh Steelers attire, according to Kitsap County Sheriff's Office reports.Ah, bless the other Seahawks fans in the P-N-Dub. I'm clearly not the only one clinging to feelings of overwhelming bitterness and resentment with regard to the travesty that occurred February 6, 2006. There are even some fellow Hawks faithful out there who are willing to literally spit on the indignity of having an obnoxious Steeler fan rub it in.
Deputies said the 37-year-old man in Steelers garb took his daughters to a Mile Hill Drive fast food restaurant Saturday evening, and "began trading friendly barbs about his team and their victory over the Seattle Seahawks in Super Bowl XL," reports said.
One employee told the man that he'd "better not say that to the guy that's making your food," but the man thought it was a joke, reports said.
That is, until he opened his "clamshell-style" hamburger container and discovered what he called a "loogie" on his hamburger.
This story gets even better. Apparently spitting in someone's food is considered assault, so the chef showing his disdain for the douchebag assclowns of Heinz Field via loogie was visited by some sheriff's deputies the next day. Like every other foodservice employee from the P-N-Dub I've ever met, this heroic 12th man likes to take the edge off his lingering grief over the Seahawks' postseason misfortunes by indulging in some cannabis. When the deputies showed up, mild hilarity ensued:
A deputy was informed by the manager that the person responsible may be a 24-year-old South Kitsap man who was near his quitting time when the incident occurred. He also failed to show up for work the next day, the manager said.Hatred of the Stealers, willingness to endure a night in jail in defense of the Hawks' honor, and a fondness for smokin' the ganj...it doesn't get more P-N-Dubby than that. This unnamed and now probably unemployed line cook is a true local hero. They should let him raise the 12th man flag at Qwest Field on opening day for his devotion and loyalty, send him on a date to Ivar's or Sea Galley or somewhere similarly classy with the Sea Gal of his choice, give him AT LEAST a complimentary pair of Deion Branch neon green receiver gloves, and let him pet Taima the osprey who flies out of the tunnel ahead of the team during home games. He is the pride of the Pacific Northwest.
The deputy went to the 24-year-old's house, and when he knocked on the door, a voice from inside yelled that he "wasn't buying any ... girl scout cookies," the deputy said.
The deputy told him, "I won't sell you any," and when the man opened the door, the deputy "was immediately confronted with the strong odor of burnt marijuana."
Eventually, the man brought the deputy a bag of marijuana and he was arrested. The man also confessed to spitting in the 37-year-old's hamburger container to "gross him out ... because he was a Steelers fan," deputies said.
Labels: crime and punishment, gross, I LOVE IT, P-N-Dub, Seahawks, Stealers suck, vengeance is sweet
Monday, January 21, 2008
Daily Douchebag: the New York Giants fans at Josie Wood's Pub
Name: we never got there
DOB: various
Occupation: being fucking assholes
Hometown: New York? New Jersey?
Current residence: Josie Wood's pub, the Village of the West, New York, New York
Douchebaggery: Yesterday I went to watch the conference championships at my usual football bar, Josie Wood's Pub. Overall, it was not a good day for my football picks. I was obviously rooting for the Chargers since I loathe the New England Patriots more than cats, raisins, guys who push on your shoulders when they want a blow job, and the Super Bowl XL officiating crew. Since I didn't have any Chargers gear to wear, Multiple Scorgasms and I made signs on our placemats extolling the virtues of Philip Rivers et al. I discovered that I have a great talent at drawing the curvy lightning bolt that is the Chargers logo. Since everyone at the bar with the exception of my friend Neo (who managed to draw an admirable albeit effeminate Patriot on her placemat) felt similar anti-Patriot sentiments, we didn't have any problems with our fellow bar patrons based on this. Sadly, the Chargers didn't pull it off, and I knew they were doomed the moment I started thinking, "Hey, maybe they should put Billy Volek in and see if he can get the offense moving."
Unfortunately, the atmosphere of peace and camaraderie didn't last when the Giants game started. I decided to root for the Packers, just to be contrarian. Also, Multiple Scorgasms brought her cheesehead, and we had a fairly large posse of actual Packers fans rocking their green and yellow at our table, so I was more than happy to join them since there were more than enough Giants fans around. In fact, we were surrounded by them. As we drank our way through $300 of Bud Light pitchers, the shit-talking became more ferocious. The Giants fans on one side of us had brought their baby in (wearing a Manning onesie) and would hold him up to the delight of the Giants fans on the other side of us, who would shout "WE! HAVE! A! BABY!" and "CAIN! CAIN! CAIN!" (apparently that was the baby's name). Multiple Scorgasms pointed out that Cain was the bastard who killed his brother in the Bible, and I made a point to establish that they might have a baby, but I had a set of hot tits. I'm cheese and a cracker. I win again and as usual (except too bad my face is so busted in this picture)!
At one point, I got up during a commercial break in the fourth quarter to pee and the Giants fans were in the middle of a guffawing chant about the "Fudge Packers." I said, "It's funny watching a bunch of dudes, without a single woman anywhere in sight, imply that the Packers are gay." After all, those who live in latently homoerotic houses shouldn't throw stones.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" bellowed one of the drunker gentlemen there. I hurried off to the ladies room and returned in time to see the Giants kicker Lawrence Tynes miss his second field goal at the end of regulation. The Giants fans were not pleased with the cheering coming from our table, and took the opportunity to throw their beers--including the pint glasses--at us and at the ceiling above us. There was a ceiling fan that proceeded to give our entire table a beer shower. We all backed up and tried to dry ourselves off as best we could.
I thought about showing them my tits in rebuttal, but then I figured that doing so would be more like a reward for being beer-throwing assholes. I looked down at the table, saw several full pint glasses, and decided to fight Bud Light with Bud Light. I unleashed the contents of two glasses in their direction (but unlike them, I didn't throw the glasses). It was a direct hit. I felt avenged.
"FUCKIN' BITCH!" they shouted at me. Our table glared defiantly at them as they demanded we be ejected from the bar. Fortunately, I go to this bar every Sunday during football season and I'm a girl, so the owner decided to just stand in between our tables and try to maintain some kind of peace. Multiple Scorgasms and Moss were irate. My favorite waiter, Alex, brought us two complimentary pitchers to try to appease us. We settled our tab, pounded the beers, and left when Tynes finally managed to successfully kick a field goal and thus win the game a few minutes into overtime.
I'm totally annoyed that I wound up in such a situation at a bar where the inter-team rivalries usually maintain enough civility to not involve grown adults throwing engaging in a light macrobrewed American lager at each other. I was so pissed at these guys that I almost yelled "GO PATRIOTS!" as my parting shot (luckily I caught myself before those blasphemous words could escape my lips). Instead I just told Alex that I'll see him next September, and would never be tempted to do any retaliatory beer-throwing again. Rough times.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Pats, NFL football, NYC, vengeance is sweet
Monday, January 07, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Anna O'Malley
Name: Anna O'Malley
DOB: 1967
Occupation: "data entry specialist," hot unwitting victim
Hometown: ?
Current residence: Brooklyn, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: One day, Anna O'Malley was just minding her own business when her phone started blowing up with calls from seeming perverts. I imagine at first she was confused, then a little scared, then pissed as hell upon realizing that this was a result of somebody getting up to some asshole mischief on Craigslist. According to the NY Daily News:
Fake Craigslist post offered sex for cashAh, this fake call-me-for-sex Craigslist posting brings back memories. Memories of happy, carefree days past in which a dumb bitch named Tejratan Bindra (Smith '07) took exception to mean things I wrote about her dorm room on my blog and orchestrated the following similar attack on my privacy and well-being, in which I was "besieged" by correspondence from "men hungry for sex:"
BY CARRIE MELAGO
DAILY NEWS STAFF WRITER
Sunday, January 6th 2008, 4:00 AM
Men hungry for sex besieged a Brooklyn woman with phone calls after spotting a bogus ad on Craigslist that said she was looking to turn tricks to pay off Christmas debt.
Anna O'Malley, 40, was stunned to learn someone with the e-mail address igotjunglefever@gmail.com posted an ad Jan. 2 offering sex for cash using her name and telephone number.
"I'm a hardworking, honest person and I would never in my life post an ad like that," said O'Malley, who was awakened last week to more than a dozen calls.
The callers were responding to the racy ad, which read: "I'm a real hottie looking to earn extra cash to pay off Christmas debt."
The data entry specialist had to change her phone number.
"I don't want to constantly look over my shoulder," she said.
O'Malley said she was further peeved when Craigslist would not help her locate the pervert.
After one of the callers flagged the ad for O'Malley, it was taken down too fast for her to check if her home address or other personal information was listed. She also wasn't able to take down other details to give cops, she said.
Craigslist initially told O'Malley they could not turn over the ad without a subpoena. But after they were contacted yesterday by the Daily News, the Web site turned over the full text.
"We hope Ms. O'Malley will decide to pursue this, in which case we will look forward to assisting law enforcement in bringing the perpetrator to justice," CEO Jim Buckmaster said in a statement.
WHY did I not show Anna O'Malley's common sense and go to the damn Daily News when this happened to me? Granted, my fake Craigslist ad was offering to give it up for free rather than recoup holiday bills via prostitution, but still...I DID get more than a dozen calls. And the dumb bitch who put up the ad actually corresponded with one of the respondents and sent him to my apartment door. I strongly suspect that the aforementioned dumb bitch was able to obtain my personal information from Smith College's glorified alumnae network database. What later became known to Razzy historians as the Tej Offensive got out of control, and I went to the cops, who sent me to the FBI. Nothing happened because the harassment ceased as soon as I tattled on Tej to Smith College's Dean of Students. But I never thought of making like Anna and telling the Daily News (or better yet, the Post) about it! That was a smart move.
I should have gone to the press, not just because it would be awesome to have the CEO of Craigslist commenting on my predicament, but because it would have been sooooooooo embarrassing and distressing for Tej, who aspires to maybe go to law school, where she might be semi-interested in doing stuff about human rights. I can only imagine the look on her jowly face fretting about the prospect of her former bosses at the New York City Human Rights Commission opening their morning Daily News and seeing Tej's name in glorious ignonimous print. Kiss that recommendation from that oh-so-valuable Praxis-funded internship goodbye! Why didn't I think of that? Clearly, Anna O'Malley is a sage, and she must also be a real ball-busting bitch to have incurred an enemy serious enough to go the sexual-identity theft-on-Craigslist route. I hereby register my admiration.
Labels: comeuppance, crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dumb Smith bitches, sexual assault, Tej Offensive, vengeance is sweet
Monday, December 17, 2007
THE WORST PICK-UP LINE EVER
I love Christmastime. 'Tis the season to be merry and I really am pretty damn merry throughout the month of December! Over the weekend, to celebrate this merriment, a group of us went out drinking (what else). We were at this fun dive bar downtown, having a really great ole' time … until one total d-bag tried to ruin our fun-filled Saturday.
Kodiak and I were standing the bar, talking to another couple. The two guys went off to get more drinks, while Sarah and I stood there talking. Suddenly, our conversation was interrupted with:
"So … are you two sisters?" (This is not the worst pick-up line in the history of the world.)
This guy was not cute at all - in fact he was short and bald. Let's call him Short Bald Guy (SBG). So we decided to give him the cold shoulder by saying, "Um, noo," really snotty and then proceeding on with our conversation as if nothing had happened.
Well, this short little midget man was mighty perceptive, and picked up on our disinterest, and thus fired back:
"Hey, hey I'm the married one of the bunch, don't worry, I'm not trying to pick you up. But I've got my two friends with me and they're single."
Sarah responds to this idiotic backtracking by saying, "Did you not notice the two extremely tall men that were standing with us the whole time? They're our boyfriends."
"So? Ditch them. I guarantee you'd have a better time with my friends."
Now - this statement just really irks me. How the hell would this guy know, let alone GUARANTEE that I'm going to have a better time with two perfect strangers than with my boyfriend whom I love and have been dating for almost a year? But beyond that - when a lady tells a fella that she has a boyfriend, and that, um, he's with her at the bar, it's time to let that ship sail and move on to some other unsuspecting prey. Which is exactly what happened after I ended the conversation with:
"We're not interested. But thanks."
Sarah and I finally went back to our conversation, until we were interrupted again a few minutes later. But this time it was not by short, bald guy - it was by my friend HillsYes!
***A quick note about HillsYes! that will be important to the rest of this story. HillsYes! looks like the quintessential, blonde, California girl. She's so cute, and sweet and talks with a totally endearing valley-girl accent***
"I'm sorry to interrupt you guys, but I have to tell you something. You know that short, bald guy over there … well, I was talking to Liz and I guess I said something like 'Oh my Gahhhhhddd' in my valley-girl way, and that short, bald guy came over to me and said 'OH MY GAHHHHHHHDDDDDDD' and started making fun of the way I talk."
Ah, yes, this makes perfect sense. A short, bald guy pushing 40 decides that the best possible way to broach a conversation with this hot young thang is to insult her. Thank God Elliot, one of our friends, overheard this all and said in his very cute British accent, "Mate, if you're going to try to talk to a girl, you've got to come up with a better line than that." Yeah, no duh!
HillsYes! finished her story and I was infuriated. INFURIATED at what had just transpired. This rage was founded on many reasons, but mostly because HillsYes! is just the prettiest thing you've ever seen, not to mention one of the sweetest girls. Why did this stupid, short, bald guy have to ruin our holiday cheer?
I've also got a few drinks in me. Plus, my boyfriend's at the bar. As well as a few other very tall, big ready-to-kick-your-ass-if-you-insult-one-of-our-girls guy friends. I was untouchable and decided to seize the moment.
I marched myself right up to Short Bald Guy said to him, "So, why exactly did you think you're allowed to insult my friend? Because you're not."
To which SBG responded, "Hey I wasn't talking to you, so why don't you butt out of it?"
"Um, actually she's one of my best friends, so this is exactly my business. Secondly, where the hell did you get the idea that the best way to pick up a lady is by making fun of her?"
He really had no response to that one, so instead said something totally lame like how I was just pissed that he didn't try to pick me up.
