Friday, July 18, 2008
In today's horrible news...
What the hell happened to Nathaniel "Nate Dogg" Hale? I haven't been keeping up with Nate Dogg-related news lately and I just assumed he was up to his usual hijinx: hitting the east side of the LBC on a mission trying to find Mr. Warren G, telling women that if they can't fuck that day to just lay back and open their mouths, having hoes in area codes, smoking weed every day, and the like. I was shocked out of this complacent attitude about Nate Dogg's current activities when I saw some startling news on the gossip internets.
Yesterday the master of West Coast hook-singing showed up in a Compton courthouse to be arraigned on felony charges of stalking! Apparently, his estranged wife accused him of sending some threatening e-mails and following her on a freeway. Obviously, this must have been a misunderstanding, because I can only imagine he was just trying to coax her to the East Side Motel or something far less sinister than actually doing any kind of felony stalking. Nate Dogg hired Mark Geragos and pled not fucking guilty, posted his $100,000 bond, and is ready to clear his venerated name.
I am also suspicious of these charges, because Nate Dogg isn't all that threatening these days. He showed up to court looking feeble and rolling in a wheelchair, and a quick search of the internets informed me that this is due to the STROKE he had last Christmas!
How did I not know that Nate Dogg was rocking it until the wheels fall off in a damn WHEELCHAIR? This is an inexcusable oversight on my part. No wonder he hasn't been singing any catchy hooks lately. He's been in occupational therapy. This also makes me wonder about the plausibility of him making any credible threats against his wife. I mean, what the hell is Nate Dogg going to do, drool at her? I can't imagine that being tailed by an emaciated, partially paralyzed hook singer in a Lark scooter could have been all that frightening. I'm confident that Nate Dogg will prove his innocence and get back to recovering from his cerebrovascular accident.
And to prevent any further ignorance on my part, I'm setting a Google alert for "Nate Dogg" as of now-thirty.
Labels: crime and punishment, hot dudes, tragedy
Richie Sexson goes where all former Mariners go
As a Seattle sports fan, I'm accustomed to our teams sucking. The Seahawks spent virtually all of my childhood stinking up the Kingdome. The Sonics are taking a legacy of loss to Oklahoma City, although on the bright side they are the sole Seattle team to have won a league championship...when I was an infant in 1979. Despite the fact that at the time most of my attention was devoted to breastfeeding and shitting in my diapers, I know all about the Sonics historic championship season because my mother was considering naming me "Freddie Brown" due to my propensity for jumping around her uterus during the 1978 season in which I was gestating and the Sonics lost the championship to the Washington Bullets. And the Mariners have had one year after another in which they either suck righteously or win enough to get everybody all excited, only to get unceremoniously knocked out of the postseason, usually by the goddamned sonofabitchbastard New York Yankees. Seattle should consider adding "soul-crushing sports teams" to its roster of famous exports like Windows software, Weyerhauser timber, and Starbucks coffee.
This year, the Mariners take the prize for the P-N-Dub's most disgraceful team. The Seahawks had a great draft and I have high hopes that they'll continue to beat the piss out of the rest of the shitshow known as the NFC West this fall. The Sonics are gone. That leaves the Mariners, who are without question the worst team in baseball, which I attribute to karmic reward for their hating on hot lesbian makeout sessions at Safeco Field. They can't hit, can't pitch, and can't win games under any circumstances. Somebody needs to make a cardboard cutout of the team owner and take off a piece of clothing every time they win a game or SOMETHING to motivate them. Well, actually, I doubt that any of the Mariners staff wants to see the CEO of Nintendo naked, but that worked in Major League and at this point anything is worth a try because they suck harder than me after ten scotches in a bar bathroom with a willing honey.
Since the M's don't have a diabolical yet potentially hot naked owner who actually wants them to lose and they don't have Rick "Wild Thing" Vaughn, Jake Taylor, Pedro Cerrano, Roger Dorn, or Willie Mays Hayes on their roster, they are trying a different strategy to save their team: trimming the fucking fat. That means getting rid of the overpaid and grossly underperforming marquis players we signed with great fanfare just two short seasons ago, specifically Richie Sexson.
I'm a little disappointed by this because Richie Sexson is 6'8" tall, I get the feeling he's hung like a brontosaurus, and he looks like the type who could fuck my freckles off. Seriously, check out his pants in the above photo...even when dejected due to yet another strikeout, it literally looks like he has a tail tucked between his legs. However, if I think with my head rather than my vagina, he shouldn't let the door hit his bitch ass on the way out. The Mariners signed Sexson to a contract worth $50 million and he's played like he's making the league minimum. The past two years, he's been batting squarely around .200 with like negative fifteen RBIs and a paltry handful of home runs. I can hardly blame the M's management for trying to cut their losses. However, what annoys the hell out of me is the fact that Richie Sexson is going where Gay Rod, Randy Johnson, John Olerud, Tino Martinez, and all departing Mariners always end up: THE FUCKING NEW YORK YANKEES!
Sexson deserves to go play for Satan's own baseball team given his piss-poor performance. However, I hate the fact that the Mariners are practically a farm team for the fucking Yankees. Why do all of our players, no matter how good or bad, depart and (excepting Alex Rodriguez's brief layover in Texas) go straight to the goddamned Bronx? I can only hope that Sexson's slump gets even worse as he dons the pinstripes of the damned and he causes them to plummet to the dregs of the AL East. Or, barring that, Sexson just contributes to the perennial dearth of offense come playoff time the Yankees have experienced the past few postseasons. That's the silver lining I was looking for.
Labels: fuck the Yankees, Mariners, P-N-Dub, ranting, scathing indictments, sportsmen
How NOT to throw a virology conference
I just got back from the absolutely thrilling annual delight known as the American Society for Virology Conference. The last time I attended ASV two years past, it was in Madison, Wisconsin and was quite fun. They have a large conference hall in close proximity to both our hotel and the many bars where all the UW-Madison college kids get their drank on. I was expecting something similar this year, except minus the agonizing Northwest Airlines flight home that J-Sexy and I endured with one hour of sleep and a crushing hangover. Too bad I was very, VERY wrong. The only thing this year's ASV had in comparison to Madison was the central theme of virology; every thing else could be considered a cautionary tale about how NOT to throw a major scientific conference. I have conveniently itemized the lessons for your edification, because I know you're all contemplating getting into the virology conference organizing business, and you might want to know what NOT to do.
