Wednesday, July 15, 2009
It's okay to avoid like leprosy
I did not think it possible, but I have managed to find an ad campaign that makes me even more furious than Twitter whore Ashton Kutcher's COOLPIX ads. In fact, they make my feelings toward Ashton's buffoonery seem downright warm and charitable. This is the single most unappealing pitch for a dating site ever. It's even worse than that gross, snaggletoothed old Christian dude that used to sell e-Harmony with a lot of soporific jabber about compatibility and a lot of ugly couple success stories. These ads make e-Harmony, a company that is currently being sued for refusing to match gay couples and that seems to regard marrying a fat guy with a cell phone clipped to his belt a perfect outcome, seem like my ideal dating site. The horror of which I speak is the match.com "It's okay to look" ad campaign.
I am not sure what upsets me more, the slogan or the representative match.com singles from the commercials that I will ostensibly meet should I decide to partake of their services. The slogan is pretty bad. I don't need some disembodied female voice with the patronizing yet facile intonations of an overcompensating day care supervisor informing me that it's cool to cruise the internets for ass. I know plenty of people who get laid thanks to the miracle of the world wide web. I also think it's find to look for hookups at bars, clubs, restaurants, coffee shops, work, the gym, the park, the library, the designer mall, the waiting room at Planned Parenthood...hey, you never know when you might find someone. Really, the only place it's NOT okay to look is at a family reunion (although I have been hit on at one of those...but that's a whole other story). I am always looking, so thanks for stating the obvious about how "okay" it is to be doing so, match.com. I suppose next you're going to tell me that it's okay to drink coffee or it's okay to eat breakfast or it's okay to walk my dogs. Fuck off, match.com, with trying to make me feel validated enough to shell out for your subscription fee.
If I'm going to PAY to look, then I had better be looking at some hot pieces of ass who aren't insane. One of the biggest reasons people avoid internet dating (myself included) is the possibility of meeting a complete lunatic and/or stalker. I do a good enough job finding those without any e-assistance, so if I'm going to actually pay to peep at some frisky honeys on the prowl themselves, they better not be ugly and/or behaving like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. However, according to match.com's own promotional material, that's EXACTLY what they are selling.
If you go to match.com's website, you'll see SmilesforMiles01 and devco2000, AKA Fake Liz Phair and Pauly Shore/John C. Reilly's bastard child, letting us know in one sentence the dumbest, least interesting thing about both of them.
I only know a mere phrase worth of information about either of these people and already I hate them. You can tell that SmilesforMiles01 uses that lawn mowing line as part of her nagging routine. I can practically hear her shrill, shrewish voice issuing forth from within the unattractive folds of the Liz Claiborne blouse she's rocking: "Mow the lawn. It's THERAPEUTIC. Take out the garbage. IT'S THERAPEUTIC." And devco2000 would just rather that I think he's some kind of Jimmy Buffett-meets-Balthazar Getty rather than a sorry impersonator of the lead in Bio Dome. I should add, these are just the still promotional shots on the match.com website. The singles I'm supposed to get excited about looking at in the TV spots are infinitely more infuriating.
If you go to match.com's website, you'll see SmilesforMiles01 and devco2000, AKA Fake Liz Phair and Pauly Shore/John C. Reilly's bastard child, letting us know in one sentence the dumbest, least interesting thing about both of them.
I only know a mere phrase worth of information about either of these people and already I hate them. You can tell that SmilesforMiles01 uses that lawn mowing line as part of her nagging routine. I can practically hear her shrill, shrewish voice issuing forth from within the unattractive folds of the Liz Claiborne blouse she's rocking: "Mow the lawn. It's THERAPEUTIC. Take out the garbage. IT'S THERAPEUTIC." And devco2000 would just rather that I think he's some kind of Jimmy Buffett-meets-Balthazar Getty rather than a sorry impersonator of the lead in Bio Dome. I should add, these are just the still promotional shots on the match.com website. The singles I'm supposed to get excited about looking at in the TV spots are infinitely more infuriating.
Take, for example, LaSirene7, who wants her potential sex partners to know that she can't roller skate, she shrieks a lot, she has an annoying laugh, and she wears ugly dresses gleaned from the "Misses" section at the Puyallup Ross Dress for Less. In other words, she's basically walking birth control.
There's also 1Eamonn4U, a Kevin Federline-meets-Channing Tatum knockoff who thinks that chuckling and chasing around a butterfly will get him laid. Although I must commend him on going this route rather than his usual Ed Hardy shirt-wearing and roofie-slipping, I don't know many ladies who will eagerly follow a butterfly right into the awkwardly flailing arms of a low-functioning buffoon. He's so confident in his strategy that at the end of his ad, he says, "Heh heh heh, I can't wait 'til my ex-girlfriend sees this." Because she's going to be soooooooooooo jealous of all those girls who won't be able to resist 1Eamonn4U's lack of coordination and baffling lepidopteran amusements.
Or NYCGingerGirl, a low-rent Jami Gertz knockoff who can't seem to master the complex technical nuances of a chef hat. I can see why her name isn't NYCRocketScientist.
And then there's Buddy20, whose seduction game involves putting on his jaunty Robin Hood feathered cap and jogging in place in a suit while giggling maniacally. (SPOILER ALERT: Buddy20 is also totally a serial killer.)
Get an eyeful of Kumnandi, who is apparently suffering from dissociative schizophrenia and is letting her "Lenny Kravitz" personality manage her internet dating life.
One of my most hated ads is the one promoting HablawithMe, some mid-40s divorcee who is apparently obsessed with butchering simple phrases in German and Spanish. At the end of her asinine monologue (which is mostly comprised of her saying "um" and laughing at herself for no reason), she says "puedo no hablar el español," then guffaws and says, "Maybe someone out there understood that, somewhere." Maybe, bitch, because it's completely unfathomable that anyone out there speaks Spanish. And it doesn't take a wise Latina to realize that you said "I can't speak Spanish," which is frankly pretty fucking obvious.
And without fail, the worst, most loathsome installment in the "It's Okay To Look" serial shitshow, is the intolerable Adventure90. Every time I hear, "I'm just a goof, looking for my ball!" I want to pull out my strap and lay the bitch out, and in the rap way, not the hot girl-on-girl kind of way.
Seriously, who wants to go on a single date with ANY of these people? All these ads do is confirm the worst about internet dating: everyone on match.com is a weirdo and a freak, and irritating as fuck to boot. It's like these people exist in the world solely to work my very last nerve. It is okay to look, and it's also okay to say "HELL THE FUCK NO, MATCH.COM." Call me conservative and call me old-fashioned, but I'm going to pull my ass the traditional way: drag their drunk ass home from a bar!
Seriously, who wants to go on a single date with ANY of these people? All these ads do is confirm the worst about internet dating: everyone on match.com is a weirdo and a freak, and irritating as fuck to boot. It's like these people exist in the world solely to work my very last nerve. It is okay to look, and it's also okay to say "HELL THE FUCK NO, MATCH.COM." Call me conservative and call me old-fashioned, but I'm going to pull my ass the traditional way: drag their drunk ass home from a bar!
Labels: capitalism, I'm Not Buying It, intentional buffoonery, overcompensation, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, ranting, retard rage, sex, sluts, you're ugly
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
No longer a pretty Face
The other day I was looking at some sort of "where are they now" montage of actors from my childhood on the gossip internets. When I saw this guy, my first reaction was, "Who the fuck is that? He looks beat, whoever he is."