To which I responded: "Well, first of all, yes you did. And more importantly, you're short and bald and that's really not my thing!"
Then I broke out into what Kodiak calls my "sex dance." Sometimes after we have sex, and I have a really good O (orgasm) I jump out of bed and do a little jig, sort of like a touchdown dance in the endzone. I'm just really excited that I've had an awesome O, so I do a little dance. Anyway, I did the sex dance right in his face, and then all of my friends screamed, "Ohhhhhhhh!!!!!" and we laughed and actually pointed in his face for about a full 60 seconds.
This was one of the most satisfying moments of my life, because SBG just stood there, completely dumbfounded, unable to believe that a woman had put him in his place, nonetheless in front of his two buddies. He looked so stupid, and so short and bald. It was awesome.
But this is my question to all you Razzy readers - WHY on God's earth would this man ever insult my beautiful friend? Is teasing really an acceptable method of hitting on a girl, past the age, of say, twelve? Why wouldn't he just go up to her and say, "Hey, come here often?" Or, "Wow, it's really cold outside," or "Hey- you're really pretty," or ANYTHING that is not a direct insult to the lady in question?
Can anybody out there answer this question for me?
Kodiak and I were standing the bar, talking to another couple. The two guys went off to get more drinks, while Sarah and I stood there talking. Suddenly, our conversation was interrupted with:
"So … are you two sisters?" (This is not the worst pick-up line in the history of the world.)
This guy was not cute at all - in fact he was short and bald. Let's call him Short Bald Guy (SBG). So we decided to give him the cold shoulder by saying, "Um, noo," really snotty and then proceeding on with our conversation as if nothing had happened.
Well, this short little midget man was mighty perceptive, and picked up on our disinterest, and thus fired back:
"Hey, hey I'm the married one of the bunch, don't worry, I'm not trying to pick you up. But I've got my two friends with me and they're single."
Sarah responds to this idiotic backtracking by saying, "Did you not notice the two extremely tall men that were standing with us the whole time? They're our boyfriends."
"So? Ditch them. I guarantee you'd have a better time with my friends."
Now - this statement just really irks me. How the hell would this guy know, let alone GUARANTEE that I'm going to have a better time with two perfect strangers than with my boyfriend whom I love and have been dating for almost a year? But beyond that - when a lady tells a fella that she has a boyfriend, and that, um, he's with her at the bar, it's time to let that ship sail and move on to some other unsuspecting prey. Which is exactly what happened after I ended the conversation with:
"We're not interested. But thanks."
Sarah and I finally went back to our conversation, until we were interrupted again a few minutes later. But this time it was not by short, bald guy - it was by my friend HillsYes!
***A quick note about HillsYes! that will be important to the rest of this story. HillsYes! looks like the quintessential, blonde, California girl. She's so cute, and sweet and talks with a totally endearing valley-girl accent***
"I'm sorry to interrupt you guys, but I have to tell you something. You know that short, bald guy over there … well, I was talking to Liz and I guess I said something like 'Oh my Gahhhhhddd' in my valley-girl way, and that short, bald guy came over to me and said 'OH MY GAHHHHHHHDDDDDDD' and started making fun of the way I talk."
Ah, yes, this makes perfect sense. A short, bald guy pushing 40 decides that the best possible way to broach a conversation with this hot young thang is to insult her. Thank God Elliot, one of our friends, overheard this all and said in his very cute British accent, "Mate, if you're going to try to talk to a girl, you've got to come up with a better line than that." Yeah, no duh!
HillsYes! finished her story and I was infuriated. INFURIATED at what had just transpired. This rage was founded on many reasons, but mostly because HillsYes! is just the prettiest thing you've ever seen, not to mention one of the sweetest girls. Why did this stupid, short, bald guy have to ruin our holiday cheer?
I've also got a few drinks in me. Plus, my boyfriend's at the bar. As well as a few other very tall, big ready-to-kick-your-ass-if-you-insult-one-of-our-girls guy friends. I was untouchable and decided to seize the moment.
I marched myself right up to Short Bald Guy said to him, "So, why exactly did you think you're allowed to insult my friend? Because you're not."
To which SBG responded, "Hey I wasn't talking to you, so why don't you butt out of it?"
"Um, actually she's one of my best friends, so this is exactly my business. Secondly, where the hell did you get the idea that the best way to pick up a lady is by making fun of her?"
He really had no response to that one, so instead said something totally lame like how I was just pissed that he didn't try to pick me up.
To which I responded: "Well, first of all, yes you did. And more importantly, you're short and bald and that's really not my thing!"
Then I broke out into what Kodiak calls my "sex dance." Sometimes after we have sex, and I have a really good O (orgasm) I jump out of bed and do a little jig, sort of like a touchdown dance in the endzone. I'm just really excited that I've had an awesome O, so I do a little dance. Anyway, I did the sex dance right in his face, and then all of my friends screamed, "Ohhhhhhhh!!!!!" and we laughed and actually pointed in his face for about a full 60 seconds.
This was one of the most satisfying moments of my life, because SBG just stood there, completely dumbfounded, unable to believe that a woman had put him in his place, nonetheless in front of his two buddies. He looked so stupid, and so short and bald. It was awesome.
But this is my question to all you Razzy readers - WHY on God's earth would this man ever insult my beautiful friend? Is teasing really an acceptable method of hitting on a girl, past the age, of say, twelve? Why wouldn't he just go up to her and say, "Hey, come here often?" Or, "Wow, it's really cold outside," or "Hey- you're really pretty," or ANYTHING that is not a direct insult to the lady in question?
Can anybody out there answer this question for me?
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, vengeance is sweet, you're ugly
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: John Graziano
DOB: 1985
Occupation: former Marine, current vegetable
Hometown: Clearwater, Florida
Current residence: Critical care and soon to be a nursing home
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: John Graziano is a U.S. Marine from Florida, who likes to "surfboard skateboard wakeboard you name it with my girlfriend Ashley" per his MySpace, recently returned from a tour in Iraq. What better way to celebrate one's homecoming than to get into an overcompensatory souped-up banana yellow Toyota Supra than co-pilot a drag race with Nick, the douchebag sixteen-year-old son of Terry "Hulk Hogan" Bollea. Hulkamania didn't run wild, but Nick's crotch rocket did. In fact, it ran straight into a palm tree. Nick got a few scratches, but John wasn't so lucky.
At the scene of the crash, Graziano suffered a seizure, and as closed head traumas are wont to do, the injury caused irreversible brain damage. Basically, he's now picked up where Terry Schiavo left off, and is off to spend the rest of his life in a nursing home being rotated every four hours to stave off the bedsores. Obviously I'm not really into banging comatose vegetables, but I have to admire Graziano's tactics. His recent prognosis of no forseeable recovery should ensure that Nick Bollea is going to pay, and by "pay" I mean his overcompensating towheaded ass is going to make a great prison bitch. Therefore, I applaud Graziano for his determination to not recover, thus ensuring that Nick experiences the maximum penalty possible.
You know the Clearwater DA is currently clipping out old interviews Nick gave to Rides magazine in which he bragged about his history of reckless driving and preparing an opening about how Graziano bravely served his country for eighteen months in Ramadi yet was cut down in his prime by Nick Bollea's spoiled brat ass trying to overcompensate for his insufficient penis by driving his rice-burner really, really fast. God, that's depressing. That's not how I'd want to go, so props to Graziano for taking life's vegetables and making Bloody Marys with them. He might be permanently brain damaged, but that doesn't mean Nick is going to get away with a slap on the wrist for making him so. So way to not recover, John. Semper fi!
Labels: comeuppance, crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, overcompensation, small penises, vengeance is sweet, Vh1
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Anucha Brown Sanders
Name: Anucha Brown Sanders
DOB:????
Occupation: hot-ass marketing executive, former college basketball stud, recent millionaire
Hometown: ???
Current residence: New York, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Well, it looks like it is Civil Rights Day here at RAZZY.org, as since I just got done calling out a bunch of racists, I might as well laud a pro ho for standing up to a bunch of assholes whose dicks got in the way of her doing her job. Yesterday, a jury awarded Anucha Brown Sanders $11.6 million after deciding that she was sexually harassed by Isiah Thomas and then fired from her job as a Knicks executive when she complained (or as the sublime NY Post put it, it was an "$11M Kick in Harass." Now the Knicks organization owes her $8 million, and the head of Madison Square Garden is on the hook for $3 million of his own money for basically running things like a big old boys club.
I am not one to get all worked up about what some people consider harassment. For example, I call women (including myself) bitches, hos, cunts, whores, slags, tramps, twats, trollops, skanks, sluts, etc. on the regular. At work, I will call J-Sexy something like a "hooker ass prostitute" or a "dirty slut" and she'll respond by calling me a "disgosting whore" or something similar. But there's a difference between establishing a profanity-laden rapport with someone, and constantly using such terms in concert with coming on to them, especially when the person doing the name-calling and coming on happens to be your boss. This difference becomes even more apparent when you tell the person to stop because it's getting in the way of doing your job, and instead of being told, "Okay, no problem, and my apologies," you get unceremoniously canned for being a troublemaker. That's what happened to Anucha, and good for her for taking their asses to court, because it's hard enough for women.
I'm also not a "boo hoo, this glass ceiling is getting in my way" kind of bitch, but I have noticed that women have to put up with a lot of crap at work that men generally don't. It's usually not anything so appalling as having to swat off the advances of a powerful, bullying creep like Isiah Thomas and then being called a bitch-ass slut and fired for it, but it's annoying nonetheless. We used to get our lab coats cleaned by this company who employed a really nasty, lecherous dude named Hector to pick up and drop off linens. He would always come in, make a big show of calling every woman who crossed his path "sweetheart" or "baby," would stare unabashedly at your chest while speaking to you, make comments along the lines of "I'll be back next week to drop off a LOAD" or "I'd like to see you wearing only this coat" (I did NOT direct him to the Razzy-in-a-lab-coat stock photo on this website) in an overtly sexual tone of voice, and "accidentally" touch you or brush against you when you'd sign for deliveries. It's obviously nothing I'd consider suing over, but every time he'd make an appearance, J-Sexy and I would both cringe and try to make ourselves scarce because he was just a straight-up creep who apparently considered it good customer service to creep out every woman who crossed his path. One day I had enough, and as he was skulking down the hall toward our lab, I loudly said to J-Sexy, "Cover your tits, that pervy lab coat guy is on his way to make us feel uncomfortable." He obviously heard me, and was very cold and standoffish as he dropped off our coats. That was the last time any of our lab coats got cleaned, but I'd rather wear a virus-spattered frock any day than feel some demeaning asshole who I would never EVER remotely consider having sex with undressing me with his eyes in the course of a professional interaction. This type of small shit happens to bitches every day, and while most of it isn't worth the hassle of complaining about it, it lays the foundation for the occasional egregious situation where your boss fires you for wanting to actually just be a marketing executive rather than his fuck-toy bitch.
Therefore, I say props to Anucha for not standing for it. By all accounts except the dudes trying to cover up her retaliatory firing (so as not to be on the hook for $11.6 mil), she was a competent and able employee who didn't want to fuck Isiah Thomas, and that's all worthy of respect in my book. Or RE$PECT, as the venerable Post puts it. Thanks to Anucha, more employers will think twice about firing bitches who aren't into hitting that for incompetence, because the only time a bitch is derelict in her duties by not giving it up is if she's a prostitute. Since Anucha doesn't work at D&D Advertising or some other office from "Melrose Place," prostitute cannot be considered synonymous with marketing executive. Plus, Anucha was Northwest University's Athlete of the Decade in the 80s, and that's pretty hot too! Anucha rules.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, defiance, sportsmen, vengeance is sweet
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
If you're a blowjob-loving pervert looking for limos in Puyallup or Brandi M. sucking dick, you've come to the right place
Yesterday I was dicking around on my stats page, which is something I do whenever I'm feeling particularly webmasterly. Statcounter has all sorts of statistics I can look at for my amusement, like how long people stayed at my site, what pages they read, what websites referred them here, and the like. I idly clicked on "Recent Keyword Activity" to see what words were driving people to my site from Google, and immediately began laughing out loud:
I don't know how anyone wound up on my blog wondering about the resignation of the pastor of "Empowerment Temple" or who "G Brown" the jock asshole is, but everything else seems right on the money. I'm clearly all about fellatio, cumshots, show-stopping around my hometown in luxury chaffeur-driven vehicles, and "pussyeat dolls" (and that probably was NOT a typo), and if Polish Google directed someone elsewhere besides my site in a search for "slizzing hot game," then I'd say they got their algorithms totally twisted.
To make sure these search trends weren't a fluke, I checked out my keyword activity today, as well. In addition to being completely sure that much of my traffic these days is coming from dudes with a mouse in one hand and his dick in the other hunting for photos of Brandi M. demonstrating her prowess at sucking cock while attempting to flash her bedroom eyes at the webcam, I was pleased to see that I'm getting hits from people presumably enamored with the scorching Norse hotness that is Captain Sigurd Hansen of the F/V Northwestern and that my counterstrike against the Tej Offensive has been successful. I also wish desperately that I had pictures of a white guy (ideally Colonel John Matrix, Commando and current Governor of California) doing Rae Dawn Chong doggystyle.
I am so glad that people are still landing at my site when Googling Tej Bindra, because I plan to make her pay in character capital for as long as I own this damn domain. For those of you who are new to the site, Tej Bindra is an avowed Razzy Hater and all-around dumb Smith bitch who didn't appreciate my ridiculing her dorm room's profile in the Smith Alumnae Quarterly, and REALLY didn't like the e-mail I sent her a year later when she called me an assfuck and demanded a retraction in which I instructed her to eat me. Tej sought to retaliate by having some nefarious consort(s) of hers leave me threatening voicemails, post naked pictures of me on the internet, post more naked pictures of me on the internet, and impersonate me in the hopes that some Craigslist perv would inadvertently rape me. The whole thing worked out, because I got to meet some hot NYPD detectives, and because I vowed thereafter to ensure that RAZZY.org is the first thing potential employers or romantic interests see when they search the internets for "TEJ BINDRA." If that bitch thought making me fear for my sexual safety was a reasonable punishment for not taking down a relatively insignificant blog posting making fun of the room she shared with her dour, titless girlfriend in Wesley House back at my dear old alma mater, then she was dead fucking wrong. This should go to show that if you are some dipshit history major at a liberal arts college who thinks your feelings are paramount to everything else, you should consider VERY carefully the consequences of fucking with a shameless bitch with an internet audience. I hope that stupid, chunky twat is still peddling her worthless internship-replete CV all around the human rights non-profit circuit hoping desperately to come across one that doesn't check references or know about Google.