Everything is a million fucking miles apart. When I arrived, I received a folder saying "Cornell: More than a great resource–a SPECTACULAR setting for academic and professional events." This folder included a pamphlet noting that Cornell is a "a full-service 745 acre conference center in the heart of the beautiful Finger Lakes." What these pamphlets gloss over is that Cornell is atop a gigantic fucking hill, which means that you are always huffing and puffing up some steep-ass grade to get wherever you are going. Furthermore, the "745 acres" mentioned in the pro-Cornell material also ensure that everything is spaced at least a half-mile apart, so if I want to catch a talk about poliovirus replication and immediately after go to some talk about innate immunity in a different session, I have to hope that there is some talk I don't care about in between because transferring sessions means a 15 minute run uphill. Of course, despite the fact that there are large college lecture halls everywhere, the organizers planned all the sessions in the most disparate locations possible.
2. Ensure that the shuttle service runs as infrequently and unpredictably as possible
Given that Cornell is huge, you would think that ASV would compensate by arranging a regular shuttle service to ferry us around from nerdy talk to talk, or back down to the main part of Ithaca where all the hotels are. Instead, they chartered three decrepit old school buses with no air conditioning and semi-retarded drivers who actually asked US for directions. They also instructed said shuttles to run sporadically early in the morning and late at night, so if there was no shuttle, you had to call your hotel or take a city bus. Luckily most of the hotels (including ours) ran free shuttles, but sometimes these were in high demand and you had to either walk or catch Ithaca public transport. I live in New York City and take public transport all the time, so this would normally be no problem...except for the fact that my trusty ASV bag didn't come equipped with a bus map or schedule. It's hard to take the city bus when you don't know where to catch it, you don't know where it goes, and it doesn't run on Sundays.
3. Require use of precious drink tickets for non-alcoholic drinks
When I picked up my hot-ass "ASV 2008" bag and my $200 travel grant, I immediately dove in to find the drink tickets. When I saw there were seven of them, I thought, "BOO YAH!" This momentary elation turned quickly to horror, however, when I realized that you had to use these for water as well as beer. This was a slap in the face to those of us who rely on the generosity of the sober nerds for extra swill, because it guaranteed that those (lame) scientists who don't drink weren't willing to give up their drink tickets to their boozy colleagues as they normally would. Last time at ASV, my drunken crew managed to acquire at least fifteen extra drink tickets from kindhearted teetotalers willing to put their spare booze to good use. This time, all those drink tickets were wasted on Cornell Big Red water and apple juice by the temperance-minded set and by day 3, I was actually paying for alcohol.
4. TOO MUCH VIROLOGY
I know this is a virology conference and I shouldn't complain about hours upon hours of virology talks, but even for professionals in the field, FOURTEEN HOURS A DAY IS TOO MUCH. The conference organizers were not selective about who got to present a talk, and let everyone who wanted give one. That meant that talks went on until ten p.m., and half of them were unfinished crap that had no business wasting my twelve minutes. For every interesting talk in which I heard about "abortion storms" (gross) caused in livestock by Rift Valley fever virus, I got to hear two talks where some dumb skank elaborated on optimizing buffer conditions for some assay they just got working and thus don't have any real data from whatsoever. Thank God Cornell was at least equipped with wireless everywhere and I could spend these talks surfing the internet or simply spacing out.
5. Bad food
It's not like I expect Daniel Boulud to cater this thing, but in Madison they at least had respectable lunch and dinner pasta or taco bars at an indoor facility capable of accomodating chafing dishes. At Cornell, we were lucky to get anything besides a nasty boxed lunch, because in spite of all the empty cafeterias around, our meals were served in a fucking tent on a hill so steep we had to keep an eye on our drinks to ensure they didn't succumb to gravity and slide down the table. The first day, they served something called the "Pacific Noodle Bowl," which consisted of a bunch of horrifically overcooked noodles, shredded carrots, and about five cups of peanut oil. I didn't eat most of mine, but J-Sexy did and paid the price. She said that when she ran to the bathroom, it was full of ladies suffering similar digestive ailments. You know there's a problem when you feed a roomful of virologists something that gives everyone acute gastroenteritis. We all expected to hear a lot about noroviruses and rotaviruses, but I don't think anyone actually expected to learn about them through firsthand experience.
6. No free drinks at the banquet
We all paid $50 extra to attend the banquet "gala" on the last night of ASV. In Wisconsin, we got gift bags of free crap (ASV placemats adorned with structural representations of various virus capsids, ASV water bottles, ASV stress balls, ASV coffee mugs, ASV pencils, etc.). We also got several bottles of wine for our table. At Cornell, we got naught but some marginally edible chicken tikka masala and even had to use our (at that point, non-existent) drink tickets for hooch, as the only liquid they provided was a complimentary bottle of Cornell Big Red water at every seat. Well, we also got a live band that played the disco hits of yesteryear and a DJ who didn't kick me out when I snuck up to his computer and turned on "Nuthin' But a G Thang," the only rap on. He was even going to let me hook up my computer and play some Lil' Wayne until it occurred to him that a song about Weezy being so sweet it makes his woman wanna lick the rapper might offend some people. On the bright side, the band allowed me to singlehandedly change the tone of the banquet for the better by welcoming them back from a break with an acapella rendition of "The PCR Song." You haven't lived until you've taken the stage to drive a tentful of scientists into hysterical cheers by singing "Denaturing, annealing, and extending...well it's amazing what heating and cooling and heating will do." After that, I was high-fived by about fifty people and everyone hit the dance floor ready to party. Thank God for me watching geeky science YouTube ads for Bio-Red thermal cyclers enough times to memorize all the words, because this was the best part of the conference next to the scintillating conversation about strap-ons I had with one of my hot bisexual geek friends from Brown.
There you have it. Next time any of you consider running something like ASV, please heed my warnings and do it up right.
Labels: epidemic geekery, nerd alert, scathing indictments, science, viruses rule
Daily Douchebag: Bravo
DOB: December 1, 1980
Occupation: keeping me uninformed of important developments in TV
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: channel 18 on NYC Time Warner Cable
Douchebaggery: I just realized that a new season of "Project Runway" started this week! How did this happen without my noticing it? Oh wait...I know. Bravo has had a bunch of craptastic shows they've been advertising all over the subways ("Date My Ex," "Shear Genius," etc.), but NOTHING about PROJECT FUCKING RUNWAY?!?! Isn't "Project Runway" their biggest show? How can they not spend their entire marketing budget reminding me that Michael Kors is returning to tell designers that their model looks like she's wrapped in a black velvet condom or it looks like a Thanksgiving pageant exploded all over her ass? How can they not inform me that Nina Garcia will act like a designer is a Nazi war criminal because they dressed a model in a cowl-neck sweater? How can they forget to give me a heads up that Tim Gunn will use words like "zaftig" and "ebullient" that the vocabulary-challenged contestants blink at in confusion? How can they neglect to tell me that Heidi Klum will be gearing up to deliver her trademark "eder yau're in or yau're aut" line?
