Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Totally enamoRED DAWN!
If you haven't seen the movie Red Dawn, you need to go out and see it immediately. Yes, it may be buried in the extremely dusty Hypothetical Apocalyptic Cold War Scenario section of your video store, but it is SO worth unearthing. Red Dawn has aged like a fine wine. When it was released, I'm sure it did a fine job capitalizing on America's paranoia about shitty communist governments, and now it is capable of eliciting an equally vehement reaction in the form of awed unintentional hilarity. And I mean hilarity in the sense that it is literally astounding that something so improbable would resound so meaningfully in the present day. I was just a kid when this was out in theaters, so I didn't appreciate it at the time. Recently, I've seen it a little here and there on Spike TV and AMC (yes, it is an American Movie Classic, along with She-Devil, Kuffs, and Fletch Lives), and I've come to the conclusion that Red Dawn may be one of the most profoundly awesome movies in Hollywood history.
In case you are unfamiliar with Red Dawn, I'll provide a brief typically lengthy plot synopsis. The Soviets invade Colorado (oh, and Cuba helps too) via some sort of crazy plan involving hundreds of thousands of paratroopers leaping from Aeroflot jetliners ready to COMMUNIZE some freedom-loving motherfuckers. The Russians then, with a flourish of some "we will crush you" rhetoric, proceed to commit a multitude of egregious human rights abuses (summary executions, grenade massacres, staging concerts by people named Aleksandr, torture, enslavement, setting up vodka distilleries and re-education camps/gulags, etc...but luckily, no institutionalized prisoner organ harvesting). As if this weren't upsetting enough, the Russians are really being assholes about it, mocking sacred icons of Americana:
Basically, America is fucked, or as one colorful local in the movie puts it, "You boys landed right smack dab in the middle-a World War III!" Americans will all soon be forced to address one another as comrade while watching movies proclaiming in glorious generic dictator-speak that "America is a whorehouse where your revolutionary ideals have been corrupted!" However, one intrepid group of freedom fighters decides that they will not take Soviet occupation lying down. They are American, goddammit, and they'll die for their country and their basic freedoms! There's just one catch: they're a group of teenagers that reads like a who's who of 80s movies. America's hope lies frighteningly in the hands of Charlie Sheen, C. Thomas Howell, Jennifer Grey, Lea Thompson, and their fearless yet reluctant leader, Patrick Swayze, son of a curmudgeonly martyr-to-the-cause played by Harry Dean Stanton. His leadership skills involve him shouting "Run! This way!" and looking stoic. Swayze and C. Thomas are galvanized to action by their fathers' tragic fate: being executed to a shout of "Fuego!" by a Cuban firing squad while singing "America the Beautiful" loud enough to drown out the sound of "Gimn Sovetskogo Soyuza" bumping grainily through the firing squad system. They decide to pull of a bunch of ballsy, garage bomb-type guerilla attacks against the invaders, and call themselves the Wolverines, after the high school football team the boys played for and the girls cheered for in happier, less totalitarian times. Like any good terrorist organization, they always take care to announce their identity by spray-painting "Wolverines!" on the charred hammer-and-sickle adorned metal war machine wreckage they leave in their wake. Then they show those terrorists on Al-Jazeera how REAL AMERICANS celebrate a violent and explosive insurgent success:
Fortunately, the Russians well-laid plan for invasion hits a snag when it becomes apparent that they don't speak Spanish and their Cuban comrades don't speak Russian, and their respective military bureaucracies are very incompatible. This wreaks havoc on the whole Communist Takeover infrastructure. Even more fortunate is the fact that the Wolverines are able to capitalize on the tangled red tape (get it? RED tape) of their oppressors and overthrow them with a deft combination of suicide bombing and negotiation with vintage early-'80s model Kalashnikovs. With a combination of spunk, good old-fashioned U.S. of A. stick-to-it-iveness, and guerilla tactics learned from a conveniently downed (while engaging some MIGs, of course) fighter pilot, they get 'er done so all of the Continental Divide can be "F.A." That is, "Free America."
You haven't lived until you've seen C. Thomas Howell in a letterman jacket and head-to-toe Winter Forest camo outerwear firing a couple of RPGs at a Russian tank advancing upon him, only to die in Patrick Swayze's arms. The only question I have is why Swayze didn't lovingly croon "She's Like the Wind" to him as he faded into that great Free American democracy in the sky.
I just purchased a copy of Red Dawn for my permanent collection, where it will take a place of honor on my particle board DVD shelf, right before Starship Troopers and right behind Predator on the awesomeness shelf. I don't know why, given the fact that if you replace "Wolverines" with "Sunni factions in Baghdad" this movie is basically the most prescient allegory ever for the Shitshow Formerly Known as Operation Iraqi Freedom, all these actors are bragging about being in Dirty Dancing, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Wall Street, Back to the Future, or The Hitcher. These guys should put Red Dawn as item numero uno on their IMDB pages. If George W. Bush had seen this film, he'd at least have had some idea of the tactics that clever, patriotic teenagers will resort to in order to expel an unwanted tyrannical occupying power. If they could give Oscars retroactively, Red Dawn would be first in line. Go see it, because it rules.
I just purchased a copy of Red Dawn for my permanent collection, where it will take a place of honor on my particle board DVD shelf, right before Starship Troopers and right behind Predator on the awesomeness shelf. I don't know why, given the fact that if you replace "Wolverines" with "Sunni factions in Baghdad" this movie is basically the most prescient allegory ever for the Shitshow Formerly Known as Operation Iraqi Freedom, all these actors are bragging about being in Dirty Dancing, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Wall Street, Back to the Future, or The Hitcher. These guys should put Red Dawn as item numero uno on their IMDB pages. If George W. Bush had seen this film, he'd at least have had some idea of the tactics that clever, patriotic teenagers will resort to in order to expel an unwanted tyrannical occupying power. If they could give Oscars retroactively, Red Dawn would be first in line. Go see it, because it rules.
Labels: I LOVE IT, international intrigue, movies, Razzification
Sunday, May 06, 2007
One game to rule them all
So very soon I will be providing a full accounting of the debauchery I've been up to during what seems like a woefully short visit to the P-N-Dub. However, my liver hurts and my mind is currently occupied with my most basal inner monologue ("alcohol good", "Sig Hansen hot", "going back to lab bad", "sex fun", "dogs awesome", "sausage tasty", etc.), so I'm unfortunately not up to regaling you all with my misadventures per my usual high narrative standards. I feel as though I have all the expository skills of Chingy! right now, so epic sagas of boozed-up Razzification will have to wait. Therefore, I'll talk about what I think about when I'm not pondering the earthly delights of booze, threesomes, and "Deadliest Catch": LORD OF THE FUCKING RINGS!
A while ago, El Cyd sent me an advisory that J.R.R. Tolkien's son Christopher had made sense of some of his late father's often confusing and complicated Middle-Earth lore and published a depressing new book called The Children of Hurin. I have to say that I have not yet purchased this, because I'm rather conflicted concerning the works of Mr. Tolkien. I loved The Hobbit when I was a little kid, in spite of the fact that I find hobbits, despite their admirable qualities such as being hardy folk with natural One Ring immunity, to be annoying and provincial. However, I did not like Lord of the Rings much because the characters had too many different and/or confusing names (such as the fact that the two bad guys have to be named Saruman and Sauron, and Tolkien could have explained a little better that Gandalf also answers to "Grayhame" and "Mithrandir"), and I found this troublesome at the age of seven when I first attempted to read it. I gave up on LOTR then, and my disdain and insecurity concerning a book I could not vanquish resulted in my being very anti-LOTR until 2003. That was the year that LL Cool Jew popped in a DVD of LOTR: The Two Towers one Thanksgiving despite my staunch protests, and created a monster.
The following is an approximation of some of the comments I made during my first viewing of this movie:
-Regarding the Uruk-hai disemboweling and eating one of their number to resolve a dispute about consuming hobbit legs: "Already this is a lot fiercer than hanging around those gay-ass elves like in the last movie."
-Regarding the Golden Halls of Edoras, capital of Rohan: "Uff da! Those are Vikings! THOSE ARE MY PEOPLE! SKOAL!"
-Regarding Sam and Frodo's burgeoning romance: "It must make the road to Mordor a lot easier when you have a loyal bottom to suck you off beneath your elven cloak at night."
-Regarding Gollum/Smeagol: "Bring out the gimp!"
-Regarding Gandalf's summarily handing Grima Wormtongue and Saruman their bitch asses with his new head-wizard-in-charge status and white robe to match: "If he weren't a gay old man I'd do him so seriously it's not even funny."
-Regarding Aragorn son of Arathorn and Legolas Greenleaf (the least pussified role of Orlando Bloom's life): "I'd let them make me a sandwich."
-Regarding everything having to do with Gimli son of Gloin: "Dude, I think I'm in love. With a dwarf."
-Regarding the Battle of Helm's Deep: "Oh. My. GOD! YES! Sound the horn of Helm Hammerhand one last time! Sound it!"
-Regarding the end when Treebeard and the Ents lay waste to Isengard: "Finally the environment does something useful!"
Anyway, you can see that I was immediately enchanted, which led to LL Cool Jew and I having many conversations, e-mails, and text messages related to LOTR awesomeness in the years since. We refer to things we particularly enjoy as "the precious," and when preparing to go out will toss around awesome quotes like "muster the Rohirrim!" We describe Chingy!'s asshole using Tolkien's description of the Eye of Sauron: "a great Eye, lidless, wreathed in flame." You can imagine how nuts both of us, as Smith College alumnae, went during LOTR: Return of the King when Eowyn of Rohan (or "the Razzy of Middle-Earth" due to the Nordic features she and I share) shouted "I am no man!" and stabbed the Witch-King of Angmar in the face during the Battle of Minas Tirith. I promptly reread the books and found them much easier to manage at the age of 25 than seven, and I went out and bought all the DVD extended editions upon release, which LL Cool Jew and I would randomly watch whenever we were bored back during our stint as roommates. I have a LOTR edition of Risk that came with a replica of the One Ring, complete with the fell script of Mordor on it (although it does not make me turn invisible or wraith-like), which we would sometimes wear while we watched. It's fucking really nerdy, but I'm not ashamed. I fucking love LOTR.
However, my love for the entirety of Tolkien's work is not so broad-sweeping. I may have read and re-read LOTR and all its accompanying appendices, but I tried to get into The Silmarilion and couldn't. For one thing, it was full of those damn elf poetry, and that shit is indirect, meandering, boring, and generally irritating as shit. Usually when I'd come across the song of Luthien Tinuviel or whatever in LOTR, I'd just skip it, so that correspondingly meant I skipped most of The Silmarilion. I don't really give a shit about the mythology or detailed history of Middle-Earth unless it has to do with great battles, so fuck that. Therefore, I'm waiting to pick up The Children of Hurin until someone tells me that it's worth doing so.
However, I was recently alerted to another new release concerning LOTR that I am much more enthusiastic about. Naturally, LL Cool Jew, my partner in epic geekery, married a man just as nerdy as herself, and he sent us both this e-mail the other day:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: my life would be over
i was wondering what you two would think of this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/04/arts/04lord.html
there's no doubt in my mind that if my home computer weren't such a flaming
piece of shit i'd be online the second i got home creating my own gimli-like
character and wreaking some Middle-Earth havoc until I got bad carpal-tunnel.
ll cool jew, no offense, but if the game is half as dope as they claim, our sex
life would grind to a halt for a while. so would my good hygiene, diet and
sleep cycle.