Anyway, the keywords have it. Not only am I getting the hits I want from the nasty sex pigs seeking free celebreality porn, connoisseurs of "slizzing hot game," and randoms looking for limos or model plastic RoboCops, but also I am getting revenge and man, it is sweet. I win again and as always! It rules being me.
I don't know how anyone wound up on my blog wondering about the resignation of the pastor of "Empowerment Temple" or who "G Brown" the jock asshole is, but everything else seems right on the money. I'm clearly all about fellatio, cumshots, show-stopping around my hometown in luxury chaffeur-driven vehicles, and "pussyeat dolls" (and that probably was NOT a typo), and if Polish Google directed someone elsewhere besides my site in a search for "slizzing hot game," then I'd say they got their algorithms totally twisted.
To make sure these search trends weren't a fluke, I checked out my keyword activity today, as well. In addition to being completely sure that much of my traffic these days is coming from dudes with a mouse in one hand and his dick in the other hunting for photos of Brandi M. demonstrating her prowess at sucking cock while attempting to flash her bedroom eyes at the webcam, I was pleased to see that I'm getting hits from people presumably enamored with the scorching Norse hotness that is Captain Sigurd Hansen of the F/V Northwestern and that my counterstrike against the Tej Offensive has been successful. I also wish desperately that I had pictures of a white guy (ideally Colonel John Matrix, Commando and current Governor of California) doing Rae Dawn Chong doggystyle.
I am so glad that people are still landing at my site when Googling Tej Bindra, because I plan to make her pay in character capital for as long as I own this damn domain. For those of you who are new to the site, Tej Bindra is an avowed Razzy Hater and all-around dumb Smith bitch who didn't appreciate my ridiculing her dorm room's profile in the Smith Alumnae Quarterly, and REALLY didn't like the e-mail I sent her a year later when she called me an assfuck and demanded a retraction in which I instructed her to eat me. Tej sought to retaliate by having some nefarious consort(s) of hers leave me threatening voicemails, post naked pictures of me on the internet, post more naked pictures of me on the internet, and impersonate me in the hopes that some Craigslist perv would inadvertently rape me. The whole thing worked out, because I got to meet some hot NYPD detectives, and because I vowed thereafter to ensure that RAZZY.org is the first thing potential employers or romantic interests see when they search the internets for "TEJ BINDRA." If that bitch thought making me fear for my sexual safety was a reasonable punishment for not taking down a relatively insignificant blog posting making fun of the room she shared with her dour, titless girlfriend in Wesley House back at my dear old alma mater, then she was dead fucking wrong. This should go to show that if you are some dipshit history major at a liberal arts college who thinks your feelings are paramount to everything else, you should consider VERY carefully the consequences of fucking with a shameless bitch with an internet audience. I hope that stupid, chunky twat is still peddling her worthless internship-replete CV all around the human rights non-profit circuit hoping desperately to come across one that doesn't check references or know about Google.Anyway, the keywords have it. Not only am I getting the hits I want from the nasty sex pigs seeking free celebreality porn, connoisseurs of "slizzing hot game," and randoms looking for limos or model plastic RoboCops, but also I am getting revenge and man, it is sweet. I win again and as always! It rules being me.
Labels: I LOVE IT, internet domination, perversion, Razzification, Razzy Haters, ridiculous absurdity, sex, Tej Offensive, vengeance is sweet
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Joann Sarantakos
Name: Joanne Winkheart Sarantakos
Alias: Mrs. Criss Angel, Mindfreak
DOB: sometime in 1970
Occupation: Bloodthirsty plaintiff in divorce proceedings, former secret wife
Hometown: Garden City, NY
Current residence: On Criss Angel's ass like an infected hemorrhoid in Nassau County, Strong Island divorce court
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I can't stand Criss Angel, and he's even more detestable now that I know he kept his wife squirreled away somewhere while he was out humping a stripper pole with Paris Hilton. Now that he's publicly carrying on with Leatherface Diaz (giving her retarded nicknames like "Trouble" and the like...ugh), Joann had enough of his bullshit and is ready to get nasty with their divorce proceedings.
Apparently she hired a private investigator to follow Criss Angel around, although that seems like a waste of time to me, as there's ample evidence of his toolery on the internets. He also hasn't given her a penny, and you know this Long Island bitch has some fake acrylic tips to maintain, so she's demanding he cough up some millions for her. At their latest court appearance, he showed up trying to be contrite. Apparently he wore a suit, no jewelry, and didn't look like he just walked out of a Halloween party dressed as The Crow, and attempted to make nice with her. She told him to get bent. Then, Criss decided to mug for the cameras and have some fun at her lawyer's expense.
"I could make him disappear," he joked to whatever pitiful reporters were at the scene covering this story, pointing at her lawyer.
After a quick conference with his client, the lawyer chuckled, and then smirking said, "I'm going to rip his heart out."
Joann Winkheart Sarantakos is not a bitch to be ignored or trifled with. I hope she gets every last cent of his wages from past, present, and future bullshit charlatanry.
Labels: Criss Angel, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot chicks, vengeance is sweet
Monday, June 18, 2007
I live in the right city
One of my signature party moves, as anyone who has ever gotten drunk with me can attest, is exposing my breasts. I think that this is my way of revelling in the fact that my rack is pretty cantastic after an adolescence characterized by all the boys in my eighth grade class making fun of me for being flat-chested. In most areas, flashing the girls will get me some sort of citation for indecent exposure. However, it seems that my decision to pursue my doctoral studies in New York City has been fortuitous in more ways than one, according to this news article:
Tits out and beers up to you, Phoenix Feeley!
[RAZZY UPDATE: My friend HippieSympathizer, after freely admitting in an e-mail that "I haven't had a chance to check out RAZZY.org lately," just sent me the link to the above article with the comment, "I saw this and thought of you." My tit-showing is a thing of legend.]
New York City pays $29,000 for arresting topless womanYou go, Jill Coccaro AKA Phoenix Feeley! Even though with her new name, you know this ho is some type of detestable hippie artfag type, I have to applaud her efforts to ensure that slutty exhibitionists like myself can continue exposing our knockers with impunity for some time to come. Just to salute her efforts, I may as well dig out this classic:
NEW YORK (AP) -- A woman arrested for exposing her breasts has accepted a $29,000 settlement from the city, her lawyer said.
Jill Coccaro, 27, was arrested on a topless stroll two years ago, despite a 1992 state appeals court ruling that concluded women should have the same right as men to take off their shirts.
Coccaro, who now goes by the name Phoenix Feeley, remained in custody for 12 hours before she was told prosecutors were not going to pursue charges.
Her attorney, Jeffrey Rothman, told the Daily News that his client won the civil rights settlement from the city, which did not admit or deny wrongdoing.
"We hope the police learn a lesson and respect the rights of women to go topless," Rothman said.
Feeley told the New York Post that she was not treated well after her August 4, 2005, arrest in Manhattan's Lower East Side section. She claimed in an October lawsuit that a police officer yanked her out of a patrol car by her hair and police took her to a hospital for a psychiatric evaluation.
She told the newspaper she had gone bare-breasted after running the 2004 city marathon without police bothering her.
"I've always just felt that was something natural," Feeley said of going topless. "I've kind of always done it out of practicality."
Tits out and beers up to you, Phoenix Feeley!
[RAZZY UPDATE: My friend HippieSympathizer, after freely admitting in an e-mail that "I haven't had a chance to check out RAZZY.org lately," just sent me the link to the above article with the comment, "I saw this and thought of you." My tit-showing is a thing of legend.]
Labels: comeuppance, I LOVE IT, intentional buffoonery, nudity, NYC, vengeance is sweet
Friday, June 08, 2007
MY HERO!
No disrespect to Captain Sig, Curtis Jackson, or Robert Sylvester Kelly, but today my heart and all my affection was wholly captured by one of the hottest dudes on our fair planet:
This is Rockard John "Rocky" Delgadillo, Los Angeles City Attorney. After Paris Hilton was released from jail for "medical reasons" (aka she didn't like doing pilates in jail), he was irate concerning what he felt was "celebrity justice" and filed a motion to have her thrown back in the clink, along with the Sheriffs who let her overprivileged herpetic ass out!
It turns out the judge agreed, and ordered her back to the slammer. The only thing that can make me as deliriously happy as I was earlier this week when Captain Sig "The Hotness" Hansen gave me a shoutout and declared me his #1 fan is reading a headline that says: "A judge orders Paris Hilton back to jail. She is dragged from court screaming."
Apparently, they picked her up at home, hauled her into court weeping, and then wrangled her into a Sheriff's car to take her to court as she screamed, "This isn't right!" and "MOM!" For the next five years, every time I'm feeling crappy, I'm just going to look at the following pictures and feel my spirits immediately lift:
Though I have yet to see the Goodyear Blimp flying around saying "Razzy's a pimp", it's nonetheless what both myself and O'Shea "Ice Cube" Jackson would characterize as a good day. Actually, it's more like a FUCKING EXCEPTIONALLY AWESOME DAY. I have a little more faith in our justice system, in a mere hour I'll be freed from the fetters of lab to drink, and now I have something to raise my Yuengling to. All is right and well in the world.
It turns out the judge agreed, and ordered her back to the slammer. The only thing that can make me as deliriously happy as I was earlier this week when Captain Sig "The Hotness" Hansen gave me a shoutout and declared me his #1 fan is reading a headline that says: "A judge orders Paris Hilton back to jail. She is dragged from court screaming."
Apparently, they picked her up at home, hauled her into court weeping, and then wrangled her into a Sheriff's car to take her to court as she screamed, "This isn't right!" and "MOM!" For the next five years, every time I'm feeling crappy, I'm just going to look at the following pictures and feel my spirits immediately lift:
Labels: celebrities, comeuppance, crime and punishment, I LOVE IT, media whores, sluts, vengeance is sweet
Monday, June 04, 2007
The Red Sox faithful redeem themselves
Normally I can't stand Red Sox fans. They're annoying and act like the world is out to get them. Maybe I would have bought that before they won the World Series (and three Super Bowls), but Boston fans still act like they're always getting screwed over and whining about it. I had more problems concerning the Red Sox than anything else with my college boyfriend Benzo. He and I had a great relationship, until the MLB postseason started anyway. He would rip on me mercilessly about the Mariners, but the second I'd try to flip a little of that back his way, he'd freak out. I'd hear a lot of, "Well, you just can't understand what it's like for your team to be around 90 years and never win a World Series!" and "We've had it STOLEN from us" (and if he wants an example of that actually happening to a sports team, I would now refer him to Super Bowl XL). My retorts about "Well, whose fault is it that Bill Buckner can't field a simple grounder?", "I'm glad the Mets won...Ron Darling was hot," and other choice nastiness concerning the 1986 World Series did nothing to stem the tide of Red Sox-related minor spats. The only time he ever hung up a phone on me was when Boston lost the 1998 AL Divisional Series, and after enduring his taunts during the Wild Card playoff regarding the Seattle Mariners, I couldn't resist a little payback. "How about those Cleveland Indians?" I said, and then heard an angry click as he slammed down the phone. Our relationship was much more peaceful once baseball season mercifully ended. I loved Benzo, but I couldn't STAND that constant woe-is-us Red Sox bullshit.
However, the Red Sox fans have a new, special place in my heart, because if there's one thing I hate more than the fellas at Fenway, it's those pinstriped assholes in the Bronx. When I first moved to New York, I tried to keep my negative feelings about the Yankees to myself, because Yankees fans are so ridiculously easy to provoke to violence via disparaging comments about their team. Then, I soon realized that I'm not going to let a bunch of dumb, obnoxious meatheads in Jeter shirts and Yanks caps intimidate me into keeping my anti-Yankee sentiments to myself, and I'm a girl, so it's unlikely that a little mild Yankees trash talk will incur an actual beatdown. Last time I was at Yankee Stadium I got drunk (because it's the most frightening baseball stadium in America in terms of design...I'm not afraid of heights, but my life flashes before my eyes when I'm climbing up to the nosebleed section where I usually sit), and started mouthing off about Jeter being a pussy , Mariano Rivera being a Jesus freak, and A-Rod being a sell-out. I got a lot of dirty looks, but remained unmolested. I now vocally celebrate anything bad that happens to the Yankees, which this year means their entire season.
There is also one Yankee I hate more than any other. He used to be a Mariner, and may be the biggest fucktard in the history of professional baseball. He's also a passive, whiny bitch who is on the down low with Jeter and who invariably bats .005 in the postseason (which this year, the Yankees will be lucky to even get anywhere near, and too bad, because I'll miss Post headlines like "THE CHOKE'S ON US!"). I am talking, of course, about the lowest of the low, the most overpaid former shortstop in baseball, and the scourge of the Bronx: ALEX FUCKING RODRIGUEZ, or Gay-Rod, as I like to call him.
Last week, the best newspaper in New York City had some breaking news about Gay-Rod cheating on his wife, and surprisingly not with a man:
Apparently he was running all over Toronto with this bitch, who is a Playboy reject, an ex-Scores dancer, and currently a stripper at some Canadian titty bar where Gay-Rod made like R. Kelly and was steadily tossing that cash flow. What this chick is not is Gay-Rod's beard wife Cynthia. This has apparently caused a big scandal with Yankees fans, who are used to Gay-Rod being boring and pretentious, not an unrepentant philanderer in the same league as the Giants Tackle known to Post readers as Michael STRAY-han.