Possibly part of the problem is that after this season, "Project Runway" is saying "auf wiedersehn" to Bravo and moving to the Lifetime network, and Bravo is bitter. I understand they probably want to pimp their new programming so people will want to watch Bravo once "Project Runway" departs, and they can't show "Top Chef" all year long. Still, I would think Bravo would want to milk their biggest cash cow one last time and would at least put up a stray ad advising me that a new season of "Project Runway" is back to bust a nut all over channel 18 one last time. No wonder Lifetime swooped in and stole "Project Runway;" Bravo gets a big fat FAIL for handling their business. At least they'll have eight zillion reruns of the premiere episode I missed so I can watch my man Michael Kors open a can of super bitchiness all over the would-be designers who don't make "really great shorts."
Labels: Daily Douchebag, Project Runway, TV
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: the Minnesota Vikings
DOB: September 27, 1960
Occupation: evil scheming against the Green Bay Packers
Hometown: Minneapolis, Minnesota
Current residence: Minneapolis, Minnesota
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I was getting really sick of hearing about text messages Brett Favre was sending the Packers' general manager and his "itch" to play and his whining that he was pressured to retire. I'm sick of Brett Favre and I think he should spend his remaining years driving around on his John Deere in Mississippi and not bothering anybody rather than throwing interceptions and sending John Madden into paroxysms of sanguine man love. I really don't want to hear him bitching about how mean the Packers are for not releasing him and not guaranteeing him a starting position. However, I perked up when I read that Brett Favre may have illegally been chit-chatting about a possible contract with the Minnesota Vikings and the Packers are now PISSED.
Brett Favre is still technically on the Packers' roster, which means that he's not allowed to covertly talk about playing for the Vikes (or any other NFL team, for that matter) with members of their coaching staff. The Packers apparently believe that this was a clever ploy by the Vikings to cause chaos and drama among the Cheeseheads while they are trying to build a Favre-free offense around the unremarkable Aaron Rodgers, and they're grievance-filing mad about it. The NFL has launched an investigation into the tampering charges brought by the Packers. The Vikings aren't commenting, except to say that Tarvaris Jackson is still their starting quarterback and coach Brad Childress thinks the whole thing is a "soap opera."
If the Packers' charges are true, though, then I give the Vikings mad props for coming up with a scheme worthy of an Aaron Spelling drama to fuck with their NFC divisional rivals. Who knew that Brad Childress was an evil plotter as well as a freakish Major Dad doppelganger? I actually thought he was kind of dumb, since half the Vikings roster hates on him to the media whenever possible and he seems determined to underuse Adrian Peterson. I guess his failures to earn the respect of his players and consistently make successful offensive play calls are symptomatic of his devoting most of his time to execute sneaky cabals exploiting the Packers' Favre-related vulnerabilities. He should just move to Melrose Place and change his name to Amanda Woodward already. I have newfound respect for the Minnesota Vikings for their backroom Brett Favre-mediated trickery. Go Vikes!
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, NFL football, sportsmen
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Workin for the Man: Today's Headlines in Business
Across the Big Apple, boredom reaches record-breaking levels. As the summer heat increases and fears for the economy compound, American business finds itself spiraling with even higher numbers of useless conference calls, canceled projects, strained communications and overall ennui.
Here are a few of the leading headlines from another hardworking, mind-numbing day of 9-to-5'ing.
Half-and-Half Shortage Strikes Exhausted Staff-base; 3 pm Slump Packs a Wallop; Freelancers Flee the Scene.
Outlook spazzed. Client Reschedules. Agency Scorned.
Fridge to Be Cleaned; Receptionist Sends Hostile Email. See "Lunch" on page 3
Smoke Break Interrupted by DNC Street Teams.
That Asshole Still Courting Lawsuit.
Scaffolding Removed; Passers-by No Longer Request Directions to Barnes & Noble.
Competing Tour Bus Ticket Vendors Target Same Overweight Family. Confusion Ensues.
Coworker Re-forwards Billy Dee Williams Smoothness Test; 5-bottle Smoothness Attained Once Again.
Popcorn Burned; Microwave Recovers in Seclusion. Office Coordinator Tracks Perp, Leades ID'd.
Toilet Paper Still Subject to Gravity, Sloth. See "Your Mom Doesn't Work Here So Clean Your Shit Up" on Page 7.
Rogue IM Interrupts Gchat Mid-keystroke - Male Art Director Accidentally Addressed as "Bandy-legged Snatch" in Chatting Misfire.
Thursday Drags; Life Passes.
Exact Change Required.
Here are a few of the leading headlines from another hardworking, mind-numbing day of 9-to-5'ing.
Half-and-Half Shortage Strikes Exhausted Staff-base; 3 pm Slump Packs a Wallop; Freelancers Flee the Scene.
Outlook spazzed. Client Reschedules. Agency Scorned.
Fridge to Be Cleaned; Receptionist Sends Hostile Email. See "Lunch" on page 3
Smoke Break Interrupted by DNC Street Teams.
That Asshole Still Courting Lawsuit.
Scaffolding Removed; Passers-by No Longer Request Directions to Barnes & Noble.
Competing Tour Bus Ticket Vendors Target Same Overweight Family. Confusion Ensues.
Coworker Re-forwards Billy Dee Williams Smoothness Test; 5-bottle Smoothness Attained Once Again.
Popcorn Burned; Microwave Recovers in Seclusion. Office Coordinator Tracks Perp, Leades ID'd.
Toilet Paper Still Subject to Gravity, Sloth. See "Your Mom Doesn't Work Here So Clean Your Shit Up" on Page 7.
Rogue IM Interrupts Gchat Mid-keystroke - Male Art Director Accidentally Addressed as "Bandy-legged Snatch" in Chatting Misfire.
Thursday Drags; Life Passes.
Exact Change Required.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, intentional buffoonery, Smeeberish
Friday, July 11, 2008
Daily Excuse
So today I have a whole shitload of legal and science stuff to attend to and I'm sorry to say that I don't have much time for blogging. Getting sued is certainly a pain in the ass, but it's not nearly as annoying as having to put together a poster for the conference I'm going to tomorrow in upstate New York. Oh, and did I mention I'm going to a conference tomorrow in upstate New York? I'm going to be in Ithaca for a few days listening to ten scintillating hours of virology research each day, so I'm not going to have much time for blogging.
I know I suck because it seems like every week I'm all, "Taking a few days off, try not to kill yourselves." Believe me, if I had my way, I'd be spending my mornings getting my useless bullshit on and my afternoons (un)happily entrenched in lab. Unfortunately, I have to go scope out what's new in my field and get drunk with my colleagues at other institutions, and amazingly, that pays better than the useless bullshit distribution business.
Anyway, I'll be back and better than ever awesome as usual next week sometime. Thanks for your patience with my absence, technical issues, and all my other faults. I promise to make it up.
