Thursday, June 25, 2009
Are you a moron? Maybe you should become a porn producer like Donny Long!
I saw with sadness but without much surprise that earlier this month, a porn actress tested positive for HIV. Per usual, the organization primarily responsible for testing porn stars, AIM, was not cooperating with public health officials. The last time an outbreak occurred in the porn community, AIM also refused to assist the health department, and then publicly disclosed the names of possibly infected talent when their press went accordingly south for being incompetent and more interested in self-preservation than the safety and health of people who work in the business.
As an interested follower and consumer of the pornographic industry, I promptly went to some of the industry blogs to see what sort of chatter was going on there. I was disappointed to see much of the usual: a lot of speculation about which actress was "responsible" for costing the production companies so much money. Because it's that unfortunate woman's fault for an industry standard that rejects condom use and relies on an organization run by an inept, self-serving media whore named Sharon Mitchell whose public health credentials include being a former junkie porn star and holding a bullshit Ph.D from an unaccredited institution.
I was even more disappointed to see that the loudmouth idiots working as producers in this industry took this as an opportunity to demonstrate what a bunch of accomplished homophobes they all are. In particular, this dumbass named Donny Long went to his equivalent at the cathedral at Wittenburg (aka the gofuckyourself.com message board) and nailed up the following theses regarding his concerns for the health of his employees:
HIV, fags, and tranny fuckers doing straight scenes in this businessSo the time has came. Huge HIV break out in Los Angeles and I dont even live or run a business there any more hahahha. THANK GOD.
I have posted countless times about this issue and I want it to be known because the real news is about to come out.
I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO.
When you have a faggot agent that rep's trannies and faggots as well as more straight girls in this business than anyone you are asking for it. I am sitting in Florida laughing my ass off at all the idiots in LA that hire trannyfuckers for straight scenes and fag male talent for straight scenes. I wont even book from girls from the fags anymore because I have no need to and everyone that knows the agencies in LA know who I am talking about. All I can say is I feel bad for the victims of others stupidity, but I TOLD YOU ALL SO.
Anyone want some content from a place where we dont hire fags or trannyfuckers to fuck straight girls and or have HIV problems HIT ME UP!
Yes, Donny, the time has indeed came. And I'm hardly surprised, considering that the porn industry seems to be replete with idiots like Donny who seem to think that only gay men can transmit HIV, and that having a gay agent alone is enough to taint an actress. The worst part is that Donny's colleagues reading his message board thread all seem to agree with him, saying things like "most of the gays have HIV" and "when you hire gay talent to shoot straight...you are asking for this shit to happen."
Did I somehow get into a fucking Delorean going 88 miles per hour? Because reading the opinions put forth by the gfy.com brain trust, I'd think I was in 1985, since that's the last time anyone with a shred of intelligence thought that HIV might be an epidemic specific to the gay community. Then again, since I once heard a dude getting a Ph.D in biology at Columbia tell me that straight people can only swap HIV during anal, I should hardly marvel over the ignorance exhibited by these high school dropouts, especially considering said fucktards are all raging homophobes.
While there are probably far too many polysyllabic words on this website for an imbecile like Donny Long to cope with, I would like to offer my own professional opinion on the subject. ANYBODY CAN GET HIV FROM HAVING UNPROTECTED SEX WITH ANYONE ELSE AND **PLENTY** OF STRAIGHT PEOPLE ARE HIV POSITIVE. And by "straight" I mean people who never have had any kind of hot same-sex action whatsoever and contracted HIV from heterosexual sex, probably with someone who also contracted their HIV from heterosexual sex. Furthermore, given that porn producers always complain that condoms will cost them dearly by cutting them out of supposedly lucrative fetish markets like ass-to-mouth and facials and whatnot, it would be easy for a cohort of exclusively heterosexual performers to start spreading HIV around with one another. In fact, if you look at the statistics, in 1985, only 3% of new HIV infections were transmitted heterosexually in the United States. In 2004, 31% of new HIV infections were heterosexual. Worldwide, 85% of HIV transmission occurs from heterosexual sex. When you work in an industry where people are having unprotected sex with multiple partners and rely on an organization run by an inept woman whose sole medical credential is her chronic viral hepatitis infection, you are always at a higher risk of contracting HIV. Period.
In case anyone wants to criticize me for not "understanding" how the porn industry works because I am not a part of it, I'd like to acknowledge that may be true. However, I do have a Ph.D in microbiology from Columbia, and my current specialty is hepatitis C, which is transmitted EXACTLY THE SAME WAY AS HIV. Given that AIM doesn't routinely test for either hep B or hep C, I wouldn't be surprised if those are completely endemic among no condom performers, gay and straight. In my work, I have to undergo extensive training to avoid occupational exposure to hep C, HIV, and other bloodborne pathogens. I cannot work with any human samples without wearing proper protective equipment, and I'm issued a prophylactic antiviral drug cocktail to take on the way to the emergency room should I ever have an accidental exposure such as a needle stick. The porn industry has no such safety standards in place. Furthermore, you will not test positive for HIV the second you contract it. Even the most sensitive test can't detect infection for several days. Considering most performers are tested once or twice a month, it's easy to see how HIV could spread rapidly in this community.
Donny Long should just be honest about why he's laughing at those unfortunate enough to have contracted HIV occupationally. It's because he's a fucking homophobe and a prick, which accounts for his completely asinine epidemiological theories. When Donny Long decides to stick his dick in some porn bitch who meets his criteria of not being represented by a "fag agent" or who has not shot scenes with a "tranny fucker" and contracts HIV or viral hepatitis anyway, I will be the one saying "I TOLD YOU SO."
HIV is a bloodborne pathogen that doesn't care what your sexual orientation is, or what gender you are, or what gender you have adopted. As a virus, its sole objective is to find a new host, and condom-free pornography of any genre is a great way to facilitate that process. Donny Long ought to grow a fucking brain and a pair of fucking balls and just admit that he's a fucking bigot of the highest and most idiotic order.
Labels: epidemic geekery, porn, retard rage, scathing indictments, viruses rule
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Washington state ride or die
Those of you who are not addicted to the gossip internets may not be familiar with Katie Price, a sophisticated English lady who became famous posing topless for London's version of the New York Post. She got so famous showing her tits–sorry, I mean glamour modeling–that she decided to get a new set of modest F cups installed. Then she banged out a bunch of British footballers, starred in approximately 50 British reality shows, and married some boy bander named Peter Andre.
After spitting out some kids with Peter, things went south for the happy couple, and they split up. She has clearly tried to handle her public divorce with all the care and consideration of any celebrity mother of three concerned about making it as easy as possible on her children: by dumping the kids with her ex and heading to Ibiza to slut it up with her new (gay) boy toy.
I'd normally have approximately ZERO interest in this story if it weren't for the shirt her main homo is wearing. I could be mistaken due to the deep cleavage-baring scoop neck on that shirt, but I do believe it says "Washington State Riders."
I have been to Ibiza and I live in Washington state, and you frankly could not have two more incongruous places. I have no idea why this shirt was being peddled in Europe, much less represents something fashionable for Katie Price/Jordan's rebound queen to rock around Ibiza's many soap bubble clubs. This reminds me of the time I was in Belize and some local who had clearly never been off Ambergris Cay to mainland Belize, much less western Massachusetts, rode by on a beat up old Schwinn wearing a Smith College Biology shirt. Somehow I don't have a Smith College Biology shirt, and I graduated from Smith College with a fucking degree in biology, but a dude living in a corrugated metal shanty on an island off the coast of Belize with no paved roads and sporadic running water somehow managed to rock this fashion.
And I'm not even sure what the "Washington State Riders" are, but I'm equally indignant that somehow this shirt is hot in España but not in Washington state. I Googled "Washington State Riders" and found a bunch of stuff about motorcycles, although no group named exactly that. However, I could be wrong, but it looks like there's a horse on that lemon meringue pie of a top he's wearing. How do eurotrash fame whores know about some "riding" club in my home state that neither I or the internets are privy to?
Or maybe, squinting at it a little more, that's actually a picture of a rooster on his shirt. If that's the case, that makes a little more sense. I can understand why the Washington State (Cock) Riders club doesn't have much of an internet presence, being that we're a more discreet bunch of sluts (ha). I certainly believe that should Katie Price/Jordan's man get a model/acting gig in Seattle, he'll likewise join this club with a quickness.
Labels: celebrities, international intrigue, P-N-Dub, sluts, vulgar display of faggotry
Monday, June 22, 2009
Happy 21st birthday to HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair
An unofficial holiday here at RAZZY.org is the birthday of my friends HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair. Apart from being acquainted for almost twenty years and being good friends and generally great guys, they were among the pioneering Razzyphiles. They have been avid consumers of useless bullshit since I put a damn Friendster bulletin up about trying out this website thing, which should tell you how long they've been tapping this awesomeness. I was glad that this year, on account of my moving back to the P-N-Dub, I was able to celebrate their special day in person.
In the past, I've always put up a picture of Morrissey since they are both big fans. Once Morrissey'sHair bailed on hanging out with me when I was visiting from New York because Morrissey was in town and he wanted to get up early and prowl places he thought Morrissey might go. However, this year, I feel that in all fairness to HotLawyer's changing tastes, I ought to put up a picture of William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts II to truly wish him a "bawse" birthday. Since Morrissey and the biggest boss I've seen thus far are incongruous to say the least, I am putting up a picture of Chingy! celebrating in his own way.
Yesterday morning I woke up and staggered blearily out of HotLawyer's suite at the W. My eye makeup was smeared, I was wearing a sparkly halter top with no bra and my nipples were definitely taking notice of the chilly morning, and I wasn't sure exactly where in downtown Seattle I was. I looked particularly classy doing my ho stroll walk of shame past all the wholesome people having Sunday breakfast and dressed in their church-type finery. As soon as I managed to hail a cab and get back home, I kicked off my shoes and went to change into something more pajama-like prior to walking the dogs. Chingy! took the opportunity to turn my uncomfortable, cheap, internet skank shoes into a pillow–or, more accurately, a jowl rest, which I'm pretty sure is his way of saying "CHONGAY CHONG, HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair!"
Anyway, although their birthday was actually yesterday, I wanted to once again acknowledge their unwavering Razzyphilia, commend them on their taste and sophistication, and thank them for their contributions in terms of enthusiasm and pro bono legal services. I heart you guys! BAWSE.
Labels: aging, HotLawyer, Morrissey'sHair, Razzyphiles
Friday, June 19, 2009
Coozin' for a bruisin'
The other night I was banging one of my honeys and as always had a grand old time...until the next day, when I went to get in the shower and realized that I looked like I'd been beat down. I have bruises on both arms, my left tit, my right thigh, my left ass cheek, and my left hip, which are not my favorite reminders of a torrid night of passion. This is surprising, because I do not recall sustaining these injuries, and I wasn't even that drunk.