This weekend, the Yanks were in Boston, and the Red Sox fans decided to capitalize on the NYC tabloids proclaiming him "STRAY-ROD" and "YANKEE DOODLE RANDY" and thus redeem themselves in my eyes, for a little while anyway. Every time Gay-Rod was up to bat, the fans sitting behind home plate did this:
Those are some hot assholes right there. The Post and Daily News covers this weekend were crowing headlines like "BLONDE BIM-BOSOX" and "MASK HYSTERIA IN BEANTOWN!" If the Red Sox fans continue to be such awesomely unsportsmanlike bad winners, then maybe I can forget what a bunch of crybaby losers they typically are. This is the best thing to come out of Assachusetts in quite some time. Good show, Boston fans.
[RAZZY ASIDE: Benzo, how long will it take you to post some comment dissing the Mariners to revenge your beloved Sox? My prediction is that you'll craft some snotty cracks about the M's pitching staff before noon!]
However, the Red Sox fans have a new, special place in my heart, because if there's one thing I hate more than the fellas at Fenway, it's those pinstriped assholes in the Bronx. When I first moved to New York, I tried to keep my negative feelings about the Yankees to myself, because Yankees fans are so ridiculously easy to provoke to violence via disparaging comments about their team. Then, I soon realized that I'm not going to let a bunch of dumb, obnoxious meatheads in Jeter shirts and Yanks caps intimidate me into keeping my anti-Yankee sentiments to myself, and I'm a girl, so it's unlikely that a little mild Yankees trash talk will incur an actual beatdown. Last time I was at Yankee Stadium I got drunk (because it's the most frightening baseball stadium in America in terms of design...I'm not afraid of heights, but my life flashes before my eyes when I'm climbing up to the nosebleed section where I usually sit), and started mouthing off about Jeter being a pussy , Mariano Rivera being a Jesus freak, and A-Rod being a sell-out. I got a lot of dirty looks, but remained unmolested. I now vocally celebrate anything bad that happens to the Yankees, which this year means their entire season.
There is also one Yankee I hate more than any other. He used to be a Mariner, and may be the biggest fucktard in the history of professional baseball. He's also a passive, whiny bitch who is on the down low with Jeter and who invariably bats .005 in the postseason (which this year, the Yankees will be lucky to even get anywhere near, and too bad, because I'll miss Post headlines like "THE CHOKE'S ON US!"). I am talking, of course, about the lowest of the low, the most overpaid former shortstop in baseball, and the scourge of the Bronx: ALEX FUCKING RODRIGUEZ, or Gay-Rod, as I like to call him.
Last week, the best newspaper in New York City had some breaking news about Gay-Rod cheating on his wife, and surprisingly not with a man:
This weekend, the Yanks were in Boston, and the Red Sox fans decided to capitalize on the NYC tabloids proclaiming him "STRAY-ROD" and "YANKEE DOODLE RANDY" and thus redeem themselves in my eyes, for a little while anyway. Every time Gay-Rod was up to bat, the fans sitting behind home plate did this:
[RAZZY ASIDE: Benzo, how long will it take you to post some comment dissing the Mariners to revenge your beloved Sox? My prediction is that you'll craft some snotty cracks about the M's pitching staff before noon!]
Labels: Assachusetts, assholes, comeuppance, fuck the Yankees, I LOVE IT, large exclamatory font, vengeance is sweet
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Good riddance, you fat fucking asshole
I am not the least bit sad to see that the man upstairs has finally had enough and called home one of his most vocal Gospel-spreaders, presumably to shut him the fuck up. Yes, there is a great weeping and gnashing of teeth coming from my Aunt Jesus's house as she is probably busy rending her garments, donning sackcloth, and self-flagellating to grieve the death of the Reverend Jerry Falwell.
Here's the good minister during happier times, writing what is doubtless a message of Christian love and compassion to the goddamnedinnocent Iraqi civilians terrorists that this Tomahawk cruise missile is going to blow up like the Fourth of July:
Okay, that picture MIGHT be a fake, so here's a real one of the Rev. Falwell doing what he does best: idolizing himself and passing some ridiculous judgment.
If for some reason you haven't watched the news EVER and can't distinguish Jerry Falwell from other fat right wing assholes (like Dennis Hastert, who may be his long-lost cousin), here is a brief summary of his past accomplishments:
-Cutting his ministerial teeth preaching passionately about how Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a heretical loon, how segregation is truly the Christian way, and how the Civil Rights movement was inherently sinful...I mean, Jesus woulda been sprayin' those uppity nigras with fire hoses, setting attack dogs on them, and lynching them too!
-Stealing control of the beleaguered PTL ministries from the infamous Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker after Jim got caught swindling his congregation and fucking his secretary
-Went to South Africa in a show of support FOR apartheid and encouraged Americans to invest in what amounted to Afrikaaner racist war bonds. Because white supremacy is SO Christian!
-Made a video full of patently false accusations about Smoking Hot Stud and Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton conspiring to assassinate reporters. This was produced by the same people who paid Arkansas state troopers to make up shit about Clinton, and were later convicted of lying to the FBI.
-Got his ass handed to him by the Supreme Court after he bitched that Larry Flynt couldn't make fun of him in Hustler by suggesting that he lost his virginity to his mother in an outhouse. It wasn't libel because it was the truth!
-Switched to talking incessant shit about gays once overt racism went out of style. Over the past decades, Falwell called them "brute beasts" and "a vile Satanic system", declared that one day they "will be utterly annihilated and there will be a celebration in heaven," suggested that they were corrupting the youth through subliminal messages delivered via Tinky Winky the purple Teletubby, and blamed them, along with feminists and the ACLU, for 9/11.
-Oh yeah, and he was also a big proponent of the notion that AIDS is a gift from God meant to wipe out those sinful Sodomites.
-Once stated that "If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being."
-Declared that the Antichrist ushering in the imminent apocalypse will FOR SURE be a Jewish guy.
Obviously Jesus just got fed up listening to this fat fucking hatemonger speak on his behalf and decided it was time to silence his bitch ass permanently. I'm saying some prayers for Reverend Falwell that God shows his immortal soul a little more compassion than he showed everyone who wasn't a fundamentalist asshole.
Here's the good minister during happier times, writing what is doubtless a message of Christian love and compassion to the goddamned
-Cutting his ministerial teeth preaching passionately about how Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a heretical loon, how segregation is truly the Christian way, and how the Civil Rights movement was inherently sinful...I mean, Jesus woulda been sprayin' those uppity nigras with fire hoses, setting attack dogs on them, and lynching them too!
-Stealing control of the beleaguered PTL ministries from the infamous Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker after Jim got caught swindling his congregation and fucking his secretary
-Went to South Africa in a show of support FOR apartheid and encouraged Americans to invest in what amounted to Afrikaaner racist war bonds. Because white supremacy is SO Christian!
-Made a video full of patently false accusations about Smoking Hot Stud and Silver Fox President William Jefferson Clinton conspiring to assassinate reporters. This was produced by the same people who paid Arkansas state troopers to make up shit about Clinton, and were later convicted of lying to the FBI.
-Got his ass handed to him by the Supreme Court after he bitched that Larry Flynt couldn't make fun of him in Hustler by suggesting that he lost his virginity to his mother in an outhouse. It wasn't libel because it was the truth!
-Oh yeah, and he was also a big proponent of the notion that AIDS is a gift from God meant to wipe out those sinful Sodomites.
-Once stated that "If you're not a born-again Christian, you're a failure as a human being."
-Declared that the Antichrist ushering in the imminent apocalypse will FOR SURE be a Jewish guy.
Obviously Jesus just got fed up listening to this fat fucking hatemonger speak on his behalf and decided it was time to silence his bitch ass permanently. I'm saying some prayers for Reverend Falwell that God shows his immortal soul a little more compassion than he showed everyone who wasn't a fundamentalist asshole.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, fat fucks, I LOVE IT, people who died, vengeance is sweet
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Jake Taylor has really let himself go
Last night, I arrived home to see several gigantic trailers and production trucks pulling up to the sidewalk outside my house. I got all excited, thinking they might be filming more episodes of "Law and Order:SVU" there and I could get a glimpse of Tracy "Ice-T" Marrow, his buxom ho-bag of a wife CoCo, or the hotness that is Mariska Hargitay running around my hood. However, I couldn't discern from the "No Parking By Order of the Mayor's Office of Film and TV Production" signs what they were filming, so I basically forgot about it.
This morning, I was reminded when I ventured out to the park with the dogs, but I still couldn't figure out what was going to be filmed, and the production assistants were all running around, wearing headsets, and looking very busy with VERY important stuff like plugging in big cables and unloading equipment, so I didn't ask them. It's a good thing I didn't, because they turned out to be assholes.
Tonight, I arrived home to see lots of activity around the trailers, and one PA was eyeing me beadily as I approached. She looked as though she were ready to tackle me if I made so much as a step toward the trailer directly in front of my building's door. I must have looked sketchy, on account of having a horrible headache. I spent the afternoon doing organic chemistry (which I suck at; in college I got a C in it, and the only thing I was ever good at was distilling alcohol...go figure), and even worse, I was using ether. I don't know why Hunter S. Thompson was into huffing that shit, because the only thing it did for me was provide me with a splitting headache. Then again, I did have it in the fume hood, so maybe I didn't experience the full effects, but have a general policy of not getting high off organic solvents, especially those that are notorious for volatility and explosions. Anyway, I must have looked angry or sketchy or stalkerish, so she eyed me warily until I was safely inside my building. I figured there must be some big celebrity in that trailer to warrant such a vigilant PA guarding it.
I came back out with the dogs five minutes later, only to see that the big Hollywood movie star had emerged and was standing in front of my building. It was not Brad Pitt, or Halle Berry, or Jack Nicholson, or even Justin Timberlake. At first I thought the star, surrounded by an entourage, was James Gandolfini wearing a curly wig, based on his hulking girth and man-boobs (visible even beneath a black shirt AND jacket), but as he turned to face the camera, I realized that it was a much, much fatter version of this guy:
Yes! Tom Berenger, the actor who immortalized Cleveland Indians catcher Jake Taylor in one of the greatest movies ever made, Major League. In case you haven't seen this film, it's a silly but sublime movie with an awesomely 80s cast (also including Charlie Sheen as volatile ex-con pitcher Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn, Corbin Bernsen--who thanks to "L.A. Law" was unbelievably a stud of the era--as wealthy, womanizing shortstop Roger Dorn, Wesley Snipes as wisecracking, base-stealing outfielder Willie Mays Hayes, Bob Uecker as the drunken commentator, and Rene Russo as Jake Taylor's librarian ex-girlfriend.) There's also a cast of awesome supporting characters, including the super cunty team owner's trophy widow, the curmudgeonly old coach, an aging born-again pitcher (who sucks), the Tribe's dedicated fans in all their Indian gear, and the Dominican-Haitian-Mexican designated hitter Pedro Cerrano, who speaks Spanish, practices voodoo, and at one point tells the born-again "chingate, cabron." (Obviously the writers suffered from the surprisingly common confusion that drives J-Sexy crazy, that all the nations of the Caribbean are on one big island and share one big blurred culture.) Major League was a favorite in the Razzy household growing up, so I recognized Jake Taylor's ass IMMEDIATELY, in spite of the fact that he's blown up like Lil' Kim.
His entourage started hurrying him across the street to the Harlem School for the Arts, where they were shooting the movie Order of Redemption, in which Tom Berenger plays a former stud of a criminal defense attorney who becomes a hard-core drug addict. Busta Rhymes is also in this, but I didn't see him. He's probably hanging out with a real-life criminal defense attorney since the people of the City of New York are taking his non-snitching ass to trial on assault charges in May. Caesar wasn't paying attention to any of this. He was more interested in pissing on his usual fire hydrant.
The beady-eyed PA guarding the trailer hurried over and gave me a very admonishing look. "Excuse me," she said. "He needs to do that somewhere else." I looked at her incredulously. Apart from providing water for firefighters and acting as impromptu sprinklers for kids on particularly sweltering summer days, the one other thing fire hydrants are famous for is DOGS PISSING ON THEM. Furthermore, who does this bitch think she is that she can issue such imperative commands to me in front of my own fucking apartment building? At least say "please" and phrase that request in the form of a question, you self-important slut!
"He's a dog. It's a fire hydrant," I said coldly to her. "And it's a public street." She gave me a very offended look. Apparently Tom Berenger is such a big fucking star that he warrants peons stationed outside to prevent dogs from pissing in his trailer's vicinity. I was irritated. As far as I could tell, Mayor Bloomberg gave them the right to park their giant trucks and trailers on the street, not dictate where my dog can or can't urinate, and I resented this dumb snatch telling me otherwise. I thought the best solution was to rattle her by showing how very little I cared for her mandate to fetch coffee and shoo dogs away from Tom Berenger's trailer by addressing the celebrity directly.
"Hey Jake! Where's Willie Mays Hayes?!" I shouted. I know exactly where Willie Mays Hayes is (in federal court answering to charges of tax evasion to the tune of $12 million dollars and probably gearing up to star in Blade 4), but it was the only pithy thing I could think to shout to a man who once called his shot like the Babe and then shocked the (evil) Yankees by bunting, thus securing a pennant for the Tribe.
If Tom Berenger heard me, he didn't respond. He probably didn't, because he was fully across St. Nicholas Ave. at that point, and it was clogged with traffic. In any event, he didn't respond, but the look of horror on the PA's face was priceless. She failed at preventing the local riff-raff from bugging the big MOVIE STAR, and was probably worried about her bullshit job. I felt totally vindicated. Welcome to Sugar Hill, bitch.
On a separate but related topic, if you look up Major League on IMDB.com, the listed plot keywords "include "Voodoo", "Wife's Sexual Pretence", "Vulgarity", "Rum", "Bad Haircut", "Mullet Haircut", "Obscene Finger Gesture", "Sombrero", "Watermelon", and "Urination Scene." What, no "Joe Boo" or "Corbin Bernsen taking one in the nuts?" I wouldn't have noticed this, but you have no idea how difficult it is to find pictures of Tom Berenger on the internets in anything except Platoon. I've literally spent two hours RESEARCHING this blog entry and snagging Major League screen captures off YouTube. Uff da.