When I read the caption identifying this man, I was completely shocked. Not only do I know who this guy is, he was on one of my favorite shows growing up. If you were one of the many red-blooded, explosion-loving Americans who were interested in the adventures of a crack commando unit sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn't commit, who promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground, and where, though still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. That's right, this dude is none other than Dirk Benedict, AKA Lieutenant Templeton "Face" Peck from the motherfucking "A-Team"!
Indeed, Face, the A-Team's smooth-talking procurer of cars and other useful pieces of stylish equipment (he was so adept that his colleague "Howlin' Mad" Murdoch once credited him with somehow acquiring a mint-condition '56 Cadillac which was inexplicably needed for some military mission in the jungles of Vietnam), isn't looking so good. Somehow I think if "The A-Team" were still up and running, Face would be spending a lot more time doing his actual mercenary duties than picking up women. I don't know if he's had some work done, but there's something that's different about his once-eponymous countenance. He certainly looks far removed from the days when he was gracing the cover of Playgirl magazine.
Indeed, Face, the A-Team's smooth-talking procurer of cars and other useful pieces of stylish equipment (he was so adept that his colleague "Howlin' Mad" Murdoch once credited him with somehow acquiring a mint-condition '56 Cadillac which was inexplicably needed for some military mission in the jungles of Vietnam), isn't looking so good. Somehow I think if "The A-Team" were still up and running, Face would be spending a lot more time doing his actual mercenary duties than picking up women. I don't know if he's had some work done, but there's something that's different about his once-eponymous countenance. He certainly looks far removed from the days when he was gracing the cover of Playgirl magazine.
The thing about Face that was most memorable was he was the type of guy who looked the same age. He could have been anywhere from 25 to 55 during the A-Team's heyday, and I wouldn't have known the difference. Actually, everyone on the A-Team was like that except for the timelessly old George Peppard, who played Captain John "Hannibal" Smith. Years later, I was in high school and one of my classes was showing us some made-for-TV movie from the mid-90s about the Montgomery bus boycott and the civil rights movement. Dwight Schultz came on screen and HotLawyer, who was in my class, blurted out, "Hey, it's Murdoch from the A-Team!" The entire class started laughing and Mr. Eckert had to threaten JUG ("Justice Under God," the Jesuit equivalent of detention) to shut us up. Murdoch was easy to spot, because in spite of the fact that he was playing an uptight Alabaman bigot instead of a lunatic helicopter pilot residing in an insane asylum when not needed for A-team ops, he looked exactly the same as he did 10 years before. Now, even as a failed conservative radio personality almost twenty years after the A-Team's glory days, he still looks like the same guy. And certainly even children who weren't born when "The A-Team" was on could probably recognize Mr. T. I don't know what the hell happened to Face, because he looks beat down.
The only possible explanation I can come up with is that age finally caught up with him (Wikipedia tells me he's 62) and he's resorted to desperate measures to maintain what was once his boyish charm and attached recognition. Since his last attempt at staying relevant (apart from working the autograph table at numerous "Battlestar Galactica" conventions in the midwest) was to appear on "Big Brother" in the UK. If he's gotten into reality famewhoring, I would not be surprised to learn that he's also wound up on the business end of a needle full of cut-rate nail salon Botox. It's a pity, because Dirk Benedict used to be a hot piece. I'm currently trying to figure out how to get a copy of that Playgirl he was in 25 years ago. In the meantime, I guess I'll have to content myself with this awesomeness, and reminisce fondly about days long since past, where men were men, bullets were completely harmless, and mercenaries dressed up in zany costumes instead of killing innocent Iraqi citizens a la Blackwater:
Man, "The A-Team" ruled so hard.
Labels: aging, oh the horror, TV, you're ugly
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Phinish Phelps
I'm officially sick of Michael Phelps. I was actually sick of him the second the swimming part of the Olympics ended, but now I'm REALLY sick of his fug ass showing up everywhere. It was bad enough having my gossip pages cluttered up with reports of all the random pussy he was hauling with the help of his sheaf of gold medals, followed by denials from Michael Phelps's handlers that his Olympic gold turned him into a man-slut of the highest caliber. Now I have to endure him in commercials hawking everything from cell phones to cereal to Visa check cards. The other day when I saw him learning Mandarin with a Rosetta Stone do-it-yourself language lesson, I actually cursed at the television. I heard that he's currently negotiating with world-class dipshit Ashton Kutcher and his succubus wife for a reality show, which I can't imagine will consist of anything besides Michael Phelps eating ungodly amounts of food and flashing his ugly mug for the camera. Meanwhile, Page Six is reporting that he got paid 100K for showing up at some big shot television douchebag's wife's birthday party and swimming some laps.
I have no problem with dudes selling out in order to stack that paper before everyone forgets who they are. Surely, in Michael Phelps's case, he's MAYBE got one more Olympics to remind us all that he's got an allele or two in his genome that confers phenotypic traits more common to aquatic mammals, and then he'll be an afterthought at best. Like Mark Spitz before him, after his Olympic glory days are over we'll only hear about Phelps when he's sitting bitterly in the stands at the 2028 or 2032 Olympics trying to make backhanded compliments concerning his successor to an aging Bob Costas sound slightly less backhanded. I can't blame him for being completely shameless about his media whoring while demand still exists. However, I am over seeing his disturbingly Eli Manning-esque visage hawking Corn Pops, and I can't imagine why any woman who is married to an obviously rich old man would want to live the dream of having him strip down and swim for her. I can think of about 50 guys I'd rather see dripping wet in a Speedo, and most of them would do it for less than a hundred grand.
I'm not sure what it is about Phelps that I'm so tired of, but it may have something to do with the fact that he looks like this one dude I banged last year. This guy and I got along pleasantly enough at most grad school functions, and then one night we fucked while in advanced states of intoxication. After that, the dude proceeded to be an aggressively snubbing asshole every time our paths crossed. When I asked him why he was being such a prick, he informed me that he's a "relationship guy" not mature enough to deal with a no-strings roll in the proverbial hay and that my very existence was something he no longer cared to acknowledge as a result. As I was (not surprisingly) drunk, I decided this would be a great opportunity to show him that nobody–not even some dumbass Michael Phelpsian science nerd in his early twenties with bad social skills and a whole host of personal issues–ignores me...by hurling the contents of a freshly refilled glass of Johnnie Walker all over his button-down. That event has since led to some extremely awkward occasional social run-ins, and a persistent sense of distaste for Michael Phelps ever since. In fact, when I was watching the Olympics at a party and another grad student pointed out the resemblance between this guy and Michael Phelps and followed that with, "So, what does Michael Phelps's dick look like?," I was so perturbed that I couldn't even mitigate my involuntary glowering while shouting "U! S! A! U! S! A!" to celebrate him winning another gold medal for our great country. Between Michael Phelps's media whoring and the consequences of my own personal whoring, I am through with this dude. Maybe in another four years I'll be ready to watch him prostitute himself for the sake of consumerism, but for now this butterface needs to get the fuck off my television.
Labels: capitalism, media whores, Olympics, retard rage, sex, sluts, sportsmen, you're ugly
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The economy isn't the only thing trending toward TOTAL SHIT
I was idly checking my e-mail the other day when my eyes strayed across the link that Gmail read the contents of my correspondence and decided I would like to click upon. Due to a fair amount of dick-swinging shit-talkery about last Sunday's Seahawks abortion game between myself and other various football buddies, there were enough references to the Green Bay Packers (ie: "the Hawks will melt those Cheeseheads like a pot of bitch-flavored fondue"), Google's e-mail readers decided that I'd be attracted to the following statement: "Wear Zubaz in Packers Colors! BUY NOW!"