Mystery sex bruises have bedeviled me since I started boning dudes. Thanks to my Scandinavian-Irish heritage, I bruise easily, and there have been times when I've woke up and wondered why I look like a domestic violence PSA. I can never figure out why sometimes I emerge without a scratch, and other times I look like a UFC fighter after a bad night in the Octagon. Granted, I like it rough, and I grow bored if not given a healthy measure of spanking and hair pulling, but I've been satisfied in that manner many times without developing hematomas. I didn't think I got such a dose of the roughness the other night as to warrant looking like I just showed up at the YWCA asking for a bed and a new identity.
My current hypothesis about how this occurred concerns the fact that the dude is what I call a baker. There are some common guy bedroom archetypes that I call the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. A butcher is a dude who likes to dick-slap your ass like he's tenderizing a roast, a candlestick maker is a dude who likes to jerk off in front of you, and a baker is a dude who likes to grab your tits and/or ass hard like he's kneading bread dough. This guy was a baker, which explains the T and A marks. However, I still can't figure out how a week ago, this guy knocked this thang out without leaving a single blemish, and how today, he made me look like I'm trying to imitate J-Lo in Enough. The timing is further terrible, because tomorrow is my friends and Razzyphile Black card holders HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair's birthday party, and they're both big fans of breasts, and I was planning to honor their natal day by dressing accordingly. That's not going to work with big black-and-blue thumbprint marks on my cans. Damn you, mystery sex bruises!
Labels: Razzification, sex
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Big ass LOL
The other day when Faheem "T-Pain" Najm posted photographs of his unique new diamond jewelry on his Facebook, he obviously neglected to upload the most hilarious shot of them all.
Yes, you're seeing that right. That's Taylor Swift, the Lolita of crossover pop country music, rocking the urban camo to seem more convincingly thugged out and aiming to steal Vanessa Hudgens's Ecko Red spokesmodel job. Taylor probably spent hours practicing her Ice Cube scowl in the mirror just so she could take her Kevin Federline game to the next level in this photo shoot. Apparently she and Teddy Pinnedherassdown are collaborating (cut to my friend HotLawyer exploding with excitement), which means that the world's burning curiosity to hear Taylor Swift sing through an autotuner will finally be satiated. FINALLY.
Seriously, I don't know who thought this was a good idea. I definitely blame this on the Henny.
Labels: celebrities, hilarious shit, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
The Naomi-Wolf-Is-Smart Myth
I guess the editors at Harper's Bazaar decided to smarten up a cover full of pronouncements about summer's sexiest dresses and looking chic at any price by getting Naomi Wolf to write the latest installment in the canon of Angelina Jolie worship. Naomi Wolf raving about the Baby Collector's beauty in a fashion magazine is particularly awesome, considering Naomi Wolf made her name trashing the fashion and beauty industry for being a tool of the patriarchal hegemony meant to keep us ladies too busy being insecure.
In case you actually had some sort of life and desire for fun and not a bunch of feminist grousing in 1990, you may have missed Naomi Wolf's book The Beauty Myth. This book became notorious for heralding the birth of third-wave feminism, which is basically the idea that feminists need to start being really intellectually condescending about the same bullshit feminists have always been super bitchy about. All the women's studies types thought this was great except that hot bitch Camille Paglia, who started a beef because she thought (correctly) that The Beauty Myth made feminists seem really annoying and stupid due to the fact that Naomi Wolf is both. Naomi Wolf spends most of the book blabbing on about how our concept of beauty is all a giant patriarchal conspiracy designed to keep women in place and punish them for breaking free from male domination. Currently, I think Naomi Wolf needs to lighten the fuck up, but then again I may just be bitter that back in the day, her ideas and intellectual influence were largely responsible for THIS lamentable fashion misstep (and many, MANY like it):
Think of how many skanky titty shirts I could have purchased with the stacks I was dropping for ill-fitting fleece and bulky wool Cosby sweaters at Eddie Bauer and REI! Be assured that I was wearing a pair of dark brown suede Birkenstock clogs and a pair of Woolrich socks on my feet, to top off this ill-fitting and shapeless ensemble. Subverting the patriarchy Naomi Wolf-style is not a pretty sight and it barely got me laid. Thanks a lot, Naomi Wolf. Team Paglia.
Anyway, now I have another reason to hate Naomi Wolf besides her indirect effect on my regrettable style choices in high school. She wrote this article for a fashion and beauty magazine about how stupid, obnoxious Angelina Jolie is the perfect woman, "bosomy and wasp-waisted, with that curtain of hair and those crazy pillowy lips, she is an obvious male sex fantasy." Naomi Wolf goes on to gush that through deft PR, image management, and Brad Pitt-fucking, Angelina has transcended the banality of being a mere mortal to achieve the status of female archetype. She also manages to work in an insinuation that the patriarchy killed Princess Di and that Angelina Jolie has become the dominant female "ego ideal." The entire article is one lengthy, excessively devoted fan letter bearing the nauseating title "Why Women Want Angelina Jolie's Life."
If Naomi Wolf could pull her clueless academic head out of her own ass, she might take note that I do NOT want Angelina Jolie's life, and I bet there are a lot of other women who don't either. Brad Pitt seems like an asshole with stupid tattoos, and I would hate all those kids running around. Not to mention that with all the media whoring Angelina so graciously includes her children in those brats are going to grow up to be absolute monsters. In approximately eight years, TRUST that Maddox Jolie-Pitt is going to be the Paris Hilton for the next generation: attention-seeking, disgustingly overindulged, and one of the most loathsome individuals on earth. No fucking thank you to being legally and morally responsible for unleashing that upon the Hollywood club scene and the world.
Even moreso than a brood of spoiled tyrants, I do not want a life where I'm constantly reminding everyone what a big hypocrite I am. I wouldn't want to bring a swarm of photographers to document me getting off a private jet to "help" starving refugees in Chad by merely standing in their presence and posing. I also wouldn't want to run around giving impassioned speeches against poverty and chastising everyone else in the world for not doing their part, and then go with my common-law dickbag movie star boyfriend to drop half a million dollars on a gold couch. In fairness, Angelina is more visible than me and can thus raise more awareness about important issues like poverty and civil upheaval in Chad and Sudan. I'd just like to know how much of that raised awareness has fixed things in Darfur. Angelina Jolie pretends to do shit when in reality she just promotes herself and her haughty-ass persona. Sorry, but I'd rather actually do shit and back up my haughtiness with substance rather than duplicitous media skankery.
Then again, I can see why Naomi Wolf appreciates Angelina Jolie's self-promoting fakery, since she's been using the same scam for years to get the academic types to think she's not an intellectual lightweight. She makes her name declaring that fashion, beauty, and the cult of female celebrity are forms of patriarchal subjugation, and then twenty years later she writes in a fashion magazine about how a female celebrity's beauty has entranced modern women everywhere, most certainly including herself. Naomi Wolf's scholarly credentials involve specializing in wrapping the same overbearing, tired whining about the patriarchy in a thin veneer of hypocritical bullshit and selling it to people stupider than her (like me aged 15). Feminism deserves better than this vapid slag telling us that Angelina Jolie is the best thing to happen to women since vibrators were invented. STFU, Naomi Wolf!
Labels: celebrities, feminazism, media whores, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts
Monday, June 08, 2009
Rock of NEXT
There has yet to be an iteration of any exploitive trashtastic reality shitshow at Vh1 called "_____ of Love" that I won't watch. In fact, I'll watch any show involving the word "love" produced by Mark Cronin and Cris Abrego Vh1 cares to air. "Flavor of Love," "Rock of Love," "I Love New York," "Real Chance of Love," "For the Love of Ray J," and of course "I Love Money": I will watch them all. Trust that there's more than one episode of "Daisy of Love" saved on my DVR.
Of these shows, I have had a major love-hate affair with "Rock of Love." I LOVED season one, yawned through season two until finally giving up out of boredom, and started paying attention halfway through season three when I realized they'd abandoned all pretense of Bret Michaels finding love and made no effort to disguise casting a posse of utterly shameless, drunken sluts with careers in the adult film, "glamour modeling," webcam whoring, prostitution, and stripping industries. However, I'm a little sick of Bret Michaels. I'm totally over listening to him whine about his damn diabetes and laud the (WORST TEAM IN THE NFL EVER HATE HATE HATE) Steelers. I wouldn't mind if they traded him in for a newer model of washed-up rock star. Give Nikki Sixx or Richie Sambora a season on the casino tour circuit with a busload of skank-ass hoes because I'm so sick of hearing "don't need NO-THIN...but a GOOD TIME..."
Apparently all the theater queens on Broadway thought so too, because as Bret sang that very song at the (*snicker*) Tony Awards this past weekend, some sort of stage prop "accident" nearly ripped his cheap-ass HairDO by Jessica Simpson QVC clearance bin tracks out from under his bandana.
Bret should take heed the signs and at least take a leave of absence. He should pass the torch before he is too overexposed to keep booking shows at the Emerald Queen casino–AKA "the entertainment capital of the Northwest"–in my charming hometown of Puyallup. Seriously, hang up the decorative cowboy hats and give some other has-been a chance to share pubic lice with the tattoos-and-fishnets set.
Labels: buttrock, Rock of Love, sluts, TV, Vh1
Who has the biggest chain I've seen thus far?
I'm friends with Faheem "T-Pain" Najm on Facebook, and he's probably one of my favorite Facebook friends. He updates his status all the time, and it's usually something hilarious. It's also nice to know that T-Pain can descend from the lofty peaks of the Tallahassee McMansion where he spends the days sipping Nuvo and Patron to dick around on Facebook when he's bored like the rest of us little people (ie: accompanying a link to the Adult Swim website with the commentary "full episode of aqua teen hunger force. fuck i am good.") Because of this I know all sorts of information about T-Pain, including that he named his most recent child Kaydnz Kodah (!) and he and his wife like to have orgies with strippers in Costa Rica. I'm not even kidding.
T-Pain also likes to post photos frequently, especially of the many custom products he commissions. Teddy Pinnedherassdown is a man of refined tastes, and he likes to bless the Facebook masses with visual evidence that he's a little more sophisticated than your average rappa ternt sanga. For example, this lovely and touching tribute to his late dear friend, the recently departed Roderick "Dolla" Burton II.
After all, anyone can send flowers or sympathy cards or make a charitable donation, but there's really not more of a sentimental memorial than airbrushing your one-hit wonder collaborator's image on the hood of your vintage Chevelle. Tallahassee Pain is nothing but class. He makes the Queen of England look like a stinking derelict begging for change on a freeway offramp in comparison.
Anyway, today I was pleased to see that T-Pain continues to set the standard for elegance with a recent piece of diamond jewelry he obviously made to dazzle the other social elites he clearly rubs elbows with on the regular. I knew something was going to be good when my news feed alerted me that T-Pain had prefaced a new photo on his wall with the declaration, "I told everybody I'm not playing no more anybody wanna try to out do me then we goin at it like next door neighbors. Believe dat." I believed dat, and immediately looked at the picture and was nearly blinded with the intensity of this ice. Seriously, get a sweater, because the man and his Louis Vuitton purses (see background in second picture) are more frozen than Antarctica:
Dayum, shawty snappin! All I want to know is whether or not this is causing any drama in T-Pain's relationship with pretend cocaine kingpin/former correctional officer William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts II, AKA the self-proclaimed biggest boss I've seen thus far. Previously, Rick Ross has prided himself on wearing the largest, most ridonkulous chains in the entire Sunshine State. Rick Ross is so serious about his extremely large jewelry that he was deeply insulted when one of his baby mamas and Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson accused him of renting his signature giant self-portrait yellow diamond pendant. However, his sometime collaborator, purported friend, and fellow Floridian T-Pain has clearly challenged him when making Facebook wall statements like "DUDES AND GIRLS I JUST WANNA GIVE A QUICK PREVIEW OF THE LAST CHAIN ULL EVER LIKE. IM SHUTTIN IT DOWN."