If you clicked on the above link, you will see that it is a review of this:
Yes, this is the new Lord of the Rings online multiplayer game, LOTR: Shadows of Angmar. I immediately went to the game's website to check it out, as I was certain that anything BigBagel would so enthusiastically cause problems in his fledgling marriage for was indeed the nerd hotness of the century. I read the description:
I have not been so excited since "90210" seasons one and two dropped on DVD. It's truly a shame that I question my own home computer's ability to handle the system requirements for a game like this, and that it costs $50 plus a $15 monthly subscription, because I'd fully make a character like this dude and start tearing shit up myself.
Yes, that's Eomer, Viking brother of the hotness that is Eowyn aka Middle-Earth Razzy, loyal subject of Theoden King, and Third Marshal of the Horse-Lords of the Riddermark, and in his guise or something similar, I'd be smoting the ruin of nerds on the online mountainside right and left. It's a good thing I can neither afford nor technologically support this game that would probably result in my never getting laid again except in the former of cybersex with some pimple-faced virtual Man of Numenor on an online lice-filled straw tick mattress during a brief stopover at The Prancing Pony in Bree.
Seriously, if I had more time, computer power, or money, I'd rapidly devolve into some kind of nerd addict and end up on that "Intervention" show. Finally, I have a reason to be grateful for poverty. My status as a semi-normal person on the real (not Middle) earth is clearly dependent upon it.
A while ago, El Cyd sent me an advisory that J.R.R. Tolkien's son Christopher had made sense of some of his late father's often confusing and complicated Middle-Earth lore and published a depressing new book called The Children of Hurin. I have to say that I have not yet purchased this, because I'm rather conflicted concerning the works of Mr. Tolkien. I loved The Hobbit when I was a little kid, in spite of the fact that I find hobbits, despite their admirable qualities such as being hardy folk with natural One Ring immunity, to be annoying and provincial. However, I did not like Lord of the Rings much because the characters had too many different and/or confusing names (such as the fact that the two bad guys have to be named Saruman and Sauron, and Tolkien could have explained a little better that Gandalf also answers to "Grayhame" and "Mithrandir"), and I found this troublesome at the age of seven when I first attempted to read it. I gave up on LOTR then, and my disdain and insecurity concerning a book I could not vanquish resulted in my being very anti-LOTR until 2003. That was the year that LL Cool Jew popped in a DVD of LOTR: The Two Towers one Thanksgiving despite my staunch protests, and created a monster.
The following is an approximation of some of the comments I made during my first viewing of this movie:
-Regarding the Uruk-hai disemboweling and eating one of their number to resolve a dispute about consuming hobbit legs: "Already this is a lot fiercer than hanging around those gay-ass elves like in the last movie."
-Regarding the Golden Halls of Edoras, capital of Rohan: "Uff da! Those are Vikings! THOSE ARE MY PEOPLE! SKOAL!"
-Regarding Sam and Frodo's burgeoning romance: "It must make the road to Mordor a lot easier when you have a loyal bottom to suck you off beneath your elven cloak at night."
-Regarding Gollum/Smeagol: "Bring out the gimp!"
-Regarding Gandalf's summarily handing Grima Wormtongue and Saruman their bitch asses with his new head-wizard-in-charge status and white robe to match: "If he weren't a gay old man I'd do him so seriously it's not even funny."
-Regarding Aragorn son of Arathorn and Legolas Greenleaf (the least pussified role of Orlando Bloom's life): "I'd let them make me a sandwich."
-Regarding everything having to do with Gimli son of Gloin: "Dude, I think I'm in love. With a dwarf."
-Regarding the Battle of Helm's Deep: "Oh. My. GOD! YES! Sound the horn of Helm Hammerhand one last time! Sound it!"
-Regarding the end when Treebeard and the Ents lay waste to Isengard: "Finally the environment does something useful!"
Anyway, you can see that I was immediately enchanted, which led to LL Cool Jew and I having many conversations, e-mails, and text messages related to LOTR awesomeness in the years since. We refer to things we particularly enjoy as "the precious," and when preparing to go out will toss around awesome quotes like "muster the Rohirrim!" We describe Chingy!'s asshole using Tolkien's description of the Eye of Sauron: "a great Eye, lidless, wreathed in flame." You can imagine how nuts both of us, as Smith College alumnae, went during LOTR: Return of the King when Eowyn of Rohan (or "the Razzy of Middle-Earth" due to the Nordic features she and I share) shouted "I am no man!" and stabbed the Witch-King of Angmar in the face during the Battle of Minas Tirith. I promptly reread the books and found them much easier to manage at the age of 25 than seven, and I went out and bought all the DVD extended editions upon release, which LL Cool Jew and I would randomly watch whenever we were bored back during our stint as roommates. I have a LOTR edition of Risk that came with a replica of the One Ring, complete with the fell script of Mordor on it (although it does not make me turn invisible or wraith-like), which we would sometimes wear while we watched. It's fucking really nerdy, but I'm not ashamed. I fucking love LOTR.
However, my love for the entirety of Tolkien's work is not so broad-sweeping. I may have read and re-read LOTR and all its accompanying appendices, but I tried to get into The Silmarilion and couldn't. For one thing, it was full of those damn elf poetry, and that shit is indirect, meandering, boring, and generally irritating as shit. Usually when I'd come across the song of Luthien Tinuviel or whatever in LOTR, I'd just skip it, so that correspondingly meant I skipped most of The Silmarilion. I don't really give a shit about the mythology or detailed history of Middle-Earth unless it has to do with great battles, so fuck that. Therefore, I'm waiting to pick up The Children of Hurin until someone tells me that it's worth doing so.
However, I was recently alerted to another new release concerning LOTR that I am much more enthusiastic about. Naturally, LL Cool Jew, my partner in epic geekery, married a man just as nerdy as herself, and he sent us both this e-mail the other day:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: my life would be over
i was wondering what you two would think of this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/04/arts/04lord.html
there's no doubt in my mind that if my home computer weren't such a flaming
piece of shit i'd be online the second i got home creating my own gimli-like
character and wreaking some Middle-Earth havoc until I got bad carpal-tunnel.
ll cool jew, no offense, but if the game is half as dope as they claim, our sex
life would grind to a halt for a while. so would my good hygiene, diet and
sleep cycle.
If you clicked on the above link, you will see that it is a review of this:
Yes, this is the new Lord of the Rings online multiplayer game, LOTR: Shadows of Angmar. I immediately went to the game's website to check it out, as I was certain that anything BigBagel would so enthusiastically cause problems in his fledgling marriage for was indeed the nerd hotness of the century. I read the description:
ONE GAME TO RULE THEM ALL!Then I checked out some screenshots of the game. Needless to say, after scrolling through shot after shot of chain-mail clad warriors in virtual New Zealand doing epic combat with all manner of orc, troll, and Ringwraith, I had the mental equivalent of a raging hard-on. This one, of an extremely Chingy!fied-looking cave troll in full battle armor, is my particular favorite.
Join the greatest epic of all time!
For the first time, you can immerse yourself in the only authentic, persistent online recreation of Middle-Earth to explore legendary lands, interact with famous characters like Gandalf and Aragorn, and create your own heroic story. The War of the Ring has commenced!
As the Fellowship embarks on their quest to destroy the One Ring, you must defend the Free Peoples against Sauron's evil minion, the Nazgul Witch-King. Adventure solo or forge fellowships, battle hideous monsters, and rise to fame in the most epic MMO ever launched!
I have not been so excited since "90210" seasons one and two dropped on DVD. It's truly a shame that I question my own home computer's ability to handle the system requirements for a game like this, and that it costs $50 plus a $15 monthly subscription, because I'd fully make a character like this dude and start tearing shit up myself.
Yes, that's Eomer, Viking brother of the hotness that is Eowyn aka Middle-Earth Razzy, loyal subject of Theoden King, and Third Marshal of the Horse-Lords of the Riddermark, and in his guise or something similar, I'd be smoting the ruin of nerds on the online mountainside right and left. It's a good thing I can neither afford nor technologically support this game that would probably result in my never getting laid again except in the former of cybersex with some pimple-faced virtual Man of Numenor on an online lice-filled straw tick mattress during a brief stopover at The Prancing Pony in Bree.
Seriously, if I had more time, computer power, or money, I'd rapidly devolve into some kind of nerd addict and end up on that "Intervention" show. Finally, I have a reason to be grateful for poverty. My status as a semi-normal person on the real (not Middle) earth is clearly dependent upon it.
Labels: BigBagel, CHONGAY CHONG, epic geekery, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, nerd alert, Razzification
Friday, May 04, 2007
Throw away the key!!!!
Today is the greatest day of the year so far. I may be sleep deprived, hung over, and afflicted with tonsils the size of golf balls (I blame the giving of enthusiastic oral for the acute case of lymphoadenopathy I'm suffering from, although more on that later), but none of that matters. What does matter is this:
HELL YES!!!!! Paris Hilton was sentenced to 45 days in the Century Regional Detention Facility starting June 5th! She tried to say some bullshit about how her rep lied and said that she didn't know her license was suspended, but the judge wasn't having any of it. He called her rep's testimony "worthless" and told her to shut the fuck up, since the last time she got pulled over there was a document in the glove box SIGNED BY HER acknowledging that she wasn't allowed to drive. Paris cried and apologized to no avail. Make like Justin Timberlake and cry me a river, slut!
Afterwards, Paris's mom bitched about all the money they'd wasted on Paris's defense and called the prosecutor "pathetic". Yeah, if by "pathetic" she means "the greatest American hero since General George Washington." Seriously, they should carve LA City Attorney Rocky Delgadillo's visage into Mount Rushmore for being an undisputed super pimp. I can't think of any adjective for this guy besides a very emphatic CALIENTE.
LL Cool Jew texted me a big "Congrats baby!!!!!" along with the news. Congrats to the world! A time of peace and prosperity has come to the world subsequent to the communal knowledge that Paris will be watching season five of "The Simple Life" from beneath some nasty Bertha's bristly arm in the pokey weight room. I predict an end to wars and the ushering in of a new golden age for our civilization. God bless us, everyone.
Labels: comeuppance, crime and punishment, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, media whores, sluts
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Christmas might come early
Like the rest of the mentally competent world, Los Angeles prosecutors have had enough of Paris Hilton. After she repeatedly violated her probation by publicly drinking, driving multiple times with a suspended license, and failing to sign up for the mandatory alcohol education program that was part of her original DUI sentence, the LA City Attorney has decided to try and put this dumb bitch in jail. Per TMZ.com:
I can only hope that when she shows up for her revised sentencing tomorrow, she gets some notorious hanging judge who is itching to make an example out of her lesion-encrusted ass. Forty-five days of blissfully Paris-free celebrity gossip, along with the satisfying knowledge that she's experiencing all sorts of unimaginable indignities at the hands of a three hundred pound convicted MS-13 illegal gun dealer, is like the best Christmas present a girl could ask for. Seriously, I'd rather have this than a new car or a diamond tiara.
Time to pay the fiddler, whore!
The legal papers ask that "Hilton be ordered to serve 45 days in County Jail." Prosecutors also want her to be ordered "not to consume any alcohol for a continuous period of 90 days." During that 90-day period, prosecutors want her "to be monitored for alcohol consumption ... by use of a Secure Continuous Remote Alcohol Monitoring (SCRAM) device at her expense.Rock on, LA City Attorney. I can't wait to see this dumb twat get her ass destroyed by the fierce bulldykes in the slammer for starting what will undoubtedly be one of the most virulent and transmissible herpes outbreaks in prison history since Heidi Fleiss cooled her heels there. I've felt that Paris Hilton should be incarcerated for some time. Much to my vehement objection, it seems like confusing the possessive form of "your" for the contraction "you're" is not a jailworthy offense, nor is generally being an insufferable cunt and media whore, nor is fucking Joe Francis (unless, of course, you're Joe Francis, who deserves every cornholing he's probably getting right now in Florida):
Time to pay the fiddler, whore!