"Zubaz?" I said, as the term was vaguely familiar. It reminded me of something in my childhood...something from a simpler time, when I carried an Esprit tote bag, wore my hair in a spiral perm to disguise the decidedly not neon (and therefore not stylish) neckstrap for the headgear my sadistic orthodontist forced me to wear to school, and when I was awkward and afraid of boys and knew the song "U Can't Touch This" so well that I could do that really fast "it's-Hammer-go-Hammer-MC-Hammer-yo-Hammer-and-the-rest-can-go-and-play-can't-touch-this" part without messing up. So I decided to investigate further, and almost as soon as I clicked the link, I remembered EXACTLY what Zubaz are. I know right now the world is a grim and uncertain place, but things aren't so bad that THIS needs to come back:
Granted, there are parts of Puyallup where these pants have never gone away. Usually they're found waddling into Wal-Mart in old school Seahawks colors and/or UW Huskies colors (and trust that purple and gold do not go well with morbid obesity) accessorized with a fanny pack, a prodigious gut, and a B.U.M. Equipment sweatshirt. However, excepting certain dark trailer parks in unincorporated Pierce County, Washington, I had long since relegated Zubaz along with Hypercolor, International News logo shirts, and stirrup stretch pants to the class of trends that are dead and gone.
Granted, there are parts of Puyallup where these pants have never gone away. Usually they're found waddling into Wal-Mart in old school Seahawks colors and/or UW Huskies colors (and trust that purple and gold do not go well with morbid obesity) accessorized with a fanny pack, a prodigious gut, and a B.U.M. Equipment sweatshirt. However, excepting certain dark trailer parks in unincorporated Pierce County, Washington, I had long since relegated Zubaz along with Hypercolor, International News logo shirts, and stirrup stretch pants to the class of trends that are dead and gone.
Thus I was most dismayed to see that Zubaz have made a "proud return," with their signature "bold patterns and classic styles" (translation: zebra, zebra, and more zebra). I don't need to see low-rent Paris Hilton and Ryan Reynolds knockoffs trying to convince me that this is any better a sportswear-mediated fashion statement now than it was 15 years ago. Fuck Zubaz and the zebra they rode in on. I'm not buying it.
Labels: I'm Not Buying It, neon, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, you're ugly
Monday, October 06, 2008
My brave, stoic, it's-all-gonna-be-okay face
No, it's not because of the failing economy, the War in Iraq, the lack of affordable health care for all Americans, or any other reason why it sucks to exist in the present era...it's because I had to sit in a New York City football bar after the New York football Giants summarily smote the Seahawks' ruin on the proverbial mountainside while wearing a Seahawks jersey. I think the picture my friend I'mNotRussianGoddammit took of me sometime in the third quarter sums it all up precisely:
I realize that the above photograph is certainly not the most attractive photo of me that's ever been committed to iPhone. However, it is one of the few photographs in existence of me putting on a brave face in spite of the shameful fact that I'm wearing the jersey of and cheering for a team that didn't even show up to play. Nobody took a picture of me after the Seahawks got their asses kicked by the Packers last January, but it would have looked something like this (although I take back what I said about my attractiveness in this state, because if memory serves correctly, .the Seahawks may not have shown up at Lambeau Field, but a hot dude with a thing for blondes showed up at the bar I watched the game at, took me home, and consoled me with an epic dicking). Sadly, I did not get laid by a sympathetic Giants fan, and spent my evening watching the various NFL pundits recap exactly how much stank ass the Seahawks sucked. During "Football Night in America" halftime, Bob Costas announced that "the Giants just CLOBBERED the Seahawks," and I actually thought this was an understatement. The Giants bent the Seahawks over and ass-raped them like a prag in a prison shower.
Hopefully the Sea-chickens will start acting more like the birds of prey for which they are named and save our season by kicking some Cheesehead ass next week, because my mental state can't take many more episodes like the one that occurred yesterday.
Labels: NFL football, Seahawks, tragedy, you're ugly
Thursday, September 18, 2008
All beer and no restraint makes Razzy a miserably hung over girl
I didn't write anything yesterday because Tuesday night I was very, very, VERY stupid. Since the new "90210" is basically crap, I already guessed that Dylan was Kelly Taylor's baby daddy, and I have no interest in watching it unless the entire rest of the series consists of Jackie Taylor getting shitfaced on vodka rocks with Lucille Bluth, I resumed my usual Tuesday night bar trivia tradition. I intended to only have "a couple" beers and be home and in bed by eleven at the latest. Unfortunately, this didn't exactly work out. Our buddy GayMan showed up toward the end of trivia after spending the afternoon getting drunk at a paper conference. Yes, you read that right: he was getting shitfaced at a conference dedicated to recent advances in Post-Its, business cards, and legal pads. Then we won first prize as usual at bar trivia, and decided to continue celebrating. Then the bartender gave us a round of complimentary shots because we're regulars and great tippers. Then we decided to move to another bar for a change of scenery with still more beer.
Just to illustrate exactly how drunk our group was on a Tuesday night, take a look at GayMan's attempt to document...something. I'm not sure what's going on here beside our other friend The Continental rubbing his head on my tits and me being entirely too excited about one of the complimentary Post-It cubes GayMan picked up at his paper conference. First off, the quality sucks even for a picture taken with an iPhone, and that's in spite of GayMan's being a professional photographer with a photography job and a photography blog. He obviously had the drunken shakes while snapping it, which makes me look like an even more rancid booze-sodden sack of ass than I usually do when I'm wasted:
I'm just amazed that GayMan didn't get a photo of me trying my damndest to fellate that "Serious Paper" Post-It cube, which I vaguely recall doing. In fact, I have a hazy memory of making a valiant attempt to prove my Super Slut credentials by trying to dislocate my jaw like a Burmese python to fit it in (and failing...I can fit many things in my mouth, but large cubes of "Serious Paper" are apparently not among them.)
Just to illustrate exactly how drunk our group was on a Tuesday night, take a look at GayMan's attempt to document...something. I'm not sure what's going on here beside our other friend The Continental rubbing his head on my tits and me being entirely too excited about one of the complimentary Post-It cubes GayMan picked up at his paper conference. First off, the quality sucks even for a picture taken with an iPhone, and that's in spite of GayMan's being a professional photographer with a photography job and a photography blog. He obviously had the drunken shakes while snapping it, which makes me look like an even more rancid booze-sodden sack of ass than I usually do when I'm wasted:
I'm just amazed that GayMan didn't get a photo of me trying my damndest to fellate that "Serious Paper" Post-It cube, which I vaguely recall doing. In fact, I have a hazy memory of making a valiant attempt to prove my Super Slut credentials by trying to dislocate my jaw like a Burmese python to fit it in (and failing...I can fit many things in my mouth, but large cubes of "Serious Paper" are apparently not among them.)
In any event, I woke up the next morning still wearing my clothes with a mystery can of mace in my pocket (I vaguely recall this being a gift from TheContinental to thwart internet stalkers), no money in my wallet, and a brutal fucking hangover. I left work yesterday at three, ate a pizza, and passed the fuck out before "Project Runway" was even over. Hence my lack of anything remotely interesting to blog about and this relatively boring "Dear Diary"-type post. I'm just making excuses for willingly using beer to temporarily dull my mental faculties. I'm sure I'll be sharpened back up by tomorrow.