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: excuses
Thursday, July 10, 2008
FTP: Fucking technical problems
Not that you'll be able to read this anytime soon, but there's apparently some drama with Blogger and FTP publishing going on. I don't really understand all the ins and outs about "external servers" and "ports" and that type of incomprehensible tech shit, but the moral of the story is that it takes FOR-FUCKING-EVER to upload anything. I checked Blogger help, and apparently they are the ones with the problem, which I gathered after emailing my broke-ass hosting company and receiving a typically condescending reply about some free FTP client they think I should use). Since my problem seems to be specifically with Blogger's FTP client (and why it's called a "client" as opposed to my preferred term "thingy" I have no idea), I guess I have to wait for their lazy asses to fix it. Since all the people at Google are so busy shooting pool and playing video games and otherwise engaging in lots of non-work recreational activities, I have no fucking clue when this problem will be solved. Blogger's help page told me to clear my browser cache, which is one of the few computer-type things I know how to do, but that did a whole lot of jack shit nothing.
So please bear with me during this time of stalled file transfers. I am still writing useless bullshit as prolifically as ever...I'm just having a hard time blessing you all with it due to circumstances outside of my control. Thanks for your patience, all you hot Razzyphile pieces of trash.
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: computer incompetence, excuses, internet domination
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: David Silver
DOB: early 1975
Occupation: DJ, master freestyler, backup keyboardist for Babyface, inept nightclub owner, condom and deodorant jingle composer, recovering meth addict, hot nerdy Jew, hot piece!
Hometown: Beverly Hills, California
Current residence: my DVD shelf, Monday through Friday on SoapNet at 5-7 pm
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I'm generally taking this whole lawsuit business with a grain of salt and trying to have a sense of humor about it. However, it's kind of difficult not be preoccupied by it. This is the first time I've ever been sued, and it's like the first time I did my own taxes. Being on one side or another of a civil tort is a normal part of American life, but initially it can seem overwhelming and monumental. I don't want to bore you all with a bunch of "Daily Dude I Want to Hit: my attorney"-type posts, though, so I thought I would talk about something more fun...namely, the greatest show in the history of television: "BEVERLY HILLS, 90210"!
I noticed the other day that Megan Fox (that Angelina Jolie-wannabe chick from Transformers) dumped Brian Austin Green, prompting a lot of people to say things like "how did David Silver score such a hot piece?" My question is more along the lines of "how could Megan Fox pass on David Silver?" David Silver is H.O.T. For one thing, I heard a rumor that he's hung like a fucking woolly mammoth. For another, he executed some of the most riveting scenes in all of television as he transitioned from socially leprous nerd to straight-up player-ass pimp over the course of Bev Niner's ten seasons. Off the top of my head, I can think of ten bitches David Silver boned: Babyface's manager Ariel, Nikki the hippie music lover, that Chloe chick whose demo tape he produced, the inimitable Valerie Malone, Donna Martin (finally), nefarious ex-ice skater Gina Kincaid, closet lesbian Camille, crazy aspiring fame whore Sophie (formerly Sydney Andrews Mancini from "Melrose Place"), that South American chick who worked as a janitor at the Peach Pit After Dark (Claudia?), and that seventeen-year-old who seduced David and then almost busted him for statutory rape. David Silver was landing more tuna than fucking Star-Kist.
David Silver also had some of the best storylines on Bev Niner. First he became so cool that they had to kill of his nerdy friend Scott Scanlon, so as not to cockblock David's meteoric rise through the West Beverly High social scene. During his high school reign, he not only managed to overcome racial issues by rapping at the West Beverly-Shaw homecoming dance, he also rocked the halls via his amazing broadcasts on WBVH high school radio. He rode the wave of his musical notoriety all the way to getting crabs from Babyface's slutty manager Ariel in the back of a limo. Then he got into meth in college, leading to one of the most hilarious dramatic drug disposal/busts in the history of television, in which Dylan helps David instantly kick meth and then pour like 5 keys of it (along with approximately 10 pounds of random pills) down the beach apartment toilet right before a DEA team in full SWAT regalia busted in. He also proved a quick study in handling criminal crises, as he saved Donna from rapist Garrett Slant when he knew something was wrong because she called him "Dave." Later in college, he tried his hand at talent management, until he got too offended by the racist band he was managing telling him "you people sure know how to squeeze money out of a wallet...AH-JEW!" When this didn't work out, he gave nightclub management a shot, at least until he ran the Peach Pit After Dark into the ground and had to steal Donna's money to pay the rent. After living off the royalties from the one hit song he wrote for the shiteous emo rock band Jasper's Law and his condom and deodorant jingles, he secured a permanent position returning to his roots as a radio DJ. Unfortunately, he ended the series on a sour note when he married Donna in the most obnoxious, boring wedding in prime-time soap opera history, but overall, David Silver was a totally hot piece of ass and you wouldn't have to ask me twice to hit that. Besides, he's the offspring of one of the hottest supporting characters in all of television, Dr. Mel Silver, DDS, and it makes sense that David sprung from loins that spent 99% of their time banging 19-year-old dental hygienists and occasionally Jackie Taylor.
If you're rolling your eyes and thinking, "ENOUGH with the Bev Niner...David Silver is a suck-ass nerd who wore way too many Cross Colours shirts in 1993," then let me persuade you of his awesomeness with one of his shining moments. David Silver singlehandedly managed to create racial harmony when the black kids from Shaw High showed up at a West Beverly dance via line dance-inducing hip-hop in one of white rap's most glorious moments. Brace yourself, because you might literally be blown out of your chair by the stunning awesomeness of this moment. Take a deep breath and prepare to have your face rocked off, as I give you...SWITCH IT UP:
I jiggity jack jack jack to miggity mack, to switch it up, G! Swiggity switch it up!
Labels: Bev Niner, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, rap, TV
Daily Douchebag: people who don't vaccinate
DOB: various
Occupation: gullible disease-promoting losers
Hometown: Anytown, USA
Current residence: Everywhere
Douchebaggery: I always get really annoyed when I hear someone talking about how they're not going to vaccinate their kids. For one thing, I'm annoyed they had kids in the first place, because kids are fucking annoying. For another, people who oppose vaccination are usually really fucking pompous about it and spout off a bunch of condescending bullshit like "don't you know that vaccines cause AUTISM???"