Labels: alcoholism, assholes, comeuppance, crime and punishment, driving, I LOVE IT, sluts
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Let the healing begin
For those of you who thought that pain caused by Seung-hui Cho shooting up Virginia Tech would never go away, you can relax. My boyfriend is here to help, and he's dressed in an appropriately authoritative manner to put everyone's mind at ease. Never fear, Tech...Lieutenant Colonel Kells is here, looking for a few solid barely legal teenagers to piss on console.
It seems that while on his way to a mind-blowingly awesome show somewhere outside of the Chi, he became absorbed with cable news coverage of the tragedy at Virginia Tech, and immediately took it upon himself to right the wrongs done to the Hokie Spirit. His new song "Rise Up," which presumably will be more along the lines of "I Wish" and "I Believe I Can Fly" than "Feelin' on Yo Booty" or "R&B Thug" in terms of tone, is supposed to inspire the devastated community at Virginia Tech to overcome their grief and pain and will raise money for the memorial fund established in the names of those blown away by the socially inept loser and aspiring playwright Seung Cho. Besides, nothing brings a fresh breeze of hope to the lank sails of the despairing like the inspirational gleam of a 20-karat diamond pinky ring reflecting in a stage light:
Just looking at him soulfully exhorting the Hokie faithful to "Rise Up" in his finest funereal bling and his somber black do-rag is bringing a tear to my cruel eye and an uncomfortable sensation that I think could be characterized as warmth to my icy heart.
Labels: boyfriends, I LOVE IT, people who died, ridiculous absurdity, Robert Sylvester Kelly
Thursday, April 26, 2007
My friends are also nerds
LL Cool Jew is the world's most prolific postcard writer, and even on her honeymoon in Tahiti, where presumably she was busy snorkeling and fucking her new husband BigBagel, she found time to send me a postcard featuring a picture of a tranquil South Pacific scene (lush mountains, lagoons, thatched cabanas, etc.). I was delighted to turn it over and see the entire back covered with her distinctive and lovely handwriting.
I should mention here that one thing LL Cool Jew and I bond over BIG TIME is our mutual love for anything having to do with historical maritime exploits, especially those involving pirates, Her/His Majesty's Royal Navy (depending on the time period), exploration, and colonial intrigue. She once tried to convince me to get the "VOC" logo used by the Gentlemen XVII, the aristocrats overseeing the Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie (AKA the Dutch East India Company), to stamp their official correspondence on my ass. That didn't happen, but it would have totally ruled:
I can only imagine what the expression would be on any random lay's face upon being informed that the "VOC" on my (extremely hot) ass wasn't some ex-boyfriend's initials but the calling card of the seventeenth century merchant guild elite. Anyway, being in Tahiti, site of the HMAV Bounty's ill-fated breadfruit-acquiring mission and Captain James Cook's favorite port of call, she spent most of the postcard regaling me with thrilling tales related to its historical particulars. Not to neglect modern times, however, that clever bitch still managed to work in a reference to a scene from the finale of Vh1's (finest achievement of all time) "I Love New York:"
I should mention here that one thing LL Cool Jew and I bond over BIG TIME is our mutual love for anything having to do with historical maritime exploits, especially those involving pirates, Her/His Majesty's Royal Navy (depending on the time period), exploration, and colonial intrigue. She once tried to convince me to get the "VOC" logo used by the Gentlemen XVII, the aristocrats overseeing the Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie (AKA the Dutch East India Company), to stamp their official correspondence on my ass. That didn't happen, but it would have totally ruled:
I can only imagine what the expression would be on any random lay's face upon being informed that the "VOC" on my (extremely hot) ass wasn't some ex-boyfriend's initials but the calling card of the seventeenth century merchant guild elite. Anyway, being in Tahiti, site of the HMAV Bounty's ill-fated breadfruit-acquiring mission and Captain James Cook's favorite port of call, she spent most of the postcard regaling me with thrilling tales related to its historical particulars. Not to neglect modern times, however, that clever bitch still managed to work in a reference to a scene from the finale of Vh1's (finest achievement of all time) "I Love New York:"
April 12, 2007~DOOD!! OK, see that little bay inlet between those near-vertical peaks so strictly evocative of the South Pacific? That's where a stinking, syphilitic, and exhausted James Cook pulled in in 1777, greeted in all likelihood by a horde of bouncing brown boobies and massively tatted asses toting roasted pigs and fried breadfruit, and decided then and there that this place would make him famous. I mean, honestly, this place is completely ridiculous. We can jump off our terrace into a placid lagoon chock full of fish, and every time I turn around and see these frickin mountains I just about soil myself. Also, behind our bungalow is the dolphin center, so I can totally look up and see what Chance would call "the water dogs" doing their sweet dolphiny thing. If I could just see one inbred descendent of Fletcher Christian it would be complete. PRESS! Love, LL Cool Jew and BigBagel.I can always count on my friends, and ESPECIALLY on LL Cool Jew, to remind me that I am not alone in my pursuit of useless but fascinating geekified historical knowledge concerning the intrigue of seamen past. Maybe she'll go get that VOC tattoo with me, as a show of nerd solidarity.
Labels: BigBagel, correspondence, epic geekery, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, Razzification
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Gigantic Saturday
As part of my effort to train for a marathon in several months, I am running races. Tomorrow, I have to run 4 miles in the New York Road Runners/Adidas Run for the Parks race in Central Park, and I have to haul my ass out of bed at 6:30 a.m. to stand in line to get my number and ChampionCHIP (a microchip that will digitally record what will undoubtedly be an extraordinarily slow race time). Therefore, I decided to stay home tonight to ensure that I am in as little pain as possible while running under the "Impossible is Nothing" finish line. Impossible will be impossible if I make a date with my boyfriend Johnnie Walker and run all over New York tonight, so I'm having a quiet night of sobriety (or at least beer instead of whiskey) at home watching TV. I ended up flipping to this show called "Sabado Gigante" during a commercial on E!'s "THS Investigates Spring Break Nightmares," and gratitude for the large quantity of cerveza in my fridge ensued.
"Sabado Gigante," which translates literally to "Gigantic Saturday," is this variety show on Univision that may be the craziest shit I've ever seen on TV. Granted, my Spanish is muy mal, but it's not hard to figure out that this show is totally and completely FUCKING RIDICULOUS. It's a talk/game show that's probably best described as a combination of Maury Povich, The Man Show, Jeopardy, General Hospital, Hollywood Squares, a Daddy Yankee video, Barney and Friends, a Suzanne Somers infomercial, The Newlywed Game, Showtime at the Apollo, and the Price is Right, except en espanol and on some type of mind-blowing crack. I have been on the edge of my seat since I happened upon this gem.
The show moves at a rapid pace and is full of surprises. It's hard to keep track of all the ridiculous absurdity that has transpired in the last 30 minutes of this show:
1.When I started watching, host Don Francisco, whose look can best be described as part-Vince McMahon, part-greasy uncle that creeps everyone out, is quizzing a couple named Jose y Erika having some type of marital disagreement.
From what I could glean, the main problem was Jose's habit of lying about his substance abuse problems. Then the host asked the audience to decide who was right. The audience decided that Erika's argument was superior to her husband Jose's.
2. El senor Don Francisco is surrounded by dancing hoochies that look like really slutted out Fanta girls for no good reason for about thirty seconds. The dancing hoochies are like ghosts, for they disappear just as quickly.
3. A segment featuring a surprise paternidad test with this old deadbeat fat man. It turns out the deadbeat is el padre, but his daughter hates his guts, so the point is moot. After that is some sort of contest where panels of couples quiz a bunch of bride-groom pairings about their sex lives and values, and win money where they guess which is the most depraved.
4. Don Francisco has some ho show off a Ford Fusion, which is apparently being offered as a prize for some to-be-determined contest.
5. Don Francisco and some hooker wearing an outfit so reminiscent of a gaudily sequined full-body submissive harness that I wondered where her ball gag was hawk some DVDs in which Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse teach kids English, "El mundo del ingles de Disney," so they can speak the language of Disneyland.
6. More dancing hoochies in different outfits. Another shot of a different hoochie reclining on the shiny Fusion.
7. A guy dressed like some sort of sheik in a Pride parade runs through the audience, stirring up excitement, and then onstage, where he good-naturedly harasses Don Francisco. He drags some woman from the audience who looks as though her excitement might cause some type of cerebrovascular accident at any moment, some hos come out and give her money, and the sheik escorts her back to her seat.
8. A band of mariachis plays. The crowd goes insane.
9. A woman came out running around in a Pocahontas outfit pretending to rain dance, shrieking woo-woo-woo-woo, talking shit about the Apaches, and doing everything possible that might be offensive to Native Americans. She had an argument with Don Francisco about whether or not she would move to Hollywood and star in a movie about Indians which amused the audience greatly, then confessed her love for him, he tried to kick her off the set for making lewd jokes, the audience booed, and she declared him "el vaquero mas guapo."
10. Some bitch wins five grand. I have no idea how.
11. Don Francisco is gasping for no apparent reason as he interviews a woman whose mother was Dominican and father was Pakistani. Don Francisco jumps to a scene of the Dominicana-Pakistani at work. He gives her some money and her entire family, including distant cousins, appears in the audience and runs out, hugging her and weeping.
12. Don Francisco and this chick who looks like an alien drag hooker trying to impersonate Mariah Carey advertise elastic body shapers called "Molding Up", that suck in unsightly fat bulges. Chick raves about Molding Up, and they encourage women to call and get a perfect body in less than one minute.
13. Don Francisco, wearing a giant feathered hat with a donkey's head on top introduces a guy dressed like an Inquisition torturer at a gay leather bar with a trumpet slung around his shoulders carrying a pitchfork, who runs through the audience pretend-pitchforking delighted women in the head. The Inquisition torturer returns to a medieval set and proceeds to officiate a singing contest. Don Francisco dons a white easter bonnet covered with lace embellished with hearts for this contestant. Then some chick sings and he wears a baseball hat that looks like the Mexican flag. The next contestant sucks, and Don Francisco wears a jester cap. The reason for the Inquisition torturer's trumpet becomes apparent, as he drives the shitty singer from the stage with a resounding blast of that song bands play at college sports events which is generally followed by a communal shout of "CHARGE!".
14. Don Francisco hawks some type of snake oil face cream called Botulex. The chick is claiming that it has the same effects as Botox without a prescription. I sincerely doubt that it degrades SNARE protein SNAP-25 in neurons, thus blocking vesicular transport and preventing the release of neurotransmitters at the synapse, but Don Francisco and the Botulex ho are vigorously endorsing it nonetheless.
15. Some fat chick sings to her husband Miguel. Don Francisco puts on a hat with flowers on it. Apparently the singing contest continues. Don Francisco reveals that the chick who warranted the Mexican hat won. Her prize seems to be a date with some mariachi singer named David.
16. Don Francisco interviews an immigration lawyer in the audience. He provides counsel to a couple trying to sort out their niece's visa problems. He suggests she marry an American immediately. Then he tells another woman who is evading an order for deportation that her problem is very serious, but he applauds her enduring love for her husband and informs her that she won the Fusion.
17. A couple is pulled out of the audience and Don Francisco proceeds to give the guy some type of high pressure, rapid fire timed series of questions. Then he wins money and everyone sings.