Labels: alcoholism, excuses, Razzification, you're ugly
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Beauty-disadvantaged is the new ugly
I've never been to Australia, but judging by what I've learned from a spate of Foster's commercials and Mick "Crocodile" Dundee, it's a continent full of awesomely crazy people. Along with other traditional Aussie customs like drinking, barbecuing shrimp, and putting random water buffalo to sleep with some kind of Aboriginal hoodoo hand puppetry, outlandish craziness in all matters is a revered cultural tradition Down Under. That's why I loved reading the news about some mayor of a town called Mount Isa begging ugly women to come visit.
Mayor John Molony wants "beauty-disadvantaged women" to know that they're always welcome in his "bloke-heavy" Australian mining town.
"May I suggest if there are five blokes to every girl, we should find out where there are beauty-disadvantaged women and ask them to proceed to Mount Isa," Molony tells the Townsville Bulletin. "Quite often you will see walking down the street a lass who is not so attractive with a wide smile on her face. Whether it is recollection of something previous or anticipation for the next evening, there is a degree of happiness."
In other words, ugly chicks DEFINITELY get laid in Mount Isa, because all those miners are horny as hell and they'll take anything with three holes and two legs. Actually, I'm not sure the "two legs" part even fits into those standards. I bet the goat population in Mount Isa will be sitting pretty gingerly if Mayor Molony's plea for ugly bitches goes unanswered.
Mayor Molony seems like a dirty guy suggesting that the "beauty disadvantaged" among us head to Mount Isa just because the guys there are desperate to fuck any female in Genus Homo regardless of her facial severity, but he goes on to prove that he's not. Rather than just another bloke in a bloke-heavy mining encampment, he's a profound philosophical thinker who goes so far as citing a fairy tale which may or may not exist to prove the old adage that beauty isn't skin deep.
"Often those who are beauty-disadvantaged are unhappy with their lot. Some, in other places in Australia, need to proceed to Mount Isa where happiness awaits," he says. "And, really, beauty is only skin deep. Isn't there a fairy tale about an ugly duckling that evolves into a beautiful swan?"
Not surprisingly, the few women already in Mount Isa aren't responding to the Mayor's entreaty for more ugly bitches with "a wide smile" on their faces.
One woman tells the Brisbane Times "there just aren't top quality men here."Uh oh. I think the Mayor has stirred up a hornet's nest of trouble. I went to Smith College, and I know all about "beauty disadvantaged" women suffering from a dearth of "quality" sex partners who have caught the protesting bug. I used to blast Too $hort songs about treating fine-ass bitches like dirt and breaking hoes for scrilla at their candlelight vigils for sport. Those girls used to get so mad! Fun times.
Some of the city's women plan to hold a protest.
"It's offensive to women everywhere, let alone women in Mount Isa," Betty Kiernan, a member of the Far North Queensland parliament, tells the Bulletin.
Anyway, ugly, undersexed girls with a mission act like every cause–from encouraging recycling to calling for a protest of Domino's Pizza to petitioning for the residential dining serve to cease serving North African Vegetable Stew–is tantamount to stopping the genocide in Darfur. They will annoy you to death with their shrill, shrewish, inane harping, and will never rest their circular arguments until finally you're finally so bored and irritated with fighting them that you just throw up your hands in surrender and validate them and go get a drink or otherwise occupy your time more productively. The mayor of Mount Isa is about to learn this the hard way, because if there's any cause ugly girls rally for, it's being called "ugly." At Smith, I think these chicks would probably rather see the oceans' ecosystems destroyed by 19th century whaling practices or women's suffrage repealed than be called "ugly." I'm quite certain that the ladies of Mount Ida aren't all that different, judging by the magnitude of their response and their eagerness to commence protesting.
However, I do give the mayor props for his attempt at political correctness with the employ of the term "beauty disadvantaged." That's the kind of roundabout euphemism that usually spastic protestors use to obfuscate logical flaws with pseudo-intellectual excess vocabulary. I'd congratulate the mayor on his caginess for beating the pissed-off women at their own game if I thought it was remotely intentional. Sadly, I bet this poor mayor actually looks like Donk from Crocodile Dundee: a thick-necked, occasionally violent, grimy man with a smell like transmission fluid, Lucky Strike butts, and three years worth of sweat simmered under the unforgiving Queensland sun, a moonshine still behind the corrugated metal lean-to he calls home, and a smile that's more teeth than gums. He probably just wants to get laid so badly that he was hoping to haul a large catch of desperate ugly girls without offending them directly by casting aspersions regarding their appearance. Poor guy doesn't know what he's gotten himself into, but I'm pretty sure it's not going to be beauty-disadvantaged pussy.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, hilarious shit, international intrigue, sluts, you're ugly
Monday, August 04, 2008
Twathopper dodges an ugly fake-lesbian bullet
My lesbian apprentice Twathopper has had a terrible time meeting decent girls, and initially I attributed this to her fishing in the most stagnant, appalling of all online dating sites: nerve.com. This has netted her boring cupcake-baking marathon bloggers, cancer-faking professional babysitters, and militant lesbians into feigned lactation play. However, she's asked me a million times about how she's supposed to meet "normal" lesbians if NOT on the internets, because it's not like there's a bunch of girls running around the bars with signs reading "Hello, My Name is Lesbian." Her visits to lesbian bars have been disastrous. First, she went to Cattyshack with a straight couple, and "straight-up cereally bugged" and fled when a cute girl approached her. Then, I told her that maybe it would be better if she didn't have an audience, and took her to Cubby Hole with me. I assured her I wouldn't be all "let's watch Twathopper hit on girls" because I would be too busy hitting on girls myself, and at the very least she could follow my lead. Unfortunately, both our trips to the Cubby Hole ended badly. The first started off promising, with me chatting up a couple semi-hot chicks about "The L Word" (which I've never seen, and which normally would make me roll my eyes and say "how predictable," but I can bullshit about lesbian chic to set a good example and possibly get laid myself), but ultimately turned frightening and resulted in a terrified escape from a pushy bulldyke who locked me in her sights and proceeded to assault me with Jamba Juice giftcards. The second time was after Pride, where, while I was being invited to join some skank at an orgy-at-sea, Twathopper was feeling sad and depressed. I declined the offer to join a bacchanal on the Hudson and took my little apprentice home for pizza and Bev Niner.
Therefore, I told Twathopper that if the bar scene isn't going to work for her, she has to meet lesbians the same way everyone else meets people: through friends, at parties, at work, at work events, or wherever else you might be able to socially network in life. "Don't you know any lesbians?" she asked. "You did go to Smith College!"
"Yes, of course I know lesbians, dude," I said. "The problem is, they're all coupled up! You know how the lezzies roll. Most of the time it's first date, then cohabitate."
I spent a while racking my brain trying to think of some hot single lesbians who Twathopper hadn't already met, and couldn't think of any. I figured it couldn't hurt to throw out a wide net, so I asked another dude I was friends with at the time. I used to call him DanRubin on this site, but he was really mean to me and no longer deserves a Bev Niner-based Razzy name. Since I think he's a total fucking asshole because he hurt my feelings, made me cry, and inspired my breaking out some old lesbian poetry, I'm going to instead refer to him as "Minuteman." Not only did he go to UMass, but this is an accurate description of his manly prowess or lack thereof in the bedroom. At the time, however, he and I were still friends and we were IM-ing, and considering he was always trying to have threesomes (and failing, since I know from experience that a fella needs more than three thrusts' worth of stamina to please one woman, much less two), I thought he might at least know some ladies who had considered the idea of banging a girl. At any rate, I figured it didn't hurt to ask:
Razzy: dude do you know any cute lesbians who are looking to be set up on a date?