This morning, I was reminded when I ventured out to the park with the dogs, but I still couldn't figure out what was going to be filmed, and the production assistants were all running around, wearing headsets, and looking very busy with VERY important stuff like plugging in big cables and unloading equipment, so I didn't ask them. It's a good thing I didn't, because they turned out to be assholes.
Tonight, I arrived home to see lots of activity around the trailers, and one PA was eyeing me beadily as I approached. She looked as though she were ready to tackle me if I made so much as a step toward the trailer directly in front of my building's door. I must have looked sketchy, on account of having a horrible headache. I spent the afternoon doing organic chemistry (which I suck at; in college I got a C in it, and the only thing I was ever good at was distilling alcohol...go figure), and even worse, I was using ether. I don't know why Hunter S. Thompson was into huffing that shit, because the only thing it did for me was provide me with a splitting headache. Then again, I did have it in the fume hood, so maybe I didn't experience the full effects, but have a general policy of not getting high off organic solvents, especially those that are notorious for volatility and explosions. Anyway, I must have looked angry or sketchy or stalkerish, so she eyed me warily until I was safely inside my building. I figured there must be some big celebrity in that trailer to warrant such a vigilant PA guarding it.
I came back out with the dogs five minutes later, only to see that the big Hollywood movie star had emerged and was standing in front of my building. It was not Brad Pitt, or Halle Berry, or Jack Nicholson, or even Justin Timberlake. At first I thought the star, surrounded by an entourage, was James Gandolfini wearing a curly wig, based on his hulking girth and man-boobs (visible even beneath a black shirt AND jacket), but as he turned to face the camera, I realized that it was a much, much fatter version of this guy:
His entourage started hurrying him across the street to the Harlem School for the Arts, where they were shooting the movie Order of Redemption, in which Tom Berenger plays a former stud of a criminal defense attorney who becomes a hard-core drug addict. Busta Rhymes is also in this, but I didn't see him. He's probably hanging out with a real-life criminal defense attorney since the people of the City of New York are taking his non-snitching ass to trial on assault charges in May. Caesar wasn't paying attention to any of this. He was more interested in pissing on his usual fire hydrant.
The beady-eyed PA guarding the trailer hurried over and gave me a very admonishing look. "Excuse me," she said. "He needs to do that somewhere else." I looked at her incredulously. Apart from providing water for firefighters and acting as impromptu sprinklers for kids on particularly sweltering summer days, the one other thing fire hydrants are famous for is DOGS PISSING ON THEM. Furthermore, who does this bitch think she is that she can issue such imperative commands to me in front of my own fucking apartment building? At least say "please" and phrase that request in the form of a question, you self-important slut!
"He's a dog. It's a fire hydrant," I said coldly to her. "And it's a public street." She gave me a very offended look. Apparently Tom Berenger is such a big fucking star that he warrants peons stationed outside to prevent dogs from pissing in his trailer's vicinity. I was irritated. As far as I could tell, Mayor Bloomberg gave them the right to park their giant trucks and trailers on the street, not dictate where my dog can or can't urinate, and I resented this dumb snatch telling me otherwise. I thought the best solution was to rattle her by showing how very little I cared for her mandate to fetch coffee and shoo dogs away from Tom Berenger's trailer by addressing the celebrity directly.
"Hey Jake! Where's Willie Mays Hayes?!" I shouted. I know exactly where Willie Mays Hayes is (in federal court answering to charges of tax evasion to the tune of $12 million dollars and probably gearing up to star in Blade 4), but it was the only pithy thing I could think to shout to a man who once called his shot like the Babe and then shocked the (evil) Yankees by bunting, thus securing a pennant for the Tribe.
If Tom Berenger heard me, he didn't respond. He probably didn't, because he was fully across St. Nicholas Ave. at that point, and it was clogged with traffic. In any event, he didn't respond, but the look of horror on the PA's face was priceless. She failed at preventing the local riff-raff from bugging the big MOVIE STAR, and was probably worried about her bullshit job. I felt totally vindicated. Welcome to Sugar Hill, bitch.
On a separate but related topic, if you look up Major League on IMDB.com, the listed plot keywords "include "Voodoo", "Wife's Sexual Pretence", "Vulgarity", "Rum", "Bad Haircut", "Mullet Haircut", "Obscene Finger Gesture", "Sombrero", "Watermelon", and "Urination Scene." What, no "Joe Boo" or "Corbin Bernsen taking one in the nuts?" I wouldn't have noticed this, but you have no idea how difficult it is to find pictures of Tom Berenger on the internets in anything except Platoon. I've literally spent two hours RESEARCHING this blog entry and snagging Major League screen captures off YouTube. Uff da.
Labels: assholes, Caese Doggy Dogg, celebrities, doggity style, fat fucks, Harlem world, intentional buffoonery, movies, NYC, scathing indictments, vengeance is sweet
Friday, March 16, 2007
Aural bombardment
My upstairs neighbor, a butt-ugly hippie jazz musician, has been having problems with me because I listen to RAP MUSIC. Although I'm by no means the only person doing so in our Sugar Hill tenement building, I'm the only one he feels comfortable complaining to, probably because he thinks I'm a sweet petitle girl who gives a shit about his dislike of bass. In the past, this resulted in the exchange of bitchy notes. After I dropped off my last note telling him to fuck off, he cornered me at the elevator and apologized for "being an asshole." I accepted his apology and thought our issues were resolved.
Yesterday I was about to leave for work when I noticed a piece of yellow paper on the floor of my entryway. I picked it up and found an unsigned note reading as follows:
To make matters worse, AT FIVE A.M. this morning the asshole woke me up with what was probably an extended jam session from a live Phish bootleg or something. He's totally the type who would have a whole shelf of illegally recorded Phish shows on tape. I knew this girl in college who would always have dumb debates over whether "Tucson '98" or "Vegas '96 New Years Eve" or whatever was a better concert to listen to on a busted ass cassette tape. In other words, it sounded like what I imagine elevator music sounds like in hell. Four years of living in New York City, however, have enabled me to willfully tune out most distracting noises. I simply rolled over and went back to sleep, but vowed that from now on, there will be no more note exchanges or other attempts at civility. The time for negotiating is past. I plan to wake that motherfucker up every morning by playing every last goddamn rap song in my arsenal.
So far this plan is working splendidly. Around 8:45 a.m., I wasn't even a full minute into "Bitch, Get Ya Mind Right" by my favorite rapper's favorite trapper Young Jeezy before he was stomping on his floor loudly, his preferred method of telling me that I'm bothering him. I smiled to myself and turned up the volume for a moment to indicate that I am no longer going to quiet down or otherwise respond to his stomping. I fucking hate his ass and resent his leaving me brusque notes informing me what I can and cannot do. I shouted at my ceiling, "Get some fucking earplugs, asshole!"
Then I turned on 50 Cent, because nobody says "fuck you all" quite like my boyfriend Curtis. He's the king of starting and perpetuating beef, and I felt it was appropriate. I get a feeling that my conflict with Upstairs Guy is going to be more protracted than the Cold War. Running with that analogy, he's totally Russia. I'm going to kick his pinko ass with my unimpeachable freedom, free trade, and brash American ways. You stomped on the wrong floor, hippie!
Yesterday I was about to leave for work when I noticed a piece of yellow paper on the floor of my entryway. I picked it up and found an unsigned note reading as follows:
"You can't play music with that much bass early in the morning. Please!"Though unsigned, I know it was this motherfucker. For one thing, it was his handwriting. For another, my other neighbors have never said a single word to me about my music or anything else. It's not like I'm bumping my music at top volume. It's just that this dude has hypersensitive hearing, and rather than get a set of earplugs, he thinks I should accommodate his ass. And by the way, "early in the morning" means 9:30 or 10 a.m.
To make matters worse, AT FIVE A.M. this morning the asshole woke me up with what was probably an extended jam session from a live Phish bootleg or something. He's totally the type who would have a whole shelf of illegally recorded Phish shows on tape. I knew this girl in college who would always have dumb debates over whether "Tucson '98" or "Vegas '96 New Years Eve" or whatever was a better concert to listen to on a busted ass cassette tape. In other words, it sounded like what I imagine elevator music sounds like in hell. Four years of living in New York City, however, have enabled me to willfully tune out most distracting noises. I simply rolled over and went back to sleep, but vowed that from now on, there will be no more note exchanges or other attempts at civility. The time for negotiating is past. I plan to wake that motherfucker up every morning by playing every last goddamn rap song in my arsenal.
So far this plan is working splendidly. Around 8:45 a.m., I wasn't even a full minute into "Bitch, Get Ya Mind Right" by my favorite rapper's favorite trapper Young Jeezy before he was stomping on his floor loudly, his preferred method of telling me that I'm bothering him. I smiled to myself and turned up the volume for a moment to indicate that I am no longer going to quiet down or otherwise respond to his stomping. I fucking hate his ass and resent his leaving me brusque notes informing me what I can and cannot do. I shouted at my ceiling, "Get some fucking earplugs, asshole!"
Then I turned on 50 Cent, because nobody says "fuck you all" quite like my boyfriend Curtis. He's the king of starting and perpetuating beef, and I felt it was appropriate. I get a feeling that my conflict with Upstairs Guy is going to be more protracted than the Cold War. Running with that analogy, he's totally Russia. I'm going to kick his pinko ass with my unimpeachable freedom, free trade, and brash American ways. You stomped on the wrong floor, hippie!
Labels: comeuppance, Harlem world, ranting, rap, retard rage, vengeance is sweet
Monday, January 15, 2007
Bringing the noise
My neighbor upstairs is a jazz musician, and I hear him at all hours of the night jamming. I'm not the world's biggest jazz fan, as it often sounds the same to me. Jazz is fine background music for bars and coffee houses, because it's meandering and unintrusive, but I don't typically opt for jazz when I'm massacring rodents in lab or kicking it at my crib. Even more to my distaste is the type of jazz my upstairs neighbor composes. He likes that hippie sort of jazz that is basically one interminable organ jam session. It's like listening to the full-length "Inna Gadda Da Vida," except instead of appealing to Dazed and Confused-esque 70s rockers, it appeals to white people with dreadlocks, backless shirts, and a disdain for personal hygiene who fund their nitrous habit by selling grilled cheeses made on their VW bus engine blocks. It sounds like a fucking Widespread Panic concert above me every night, and it would drive me crazy if I weren't used to living in New York. In the caliber of apartment that my salary allows (poorly constructed and only slightly larger than a veal-fattening pen), I hear everything: my neighbor's TVs, their music, their domestic squabbles, their dogs barking, etc. If I complained about every unwanted noise that filtered into my grossly overpriced living space/vermin condominium, I wouldn't have time to grouse about everything else in the world. I just learn to tune out the other noises, like in yoga class: observe without reaction or judgment.
My neighbor has clearly never taken yoga. Every time I happen to turn on my stereo, he starts pounding on his floor. At first, I thought he was just dropping heavy objects coincident with my morning Dirrty Dirrty ass rap get-psyched-for-the-day routine. However, over time his floor pounding became louder and more insistent, and I realized this was his way of telling me to turn my music down. In fact, he somehow has managed to make thumping sound downright bitchy. I dislike this passive-aggressive tactic for telling me to shut up, and furthermore, I think that if I have to put up with his neverending jam session, he can tolerate twenty minutes of Young Jeezy on low volume. At one point, we crossed paths while getting our mail, and he said something to me about it. He first gave a half-assed apology for thumping, but then immediately disqualified any sort of contrition by saying that because he's up all night composing his shitty music, he needs to sleep in the morning and the faint sounds of a bass line at 9 a.m. bother him. I said, "Well, sorry, but I watch NY1 while I wake up, then I listen to Southern rap while I'm getting dressed. It's part of my morning routine. I'll try to keep the volume down." He was not pleased, as clearly he expected me to be like, "Oh, so sorry, I will immediately amend my life to accomodate your vampiric music composing schedule and need for subsequent sleep during the day." I was annoyed with him, but resolved to continue living my life the way I have. I pay rent to live here, too, so kiss my fine voluptuous ass, hippie. I'm diurnal, and it's not my problem that you work the graveyard shift at home.
A few months ago, he started pounding at 7 p.m. on a Saturday. I was listening to Destiny's Child (and NOT ashamed of that) and puttering around the apartment, and this motherfucker starts stomping at me. I ignored it, but turned off the music and took the dogs out for their evening constitutional. He was coming down the stairs as the boys and I waited for the elevator, and decided to mention to me that sometimes my music makes it hard for him to work. He was like, "Yeah, it's just hard to think about the music I'm writing when all I hear is your music." Why is that my problem? If you need a soundproof environment, go to a fucking recording studio or something. Besides, being that MANY of our other neighbors are blasting rap, reggaeton, and/or R&B music on the regular, I'm hardly the only person listening to audible music that interferes with crafting perfect horrible hippie jazz. This guy is acting like a damn Smith girl, thinking that because he and his job are so fucking important, everyone around him should alter their lifestyles to accommodate his preferences. Additionally, I was pissed because he wouldn't just man up and clearly state his intent (turn down the fucking "Say My Name" and "Bugaboo"), choosing to instead imply that I should give a shit about how he doesn't like my music and act accordingly. I was annoyed because he was trying to be a manipulative pussy instead of stating his objective, so I just said, "Okay, whatever. Later." Then I took the dogs out and dismissed him.
Yesterday, he upped his passive-aggressive tactics to a new level by slipping a note under my door, while I was fucking asleep and thus not making any noise at all. The note irritated the shit out of me, partly because it was so bitchy and partly because he's a grown man (at least 10 years older than me) and he hasn't yet realized that "a lot" is two words:
I'm sorry to be so rude, from 6E. Better to just say something after all this time, than keep getting mad and banging on the floor.
I get woken up by a door slamming, something heavy hitting the floor, or both too many mornings (7:00-7:30). It's almost predictable.
