Thursday, March 08, 2007
Yet another blow to my dreams of modeling
Because grad students make no money, I'm always on the lookout for some easy extra work to subsidize my alcoholism. My mother is also on the lookout on my behalf, because when extra work is hard to come by, she ends up arranging yet another specialty interest-free loan from the Bank of Razzy. She called me a while ago to tell me that she'd pimped out my services professionally to one of her friends.
My mother is an ultrasound technician by trade, and one of her favorite ultrasound-manufacturers is a company that is hilariously called Siemens (and yes, it's pronounced "semens".) I'm always making jokes to her about how she takes classes to improve her handling of Siemens probes and how she thinks every radiology department should have Siemens machines in them. I've covered this topic with her so much that at Christmas she actually dug out a t-shirt that says "You can't afford to gamble on your ultrasound purchase--INVEST IN SIEMENS."
Anyway, Siemens apparently hires models for ultrasound conferences to demonstate their superior ultrasound equipment, and they pay like $150 an hour. My mom gave me some woman's name and insisted that I e-mail her to offer my services. After all, my mom has scanned me a zillion times (when I was a kid and she was getting some new certification, she would practice on me and my little brother), and knows that I'm comfortable with it. In the course of doing all these abdominal ultrasounds on me, she has established that I have a "textbook pancreas." It would be easy money for me to just lay there and let the Siemens people demonstrate on me. Since I was talking to my mother, I refrained from any cracks about how I'm also accustomed to having Siemens all over my torso. I told my mother, "What does this involve? Because with my luck I'll end up on the vagina machine."
"Oh, Razzy, I doubt they do public demonstrations of the transvaginal probe. Besides, that's usually for pregnant women....you aren't pregnant are you?"
"No! I just don't feel like having all the people at the ultrasound conference getting a weiner's eye view of my cooch and female plumbing."
"Razzy!" I don't know why my mother is shocked any more when I say shit like this.
"Well, I don't! I'll do abdominal, or vascular, or an echo, or even breast, but I don't want to spend the day in a pair of stirrups."
"Just e-mail the Siemens lady and find out if there are any modeling jobs available. I'm sure you won't have to do anything besides pull up your shirt."
So I e-mailed this woman and finally heard back from her about modeling. The response was negative. Last night I was talking to my mom on the phone, and the first question was not "How are you?" or "Are you busy?", but "Did you hear back from the Siemens people yet about modeling?"
"Yes, Mom. They e-mailed me back last Friday and rejected me."
"Why? Do they already have enough people? Did you tell them you're used to being scanned?"
"Yes, Mom, I totally sold myself. I said that I have no modesty or shame and that I am an old veteran of being ultrasounded for demonstrative purposes. I even bragged about my sexy pancreas."
"Well, what was the problem?"
"Gender discrimination. Not that it's surprising given their name, but Siemens is biased toward men. They only hire male models for their trade shows."
"I wonder why that is?"
"Probably so nobody has to see my offensive tits when they're trying to do show their Doppler heart valve thingies on their echocardiogram machine."
"Razzy! It is a conference of medical professionals. I don't think they find the sight of breasts offensive." She had a somewhat accusatory tone, like it was my ideas or uncouth behavior that discouraged Siemens from hiring women.
"Well, it wasn't my idea not to hire chicks. That's just their policy for this upcoming conference, anyway."
"What about other conferences besides the one coming up?" I could see where this was going. My mom wanted me to pester the Siemens model scout about future work.
"I don't know, Mom, she said she would keep me in mind," I replied. The Siemens rep had said that, but given that this is one of the greatest blowoff lines of all time, I wasn't particularly hopeful. "What else am I supposed to do? I'm not e-mailing her every day to ask if there's another conference coming up. She knows I'm interested and she has my contact information."
My mother sounded slightly crestfallen. I wonder if she thought that, in addition to me hitting her up for less extra cash, she'd be able to boast in her office break room that her daughter is a Siemens girl. I guess Siemens is the Prada of ultrasounds, and getting paid to let them image my internal organs is the equivalent of a runway show at fashion week in Milan.
"I'll tell you what, Mom. Next time I'm home I'll go into your office and you can scan me and we'll shoot a portfolio. Then I can get an agent, and hopefully I'll be America's Next Top Ultrasound Model."
"You're making fun of me, aren't you, Razzy?"
"Just a little. As you know, I use humor to disguise the pain of being rejected. I have to make jokes to compensate for my crushed spirit pursuant to having my dream of being a Siemens model cruelly snatched away."
"Stop it! I get it, I get it."
"Don't worry, Mom, I can make money on the side other ways. I have that part-time job as an technology analyst for the university's patent office, and any day now my website will take off."
"So anyway, what are you up to now?" she asked. The quickest way to initiate a subject change with my parents is to act like I'm about to start telling them about my website. My mom read it once in summer 2005, when it was basically nothing but a review of a 50 Cent album and a biography page, and there were too many "f-words" then. Fortunately, at that time she swore off reading it ever again, and now pretends like it doesn't exist, because I shudder to think what she would say if she decided to catch up on my blog archives.
In any event, I'm too short to model based on my external features and too female to model based on my internal features, so it looks like I must placate myself with dreams of what it would be like to use my legendary features selling Siemens machines while I toil away doing virology research. And on that note, I have to go to lab now.
My mother is an ultrasound technician by trade, and one of her favorite ultrasound-manufacturers is a company that is hilariously called Siemens (and yes, it's pronounced "semens".) I'm always making jokes to her about how she takes classes to improve her handling of Siemens probes and how she thinks every radiology department should have Siemens machines in them. I've covered this topic with her so much that at Christmas she actually dug out a t-shirt that says "You can't afford to gamble on your ultrasound purchase--INVEST IN SIEMENS."
Anyway, Siemens apparently hires models for ultrasound conferences to demonstate their superior ultrasound equipment, and they pay like $150 an hour. My mom gave me some woman's name and insisted that I e-mail her to offer my services. After all, my mom has scanned me a zillion times (when I was a kid and she was getting some new certification, she would practice on me and my little brother), and knows that I'm comfortable with it. In the course of doing all these abdominal ultrasounds on me, she has established that I have a "textbook pancreas." It would be easy money for me to just lay there and let the Siemens people demonstrate on me. Since I was talking to my mother, I refrained from any cracks about how I'm also accustomed to having Siemens all over my torso. I told my mother, "What does this involve? Because with my luck I'll end up on the vagina machine."
"Oh, Razzy, I doubt they do public demonstrations of the transvaginal probe. Besides, that's usually for pregnant women....you aren't pregnant are you?"
"No! I just don't feel like having all the people at the ultrasound conference getting a weiner's eye view of my cooch and female plumbing."
"Razzy!" I don't know why my mother is shocked any more when I say shit like this.
"Well, I don't! I'll do abdominal, or vascular, or an echo, or even breast, but I don't want to spend the day in a pair of stirrups."
"Just e-mail the Siemens lady and find out if there are any modeling jobs available. I'm sure you won't have to do anything besides pull up your shirt."
So I e-mailed this woman and finally heard back from her about modeling. The response was negative. Last night I was talking to my mom on the phone, and the first question was not "How are you?" or "Are you busy?", but "Did you hear back from the Siemens people yet about modeling?"
"Yes, Mom. They e-mailed me back last Friday and rejected me."
"Why? Do they already have enough people? Did you tell them you're used to being scanned?"
"Yes, Mom, I totally sold myself. I said that I have no modesty or shame and that I am an old veteran of being ultrasounded for demonstrative purposes. I even bragged about my sexy pancreas."
"Well, what was the problem?"
"Gender discrimination. Not that it's surprising given their name, but Siemens is biased toward men. They only hire male models for their trade shows."
"I wonder why that is?"
"Probably so nobody has to see my offensive tits when they're trying to do show their Doppler heart valve thingies on their echocardiogram machine."
"Razzy! It is a conference of medical professionals. I don't think they find the sight of breasts offensive." She had a somewhat accusatory tone, like it was my ideas or uncouth behavior that discouraged Siemens from hiring women.
"Well, it wasn't my idea not to hire chicks. That's just their policy for this upcoming conference, anyway."
"What about other conferences besides the one coming up?" I could see where this was going. My mom wanted me to pester the Siemens model scout about future work.
"I don't know, Mom, she said she would keep me in mind," I replied. The Siemens rep had said that, but given that this is one of the greatest blowoff lines of all time, I wasn't particularly hopeful. "What else am I supposed to do? I'm not e-mailing her every day to ask if there's another conference coming up. She knows I'm interested and she has my contact information."
My mother sounded slightly crestfallen. I wonder if she thought that, in addition to me hitting her up for less extra cash, she'd be able to boast in her office break room that her daughter is a Siemens girl. I guess Siemens is the Prada of ultrasounds, and getting paid to let them image my internal organs is the equivalent of a runway show at fashion week in Milan.
"I'll tell you what, Mom. Next time I'm home I'll go into your office and you can scan me and we'll shoot a portfolio. Then I can get an agent, and hopefully I'll be America's Next Top Ultrasound Model."
"You're making fun of me, aren't you, Razzy?"
"Just a little. As you know, I use humor to disguise the pain of being rejected. I have to make jokes to compensate for my crushed spirit pursuant to having my dream of being a Siemens model cruelly snatched away."
"Stop it! I get it, I get it."
"Don't worry, Mom, I can make money on the side other ways. I have that part-time job as an technology analyst for the university's patent office, and any day now my website will take off."