Them's fightin' words. I think the next logical course is for Rick Ross to pick up the "Big Ass Chain"-shaped gauntlet T-Pain has thrown and get something so large and absurd that he walks hunched over when he wears it. That would be quite the achievement, since Rick Ross is a pretty big fella with a great deal of heavy chain-rocking experience, and probably has the neck weightbearing capabilities of an Oregon Trail cart ox. Break out the candy-colored rocks and let's take this battle to the next level!
Labels: Facebook, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Read the Bible: Jesus was very pro-whore
Yesterday HotLawyer sent me a link to a local news story from the intellectual backwater and hallowed site of white supremacist history known as Whidbey Island. Of course, megachurch evangelical Christianity has seduced many of Whidbey's native yokels, and not much goes on there, so the hard-hitting journalists over at the Whidbey News-Times decided to write a story showcasing exactly what a bunch of lameasses these people are.
Never been kissed: Bride-to-be waits for her wedding day
When Todd Ritter is told to kiss the bride at the altar this July in front of 277 of their closest friends and family, people will understand if it’s a little clumsy.
It will be the couple’s very first kiss.
“I’m wondering, will I be a good kisser? Do I know what I’m doing? I’m nervous, but excited,” says Rachel Welch, 21, who is marrying 23-year-old Ritter in Oak Harbor.
The couple instated a “no-kissing” policy, to keep things from getting out of hand before marriage. Welch decided at age 14 to save kissing for someone special, and hoped that her first lip-lock would shortly follow “I do.”
Personally, I think this kind of bullshit is actually very anti-Christian. If you read the Gospels, you'll notice that Jesus is kissing all over everyone on the regular. He kisses babies, lepers, homeless dudes, and whores, and doesn't think twice about it. The skankiest prostitutes in all of Galilee were JC's roll dogs, and one would think that such a devout couple of youth ministers would have at least considered that before instituting such a rigid policy. Especially since, judging by their chattiness regarding their Eskimo kissing, chaperone policies, and foot massaging, they apparently have no problem being media whores. They even gave the Whidbey News-Times a frightening, look-we're-scary-super-Christians picture in which you can practically hear them condemning evolution and elaborating on how gay marriage and anyone who helps it become legal is going to burn in eternal damnation.
And since I have been kissed before–on numerous parts of my body and usually as a prelude to getting my sinful nonmarital fuck on–let me explain to Rachel and Todd exactly how lame their marriage is going to be thanks to their policy of extreme abstinence. Since neither of them have any idea what they are doing and are probably taking pointers from the Michael W. Smith "I Will Be Here for You" video, their first heavy makeout sesh is going to be nothing short of disgusting. Todd looks like one of those guys who thinks that hot tongue kissing involves licking and slobbering all over every part of your face except your mouth, so I hope Rachel enjoys a good spit shine. And as far as Rachel is concerned, if Todd thinks that once he's made an honest uptight prude out of her it's going to be all hot legit Christian sex, he's gravely mistaken. Bitches don't go from Eskimo kisses and love letters to blowjobs and anal overnight, and Rachel strikes me as the type who won't put out on her wedding night. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if both of them are so abysmally bad at sex that they wind up doing it as infrequently as possible. After all, who even needs a sex life when you have the rapture to look forward to?
This is why I always fuck on the first date. I'm not going to invest my time and emotion in someone without giving them a test drive and making sure they are competent at turning me out. As a result of this policy, if I ever do get married, please believe that my future spouse will be a tiger in the sack and will likewise benefit from my extensive experience in this area. I also take umbrage with Todd's assertion that Rachel's no-kissing purity vow is an indicator of her "awesome" self-respect, thus implying that sleeping around means I don't respect myself. I have an awesome amount of respect for myself (you can't fancy yourself the most awesome human being on earth EVER without having a healthy amount of self-esteem), and I can't think of any better way to demonstrate that than by giving myself the gift of plenty of varied hot ass. I think it's actually disrespectful to yourself and your partner not to be the best lay you can be, especially if you're about to take vows promising to never hit the sheets with anyone else ever again. It's a sacred duty to your future spouse to get out there and practice on as much strange as possible before you limit genital privileges to just one person. Then again, since neither Todd nor Rachel have any basis for comparison, maybe they won't even know what they are missing when they are rutting clumsily away at one another with the lights off and their shirts on. Ignorance is bliss for the abstinent purity ring set, I guess.
Labels: assholes, Dear God, HotLawyer, media whores, retard rage, sex, sluts
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Boo-cock-ay
Yesterday I was at work being awesome when I checked my Gmail and saw that LL Cool Jew had an urgent matter for my attention.
LL Cool Jew: did you get my text?
Razzy: no my phone's been off all morning!
Razzy: meetings, viruses, etc.
Razzy: let me check
LL Cool Jew: k thanks
I checked my phone to see the following text message from LL Cool Jew: "What is bukkake and how do you pronounce?"
Razzy: lol
Razzy: bukkake is pronounced "boo-cock-ee"
Razzy: or "boo-cock-ay"
Razzy: which is probably the more correct japanese pronunciation
LL Cool Jew: k
Razzy: it is the specific genre of porn--or the act in general--of ejaculating all over a girl
LL Cool Jew: k that makes sense
Razzy: in classic bukkake, it's usually multiple men acting as the bukkake-ers
Razzy: but sometimes it's misused to just describe a garden variety facial from one dude although that isn't really "bukkake" if you want to be a purist about it
Razzy: of course this all originated in japan
Razzy: why, did bigbagel ask if you'd be into it or something?
Razzy: and ps--it's fucking typical that I know all this minutiae about the true definition of bukkake
LL Cool Jew: i knew you would be the right person to ask
As it turns out, LL Cool Jew has not decided to spice up her marriage by inclusion of bukkake. She noticed mention of bukkake in the context of some snarky jokes on Dlisted and got curious. However, she wisely recognized that whatever bukkake was, it was probably best not to have a search for its Wikipedia page turn up on her work computer browser history. So she went to the next best thing to the "perv" section of Wikipedia: yours truly. JerseyGirl must have told her what an informative resource I was when I explained to her how ass to mouth differs from a conventional rim job.
This is not to say that I have ever been bukkaked. I wouldn't rule it out, because I've been known to do stuff that's not even particularly appealing to me just to tell the story later, but I don't really see the appeal, in spite of my pronounced semen fetish. I mean, I like dudes to get creative when blowing their loads and I am a champion swallower, but I also like to get off in the course of eliciting said climax. In fact, I insist upon it. Squatting uncomfortably and watching a host of dudes jerk is not going to make me have an orgasm, so I'll pass on taking a ride on the bukkake express.
I'm not really sure how I'd find myself in a situation where there were multiple dudes with whom I'd even consider the prospect. I know plenty of horny dudes, but I can't imagine calling them up and saying something like, "So, I've been interested in getting bukkaked...got plans this Friday night?" Nor can I even imagine getting wasted with a bunch of dudes and somehow thinking that would be a great afterparty. The closest I've ever come to that was one time when a dude I was banging came over with his best friend, and said best friend asked if I'd be willing to let the run a train on me. I declined immediately (although not because I'm a prude who would never consider taking two guys in immediate succession but because the best friend was fat). Since I've not had a similar offer since, I can't imagine this scenario is going to be frequent enough to consider going the extra mile and getting bukkaked instead of gangbanged. I also would never in a million years find a bukkake crew from Craigslist, because I can only imagine the types of winners trolling that shitshow for random people to jizz on. That's not an option due to sheer public health considerations alone.
I am now curious to know if bukkake ever occurs outside of porn or other branches of the sex industry. I'm sure there are people who have bukkake parties out there, but is this something that's even remotely common? Please leave any information you might have on the topic on the comment pages. Inquiring perverts would like to know.
Labels: gross, LL Cool Jew, perversion, porn, sex, sluts
Monday, June 01, 2009
Will the real Slim Shady please sit the fuck down?
Last night the MTV Movie Awards were on, and it was basically a big snorefest, except for this choice moment:
Having Sacha Baron Cohen's junk in my face would be a sublime experience. He's swarthy, hot, and hilarious, plus he's like 10 feet tall so I'd wager he's packing. Should SBC–as himself, Brüno, or anyone else–ever descend from above like a flamboyant, ridiculous angel, my response would be similar to Eminem's "Are you fuckin' serious?" However, my response would NOT be in the vein of the humorless crybaby attitude exhibited by Mr. Mathers. I would be shocked at being in such great luck as to be blessed with a live closeup of SBC's business end, not demonstrating that I'm the asshole who can't take a joke.
Eminem is really one to get pissed off about this, considering that his signature videos mock many of his colleagues in the entertainment industry. Speaking from experience, if you dish it out, you'd better learn to take it because you will get it. He should have learned this in 2002 when he stormed out of the VMA's because Triumph the Insult Comic Dog ragged on him. Eminem's apparent steadfast inability to accept a little criticism continues to support my suspicions about his diminutive penis size. Also supporting my Eminem small weiner theory is his knee-jerk homophobia, and I do mean PHOBIA, since the mere proximity of Brüno's crotch sent him running from the theater.
As he's trying desperately to claw his way back from obese complacency to cultural relevance, he should be glad for the association with a hot movie that's about to drop and will most likely be very successful. Hell, considering the state of his career's stagnation, he should be glad he even got an invitation to the MTV Movie Awards, whether his seat came with surprise SBC ass or not. Being on the radio for the first time in four years with that forgettable "Crack a Bottle" song does not restore the kind of celebrity gravitas excusing being a whiny, insecure bitch who can't take a joke. Can Eminem's comeback just fail and send him back to Detroit to verbally abuse his immediate family members, get fat again, and generally drink a tall glass of bitch, shut your trap? Because his very presence just reminds me of how over him current popular culture ought to be. Please, Eminem, make like your song and LOSE YOURSELF...in obscurity.
Labels: assholes, ranting, rap, retard rage, TV
Sunday, May 31, 2009
What happens to a dream deferred?
I don't know if Chingy! knows the answer to that, but he certainly knows a thing or two about what a raisin in the sun looks like.
CHONGAY CHONG, Langston Hughes!