18. The crowd is treated to a sad story about some woman whose husband was a 9/11 hero, but who has been in jail for four years because of some paperwork error at INS, and Don Francisco interviews her, her husband, and her lawyer, Don Edward Sapone. The lawyer bitches passionately about immigration policy, the chick cries, and Don Francisco observes that la migra's bureaucracy is slow as shit, highly inefficient, and generally fucked up. Then the lawyer starts talking about blood in an apartment and I'm very confused, because I thought this about immigration. I need to brush up on my Spanish is a serious way.
19. Don Francisco teases the audience by announcing that some dude named Miguel Bose will be on after the commercial, which is for "La Fea mas Bella," a telenovela similar to "Ugly Betty."
20. Miguel Bose appears, talks to Don Francisco about his music and his videos starring some Shakira wannabe chick in a bikini, and drives the women crazy. I have no idea why, because he looks like Donny Deutsch.
21. Some type of live sketch comedy happens in which an old woman is dissuaded from leaping off her roof, a smooth-talking lothario is prevented from sleeping with a very Kelly Bundy-esque teenager, the now non-suicidal old woman runs in stuck to a decorative cactus and ruins a priceless painting, a handyman gets slapped and responds by dressing in a full Three Musketeers-style outfit complete with rakishly tilted plumed cap, and the smooth-talker steals some guys money. The audience guffaws its approval.
22. A group of hoochies dance around pretending to play long trumpets. This ushers in some type of Home Depot-sponsored contest in which singing, dancing, and image consultants judge a mariachi contest. Mariachis are super popular on this show. La profesora del canto is giving serious fuck-me eyes to a male contestant named Zineb who looks like Ray Liotta's bastard Mexican son.
I have to stop now, because I don't think it's a good idea watch that much more of "Sabado Gigante." Don Francisco's Kool-Aid is intoxicating, and this show is like four hours long, and I'm not sure I can survive that. I'm so excited by this craziness that I feel like my head will explode if I watch another second. Gigantic Saturday is about to give me a gigantic coronary. As far as a relaxing night of healthy rest goes for me, I'm starting to think that maybe it would have been more prudent to drink my body's liquid volume in scotch. Impossible is "Sabado Gigante."
The show moves at a rapid pace and is full of surprises. It's hard to keep track of all the ridiculous absurdity that has transpired in the last 30 minutes of this show:
1.When I started watching, host Don Francisco, whose look can best be described as part-Vince McMahon, part-greasy uncle that creeps everyone out, is quizzing a couple named Jose y Erika having some type of marital disagreement.
2. El senor Don Francisco is surrounded by dancing hoochies that look like really slutted out Fanta girls for no good reason for about thirty seconds. The dancing hoochies are like ghosts, for they disappear just as quickly.
3. A segment featuring a surprise paternidad test with this old deadbeat fat man. It turns out the deadbeat is el padre, but his daughter hates his guts, so the point is moot. After that is some sort of contest where panels of couples quiz a bunch of bride-groom pairings about their sex lives and values, and win money where they guess which is the most depraved.
4. Don Francisco has some ho show off a Ford Fusion, which is apparently being offered as a prize for some to-be-determined contest.
5. Don Francisco and some hooker wearing an outfit so reminiscent of a gaudily sequined full-body submissive harness that I wondered where her ball gag was hawk some DVDs in which Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse teach kids English, "El mundo del ingles de Disney," so they can speak the language of Disneyland.
6. More dancing hoochies in different outfits. Another shot of a different hoochie reclining on the shiny Fusion.
7. A guy dressed like some sort of sheik in a Pride parade runs through the audience, stirring up excitement, and then onstage, where he good-naturedly harasses Don Francisco. He drags some woman from the audience who looks as though her excitement might cause some type of cerebrovascular accident at any moment, some hos come out and give her money, and the sheik escorts her back to her seat.
8. A band of mariachis plays. The crowd goes insane.
9. A woman came out running around in a Pocahontas outfit pretending to rain dance, shrieking woo-woo-woo-woo, talking shit about the Apaches, and doing everything possible that might be offensive to Native Americans. She had an argument with Don Francisco about whether or not she would move to Hollywood and star in a movie about Indians which amused the audience greatly, then confessed her love for him, he tried to kick her off the set for making lewd jokes, the audience booed, and she declared him "el vaquero mas guapo."
10. Some bitch wins five grand. I have no idea how.
11. Don Francisco is gasping for no apparent reason as he interviews a woman whose mother was Dominican and father was Pakistani. Don Francisco jumps to a scene of the Dominicana-Pakistani at work. He gives her some money and her entire family, including distant cousins, appears in the audience and runs out, hugging her and weeping.
12. Don Francisco and this chick who looks like an alien drag hooker trying to impersonate Mariah Carey advertise elastic body shapers called "Molding Up", that suck in unsightly fat bulges. Chick raves about Molding Up, and they encourage women to call and get a perfect body in less than one minute.
13. Don Francisco, wearing a giant feathered hat with a donkey's head on top introduces a guy dressed like an Inquisition torturer at a gay leather bar with a trumpet slung around his shoulders carrying a pitchfork, who runs through the audience pretend-pitchforking delighted women in the head. The Inquisition torturer returns to a medieval set and proceeds to officiate a singing contest. Don Francisco dons a white easter bonnet covered with lace embellished with hearts for this contestant. Then some chick sings and he wears a baseball hat that looks like the Mexican flag. The next contestant sucks, and Don Francisco wears a jester cap. The reason for the Inquisition torturer's trumpet becomes apparent, as he drives the shitty singer from the stage with a resounding blast of that song bands play at college sports events which is generally followed by a communal shout of "CHARGE!".
14. Don Francisco hawks some type of snake oil face cream called Botulex. The chick is claiming that it has the same effects as Botox without a prescription. I sincerely doubt that it degrades SNARE protein SNAP-25 in neurons, thus blocking vesicular transport and preventing the release of neurotransmitters at the synapse, but Don Francisco and the Botulex ho are vigorously endorsing it nonetheless.
15. Some fat chick sings to her husband Miguel. Don Francisco puts on a hat with flowers on it. Apparently the singing contest continues. Don Francisco reveals that the chick who warranted the Mexican hat won. Her prize seems to be a date with some mariachi singer named David.
16. Don Francisco interviews an immigration lawyer in the audience. He provides counsel to a couple trying to sort out their niece's visa problems. He suggests she marry an American immediately. Then he tells another woman who is evading an order for deportation that her problem is very serious, but he applauds her enduring love for her husband and informs her that she won the Fusion.
17. A couple is pulled out of the audience and Don Francisco proceeds to give the guy some type of high pressure, rapid fire timed series of questions. Then he wins money and everyone sings.
18. The crowd is treated to a sad story about some woman whose husband was a 9/11 hero, but who has been in jail for four years because of some paperwork error at INS, and Don Francisco interviews her, her husband, and her lawyer, Don Edward Sapone. The lawyer bitches passionately about immigration policy, the chick cries, and Don Francisco observes that la migra's bureaucracy is slow as shit, highly inefficient, and generally fucked up. Then the lawyer starts talking about blood in an apartment and I'm very confused, because I thought this about immigration. I need to brush up on my Spanish is a serious way.
19. Don Francisco teases the audience by announcing that some dude named Miguel Bose will be on after the commercial, which is for "La Fea mas Bella," a telenovela similar to "Ugly Betty."
20. Miguel Bose appears, talks to Don Francisco about his music and his videos starring some Shakira wannabe chick in a bikini, and drives the women crazy. I have no idea why, because he looks like Donny Deutsch.
22. A group of hoochies dance around pretending to play long trumpets. This ushers in some type of Home Depot-sponsored contest in which singing, dancing, and image consultants judge a mariachi contest. Mariachis are super popular on this show. La profesora del canto is giving serious fuck-me eyes to a male contestant named Zineb who looks like Ray Liotta's bastard Mexican son.
I have to stop now, because I don't think it's a good idea watch that much more of "Sabado Gigante." Don Francisco's Kool-Aid is intoxicating, and this show is like four hours long, and I'm not sure I can survive that. I'm so excited by this craziness that I feel like my head will explode if I watch another second. Gigantic Saturday is about to give me a gigantic coronary. As far as a relaxing night of healthy rest goes for me, I'm starting to think that maybe it would have been more prudent to drink my body's liquid volume in scotch. Impossible is "Sabado Gigante."
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, que magnifico, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity, TV
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Back to his little grass shack
As if I wasn't already depressed enough by having to work and the fact that there is an unseasonable Nor'easter unleashing hell upon the city today, a very important early influence on my life kicked the bucket. It is with deep sadness that I acknowledge the passing of this giant of Hawaiian music...the utterly incomparable Don Ho:
There aren't very many dudes in the world who can make raspberry-tinted glasses and a Ukelele their trademarks and actually pull it off, but Don Ho managed to do so. I've adored Don Ho as much as the hot younger chick in the above picture, because he's been an influential force in my life almost since I was born.
When I was around two or three, I had this tape full of songs that I would sing along to. I don't really remember this much, but every once in a while I'll be making fun of some trashy song from the late 70s or early 80s, and my mom will say, "That was on your 'Favorite Songs' tape. You used to sing it all the time." From what I have discerned so far, this tape contained some AWESOME musical selections such as "Wildfire" by Michael Martin Murphy (song about a chick and her horse, I think), "If You Like Pina Coladas" by Rupert Holmes (song about 70s swinging and striking out on the newspaper personal ad scene), "Freeze Frame" by J. Geils Band (song about ?????), "Angie" by the Rolling Stones (duh), "Leader of the Band" by Dan Fogelberg (song about his elderly father), "Maneater" by Darryl Hall and John Oates (song about an unrepentant slut), "Bette Davis Eyes" by Kim Carnes (song about a super hot bitch in New York), "Urgent" by Foreigner (song about needing to get laid IMMEDIATELY), and "Tiny Bubbles" by Don Ho (song about drinking champers in Hawaii).
Apart from my instinctive attraction to "Tiny Bubbles" because of its alcohol-related theme, I used to really enjoy singing this song soulfully for my parents and their friends (then, as now, I was a zealous attention-seeker). When I was only about three, my ability to enunciate wasn't quite as well developed, and I would sing "Tiny Buboes...in the WINE." Perhaps it was due to my underdeveloped toddler's soft palate, and perhaps it was just an ode to things I would eventually like. "Bubo" could refer to two things:
1. The mechanical owl who assisted Perseus in his valiant struggles against Kalybos, his vengeful mother the goddess Thetis, and the evil Gorgon Medusa to save his beloved Andromeda from the fury of the Kraken in one of the greatest movies ever next to Varsity Blues and the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Clash of the Titans:
I was crooning "Tiny Buboes" right around the time Clash of the Titans came out, and I was immediately entranced by it, so it's entirely possible that my rendition of Don Ho's masterpiece was indeed a tribute to Perseus's charming robotic owl.
2. An extremely enlarged, inflamed, painful, swollen, darkened lymph node characteristic of infection with Yersinia pestis. This is why the plague is called "black death," because the lymph nodes get full of hemorrhagic material and scar tissue (as you can see in the transverse H&E-stained section below) and become necrotic and black, which is called a "bubo", hence the "bubonic plague":
Although I've never had plague and don't study it, I think that singing about microbial diseases at a young age certainly prepped me for doing it as a career. I'm sure if there were a song that had lyrics which sounded like "allergic airway hypersensitization" or "paralytic poliomyelitis" I'd have sung that accidentally too.