"So anyway, what are you up to now?" she asked. The quickest way to initiate a subject change with my parents is to act like I'm about to start telling them about my website. My mom read it once in summer 2005, when it was basically nothing but a review of a 50 Cent album and a biography page, and there were too many "f-words" then. Fortunately, at that time she swore off reading it ever again, and now pretends like it doesn't exist, because I shudder to think what she would say if she decided to catch up on my blog archives.
In any event, I'm too short to model based on my external features and too female to model based on my internal features, so it looks like I must placate myself with dreams of what it would be like to use my legendary features selling Siemens machines while I toil away doing virology research. And on that note, I have to go to lab now.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, family matters, science, vanity
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Prepare for the fierceness
HotLawyer texted me last night to inform me there was a new episode of "To Catch a Predator" on Dateline. Unfortunately, because he texted me on West Coast time, not only was the kewlness long over here, I wouldn't have been able to catch it anyways as during "TCaP" I was drinking Tsingtaos and scotch with KatieScarlett at our favorite Chinatown bar, Winnie's. There were no Seahawks fans this time, but instead they were watching "Jeopardy!" when we arrived, and I totally cleaned up in the "Double Z" and "Biblical Anagram" categories. I didn't think to ask the staff at Winnie's if they would turn on Dateline at 8 (partly because 8 p.m. signaled the start of Cantonese karaoke hour AND I was involved in a long conversation with the bartender about the mythology of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles). Because of my despair over missing the new "TCaP" and my consequent lamentations that I didn't get HotLawyer's reminder text until this morning, it almost escaped my notice that tonight, one of the finest reality shows ever to grace American TV screens starts yet another season (or "cycle", as it's referred to on the show):
YES! I totally watched the free preview on the CW's website, and already I've decided who I hate (the blonde girl on the top left looks like she just smoked a pound of homemade meth while she gurgles semi-coherently about "how I just, like, think I'm going to have, like, the best time and it's gonnna be, like, so fun", while the blonde girl at the bottom claims to be "extremely intelligent" and says "I have such a tenacity of this industry"...what? ) and who I love (the girl with the fro on the upper right goes about how nice she is going to be to everyone else, but "don't get it twisted...it's all about me" and the girl on the very bottom claims she's never had a girlfriend on account of "the expression on my face...everyone thinks I'm a bitch." Believe me, honey, you ARE!)
And you better believe the featured ho on this show is still this crazy, tacky, cheap extension-wearing Oprah wannabe:
YES! I totally watched the free preview on the CW's website, and already I've decided who I hate (the blonde girl on the top left looks like she just smoked a pound of homemade meth while she gurgles semi-coherently about "how I just, like, think I'm going to have, like, the best time and it's gonnna be, like, so fun", while the blonde girl at the bottom claims to be "extremely intelligent" and says "I have such a tenacity of this industry"...what? ) and who I love (the girl with the fro on the upper right goes about how nice she is going to be to everyone else, but "don't get it twisted...it's all about me" and the girl on the very bottom claims she's never had a girlfriend on account of "the expression on my face...everyone thinks I'm a bitch." Believe me, honey, you ARE!)
And you better believe the featured ho on this show is still this crazy, tacky, cheap extension-wearing Oprah wannabe:
In the preview, Tyra immediately launches into how she chose not one but TWO plus-sized models because she's tired of everyone calling her fat. She plans to show them how they can love themselves because their extra cellulite makes them different in a good way, and promptly sets a great example for self-acceptance by Photoshopping the shit out of both of them and herself in all the promotional pictures. I bet one of the fat girls wins just so Tyra can continue ranting on her other show about how just because she weighs 150 pounds more now than when she was on the cover of the '97 Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue doesn't mean she's not still "poppin'" (sha right...in order to legitimately "pop" anything besides the waistband of her pants, bitch needs to drop the excess lard and lose the busted weave!). Already Tyra and the aspiring Lane Bryant spokesmodels are bitching about society and how it hurts their feelings when they get called fat. After all, it's not their fault they're too lazy to do any exercise besides lifting spoons full of Haagen-Dazs up to their mouths.
As usual, all the girls go on about how this is their dream come true, and who can blame them? My dream was always to be counted among the ranks of such famed beauties as Adrianne Curry, Yoanna House, Eva Pigford, Naima Mora, Nicole Linkletter, Danielle Evans, and Caridee English. Of course, the only one who might have a somewhat recognizable name is Adrianne Curry, and that's for being a reality TV whore and marrying Peter Brady rather than her illustrious modeling career, but whatever...it WAS my dream until fate rudely stole it from me because I'm five inches too short (and now five years too old) to even apply for the opportunity to read Tyra Mail, live in a house wallpapered with vintage Tyra Elle covers, participate in Tyra-centric photo shoots, let Tyra rub Vaseline all over my face and tell me she's the ultimate stylist, and possibly get yelled at by Tyra for not taking the show seriously enough. Remember in season 2 or 3 when she flipped out because the chick wasn't sufficiently sad that she got kicked off the show? That was awesome. Anyway, when I finally accepted that competing for the title of "Top Model" was not an option for me, I had to grudgingly fall back on plan B (Ph.D. in microbiology).
Also, I'm terribly depressed that the following twink won't get to criticize the way I walk or the clothes I wear, because I totally appreciate getting fashion advice from a dude (?) who spent an entire cycle wearing a spring table centerpiece as his trademark boutonierre, and currently rocks a look that's one part leprechaun, one part Catholic school girl, and one part tennis pro.
Yes, professional runway coach and "Top Model" judge J. Alexander's fashion sense is so irreparably fucked that he declared Nicole Kidman best-dressed at the Oscars the other night on E!'s "Fashion Police", and she looked like an emaciated swatch of Christmas bunting, but that doesn't stop him from derisively bellowing "Oh, HELL no," or dismissively hissing "oh, girl...please," when the contestants try to explain themselves to him at judging. I would like some clarification concerning J. Alexander's gender identity, as he answers to "Miss J" and still uses the pronoun "he", which I find very confusing. I guess his florid color schemes and tendency to make snarling cat faces is fitting for this cycle's theme of "Welcome to the Jungle."
Somehow I suspect this season of "ANTM" won't be quite as asskicking as the Guns 'n' Roses song of the same name, but hopefully it will at least be more exciting than last cycle. So far, it's looking promising...there's two fat girls, two morons who think they're smart, two unrepentant bitches, and a whole host of dumbasses staking their lives and identities on this reality TV trash, and that's hopefully a recipe for not boring the life out of me like the broads did last cycle.
J-Sexy best charge up her phone, because I predict she'll be receiving some fierce text messages from me around 8 pm EST!
As usual, all the girls go on about how this is their dream come true, and who can blame them? My dream was always to be counted among the ranks of such famed beauties as Adrianne Curry, Yoanna House, Eva Pigford, Naima Mora, Nicole Linkletter, Danielle Evans, and Caridee English. Of course, the only one who might have a somewhat recognizable name is Adrianne Curry, and that's for being a reality TV whore and marrying Peter Brady rather than her illustrious modeling career, but whatever...it WAS my dream until fate rudely stole it from me because I'm five inches too short (and now five years too old) to even apply for the opportunity to read Tyra Mail, live in a house wallpapered with vintage Tyra Elle covers, participate in Tyra-centric photo shoots, let Tyra rub Vaseline all over my face and tell me she's the ultimate stylist, and possibly get yelled at by Tyra for not taking the show seriously enough. Remember in season 2 or 3 when she flipped out because the chick wasn't sufficiently sad that she got kicked off the show? That was awesome. Anyway, when I finally accepted that competing for the title of "Top Model" was not an option for me, I had to grudgingly fall back on plan B (Ph.D. in microbiology).
Also, I'm terribly depressed that the following twink won't get to criticize the way I walk or the clothes I wear, because I totally appreciate getting fashion advice from a dude (?) who spent an entire cycle wearing a spring table centerpiece as his trademark boutonierre, and currently rocks a look that's one part leprechaun, one part Catholic school girl, and one part tennis pro.
Yes, professional runway coach and "Top Model" judge J. Alexander's fashion sense is so irreparably fucked that he declared Nicole Kidman best-dressed at the Oscars the other night on E!'s "Fashion Police", and she looked like an emaciated swatch of Christmas bunting, but that doesn't stop him from derisively bellowing "Oh, HELL no," or dismissively hissing "oh, girl...please," when the contestants try to explain themselves to him at judging. I would like some clarification concerning J. Alexander's gender identity, as he answers to "Miss J" and still uses the pronoun "he", which I find very confusing. I guess his florid color schemes and tendency to make snarling cat faces is fitting for this cycle's theme of "Welcome to the Jungle."
Somehow I suspect this season of "ANTM" won't be quite as asskicking as the Guns 'n' Roses song of the same name, but hopefully it will at least be more exciting than last cycle. So far, it's looking promising...there's two fat girls, two morons who think they're smart, two unrepentant bitches, and a whole host of dumbasses staking their lives and identities on this reality TV trash, and that's hopefully a recipe for not boring the life out of me like the broads did last cycle.
J-Sexy best charge up her phone, because I predict she'll be receiving some fierce text messages from me around 8 pm EST!