Usually when I come across one of these people, I school them hard by dropping a truckload of virology all over their asses, because they are wrong about almost every bit of scientastic made-up crap they patronizingly present as factual. For starters, the link to autism has been disproven by every major clinical study ever conducted. When you mention this, you usually hear something like, "Oh yeah? Well, what about the THIMEROSAL in vaccines? It's made from MERCURY!" Maybe that would fly if thimerosal was still included in most of the childhood vaccine preparations. Since pharmaceutical companies began packaging vaccines in single-use vials, there is no longer a need to use preservatives such as thimerosal since health care providers aren't double-dipping needles anymore. The rate of autism has not changed significantly in relation to the exclusion of thimerosal from childhood vaccines, nor has it decreased in populations that skip vaccination. However, I guess things like "studies published in reputable peer-reviewed journals" don't mean much to people like Jenny McCarthy, who has an autistic kid and blames that on vaccination. She went on Larry King to demonstrate her simultaneous desire to blame someone for her kid's condition and her total ignorance on the subject, as she went off about how the studies disproving the link between vaccines and autism were totally wrong. It speaks volumes about the innate intelligence of the anti-vaccination movement when they consider the former host of "Singled Out" and 1994's Playmate of the Year a more credible scientific authority than the fucking American Medical Association when it comes to the interpretation of clinical data from multicenter studies involving thousands of patients.
I Googled "people who don't vaccinate" just to see what other wacked-out excuses people were using to avoid vaccination. This one dude's blog, called "massivetruth," claims that "human diploid cells" (translation: any kind of cell except a sperm or egg) in vaccines are a huge ethical problem, because "some pharmaceutical companies are extracting them from aborted fetuses such as the WI-38 and MRC-5." This sounds like some sort of mwah-ha-ha-type evil scientist-type shit that has something to do with cloning, but the fact is the WI-38 and MRC-5 are cell lines that were isolated in 1962 and 1966 from embryonic tissue and have been banked ever since. It's not like pharmaceutical companies are running some kind of abortion factory for vaccine production. And almost every drug has, at some point, probably been tested on WI-38s, MRC-5s, or HEK293s (another line derived from embryonic tissue), so if you don't want something that has been tested on a cell line with fetal origins, then you better give up popping Advil for your headaches, taking antibiotics for infections, and modern medicine altogether.
This dumbass goes on to bitch about how "we also see a rise in super virus strands such as the ever-evolving flu virus. The U.S. Centers for Disease Control has noted that the flu vaccine has become increasingly ineffective. This is because the flu viral strands are adapting, becoming stronger. I personally attribute this to the mass inoculations people take without regard." Well, "massivetruth," you'd be better off calling yourself "massiveidiot" with something like that. Influenza is constantly evolving, but not because of "mass inoculations." Not that I would expect this moron to know anything about how RNA viruses such as influenza mutate more rapidly than DNA viruses (such as smallpox, herpes, etc.) because of the 100-1000 fold higher error rate of RNA polymerases. Flu viruses–which are taxonomically grouped into "STRAINS," not "strands"–not only constantly evolve due to their fundamental molecular nature, but they're not necessarily becoming "super" or "stronger." And the reason flu vaccines sometimes don't work is because every year, the vaccine powers that be gather a bunch of epidemiological data and try to predict which flu strains will emerge during the next flu season so they can make a vaccine against the top 3 most likely strains to circulate widely. Sometimes they are correct, and sometimes they are not, but it has to be done this way because there are hundreds of flu strains and the vaccine takes months to make.
In fact, the only thing this asshole does get right is that Congress passed the National Childhood Vaccine Act in 1986 to shield pharmaceutical companies from excessive liability due to vaccine side effects. The author notes "I can't imagine the guilt of losing my child because I let someone inject them with micro-doses of viruses." It's true that live attenuated vaccines (which are weakened viruses that infect the recipient but don't cause disease, like the Sabin polio vaccine) sometimes have side effects and can result in disease occasionally. However, I would feel a hell of a lot more guilty if my kid got polio the old-fashioned way and wound up permanently disabled or dead because I was taking drastic stands on scientific matters I didn't fully understand.
These anti-vaccine people really piss me off, because thanks to their self-righteous ignorance, they are bringing the vanquished diseases of yesteryear back into vogue. A measles outbreak is currently spreading through 15 states, mostly through the unvaccinated population. I would be willing to bet that population is comprised mostly of kids younger than 15 who have dumb parents that heard somewhere vaccination is bad and thus put their offspring at risk for diseases that haven't been a significant problem since the dawn of the fucking Cold War. I can't wait until polio starts tearing through the suburbs. Maybe when all their kids are strapping on their leg braces and climbing into their iron lungs instead of going to soccer practice these fucktards will realize how fucking stupid they are. Until then, take it from me (and no matter what people say about my personal life, I am a virologist by training)...don't be as dumb as Jenny McCarthy. Immunize your brats.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, destroy all children, epidemic geekery, retard rage, scathing indictments, science, viruses rule
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the useless bullshit business
I was catching up on some lab work last Monday when this girl I'd never seen before strolled in. She had an envelope and said she was looking for me. Thanks to some cryptic e-mails I received from some of the Columbia deans the week before, I knew something was up with the Rxxx Sxxxxxx situation, so I thought to myself, "This bitch is a process server." I high-tailed it to an obscure and out-of-the-way part of our floor to consider my options in handling this matter. Apparently this chick–very professionally clad in a pair of pajama pants, I should add–waited around our lab for thirty minutes bitching at my colleagues concerning my whereabouts, then muttered something about how this was "ridiculous," grabbed a roll of tape, and affixed the envelope to my lab door. Then she went and served my PI (boss) with another copy. Without even opening the handwritten "personal and confidential"-labeled manila envelope, he said something like, "Is this another love letter from Rxxx Sxxxxxx?"
Sure enough, when I checked it out, it was as I expected: Rxxx Sxxxxxx actually filed a $25,000 libel lawsuit against me after I told him to either sue me or shut the fuck up on the harassing e-mail tip. Unlike previous instances, where I felt great alarm at the prospect of Rxxx Sxxxxxx taking me to court, I actually laughed. Sure, I am extremely stressed on one hand that I have to go to court and pay an attorney and whatnot, but his case is the weakest thing I've ever seen. His case is so completely meritless that he doesn't even have a lawyer, although in fairness he's so deluded that he probably considers himself a de facto lawyer on account of having "spent a ton of time researching this on the Internet and in the CU law library; and getting free consultations," although in that time he never apparently researched frivolous pro se litigation and its success rate or lack thereof. I'd be shaking with fear about my ruination if I didn't already read a million rambling, semi-coherent e-mails from him detailing his entire insane legal strategy. I'd also be more worried if, during those many hours on the Internet learning how to be a do-it-yourself lawyer, he actually learned how to spell important legal terminology like "attached" in his girlish serial killer handwriting or calculate money damages by some means other than the example explaining how to fill out the summons:
Anyway, I could go into how I'm going to flush Rxxx Sxxxxxx's case like the piece of shit it is, but my attorney would probably advise against it. Besides, as Rxxx Sxxxxxx will soon be able to attest from personal experience, it's incredibly stupid to give the opposing team a look at your playbook before the game starts. All I am going to say about this for now is that I am confident I have done right by the FIRST FUCKING AMENDMENT OF THE UNITED STATES CONSTITUTION and all my speech is protected against attacks from spurned would-be lovers who harassed me for years because I wouldn't give his bitch-ass a free blow job, and I can and will disprove every single last spurious claim Rxxx Sxxxxxx makes in this bullshit suit. To paraphrase Lil' Wayne, I ain't never ran from a litigious, mentally unstable, misogynistic, abusive asshole, and I'm damn sure not about to pick today to start.