Labels: CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Look at this fucking Seattle asshole
This past weekend, my roll dog TAFKAMA persuaded me to attend the Northwest Folklife festival. Well, actually, TAFKAMA's girlfriend persuaded me, because TAFKAMA was almost as unenthused about the prospect as myself. The last time I went to Folklife (in 1997), it was pouring rain and the marijuana enthusiasts I was cavorting with insisted that we take shelter in this gigantic lean-to built of random tarps, garbage bags, and 2x4s stuck haphazardly into the muddy grass. I was surrounded by unbathed assholes in homemade clothes made of wet, moldy-smelling hemp trying to spread their scabies and mooch from my stash. It was like being in a sauna scented with patchouli, compost, and B.O., complete with a drum circle and stupid bitches on too many hallucinogens trying to dance. To make matters worse, my cousin dropped acid, and was apparently tripping balls when the structural integrity of this refugee camp for people who don't bathe or shave their armpits by choice began to collapse. One of the supports came loose in the mud, striking my cousin in the head and inspiring a proufoundly disturbing freakout on my cousin's part. I spent the rest of the night trying to keep him from getting arrested and/or sent to the hospital. I did not like Folklife then, and I didn't suppose that I'd like it now.
For those of you unfamiliar with Seattle's busy municipal festival schedule, Folklife is a big clusterfuck of crafts, fair foods, performance art, and music held on Memorial Day weekend at the Seattle Center. There's a bunch of free music shows, an Elephant ear stand, plenty of skateboarding and hacky sacking, and ample space for every random hippie craft peddler in the Northwest to hawk the ugliest sea glass jewelry and pewter salmon-shaped belt buckles money can buy. Basically, this event is a bug light for people that I inherently loathe. However, since I'm a glass half-full type of bitch, I decided to make the best of it and cope in my own way: by making fun of everyone! And since there was no way I could keep track of all the many people to mock by virtue of their great numbers, I brought my camera.
Behold, the multitudes of Seattle and their strange musical instruments, their asinine tattoos, and their unfortunate style choices. The Emerald City at its finest.
Bag pimpin'. Seriously, bagpipes and Scottish bullshit in general is apparently SO HOT right now with the antiestablishment set. It's like everyone watched Highlander, remembered that Sean Connery decapitating bitches is badass, and traded in their anarchy shirts for kilts.
Seattle couture alert! I knew it was only a matter of time before I stumbled across some sexpot capable of combining civil liberty, work freebies, and a bare chest. Who IS this ravishing rogue in the ACLU fleece vest with nothing underneath?! And what better way to exercise one's most basic civil liberty than to ask some passing hottie if you can bum a smoke off her?! Free speech, motherfucker!
And on the Third Day, after Jesus rose from the dead in fulfillment of the scriptures, he hired Artie Lang as a bodyguard and restyled himself as a safari photographer and avid drum circle participant.
"So guys, Ken says we should meet him and Skipper over at the Cha Cha later."
Axl Rose, is that you?
All of the boys and all of the girls are NOT dying to If You Seek THIS DUDE.
Milk may do a body good, but it sure as shit isn't doing anything for this Blossom's-dad/Patrick Duffy hybrid's ugly face.
It was a challenge for me to stay away from these tantalizing specimens. Effeminate Joey Ramone and Firecrotch Paul Westerberg and their gang of merry MMORPG-playing virgins were about 10,000 degrees of sizzling hot sex. I can only assume that they weren't swarmed with every legwarmer-wearing, shaggy-haired slag at the music festival because they burned them with their scorching hotness.
And what have we here? Why, it's one of Seattle's most eligible bachelors looking single and ready to mingle, as he's dressed to impress. This low rent Layne Staley donned his finest fedora, bandit-style neck kerchief, and Iron Maiden muscle shirt, grabbed a latte, and put out the vibe. No word on whether he managed to score.
Apparently today's generation of skater punks are easily bewitched by trick yo-yo-ing. Or maybe the guy on the right is just considering his next career move, since festival roving yo-yo performer is probably one of the good-paying jobs that actually does start after he gets up.
These guys look like they are either the last remnants of the Manson Family or about to attempt to sell me cunt and whiskey at the Gem Saloon in Deadwood. And please believe that whichever comparison is more apt, their band still sucked extraordinarily.
Here I captured a quiet, reflective moment in which this young, wallet chain-bearing man and his black widow forearm tat discreetly pour a PBR (of COURSE) into a Steamers soda cup. He stares off into the distance as he ponders who he will bum his next cigarette from.
This fat Fred Durst-looking dude came by with his busted Andy Samberg-looking friend and actually asked me to take his picture. Well, he made a comment about me taking pictures of the crowd, I asked if he'd like his picture taken, and he answered in the affirmative. He was like "Make sure you e-mail that to fatfreddurstlookingdudeorwhatevs@google.com." I responded, "Actually, just go to my website. I'm reporting on this event for RAZZY.org. That's R-A-Z-Z-Y dot ORG! Check it, Big Guy!"
"Dude, as long as you're up, can you get me some curly fries? I'm busy practicing my I'm-in-denial-that-I-should-buy-tank-tops-at-Lane-Bryant squat. And texting."
TAFKAMA managed to find a pair of sunglasses even stupider and with more tines than the ones he was wearing. He indicated his excitement by rapidly pumping his fists. The forks actually work on him.
I can't think of a less appealing offer than a complimentary hug from this aspiring vagrant/jelly bracelet aficionado. Except maybe what was on the other side of this cardboard placard: "DONATIONS OF CASH AND CIG'S ACCEPTED."
Local artists: because if you roll with the socks-and-Tevas set, you can never have enough pictures of the Cascades or the Columbia River hanging around your yert.
Real men wear shirts covered with a jaunty Scottish terrier pattern when singing atonal renditions of "Blowin' In the Wind" for spare change.
A little bit grungy, a little bit metrosexual. Seriously, are those punk hipster man-pris that he's wearing? God, no wonder the best asymmetrically-coiffed pussy he could get has such an extreme FUPA that for a second I thought she might have a little retro style-mixing, hygiene-eschewing bun in the oven.
Whatever this grouchy chick in the green is bitching about, I probably agree with her, since I can't imagine she's hating on anything besides her friend's poor hairstyle choices. I can practically smell that unwashed cat-scratching post lounging across from her radiating a foul vapor of fermenting armpit sweat and rancid nag champa from through my computer screen.
This lady right here is a common variety of Seattle craftswoman. She probably drives an Outback or a CRV, she always eats weird shit like sunflower seed butter and muesli and yak yogurt for lunch, and she has a REI platinum card, which she probably used to buy an REI fanny pack. She likes to camp, hike, recycle, and wear unattractive cowboy hats. She actually buys and listens to CDs of Andean flute players. She's got a closet full of ponchos and you know that homegirl rocks denim jackets with corduroy collars in the fall. She lives on a farm in Issaquah and likely owns horses. If you look in the mirror behind her, you can see me, and my expression pretty much says it all.
Behold, the genesis of a Craigslist "missed connection."
"ZOMG, I can't believe that guy is wearing a HOLLISTER shirt! Who wears Hollister shirts? They're like so unoriginal, not at all like the Vuarnet shades and terrorist scarf I'm rocking. What a total conformist follower."
This guy's grave expression lets the world know that he wants to be taken extremely seriously.
Miley Cyrus hearts recycling.
Jamie-Lynn Spears, what are you doing here?!
I was unaware that the band Insane Clown Posse was still around and had actively practicing fans. In fact, I had forgotten about Insane Clown Posse's very existence. When pressed, I vaguely remember that they made shiteous rap metal and used to hose each other down homoerotically with bottles of some weird Detroit-specific brand of soda. However, the ICP faithful–which the internets inform me are called "juggaloes" on account of their clown-themed tomfoolery and their attempt to associate themselves with male prostitutes–were out in full makeup and regalia at Folklife.
I'd be hard-pressed to come up with anything that screams "I AM A HUGE LOSER" more resoundingly than being a rabid, publicly out Juggalo. I can't fathom why anyone would embrace a culture based on shitty music, clown makeup, hatchets, fat people, and being stuck in 1998. These guys make World of Warcraft-playing shut-ins look like the world's most eligible bachelors in comparison. I could probably beat up these bitch-asses. FAIL.
In spite of what these ladies' shirts profess, it would really be more accurate to say they are "Keeping It Round." I am sad I didn't get a chance to see these gals' square dancing skills in action, because I always love me a large elephant stampede.
Ah, the innocence of girlhood! Nothing warms my heart more than seeing a young lass as refined as this. I nostalgically hearken back to my own days as a dewy-eyed maiden of ten or eleven, when I'd put on my favorite marijuana leaf-kerchief and go essential oil and dried herb shopping. Alas, if only I were a child again!
I'm calling it now: these people are from Puyallup, and came up to Seattle for this. If not from Puyallup, they are from somewhere nearby, like Graham, Spanaway, Pacific, Fife, Orting, or maybe Auburn or Kent. They're talking about how great it is to travel to the BIG CITY for this faincy outside-type party, even if Slipknot isn't playing.
And yep, she's definitely from down south. That's a meth country tramp stamp if I've ever seen one. Please believe I'll probably see this bitch at the Roadhouse one of these days.
When Robert Sylvester Kelly announced at the beginning of the song "Hotel" that "we in our throwbacks" in the hopes that the ladies would get the hint that "we got room keys," this was probably not the image he was trying to evoke.
Here's another entry into the "Most Stomach Churning Outfit" contest. I can only hope that Laura Ingalls Wilder is suggesting to Muffin Top that playing a stick with a long string on it is a great workout.
What's most frightening about the Brangelina of Folklife is that he's pushing a stroller. Apparently, they have reproduced. God help us all.
Every time a shitty improv jam band plays, a moronic skank in Rainbow Brite legwarmers gets her wings.
"I know the Weezer Tribute Band is playing on a stage around here somewhere."
"Dude, know what would be awesome? Let's skate down to Seattle Center and shop for some local salmon and/or thunderbird totem folk art."
Trust a veteran penis aficionado on this: homeskillet's ear-butt plugs are bigger than his dick. So is that American Spirit he's sucking on, for that matter.
When I was in grade school, my music teacher Mrs. Knudsen made us all play the recorder. In particular, she wrote this one shitty recorder song that went along with this Native American myth about the Whale in the Sky. Because I had played piano for five or six years at that point, I was completely unimpressed with her lame four-note interpretation of "Whale in the Sky." Even worse, she made half the class play it, and half the class sing these asinine lyrics she wrote for it, most of which consisted of repeating "WHA-ALE IN THE SKYYYYYYYY." Thanks to that incompetent recorder composer, every time I see someone playing a recorder, I immediately hear that shit in my head. It was like the Lady Gaga of grade school: something that gets in your head and despite your hatred for it, won't get out. Anyway, I saw this dude, and immediately thought, "WHA-ALE IN THE SKYYYYYYYYYYY."
And finally, TAFKAMA demonstrates how we managed to get through. He has these awesome hypercolor cups that make Vitamin R look like perfectly legal, innocuous strawberry lemonade. Said cups were very useful once my vodka ran out.
I think that from now on, when I go to a stupid event in Seattle, I'm going to bring my camera. This city is really like a horn of plenty brimming with people for me to rag on. A veritable scornucopia. Stay tuned, and if you live here, watch out.
Labels: assholes, goddamn Seattle, P-N-Dub, TAFKAMA
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
This is a threat?