Labels: America's Next Top Model, crazies, fat fucks, J-Sexy, media whores, TV
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Dude does NOT look like a lady
So the dedicated and ferocious Razzyphile BigWig has graciously provided a link to what I assume is a picture of the Indian sprinter being stripped of his/her Asian Games silver medal in the women's 800 meter race for "failing a gender test." I figured that this sprinter would be more of the type who looked like my ex-girlfriend from high school: a little too tall and muscular, and lacking feminine curviness, but still undoubtedly female and probably getting laid like the sultan of Dubai at lesbian bars for her butchiness. While my high school ex is a tad on the androgynous side (and I think these days it's a look she's embraced), I can say that I've personally performed a gender test on her in the course of our teenage experimenting, and she passed the plumbing portion of the exam.
The Indian track star, however, is undeniably a dude. I've seen drag hookers in the Meatpacking district who are less obviously male than this person. I can't even imagine how s/he got into women's international competition in the first place. Granted, I bet that openly transgendered people are much more of a rarity in India than they are here, and I bet it's also harder to get the hormones and surgeries needed to make the switch, but it's like this dude didn't even try. It reminds me of those bitches at Smith that would cut their hair and rename themselves Colin or Bobby or Julian, and then expect everyone to immediately refer to them with masculine pronouns without explaining themselves. I got into trouble with several Smith trannies back in the day because of such confusion, and to this day I'm still uncertain when a half-assed tranny crosses my path how to properly address them (ie: Miss J, judge, runway walking coach, and instigator of idiot Tyra Banks behavior from "America's Next Top Model.") Santhi Soudarajan seemingly just expected everyone to take his word for it that s/he's a chick, without really putting any effort into ensuring that the transformation is complete. Maybe it's hard to schedule an Adam's apple shaving with a New Delhi plastic surgeon, but at the very least, wear some WOMEN'S CLOTHES, dumbass! That's the least you can do before you try to pass yourself off as female in international competitions. See for yourself:
She's a man, baby!
The Indian track star, however, is undeniably a dude. I've seen drag hookers in the Meatpacking district who are less obviously male than this person. I can't even imagine how s/he got into women's international competition in the first place. Granted, I bet that openly transgendered people are much more of a rarity in India than they are here, and I bet it's also harder to get the hormones and surgeries needed to make the switch, but it's like this dude didn't even try. It reminds me of those bitches at Smith that would cut their hair and rename themselves Colin or Bobby or Julian, and then expect everyone to immediately refer to them with masculine pronouns without explaining themselves. I got into trouble with several Smith trannies back in the day because of such confusion, and to this day I'm still uncertain when a half-assed tranny crosses my path how to properly address them (ie: Miss J, judge, runway walking coach, and instigator of idiot Tyra Banks behavior from "America's Next Top Model.") Santhi Soudarajan seemingly just expected everyone to take his word for it that s/he's a chick, without really putting any effort into ensuring that the transformation is complete. Maybe it's hard to schedule an Adam's apple shaving with a New Delhi plastic surgeon, but at the very least, wear some WOMEN'S CLOTHES, dumbass! That's the least you can do before you try to pass yourself off as female in international competitions. See for yourself:
Labels: America's Next Top Model, exercise drama, gender bending, international intrigue
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
And I was trying to relax...
To get my skyrocketing blood pressure and anxiety problem under control, I've been watching LOTS of TV to ensure that I make like J-Sexy and "chillax." Tonight, I'm watching the season finale of "America's Next Top Model," which is markedly increasing my calmness quotient in spite of Tyra Banks's obscenely horrible red-and-purple, wide patent leather Santa Claus-belted, silver spaghetti-strapped sweetheart bodice tank dress. Caridee is complaining about her struggles with psoriasis, Melrose is being a fucking bitch, and all is right in the world.
However, any relaxation I gain from my "Top Model" addiction is mitigated by the overwhelmingly shiteous selection of commercials I've had to watch during breaks.
Exhibit A: An ad for a cell phone/mp3 player in which two hipster douchebags in beat-up rugby shirts and beat-up Chuck Taylors sporting boxy glasses and intentionally shaggy haircuts argue about whether or not the chorus of The Clash's classic punk indictment of the Ayatollah Khomeini's no-rock-policy following the deposition of the Shah "Rock the Casbah" is "lock the cashbox" or "stop the catbox." You dumbasses...look at the fucking title of the song on your stupid LG Chocolate or whatever! "Dumb people buy this phone/mp3 player" is what this commercial tells me. Who is in charge of that marketing department, a Rhesus macaque or a fucking howler monkey? Either way, it's some sort of shit-slinging lower primate for sure.
Exhibit B: A trailer for Eragon, a movie about a boy in the mythical world of Alagaesia who finds a dragon egg and, with the help of his mentor Brom and his CGI dragon Saphira, joins the ranks of the legendary Shur'tugal and dares to challenge evil sorcerer/tyrant/dragon abuser King Galbatorix. Okay, obviously I've betrayed the dark secret that I'm actually excited by this commercial in a positive way. I totally am ashamed to admit that I want to see Eragon. I'm even more ashamed to admit that I read the book. And I'm kill-myself-so-as-to-avoid-dishonoring-my-family ashamed that I read Eldest, the sequel to Eragon. These books were written by a homeschooled 15-year-old in Montana who may be the geekiest dude I've ever seen in my life. Despite that, I just can't keep myself from admitting that I want to see this movie. It looks kind of good. And by "kind of good," I mean fucking awesome. Whatever...I'm a nerd. I love this kind of crap:
Nonetheless, this hasn't helped me chillax because it excited me so much with all the sword-swinging, army raising, and CGI dragon-containing epic battle footage. And Jeremy Irons, John Malkovich, and--HOLY SHIT--hot-ass Djimon Hounsou (!) are in it wearing hauberks and engaging in grandiose Lord of the Rings-ish shit-talking.
Exhibit C: Heidi Klum singing "Santa Baby" in a Victoria's Secret commercial not showing any tits, probably because she just popped out another kid and her postpartum FUPA (fat upper pussy area) isn't amenable to doing Gisele-esque underwear ads. Heidi Klum CANNOT sing. She sounds like a dying cat and yet still acts like she's some sort of sexy Von Trapp crooning "Edelweiss" convincingly enough to arrange a secret escape from Nazi Germany. WRONG. There's a reason why she's a model/reality TV competition judge and not a model-slash-anything else. Heidi "The Body" Klum needs to stick to crafting her "Project Runway" bitchy one-liners and stay the hell off the Vicky S. runway while she's recovering from producing yet another of Seal's progeny.
Exhibit D: The trailer for Unaccompanied Minors. This is a film about a bunch of nine-year-olds who somehow get lost in an airport at Christmas and engage villainous adults in the style of Home Alone, except instead of terrorizing the most incompetent burglars in the world with air rifles, buckets of paint, Micro Machines, a tarantula, and the voice track of Angels with Filthy Souls, they torment stranded innocent travelers by running them over with luggage carts and wreaking havoc with the luggage-sorting system. At least Home Alone featured only ONE totally obnoxious spoiled brat acting like a shithead for ninety minutes. This film has a baker's dozen of the little monsters running around. Presumably hilarity is supposed to ensue, except by "hilarity" I mean murderous rage. Lucky for the kids they're in an airport and nobody is allowed to be walking around packing heat. The only good thing about this movie is that apparently they cause massive bodily harm via slapstick assaults on Wilmer Valderrama, but otherwise, make all the airport food vegan and put Rihanna's "Unfaithful" on the soundtrack and you're in the latest conceptualization of my personal hell. Here's the trailer, but if you dare to watch, make sure you have a nitroglycerin patch, a bottle of Bayer, a home defibrillator, and an epi-pen handy, because this will simultaneously cause anaphylactic shock and massive cardiovascular shutdown if you aren't fully prepared for its unbridled horror:
Exhibit E: An ad for Uno Spin, a game that livens up the traditional Uno (AKA Crazy Eights for Dummies) by putting the cards into a battery-powered card shuffler on a Lazy Susan that vomits cards at the players, who scream with delight. On one hand, it's good that Uno has made a game requiring more physical activity, thus combating the burgeoning hordes of fat people in the world. On the other hand, the only thing more obnoxious than some smug motherfucker shrieking "Uno!" is having them shoot another card in your face. God, my blood is at a rolling boil just thinking about it.
The only thing that has saved me from a complete psychotic meltdown based on the commercials is the fact that the Top Model judges actually made an intelligent decision for once. Melrose got sent back to the draggish slag heap she crawled out of, and Caridee ultimately became America's Seventh Next Top Model! Disaster averted yet again.
However, any relaxation I gain from my "Top Model" addiction is mitigated by the overwhelmingly shiteous selection of commercials I've had to watch during breaks.
Exhibit A: An ad for a cell phone/mp3 player in which two hipster douchebags in beat-up rugby shirts and beat-up Chuck Taylors sporting boxy glasses and intentionally shaggy haircuts argue about whether or not the chorus of The Clash's classic punk indictment of the Ayatollah Khomeini's no-rock-policy following the deposition of the Shah "Rock the Casbah" is "lock the cashbox" or "stop the catbox." You dumbasses...look at the fucking title of the song on your stupid LG Chocolate or whatever! "Dumb people buy this phone/mp3 player" is what this commercial tells me. Who is in charge of that marketing department, a Rhesus macaque or a fucking howler monkey? Either way, it's some sort of shit-slinging lower primate for sure.