In any event, whether I took Don Ho's classic to primarily mean "buy Clash of the Titans on DVD" or "pursue a career in microbiology", I ended up doing both. "Tiny Bubbles" was as much of an influence on the person I am today as The Sun Also Rises or Too $hort's Cocktails album.
Rest in peace, Don Ho(tness)...I hope wherever you are, the humuhumunukunukuappu'aa'aa are swimming by.
When I was around two or three, I had this tape full of songs that I would sing along to. I don't really remember this much, but every once in a while I'll be making fun of some trashy song from the late 70s or early 80s, and my mom will say, "That was on your 'Favorite Songs' tape. You used to sing it all the time." From what I have discerned so far, this tape contained some AWESOME musical selections such as "Wildfire" by Michael Martin Murphy (song about a chick and her horse, I think), "If You Like Pina Coladas" by Rupert Holmes (song about 70s swinging and striking out on the newspaper personal ad scene), "Freeze Frame" by J. Geils Band (song about ?????), "Angie" by the Rolling Stones (duh), "Leader of the Band" by Dan Fogelberg (song about his elderly father), "Maneater" by Darryl Hall and John Oates (song about an unrepentant slut), "Bette Davis Eyes" by Kim Carnes (song about a super hot bitch in New York), "Urgent" by Foreigner (song about needing to get laid IMMEDIATELY), and "Tiny Bubbles" by Don Ho (song about drinking champers in Hawaii).
Apart from my instinctive attraction to "Tiny Bubbles" because of its alcohol-related theme, I used to really enjoy singing this song soulfully for my parents and their friends (then, as now, I was a zealous attention-seeker). When I was only about three, my ability to enunciate wasn't quite as well developed, and I would sing "Tiny Buboes...in the WINE." Perhaps it was due to my underdeveloped toddler's soft palate, and perhaps it was just an ode to things I would eventually like. "Bubo" could refer to two things:
1. The mechanical owl who assisted Perseus in his valiant struggles against Kalybos, his vengeful mother the goddess Thetis, and the evil Gorgon Medusa to save his beloved Andromeda from the fury of the Kraken in one of the greatest movies ever next to Varsity Blues and the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Clash of the Titans:
I was crooning "Tiny Buboes" right around the time Clash of the Titans came out, and I was immediately entranced by it, so it's entirely possible that my rendition of Don Ho's masterpiece was indeed a tribute to Perseus's charming robotic owl.
2. An extremely enlarged, inflamed, painful, swollen, darkened lymph node characteristic of infection with Yersinia pestis. This is why the plague is called "black death," because the lymph nodes get full of hemorrhagic material and scar tissue (as you can see in the transverse H&E-stained section below) and become necrotic and black, which is called a "bubo", hence the "bubonic plague":
Although I've never had plague and don't study it, I think that singing about microbial diseases at a young age certainly prepped me for doing it as a career. I'm sure if there were a song that had lyrics which sounded like "allergic airway hypersensitization" or "paralytic poliomyelitis" I'd have sung that accidentally too.
In any event, whether I took Don Ho's classic to primarily mean "buy Clash of the Titans on DVD" or "pursue a career in microbiology", I ended up doing both. "Tiny Bubbles" was as much of an influence on the person I am today as The Sun Also Rises or Too $hort's Cocktails album.
Rest in peace, Don Ho(tness)...I hope wherever you are, the humuhumunukunukuappu'aa'aa are swimming by.
Labels: alcoholism, epidemic geekery, I LOVE IT, people who died, Razzification, tragedy
Friday, April 13, 2007
Alaska has got it together
Not that I've ever had much love for Alaska, but clearly the online publication the Alaska Report has the right idea when it comes to covering infectious disease:
My Uncle Flavivirus is an infectious disease specialist for the CDC in Alaska, and I wonder if he had anything to do with this. Granted, he works on hepatitis and H. pylori, not the clap, but still...I'd like to think that when the Alaska Review was putting their story together, they called up Uncle Flav and asked for a picture of Neisseria gonorrheae, and he just told them to throw up a picture of Paris Hilton instead.
So awesome. Between this and the fact that the hotness that is Sig Hansen is kicking it in Dutch Harbor with the rest of the "Deadliest Catch" fellas, Alaska's starting to grow on me. Maybe I'll have to take a cruise there or something one of these days.
My Uncle Flavivirus is an infectious disease specialist for the CDC in Alaska, and I wonder if he had anything to do with this. Granted, he works on hepatitis and H. pylori, not the clap, but still...I'd like to think that when the Alaska Review was putting their story together, they called up Uncle Flav and asked for a picture of Neisseria gonorrheae, and he just told them to throw up a picture of Paris Hilton instead.
So awesome. Between this and the fact that the hotness that is Sig Hansen is kicking it in Dutch Harbor with the rest of the "Deadliest Catch" fellas, Alaska's starting to grow on me. Maybe I'll have to take a cruise there or something one of these days.
Labels: epidemic geekery, gross, I LOVE IT, sluts, stank vaginas
What would Rush and Samantha say?
Yesterday Dlisted informed me that the hotness that is Ian Ziering was offered $100,000 to pose nude in Playgirl. In case you don't watch "Dancing with the Stars" (which I don't, but which he is now on), you may best remember Ian from his role as the lovable and mischievious Steve Sanders on what critics unanimously agree is the greatest television show of all time: "Beverly Hills, 90210." Steve Sanders was always my favorite dude on Niner. Brandon was too much of a self-righteous tattletale, Dylan was always too brooding, whiny, and generally unable to deal, and David Silver always looked twelve, even in later years when he pioneered the semi-bearded look that Justin Timberlake rocks now to great effect. Steve was funny, and even when coping with the deep issues that frequently came up on Niner (like being adopted, knocking up his co-editor at the Beverly Beat, getting dumped by Hilary Swank, carrying a torch for Kelly Taylor, hooking up with the hideous Andrea Zuckerman during a late-night SAT prep session, having a perpetually displeased father and a lesbian celebrity mother, almost getting kicked out of two schools thanks to legacy key and/or rival school mascot stealing-related debacles, battling John Sears for KEG house supremacy and for the hand of the lovely retail worker Celeste, making out with a tranny in Palm Springs, and arguing with his snotnosed younger brother Randy Spelling about college versus bar-backing at the Peach Pit After Dark), he could always crack a joke and make light of the situation. So what if he wasn't as hot as the other guys on the show? He didn't need to overcompensate by getting elected class president or what JerseyGirl calls "catchin' a badass wave" like Brandon and Dylan. He didn't need to do anything to pull off driving a ridiculous 'Vette and having a "Caution: Guy Rocking Out" street sign on his locker at West Beverly:
Ah, Steve. I don't usually read shit like Playgirl because it looks like gay whack-off material to me. I'll take naked ladies over dudes any day. However, if Ian poses, I'd gladly pick up a copy. Sadly, TMZ is putting this report to rest. Not because Ian Ziering shot down Playgirl, but because Playgirl can't afford him! Apparently, "Playgirl doesn't have that kind of money to play with," and Steve Sanders won't drop trou for less than 100 large. Those of you in the New York/Secaucus, NJ area can attribute that collective wailing lamentation you hear to myself, JerseyGirl, and Rack. I wanted to see Steve Sanders's weiner! Alas.
Labels: Bev Niner, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, JerseyGirl, nudity, Rack, weiners
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
This just in: Chingy! still morbidly obese
So finally I have joined the 21st century and purchased a digital camera. Last night KatieScarlett took me to some shady camera store in Times Square and negotiated a sweet deal on this cute little camera that looks like an iPod, and which came with a protective rubber case in case one of the dogs decides to appropriate it for a chew toy. To celebrate the purchase and to prefunk for last night's premiere of "Deadliest Catch" (which was fucking AWESOME), we went to the Times Square Red Lobster.
I had never eaten at the Red Lobster in Times Square, partly because I hate Times Square, and partly because I only go to Red Lobsters when I'm not in New York City. There is practically one restaurant for every person in Manhattan, so what the hell is the point of going to a place I can find in Anytown, USA? Nonetheless, Red Lobster was jamming. Every tourist in NYC seems to invariably stick with what they know rather than venture out and try something new, so there were lines coming out of the Red Lobster, as well as the nearby Olive Garden, TGIFridays, Applebee's, and Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. It took us a while to squeeze into some seats at the bar, but once we did we were rewarded with an excellent view of the NCAA Women's basketball championship (which pleased KatieScarlett on account of the abundance of lesbians) interspersed with more "Deadliest Catch" commercials.
When I got home in time to crack open a cold one and watch "Deadliest Catch" (in which the hotness that is Sig Hansen pranked Blake the greenhorn captain of the Maverick who spent last season bitching about how he wasn't captain yet and who has a SERIOUS date rapist look about him by hiding a bag of rotten fish in the Maverick wheelhouse), I started playing with my camera. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of interesting shit in my apartment to photograph unless you're into empty Heineken bottles and Red Bull cans. Therefore, I took pictures of the dogs.
Caesar, as always, is as handsome as can be, even though I haven't quite figured out the flash on this new camera yet:
And for those of you inquiring as to Chingy!'s health, specifically whether or not he's lost any weight, the answer to that is an unequivocal NO:
On the bright side, I snagged some errant glucose test strips belonging to an immunology lab that shares our space in the mouse house to test Chingy!'s urine, and so far he is not diabetic. Any news that distracts me from the fact that every day he is more reminiscent of a beached whale is good news. CHONGAY CHONG!
And don't worry, I'll figure out how to take better pictures and how to work this camera in time for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party tomorrow. Obviously, me getting together with ten drunken sluts in ho-ass shirts and sticking that mess in the middle of Scores with an open bar for three hours requires photo documentation. That's why I had to insist on getting this camera this week in the first place. So stand by...MillerTime arrives tonight and the insanity will begin, and I'll have better pics than my fat, sleeping Hutt of a dog to share with the world.
I had never eaten at the Red Lobster in Times Square, partly because I hate Times Square, and partly because I only go to Red Lobsters when I'm not in New York City. There is practically one restaurant for every person in Manhattan, so what the hell is the point of going to a place I can find in Anytown, USA? Nonetheless, Red Lobster was jamming. Every tourist in NYC seems to invariably stick with what they know rather than venture out and try something new, so there were lines coming out of the Red Lobster, as well as the nearby Olive Garden, TGIFridays, Applebee's, and Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. It took us a while to squeeze into some seats at the bar, but once we did we were rewarded with an excellent view of the NCAA Women's basketball championship (which pleased KatieScarlett on account of the abundance of lesbians) interspersed with more "Deadliest Catch" commercials.
When I got home in time to crack open a cold one and watch "Deadliest Catch" (in which the hotness that is Sig Hansen pranked Blake the greenhorn captain of the Maverick who spent last season bitching about how he wasn't captain yet and who has a SERIOUS date rapist look about him by hiding a bag of rotten fish in the Maverick wheelhouse), I started playing with my camera. Unfortunately, there's not a lot of interesting shit in my apartment to photograph unless you're into empty Heineken bottles and Red Bull cans. Therefore, I took pictures of the dogs.
Caesar, as always, is as handsome as can be, even though I haven't quite figured out the flash on this new camera yet:
And for those of you inquiring as to Chingy!'s health, specifically whether or not he's lost any weight, the answer to that is an unequivocal NO:
On the bright side, I snagged some errant glucose test strips belonging to an immunology lab that shares our space in the mouse house to test Chingy!'s urine, and so far he is not diabetic. Any news that distracts me from the fact that every day he is more reminiscent of a beached whale is good news. CHONGAY CHONG!