Minuteman: nope
Razzy: doh
Minuteman: i know a kinda geeky girl who's curious to experiment with girls
Razzy: hmmm
Razzy: this is not for me by the way
Razzy: my lesbian trainee is having trouble meeting other lesbians
Razzy: is that the girl you were trying to have a threesome with?
Minuteman: yeah
Minuteman: she was down but the other girl chickened out
Razzy: loser
Razzy: well my friend loves tori amos and solstice-ass shit like that
Razzy: she just came out as a lesbian
Razzy: but she has yet to close the deal
Razzy: i have given her advice and advice and advice
Razzy: i even instructed her step-by-step on "how-to" perform oral on a chick
Razzy: but she lets these dumb broads she goes out with spend all their time talking about their feelings
Razzy: so i'm trying to get her laid
Minuteman: nice
Razzy: and i don't do mercy fucks so i'm not going to handle it myself
Minuteman: can you see this profile
Minuteman: [some bitch's Facebook profile with a pic featuring this Brobdingnagian girl in boxy hipster glasses posing with a shorter girl sporting an absolutely ginormous set of tits]
Razzy: yes
Minuteman: the girl in the glasses is the wanna be lesbian
Razzy: hmmmm
Razzy: and jesus, she's tall
Razzy: the shorter girl has a hot rack
Minuteman: i agree
Razzy: i guess the glasses girl isn't ugly
Minuteman: she has a sweet body and is very horny
Minuteman: i like both those qualities
Razzy: yes those are both admirable
Razzy: she does appear to have a hot bod
Razzy: well, does she want to go hang out with a trainee lesbian to experiment with?
Minuteman: i told my wanna be lesbian friend that your friend would contact her through facebook if interested
Razzy: what?!
Razzy: oh shit, i don't know how that will work
Razzy: i'll have to give twathopper a real pep talk
Razzy: half her problem is nerves
Razzy: is your friend down?
Minuteman: she's in training too
Minuteman: it'll be fun
Razzy: i'm trying to write a letter right now
Razzy: for twathopper to send this broad
Razzy: ugh in spite of trying to convince twathopper this sounds like a great idea
Razzy: i NEVER cold call pussy like this on facebook
Minuteman: do you want her real email address
Razzy: no that's even creepier
Minuteman: word
Razzy: what do you think of this:
Razzy:"This may seem kind of weird since we've never met, but to make a long story short, my friend Razzy was talking to her friend Minuteman, and they seemed to think we might get along. I don't usually do this, but do you want to test this theory over drinks sometime?"
Minuteman: perfect
Razzy: it's not creepy or weird?
Minuteman: A. is there a way to do this that isn't creepy or weird
Razzy: i know
Minuteman: B. Who cares? it's not us
As it turned out, Twathopper finally mustered the gumption to Facebook message this chick amidst a lot of "OMGOMGOMGOMGs" sent my way on Gchat. Naturally, the finely-tuned snippet of game I lent her worked, at least at first. This chick agreed to meet her, and it turns out that she and Twathopper had some professional interests in common. Twathopper does PR, and at the time, one of her clients was a luggage company. This chick wrote for a luggage magazine or something, so they exchanged a few flirtatious e-mails and actually agreed to get together and discuss baggage on their first date. If that's not lesbian romance, I don't know what is.
Unfortunately, like most straight "curious" girls without an enthusiastic guy around to hassle them, BaggageBitch decided that lesbianism was more the stuff of fantasies for her. She sent Twathopper an e-mail the day of their much-anticipated date, and claimed that she broke her toe and was immobilized. Twathopper and I both suspected that what actually broke was more likely her nerve. We both said, "Fuck that cowardly wannabe dyke and the one-pump chump Minuteman dick she rode in on!" and directed our energies elsewhere. Eventually, Twathopper did get laid, and she's currently scouting several prospects for further conversation about Ingrid Michaelson/advanced muff diver certification.
Well, as it turns out, Twathopper lucked out big time. On Friday night, Twathopper was going to the Yankees game, and sent me the following text: "Dude i walked past that baggagebitch chick on the way 2 the game: She totes recognized me. Haha. It's totes kewl she pussied out: Trust!"
I snickered. BaggageBitch wouldn't be the first person on Facebook to have a profile picture that makes her look way more attractive than she is in real life. I responded: "Ew was she butt?"
Twathopper replied: "Kinda. I mean not butt ug but not cute."
It's pathetic enough to be one of those girls that is always giving lip service to wanting to bang chicks and then backs out when an opportunity presents itself. It's even worse when the chick you ditched on a blind date sees you and thinks you are too ugly (or at least insufficiently cute) to hit anyway. No wonder BaggageBitch looked away and hurried off; she knows Twathopper is way too hot to L her worthless P. We're getting you a hot date to that Tegan and Sara concert yet, Twathopper!
Labels: assholes, lezbollah, Twathopper, you're ugly
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Jenna Bush Hager
DOB: November 25, 1981
Occupation: presidential daughter, fug piece of trash bride
Hometown: Dallas, Texas
Current residence: some honeymoon suite telling her fugly husband that she has a headache and taking a Xanax
Douchebaggery: BREAKING FUCKING NEWS! Jenna Bush got married! Please, news media, cover it more, because God knows I'm insanely interested that Dubya danced oafishly to "You Are So Beautiful" or that Jenna was wearing the fugliest gown in the history of Oscar de la Renta's design house. Seriously, her dress looked like something I should my great-grandmother would have made during the Depression from scraps of old tablecloths. I want to spread out her gown on a tacky-ass end table and place a Precious Moments figurine on it. The would go perfect with the Kristen Bell-meets-Elisabeth Hasselbeck-with-fetal alcohol syndrome look the bride decided on with regard to her personal styling.
Even more butt than the gown or the bride wearing it is the groom.
I would think that being both a reputed party girl--what with her illicit margarita all those years ago--and the daughter of the President would ensure Jenna selecting the Skull and Bones future evil rich guy of her choice, and specifically one who didn't look like a lazy-eyed yokel confused about which shoe goes on which foot. Either Henry has a phenomenal personality, or she wanted to marry a man who reminded her of her dear old dad. I get the feeling it's the latter. He seems like the type who says he's from "Vuh-jin-ya" and guffaws a lot, particularly in inappropriate situations.
In any event, when it comes to Jenna's wedding, I say a big fat "WHO GIVES A FUCK?" The only people who care are the 200 or so dipshits that actually attended, and those are probably Bush's only remaining supporters. Well, Bush's only remaining supporters with any money...last I checked, half my dad's sisters (including my dear old Aunt Jesus) weren't invited. It's just a fugly rich girl marrying a fugly rich ex-Karl Rove staffer, and I've got better things to do than care.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, holy fucking matrimony, politics, you're ugly
Friday, March 28, 2008
Ivy League hating fails to meet expectations
Last week, my ongoing legal drama got covered by IvyGate, a gossip website for the Ivy Leagues. They pulled a picture of me off my lab's website in which I look fucking HORRIBLE, so I sent them an e-mail with an update regarding my legal situation, a commendation for their coverage, and a request for a photo swap. I didn't want to give the editors of this website the impression that I wanted them to put a disproportionately hot picture of myself, so I sent some pictures that were equally unflattering but at least funny.