Exhibit B: A trailer for Eragon, a movie about a boy in the mythical world of Alagaesia who finds a dragon egg and, with the help of his mentor Brom and his CGI dragon Saphira, joins the ranks of the legendary Shur'tugal and dares to challenge evil sorcerer/tyrant/dragon abuser King Galbatorix. Okay, obviously I've betrayed the dark secret that I'm actually excited by this commercial in a positive way. I totally am ashamed to admit that I want to see Eragon. I'm even more ashamed to admit that I read the book. And I'm kill-myself-so-as-to-avoid-dishonoring-my-family ashamed that I read Eldest, the sequel to Eragon. These books were written by a homeschooled 15-year-old in Montana who may be the geekiest dude I've ever seen in my life. Despite that, I just can't keep myself from admitting that I want to see this movie. It looks kind of good. And by "kind of good," I mean fucking awesome. Whatever...I'm a nerd. I love this kind of crap:
Nonetheless, this hasn't helped me chillax because it excited me so much with all the sword-swinging, army raising, and CGI dragon-containing epic battle footage. And Jeremy Irons, John Malkovich, and--HOLY SHIT--hot-ass Djimon Hounsou (!) are in it wearing hauberks and engaging in grandiose Lord of the Rings-ish shit-talking.
Exhibit C: Heidi Klum singing "Santa Baby" in a Victoria's Secret commercial not showing any tits, probably because she just popped out another kid and her postpartum FUPA (fat upper pussy area) isn't amenable to doing Gisele-esque underwear ads. Heidi Klum CANNOT sing. She sounds like a dying cat and yet still acts like she's some sort of sexy Von Trapp crooning "Edelweiss" convincingly enough to arrange a secret escape from Nazi Germany. WRONG. There's a reason why she's a model/reality TV competition judge and not a model-slash-anything else. Heidi "The Body" Klum needs to stick to crafting her "Project Runway" bitchy one-liners and stay the hell off the Vicky S. runway while she's recovering from producing yet another of Seal's progeny.
Exhibit D: The trailer for Unaccompanied Minors. This is a film about a bunch of nine-year-olds who somehow get lost in an airport at Christmas and engage villainous adults in the style of Home Alone, except instead of terrorizing the most incompetent burglars in the world with air rifles, buckets of paint, Micro Machines, a tarantula, and the voice track of Angels with Filthy Souls, they torment stranded innocent travelers by running them over with luggage carts and wreaking havoc with the luggage-sorting system. At least Home Alone featured only ONE totally obnoxious spoiled brat acting like a shithead for ninety minutes. This film has a baker's dozen of the little monsters running around. Presumably hilarity is supposed to ensue, except by "hilarity" I mean murderous rage. Lucky for the kids they're in an airport and nobody is allowed to be walking around packing heat. The only good thing about this movie is that apparently they cause massive bodily harm via slapstick assaults on Wilmer Valderrama, but otherwise, make all the airport food vegan and put Rihanna's "Unfaithful" on the soundtrack and you're in the latest conceptualization of my personal hell. Here's the trailer, but if you dare to watch, make sure you have a nitroglycerin patch, a bottle of Bayer, a home defibrillator, and an epi-pen handy, because this will simultaneously cause anaphylactic shock and massive cardiovascular shutdown if you aren't fully prepared for its unbridled horror:
Exhibit E: An ad for Uno Spin, a game that livens up the traditional Uno (AKA Crazy Eights for Dummies) by putting the cards into a battery-powered card shuffler on a Lazy Susan that vomits cards at the players, who scream with delight. On one hand, it's good that Uno has made a game requiring more physical activity, thus combating the burgeoning hordes of fat people in the world. On the other hand, the only thing more obnoxious than some smug motherfucker shrieking "Uno!" is having them shoot another card in your face. God, my blood is at a rolling boil just thinking about it.
The only thing that has saved me from a complete psychotic meltdown based on the commercials is the fact that the Top Model judges actually made an intelligent decision for once. Melrose got sent back to the draggish slag heap she crawled out of, and Caridee ultimately became America's Seventh Next Top Model! Disaster averted yet again.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, epic geekery, hot chicks, retard rage, TV
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Highlights from the fall TV season so far
When Karl Marx said that religion is the opiate of the masses, it was only because they hadn't invented television yet. TV fucking rules, especially if you're a perpetually impoverished graduate student pulling 12-hour-days. If I don't have any money to go out drinking, or any energy to do so after laying waste to a shelf's worth of inbred mice, I turn to TV for much-needed relaxation. Tonight, for example, may be Saturday, but since I laid waste to most of the Lower East Side's supply of Johnnie Walker Black last night, I'm staying in to nurse my hangover and flip back and forth between marathon reruns of "Project Runway" and "Flavor of Love." It occurred to me that I'm an expert on shitty TV, so I may as well opine about the audiovisual crack I'm consuming on the old idiot box.
Nip/Tuck
I have been addicted to this show about morally bereft plastic surgeons in Miami since it was introduced right before I moved to New York three years ago. The pilot episode of this show included lines being blown off hot model ass, Colombian drug lords adminstering penile Botox shots, a room full of people being splashed with liposuction fat, and a child molester's body being dumped in the Everglades weighted down with alligator-attracting hams. I was immediately hooked to the weekly drama surrounding Drs. McNamara and Troy.
Furthermore, I completely have the hots for my boyfriend Dr. Christian Troy, because he's so FUCKING fine and is one of the most unrepentant fictional assholes on television. In past seasons, Dr. Troy has traded his girlfriend for a Lamborghini, attended a Sexaholics Anonymous meeting where he promptly and literally blew his sponsor's celibate sobriety, fathered his partners' teenage son, and manage to transform the police investigation of his Carver attack and anal rape into a tawdry threesome.
So far, this season continues to achieve unprecedented levels of awesomeness. Some of the highlights:
America's Next Top Model
I LOVE this show. It is always awesome, because it is full of dumb, bitchy girls, ridiculous judges, and Tyra Banks being a snobby, self-righteous, FAKE idiot. From her horrible orange-toned weaves to her severely overdone diction, Tyra has to be one of the most outrageously insincere women I've ever seen. This season, Tyra has taken her monstrous egotism to the next level, and the entire house that this cycle's girls live in is PLASTERED with Tyra. Everywhere you look, there's a picture of Tyra wearing a scarf, Tyra wearing giant sunglasses, Tyra wearing a sexy dress, Tyra in a bathing suit, Tyra wearing too much makeup, Tyra doing one of her "signature poses," etc. Furthermore, Tyra has placed all these pictures there as a fictional spread for Tyra magazine, right down to a mural in the house featuring a "letter from Tyra" out of the magazine exhorting the prospective Top Models to read the magazine for vital information and tips on Top Modeling. Also, all the "Tyra Mail" this season arrives as a magazine subscription card, rather than the old pastel notecards of cycles past. Clearly this magazine thing is part of her transformation into full-blown Oprah wannabe, and you just know that if the fans like it, Tyra will be yet another unreadable piece of crap taking space away from superior publications like Us Weekly and Star at supermarket checkouts everywhere.
Tyra is attempting to emulate Oprah in one other way as well. Clearly she has not been following the model starvation diet she advocates. She needs to start taking some of the criticism/advice she dispenses every time she opens her mouth and PAY ATTENTION TO HER FUCKING BODY. Bitch has blown up like a balloon this season, and she has a low threshold for hiding extra pounds. She is one of those women who gains weight in her face first, so the second she cheats on her diet, she grows a new chin and gets a serious case of the bloat. On her atrocious talk show, Tyra once put on a fat suit and walked around Los Angeles, then bawled to two actual morbidly obese women about her experience (and the look on their faces was PRICELESS during her "It was soooo horrible, you guys!" tearfest). If Tyra doesn't quit stuffing her face at the craft service table backstage and get her ass on a treadmill, it will be only a matter of time before her fat suit becomes a reality.
Lost
I watch "Lost" primarily because I think that Sayid the Iraqi is really hot in spite of his greasy jhericurl and somewhat pudgy countenance. Besides, it doesn't get more "bad boy" than working as a torturer for Saddam Hussein's Repulican Guard. In addition to Sayid's sexual appeal, I also have seen a lot of the first two seasons, so I was all excited when I thought this Wednesday was going to be the big season premiere. Unfortunately, what the channel guide described as a "new" episode was actually a recut reel of somewhat important scenes to remind people major things that have gone on the past two seasons. While this was somewhat useful to me, as I forgot all the complicated ins and outs regarding the mystery of the island over the summer, I was really annoyed to not find out whether or not failing to enter the numbers at the hatch's Apple IIc caused the cataclysmic destruction of mankind, which is what I expected when the channel guide said this episode was "new." I was pissed.
Last season, "Lost" kind of dragged for awhile. There were way too many boring scenes exploring whether Kate will eventually fuck Jack or Sawyer or both, and Kate's personal baggage, and Jack's issues with his dad and his wife, and Sawyer's vacillating between doing right and being an asshole, and not NEARLY enough Sayid torturing creepy-looking Others or porking moderately attractive petite blondes. However, the last episode was one hell of a money shot as far as revealing important stuff. For example, when the numbers didn't get entered, we know that some serious shit of a magnetic nature happens, and this is why Oceanic flight 815 crashed in the first place. We also find out more about the Others, and they have Jack, Sawyer, and Kate tied up, Michael sailed off with Walt, Sayid found the ruins of a giant Colossus-at-Rhodes type statue of a foot with only four toes, and found out more cryptic and relatively uninformative stuff about Dharma and the Hanso foundation. In spite of myself, I REALLY want to know what the outcome of all this is.