You'd think that with all the important stories in today's news (new ho shooting to dethrone Ruth Bader Ginsberg as hottest bitch on the Supreme Court, prop 8 sadly stands, economic collapse, etc.), CNN could come up with a better use of their journalistic resources than THIS FUCKING STORY:
I've really had it with bitches who fall for this fucktard's antics. Ashton Kutcher is a snake oil charlatan with no talent save that of being inexplicably tolerable to stupid people. Everything about this motherfucker is despicable, and I don't know why people haven't recognized that since the late 90s or whenever "That '70s Show" was on. I basically hated him from the moment I gazed upon his guffawing, trucker hatted visage. A quick review of his CV reminds me that he came on the scene playing a dumb, lazy, unemployable stoner, then morphed into an annoying pest playing contrived pranks on people. Then he was mistaken for a celebrity anyone cares about by fucking and marrying Demi Moore. Then he became disgustingly overappreciative of his own value, made two years' worth of absolutely terrible films, and obnoxiously embraced Kabbalah. Now he's become my own personal multimedia gadfly, goading me with a deft combination of COOLPIX camera ads and self-aggrandizing pretensions that I should care about how this knuckle-dragger's Twitter habits influence his fickle relationship with his own media whorishness. Big deal: more assholes follow Ashton's Twitter feed than CNN's. He probably has more Facebook friends too. WHO CARES?! Larry King, please explain why you cluttered up your valuable primetime cable news space with this asshole's Twattery. It takes the average person about 30 seconds to not feel sorry for Ashton Kutcher being impaled upon his own proverbial e-sword. I'm losing approximately NO sleep knowing that Ashton worrying that someone might intrude upon and irritate him via the very media conduit he has used to torment the entertainment industry-consuming public for the past decade. Karma's a bitch, and so are you, Kutcher!
Labels: assholes, celebrities, internet domination, ranting, retard rage, TV
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Excuse me, but WHAT, BITCH NAMED KATE GOSSELIN?!?!?!?!
I am a glutton for punishment, and I really couldn't help myself. I went to the gossip internets and read more completely unsubstantiated, totally unreliable, and most likely false bullshit about the entirely loathsome "Jon and Kate Plus 8" family drama. It seems that there isn't much going on with real famous people, because the Gosselin parents are being thoroughly owned for their incompetence at media whorecraft. I could pretend that I'm the level of classy that stops after one glass of Franzia and takes the high road about obviously obnoxious twats, but let's be real about it: my new life goal apart from professional success and landing lots of hot ass is that THE GOSSELINS MUST BE STOPPED. I don't want to see them or hear about them and their gigantic litter of brats any longer, and I'm more than content to see the tides turn against them so severely that they are uniformly hated by the world and thus fade into the obscurity where they belong.
I'm clearly not the only one. The esteemed journalists at Us Weekly are obviously feeling me. The only thing they fail to point out is that she looked like a massive cunt even when she was just "a mom". She looks like the kind of mom who would force you to drink milk, eat raisins, and say unfamiliar Protestant prayers when you went over to hang out with her kids. This one girl I was friends with in sixth grade had a mom who did that, and she looked just like pre-monster Kate Gosselin. I bet if fleeting reality fame/infamy hadn't come her way, Kate Gosselin would have presumptuously overparented other people's children and decorated with God's eyes, framed needlepoint, and gingham-patterned geese just like Mrs. Gesch.
And due to their highly competent reportage, Us Weekly has managed to distill everything I hate about Kate Gosselin into a quick blurb, courtesy of a probably misappropriated quote from an obscure Associated Press features brief published in 2005:
Kate Gosselin said she feels society has a responsibility to help with the children, since modern medicine promotes the use of fertility drugs, which can lead to multiple births.
Kate Gosselin ought to get down on her knees and thank OctoMom's shameless social parasitism for distracting everyone from the fact that she is the true pioneer of egregious, infuriating media gaffes. However, Kate is finally getting the credit she deserves for her equally obnoxious attitude about subverting nature to achieve such a massive brood and then passing the responsibility off on the rest of us, and that's not going to translate into great "Jon and Kate Plus 8" ratings. Much like a predatory lender or American auto executive, it's a bad time to be a money hungry not-actually-that-famous reality star with eight mouths to feed and a broke-ass equally subfamous stump of a man who may or may not be banging some lesbian fifth grade teacher on the side. Probably because HOW *DARE* YOU BLAME SOCIETY FOR YOUR OWN VAIN BABY-OBSESSED CRAZY BITCH PSYCHOSIS THAT MY TAX DOLLARS SUBSIDIZE YOU FUCKING STUPID UGLY SELF-RIGHTEOUS TROLLOP-ASS CYPRESS MOSS-ESQUE-LABIA-HAVING PROSTITUTE!!!!
I would like to go around telling everyone that society has an obligation to support me because it encourages me to rule their faces off, but for reasons of not seeming like a delusional lunatic, I refrain from doing so. The vast majority of the society that supposedly encouraged Kate to take fertility drugs certainly won't embrace an annoying, shrewish, totally unendearing frigid nagfest pompously informing them that they need to pick up the tab for her own manifest selfishness. As someone who works in the field of "modern medicine" and an avowed child hater, I assuredly did not encourage Kate Gosselin or anyone else to take fertility drugs, and I strongly resent the implication that this bitch did so at my behest rather than her own arrogant desire to overbreed. And her suggestion that somehow I need to shoulder the burden of her own bad decisions makes me want to kill a bitch.
Kate's about to learn the hard way that it doesn't pay to be a mega cunt (literally and figuratively) with a detestable reproductive history and a fucking HORRIBLE Rosie O'Donnell circa 2002-meets-rabid Old Yeller's raised hackles haircut. People are going to quit that bitch and her show's going to get canceled, and she can go back to firing nannies and emasculating her husband without having a television audience to detest her. As far as I'm concerned, that joyous moment can't come soon enough. Down with the Gosselins!
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The Dolla is Dead
In today's sad news, Roderick "Dolla" Burton II was shot and killed at a mall in Beverly Hills, California, probably while he was trying to either get some brain in the Hummer, mashing out in something European, smoking Steve Urkel by the ton, or generally owning the club. If you just asked, "Who the fuck is that?," well, you may remember a song named just that which was hot on "106 and Park" for two seconds last summer.
That was Dolla's song! "Who the fuck is that?" By Dolla. Who used to drop stacks at the bar on the Louis XIII but is dead now. Too bad, although I wouldn't be surprised if he was capped on account of those ratty braids he was rocking. Those are an insult to hair braiders everywhere, and certainly would not pass muster with the fine lady who creates fine braided creations with a certain Robert Sylvester Kelly's hair.
Anyway, Dolla was only 21, and that's sad. Just so you know who you're pouring liquor out for, here is who the fuck Dolla is:
RIP, Dolla. Say hi to Pimp C for me.
Labels: people who died, rap, tragedy
Jon and Kate Plus HATE
An ill wind blows. Lately, every time I go onto the internets for some celebitchery, I am confronted with the unattractive visage of Jon and/or Kate Gosselin. Even worse, I'm confronted with headlines suggesting that one or both of them has been getting freaky with their busted asses...and not with each other. Either I have to picture Jon's fugly pedophile eyes humping drunkenly on some bitch with low self-esteem who thinks he's a celebrity, or I have to picture Kate's haircut doing ANYTHING sexy, which is about as titillating as the notion of watching two rabid prairie dogs mating.
For those of you who may be unfamiliar with this fugly little pair, they are the stars of the TLC reality show "Jon and Kate Plus 8." This show is basically about these two IVF junkies who wound up churning out a set of sextuplets to go with their twins, and all the consequent grossness that ensues. I watched this show once, and in that hilarious installation all eight kids had rotavirus or some kind of nasty gastrointestinal virus. As much as I love watching eight toddlers simultaneously shitting their pants and puking everywhere, I almost immediately flipped the channel to something more classy and palatable, like "Rock of Love Bus." Hey, I'd WAY rather watch drunken strippers and porn stars fall off a pole and puke on Bret Michaels during the "White Trash Olympics" or whatever than watch 60 minutes of this:
I am never going to get into a show about two assclowns whose own outrageous vanity compelled them to bring not one or two but EIGHT bratty kids into the world. I hate kids, and watching eight of them raise hell while these two make annoying commentary (or more accurately, while Kate bitches incessantly in an obnoxious, authoritarian "I'm a MOM!" tone at Jon) is not my idea of must see TV. So while I'm laughing internally that their heavily marketed marriage is falling apart per the gossip internets, I also can't fathom for the life of me why I have to hear unpleasant tales about these two getting some strange on the side.
I can't really blame Jon for straying from his marital bed. I'd probably want to screw faux lesbian kindergarten teachers too, if I had to fight with this harpy about getting some on the regular.
The prospect of Kate's stretch marks alone should be considered a mitigating factor in Jon's adultery. And you know this bitch hasn't given him a BJ in ten years (if ever.) Instead, she uses her mouth to constantly berate and belittle him, so I can understand how a frustrated little fella like Jon might eventually get frustrated and look for a less fortified, non-industrial strength vagina to scribble on with his golf pencil. I don't blame him for making like the Ying Yang Twins and deciding that he's sick and tired of listenin' at ya naggin'. In these pictures from the past weekend, you can almost hear Kate's shrewish bossing-around.
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
And in this picture, you can almost see Jon's lips forming the words "you fucking cunt":
The only thing I'm curious about is why anyone would want to fuck either of these tools. As discussed previously, Kate's naked torso probably looks like a leather hobo bag that got dropped on the subway tracks and run over by a speeding A train and her hair looks like the nexus of a lesbian book club and a tragic Flowbee accident. And for any dumb chick who thinks she's star fucking on Jon, should I remind her that he has EIGHT CHILDREN? That means not only will you have to put up with eight uncontrollable monsters every other weekend, but he will always be broke and trying desperately to keep up with his child support. Any self-respecting skank will not settle for Z-list fame and no fortune, especially when he's a stumpy, easily dominated pussy. In the wise words of Lil' Kim, I'll pass; the dick is trash.
The moral of this story is that kids don't guarantee a happy marriage or a happy family, so don't have eight of them. That will take an already fragile and ill-advised marriage and turn it into fucking around and miserable birthdays. In fifteen years, please believe these kids are going to go on the "Jon and Kate Plus 8 E! True Hollywood Story" to describe in graphic detail how much they loathe their reality whore parents for forcing them to publicly perpetuate their sham of a marriage. Just throw in the towel, Jon and Kate, for your kids' sake and for those of us who don't want your fertile asses cluttering up their gossip pages.
Labels: assholes, destroy all children, media whores, oh the horror, retard rage, scathing indictments, sluts, TV
Monday, May 18, 2009
Seattle is already pissing me off
Don't get me wrong, because I'm excited to be back in the P-N-Dub. Although there are many things I miss about New York, my time in Seattle so far has basically ruled. I have appliances that I've merely fantasized about for the last six years, and I'm very happy doing chores around my comparatively gigantic apartment and listening to my icemaker thump steadily and rapturously. I have a Costco membership, my buddies Morrissey'sHair and TAFKAMA are practically my next-door neighbors, my fridge is loaded with Vitamin R, I partied with Sig Hansen AGAIN at CatchCon, the Mariners are at least doing a little better than they were last year, and I managed to cap off a night of lame wall painting with some hot unexpected lesbian sex. Oh, AND I get to have dinner at my parents' house every weekend! As soon as I identify the location of the nearest Taco Time, life will be all sunshine, Mexi-Fries, and cunnilingus.