Well, apparently despite the fact that she runs something as unbelievably lame as an IVY LEAGUE GOSSIP BLOG, editrix Maureen O'Connor thought my cheeky e-mail and request were evidence of my being "batshit crazy" and wrote a lengthy post to that effect. Certainly sending correspondence obviously intended to amuse and goofy pictures are right up there with auditory hallucinations and imaginary friends in terms of diagnostic criteria for insanity. She also accused me of sending pictures featuring "nudity," as apparently my Lil' Kim and Britney Spears Halloween costumes offended her prudish sensibilities (which may have been because she didn't get the cultural references at all and seemed to think that these were outfits I routinely wear year-round), and suggested that I have no future as a scientist. OH NO! IvyGate has destroyed my career by insinuating that I'm mentally ill and made inferences as to my professional potential and ability...maybe I should sue them for defamation! I hear that's what all the kids are doing these days.
Oh, wait. Any employer who relies on the opinion of uptight Princeton undergrads running a shit-talking gossip blog to judge my merits as a virologist is too dumb to meet my standards, and really, the only evidence of my supposed batshit craziness that Maureen presents is that there are pictures of my boobies on the internets, I jokingly compared a guy who has sexually harassed, threatened, and menaced me in lab for YEARS to Hitler and Bin Laden, and I bragged that I could run a better presidential campaign than Hillary Clinton. Granted, I suppose that since delusional people can claim defamation any time someone writes an opinion of them they don't like, I could always go through the trouble of suing, but groundless libel lawsuits are for losers. Besides, Maureen redeemed herself when she described RAZZY.org as a "bizarro internet 1.0 media empire" (and I think calling it 1.0 is being generous...I would rate my web design skills at a lousy 0.005) and wondered if I'm an "insane genius." Plus, I got mad extra traffic! Looks like I'll be getting $10 in ad revenue this month instead of $5. BOO-YAH! Thanks, IvyGate!
Anyway, Maureen's repeated use of the phrase "batshit crazy" was clearly a gem of originality compared to many of her colleagues in terms of insulting me. Calling me fat and/or ugly and/or a slut has always been a favorite way for Razzy Haters to express displeasure regarding something I've posted, but who knew that the Ivy Leaguers of the internets were equally trite? Some of the comments on the IvyGate post:
Maybe if we were the last two people alive, and there were no sheep. Are there sheep?-Y10 (as in Yale class of 2010)Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. I'm a fat, ugly, attention whore and I shouldn't talk shit about assholes who scream threats at me for writing about my own damn sex life because I'm too much of a fatass troll to get laid with the undoubtedly Adonis-like nineteen-year-olds at Princeton and Yale. Boo hoo. The only one I give any props to is the person who went deep through my archives, found a post where I talked about my concerns regarding getting HPV-induced throat cancer from all the unprotected cocksucking I've done in my time (and on a virological aside, like 90% of college age adults have HPV, so I'm hardly alone in these concerns), and noted that "I'd rather lick a stripper pole than touch that."
this girl is astoundingly unattractive-ugh
Seriously i am tired of looking at this ugly girl. Go away!! Please, put up something new. It's been long enough. What the hell is taking so long?-P11
Your craziness comes from your willingness to smear some guy for not giving you oral sex.
Your trashiness comes from your posting your flabby body all over the interwebs.-@Razzy/Angie
I'm waiting to see something besides this chick's ugly-ass body all over my screen.-Y10
This chick is god-awfully ugly. Please put a new post on the front page.-Y09 (man, those Yalies really aren't feeling me!)
I'm disappointed that those student ID card-carrying Ivy Leaguers couldn't come up with anything better than the same tired fat/ugly/slut/pathetic/attention whore crap that Razzy Haters have been slinging at me for the past three years that I've blessed the internets with my awesomeness. Given the insufferably superior opinion most Ivy League kids have of their own intellect, I would have expected better material. As it turns out, not a single member of this elite group of blog reading intelligentsia could come up with something to top the greatest Razzy anonymous comment hate-on of all time ("Always the cum dumpster, never the bride"). In fact, the anti-Razzy comments deviating from this vein mainly complained about how this story isn't good enough for a highly respected journalistic outlet like IvyGate to publish, and (erroneously) that I'm complaining about sexism because they don't like me. I'm not complaining about shit except that these lame-ass cliched insults are BORING, the editor of a gossip blog considers cleavage and a bare midriff to be "nudity" and can't distinguish a Lil' Kim Halloween costume from normal honey-getting attire, and I expected better vitriol from students of such reputed academic institutions as Princeton and Yale.
I'm really disappointed with the caliber of hating that the Ivy Leagues can produce. As long as they're going to stick with the ugly/fat/skank routine, they could try to get creative with it. Granted, I don't expect brilliance on par with my batshit crazy insane genius, but this is DeVry University-level hateration at best. Step it up, kids. I know you can do better.
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), grad school bullshit, internet domination, Razzification, Razzy Haters, sluts, you're ugly
Monday, March 24, 2008
Hoes make it rain on McCain
A bunch of fat chicks were out shopping for new muumuus at Lane Bryant and got to talking about how they could help out their favorite candidate, John McCain. Unfortunately, they came up with the worst idea ever: make a YouTube video that would "outdo" the one Obama Girl made. There's just one problem: Obama Girl was hot in an Eliot Spitzer-servicing prostitute kind of way, and these BBWs look like a pod of whales (one of which is a Depends-wearing grandma) in hideous stretch pants.
Actually, there are two problems. The second is that they relied on "It's Raining Men," aka # 4 on this list of the gayest songs ever, for inspiration. "It's Raining McCain" does little in the way of conjuring up images which aren't nauseating. I'm already voting for McCain, but if I were undecided, trust that a woman with three chins refreshingly splashing her face with John McCains wouldn't sway me into his camp. I couldn't even enjoy the sexy footage of young Vietnam-era McCain because of these trolls shimmying their cellulite in front of his American hero hotness. "I'm gonna go out and get myself absolutely JOHN MCCAIN!"?!?! PLEASE no more follow-up videos.
Labels: fat fucks, gross, intentional buffoonery, John McCain, politics, vulgar display of faggotry, you're ugly
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Jenna Jameson
DOB: April 9, 1974
Occupation: media whore, ex-porn whore, animal rights activist
Hometown: Las Vegas, Nevada
Current residence: Los Angeles, California
Douchebaggery: It's bad enough that Jenna Jameson has decided to follow up her epic triumphs in pornography with an excess of cut-rate plastic surgery, a severe case of anorexia nervosa, and a seemingly endless reserve of energy for attending events (runway shows for designers I've never heard of, cell phone accessory launch parties, etc.) where her grim visage might be more readily photographed commiting shameless crimes of PDA with ugly neckless ultimate fighters. Now, to make me REALLY hate her, she has gone and done an ad campaign for PETA.