Since I won't be able to see whether the Others kill Jack, Kate, and Sawyer (I know this won't happen, but a girl can dream) until next week, I have some predictions about what's going to happen this season:
Project Runway
"Project Runway" is a reality competition hosted by supermodel Heidi Klum in which aspiring fashion designers compete in weekly design challenges for the chance to show a collection at Olympus Fashion Week in New York. The designers are all bitchy, and it's fun to watch them bicker while they design often shitty and ridiculous clothing. The eliminated designer every week gets informed by Klum that "they're out" and air-kisses them off with a fond "auf wiedersehn."
The designers have now been winnowed down to four people who will be showing their collections at Fashion Week.
First there is Laura, the architect/baby factory who only makes beaded cocktail dresses for flatchested people. For an example of "classic Laura," check out the portrait of the artist herself:
Then there is Jeffrey, the hipster idiot who looks like a hellish cross between my cokehead ex-boyfriend Tod-With-One-D and Travis Barker, erstwhile Blink 182 drummer and current Paris Hilton fuckbuddy. Jeffrey is so annoying, because he is not only a complete prick, but he has the worst weak chin ever. His jawline looks like an undesirable ass, a combination of too much cleft and flat, amorphous proportions:
Also in the mix is Uli, the German who designs beach mumus for women in Miami and specializes in seizure-inducing patterned fabrics with lots of chunky braid:
Finally, there is my personal favorite. Michael Knight, this Hotlanta-born fashion thug, both shares his name with David Hasselhoff's character in "Knight Rider" and manages to design some hot urban casual wear. Also, he always will follow ghetto sensibility like "I'm not tryin' to play Captain Save-a-Ho, as we say in the hood" with lengthy complaints about the difficulties of pattern cutting , the temperamental nature of bobbin threads, and the technical trickery of hand-ruching:
As much as I get into the designers' drama and hope that Michael lays waste to Jeffrey's "deconstructed" bullshit and Uli's jungle wear, the real reason to watch this show is this:
The judges, "top American fashion designer" Michael Kors and Elle magazine fashion director Nina Garcia, are fabulously bitchy. Kors will always sneer distastefully at outfits he hates, and then makes some obnoxious yet usually accurate succinct description such as "she looks like a paper brioche" and "it looks like a grade school Thanksgiving pageant exploded all over her ass." It's fucking awesome when some designer sends an ambitious yet stank outfit down the runway, and Michael Kors glowers with righteous revulsion for a moment before declaring in his nasal tenor that "it looks like Comme des Garcons goes to the Amish country." Usually, then Nina will chime in to inform the designer that it's either tired, blatantly copied from some established edgy designer, and/or made with a terrible choice of fabric. Although Heidi Klum has her moments of bitchiness (like the time she said, "Would I rather look old or like a fat Minnie Mouse?"), Michael Kors and Nina Garcia have mastered the art of concise brutality in reality show judging.
Survivor
I don't even know why I watch "Survivor" except that I have for 11 seasons now, and it's almost like I only watch it out of habit. "Survivor" is always kind of boring, and Jeff Probst is an overdimpled, badly styled douche, but I always watch it anyway. I love some of the gimmicks that they incorporate to keep the show fresh. This season, they not only have hidden an immunity idol on the Exile Island, but they've organized the tribes down racial lines. I've been either busy or working the late the past few weeks on Thursdays, so I only saw the end of last week's episode to see how "Survivor" segregation was coming along. During the few minutes I did see, some Asian guy found the hidden immunity idol using geometry, and the Latinos threw a challenge so they could turn on the fat, slow, lazy, snoring guy and vote his ass out. This week, the "great social experiment" of racially segregating the "Survivor" tribes ended, and they mixed up and merged all the teams into two integrated tribes (with, of course, new hideous buffs for each tribe member to wear as tube top, bandeau, skirt, turban, arm garter, or scrunchie). I guess segregation, despite the producers' expectations, did not result in reality drama or high ratings.
Supernatural
Okay, I don't know how I've ended KIND OF watching "Supernatural," but I've seen a few episodes, mainly because I despise "CSI" and nothing else is on Thursdays at 9, and I flip back and forth between it and the equally shiteous "Grey's Anatomy" (see below). Bravo is a shitshow in this time slot, by the way. Last Thursday, they had "Cirque Du Soleil: Corteo", described by the channel guide as "a festive parade imagined by a clown," followed by "Cirque Du Soleil: Varekai", which is an "acrobatic tribute to the spirit of the nomadic soul." Watching these shows would inspire me to stick my head in the oven if it wasn't already occupied by a Lean Cuisine French bread pizza.
Anyway, "Supernatural" is a stupid show starring Jared Padalecki, late of "Gilmore Girls", and some guy who was on some other crappy WB show about teenagers. They are demon-hunting brothers who drive around the midwest in a late sixties model Impala listening to classic rock and killing demons flagrantly plagiarized from recent semi-popular horror movies and old "Buffy" episodes (ie: girl crawls out of mirror looking all Japanese ghosty, painting comes to life and kills people, scarecrow comes out of hibernation every twenty-third spring to eat nubile young couples, etc). Every episode involves Jared and the other guy pulling up to some town in buttfuck Indiana while rocking out to Bad Company. Once there, they realize that some supernatural shit is afoot and investigate, which typically involves impersonating everything from FBI agents to archaeologists to coroners to dead people's relatives. This investigation will result in them identifying their paranormal foe, and disclose that a hot girl is next to be eaten/absorbed/murdered/vaporized/damned eternally/etc. The brothers will probably also bicker, have flashbacks to their childhood, and have drama with their errant demon-hunting father. They will subsequently whip out either their BlackBerries (which they have tricked out, despite both of them being presumably unemployed save for unsolicited and unpaid psychic detective work) or their silver bullets or whatever, save the hot girl in the nick of time, and take turns making out with her. They'll make up from the fight they had earlier, crank the Foghat, and cruise off high-fiving and making overdone references to popular culture.
Like I said before, it's better than "CSI."
Grey's Anatomy
This show sucks, and I watch it primarily to give my unchecked rage a harmless outlet. This show is all about a bunch of surgeons and the drama that has resulted from them all having sex with each other. Complicating matters is the fact that they all live in Seattle, which makes them a bunch of snivelling, whiny crybabies. Consistent with their Seattle-dwelling status, the guys are all such a bunch of unscrubbed, emotionally processive tools that Patrick Dempsey and Chris O'Donnell are dueling for the title of resident hunks. That's exactly why I moved away from the Seattle area. Who wants to choose between fucking the index Ebola case from Outbreak and the latently homosexual Robin in one of the later Batman movies? Another thing I like about the show is that Sandra Oh's character was SMITH COLLEGE CLASS OF 2000! That means that when her character was in college and came out of her room to grouchily inform me and my drunken friends that it was "quiet hours" and could we please turn down the Dr. Dre and go smoke in our rooms because she has a test in her women's studies class the next day, I blew a bong hit in her face and told her to go boobmash with her roommate.
That is where any attempt at realism in "Grey's Anatomy," ends, however. There are a lot of things about "Grey's Anatomy" that make you audibly say "what the fuck?" First off, I'd like to point out that there are at least three black people in the cast, which anyone from Seattle can tell you comprises Seattle's ENTIRE African-American population excluding professional athletes. Second, all the doctors on this show are too busy having sex to actually perform any surgeries. They have sex with each other, sex with the nurses, sex with their roommates, sex with patients, etc. The sex scenes are always lame (usually consisting of Katherine Heigl in a fugly Playtex Cross Your Heart bra with either a dying person or that doctor whose name I can never remember) and seem to occur everywhere in the hospital: in the locker room, in the nurses' station, on random out-of-the-way gurneys, in the break room, in patient beds, etc. While normally I'd be a fan of a show with so much sex happening, most of it is implied except scenes involving the aforementioned breasts of Katherine Heigl, Patrick Dempsey's suspiciously trannish wife, or the skeletal and horribly aged Meredith Grey who is the title character. You can probably see why, in this time slot, I usually opt for "Supernatural."
Flavor of Love
Why any woman would want to bone Flavor Flav is beyond me. He's like a hobbit from the hood, and despite his charming, funny mannerisms, there is no way in hell I'd let his little weiner get anywhere near me. However, there are apparently a lot of women who wouldn't mind, and they are some nasty bitches all stuck together in the house. The final three (Deelishis, Krazy, and New York) are three of the most ridiculous women ever. Krazy is obviously trying to get her music career off the ground (watch out, Flav, you don't want a repeat of what Hoopz did to you), Deelishis looks like a man despite having an ass that defies physics, and New York, resurrected from last season, is a complete and total lunatic. I was rooting for Bootz, but Flav canned her last episode because she said she wasn't going to put out until she got married, despite giving a very slutty booty dance to Lloyd Banks, Young Buck, and the guys from Three 6 Mafia. However, now that it's down to the three, I'm going to have say I'm putting my money on Deelishis. Despite her somewhat gender bending facial bone structure and hideously disfiguring scars on her back, she isn't seemingly an attention whore, and appears slightly more stable mentally than New York. Go Deelishis!
Now I can't write anymore, as I have to watch some more TV.