However, in spite of my happiness at being back in the verdant corner of the country from whence I came, aspects of Seattle that I consider less than appealing have already begun to draw my ire. I knew it was only a matter of time before this happened. When I lived in Tacoma, Seattle used to piss me off to no end. It turns out, this is still true. While I'm generally enjoying life, a few things have emerged to push my internal "KILL A BITCH" button.
1. Stupid fucking eco-asshole-themed bumper stickers. People in Seattle love to be greener than the Prius driver next door, and they aren't shy about covering their hybrid or their Subaru in stickers proclaiming this. I actually saw a Saturn hybrid (LOSER) that had a bumper sticker reading "TREEHUGGER." This was in the company of a variety of obnoxious self-righteous stickers along the lines of "Ignore the Environment...It Will Go Away," "Have You Thanked a Green Plant Today?," and "The Revolution Will Not Be Motorized." Sha. The Terminator movies have indicated that any major revolution will, in fact, be motorized, and that franchise is more credible than an asshole who puts a "< / car >'" sticker ON HIS FUCKING CAR! Buy some REI fleece instead of blowhard bumper stickers bragging about how "My Prius Accelerates Faster Than Your SUV" and shut your tempeh hole, hippie-crite. Oh, and BT-dubs. That duo of Kucinich '04 and '08 stickers on the back window of your Outback? You should be embarrassed about that.
2. SoapNet is not included in the Seattle Comcast basic digital cable package. The other day I went to watch a rerun of the greatest show in the history of television AKA "Beverly Hills, 90210" and flipped through my new digital cable until I found SoapNet. I was all excited to see Dan Rubin, hot Jewish English nerd, flirt with Andrea "Buzzkill" Zuckerman while she whines condescendingly about the self-loathing Jew running the Alpha Omega sorority, Steve Sanders pledge the KEG house while laying the groundwork for major drama with the nefarious John Sears, David Silver experiment with meth, and Brenda fail miserably at being Jim Walsh's office bitch. Alas, my hopes were dashed when I flipped to SoapNet and discovered that I have to upgrade to a more expensive cable package to get my Bev Niner fix! The fact that I have seen every Bev Niner episode at least five times and own the DVDs is irrelevant. Bev Niner-showing channels should ALWAYS be considered "basic" and included in cable packages accordingly. I also discovered that National Geographic Channel is likewise considered semi-premium when I DVR'd an hour of a blank screen that should have showed me "Locked Up Abroad: Indonesia." I never thought I'd say anything nice about the knuckle-dragging morons who work at Time Warner Cable, but at least they have their priorities in order more than Seattle Comcast.
3. My local pizza place sells RAW pizza. Seriously. I live down the street from this place called 'Zaw, which is not only a stupid fucking name, but they sell uncooked pizza. At first I thought this was one of those places that serves actual raw pizza, but after checking out their website, I realized that it's actually a take-and-bake place. I guess that's slightly better, but it's probably the most self-inflated bake-at-home pizza place–excuse me, I mean "artisan pizza in the raw" place–I've ever seen. On their website their pizza is described as "tummy-nourishing" and "life enhancing." They add snottily, "Not all pizza comes in a grease-stained box. (Ick!)" Parenthetical Ick! is right, at least if we're talking about the asshole who actually managed to make a take-and-bake pizza menu pretentious. Parenthetical Ick! is how I feel about trying to order something called "The Arizawna" or "Formaggio the IV" when I'm drunk and hungry for some grease-stained box pizza and then having to actually cook it. (Fucking hella ICK!)
4. There is a Lady Gaga song on any given radio station at any given time. Yes, Lady Gaga annoyed me plenty in New York too, but I don't recall Hot97 playing "Just Dance" every two seconds. They may have played "Right Now" by Akon or anything by Ne-Yo every two seconds, but not Lady Gaga. Here, I discovered to my extreme chagrin that "Poker Face" was simultaneously eliciting homicidal anger from me on THREE different radio stations. Because my hot Cam'ry doesn't yet have a CD player and I can't be bothered to dig out my old cassette tapes (which consists Vanilla Ice's To The Extreme, NKOTB's entire early 90s repertoire, Out of Time by REM, the Metallica black album, and the Cocktail soundtrack, if I recall), I'm stuck with the radio. Hearing that fug disco skank belt out a casino-themed ode to her own sick game (and I do mean sick...bitch is a blight upon humanity and her face should be reclassified as a disease) does not give me a peaceful attitude about rolling to Taco Time in the Cam'. Lady Gaga sucks and yet the people of western Washington (at least those listening to KUBE 93, Movin' 92.5, or KISS 106) seem to compulsively require regular dosing with the electronically augmented wailing of this club banshee at 5 minute intervals. Please, dear God, can the backlash bred by such relentless overexposure start ruining this hooker's life already?
5. Spiders. In six years in New York City, I maybe saw five spiders. They were all small and manageable. The worst spider incident in NYC involved me discovering a daddy long-legs residing in a corner of the ceiling in my shower, and I had to ask this dude I was banging to exterminate it for me. Here, I have pleasant dreams about daddy long-legs. The spiders in the P-N-Dub are no fucking joke. This weekend I was hanging out with my friend TAFKAMA at his girlfriend's house. We left to go hit the bars, and on the way out, TAFKAMA says something like, "Check that out, Razzy." I look at where he is pointing, and see ONE OF THESE FUCKING THINGS. I freaked out and fled the scene at a sprint, babbling "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod." Once outside, TAFKAMA apologized, saying he didn't realize I was THAT arachnophobic, in spite of having heard anecdotal tales of my great spider-related freakouts for nearly 20 years. I am not pleased about the fact that there is plenty more spider action where this came from.
6. People who can't fucking drive. The greater Seattle-Tacoma region has some of the worst traffic in the country, and this isn't just because state officials have the transportation engineering skills of Paris Hilton. While it is completely asinine that people seem to believe that the solution to all of Seattle's horrible congestion problems is to extend the novelty monorail built as a tourist attraction for the 1962 World's Fair, the real problem is not just based on flawed transit planning. The real problem is all the stupid assholes who can't drive in the rain. If you live in Seattle, your ass really has no excuse AT ALL for going 35 on the freeway just because it's sprinkling. You should be used to driving in the rain since everyone drives here and it rains all the fucking time. You should not freak out and go at a snail's pace, and then stop to let an entire freeway ramp merge in front of you because you drive like a fucking pussy, oblivious to the giant line of cars slowing to a miserable halt on the freeway behind you. I'm not a super aggressive or pissed-off driver, but I also don't act like a passive dick by being "nice" and letting more than one car bust into line in front of me.
I could go on for pages, except I have to go to work. My new job is definitely not giving me a honeymoon period. I already have business cards and a full Outlook schedule! And I have a meeting this morning, which should be sufficiently dull as to allow me to organize my thoughts about the next 6+ points about what to hate in Seattle.
Labels: P-N-Dub, ranting, Razzification, retard rage
Monday, May 04, 2009
Miss me?
First off, let me apologize for being so absent the past three weeks or so. I was finishing up my thesis, defending it, and then jumping through eight zillion bureaucratic hoops you don't even want to hear about in order to get Ph.ake doctored. BUT you can all officially call me Dr. Razzy now. I even have a faincy letter from Columbia saying so. Then, as soon as I finished, I moved to Seattle. Moving cross country sucks just as much as I remember it sucking, so I didn't feel compelled to share that wonderful experience with the few Razzyphiles who haven't either deserted me in disgust or killed themselves in despair over my absence.
Anyway, first things first: I sort-of moved into my new apartment yesterday. My dad had a hilarious conversation about veganism and fake meat with the long-haired Seattle-type guy working the pizza counter at Whole Foods. This was after my dad duly impressed another Whole Foods employee and fellow "Seinfeld" fan with his Vandelay Industries t-shirt, which was declared "awesome." My dad started swaggering around the store, emboldened by his compliments from the Whole Foods guy, complaining he'd left his sunglasses at home because "when you're cool, baby, the sun always shines." Then he pondered employment at Whole Foods, because "people there have some taste, alright."
Then I did some painting and went with my buddy TAFKAMA to find my neighborhood bar. I continually marveled at how cheap everything is. A salad, nachos, a Johnnie Walker rocks, a Jim Beam with soda, and three beers came to $27. In New York that same tab would be at least $50. TAFKAMA also advised me that I live in a "hot new neighborhood." I have my doubts because he also told me this "hot neighborhood" was created by Paul Allen, but nonetheless I have yet to see someone over the age of 35 in my apartment building. This place is like a really modern, well-equipped dorm for grownups. Last night when I was showing him the rooftop deck there were about ten people getting drunk and barbecuing tofu tikka masala or something (ugh, Seattle), and among them were at least two hot guys. I mentioned this, and TAFKAMA mused, "I wonder how long it's going to be before you start doing some asshole who lives a floor or two up from you."
So I still don't have much to report, but hopefully living in the giant South Lake Union version of Melrose Place will change that soon. Already TAFKAMA declared that I look "very gangsta for Seattle," which I think bodes well for pulling in some neighborly ass at a roof deck party. I think.
In any event, cancel your suicide plans because I'm going to be back on the blog with greater frequency. So get those "your fat and old and ugly" insults ready, or alternatively dust off those requests/demands that I show off my tits, so I can ignore them both. I am back to service all your useless bullshit needs. Holla.
Labels: goddamn Seattle, P-N-Dub, Razzification
Sunday, April 12, 2009
World War 6E
I haven't been writing much lately because I've been finishing up my thesis (which will finally be fully done tomorrow) and trying to get everything in order for a cross country move and generally doing a bunch of boring stuff that nobody wants to hear about. In fact, the only notable thing I've been up to is waging a blood feud with my upstairs neighbor. Okay, well maybe it's not quite so bad that blood will be spilled over it, but it's a feud and there's a whole lot of fuming and stomping going on.
Several years ago, I noticed that there was a lot of pounding coming from my ceiling coincident with occasions when I'd bump some Southern ass rap or Kells. Loud jams echoing through my building, and in fact through my building from other nearby buildings, are a normal part of life in my neighborhood. Still, my suspicions about the nature and purpose of these pounding noises were quickly confirmed when my upstairs neighbor advised me that my music disturbed him. I initially tried to keep it low. However, when I would hear him practicing his piano, I figured he was awake and it was okay to chillax with a little Rick Ross at medium volume. Furthermore, I figured I wasn't the only one on his shit list, since he sometimes stomped when I was reading or sleeping and generally not making any noise at all. I figured he'd direct his ire to his other, louder neighbors.