I'll probably tell you all about what goes on when this is over, unless of course a Jesus-rises-from-the-dead-in-three-days-type miracle occurs for Rxxx Sxxxxxx and he wins. One of his demands is an injunction removing my ENTIRE website from the internets, because apparently blog posts about "Beverly Hills, 90210" and R. Kelly are as defamatory to his eminent professional reputation as posts I wrote about him. I know that certainly people are much more inclined to deny him the respect he deserves because of (TRUE) stuff I wrote rather than his own thoroughly documented pattern of atrocious and harassing conduct toward myself and other female colleagues. So unless the world is suddenly plunged into a parallel universe in which "crazy and illogical" passes for "reasonable and rational," RAZZY.org will still be here when this is over and I'll be able to tell you all about the trial (or more likely, motion hearing) of the century.
Anyway, I'm confident that I will be proven right and that, in Rxxx's own words, I've "adhere(d) to the letter of the law rather than the spirit" of the law. The "spirit" of the law is a subjective matter for debate, but the letter of the law is what counts in court, and I maintain I have always complied with it. This is yet another worthless, self-serving, pathetically transparent attempt by Rxxx Sxxxxxx to harass and dominate me, and I know that it will be decisively proven as such. So stay tuned for updates in the fight to keep RAZZY.org alive, well, and spewing useless bullshit on a daily basis for a long time to come. I am going to win. TRUST.
Labels: assholes, defiance, free fucking speech, legal drama, Rxxx Sxxxxxx
Daily Douchebag: Brett Favre
Name: Brett Lorenzo Favre
DOB: October 10, 1969
Occupation: media whore and possibly unretired Green Bay Packers quarterback
Hometown: Gulfport, Mississippi
Current residence: Kiln, Mississippi
Douchebaggery: I have always been a Favre hater for a number of reasons. First, he's incredibly annoying and smug. I could care less about his opinion of how tough he is for holding the NFL's quarterback consecutive start record. While I'll grudgingly recognize that it's impressive he holds the NFL records for career touchdowns, passing attempts, and passing yards, I'd rather take his ego down a peg by mentioning that he also has earned the illustrious honor of holding the record for career interceptions. Also, I hate his attitude of entitlement. Certainly he's had a great NFL career and deserves the three MVP awards he won. However, thanks to the Cult of Favre in Green Bay, Brett seems to think this makes him some kind of minor deity. He therefore spent his last five seasons holding the Packers hostage while he hemmed and hawed about whether he was going to hang up old #4, and probably cost them the opportunity to build a new offense around a new quarterback thanks to his self-righteous indecision. I'm sure if he gave them a clear answer, the Packers could have an adjusted free agent and draft strategy, and begin the process of building a Favre-free franchise. Instead, he always had to go back to his farm, chew on a piece of straw or whatever it is hayseeds do when they're thinking hard, and at the last minute say something like, "Okay...I'll bless you with my increasingly inconsistent performances for ONE more year."
Therefore, when he retired this year, I was delighted, and not just because this meant a Favre-free and thus offensively shaken-up Packers causing fewer potential problems for the Seahawks in the NFC playoffs. No more commentator Favre-worship, no more hearing about his 8,756th comeback to old form, no more blaming his receivers for interceptions he threw, no more whining about whether his thumb will get in the way of his precious consecutive starting record...NO MORE FUCKING BRETT FAVRE! I figured he would just head back to the Magnolia State, literally put himself out to pasture, and drive around on his tractor. However, I figured WRONG.
Now, the sports media is abuzz with the information that Favre wants to come back to the Pack. Like the equally detestable Roger Clemens, Favre didn't even enjoy a solitary year of retirement before he said, "Oops, changed my mind! Tell John Madden to pull his dick out and get ready to start jerking rapturously, because I guess I don't want to be retired after all." I hate these assholes who make a big show out of retiring, spur a zillion SportsCenter montages about great moments in their career, and whip the media into a frenzy of nostalgia, only to change their mind and be like, "PSYCH! Fooled you!" The term "retirement" implies that you are fucking FINISHED with whatever you're retiring from; if you just want a quiet off-season, you should call it a fucking sabbatical (although given his unimpressive Wonderlic test score, it's doubtful if Brett knows the meaning of "sabbatical"). Claiming retirement when you plan on returning the next fucking season is just an excuse to have a laudatory press conference because you're in the mood for some fan adulation.
I'm not surprised that Brett Favre has made like Clemens, Michael Jordan, and Jay-Z before him and returned from fake retirement. In fact, he probably did it just to get a lot of pre-season media attention, because the second I started seeing headlines like "Favre mulls return to Packers," I braced myself for a bunch of lengthy will-he-or-won't-he pondering analyzing the most minute developments in the story. Today, I read that Favre sent a text message to the Packers GM, because he wants to return to the gridiron on account of having "the itch." Guess what, Brett? "An itch" is something you see your dermatologist about, not something you demand one of the most storied franchises in NFL history rearrange a recently (and probably inadequately) reconfigured offense to accommodate. "An itch," much like a whim, a passing fancy, or a notion, is not something that warrants fucking around with the Packers' salary cap situation (and thus other players' contracts). "An itch" only works in terms of getting a new multimillion dollar contract when you're a cocky, unjustly deified, aging redneck non-team player like Brett Favre.
The only good thing that can come out of this is that if Favre does return, he'll hopefully have one of those seasons where he sucks righteously, throws at least three picks per game, and blames his teammates for his past-prime performance. After he increases his lead in the "most career interceptions" ranking and gives plenty of opposing team defensive backs the opportunity to make the Lambeau Leap, maybe the NFL and the people of Green Bay will send that old horse off to the glue factory where he fucking belongs.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, NFL football, retard rage
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: U.S. Army Spc. Jeremy Hall
DOB: 1985???
Occupation: patriotic atheist
Hometown: ???