These apartments have no sound proofing, sound carries alot. Whatever it is rattles my dishes, shakes the floor, wakes me. I need as much sleep as I can get these days working so much. I appreciate you being a good neighbor, which you are--maybe you're not aware of it. It's not easy for all these people crammed into these cubicles like sardines.
I know you've really made an effort with your music and it's much appreciated.
Again--sorry to get so pissed off. When I'm woke, when I have to work all day--it's tough. I don't hardly hear you except early morning.
Anyway--there it is. Healthier to say something than to let it go on. Please let me know if there's anything I do that bothers you. I really try to be quiet knowing these floors are like amplifiers. Thanks Again!
I have no idea what "slamming" sound he is talking about since at 7:00-7:30, I am usually either just waking up or still hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock. I suspect it may be one of my neighbors, either the chick who lives next door to me and always arrives home around this time (and slams her door), or the elderly woman on the other side who gets up at the ass crack of dawn to either fight with her man in loud Spanish or clean/rearrange her apartment with the door open in her underwear. Furthermore, I don't give a rat's ass about the quality of sleep he is getting. Therefore, today I slipped this note under the fucker's door:
Dear 6E,
I received your note and was mystified as to what sound you are talking about, as I am typically still in a state of semi-consciousness and in bed at the times you mentioned. As you astutely pointed out, these apartments are not soundproof, and it's quite possible you are hearing one of my or your neighbors making this slamming/banging noise. While I have tried to keep my music at an appropriate volume early in the morning or late at night, you rarely show me the same consideration. I frequently hear your music at all hours of the day, as well as what often sounds like moving furniture around in your apartment. I would complain, but I remind myself that this is New York City, and there is a certain amount of ambient noise inherent in living here, especially in a cheap-ass apartment building like this one. I hear my other neighbors going about their daily lives as well, and it would be foolish and inconsiderate to ask everyone around me to treat their apartments as if they were libraries and be silent to accommodate my schedule. I also work hard, and also am sometimes woken up by you and my other neighbors listening to music, slamming doors, speaking loudly, or generally making noise. I cope with this. I suggest you do the same.
Sincerely,
5E
P.S. Foam earplugs cost less than $5. You may wish to invest in a pair, as they are a more cost-effective means of accomplishing your need for undisturbed sleep than demanding that your neighbors change their lifestyles to accommodate yours.
He has yet to respond, but I've now realized that I am pissed to the point of not getting over it. I want to go up there and yell at him, but that would accomplish nothing except making me look like a fucking lunatic. Therefore, I decided to let him know exactly how concerned I was about my music, and any other noise I make, bothering him so he can get his beauty sleep (except by "beauty" I mean "ugly"; the man is a troll). I made an iTunes playlist dedicated to pissing him off.
All the music I listen to is what Vh1 would categorize as "awesomely bad." I like rap music, but not the preachy, serious stuff, like Mos Def or Talib Kweli or Common. I like rap with good beats and hilarious lyrics concerning the ins and outs of financial success at the trap, overspending at "designer malls," getting in some overweight ho's guts, customizing cars to look like crayons, opening the trunk to retrieve your Mac-10, keeping at least 6 women up in the bed, slizzin on the sizzurp/Hp-n-Hennessey/Goose, etc. Similarly, I like R&B that elicits more chuckles than the desire to make sweet love (ie: lyrics implying that "I'm butt naked in sweat socks and house shoes" is a viable seduction line), a genre mastered by the incomparable R-uh in R&B, my man Robert Sylvester Kelly. I also like some reggae, but not "Three Little Birds" or that sort of thing. I like to hear Vybz Kartel exhorting a woman to "tek buddy" (penis) because he bought her a gold-plated doorknob and paid her U.S. entry visa fee, or cautioning the young schoolgirls of Kingston to protect their virtue until they get to an an age where slutting it up in the dancehall is appropriate ("don't take feel up inna the school bus.") As far as rock goes, I'm WAY more into the Tolkien-inspired ragings of Ronnie James Dio, the soaring synthesizer riffs of Journey, and the thrashing speed guitars of "Master of Puppets"-era Metallica than John Mayer or James Blunt or whatever folksy therapy journal crap by slim penised men people listen to these days and call "rock" music. With the exception of my Chopin and Liszt fetishes, I seem to favor music that most other people find funny, ridiculous, cheesy, or just plain bad. Since everyone is entitled to their own likes and dislikes, I really don't give a fuck. My upstairs neighbor doesn't like my music, and I don't like his, so we're even. However, if he thinks that I'm going to succumb to his demands that I favor his music or need to exist comfortably over mine, in the words of Judas Priest, he's got another thing comin'.
Therefore, I decided to make a playlist on my iTunes dedicated to pissing off my neighbor. It's called the "Fuck You, Upstairs Guy" playlist. Not only do I resent his attitude that his music is a more worthy form of noise pollution than mine, I intend to let him know PRECISELY how much I care about his ability to play his shitty organ in peace. I chose the songs on this list because they represent all the kinds of music I listen to in addition to fitting several important criteria:
1. Bass, and plenty of it, ensuring that the music thunders up the walls, to counteract his floor pounding.
2. Ridiculous and/or brazenly offensive lyrics intended to distract him from whatever deep thoughts he's having about his music.
3. Incorporation of shouting, castigation, and/or screaming, to convey my frustration at his sense of entitlement to a silent apartment building in which he's the only person allowed to make noise.
4. (optional) Most people in the world except me hate the song.
Here are the songs, many of which have been featured on a Vh1 countdown about ridiculous or sucky stuff.
"I Smoke, I Drank" by Body Head Bangerz and the YoungBloodz
Upstairs guy HATES this song. Every time I turn it on, he almost immediately starts pounding. I'd advise him to follow the lyrics of this song and relax by keeping a stack-a that funny smellin' tobacca (which would certainly be consistent with his hippie leanings) and calm his nerves by getting head in the 'Burb consequent to being a fool with dem womens, but since the BHB'z and YB'z say it so much more eloquently than myself I'll defer to their masterful means of persuasion. Besides, lyrics like "I smoke, I drank, I'm supposed to stop but I can't, I'm a dog, I love hoes, and I'm addicted to money, cars, and clothes" pretty much sum up my general attitude about life. Well, except for the cars part...my money addiction has been relatively unfed as of late, thus standing in the way of my ability to satiate my need for tricked-out Lambos.
"Bills, Bills, Bills" by Destiny's Child
This song is a little off-topic, as it features Beyonce et al breaking it down to a loser boyfriend for being a broke parasite, but I like the chorus which calls him "a trifling, good-for-nothin' type of brother." That's exactly how I feel up Upstairs Guy, despite the fact that he's never been maxing out my credit card to go on shopping sprees at the mall, "perpetratin' to his friends that he be ballin'" (I can do that all on my own).
"Rock You Like a Hurricane" by the Scorpions
Because that's what Klaus Meine and his cohort of Teutonic rockers are going to do to Upstairs Guy.
"Stomp" by Young Buck, The Game, and Ludacris
This song says "Keep talkin' and you 'bout to get that ass stomped." Since Upstairs Guy is always stomping on the floor, this is my way of stomping back.
"Why We Thugs" by Ice Cube
Upstairs Guy has a particular hatred for O'Shea Jackson's classic album The Predator, and this is his new jam. Despite Cube's recent forays into mainstream kid-friendly cinema (Are We There Yet? I hope they paid him well for that.), this song's beat is guaranteed to drive Upstairs Guy crazy, and lyrics like "stop trippin' on it" and "when niggaz get tribal, it's all about survival, nobody liable." I want him to know that I will absolutely get tribal on his ass.
"Tek Buddy" by Vybz Kartel
In addition to saying things like "fuck me like Matrix inna 3-D, for the TV, DVD", Vybz is always shouting "bi-a-bi", which, if you're not into ridiculous dancehall reggae, will drive you fucking insane. I also laugh every time I hear the unforgettable lyric "I even pay your visa fee, so grab me cocky and sing on it like Alicia Keys."
"The Final Countdown" by Europe
It's sort of embarrassing that I have this mp3, because songs combining brain-melting synth riffs with lyrics about travelling through space to Venus are a bit much even for me. However, since this may be the most annoying song ever written, I have no doubt that it will stick in Upstairs Guy's craw.
"Turn Me On" by Kevin Lyttle and Madzart
As long as we're on the topic of annoying songs, this pop reggae masterpiece may be in a different genre, but it's absolutely in Europe's league. Between Kevin Lyttle's Caribbean-tinged I-just-sucked-helium falsetto and Madzart's (note: that's Madzart--not to be confused with a certain Wolfgang Amadeus) unintelligible dancehall rapping, "Turn Me On" is one of those songs where you can't decide if you should bust out your best dutty wine or pour gasoline on yourself and strike a match. With Upstairs Guy, it's likely to be the latter.
"I Like Dem Girlz" by Tyrese
I figured I may as well go for the irritating song trifecta. I like cheesy, ridiculous R&B, but "I Like Dem Girlz" by Guess model/singer/actor Tyrese is right at the edge of my tolerance envelope. Not even silly lyrical content about Tyrese's preference for gold-digging whores and/or rap video vixens ("I like dem girlz between the sheets, I like dem girlz iced up like me, I like dem girlz in the fly Gucci, rolling deep in the 6, Cartier on the wrist") makes me willingly listen to this song. However, if it bugs me this much, it will definitely send Upstairs Guy into an open mouth-insert shotgun mode.
"Under the Influence" by D12
Lyrics like "you can suck my dick if you don't like my shit" pretty much sum up my feelings regarding this situation.
I'm going to come up with some more, since I have approximately 8 days worth of music on my iTunes. I plan to determine experimentally which songs piss him off the most. The other day he started banging in response to Beethoven's Pastoral symphony, for God's sake, so I'm sure there's ample material from numerous genres in my music library to actually drive his scraggly Trey Anastacio-wannabe ass to into an inpatient treatment facility and/or out of the building permanently. Upstairs Guy wrote a bitchy note to the wrong fucking bitch. This means WAR.
My neighbor has clearly never taken yoga. Every time I happen to turn on my stereo, he starts pounding on his floor. At first, I thought he was just dropping heavy objects coincident with my morning Dirrty Dirrty ass rap get-psyched-for-the-day routine. However, over time his floor pounding became louder and more insistent, and I realized this was his way of telling me to turn my music down. In fact, he somehow has managed to make thumping sound downright bitchy. I dislike this passive-aggressive tactic for telling me to shut up, and furthermore, I think that if I have to put up with his neverending jam session, he can tolerate twenty minutes of Young Jeezy on low volume. At one point, we crossed paths while getting our mail, and he said something to me about it. He first gave a half-assed apology for thumping, but then immediately disqualified any sort of contrition by saying that because he's up all night composing his shitty music, he needs to sleep in the morning and the faint sounds of a bass line at 9 a.m. bother him. I said, "Well, sorry, but I watch NY1 while I wake up, then I listen to Southern rap while I'm getting dressed. It's part of my morning routine. I'll try to keep the volume down." He was not pleased, as clearly he expected me to be like, "Oh, so sorry, I will immediately amend my life to accomodate your vampiric music composing schedule and need for subsequent sleep during the day." I was annoyed with him, but resolved to continue living my life the way I have. I pay rent to live here, too, so kiss my fine voluptuous ass, hippie. I'm diurnal, and it's not my problem that you work the graveyard shift at home.
A few months ago, he started pounding at 7 p.m. on a Saturday. I was listening to Destiny's Child (and NOT ashamed of that) and puttering around the apartment, and this motherfucker starts stomping at me. I ignored it, but turned off the music and took the dogs out for their evening constitutional. He was coming down the stairs as the boys and I waited for the elevator, and decided to mention to me that sometimes my music makes it hard for him to work. He was like, "Yeah, it's just hard to think about the music I'm writing when all I hear is your music." Why is that my problem? If you need a soundproof environment, go to a fucking recording studio or something. Besides, being that MANY of our other neighbors are blasting rap, reggaeton, and/or R&B music on the regular, I'm hardly the only person listening to audible music that interferes with crafting perfect horrible hippie jazz. This guy is acting like a damn Smith girl, thinking that because he and his job are so fucking important, everyone around him should alter their lifestyles to accommodate his preferences. Additionally, I was pissed because he wouldn't just man up and clearly state his intent (turn down the fucking "Say My Name" and "Bugaboo"), choosing to instead imply that I should give a shit about how he doesn't like my music and act accordingly. I was annoyed because he was trying to be a manipulative pussy instead of stating his objective, so I just said, "Okay, whatever. Later." Then I took the dogs out and dismissed him.
Yesterday, he upped his passive-aggressive tactics to a new level by slipping a note under my door, while I was fucking asleep and thus not making any noise at all. The note irritated the shit out of me, partly because it was so bitchy and partly because he's a grown man (at least 10 years older than me) and he hasn't yet realized that "a lot" is two words:
I'm sorry to be so rude, from 6E. Better to just say something after all this time, than keep getting mad and banging on the floor.
I get woken up by a door slamming, something heavy hitting the floor, or both too many mornings (7:00-7:30). It's almost predictable.
These apartments have no sound proofing, sound carries alot. Whatever it is rattles my dishes, shakes the floor, wakes me. I need as much sleep as I can get these days working so much. I appreciate you being a good neighbor, which you are--maybe you're not aware of it. It's not easy for all these people crammed into these cubicles like sardines.
I know you've really made an effort with your music and it's much appreciated.
Again--sorry to get so pissed off. When I'm woke, when I have to work all day--it's tough. I don't hardly hear you except early morning.
Anyway--there it is. Healthier to say something than to let it go on. Please let me know if there's anything I do that bothers you. I really try to be quiet knowing these floors are like amplifiers. Thanks Again!