Well, I was wrong. I am this asshole's whipping bitch for every noisy motherfucker in the vicinity. Apparently, because this douche fancies himself some kind of jazz piano composer, I need to to stay quiet as a fucking churchmouse (and, apparently, keep my neighbors quiet too) so he can fully focus on the bullshit "jazz music" he churns out. He plays that hippie sort of jazz that never really begins or ends. In other words, it's a fucking one-man jam session all day. It's like living downstairs from Bruce Hornsby. An even more annoying Bruce Hornsby who first asked me to keep it down, then whined that it interfered with his daily piano abuse, then threatened to call the landlord. Then he apparently did call the landlord, because I received an enlarged photocopy of the section of my lease detailing rules concerning noise in the mail from the management office. Rather than fight, I just kept my music extremely low. And this had, until recently, resulted in an uneasy truce between us.
I understand that he probably feels the same way about my music as I feel about his, but just because he writes terrible music from his rodent-infested slum doesn't mean that it's more important than my right to do what I want in my own apartment. The notion that his bullshit takes precedence over mine just because really pisses me off. And I must have subconsciously been listening to my music a little louder than normal, because a couple months ago the stomping began again in earnest. This time, however, instead of opting for peace, I decided that I was going to piss this obnoxious prick off just as much as he pisses me off.
One day he decided to cool down from a vigorous stomping session by loitering aimlessly outside the building front door. As I passed on my way out he bawled, "Your music's too loud." I mustered the most cunty expression in my repertoire of don't-fuck-with-me-son looks, and said in my most icy tone, "So is yours." And thus, it's on.
He has taken to stomping at the slightest provocation. Originally he took issue with just my rap and R&B collections, but now he's stomping with equal fervor to music as varied as Brahms piano sonatas, Heart, and David Bowie. Unfortunately, I don't have any bootlegged tracks from bands jamming live at Bonnaroo or whatever to test whether or not he'd stomp at something he'd presumably consider more palatable. I think at this point he would stomp regardless of his preferences, because we hate each other that much.
The other day we literally had a pounding contest, and not in a hot way. As a matter of fact, there's no way that sexual diplomacy can resolve this matter, because he is revolting. He looks like he has Marfan's syndrome, because he's built like Abe Lincoln: extremely skinny and tall, with freakishly long limbs. He also is almost bald, but the patchy, thinning Friar Tuck salt-and-pepper hair ringing his ashy-ass skull is long and obviously unfamilar with a brush. When he rocks his beret over the overcompensating, undergroomed mess that is his coiffure, he looks like a skeezy child molester in a Lawrence Ferlinghetti costume. Add to it that he's probably in his mid-40s and still living in a shithole like my building and can't afford a studio or practice space, which suggests to me that most consumers agree with my assessment of his art. There is unequivocally NO WAY even in the most extreme or ridiculous circumstances, I would ever consider standing two feet away from this man, much less fucking him. Our pound-off therefore consisted of me listening to Muse, him stomping, me changing the music to "Fireman" from Tha Carter II, him stomping louder, and me grabbing a broom and pounding on my ceiling in response while shouting "GO FUCK YOURSELF!" through my light fixtures.
Because this situation is rapidly escalating, I decided that it was time to quit fucking around and demand surrender. He spent today working on some major construction project and then had the audacity to stomp when I took a writing break to bounce around to The R. in R&B. So it's time to regain the psychological upper hand in this war, and break his fucking spirit. I took it upon myself to craft a letter full of real talk to be taped to his apartment door like it's the damn church at Wittenberg. Sun Tzu would approve.
Dear Fake Bruce Hornsby,For some time now, I have been enduring your presumptuous stomping on my ceiling whenever you perceive a stray bit of noise coming from the direction of my apartment. I am constantly amazed by the acuity of your hearing, as you have on occasion woken me up with your imperative, obnoxious floor-pounding. I can only assume that in such situations, your exquisitely sensitive audio detection skills have made it possible for my restful breathing to annoy you. Either that, or you for some reason expect me to act as your emissary to any of my neighbors who might have the audacity to listen to music, watch television, open and close the doors in their apartments, and generally make the noise that occurs in the course of living. Once a couple years ago you complained to me about one of my neighbors slamming a door too loudly for your taste, and still seemed to think that was somehow my responsibility despite my informing you that the door slammer was not myself.I am certainly not suggesting that I don't make any noise. I listen to my stereo at a reasonable volume during daytime hours (never late at night), and have never had any complaints from any of my other neighbors. In fact, if my other neighbors did ask me to turn it down (which again, they never have), I would gladly comply. When you first asked me to turn it down, I did so. I even accommodated your podiatric demands for lower volume when you have stomped so frequently and with such ardor that my light fixture rattled and it sounded as though a rehearsal for Riverdance was occurring in your apartment.Sometimes I listen to the stereo more often than I normally would, as I need it to drown out the incessant cacophony of jam-session jazz that pours down from your apartment on a regular basis. As long as I'm being forced to suffer through your meandering, uninspired compositions whenever you get a hankering to practice, I figure I can at least block it out with something I enjoy. I've heard you say numerous times that you are a "musician," as if this somehow means that you can commit noise pollution as a matter of professional necessity and everyone else has to not only tolerate it, but provide you with a quiet atmosphere in which to craft your ghastly generic jazz-flavored non-masterpieces.Granted, given the fact that you live in this dilapidated tenement and the fact that you apparently don't have a studio to practice in, your music career hasn't exactly been successful. I feel slightly sorry for your pathetic attempts to parcel together what scraps of a career you can at any and all hours of the night. However, since your tired, desperate grasps for relevance involve me being forced to aurally consume a largely rejected product such as your entire piano repertoire, I am completely justified in instead choosing to listen to something that the market apparently finds much more palatable, including such multi-platinum-selling artists as Lil' Wayne, T.I., T-Pain, and R. Kelly. And Morrissey. And Lionel Richie. And Metallica. You even got stomping mad about Chopin Nocturnes, and I really honestly can't think of anything quieter and less intrusive than those.Therefore, please believe that from now on, when you start composing your next dissonant snorefest of elementary jazz chord progressions, I will turn on my stereo JUST LOUD ENOUGH to drown you out so that I can exist in peace in my apartment. I will not respond to any future stomping, except by possibly adjusting the volume accordingly. And if you like, you can call the landlord, because I'm more than happy to explain that I'm not the only one who likes music around here. However, good luck getting building management to care, since I'm moving in three weeks. I am sure after that, you will enjoy the dulcet tones of ten loud construction workers gutting and converting the apartment into an illegal one-bedroom so that the landlord can fleece some poor college student WHO ALSO LIKES RAP AND/OR ROCK MUSIC AND/OR ANYTHING BESIDES ORDINARY, SOPORIFIC, INTERMINABLE HIPPIE JAZZ PIANO PIECES.In short, sir, I demand that you cease stomping immediately.Regards,The Bitch Directly Downstairs From You
After writing this, I decided that it might be a little longer than necessary. At the very least, it might be so awesomely crushing that he wouldn't glean the larger "QUIT STOMPING" message from it. I wasn't trying to challenge his feeble mind with a comprehensive account of our ongoing hostilities. So I just wrote:
6E,From now on, whenever you rudely stomp on your floor/my ceiling in response to my music, I will turn said music up. If I have to tolerate your music, you can tolerate mine in return. Feel free to complain about it, because I'm moving in three weeks anyway.Regards,5E
I think it gets the point across. I win again and as usual.
Labels: assholes, Harlem world, overcompensation, ranting, Razzification, retard rage, scathing indictments
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
The deadliest night out
I should have been working on my thesis yesterday, but JerseyGirl called me up and said that I had to go out with her. I told her it was not a good time. I'm handing in my thesis this week.
"Razzy, I have a surprise celebrity for you to meet. And YOU HAVE TO COME. I would tell you to skip your wedding for this. You are going to cereally bug when you see who it is."
That was enough to pique my interest. "Who is it?"
"I'm not telling. But you are going to LOSE IT. I can't wait to see your face. You don't have a choice. You are coming out for drinks."
"Okay, fine, I'm coming. But seriously, who is it? Is it R. Kelly? I'm going to have a fucking heart attack if I have drinks with Kells. Is it Lil' Kim? Is it Lil' Wayne?!" Now I was not only sold on coming, I was determined to find out who I was meeting so I didn't act like a total asshole.
"Not telling. I'm going back to work. Just dress classy, but show a little cleave."
"It's not anyone from the New York Yankees, is it?" JerseyGirl is, unfortunately, a Yankees fan, so I worried that she might be bringing me to meet one of Satan's pinstriped minions just because I'm more into sports than most of our other girlfriends.
"I wouldn't pull strings so you could meet someone you hate! It's not a Yankee. But I'm not telling. See you at 8 sharp at the Time Warner Center tomorrow."
So I spent every spare moment yesterday pestering JerseyGirl and all our friends to whom she disclosed this mystery guest's identity about the matter. All I could ascertain was that it wasn't Chris Hansen or Geraldo. I figured that it probably wasn't Belladonna, since JerseyGirl doesn't watch porn and wouldn't know who that was, and probably wouldn't be meeting with her and a bunch of cable news producers. I also figured that it probably wasn't anyone from the cast of "Battlestar: Galactica," since she doesn't watch that, and I cried twice during the series finale neither do I. Despite wishful thinking, I also didn't think R. Kelly was the type who would personally attend such a function. And I knew Lil' Kim is currently in L.A. filming "Dancing With the Stars." So I settled on the notion that I was going to be meeting Morrissey, only because I've had a hard-on for him since I was a moody baby dyke, I'm definitely more into him than any of our other friends, and he was in town this past week.
I was thus really excited, and got to the Time Warner Center a little early. I decided I should eat something to calm my nerves, so I went to Whole Foods and got some fancy pizza. I was still so wound up that I could barely concentrate on mocking the people next to me in the cafeteria who were clearly on a first date at WHOLE FUCKING FOODS via text to JerseyGirl. Normally I have all sorts of scathing things to say about this unbelievably stupid practice, but all I could manage was a text reading "People who go on dates at Whole Foods are lame." JerseyGirl replied, "I know, ew. See you in 5."
So I went upstairs to meet her, and then we went to the bar. Nobody was there. "I'm meeting Morrissey, aren't I?"
"Razzy, SHUT UP. I'm not telling you. You'll see in a minute."
Then the special guests arrived. Morrissey was not among them, but I did see a familiar face. It was Captain Keith from the F/V Wizard on "Deadliest Catch!" And then, behind him, like a hero of Valhalla in the flesh, came the shining, Nordic godlike countenance of ***CAPTAIN SIG HANSEN OF THE F/V NORTHWESTERN***!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I was speechless for a minute, before I advised him that once on MySpace he linked to my blog and declared me his .1 fan. I was disappointed to learn that this wasn't actually him, but someone who runs his MySpace page for him, but who cares? I was meeting Sig in person and that's way better than a MySpace comment any day. He actually blushed when I told him that I once wrote that I was surprised he didn't melt the frozen sea spray off the Northwestern's rigging just by standing near it. He recovered, ordered an Absolut and Coke (aka "Norwegian champagne") and proceeded to match my Johnnie Walkers drink for drink.