Nip/Tuck
I have been addicted to this show about morally bereft plastic surgeons in Miami since it was introduced right before I moved to New York three years ago. The pilot episode of this show included lines being blown off hot model ass, Colombian drug lords adminstering penile Botox shots, a room full of people being splashed with liposuction fat, and a child molester's body being dumped in the Everglades weighted down with alligator-attracting hams. I was immediately hooked to the weekly drama surrounding Drs. McNamara and Troy.
Furthermore, I completely have the hots for my boyfriend Dr. Christian Troy, because he's so FUCKING fine and is one of the most unrepentant fictional assholes on television. In past seasons, Dr. Troy has traded his girlfriend for a Lamborghini, attended a Sexaholics Anonymous meeting where he promptly and literally blew his sponsor's celibate sobriety, fathered his partners' teenage son, and manage to transform the police investigation of his Carver attack and anal rape into a tawdry threesome.
So far, this season continues to achieve unprecedented levels of awesomeness. Some of the highlights:
- Christian is questioning his heterosexuality, and has engaged in several portentous flirting sessions with...A.C. SLATER FROM "SAVED BY THE BELL"?! Yep, that's right. Mario Lopez is guest-starring as another latently faggoty plastic surgeon and they already had an ass-admiring session in the gym showers where they discussed protein shakes and whether liposuction is necessary for more defined "cum gutters" (abdominal muscles). I can't wait until the episode when he and Christian exchange head in Mario Lopez's Ferrari.
- Sean and Julia's new baby has some condition called "ectrodactyly", more commonly known as LOBSTER CLAW HANDS. They're acting like assholes all the time adjusting to the kid's disability, and they just hired a male midget as a nanny, and it's any episode now before Julia hooks up with him.
- After being overpowered by the music of Oasis, Sean banged the ugly nanny, then gave her a gratis nose job so she'd keep it quiet. However, she's probably not going to, because she's obviously insane. I predict that she'll be stalking him frantically within two episodes.
- Christian bones a mother and daughter at the same time, then gets into a fight with them over who is more morally bankrupt.
- Kathleen Turner guest stars as a phone sex operator who needs a larynx shaving to stay sexy-sounding even though she now looks like a bloated old toad.
- Christian was clandestinely recorded making a sex video and it "went viral" after showing up on YouTube.
- Matt, having already achieved new levels of dumbassery by acting like a wuss when he got caught having a threesome, not being wise to Famke Janssen's actually being a man (although to be fair she was the most convincing post-op M2F tranny EVER), beating up transgendered people, and becoming a Nazi, has now decided that Scientology is his calling. Granted, it's not entirely his fault that he's so fucked up, as Julia lied to him and everybody else for 16 years that Sean was his father when Christian really was, but seriously. Is Matt ever going to stop being an effeminate douche with the worst teenage coping skills ever, or what?
- Liz the lesbo anesthesiologist gets slipped a roofie at some lesbian bar and winds up short a kidney.
- Sean eats hash brownies and has visions of Escobar Gallardo.
- A patient who I later realized was the aged child star who played Laura on "Little House on the Prairie" gets her nipple bitten off while fucking her pit bull mix.
- Sean and Christian sold the practice after medical business mogul and prostate cancer survivor Larry Hagman and his hot ex-lesbian hooker wife Sanaa Lathan (late of Alien vs. Predator) liked the testicular implants the doctors gave him. Sanaa Lathan's management style, which includes providing payoffs and breast access to her former madam, attempting to fire Liz for sexual harassment, and stocking the office with expensive espresso machines, is wreaking havoc with Sean and Christian's respective control issues. Christian responds by using his knowledge of her sordid past as a prostitute to extort sex from her.
America's Next Top Model
I LOVE this show. It is always awesome, because it is full of dumb, bitchy girls, ridiculous judges, and Tyra Banks being a snobby, self-righteous, FAKE idiot. From her horrible orange-toned weaves to her severely overdone diction, Tyra has to be one of the most outrageously insincere women I've ever seen. This season, Tyra has taken her monstrous egotism to the next level, and the entire house that this cycle's girls live in is PLASTERED with Tyra. Everywhere you look, there's a picture of Tyra wearing a scarf, Tyra wearing giant sunglasses, Tyra wearing a sexy dress, Tyra in a bathing suit, Tyra wearing too much makeup, Tyra doing one of her "signature poses," etc. Furthermore, Tyra has placed all these pictures there as a fictional spread for Tyra magazine, right down to a mural in the house featuring a "letter from Tyra" out of the magazine exhorting the prospective Top Models to read the magazine for vital information and tips on Top Modeling. Also, all the "Tyra Mail" this season arrives as a magazine subscription card, rather than the old pastel notecards of cycles past. Clearly this magazine thing is part of her transformation into full-blown Oprah wannabe, and you just know that if the fans like it, Tyra will be yet another unreadable piece of crap taking space away from superior publications like Us Weekly and Star at supermarket checkouts everywhere.
Tyra is attempting to emulate Oprah in one other way as well. Clearly she has not been following the model starvation diet she advocates. She needs to start taking some of the criticism/advice she dispenses every time she opens her mouth and PAY ATTENTION TO HER FUCKING BODY. Bitch has blown up like a balloon this season, and she has a low threshold for hiding extra pounds. She is one of those women who gains weight in her face first, so the second she cheats on her diet, she grows a new chin and gets a serious case of the bloat. On her atrocious talk show, Tyra once put on a fat suit and walked around Los Angeles, then bawled to two actual morbidly obese women about her experience (and the look on their faces was PRICELESS during her "It was soooo horrible, you guys!" tearfest). If Tyra doesn't quit stuffing her face at the craft service table backstage and get her ass on a treadmill, it will be only a matter of time before her fat suit becomes a reality.
Lost
I watch "Lost" primarily because I think that Sayid the Iraqi is really hot in spite of his greasy jhericurl and somewhat pudgy countenance. Besides, it doesn't get more "bad boy" than working as a torturer for Saddam Hussein's Repulican Guard. In addition to Sayid's sexual appeal, I also have seen a lot of the first two seasons, so I was all excited when I thought this Wednesday was going to be the big season premiere. Unfortunately, what the channel guide described as a "new" episode was actually a recut reel of somewhat important scenes to remind people major things that have gone on the past two seasons. While this was somewhat useful to me, as I forgot all the complicated ins and outs regarding the mystery of the island over the summer, I was really annoyed to not find out whether or not failing to enter the numbers at the hatch's Apple IIc caused the cataclysmic destruction of mankind, which is what I expected when the channel guide said this episode was "new." I was pissed.
Last season, "Lost" kind of dragged for awhile. There were way too many boring scenes exploring whether Kate will eventually fuck Jack or Sawyer or both, and Kate's personal baggage, and Jack's issues with his dad and his wife, and Sawyer's vacillating between doing right and being an asshole, and not NEARLY enough Sayid torturing creepy-looking Others or porking moderately attractive petite blondes. However, the last episode was one hell of a money shot as far as revealing important stuff. For example, when the numbers didn't get entered, we know that some serious shit of a magnetic nature happens, and this is why Oceanic flight 815 crashed in the first place. We also find out more about the Others, and they have Jack, Sawyer, and Kate tied up, Michael sailed off with Walt, Sayid found the ruins of a giant Colossus-at-Rhodes type statue of a foot with only four toes, and found out more cryptic and relatively uninformative stuff about Dharma and the Hanso foundation. In spite of myself, I REALLY want to know what the outcome of all this is.
Since I won't be able to see whether the Others kill Jack, Kate, and Sawyer (I know this won't happen, but a girl can dream) until next week, I have some predictions about what's going to happen this season:
- Michael and Walt will totally not get rescued. Instead, they will foolishly follow the Others' navigational advice and end up either back on the island or somewhere worse. Because the "Lost" writers love to prove how useful their fucking liberal arts degrees are by throwing in lots of heavy-handed intellectual references, I predict they'll encounter some obviously Odyssean peril, like a witch who look like Michael's dead heartless bitch of an international lawyer who turns overcompensating deadbeat dads with anger management issues into pigs, or a cannibal cyclops.
- Jack, Kate, and Sawyer are interrogated and subjected to totally unnecessary, poorly executed and nonsensical medical tests conducted by the Others. When the Other leader they knew as Henry Gale questions them, Kate just shuts up and glares mournfully, Jack gets all square-jawed and reminds everyone several times that he's a doctor, and Sawyer delivers inappropriate quips in his "Dukes of Hazzard"-inspired cracker accent. Then they stage an insurgency and manage to escape, but spend the rest of the season suspecting that the Others implanted them all with anal probes, just to make their lives suck even more. That's what I would do, if I was an Other.
- Charlie, ersatz junkie/Driveshaft bassist, will go back on the smack when not helping Mr. Eko do his dirty self-redemption work. Claire will yell at him, imply that he's being a bad stepfather to her baby, or otherwise upset him, and he'll be breaking open virgin mary statues like they're eggs and he's making a giant heroin omelette.
- Mr. Eko will die. Adewale Super Nigerian Last Name-hyphenated-Super Nigerian Last Name, the actor who plays Mr. Eko, had a tangle with the Honolulu police. Although the charge was dropped, "Lost" producers get really nervous when they have cast members getting into skirmishes with the Hawaii 5-0. Michelle Rodriguez and that busted blonde chick both got DUIs and their characters were promptly shot to death. Therefore, Mr. Eko will be killed in a sudden way to avoid the mere appearance of impropriety regarding the integrity of the "Lost" cast ensemble.