I have no idea what "slamming" sound he is talking about since at 7:00-7:30, I am usually either just waking up or still hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock. I suspect it may be one of my neighbors, either the chick who lives next door to me and always arrives home around this time (and slams her door), or the elderly woman on the other side who gets up at the ass crack of dawn to either fight with her man in loud Spanish or clean/rearrange her apartment with the door open in her underwear. Furthermore, I don't give a rat's ass about the quality of sleep he is getting. Therefore, today I slipped this note under the fucker's door:
Dear 6E,
I received your note and was mystified as to what sound you are talking about, as I am typically still in a state of semi-consciousness and in bed at the times you mentioned. As you astutely pointed out, these apartments are not soundproof, and it's quite possible you are hearing one of my or your neighbors making this slamming/banging noise. While I have tried to keep my music at an appropriate volume early in the morning or late at night, you rarely show me the same consideration. I frequently hear your music at all hours of the day, as well as what often sounds like moving furniture around in your apartment. I would complain, but I remind myself that this is New York City, and there is a certain amount of ambient noise inherent in living here, especially in a cheap-ass apartment building like this one. I hear my other neighbors going about their daily lives as well, and it would be foolish and inconsiderate to ask everyone around me to treat their apartments as if they were libraries and be silent to accommodate my schedule. I also work hard, and also am sometimes woken up by you and my other neighbors listening to music, slamming doors, speaking loudly, or generally making noise. I cope with this. I suggest you do the same.
Sincerely,
5E
P.S. Foam earplugs cost less than $5. You may wish to invest in a pair, as they are a more cost-effective means of accomplishing your need for undisturbed sleep than demanding that your neighbors change their lifestyles to accommodate yours.
He has yet to respond, but I've now realized that I am pissed to the point of not getting over it. I want to go up there and yell at him, but that would accomplish nothing except making me look like a fucking lunatic. Therefore, I decided to let him know exactly how concerned I was about my music, and any other noise I make, bothering him so he can get his beauty sleep (except by "beauty" I mean "ugly"; the man is a troll). I made an iTunes playlist dedicated to pissing him off.
All the music I listen to is what Vh1 would categorize as "awesomely bad." I like rap music, but not the preachy, serious stuff, like Mos Def or Talib Kweli or Common. I like rap with good beats and hilarious lyrics concerning the ins and outs of financial success at the trap, overspending at "designer malls," getting in some overweight ho's guts, customizing cars to look like crayons, opening the trunk to retrieve your Mac-10, keeping at least 6 women up in the bed, slizzin on the sizzurp/Hp-n-Hennessey/Goose, etc. Similarly, I like R&B that elicits more chuckles than the desire to make sweet love (ie: lyrics implying that "I'm butt naked in sweat socks and house shoes" is a viable seduction line), a genre mastered by the incomparable R-uh in R&B, my man Robert Sylvester Kelly. I also like some reggae, but not "Three Little Birds" or that sort of thing. I like to hear Vybz Kartel exhorting a woman to "tek buddy" (penis) because he bought her a gold-plated doorknob and paid her U.S. entry visa fee, or cautioning the young schoolgirls of Kingston to protect their virtue until they get to an an age where slutting it up in the dancehall is appropriate ("don't take feel up inna the school bus.") As far as rock goes, I'm WAY more into the Tolkien-inspired ragings of Ronnie James Dio, the soaring synthesizer riffs of Journey, and the thrashing speed guitars of "Master of Puppets"-era Metallica than John Mayer or James Blunt or whatever folksy therapy journal crap by slim penised men people listen to these days and call "rock" music. With the exception of my Chopin and Liszt fetishes, I seem to favor music that most other people find funny, ridiculous, cheesy, or just plain bad. Since everyone is entitled to their own likes and dislikes, I really don't give a fuck. My upstairs neighbor doesn't like my music, and I don't like his, so we're even. However, if he thinks that I'm going to succumb to his demands that I favor his music or need to exist comfortably over mine, in the words of Judas Priest, he's got another thing comin'.
Therefore, I decided to make a playlist on my iTunes dedicated to pissing off my neighbor. It's called the "Fuck You, Upstairs Guy" playlist. Not only do I resent his attitude that his music is a more worthy form of noise pollution than mine, I intend to let him know PRECISELY how much I care about his ability to play his shitty organ in peace. I chose the songs on this list because they represent all the kinds of music I listen to in addition to fitting several important criteria:
1. Bass, and plenty of it, ensuring that the music thunders up the walls, to counteract his floor pounding.
2. Ridiculous and/or brazenly offensive lyrics intended to distract him from whatever deep thoughts he's having about his music.
3. Incorporation of shouting, castigation, and/or screaming, to convey my frustration at his sense of entitlement to a silent apartment building in which he's the only person allowed to make noise.
4. (optional) Most people in the world except me hate the song.
Here are the songs, many of which have been featured on a Vh1 countdown about ridiculous or sucky stuff.
"I Smoke, I Drank" by Body Head Bangerz and the YoungBloodz
Upstairs guy HATES this song. Every time I turn it on, he almost immediately starts pounding. I'd advise him to follow the lyrics of this song and relax by keeping a stack-a that funny smellin' tobacca (which would certainly be consistent with his hippie leanings) and calm his nerves by getting head in the 'Burb consequent to being a fool with dem womens, but since the BHB'z and YB'z say it so much more eloquently than myself I'll defer to their masterful means of persuasion. Besides, lyrics like "I smoke, I drank, I'm supposed to stop but I can't, I'm a dog, I love hoes, and I'm addicted to money, cars, and clothes" pretty much sum up my general attitude about life. Well, except for the cars part...my money addiction has been relatively unfed as of late, thus standing in the way of my ability to satiate my need for tricked-out Lambos.
"Bills, Bills, Bills" by Destiny's Child
This song is a little off-topic, as it features Beyonce et al breaking it down to a loser boyfriend for being a broke parasite, but I like the chorus which calls him "a trifling, good-for-nothin' type of brother." That's exactly how I feel up Upstairs Guy, despite the fact that he's never been maxing out my credit card to go on shopping sprees at the mall, "perpetratin' to his friends that he be ballin'" (I can do that all on my own).
"Rock You Like a Hurricane" by the Scorpions
Because that's what Klaus Meine and his cohort of Teutonic rockers are going to do to Upstairs Guy.
"Stomp" by Young Buck, The Game, and Ludacris
This song says "Keep talkin' and you 'bout to get that ass stomped." Since Upstairs Guy is always stomping on the floor, this is my way of stomping back.
"Why We Thugs" by Ice Cube
Upstairs Guy has a particular hatred for O'Shea Jackson's classic album The Predator, and this is his new jam. Despite Cube's recent forays into mainstream kid-friendly cinema (Are We There Yet? I hope they paid him well for that.), this song's beat is guaranteed to drive Upstairs Guy crazy, and lyrics like "stop trippin' on it" and "when niggaz get tribal, it's all about survival, nobody liable." I want him to know that I will absolutely get tribal on his ass.
"Tek Buddy" by Vybz Kartel
In addition to saying things like "fuck me like Matrix inna 3-D, for the TV, DVD", Vybz is always shouting "bi-a-bi", which, if you're not into ridiculous dancehall reggae, will drive you fucking insane. I also laugh every time I hear the unforgettable lyric "I even pay your visa fee, so grab me cocky and sing on it like Alicia Keys."
"The Final Countdown" by Europe
It's sort of embarrassing that I have this mp3, because songs combining brain-melting synth riffs with lyrics about travelling through space to Venus are a bit much even for me. However, since this may be the most annoying song ever written, I have no doubt that it will stick in Upstairs Guy's craw.
"Turn Me On" by Kevin Lyttle and Madzart
As long as we're on the topic of annoying songs, this pop reggae masterpiece may be in a different genre, but it's absolutely in Europe's league. Between Kevin Lyttle's Caribbean-tinged I-just-sucked-helium falsetto and Madzart's (note: that's Madzart--not to be confused with a certain Wolfgang Amadeus) unintelligible dancehall rapping, "Turn Me On" is one of those songs where you can't decide if you should bust out your best dutty wine or pour gasoline on yourself and strike a match. With Upstairs Guy, it's likely to be the latter.
"I Like Dem Girlz" by Tyrese
I figured I may as well go for the irritating song trifecta. I like cheesy, ridiculous R&B, but "I Like Dem Girlz" by Guess model/singer/actor Tyrese is right at the edge of my tolerance envelope. Not even silly lyrical content about Tyrese's preference for gold-digging whores and/or rap video vixens ("I like dem girlz between the sheets, I like dem girlz iced up like me, I like dem girlz in the fly Gucci, rolling deep in the 6, Cartier on the wrist") makes me willingly listen to this song. However, if it bugs me this much, it will definitely send Upstairs Guy into an open mouth-insert shotgun mode.
"Under the Influence" by D12
Lyrics like "you can suck my dick if you don't like my shit" pretty much sum up my feelings regarding this situation.
I'm going to come up with some more, since I have approximately 8 days worth of music on my iTunes. I plan to determine experimentally which songs piss him off the most. The other day he started banging in response to Beethoven's Pastoral symphony, for God's sake, so I'm sure there's ample material from numerous genres in my music library to actually drive his scraggly Trey Anastacio-wannabe ass to into an inpatient treatment facility and/or out of the building permanently. Upstairs Guy wrote a bitchy note to the wrong fucking bitch. This means WAR.
Labels: comeuppance, Harlem world, ranting, retard rage, vengeance is sweet
Saturday, January 06, 2007
The Ruining
It's no secret to anyone who reads this blog that I am a stickler for spelling and punctuation. This obsession has been forged in me from childhood, because of my competitive spirit. I have actually lost sleep after catching random typos on RAZZY.org, wondering how many more typos and misplaced commas are lingering undiscovered. People actually read this, so my copy has to be of the utmost quality. God help me if my website has poorer spelling and/or grammar than any given asshole with a MySpace page. I am driven to have the finest fucking blog on planet Earth, because I want to be better than everyone else.
I'm viciously competitive when I'm competing for something that piques my interest. However, I'm not unnecessarily competitive. I don't care if I lose things I have no skill at. I was watching Caddyshack tonight, and when I wasn't thinking "holy SHIT, Rodney Dangerfield is hilarious", it reminded me of golf, and how I suck at it. I don't mind losing at golf, because I am abysmally bad at it. If I were to play a great game of golf (great game being defined as less than thirty over par after nine holes), it would be a fucking miracle on par with Croat ragamuffins getting the secrets of the coming apocalypse from the Virgin or whatever at Medjugorje. Getting my ass kicked at golf is no problem, because I can drink while playing, make vulgar jokes about the ball-washing devices, and can expect nothing from myself except trying my best to suck as little as possible, so losing gracefully is no big deal. That is NOT the case, however, when it comes to battles of wit or intellect, and specifically those involving spelling.
I rarely resort to physical violence in arguments. I learned at a young age that the resultant trouble from slugging somebody is disproportionate to any gain from the act of punching itself. Consequently, I haven't had cause to give anyone an authentic, put-up-your-dukes knuckle sandwich for going on twenty years. However, if there is any competition that will make me an insane, go-for-the-throat opponent, it is the spelling bee.
I dominated the All Saints School (aka ASS) spelling bee starting in the second grade, where we were challenged by bullshit words like "apple" and "tree" and the more challenging "chief" and "Mississippi." That was before this chick Joy came along. Joy enrolled in my class and gave me a heaping helping of motherfucking humility. That bitch mopped the floor with my ass in the finals of our third grade spelling bee. I seem to recall a heated duel over the word "gymnasium", in which I was subsequently vanquished. I was pissed. In second grade, people called me a "human dictionary" (and at that age, this was a pejorative term, but I embraced it nonetheless). I not only took the spelling bee with ease, but I totally ruled "Around the World" when we worked with the alphabet, spelling, phonics, social studies, or anatomy. I got to skip regular school once a week to attend the goddamn gifted program, and I wasted no time telling everyone so. At the time, I could back my shit-talking up with things like pointless spelling bee victories, and was sitting pretty as the ASS resident genius. I guess I got too comfortable, because Joy showed up and snatched my credible intellectual elitism out from under my nose.
Joy became my friend because we were both nerds and could spend our time playing with our My Little Ponies and discussing The Chronicles of Narnia, but I secretly nursed a tremendous grudge. Making matters worse was her tendency to brag about spelling triumphs in regular conversation. Her behavior was the academic equivalent of one of my brother's favorite pesky-little-brother techniques: the Ruining. When I was about five, I occupied much of my time either writing and illustrating stories or building large, cult headquarter-esque structures from Lincoln Logs. I would build these elaborate, gigantic meeting halls, complete with necessary infrastructure (police station, jail, fire department, hospital, armory, etc.), that were great examples of the architectural style made famous in legendary places like Waco, TX and Jonestown, Guyana. Lil' Tevie, in true toddler little brother form, would sneak up on me and, when my back was turned, gleefully start jumping on my masterpieces. My much toiled-over Branch Davidian compound would be reduced to a pile of Lincoln Logs, and I would invariably be furious. According to my mother, in these situations I used to point at my brother and scream "He's RUINING me!" Well, that is exactly how I felt about that bitch Joy and her superior spelling ability.
When the fourth grade spelling bee rolled around, I was fucking prepared. There was no way that bitch was going to beat me in the fourth grade. I read feverishly and even copied challenging words out of the dictionary for my mom to grill me with. I showed up on spelling bee day ready to lay waste to Joy and anyone else who dared challenge my spelling prowess. Slowly the class thinned out as the words grew progressively harder, until only Joy and me were left spelling. And the bitch beat me...AGAIN. I was outraged. I had been practicing, for God's sake. I should beat people in intellectual battles without even trying, and CERTAINLY when I actually practice. Joy was congratulated, and our class was dismissed to the parking lot for recess.
While the other kids were busy playing hit the jerk with the tennis balls Manny Rivera and Joe Whelan always carried with them for this purpose, I calmly strolled up to Joy. I think she thought I was going to say something gracious, and actually be a good sport. Fuck that. I was incensed.
"You won," I said venomously.
"No hard feelings?" she said.
I didn't respond. I seethed at her for a moment. Then I closed up my fist, and punched her square in the nose.
I remember being disappointed at both the lack of a satisfying crunching sound and the absence of the "thwack" sound that movies led me to believe results from slugging someone in the face. I also remember being completely alarmed at how much my hand hurt. Blood started pouring out of Joy's nose onto her Peter Pan collar, ASS sweatshirt, and lloyd plaid pleated uniform skirt, so my attempt at vengeance wasn't entirely unsuccessful.