I chatted Keith and his wife up for a while, and they were both very nice people. I learned that both Captain Keith and Sig think their wives have much more difficult jobs. I was very pleased to see that fame hadn't gone to any of their heads, and they were really cool, down-to-earth people. Sig was thrilled when I understood that "kukslikke" means "cocksucker" in Norwegian, and was impressed by my proficiency in swearing, which is at the advanced level of any given cowboy mining the Bering Sea for "red gold." Sig thought it was hilarious that I went brunette because my Sarah Palin Halloween costume was so successful. We commiserated about how lutefisk is gross, and I almost wept with joy when Sig told me that being a small girl wouldn't prohibit me from fishing myself. "Jake Harris is scrawnier than you," he told me. I didn't mention that I doubted I was tough enough to handle the extreme conditions or the frequent almost-dying part of the job. And of course I took pictures. This is what I look like when extremely happy on account of being flanked by two incredibly hot REAL MEN.
At the end of the night, there was nobody left but myself, Sig, and his handlers, and Sig wanted to go to another bar. I thought that was a capital idea. He wanted to go to some Irish bar that he got into a fistfight in during his last visit, although he couldn't remember anything about it except that it was around the corner from where he stayed last time, and the owner's name was Mickey. He finally called his brother Edgar (!!!!) to figure it out, and got the name. Unfortunately, his handlers advised us that he had an early morning, and it was not a good idea. So I just finished smoking the unfiltered Camel I bummed from Sig, and hopped in a cab so that I could go home and freak out about having just met Sig in person. The Discovery Channel guy told me to call him today about going out tonight instead, so I've got my fingers crossed that I'll get to witness Sig brawling with some local riffraff tonight. Or at least throw back a few more cocktails with him. If not, hopefully I'll at least get to see him at "CatchCon," which appropriately enough is the afternoon before the annual Crab Feed that I attend at my high school.
And on that note, I better get off cloud fucking nine and get some work done so I can (maybe) go raise hell with Sig tonight.
P.S. JerseyGirl, YOU FUCKING RULE! MAJOR FRIEND POINTS! *MAJOR!*
Labels: celebrities, Deadliest Catch, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, NYC, Razzification, TV
Monday, March 30, 2009
Raise your voice
Yesterday I was reading Dlisted, my main go-to site for celebrity e-bitchery, and laughed out loud when its author Michael K. wrote that Ashton Kutcher is the type to "give his peen a 'voice' while you're trying to blow him." Not only does that sound about right concerning the bedroom habits of the insufferably juvenile Mr. Kutcher, but it reminded me of the infrequently discussed but nonetheless relevant topic of talking on behalf of your genitalia and I felt compelled to weigh in on the matter.
Years ago, when I lived in beautiful Tacoma, Washington, the City of Destiny, I banged this dude who would translate for his penis while we were getting sexy. Specifically, he referred to it as "the boy" or "his boy," and wanted to relay its opinion to me throughout our drunken fucking. We were doing it and he said something like, "My boy feels great." Initially I was confused about what he meant and ignored it. However, he continued in this vein with comments like "Damn, my boy thinks you have a great pussy" and "the boy isn't going to last much longer if you keep going like this," and then attempted to engage me about it. He said something completely idiotic like "my boy wants to know if he's the best you've ever had?" I laughed in his face and responded with something like, "Tell your boy to shut up and fuck me."
This dude was definitely the Ashton Kutcher type. I knew him from around the Tacoma bar scene and from my interactions with him at such storied establishments as Hank's and Magoo's, I knew that he hung drywall or did construction or something and his life's ambition was to take surfing lessons. He had a tattoo of a sun with an ankh or a yin-yang or something along those lines on his upper back, even though he was the farthest thing imaginable from an eastern mystic. He also had an armband tat of some fake-me-out Celtic design and a Chinese character (that I like to think was the symbol for "tool") on his ankle like a damn girl. I had been at his apartment one time and he had taped torn-out pages from the Victoria's Secret catalog all over the walls by the toilet. I have no problem with dudes who keep their spank literature in plain view. In fact, I respect the brazen attitude of a dude who will leave his stack of Hustlers next to the john in plain view. However, taping ripped out pages of Heidi Klum selling 2 for 1 Angel bras for $49.99 as bathroom decor is a whole other level of douchebaggery, and cheap douchebaggery at that. Can't you at least buy a Maxim or something if you insist on decorating your bathroom with softcore jerk-off material? If this guy weren't cute in a Tacoma kind of way (meaning just okay) and I hadn't consumed half the stock of Sapphire gin at Magoo's that night, I probably wouldn't have seriously considered bagging him or his United Nations tattoos. In fact, my friend MillerTime had a crush on him and I wasn't going to go there out of deference for our friendship; however, she wasn't at the bar that night, and he was moving to Florida the next day. I figured that she'd never get her shot, and I might as well not let the dick go to waste.
Unfortunately, I didn't realize I'd be getting color commentary courtesy of "his boy" about the awesomeness of my vagina and its compatibility with said name-bearing penis. He didn't even stop when I laughed at him. In fact, he kept babbling on about "his boy" without saying anything in particular. It was like listening to Dick Vitale call our one-night stand. Then after "his boy" finished the job and retreated to its resting state, he bitched at me for smoking in my own apartment and plugged my toilet! He was a real charmer.
Since then, I've fortunately not come across anyone who said such asinine things on behalf of his penis during sex. I have had other guys say some silly stuff, like demanding that I compare their cock to smoked meat, shouting "DRAINAGE!" while ejaculating on my ass, or promising that I was about to be "split in half by (his) big, black snake." Luckily, however, I've never had another dude either attempt to interpret for his penis or assume the guise of his penis and chat me up. I don't think there is any way to make that hot.
Oh the other hand, I have successfully managed to talk with someone's genitalia myself, so I should never say never. A while back, I was banging this dude who set the tone by turning on some Skinemax original programming prior to us hooking up. I usually go straight to the internet for my porn because I don't like to trifle with any boring softcore bullshit, so I hadn't seen anything in that genre for awhile. It turns out that it's not the "Red Shoe Diaries" that I remember, which was sort of fake-classy (at least it referred to its actresses as "glamour models") and rarely showed much besides tits. Today's Skinemax, however, showed constant, close-up, full-frontal pussy shots and Randy Spears was in it! However, there still was not any real fucking in it, and the acting was TERRIBLE. Not that I expect an Oscar-worthy performance from the cast of "Co-Ed Confidential," but given that half of them are actual porn stars, I would expect them to at least believably simulate sex. There was one chick pretending to give a dude a blow job and her head was bouncing around so vigorously she looked like a damn jack-in-the-box. I started ranting indignantly about this, and after a few minutes, the honey took matters into his own hands and asked why I was wearing so many clothes. That reminded me that I did not go over to his apartment to critique the acting on Cinemax, and got down to business.
However, I couldn't get over the shoddiness of the travesty on television, and continued to jabber on about it while we were hooking up. Granted, my statements on the matter became much more terse, but I wasn't going to rest until I had vented. So I said something like, "This is what a fucking blow job looks like," and started fellating him between brief statements excoriating the unconvincing product that Cinemax was selling. I finally shut up once we started actually fucking, because only then was I distracted enough by my imminent orgasm to get over my critical disappointment in today's original softcore programming. Afterward, we were chatting while waiting for the dude to recharge, and he said, "I was really impressed with the way you were able to carry on a conversation at the same time as giving me head. I wasn't even annoyed."
"Uh, thanks," I said, then I noticed that Wild Orchid was now on Skinemax. "Hey, young Mickey Rourke! Now that's hot."
My dude was undeterred and continued, "Seriously, feel free to argue with my dick any time. It was a great blow job, and you made many excellent points."
"And you only made one," I said, grabbing his dick and realizing he was good to go again. Mollified, I proceeded to spend the rest of the night doing him with no complaints. Now, thinking back, I realized what a fine line there is between talking to and for your genitals. Talking to is clearly hot and sexy when done correctly by a pro ho like myself. Talking for, however, is just not okay. Ever. Fellas, if I want to talk to your cock, I will. Otherwise, tell it to keep its yap shut and just do its damn job. So let it be written, so let it be done.
Labels: perversion, ranting, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, sex, sluts, weiners
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Calling all ancient Greek sea monsters
Ahoy! The world's biggest dickbag has departed dry land and is now tweeting feverishly from the bounding main. A Carnival cruise ship was renamed the "Mayer Craft," thus ensuring that it is no longer worthy of the title "Fun Ship," and is slowly chugging its loathsome cargo from Long Beach, California to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. 
Yes, in yet another failed attempt at wit and humor, the Emperor of All Things Douchebaggy, John Mayer, donned his nautical-themed coochie cutters and welcomed his unfortunate fellow seamen aboard. When I die, this is what I expect Charon will look like as he prepares to ferry me across the river Styx to my eternal damnation: a dickless apparition born from an unholy alliance between old "Love Boat" episodes and any given roofie-slipping frathouse date rapist. Like the former, John Mayer isn't particularly amusing. Like the latter, he is obviously guilty of greatly exaggerating his manhood and thus suffers from a pathological need to overcompensate. I've been hearing all these rumors about how big John Mayer's wang is, and have been disputing them ever since. In these photos, I'm only seeing the slightest hint of knob, and SKINNY knob at that. Please believe that with a set of trunks like these, a veteran cock enthusiast such as myself could easily spot an impressive specimen from 50 nautical miles away. Thanks to his bulgeless short shorts, I am now confident that I am right about how NOT hung his bitch-ass is. John Mayer is, was, and ever shall be a golf pencil-rocking assclown. Trust.
John Mayer is busy turning a perfectly good cruise ship into the modern day equivalent of the Flying Dutchman, a harbinger of ill fate and maritime disaster, so the least I can do is hope that the innocent tourists aboard are put out of their misery before suffering through four days. As this isn't hurricane season, the only option seems to be a seafaring tragedy of mythological proportions to befall the Mayer Craft immediately. Since Scylla and Charybdis seem pretty content to stay put in the Strait of Messina, I'm thinking the Kraken is just the sea monster for the job. Hopefully, John Mayer will soon announce that his beauty surpasses that of the goddess Thetis, drawing her ire. Then she'll pester Poseidon to summon the Kraken, and since Perseus is busy being a constellation, there will be nobody to stop it from totally owning the Mayer Craft. Admittedly this plan is a little far-fetched, but hell...it worked in Clash of the Titans! And not only did that movie rule, but Thetis AKA Dame Maggie Smith is indeed hotter than John Mayer, so my hopes are high. With regard to Mr. Flat-Front Seaman Shorts here, the Kraken needs to get cracking.
[RAZZY Note: Yes, I know the Kraken is actually Scandinavian, and the correct Greek monster in the whole Perseus-Andromeda story is actually Cetus. I did read Edith Hamilton's Mythology like 50 fucking times. Clearly the people behind Clash of the Titans should have too. Either that, or they just decided that my Viking people had better sea monsters than those so-called "classical" Greeks. Either way, the movie still fucking rules, and John Mayer does not. The end.]
Labels: assholes, John Mayer sucks, nerd alert, ranting, seamen, small penises
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