Current residence: Fort Riley, Kansas
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: According to an article on CNN.com, Jeremy Hall was raised Baptist, but then he took up with some atheists and decided that was more his speed, so he rejected Josh Christ as his Lord and Savior. Converting to atheism or any other spiritual belief is 100% cool with the Constitution, and one might think that the dudes in the army (where Jeremy Hall is employed) would be okay with Spc. Hall exercising his constitutional rights. However, this is the military still boasting George W. Bush as its commander-in-chief and that apparently means onward, Christian soldiers. He was passed up for promotions because his inability to pray with the troops meant he wouldn't make a good leader. He was so harassed by his fellow men in uniform that the Army had to assign him a full-time bodyguard for his own safety. Therefore, Jeremy decided to do what any freedom-loving, red-blooded American would do: he's suing the tits off the Army, the Department of Defense, and Defense Secretary Robert Gates.
I applaud Jeremy for taking a stand, because from personal experience, I know that nobody should have to put up with harassment or intimidation at work. I also can only imagine it must be especially difficult in Jeremy's line of work. Apparently on his last tour in Iraq, his Humvee was attacked and he was nearly killed, and the first thing his fellow soldier said to him was, "Do you believe in Jesus now?" On other occasions his life was threatened, which sounds to me like behavior JC would surely condone. I know that Jesus, who all but said, "Hey, dudes, crucify me if you're so fucking intent upon doing so," preached humility and turning the other cheek, and forgave his Jupiter-worshiping Roman executioners, was totally the type who would make an exception from his generally pacifist teachings to kick some God-rejecting faggot's ass. Those Army evangelicals are certainly the embodiment of Christian love and compassion.
I find that attitude especially obnoxious, as I am a Christian myself. In fact, I'm Catholic, and we've since learned our lesson about getting too much Jesus in our military affairs. About a thousand years ago, Pope Urban II got this hare-brained notion that we should reclaim the Holy Land in Jesus's name, and so began the Crusades. Those worked so well that not only did we not take back Jerusalem, we ensured that the entire world thought we were a bunch of marauding, rapacious assholes. Not content with learning our lesson about militarily-imposed zealotry from the damn Crusades, another brilliant series of (probably insanely corrupt, affair-having, wealth-hoarding) popes decided to throw a party called the Inquisition, except by "party" I mean "witch hunt terrorizing Jews, Protestants, scientists, and anyone else with a brain having different ideas from the Catholics." That worked out well; thanks to the Inquisition, my religious faith can now be associated with things like the Iron Maiden, the rack, and stake-burnings. In fact, my own church didn't realize until John Paul II's hot ass decided to apologize to the entire world for the Crusades and the Inquistion. And the conquest of the Americas. And persecuting Galileo. And the church's involvement in the slave trade. And the Vatican's complicity in the Holocaust (basically, Pope Pius XII sitting around jerking off while the Nazis deported the Jews of Rome under his nose). My faith has at least finally realized how violently forcing our religious beliefs down other people's throats is sinful and contrary to the message of Christ, though it took us over a millenium to man up and say sorry. I guess that means sometime around the year 3500 the evangelicals will catch on that running their own Crusades (otherwise known as the Iraq War) is wrong, and so is hating on their brothers in arms who have exercised the religious freedom we are supposedly fighting the war to defend.
I have to give props to Jeremy Hall for being a true patriot and demanding that the Army recognize his right to choose atheism as a spiritual belief. I also give props to his buddy Michael Weinstein, a retired Air Force officer and director for the Military Religious Freedom Foundation, who joined the suit with him and is using it as an excuse to make awesome statements to the press. After pointing out that he has received complaints about religious persecution from over 8,000 service members, Michael made a bunch of sharp statements criticizing the "Pentacostalgon" needing to get the message that our brave soldiers need have only one religion on the battlefield: patriotism. And whether the person in our military is a fundamentalist Christian, a Jew, a Muslim, or an atheist, they are making a sacrifice for our country and deserve better than threats from one another over religious freedom. I hope Jeremy Hall owns the Pentacostalgon's ass.
Labels: Catholicism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dear God, defiance, hot dudes, legal drama, United States of Asskickery
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: male strippers
DOB: ???
Occupation: disrobing for cash
Hometown: ???
Current residence: in Brad's case, somewhere near Washington, DC
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: My friend LL Cool Jew is the matron of honor in our college buddy Wmania's wedding, so naturally she took it upon herself to organize the wedding shower and bachelorette party, and the latter means one thing: hiring some professional semi-nude entertainment. Since before she married BigBagel, LL Cool Jew was a lesbian, we took her to Scores for her bachelorette party and had her literally covered in writhing topless ladies for three hours. Wmania, despite being a Smith alumna herself, has previously shown minimal interest in those without a Y chromosome, so LL Cool Jew realized that to return the favor, she ought to get a male stripper.
Initially, we planned to get a midget stripper to hump a small donkey, because Wmania used to work for the Democrats and because a midget would probably make the somewhat prudish Wmania go into convulsions from the shock. However, we couldn't track down a midget, so we had to find a regular-sized sausage showoff. Thus, LL Cool Jew called Amazing Entertainment and hired some dude named Brad.
The night before the bachelorette party, Brad called LL Cool Jew to get an idea of his audience. "Well, some of the crowd might be a little...conservative," she explained.
"I appreciate your candor," Brad replied. "Would you do me a favor and ensure those ladies have a few cocktails before the appointed time?"
"Dude, he was really professional," remarked LL Cool Jew, after assuring him that we'd get the "conservative" ladies (specifically the bride-to-be) sufficiently liquored up prior to his performance. Later she noted that she was fascinated by her "first official transaction in the sex industry" (although I've seen that hooker stuffing bills into plenty a lady's G-string, so that's not entirely accurate). We were all looking forward to seeing the candor-loving Brad demonstrate his professional skills.
The next night we adorned Wmania in the typical bachelorette party crap, including the piece de resistance, a blinking penis tiara. We popped a case of champagne and between the eight of us, finished it in two hours like the champion alcoholics we are. Then, the gracious hostess admitted Brad, claiming he was her neighbor.
"Oh my God, DUDE," exclaimed Wmania. "I know what's going on here."
Brad actually wasn't that great looking. According to FalloniusMonk, he actually looked like a grotesquely swollen Kevin Bacon. However, he was indeed very nice and professional (before beginning he advised us that he has two rules: no video although still pictures are fine, and no punching him in the nuts). He also managed to lay Wmania on the floor and remove dollar bills from her ginormous rack with his teeth without her looking too exceptionally uncomfortable. While she didn't look as though she enjoyed Brad's attentions much, the rest of us were laughing. Naturally, when her turn was over and Brad asked who was next, she pointed right at me and said "RAZZY!"
I sat down on Brad's provided stepstool and while he gave me a lap dance, I whispered in his ear that I wasn't one of the conservative ladies LL Cool Jew had mentioned in her briefing the day before.
"Okay, then you want to do something crazy?" he asked.