Doing an ad for PETA is the quickest way to garner my everlasting disdain. I've gone off previously on this regarding Shirley Manson from Garbage, some dumb singer girl named Nellie McKay who made an obnoxious video for a crappy song busting on Columbia, and Girl Next Door #1 Holly (and for those of you who have been demanding Razzy vadge pics, read that last posting!). I hate PETA because they're overbearing, totally hypocritical, dog-killing assholes. Seriously, PETA claims that "animals are not ours to eat, wear, experiment on, or use for entertainment," but they're fine to dispose of when you're talking about dogs brought to their shelters. PETA vehemently opposes no-kill shelters and euthanize the majority of cats and dogs brought to their "rescue" facilities. In 2005, they euthanized 88% of the unclaimed pets in their care. Once they "saved" 18 rabbits and 14 roosters from a research facility and euthanized them because they didn't have the money to maintain them. So...it's not okay to perform potentially valuable medical research on these animals, but it IS okay to kill them and throw them away? That makes sense. Apparently, killing animals is only acceptable to PETA when you have to meet your budget's bottom line, and get absolutely no benefit whatsoever from that animal's life. I hate HATE HATE PETA, so now that goes for Jenna Jameson, as well.
Even worse, PETA, in all its insufferable wisdom, decided to dress Jenna up as Bettie Page, who is undoubtedly vomiting into her strained prunes at whatever old folks' home she currently resides. Surely the legendary pinup icon doesn't appreciate being emulated in a costume cobbled together with a patent pleather bikini from the clearance bin at Fantasy World and a busted wig from Ricky's. Jenna looks a hell of a lot more like she should be wearing a cloak and ferrying recently departed souls across the river Styx than posing for softcore 50s-era S&M erotica. Way to go, PETA. I'm sure leather futures are plummeting as we speak.
This makes me want to go eat a steak, put on one of my many luxurious fur coats, and kill some mice in the name of virology.
Labels: assholes, celebrities, gross, oh the horror, overcompensation, plastic surgery, porn, sexy delicious animals, you're ugly
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The Same Old Ugly-Ass Broad Kind of Ladies' Night
Yesterday, ElCyd Gchatted me about my disastrous run-in with Blu the morbidly obese bulldyke at the Cubby Hole this weekend, and we got to bitching about the lesbian scene in our respective cities:
ElCyd: even though my skinny dog-walker named Blue is clearly not the same "Blu" from this weekend, I feel compelled to apologize anyway.It's official: lesbians are the lamest party group in the universe. This is surprising because I know many lesbians who can tear it up, but I guess that's probably why those lesbians aren't crazily into the lezzie scene. A social scene doesn't get more abysmally, insufferably boring than this (at least, not without throwing in a performance by the Smiffenpoofs or some other caterwauling Smith College acapella group). Now I know what happened to all those girls at Smith who lived in one of the houses famed for extreme mousiness and overall fuggery (Morris, Lawrence, Albright, Baldwin, Hopkins, Hubbard, etc.). They are all sipping fuzzy navels at "A Different Kind of Ladies Night."
Razzy: LOL
ElCyd: for serious
Razzy: yeah "skinny" is NOT the adjective for old Blu
Razzy: ugh i was so annoyed
Razzy: never mind that there are only like 4 lesbian bars in nyc
Razzy: this is the only one that has chicks i'd even remotely CONSIDER effing at it
ElCyd: (a whopping 4 more than in dc)
Razzy: and this slut has to piss jamba juice all over my game
ElCyd: i was so irritated just reading it.
ElCyd: mostly because those are the only dykes in dc
Razzy: WHY are those crusty old bulldykes like that???
Razzy: it's SO common in that particular lezzie demographic!
ElCyd: they're the only ones who go out
ElCyd: at least regularly
Razzy: yeah because they're the only ones not all coupled up
ElCyd: although i'm surprised that you didn't roll to the shack.
Razzy: well, it's in brooklyn
ElCyd: you'd think there would be more femmes there trying to hit it
Razzy: and andro hipster lezzies annoy me too
ElCyd: right
Razzy: we'll probably go there some night when CasseeNova is around
Razzy: might as well see some familiar faces as long as i'm trekking all the way out to the slope
ElCyd: word.
ElCyd: i'm both fascinated and annoyed by hipster lezzies.
Razzy: i seriously can't believe there are no lez bars in DC
Razzy: DC gets lamer every time I hear something new about it
ElCyd: seriously
ElCyd: at least we have better and better food
Razzy: like, where do the ladies meet?
ElCyd: but that just makes us fat
Razzy: craigslist?
ElCyd: there's a rotating party - www.adkln.com
ElCyd: it's a once a week thing
ElCyd: and they have the regular "ladies night" festivities at the area bars
ElCyd: i mean, there's always Phase 1 or "the phase"
ElCyd: which is, i guess, a real deal lesbo bar
Razzy: hey they have one of these adkln things in NYC
ElCyd: but no one ever goes.
Razzy: these ladies night things
Razzy: oh
Razzy: dude the music on the website SUCKS
ElCyd: right?
ElCyd: fucking lame
Razzy: oh damn there's one tomorrow!
ElCyd: the chick who owns adkln has wanted to branch out
ElCyd: so it makes sense that they're in nyc
ElCyd: how does it look?
Razzy: well, i like the sound of "women, drinks specials, no cover"
Razzy: and there's a hottish ho on the site
ElCyd: look at the photos
ElCyd: it'll give you an idea of who goes
Razzy: ugh horsefaced girls playing ping pong
Razzy: annoying hipster dykes
Razzy: talking about teagan and sara
ElCyd: oh, ew.
ElCyd: gross
ElCyd: not that the scene in dc is better
ElCyd: but still
Razzy: jesus there is this one bitch
Razzy: who looks like she's going to eat me
Razzy: and not in a good way
ElCyd: omg
ElCyd: with the mutant teeth?
Razzy: YES
If you check out the photo gallery, you'll note two things:
1. Only about six lesbians go to these things
2. They're all BUTT-ASS UGLY
Take, for example, the prettiest girl there:
Nothing gets this low-rent Mandy Moore lookalike in the mood for some snatch-licking like a sexy game of PING-PONG. Not even beer pong? Losers.
There's also the aforementioned porker with "the mutant teeth." She's in a lot of the pictures, repping hard for the lezzie BBWs:
Again, Porky the Pie-Eater looks hungry, and even if I got drunk enough to mentally take 50 pounds off her, I'd be too scared she wouldn't think my goodies were a damn tuna melt or something. Back to the Old Country Buffet with you. You are not the one for me, fatty.
And of course there's a "Little Boy Lesbian" in attendance. These are the kind of lesbians who, for whatever reason, are taking style cues from Holden Caulfield. This one is sassing it up with a shirt encouraging me to "Avoid Temptation."
As tempted as I was by her lack of a figure, somehow I managed to avoid mentally ripping off her many layers of t-shirts and ravaging her in the boudoir of my mind.
Also, there's a Pixie Lesbo. You know this girl is totally a vegan.
Ugh, I can already imagine all the fairies and crystals and crap this bitch has stuck all over her apartment. She probably doesn't shave her pits, either. Gross.
Alert Macauley and Kieran! The Culkin brood is missing a baby dyke!
(In fairness, I can't bust too hard on this one because she kind of looks like me circa 1995. Give her a tattered copy of Arial and a Hole CD and she could be me).
And fresh from the pages of the Brothers Grimm comes this busted ball of frizz.
Sorry, honey, but I'm not into banging broads who look like they'll lure me to their gingerbread house and cook me into a stew.
Seven words: Smith College Science Fiction and Fantasy Society (SSFFS)
Back in my Smith days, SSFFS (pronounced like "Sisyphus") was my favorite club to bust on, because their office was next door to the newspaper where I worked. I was always hassling them. They'd complain we were blasting the Def Leppard too loudly, and I'd tell them they were reading their Robert Heinlein novels too loudly in response. Trust that this chick has a Philip K. Dick book stashed in her purse for the train ride home (alone) from ladies' night.