And don't worry, I'll figure out how to take better pictures and how to work this camera in time for LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party tomorrow. Obviously, me getting together with ten drunken sluts in ho-ass shirts and sticking that mess in the middle of Scores with an open bar for three hours requires photo documentation. That's why I had to insist on getting this camera this week in the first place. So stand by...MillerTime arrives tonight and the insanity will begin, and I'll have better pics than my fat, sleeping Hutt of a dog to share with the world.
Labels: Caese Doggy Dogg, CHONGAY CHONG, doggity style, I LOVE IT
Monday, April 02, 2007
Tango and Chance
No, I'm not talking about this:
That's Tango and Cash. Tango and Chance are the two remaining finalists on the best show on television this year..."I Love New York."
This is Tango, a rapper also known as The Tan Man, who professed his love to New York on episode 3 and, according to New York, gives back massages that make her "want to do big girl things":
Famous Tango moments include him getting into a knock-down, drag-out screaming match with New York which culminated in her mooning him, constantly snitching on other contestants who may have talked shit about NY or her crazy mother (he almost got 12 Pack the gay stripper booted and successfully got Onix kicked off after he claimed Sister Patterson was faking speaking in tongues at church), and being compared to a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle by other contestants (during a double date, competitor Real addressed him as "Donatello" and declared that he had "mutagen lips").
This is Chance, lead rapper of the up-and-coming (according to him, anyway) group the Stallionaires, who are named for the horse farm his mama runs:
Chance is the big thug of the house. He's constantly slizzin' on the Henny, puffing Newports, and generally stuntin' and acting the fool. Famous Chance moments include him attending a cooking class where he revealed that he believes prosciutto is French, fucking New York (possibly) in a limo after the same cooking class, running off to pet his stallion when New York didn't pay attention to him for five minutes, refusing to go to church if it meant removing his Stallionaires baseball cap, going into church five minutes later after receiving diving inspiration in the form of Sister Patterson's epileptic Hallelujah seizure, and spending most of a hot air balloon ride clutching the floor of the basket in fear.
My money's on Chance winning, just because I think New York is hotter for him than Tango. Chance is a total asshole most of the time, but New York won't shut up about how hot he makes her. Furthermore, I'm pretty sure New York will give both of their dicks a test drive before passing her final judgment, and I feel like Chance is better in the sack than Tango. For one thing, Chance is tall and skinny and I have yet to meet a tall, skinny dude who wasn't packing a sizable cock. For another, I'm always suspicious of guys who spend as much time in the weight room as Tango does, as that suggests some serious overcompensation. Besides, Chance is funny, and Tango is a pain in the ass, as he's always either tattling on somebody or trying to process with New York like a damn Smith College lesbian. So there will be no shout of "Cowabunga, dude!" from Tango...Chance is totally winning this thing.
On another note, I was checking on the internets to see if news of a winner had leaked. While I couldn't find any definitive information about that, I did notice that this picture of Kalybos from Clash of the Titans kept popping up every time I Googled "I Love New York." I'm not sure why...except he does look a LITTLE like New York's mother.
I thought this was funny, and I think that there should be more pictures of Kalybos--bitter and disfigured bastard son of the goddess Thetis (aka Dame Maggie Smith) who spent all his time rigging an elaborate dream-induced nightly abduction of the Princess Andromeda only to be thwarted by the handsome and clever pre-"L.A. Law" Harry Hamlin--floating around the blogosphere. So there you go.
This is Tango, a rapper also known as The Tan Man, who professed his love to New York on episode 3 and, according to New York, gives back massages that make her "want to do big girl things":
This is Chance, lead rapper of the up-and-coming (according to him, anyway) group the Stallionaires, who are named for the horse farm his mama runs:
My money's on Chance winning, just because I think New York is hotter for him than Tango. Chance is a total asshole most of the time, but New York won't shut up about how hot he makes her. Furthermore, I'm pretty sure New York will give both of their dicks a test drive before passing her final judgment, and I feel like Chance is better in the sack than Tango. For one thing, Chance is tall and skinny and I have yet to meet a tall, skinny dude who wasn't packing a sizable cock. For another, I'm always suspicious of guys who spend as much time in the weight room as Tango does, as that suggests some serious overcompensation. Besides, Chance is funny, and Tango is a pain in the ass, as he's always either tattling on somebody or trying to process with New York like a damn Smith College lesbian. So there will be no shout of "Cowabunga, dude!" from Tango...Chance is totally winning this thing.
On another note, I was checking on the internets to see if news of a winner had leaked. While I couldn't find any definitive information about that, I did notice that this picture of Kalybos from Clash of the Titans kept popping up every time I Googled "I Love New York." I'm not sure why...except he does look a LITTLE like New York's mother.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, I Love New York, TV, Vh1
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
My long-lost twin
Last week, LL Cool Jew e-mailed me informing me that she'd discovered a duplicate Razzy while watching Fox Sports Network at a bar in the Dirrty:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: if you were a boxer
...you'd be holly holm.
http://www.hollyholm.com/
i was at a bar in gulfport last night (skeeter's, formerly known as
jim bob's; it says skeeter's on the building and jim bob's on the
dilapidated sign outside) and lazily looking at best damn sports show
and this girl came out and i was like, razzy?
she's seriously your buff doppelganger. look at her kicking the shit
out of the other bitches with her hair tied back – she looks just like
you!! it's crazy
I spoke with LL Cool Jew last night and she reiterated the comparison. "That glamour shot on her website is obviously Photoshopped to shit," she said. "But you should have seen her being interviewed! She even had your same mannerisms!"
"What, she was loud, drunk, and swore a lot?" I asked.
"Well, I don't think she was drunk. Anyway, I have to go, I'm pulling up to Skeeter's-formerly-known-as-Jim Bob's now."
I wished her happy drinking and then went through some of my old photo files. I see her point.
However, although I do bicep curls with little handweights and push ups, my guns are nothing like Holly's. That ho could seriously fuck me up. I suppose there are worse things to be compared to. I'd way rather resemble some ball-busting lady pugilist with a bloodstained sportsbra (and by the way, how hot is that?!) than other certain famous figure skaters, serial killers, and neo-conservative pundits to whom my looks have been compared:
Holly Holm is like a goddess compared to those bitches, so LL Cool Jew just made my week!
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: if you were a boxer
...you'd be holly holm.
http://www.hollyholm.com/
i was at a bar in gulfport last night (skeeter's, formerly known as
jim bob's; it says skeeter's on the building and jim bob's on the
dilapidated sign outside) and lazily looking at best damn sports show
and this girl came out and i was like, razzy?
she's seriously your buff doppelganger. look at her kicking the shit
out of the other bitches with her hair tied back – she looks just like
you!! it's crazy
I spoke with LL Cool Jew last night and she reiterated the comparison. "That glamour shot on her website is obviously Photoshopped to shit," she said. "But you should have seen her being interviewed! She even had your same mannerisms!"
"What, she was loud, drunk, and swore a lot?" I asked.
"Well, I don't think she was drunk. Anyway, I have to go, I'm pulling up to Skeeter's-formerly-known-as-Jim Bob's now."
I wished her happy drinking and then went through some of my old photo files. I see her point.
However, although I do bicep curls with little handweights and push ups, my guns are nothing like Holly's. That ho could seriously fuck me up. I suppose there are worse things to be compared to. I'd way rather resemble some ball-busting lady pugilist with a bloodstained sportsbra (and by the way, how hot is that?!) than other certain famous figure skaters, serial killers, and neo-conservative pundits to whom my looks have been compared:
Holly Holm is like a goddess compared to those bitches, so LL Cool Jew just made my week!
Labels: correspondence, hot chicks, I LOVE IT, LL Cool Jew, Razzification
Sunday, March 25, 2007
I like it rough
I was watching a little television today when I saw a preview for a new season of one of my favorite shows. The preview got me very excited, as it just reminded me how FUCKING AWESOME this show is. You'd better believe that on April 3rd, I will be firmly parked in front of the idiot box with a cold Heineken and an appetite for seafaring danger:
HELL FUCKING YES!!! "Deadliest Catch" is back, for its "roughest season yet"! I don't doubt it, with that rousing commercial; it makes "Deadliest Catch" look like Lord of the Rings in terms of its epic intensity. In case you are unfamiliar with this show, it's about the ballsiest men in the world: the salty seamen who chug out halfway to Russia in the violent and unpredictable Bering Sea to participate in "the modern-day gold rush," the quest for Alaskan crab. This career has one of the highest on-the-job fatality rates of any job in the world, and dudes have to have stones of steel to do it. I LOVE it.
Not only are these guys brave as hell and tough as nails, many of them are Scandinavians from the P-N-Dub, and I always enjoy watching my people do us Norskies proud. For example, this steaming slice of Viking hotness:
That's Sig Hansen, captain of the F/V Northwestern, fourth-generation Norwegian fisherman based in Seattle, and all-around total pimp. Sig spends most of his time chain smoking Marlboro Reds, barking orders at his crew (mostly his brothers), eating heaping helpings of lutefisk, and plotting Machiavellian strategies to outcrab his competition, the Rollo, Time Bandit, Cornelia Marie, Maverick, and Aleutian Ballad. Usually this involves moving the other boats' buoys and/or attaching heavy shit to their pots. Sig also doesn't take any bullshit. One episode last season, a dude on his crew was dragging his feet to take over for Sig in the "wheelhouse" (the bridge), so Sig shut down the freshwater supply and made his ass get up there covered in soap. As the narrator notes, "Norwegian justice is swift." Norwegian fishing is also hardcore. Every time they have a successful haul, Sig's brother celebrates with a variety of nasty Viking traditions that usually involve eating a raw cod heart or drinking bilge water or something equally revolting. I am FOR SURE getting a pair of these before the season premiere:
Yes, they actually sell "I'm a Sig Girl" thong underwear in the "Hansenette" section of the Northwestern's web site, and I'm totally investing $10.99 in that, as well as a "There's a right way, a wrong way, and a Norwegian way" baby tee. Sig is totally getting a promotion to boyfriend as soon as I update the woefully neglected rest of my site.
Man, I cannot WAIT for April 3rd to commence the season that is "deadlier than ever before." I might just have to pull on my Sig Girl g-string and go hit up the Times Square Red Lobster to pre-funk.
HELL FUCKING YES!!! "Deadliest Catch" is back, for its "roughest season yet"! I don't doubt it, with that rousing commercial; it makes "Deadliest Catch" look like Lord of the Rings in terms of its epic intensity. In case you are unfamiliar with this show, it's about the ballsiest men in the world: the salty seamen who chug out halfway to Russia in the violent and unpredictable Bering Sea to participate in "the modern-day gold rush," the quest for Alaskan crab. This career has one of the highest on-the-job fatality rates of any job in the world, and dudes have to have stones of steel to do it. I LOVE it.
Not only are these guys brave as hell and tough as nails, many of them are Scandinavians from the P-N-Dub, and I always enjoy watching my people do us Norskies proud. For example, this steaming slice of Viking hotness:
That's Sig Hansen, captain of the F/V Northwestern, fourth-generation Norwegian fisherman based in Seattle, and all-around total pimp. Sig spends most of his time chain smoking Marlboro Reds, barking orders at his crew (mostly his brothers), eating heaping helpings of lutefisk, and plotting Machiavellian strategies to outcrab his competition, the Rollo, Time Bandit, Cornelia Marie, Maverick, and Aleutian Ballad. Usually this involves moving the other boats' buoys and/or attaching heavy shit to their pots. Sig also doesn't take any bullshit. One episode last season, a dude on his crew was dragging his feet to take over for Sig in the "wheelhouse" (the bridge), so Sig shut down the freshwater supply and made his ass get up there covered in soap. As the narrator notes, "Norwegian justice is swift." Norwegian fishing is also hardcore. Every time they have a successful haul, Sig's brother celebrates with a variety of nasty Viking traditions that usually involve eating a raw cod heart or drinking bilge water or something equally revolting. I am FOR SURE getting a pair of these before the season premiere:
Yes, they actually sell "I'm a Sig Girl" thong underwear in the "Hansenette" section of the Northwestern's web site, and I'm totally investing $10.99 in that, as well as a "There's a right way, a wrong way, and a Norwegian way" baby tee. Sig is totally getting a promotion to boyfriend as soon as I update the woefully neglected rest of my site.