Unfortunately, my victory in the gladiatorial arena was short-lived. I was promptly dragged into the principal's office, and my parents received phone calls at work. I got in BIG TIME trouble with the folks, and was restricted from phone calls, computer games, slumber parties, and Babysitter's Club books for a solid month. I couldn't believe it. I thought that if I couldn't win at spelling, a pugilist victory would mitigate the sting of defeat, and the adults would understand. When they didn't, and I got in trouble, it was like Joy beating me all over again. That bitch was ruining me, in spite of my best effort to ruin her.
In fifth grade, I got pneumonia and was out of school for several weeks recuperating, thus missing the spelling bee that year due to absentia. It was just as well, because I didn't think I could stomach another loss to Joy. The year after that, she moved to a different school, and I handily won the sixth grade competition. I went to the Pierce County Private School district competition, and took first prize in that by mowing down inferior spellers from St. Charles and Visitation like I was Cortes and they were the Incas. I got my picture in the Tacoma News Tribune and went on to compete in the Pierce County finals.
I walked in to the room at Tacoma Community College where the county finals were being held prepared for epic battle. I was wearing a very stylish banana clip in my freshly permed hair, a pair of Guess jeans with zippers at the ankle, and a neon windbreaker. I was ready to destroy all the other district winners, until I heard something that fucked up my game BIG TIME.
"Hey, Razzy! I thought you'd be here!" a familiar voice said. I turned and saw Joy sitting there, looking smug. Apparently she'd won the Orting district competition, and once again, we were going to throw down. "Good luck!" she said sweetly. I managed to return the sentiment in an irritable and insincere tone, and resolved to outspell this hooker once and for all.
When the competition started, I did well for the first three rounds until I came across the word that was my undoing. I still grit my teeth in anger when I come across this word now. I have to write it all the time in my lab notebook with respect to sacrificing mice using carbon dioxide gas, and every time I do I seethe just a little bit inside. I remember standing on that stage, looking at the three solemn judges moderating the spelling bee, and hearing the word that was my downfall.
"Your word is...asphyxiate," said the head judge.
I had no fucking clue how to spell this word. I stalled, asking for the definition, asking for it to be used in a sentence, etc. I was hoping to get a flash of divine inspiration, but I did not.
I finally had to suck it up and give it a try. "A-S-S-F-I-X-I-A-T-E. Assfixiate."
Although I'm still convinced that "assfixiate" should be a word, I was appalled to see the judges raise the red flag indicating that I was wrong. I went to my seat cursing myself for failing to ask the word origin, believing that if I'd heard this word had Greek roots I would have spelled it with one "s" and a "phy". This bothers me so much to this day that I'll go to my grave wishing a pox upon the house of whoever included the word "asphyxiate" in that county-wide spelling bee competition.
Then it was Joy's turn. Her word was ventriloquist. Fucking ventriloquist! I got asphyxiate and that bitch lands an easy word like ventriloquist! I wanted to shout something dramatic, like, "This contest is a travesty! It is FIXED!", but since my parents were sitting there and encouraging me to be a good sport, I simply sat and fumed, stomping my LA Gear Brats periodically in anger. Ultimately, Joy lasted long enough to win fourth place.
I never made it back to the county competition. Although I continued to dominate the ASS spelling bee in seventh and eighth grade, I took second in the districts both those years. This kid Jason Dye beat me both times, and promptly got his ass handed to him at county. I could only console myself by dominating the ASS geography bee and the Puyallup Valley Piano Olympics (where, I'm proud to say, I took home blue ribbons for note-reading and--my favorite--fingering). By a strange coincidence, my high school best friend G-Boner knew Joy from Orting, and in high school we met up and smoked pot with her a couple times, but I still could never really get over the fact that I never defeated her in spelling competition. The fact that she dropped out of high school, and may have won the spelling bee but clearly lost to me in the game of life, was of little consequence. I can't let the spelling bee go. I remember sitting around in some field in Orting getting stoned and saying something along the lines of, "Remember how I rearranged your face after you beat me in the spelling bee? Man, that was awesome." She said she only vaguely recalled that, as her most vivid All Saints spelling memory was of repeatedly defeating me. Fucking bitch.
That is why I am so fucking picky about spelling and grammar now, because my dreams of spelling glory were summarily crushed by Joy, the Ruiner. I think that, one day, if Joy starts looking for useless bullshit on the internet and happens to stumble across my site, she'll be like, "God damn, Razzy is so superior in her command of the written word that I was one LUCKY-ASS BITCH to have ever beaten her in the spelling bee. I'm not worthy!" And that's why I'm so vigilant about spelling. Go asphyxiate yourself, Joy.
I'm viciously competitive when I'm competing for something that piques my interest. However, I'm not unnecessarily competitive. I don't care if I lose things I have no skill at. I was watching Caddyshack tonight, and when I wasn't thinking "holy SHIT, Rodney Dangerfield is hilarious", it reminded me of golf, and how I suck at it. I don't mind losing at golf, because I am abysmally bad at it. If I were to play a great game of golf (great game being defined as less than thirty over par after nine holes), it would be a fucking miracle on par with Croat ragamuffins getting the secrets of the coming apocalypse from the Virgin or whatever at Medjugorje. Getting my ass kicked at golf is no problem, because I can drink while playing, make vulgar jokes about the ball-washing devices, and can expect nothing from myself except trying my best to suck as little as possible, so losing gracefully is no big deal. That is NOT the case, however, when it comes to battles of wit or intellect, and specifically those involving spelling.
I rarely resort to physical violence in arguments. I learned at a young age that the resultant trouble from slugging somebody is disproportionate to any gain from the act of punching itself. Consequently, I haven't had cause to give anyone an authentic, put-up-your-dukes knuckle sandwich for going on twenty years. However, if there is any competition that will make me an insane, go-for-the-throat opponent, it is the spelling bee.
I dominated the All Saints School (aka ASS) spelling bee starting in the second grade, where we were challenged by bullshit words like "apple" and "tree" and the more challenging "chief" and "Mississippi." That was before this chick Joy came along. Joy enrolled in my class and gave me a heaping helping of motherfucking humility. That bitch mopped the floor with my ass in the finals of our third grade spelling bee. I seem to recall a heated duel over the word "gymnasium", in which I was subsequently vanquished. I was pissed. In second grade, people called me a "human dictionary" (and at that age, this was a pejorative term, but I embraced it nonetheless). I not only took the spelling bee with ease, but I totally ruled "Around the World" when we worked with the alphabet, spelling, phonics, social studies, or anatomy. I got to skip regular school once a week to attend the goddamn gifted program, and I wasted no time telling everyone so. At the time, I could back my shit-talking up with things like pointless spelling bee victories, and was sitting pretty as the ASS resident genius. I guess I got too comfortable, because Joy showed up and snatched my credible intellectual elitism out from under my nose.
Joy became my friend because we were both nerds and could spend our time playing with our My Little Ponies and discussing The Chronicles of Narnia, but I secretly nursed a tremendous grudge. Making matters worse was her tendency to brag about spelling triumphs in regular conversation. Her behavior was the academic equivalent of one of my brother's favorite pesky-little-brother techniques: the Ruining. When I was about five, I occupied much of my time either writing and illustrating stories or building large, cult headquarter-esque structures from Lincoln Logs. I would build these elaborate, gigantic meeting halls, complete with necessary infrastructure (police station, jail, fire department, hospital, armory, etc.), that were great examples of the architectural style made famous in legendary places like Waco, TX and Jonestown, Guyana. Lil' Tevie, in true toddler little brother form, would sneak up on me and, when my back was turned, gleefully start jumping on my masterpieces. My much toiled-over Branch Davidian compound would be reduced to a pile of Lincoln Logs, and I would invariably be furious. According to my mother, in these situations I used to point at my brother and scream "He's RUINING me!" Well, that is exactly how I felt about that bitch Joy and her superior spelling ability.
When the fourth grade spelling bee rolled around, I was fucking prepared. There was no way that bitch was going to beat me in the fourth grade. I read feverishly and even copied challenging words out of the dictionary for my mom to grill me with. I showed up on spelling bee day ready to lay waste to Joy and anyone else who dared challenge my spelling prowess. Slowly the class thinned out as the words grew progressively harder, until only Joy and me were left spelling. And the bitch beat me...AGAIN. I was outraged. I had been practicing, for God's sake. I should beat people in intellectual battles without even trying, and CERTAINLY when I actually practice. Joy was congratulated, and our class was dismissed to the parking lot for recess.
While the other kids were busy playing hit the jerk with the tennis balls Manny Rivera and Joe Whelan always carried with them for this purpose, I calmly strolled up to Joy. I think she thought I was going to say something gracious, and actually be a good sport. Fuck that. I was incensed.
"You won," I said venomously.
"No hard feelings?" she said.
I didn't respond. I seethed at her for a moment. Then I closed up my fist, and punched her square in the nose.
I remember being disappointed at both the lack of a satisfying crunching sound and the absence of the "thwack" sound that movies led me to believe results from slugging someone in the face. I also remember being completely alarmed at how much my hand hurt. Blood started pouring out of Joy's nose onto her Peter Pan collar, ASS sweatshirt, and lloyd plaid pleated uniform skirt, so my attempt at vengeance wasn't entirely unsuccessful.
Unfortunately, my victory in the gladiatorial arena was short-lived. I was promptly dragged into the principal's office, and my parents received phone calls at work. I got in BIG TIME trouble with the folks, and was restricted from phone calls, computer games, slumber parties, and Babysitter's Club books for a solid month. I couldn't believe it. I thought that if I couldn't win at spelling, a pugilist victory would mitigate the sting of defeat, and the adults would understand. When they didn't, and I got in trouble, it was like Joy beating me all over again. That bitch was ruining me, in spite of my best effort to ruin her.
In fifth grade, I got pneumonia and was out of school for several weeks recuperating, thus missing the spelling bee that year due to absentia. It was just as well, because I didn't think I could stomach another loss to Joy. The year after that, she moved to a different school, and I handily won the sixth grade competition. I went to the Pierce County Private School district competition, and took first prize in that by mowing down inferior spellers from St. Charles and Visitation like I was Cortes and they were the Incas. I got my picture in the Tacoma News Tribune and went on to compete in the Pierce County finals.
I walked in to the room at Tacoma Community College where the county finals were being held prepared for epic battle. I was wearing a very stylish banana clip in my freshly permed hair, a pair of Guess jeans with zippers at the ankle, and a neon windbreaker. I was ready to destroy all the other district winners, until I heard something that fucked up my game BIG TIME.
"Hey, Razzy! I thought you'd be here!" a familiar voice said. I turned and saw Joy sitting there, looking smug. Apparently she'd won the Orting district competition, and once again, we were going to throw down. "Good luck!" she said sweetly. I managed to return the sentiment in an irritable and insincere tone, and resolved to outspell this hooker once and for all.
When the competition started, I did well for the first three rounds until I came across the word that was my undoing. I still grit my teeth in anger when I come across this word now. I have to write it all the time in my lab notebook with respect to sacrificing mice using carbon dioxide gas, and every time I do I seethe just a little bit inside. I remember standing on that stage, looking at the three solemn judges moderating the spelling bee, and hearing the word that was my downfall.
"Your word is...asphyxiate," said the head judge.
I had no fucking clue how to spell this word. I stalled, asking for the definition, asking for it to be used in a sentence, etc. I was hoping to get a flash of divine inspiration, but I did not.
I finally had to suck it up and give it a try. "A-S-S-F-I-X-I-A-T-E. Assfixiate."
Although I'm still convinced that "assfixiate" should be a word, I was appalled to see the judges raise the red flag indicating that I was wrong. I went to my seat cursing myself for failing to ask the word origin, believing that if I'd heard this word had Greek roots I would have spelled it with one "s" and a "phy". This bothers me so much to this day that I'll go to my grave wishing a pox upon the house of whoever included the word "asphyxiate" in that county-wide spelling bee competition.
Then it was Joy's turn. Her word was ventriloquist. Fucking ventriloquist! I got asphyxiate and that bitch lands an easy word like ventriloquist! I wanted to shout something dramatic, like, "This contest is a travesty! It is FIXED!", but since my parents were sitting there and encouraging me to be a good sport, I simply sat and fumed, stomping my LA Gear Brats periodically in anger. Ultimately, Joy lasted long enough to win fourth place.
I never made it back to the county competition. Although I continued to dominate the ASS spelling bee in seventh and eighth grade, I took second in the districts both those years. This kid Jason Dye beat me both times, and promptly got his ass handed to him at county. I could only console myself by dominating the ASS geography bee and the Puyallup Valley Piano Olympics (where, I'm proud to say, I took home blue ribbons for note-reading and--my favorite--fingering). By a strange coincidence, my high school best friend G-Boner knew Joy from Orting, and in high school we met up and smoked pot with her a couple times, but I still could never really get over the fact that I never defeated her in spelling competition. The fact that she dropped out of high school, and may have won the spelling bee but clearly lost to me in the game of life, was of little consequence. I can't let the spelling bee go. I remember sitting around in some field in Orting getting stoned and saying something along the lines of, "Remember how I rearranged your face after you beat me in the spelling bee? Man, that was awesome." She said she only vaguely recalled that, as her most vivid All Saints spelling memory was of repeatedly defeating me. Fucking bitch.
That is why I am so fucking picky about spelling and grammar now, because my dreams of spelling glory were summarily crushed by Joy, the Ruiner. I think that, one day, if Joy starts looking for useless bullshit on the internet and happens to stumble across my site, she'll be like, "God damn, Razzy is so superior in her command of the written word that I was one LUCKY-ASS BITCH to have ever beaten her in the spelling bee. I'm not worthy!" And that's why I'm so vigilant about spelling. Go asphyxiate yourself, Joy.
Labels: assholes, comeuppance, grammar gestapo, oh the horror, overcompensation, ranting, scathing indictments, vengeance is sweet
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