"Sure, why not?" I said.
"Are you wearing panties?"
I thought for a minute. "Amazingly, I am," I replied.
"Are you scared of heights?"
"Nope."
"Okay, get ready to fly," he said. Then he grabbed my ass and did this:
I stuffed my entire wad of dollars into his G-string for giving me an extended face ride. Granted, I had a bunch of residual fake tanner and coconut oil on my thighs afterward, but it was well worth it just for the expression on Wmania's face while Brad twirled me around the room and tried to avoid hitting my head on any light fixtures.
Later, after Brad departed, the ladies were discussing it, and there were a lot of comments going around describing the experience of watching a jiggling beefcake as "gross" and "disgusting." I was surprised because, while not necessarily a sexy experience, I thought it was hilarious. Generally I think male strippers are pretty boring, because mainly all they do is waggle their thong-clad packages at you and give lame lap dances, they don't smell as nice as lady strippers, and there's usually some kind of oil on them which can stain clothing. However, I have to recognize a male stripper who incorporates a lot of sexually suggestive participatory acrobatics into his routine. I might dispute his website's claim of him being the embodiment of male perfection (on account of his not being a black doctor, a Jewish nerd, an MIT graduate, or a swarthy rogue), but I have to applaud his dedication to a lively and interactive performance. I almost always prefer female peelers, as they have breasts and are generally prettier than the generic beefcakes dominating the sausage-swanging circuit. Besides, male strippers never show their weiners, and I can look at a Calvin Klein ad if I want to see some well-defined pecs. However, when a male stripper can actually make up for his cock shyness and overcompensating muscles by inducing hysterical laughter, I have to give my wholehearted approval. Well played, Brad. I salute your professionalism.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, nudity, Wmania
Daily "Dushbag": Roger Clemens
Name: William Roger Clemens
DOB: August 4, 1962
Occupation: disgraced steroid-using Major League Baseball pitcher
Hometown: Dayton, Ohio
Current residence: Houston, Texas
Anyone who has ever donned the uniform of the most hateful team in the history of baseball gets no love from me. Clemens did it on two separate occasions, and I'd be willing to bet that if he hadn't been named in that whole Mitchell Report to-do, he'd probably be coming out of fake retirement yet again to sign another absurd contract with the Bronx Bastards. In addition to juicing, cheating on and with his wife, and playing for the Yankees, I now realize Roger Clemens pisses me off for yet another reason: the idiot can't spell.
According to some hilarious e-mails published by The Smoking Gun as part of his favored steroid injector Brian McNamee filing in federal court seeking dismissal of a defamation suit Clemens filed, he not only reminds us of his deeply ingrained narcissism by signing all his e-mails "22" and having an e-mail address including the term "Rocket," he also shows why he chose baseball over parlaying his University of Texas degree into a more scholarly career, starting with his inability to distinguish different forms of the word "there" and to properly spell two words I am intimately acquainted with: "douchebag" and "lawsuits." Not that Brian McNamee's spelling is any better, since he asks Clemens to "keep in trouch" after being told by Clemens to "stay hot" and seeks to "appolagize" for statements made to the press. Granted, I don't expect either the steroid-procuring "trainer" McNamee or Clemens to be world-class masters of the written word, but I would expect that a man who delivers sagacious proverbs like "Don't GET IN A PISSING CONTEST WITH A SKUNK" would have learned that one of the world's greatest pejorative terms is not spelled "dushbag." At the very least, one would expect that he'd realize that the threat of "law suites" doesn't inspire much terror in whatever sports reporter was covering the Clemens-specific aspects of the Mitchell Report.
I really enjoy disliking Roger Clemens. My hatred for him is like a fine wine that improves with aging. As time passes, thanks to Clemens's own actions, I discover all sorts of delicious subtleties which make my disdain so much more eminently satisfying. Stay hot, loser.
Labels: assholes, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Yankees, sportsmen
Monday, July 07, 2008
Daily Douchebag: back to work
I spent the whole holiday weekend getting shitfaced with my bitches in our nation's capital, and frankly, I am worn out. I need another day off to recover from my days off, which involved heavy drinking, cutting the crusts off about 8,000 cucumber tea sandwiches, and riding a male stripper's face (more on that later). Sadly, I have to go present my riveting research this weekend at the American Society of Virology meeting in beautiful, "Gorges" Ithaca, New York, and I have no days off to spare while I crank out a last couple experiments to round out my poster. So I can't sit at home all day and catch up on all the blogging which has been lacking and undoubtedly causing you all great consternation. But I'll be back in old form by tomorrow and ready to rock your faces off with Razzified awesomeness. Heart you all!
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: Daily Douchebag, excuses, Razzification
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: "I Love Money"
DOB: July 6, 2008
Occupation: shamelessly trashtastic reality awesomeness
Hometown: Los Angeles, California
Current residence: Sundays on Vh1 at 9 p.m.
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: In the past, I have wholeheartedly enjoyed Vh1's series of shows involving legions of fame-hungry skanks competing for the hearts of William "Flavor Flav" Drayton, Tiffany "New York" Pollard, and Bret Michaels on "Flavor of Love," "I Love New York," and "Rock of Love," respectively. Therefore, when I heard that Vh1 was rounding a bunch of my favorite aspiring rappers, former strippers and stars of the pro/am porn circuit, and assorted rejects from these shows and pitting them against one another for $250,000, I enthusiastically vowed to watch every episode. This show is going to be incredibly trashy, abysmally low class, and utterly exploitive. In other words, it's exactly the kind of thing I will totally love and chatter about constantly.
In case you missed the many (awesome) shows which lent the "stars" of "I Love Money," let me introduce you to the fine people who have traveled to Cancun or wherever to compete in the ultimate debased attention whoring contest. Behold, the incandescent figures who will restore/maintain Vh1's status as the leader in premium skankified reality television:
12 Pack from "I Love New York"
12 Pack was the overmuscled male stripper/bodybuilder/Guido fist pumper extraordinaire from ILNY who, despite his excessive protesting about not being gay despite having obtained work as a peeler for the sausage set, declared him and the latently homoerotic Heat members of an exclusive club called the "Party Boys." When New York booted him, he bragged about how he wasn't upset because he was on his way back to New Jersey to "fuck the shit out of" his ex-girlfriend.
Brandi C. from "Rock of Love"
Brandi C. caught the eye of extension-sporting baldy Bret Michaels when Erin AKA "circus tits" reduced her to tears via disparaging comments about her "meth-scratched face." Apparently, Brandi's facial injuries resulted from a car accident rather than methamphetamine-induced self-mutilation, which she considered "a disability." Much like her competitor of the same first name, Brandi C. fell back on a time-honored RoL profession: semi-pro pornography. You can see her skank skil