- Sayid, without any eligible slutty blondes around to impress with his dark mystique, will let himself go, become BFFs with Charlie the Junkie Hobbit, and start doing gay shit like this:
- The failure to enter the numbers on time which caused the counter thingy to go all hieroglyphic and cranked up the supposedly apocalypse-causing magnet results in another plane crash. A whole new crowd of plane crash survivors start mingling with the gang from Oceanic 815. This cast of characters includes a world-ending magnetologist, a brooding and reserved loner type named Thomas Hobbes who argues with Locke about property rights, social structure, and the nature of man, and a plastic surgeon who both threatens Jack's masculinity and gives Hurley the gynecomastia man tit-removal surgery he so desperately needs.
- In the course of being tortured/experimented upon by the Others, Kate wastes an entire episode reflecting on her past as the most boring international fugitive in the history of criminal vigilante justice, her love for horses, her dysfunctional trailer park family problems, and feelings for Jack AND Sawyer. The Others, like the television viewing audience, are so sick of her that they destroy her ovaries to ensure that she'll never pass her woeful genes on to any possible offspring that might result from the inevitable Jack-Sawyer train she'll be running.
- The four-toed foot turns out to be a relic of an ancient civilization that worshipped "The Simpsons," and were going to cover the island with gargantuan statues of every Matt Groening caricature ever drawn, until the magnet or whatever went off. It turns out the magnet was put there as a trap by the people from Easter Island, who were looking to dominate the south Pacific inexplicable stone idol market.
- Sun will have her baby, which will turn out to be half-black, which will make Jin go all half-cocked, break out his battering skills from his days as a Korean Soprano, and fuck up Michael, Mr. Eko, or any other person with high levels of melanin in their skin to cross his path.
Project Runway
"Project Runway" is a reality competition hosted by supermodel Heidi Klum in which aspiring fashion designers compete in weekly design challenges for the chance to show a collection at Olympus Fashion Week in New York. The designers are all bitchy, and it's fun to watch them bicker while they design often shitty and ridiculous clothing. The eliminated designer every week gets informed by Klum that "they're out" and air-kisses them off with a fond "auf wiedersehn."
The designers have now been winnowed down to four people who will be showing their collections at Fashion Week.
First there is Laura, the architect/baby factory who only makes beaded cocktail dresses for flatchested people. For an example of "classic Laura," check out the portrait of the artist herself:
Then there is Jeffrey, the hipster idiot who looks like a hellish cross between my cokehead ex-boyfriend Tod-With-One-D and Travis Barker, erstwhile Blink 182 drummer and current Paris Hilton fuckbuddy. Jeffrey is so annoying, because he is not only a complete prick, but he has the worst weak chin ever. His jawline looks like an undesirable ass, a combination of too much cleft and flat, amorphous proportions:
Also in the mix is Uli, the German who designs beach mumus for women in Miami and specializes in seizure-inducing patterned fabrics with lots of chunky braid:
Finally, there is my personal favorite. Michael Knight, this Hotlanta-born fashion thug, both shares his name with David Hasselhoff's character in "Knight Rider" and manages to design some hot urban casual wear. Also, he always will follow ghetto sensibility like "I'm not tryin' to play Captain Save-a-Ho, as we say in the hood" with lengthy complaints about the difficulties of pattern cutting , the temperamental nature of bobbin threads, and the technical trickery of hand-ruching:
As much as I get into the designers' drama and hope that Michael lays waste to Jeffrey's "deconstructed" bullshit and Uli's jungle wear, the real reason to watch this show is this:
The judges, "top American fashion designer" Michael Kors and Elle magazine fashion director Nina Garcia, are fabulously bitchy. Kors will always sneer distastefully at outfits he hates, and then makes some obnoxious yet usually accurate succinct description such as "she looks like a paper brioche" and "it looks like a grade school Thanksgiving pageant exploded all over her ass." It's fucking awesome when some designer sends an ambitious yet stank outfit down the runway, and Michael Kors glowers with righteous revulsion for a moment before declaring in his nasal tenor that "it looks like Comme des Garcons goes to the Amish country." Usually, then Nina will chime in to inform the designer that it's either tired, blatantly copied from some established edgy designer, and/or made with a terrible choice of fabric. Although Heidi Klum has her moments of bitchiness (like the time she said, "Would I rather look old or like a fat Minnie Mouse?"), Michael Kors and Nina Garcia have mastered the art of concise brutality in reality show judging.
Survivor
I don't even know why I watch "Survivor" except that I have for 11 seasons now, and it's almost like I only watch it out of habit. "Survivor" is always kind of boring, and Jeff Probst is an overdimpled, badly styled douche, but I always watch it anyway. I love some of the gimmicks that they incorporate to keep the show fresh. This season, they not only have hidden an immunity idol on the Exile Island, but they've organized the tribes down racial lines. I've been either busy or working the late the past few weeks on Thursdays, so I only saw the end of last week's episode to see how "Survivor" segregation was coming along. During the few minutes I did see, some Asian guy found the hidden immunity idol using geometry, and the Latinos threw a challenge so they could turn on the fat, slow, lazy, snoring guy and vote his ass out. This week, the "great social experiment" of racially segregating the "Survivor" tribes ended, and they mixed up and merged all the teams into two integrated tribes (with, of course, new hideous buffs for each tribe member to wear as tube top, bandeau, skirt, turban, arm garter, or scrunchie). I guess segregation, despite the producers' expectations, did not result in reality drama or high ratings.
Supernatural
Okay, I don't know how I've ended KIND OF watching "Supernatural," but I've seen a few episodes, mainly because I despise "CSI" and nothing else is on Thursdays at 9, and I flip back and forth between it and the equally shiteous "Grey's Anatomy" (see below). Bravo is a shitshow in this time slot, by the way. Last Thursday, they had "Cirque Du Soleil: Corteo", described by the channel guide as "a festive parade imagined by a clown," followed by "Cirque Du Soleil: Varekai", which is an "acrobatic tribute to the spirit of the nomadic soul." Watching these shows would inspire me to stick my head in the oven if it wasn't already occupied by a Lean Cuisine French bread pizza.
Anyway, "Supernatural" is a stupid show starring Jared Padalecki, late of "Gilmore Girls", and some guy who was on some other crappy WB show about teenagers. They are demon-hunting brothers who drive around the midwest in a late sixties model Impala listening to classic rock and killing demons flagrantly plagiarized from recent semi-popular horror movies and old "Buffy" episodes (ie: girl crawls out of mirror looking all Japanese ghosty, painting comes to life and kills people, scarecrow comes out of hibernation every twenty-third spring to eat nubile young couples, etc). Every episode involves Jared and the other guy pulling up to some town in buttfuck Indiana while rocking out to Bad Company. Once there, they realize that some supernatural shit is afoot and investigate, which typically involves impersonating everything from FBI agents to archaeologists to coroners to dead people's relatives. This investigation will result in them identifying their paranormal foe, and disclose that a hot girl is next to be eaten/absorbed/murdered/vaporized/damned eternally/etc. The brothers will probably also bicker, have flashbacks to their childhood, and have drama with their errant demon-hunting father. They will subsequently whip out either their BlackBerries (which they have tricked out, despite both of them being presumably unemployed save for unsolicited and unpaid psychic detective work) or their silver bullets or whatever, save the hot girl in the nick of time, and take turns making out with her. They'll make up from the fight they had earlier, crank the Foghat, and cruise off high-fiving and making overdone references to popular culture.
Like I said before, it's better than "CSI."
Grey's Anatomy
This show sucks, and I watch it primarily to give my unchecked rage a harmless outlet. This show is all about a bunch of surgeons and the drama that has resulted from them all having sex with each other. Complicating matters is the fact that they all live in Seattle, which makes them a bunch of snivelling, whiny crybabies. Consistent with their Seattle-dwelling status, the guys are all such a bunch of unscrubbed, emotionally processive tools that Patrick Dempsey and Chris O'Donnell are dueling for the title of resident hunks. That's exactly why I moved away from the Seattle area. Who wants to choose between fucking the index Ebola case from Outbreak and the latently homosexual Robin in one of the later Batman movies? Another thing I like about the show is that Sandra Oh's character was SMITH COLLEGE CLASS OF 2000! That means that when her character was in college and came out of her room to grouchily inform me and my drunken friends that it was "quiet hours" and could we please turn down the Dr. Dre and go smoke in our rooms because she has a test in her women's studies class the next day, I blew a bong hit in her face and told her to go boobmash with her roommate.
That is where any attempt at realism in "Grey's Anatomy," ends, however. There are a lot of things about "Grey's Anatomy" that make you audibly say "what the fuck?" First off, I'd like to point out that there are at least three black people in the cast, which anyone from Seattle can tell you comprises Seattle's ENTIRE African-American population excluding professional athletes. Second, all the doctors on this show are too busy having sex to actually perform any surgeries. They have sex with each other, sex with the nurses, sex with their roommates, sex with patients, etc. The sex scenes are always lame (usually consisting of Katherine Heigl in a fugly Playtex Cross Your Heart bra with either a dying person or that doctor whose name I can never remember) and seem to occur everywhere in the hospital: in the locker room, in the nurses' station, on random out-of-the-way gurneys, in the break room, in patient beds, etc. While normally I'd be a fan of a show with so much sex happening, most of it is implied except scenes involving the aforementioned breasts of Katherine Heigl, Patrick Dempsey's suspiciously trannish wife, or the skeletal and horribly aged Meredith Grey who is the title character. You can probably see why, in this time slot, I usually opt for "Supernatural."