What lesbian party would be complete without a shiteous duo of armband tat-sporting fugly singer/songwriters clad head-to-toe in Urban Outfitters faux vintage casual wear? I can already hear the atonal Jewel covers full of lyrics about emotion and feelings drifting across the ping-pong tables.
"These hands are small, I know, but they are not yours, they are my own."
I don't see how this is a "different kind of ladies' night," because from what I can tell, this looks like every lame Smith party I ever went to. All they need is a teapot, a Subaru, and a "Smith College 1875-1975: A Century of Women on Top" shirt and we may as well be in Northampton, Assachusetts. It's the same old busted girls with no life and terrible taste in what makes a social gathering fun: carousing, hollering, showing your tits, drinking more than one non-fruit-flavored beer, making out with people, and generally causing a ruckus. Go back to your lame fucking nonprofit jobs and call me when you actually DO have a different kind of ladies night (specifically, when "different" means there will be hot chicks and a decent party!)
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, ElCyd, fat fucks, lezbollah, sluts, you're ugly
Friday, February 29, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Tori Spelling
DOB: May 16, 1973
Occupation: Donna Martin, media whore, spoiled brat
Hometown: Beverly Hills, California
Current residence: Beverly Hills, California
Douchebaggery: While "Beverly Hills, 90210" may be the greatest show in the history of television, it doesn't mean I'm a fan of the actors who make up the greatest cast in the history of ensemble prime-time soaps outside of their work on Bev Niner. Case in point: Tori "Donna Martin" Spelling. While Tori was genius at pretending to be stupid (I mean dyslexic), and particularly shined at her craft when pretending to be either drunk, terrified by a stalker, incompetent at speaking French ("je suis American, and if you don't like it, then TOO BAD!"), or addicted to painkillers, in real life Tori Spelling does NOTHING for me. Out of my lifelong loyalty to Bev Niner, I watched one episode of that "Tori and Dean: Inn Love" trash on Oxygen once while I was waiting for "The Bad Girls Club" to come on, and couldn't even finish it due to the pervasive air of fug and bad acting hanging over that show. The only non-Niner work under Tori's belt that I can applaud is her performance in a Lifetime movie from the mid-90s called Co-Ed Call Girl, and that was only because her impersonation of a naive girl-turned-high-rent whore was even more unintentionally hilarious than the episode of Bev Niner where Donna is "discovered" by a sleazy fashion photographer in Paris and participates in a host of riotous "haute couture" photo shoots--because dressing up as a leather-and-lace skank extra from a Motley Crue video circa 1985 totally screams "high fashion." Frankly, the concept of any man--be it a wealthy movie producer/stockbroker/Japanese businessman or an unemployed crackhead looking for a $5 half-and-half--actually paying Tori Spelling for sex is laughable in itself.
Apparently, I'm not the only person who feels this way, as I got an email a couple days ago from a random Razzyphile who I'll call SlavinLabor, because she has nothing nice to say about her job (I can't blame her...it seems like she works in a lab somewhere, and furthermore, that lab has an absolutely insufferable moron condescending to everyone about his skills with a flow cytometer constantly. I can relate...that sucks.)
From: SlavinLabor (slabor@horribleacademiclab.edu)Amen, SlavinLabor. I couldn't have douchebagged her better myself, except that maybe I would have gone even further pointing out her resemblance to a humped ungulate with some pictures.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Fridays are important to me for a couple of reasons:
1. Friday afternoon at four marks the longest amount of time during the week that I won't have to see asshole sub-par co-workers of mine.
2. It's the day my People magazine arrives.
I usually spend a good amount of time devouring the magazine on Saturday and since it was raining and the dog got me up early for no particular reason other than to shop for a place to poo in the pouring rain therefore assuring I got soaked while she managed to stay drier than me under the umbrella (btw LOVED the pictures of CHINGY! in his Deadliest Catch gear--love Deadliest Catch all the way around) I got started on my People magazine a little bit earlier than usual.
I threw up a little bit in my mouth when this week's cover story is butt-fuck ugly ass Tori Spelling spilling little tid-bits about her forthcoming "tell all" (i.e. she "told all" to some ghostwriter because she's too dumb to put two words together to form a complete sentence) entitled: "sTori Telling" yet another cute play on her name not un-like her 10 episode long "So NoToriOus" series that ran on VH1 a couple of years back. Seriously, she needs to stop with the fucking play on words
with her name. There she was on the cover of my People with her genetically mutated kid who I'm sure she whored out for some dinero because, as I learned later on in the article, she's flat broke, pushing out her pregnant belly for the whole world to see therefore proclaiming, "Look, my husband has definitely had sex with me at least twice, he was probably drunk both times".
I did learn a couple important Bev-Niner related facts in the article that I thought I'd pass on to you:
1. She fucked Brian Austin Green, best white rapper ever, in real life on and off for a couple of years.
2. She confirmed the boob job and fucked up nose job that we've all known she's had but she finally just admitted to. She regrets the boobs, not the nose. Really?
3. As confirmed via picture, Shannen Doherty, a "bad influence," did the deed with Mark Wahlberg during his "Marky Mark" days.
4. (My personal favorite) Luke Perry's nickname for her was: "Camel" because, according to her "she has really long eyelashes". O.K. she's in major denial here. Did Dylan every confirm that or is that just her coming up on the only positive spin for why someone would call another person Camel? Maybe it could be because she rocked the camel toe so much in those Donna Martin outfits or because her face looks not unlike a camel's? I mean, really, is that the best plastic surgery Daddy could afford?
I also learned through the fascinating article that her Mom hated her from pretty much the moment she popped her out of that vadge of hers (maybe she took one look at her and wanted to put her back in). She openly cheated on that poor first husband of hers and had ZERO regret the morning after plus made her therapist tell him the marriage was over. She cried when she learned Daddy only gave her a cool million in the will because "he had no sense of money--he would spend a million dollars on a necklace for my mother" (wouldn't that give him a sense of money?), she loves her new husband that she met on some Lifetime movie set, they have some crap bed and breakfast. Blah, blah, blah.
Thought I'd pass those facts along to you and if you're looking for someone to Douchebag this week, I'd highly recommend Tori Spelling--she has (insert sad violin music here), after all, had to learn to live without the days when they close the Rodeo Drive stores for her so she can pop 50K in one sitting. I mean, does she really expect us to feel sorry for her? And more importantly, does she really expect us to read her book?
I'm so over her. From the minute she told us that she had to audition for her role on Bev Niner, just like everyone else, I've been over her.
Keep on doing what you do.
Truly, Joe Camel is more sexually appealing than Tori, and it's pretty sad when you'd rather fuck a nefarious humanized animal cartoon character designed to trick children into smoking than a chick in lingerie spreading her legs. I think Tori definitely misunderstood Luke Perry's nickname for her, although I must to commend her for having enough knowledge of camel biology to attribute this moniker to "long eyelashes." Maybe that is how Tori hoodwinked Brian Austin Green into sticking her for a couple years. I can't think of a better explanation other than her blinding him with science for his porking her when his potential for choice pussy-getting is so inexplicably high (he traded up for Tiffani-Amber Thiessen after Tori, had a bastard son with Vanessa Marcil, and now is engaged to the undisputably hot Megan Fox). For such a monumental dumbass, Tori is paradoxically one crafty camel.
Labels: Bev Niner, celebrities, Daily Douchebag, Razzyphiles, sluts, you're ugly
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