Man, I cannot WAIT for April 3rd to commence the season that is "deadlier than ever before." I might just have to pull on my Sig Girl g-string and go hit up the Times Square Red Lobster to pre-funk.
Labels: hot dudes, I LOVE IT, P-N-Dub, TV
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Harry Potter is kewl
I've never had any desire to put up kiddie porn on my website. For one thing, I hate kids, so why on earth would I want to look at pictures of them doing anything, much less getting sexy? Also, even more than kids, I hate pervertedly criminal morons, like the sex offenders in my neighborhood and the many dumbasses caught on tape during the awesomeness known as Dateline NBC "To Catch a Predator." I never thought I'd even consider amending my "no kiddie porn" policy, much less actually do so.
After much torment and agonizing internal debate, I decided to make an exception for photos I found of the FULL FRONTAL NAKED Daniel "Harry Potter" Radcliffe, who as I have already mentioned, is growing up into quite the fox. In my defense, he'll be 18 in five short months, so he's almost legal. Also, this picture is being distributed all over the internet as promotional material for his West End revival of Equus. Since he's stripping down and wagging his pecker around to the London theater crowd, it's not like I'm the only adult saying "daaaaaamn" about Harry Potter frolicking around in his birthday suit. The pretentious fucks who go see this live on stage cover up their perverted naked-Harry-Potter thoughts by calling it art. This is making the rounds on ALL the gossip blogs, so if it's kiddie porn, then go after Perez Hilton and all 5 million of his readers too. Are you listening, people at Perverted-Justice.com getting ready to look me up on MySpace and attempt to entrap me via poorly spelled, incomprehensible acronym-filled correspondence? I'm not sending his underage ass any instant messages or masturbating for him via webcam or offering to bring him some Zima in exchange for oral at his absent parents' house, so don't send Chris Hansen to castigate me.
Now that I've said my I'm-not-a-child-pornographer disclaimer, take a gander at Harry Potter's uncircumcised weiner!
Holy shit! The boy has some girth. And the length appears adequate too, and he's not even hard! Granted, it's not eleven inches of holly with a phoenix feather core, but whose wand really is? I'm impressed. I'm also glad to know that the guy portraying The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, and the most legendary adversary of You-Know-Who and his loyal depraved Death Eaters has got a healthy-sized dick and isn't afraid to rock out with his cock out. Since he's eventually going to take on the dark wizard formerly known as Tom Riddle in mortal combat, he's going to need a big dick to help keep his confidence up when he's trading hexes with Lord Voldemort. Can a blonde, alcoholic, science-geek Muggle get a piece of that action?
And if the self-assured, yeah-I-know-my-prick-is-nice attitude wasn't appealing enough, he's totally a bad boy. Here he is, unshaven and probably relaxing in an interview talking about his challenging new role of baring it all on stage before he does some chick and blinds all her horses.
He smokes! Even though he's not old enough to legally purchase a pack of fags, he's contentedly puffing away on what I like to imagine is a Marlboro Red (although it's probably a fucking Dunhill or whatever British people smoke). Whether he smokes cowboy killers or not, and despite the distractingly hideous sleeve and collar striping on that busted polo shirt, I suddenly have the hots for Daniel Radcliffe in a big way. Dude is going on the Hot Jews list ASAP.
Turn 18 already, Harry!
After much torment and agonizing internal debate, I decided to make an exception for photos I found of the FULL FRONTAL NAKED Daniel "Harry Potter" Radcliffe, who as I have already mentioned, is growing up into quite the fox. In my defense, he'll be 18 in five short months, so he's almost legal. Also, this picture is being distributed all over the internet as promotional material for his West End revival of Equus. Since he's stripping down and wagging his pecker around to the London theater crowd, it's not like I'm the only adult saying "daaaaaamn" about Harry Potter frolicking around in his birthday suit. The pretentious fucks who go see this live on stage cover up their perverted naked-Harry-Potter thoughts by calling it art. This is making the rounds on ALL the gossip blogs, so if it's kiddie porn, then go after Perez Hilton and all 5 million of his readers too. Are you listening, people at Perverted-Justice.com getting ready to look me up on MySpace and attempt to entrap me via poorly spelled, incomprehensible acronym-filled correspondence? I'm not sending his underage ass any instant messages or masturbating for him via webcam or offering to bring him some Zima in exchange for oral at his absent parents' house, so don't send Chris Hansen to castigate me.
Now that I've said my I'm-not-a-child-pornographer disclaimer, take a gander at Harry Potter's uncircumcised weiner!
Holy shit! The boy has some girth. And the length appears adequate too, and he's not even hard! Granted, it's not eleven inches of holly with a phoenix feather core, but whose wand really is? I'm impressed. I'm also glad to know that the guy portraying The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One, and the most legendary adversary of You-Know-Who and his loyal depraved Death Eaters has got a healthy-sized dick and isn't afraid to rock out with his cock out. Since he's eventually going to take on the dark wizard formerly known as Tom Riddle in mortal combat, he's going to need a big dick to help keep his confidence up when he's trading hexes with Lord Voldemort. Can a blonde, alcoholic, science-geek Muggle get a piece of that action?
And if the self-assured, yeah-I-know-my-prick-is-nice attitude wasn't appealing enough, he's totally a bad boy. Here he is, unshaven and probably relaxing in an interview talking about his challenging new role of baring it all on stage before he does some chick and blinds all her horses.
Turn 18 already, Harry!
Labels: celebrities, Harry Potter, hot dudes, I LOVE IT, kewlness, perversion, sex, weiners
Monday, February 05, 2007
Out of our cold, dead hands
My buddy FalloniusMonk is from South Carolina and I'm from Puyallup, places known respectively for worshipping a team called the "Fighting Gamecocks" and for its dominance in the West Coast homebrewed meth trade, so we are both are own special brand of regional redneck. We might come off as city girls, being that we both live in Gotham, and have our fancy-sounding jobs (she's a creative director at a marketing company and even though I consider my job slavery--or at least indentured servitude--saying that you are in "The Coordinated Doctoral Program in the Biomedical Sciences" at an Ivy League school sounds pretty glamorous and elite). However, our trappings of being cosmopolitan and sophisticated belie our deeply ingrained PWT sensibilities, and neither of us have forgotten that we come from places where Toby Keith gets lots of airplay, people are considered successful if they own a double-wide, and mullets never go out of style. Therefore, there are only a couple things we love as much as God and country: swill, fuckin', and guns.
FalloniusMonk called me in the later phases of the whole Tej Bindra debacle, at the point where I was firing off letters to Smith deans, hanging with the dedicated detectives of the elite squad known as the 3-0 precinct gold shields, and writing reports for the FBI. I was a mess: drinking my courage, sleeping fitfully, and generally freaking out.
"What you need, Razzy," she said wisely. "Is a gun."
"I know," I said. "I've already thought about that. But handgun licenses take a while to get in New York, and they're mad expensive."
"What about a rifle or a shotgun?"
"I thought of that, too, but dude, I haven't shot a gun since I was fucking G-Boner's cousin J and he took me out to their field to tag beer cans with his .22."
"That's easily rectified, Razzy. We're going to the motherfucking rifle range. It's like riding a bike...you never really forget how."
I was thrilled with this plan. So after the madness of traveling and the holidays died down, we made it a New Year's resolution to get our firearms on stat. Therefore, weekend before last, we went to the Westside Pistol Range and experienced what their website calls "the excitement of firing a .22-caliber rifle."
We arrived and started chatting away with the range staff who gave us acrid cups of "range brew" coffee and forms to sign verifying that we are not felons, not wanted, not impersonating law enforcement officers, and hadn't used any drugs or alcohol (thatyear month week day). We were clean, sober, of good legal standing, and ready to shoot the shit out of some targets. Then we took a quick class on how to properly load our Ruger 1022s, operate the bolt and safety, hold the gun, aim, and fire. The instructor cautioned me that my "low-cut blouse" (aka titty shirt) was putting me at a great risk for getting a burn from a shell casing should it happen to pop down my cleavage. I saucily informed him that I could hardly blame the shell casing for wanting to get in there, and would consider it a necessary but unavoidable risk, and my knockers would take it like a man. Then came the awesomeness. I am fairly certain that, given my personality and intolerance for bullshit, NOBODY wants to fuck with this:
Okay, so the glasses and ear protection aren't exactly sexy, but whatever...that big old gun sure is! FalloniusMonk and I took turns documenting the good times with her camera, and how exceptionally good we look while firing our guns.
We had so much fun that after we shot off our complimentary fifty rounds, FalloniusMonk bought us each another box of bullets and we consulted on the action so far while loading our magazines. FalloniusMonk is way faster than me at loading, so she gave me a wink and helped my slow ass finish up with my ammo.
My slowness at loading magazines didn't deter me from announcing that on our next trip, we would shoot the 9-mil rifle, because it uses WAY bigger bullets ("manstoppers", as the instructor called them), is louder, and is the gun equivalent of a bigger dick. FalloniusMonk heartily concurred, and then made my day when she showed me that she'd acquired some duck and pig targets, which I promptly compared to my dog. "I'm going to kill the fuck out of that Chingy!-looking pig," I vowed.
I did. It was a good day to be a target duck, because I hardly shot any of them at all, but the pigs I ultimately filled with lead. "I'm bringing home the bacon!" I shouted. FalloniusMonk declared that my new "bang bang" name was "Angie Oakley." I thought that was generous of her, because truth be told, I wasn't exactly a sharpshooter (although I did manage to hit the bullseye a few times).
Probably the most hilarious part of the day was when FalloniusMonk managed to capture on film an extremely rare occurrence. Despite my many professions that I am terrible at housework, she managed to obtain definitive photographic evidence that I am capable of operating the device used to sweep shit off the floor known as a broom.
It's fitting that the only time I can be compelled to use one of these domestic contraptions is to sweep up my spent shells. FalloniusMonk didn't mind it so much, considering it the necessary conclusion to a job well done.
The guys at the range loved us, and we assured them we would return. They suggested we should bring LL Cool Jew there for her bachelorette party, and FalloniusMonk and I tried to keep a straight face wondering how that would go over with a posse of liberal-ass Smith alumnae. We graciously informed them that since liquor is an integral part of her bachelorette party, the gun range wouldn't be an appropriate venue for a bunch of boozed-up bitches, but thanked them for the idea nonetheless. Then we went and had lunch at this bizarre little bistro where a dude who looked like the bastard child of Andy Warhol and Johnny Cash ("Johnny Warhol") tortured us with his acoustic guitar and covers of old Beatles tunes.