Flavor of Love
Why any woman would want to bone Flavor Flav is beyond me. He's like a hobbit from the hood, and despite his charming, funny mannerisms, there is no way in hell I'd let his little weiner get anywhere near me. However, there are apparently a lot of women who wouldn't mind, and they are some nasty bitches all stuck together in the house. The final three (Deelishis, Krazy, and New York) are three of the most ridiculous women ever. Krazy is obviously trying to get her music career off the ground (watch out, Flav, you don't want a repeat of what Hoopz did to you), Deelishis looks like a man despite having an ass that defies physics, and New York, resurrected from last season, is a complete and total lunatic. I was rooting for Bootz, but Flav canned her last episode because she said she wasn't going to put out until she got married, despite giving a very slutty booty dance to Lloyd Banks, Young Buck, and the guys from Three 6 Mafia. However, now that it's down to the three, I'm going to have say I'm putting my money on Deelishis. Despite her somewhat gender bending facial bone structure and hideously disfiguring scars on her back, she isn't seemingly an attention whore, and appears slightly more stable mentally than New York. Go Deelishis!
Now I can't write anymore, as I have to watch some more TV.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, Flavor of Love, Grey's Anatomy, I LOVE IT, Lost, Nip/Tuck, Project Runway, Supernatural, Survivor, TV
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Best e-mail I've gotten in awhile
CorporateCard, knowing my fondness for the sublime and incomparable masterpiece of reality television known as "America's Next Top Model," sent me this EXTREMELY awesome piece of correspondence to get me psyched for tonight's PREMIERE EPISODE:
From: CorporateCard (ccard@giantmultinationalmediaconglomerate.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: Keep it Fierce!
When I clicked on the link, Tyra informed me over my computer speakers that I'm "not too busted" and that CorporateCard "told her" that I "might be the next undiscovered supermodel." I guess CorporateCard neglected to tell Tyra that I'm only 5'3". Given my short stature, I'll have to shelve my lifelong ambition of achieving supermodel status and go to plan B: microbiology, where all failed supermodels go to nurture their wounded dreams.
And while I'm glad to be "not too busted," I don't think anyone can say the same for Tyra's weave. Bitch, you are rich! Quit going to whatever cheap ass hairdresser is leaving that inch of stubble on your forehead and shell out for a decent stylist and some extensions that don't look like they come with a combustibility warning.
"ANTM" Cycle 7 starts tonight at 8! Holla indeed.
From: CorporateCard (ccard@giantmultinationalmediaconglomerate.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: Keep it Fierce!
When I clicked on the link, Tyra informed me over my computer speakers that I'm "not too busted" and that CorporateCard "told her" that I "might be the next undiscovered supermodel." I guess CorporateCard neglected to tell Tyra that I'm only 5'3". Given my short stature, I'll have to shelve my lifelong ambition of achieving supermodel status and go to plan B: microbiology, where all failed supermodels go to nurture their wounded dreams.
And while I'm glad to be "not too busted," I don't think anyone can say the same for Tyra's weave. Bitch, you are rich! Quit going to whatever cheap ass hairdresser is leaving that inch of stubble on your forehead and shell out for a decent stylist and some extensions that don't look like they come with a combustibility warning.
"ANTM" Cycle 7 starts tonight at 8! Holla indeed.
Labels: America's Next Top Model, CorporateCard, correspondence, TV
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
America's Next Topless Model: The Short Film
A few months back, my buddies KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser, AKA Kate and Camilla, hired me to model naked for this pretentious nudey website called Uberbelle.com. The guy from Uberbelle never put up my pictures on his site. I may not have been Uberbelle material, being that I am not a sour-faced, emaciated Czechoslovakian teenager, which describes the majority of naked bitches on that site. Also, I think that my irreverent and cheeky replies on my Uberbelle biography questionnaire may have turned off the pompous, self-congratulatory fucktard who penned this welcome message:
"Welcome to Uberbelle.com. Not your father's Erotica. Dedicated to the photography of sexy women. And the innate beauty in the nude form. Uberbelle.com pushes fashion photography into the world of art. Or is it the other way around?"
Whoa, Mr. Uberbelle, you sure turned the tables on your audience! They won't know whether they're looking at pornography or art, and they'll just be confused as to whether they should jerk off or feel patronized. That's an excellent way to sell $9.95 per month memberships. I suppose added incentive is the "Uberlists" section that the Uberbelle website describes as "a nutritious side of pop culture." In these Uberlists, the Uberbelle editorial staff tell everyone what to like, because they're certainly in a position to speak with authority, as they have *impeccable* taste. For example, a man who describes himself as a writer in Kentucky working on a novel about his "self-built family car lot's legacy falling into Faulknerian decline" gives us a scintillating review of a Toad the Wet Sprocket concert. Another idiot who describes himself as a "self-styled pop culture provocateur" begins a review of Green Day's Dookie album with this topic sentence straight out of a junior high book report: "It would be easy to write an essay considering Green Day’s breakthrough record, Dookie, as a pivotal moment in the evolution of modern rock music. The angles are limitless for such an analysis." Not only are these assholes supercilious, inflated peacocks who probably wear boxy glasses and read Sartre to look smart, but I don't need to pay $10 a month to have some prick grace me with a numbingly dull rundown about a CD that everyone in my high school sophomore class had, and then have the audacity to imply that it's an incentive.
Anyway, I don't give a shit if Uberbelle ever puts me up or not, because every time I flip to it, it buries the needle on my moron detector and I still got paid. Plus, it's Uberbelle's loss not putting me up there, because my Alexa ranking is considerably lower than theirs, which means that I get more traffic. As of today, RAZZY.org's Alexa ranking is 193,289. That means I'm the 193,289th most visited site on the internet. It's not that impressive, but Uberbelle's Alexa ranking is 235,136. That means I'm owning Uberbelle traffic-wise to the tune of 41,847 websites. So kiss my ass, Uberbitches!
I still had a lot of fun doing the photo shoot with Kate and Camilla, though, because Kate is one of my best friends and Camilla is extremely cool, and we all got drunk. During the shoot, we got to talking about (one of the best shows in the history of reality television) "America's Next Top Model," and how that dumbass Jade couldn't get her shit together to film a decent commercial for Cover Girl TruBlend powder foundation. Somehow, this ended up in them breaking out the video camera and filming me drunkenly hamming it up, including bongo drumming on my beer belly, can-canning with my tits, and staggering around with a bottle of Heineken acting like an asshole. Apparently this was funny, because they turned it into an entry on their video blog. Behold, Razzy in her native state (topless and intoxicated):
"Welcome to Uberbelle.com. Not your father's Erotica. Dedicated to the photography of sexy women. And the innate beauty in the nude form. Uberbelle.com pushes fashion photography into the world of art. Or is it the other way around?"
Whoa, Mr. Uberbelle, you sure turned the tables on your audience! They won't know whether they're looking at pornography or art, and they'll just be confused as to whether they should jerk off or feel patronized. That's an excellent way to sell $9.95 per month memberships. I suppose added incentive is the "Uberlists" section that the Uberbelle website describes as "a nutritious side of pop culture." In these Uberlists, the Uberbelle editorial staff tell everyone what to like, because they're certainly in a position to speak with authority, as they have *impeccable* taste. For example, a man who describes himself as a writer in Kentucky working on a novel about his "self-built family car lot's legacy falling into Faulknerian decline" gives us a scintillating review of a Toad the Wet Sprocket concert. Another idiot who describes himself as a "self-styled pop culture provocateur" begins a review of Green Day's Dookie album with this topic sentence straight out of a junior high book report: "It would be easy to write an essay considering Green Day’s breakthrough record, Dookie, as a pivotal moment in the evolution of modern rock music. The angles are limitless for such an analysis." Not only are these assholes supercilious, inflated peacocks who probably wear boxy glasses and read Sartre to look smart, but I don't need to pay $10 a month to have some prick grace me with a numbingly dull rundown about a CD that everyone in my high school sophomore class had, and then have the audacity to imply that it's an incentive.
Anyway, I don't give a shit if Uberbelle ever puts me up or not, because every time I flip to it, it buries the needle on my moron detector and I still got paid. Plus, it's Uberbelle's loss not putting me up there, because my Alexa ranking is considerably lower than theirs, which means that I get more traffic. As of today, RAZZY.org's Alexa ranking is 193,289. That means I'm the 193,289th most visited site on the internet. It's not that impressive, but Uberbelle's Alexa ranking is 235,136. That means I'm owning Uberbelle traffic-wise to the tune of 41,847 websites. So kiss my ass, Uberbitches!
I still had a lot of fun doing the photo shoot with Kate and Camilla, though, because Kate is one of my best friends and Camilla is extremely cool, and we all got drunk. During the shoot, we got to talking about (one of the best shows in the history of reality television) "America's Next Top Model," and how that dumbass Jade couldn't get her shit together to film a decent commercial for Cover Girl TruBlend powder foundation. Somehow, this ended up in them breaking out the video camera and filming me drunkenly hamming it up, including bongo drumming on my beer belly, can-canning with my tits, and staggering around with a bottle of Heineken acting like an asshole. Apparently this was funny, because they turned it into an entry on their video blog. Behold, Razzy in her native state (topless and intoxicated):
Labels: alcoholism, America's Next Top Model, BloodyTosser, creative projects, KatieScarlett, nudity, Razzification
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