"Too bad they didn't let us take the Rugers with us," I told FalloniusMonk after he launched into his earsplitting rendition of "Norwegian Wood." She laughed and ordered us "an apertif" of some weird Czech liquor she used to drink during her semester in Prague, and then we went out for scotch. All in all, it was about as close as I get to a perfect day short of Reggie (Get In My) Bush showing up with a rare steak and the intent of sexually working me for ten hours straight. Needless to say, this is the look of a happy Razzy:
Second amendment, baby! I'm going to treat myself to a NRA membership (and now only partly because it's an asshole thing to do and because they have awesome complimentary bumper stickers). Next stop for FalloniusMonk and myself: One Police Plaza, where we're going to submit our applications for a handgun license. Watch out, haters, because from now on, I'm going to be packing heat.
FalloniusMonk called me in the later phases of the whole Tej Bindra debacle, at the point where I was firing off letters to Smith deans, hanging with the dedicated detectives of the elite squad known as the 3-0 precinct gold shields, and writing reports for the FBI. I was a mess: drinking my courage, sleeping fitfully, and generally freaking out.
"What you need, Razzy," she said wisely. "Is a gun."
"I know," I said. "I've already thought about that. But handgun licenses take a while to get in New York, and they're mad expensive."
"What about a rifle or a shotgun?"
"I thought of that, too, but dude, I haven't shot a gun since I was fucking G-Boner's cousin J and he took me out to their field to tag beer cans with his .22."
"That's easily rectified, Razzy. We're going to the motherfucking rifle range. It's like riding a bike...you never really forget how."
I was thrilled with this plan. So after the madness of traveling and the holidays died down, we made it a New Year's resolution to get our firearms on stat. Therefore, weekend before last, we went to the Westside Pistol Range and experienced what their website calls "the excitement of firing a .22-caliber rifle."
We arrived and started chatting away with the range staff who gave us acrid cups of "range brew" coffee and forms to sign verifying that we are not felons, not wanted, not impersonating law enforcement officers, and hadn't used any drugs or alcohol (that
Okay, so the glasses and ear protection aren't exactly sexy, but whatever...that big old gun sure is! FalloniusMonk and I took turns documenting the good times with her camera, and how exceptionally good we look while firing our guns.
We had so much fun that after we shot off our complimentary fifty rounds, FalloniusMonk bought us each another box of bullets and we consulted on the action so far while loading our magazines. FalloniusMonk is way faster than me at loading, so she gave me a wink and helped my slow ass finish up with my ammo.
My slowness at loading magazines didn't deter me from announcing that on our next trip, we would shoot the 9-mil rifle, because it uses WAY bigger bullets ("manstoppers", as the instructor called them), is louder, and is the gun equivalent of a bigger dick. FalloniusMonk heartily concurred, and then made my day when she showed me that she'd acquired some duck and pig targets, which I promptly compared to my dog. "I'm going to kill the fuck out of that Chingy!-looking pig," I vowed.
I did. It was a good day to be a target duck, because I hardly shot any of them at all, but the pigs I ultimately filled with lead. "I'm bringing home the bacon!" I shouted. FalloniusMonk declared that my new "bang bang" name was "Angie Oakley." I thought that was generous of her, because truth be told, I wasn't exactly a sharpshooter (although I did manage to hit the bullseye a few times).
Probably the most hilarious part of the day was when FalloniusMonk managed to capture on film an extremely rare occurrence. Despite my many professions that I am terrible at housework, she managed to obtain definitive photographic evidence that I am capable of operating the device used to sweep shit off the floor known as a broom.
It's fitting that the only time I can be compelled to use one of these domestic contraptions is to sweep up my spent shells. FalloniusMonk didn't mind it so much, considering it the necessary conclusion to a job well done.
The guys at the range loved us, and we assured them we would return. They suggested we should bring LL Cool Jew there for her bachelorette party, and FalloniusMonk and I tried to keep a straight face wondering how that would go over with a posse of liberal-ass Smith alumnae. We graciously informed them that since liquor is an integral part of her bachelorette party, the gun range wouldn't be an appropriate venue for a bunch of boozed-up bitches, but thanked them for the idea nonetheless. Then we went and had lunch at this bizarre little bistro where a dude who looked like the bastard child of Andy Warhol and Johnny Cash ("Johnny Warhol") tortured us with his acoustic guitar and covers of old Beatles tunes.
"Too bad they didn't let us take the Rugers with us," I told FalloniusMonk after he launched into his earsplitting rendition of "Norwegian Wood." She laughed and ordered us "an apertif" of some weird Czech liquor she used to drink during her semester in Prague, and then we went out for scotch. All in all, it was about as close as I get to a perfect day short of Reggie (Get In My) Bush showing up with a rare steak and the intent of sexually working me for ten hours straight. Needless to say, this is the look of a happy Razzy:
Second amendment, baby! I'm going to treat myself to a NRA membership (and now only partly because it's an asshole thing to do and because they have awesome complimentary bumper stickers). Next stop for FalloniusMonk and myself: One Police Plaza, where we're going to submit our applications for a handgun license. Watch out, haters, because from now on, I'm going to be packing heat.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, guns, I LOVE IT, PWT, Razzification
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Fucking awesome
As I've hinted at before, I'm a whore for website traffic. I was thrilled when last year I realized that I was getting around 100-150 unique hits a day at RAZZY.org, and specifically at this blog. I hadn't checked my stats for a few days, and since there has been a serious famine of opinion on the comment pages, I decided to do so. I mean, did everyone take a vow of e-silence for their New Year's resolution? Or maybe everyone was too busy doing lame shit like working or looking at pictures of Britney's stank vadge and stanker outfits or worrying about when Barack Obama is going to declare his candidacy for the ought-eight Oval Office race to read my blog. As it turns out, that's not the case. I was delighted to see that my traffic has skyrocketed, and even more delighted that it skyrocketed to the point where I get to gloat about it!
Holy shit! I've gotten up to >500 unique hits per diem! I know, I know...in comparison to some other websites, it's still pretty pathetic. However, since all of a sudden it's consistently at least 100 unique visitors above my Q4 2006 average, I'll not only take it, I'll celebrate it publicly. Looks like tonight I'm drinking Coors Light OUT OF A BOTTLE. Nothing but the good stuff for such a special occasion.
And to all you new Razzyphiles (and Haters)...velkommen!
Holy shit! I've gotten up to >500 unique hits per diem! I know, I know...in comparison to some other websites, it's still pretty pathetic. However, since all of a sudden it's consistently at least 100 unique visitors above my Q4 2006 average, I'll not only take it, I'll celebrate it publicly. Looks like tonight I'm drinking Coors Light OUT OF A BOTTLE. Nothing but the good stuff for such a special occasion.
And to all you new Razzyphiles (and Haters)...velkommen!
Labels: I LOVE IT, internet domination, Razzification
Friday, January 12, 2007
Double the pleasure, double the fun
You might not think I'm the poetry-reading type, but there's nothing I love more than a well-crafted piece of verse. I'm not talking about any of that Shakespeare or T.S. Eliot doggerel; that stuff that literary types study is usually shit. No, I am talking about masterpieces of rhyme such as the one below:
I love playing two-hand touch
Eating way too much
Watching my team win...
With the twins!
I love quarterbacks eating dirt
Pom-poms and short skirts
Fans who won't quit...
And those twins!
I love watching football on TV
Shots of Gena Lee
Hanging with my friends...
And twins!
I love burritos at 4 a.m.
Parties that never end
Dogs that love cats...
And...and TWINS!
Okay, so that wasn't really a poem so much as it was a Coors Light commercial from 2003, but as far as I'm concerned, it's a stunning achievement of balladry. Obviously the people behind the current Jim Mora, Sr. "Playoffs?!" commercial this year are fucking geniuses, and it's thus no surprise that they're currently ruling the world of awesome football-related beer commercials. They really captured something special with those old twins commercials. Who doesn't love twins? Twins have been lauded for their great achievements throughout history. In Greek mythology, Prometheus brought fire to mankind (although his brother Epimetheus was a tool and boned the incredibly stupid Pandora--she of the reviled box--thus balancing out Prometheus's contribution), and Apollo and Artemis were two of the hottest immortals to hit the Olympian nectar-and-ambrosia circuit. More recently, Mary-Kate and Ashley became the entertainment industry's first teenage billionaires and brought hideous sack-like clothing into fashion, and Jenna and Barbara Bush, with their wild, underage tequila-drinking ways, are the only remotely cool thing about our current presidential administration. Without twins, Wrigley would never have cornered the lucrative gum market, and after he hops on his Schwinn and tells the homies "Aight, then", Warren G would have nobody to cite when requiring validation for making them ends. Twins are a cornerstone of our society.
Twins have always played an important role in my life, including the Coors Light twins, who I saw battle each other in a pillow fight at Wrestlemania XIX in Seattle several years ago. In my personal life, I am the honorary "third twin" of my high school best friend G-Boner and her sister M-Boner, and I still attend many of their family affairs when I'm home in the P-N-Dub. And every time I get into some sort of trouble a la threats of litigation from Paula James, menacing by Ja-Fake-Ans who don't eat pussy, or attempts by accomplices of Tej Bindra to get me assaulted via Craigslist, I promptly call up RAZZY.org's original and platinum-elite status Razzyphiles HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair, who are identical twins as well as my providers of free legal counsel. Plus, they're all dark and swarthy, and that's so how I roll. And thanks to them, I now have a picture of me doing what everyone in the world secretly wants to do and tapped into the cultural zeitgeist captured by the aforementioned Coors Light commercials: act the fool up in the Puyallup house party with a twin on each arm. I couldn't have rang in the New Year any better.
I AM the American dream, bitches!
I love playing two-hand touch
Eating way too much
Watching my team win...
With the twins!
I love quarterbacks eating dirt
Pom-poms and short skirts
Fans who won't quit...
And those twins!
I love watching football on TV
Shots of Gena Lee
Hanging with my friends...
And twins!
I love burritos at 4 a.m.
Parties that never end
Dogs that love cats...
And...and TWINS!
Okay, so that wasn't really a poem so much as it was a Coors Light commercial from 2003, but as far as I'm concerned, it's a stunning achievement of balladry. Obviously the people behind the current Jim Mora, Sr. "Playoffs?!" commercial this year are fucking geniuses, and it's thus no surprise that they're currently ruling the world of awesome football-related beer commercials. They really captured something special with those old twins commercials. Who doesn't love twins? Twins have been lauded for their great achievements throughout history. In Greek mythology, Prometheus brought fire to mankind (although his brother Epimetheus was a tool and boned the incredibly stupid Pandora--she of the reviled box--thus balancing out Prometheus's contribution), and Apollo and Artemis were two of the hottest immortals to hit the Olympian nectar-and-ambrosia circuit. More recently, Mary-Kate and Ashley became the entertainment industry's first teenage billionaires and brought hideous sack-like clothing into fashion, and Jenna and Barbara Bush, with their wild, underage tequila-drinking ways, are the only remotely cool thing about our current presidential administration. Without twins, Wrigley would never have cornered the lucrative gum market, and after he hops on his Schwinn and tells the homies "Aight, then", Warren G would have nobody to cite when requiring validation for making them ends. Twins are a cornerstone of our society.
Twins have always played an important role in my life, including the Coors Light twins, who I saw battle each other in a pillow fight at Wrestlemania XIX in Seattle several years ago. In my personal life, I am the honorary "third twin" of my high school best friend G-Boner and her sister M-Boner, and I still attend many of their family affairs when I'm home in the P-N-Dub. And every time I get into some sort of trouble a la threats of litigation from Paula James, menacing by Ja-Fake-Ans who don't eat pussy, or attempts by accomplices of Tej Bindra to get me assaulted via Craigslist, I promptly call up RAZZY.org's original and platinum-elite status Razzyphiles HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair, who are identical twins as well as my providers of free legal counsel. Plus, they're all dark and swarthy, and that's so how I roll. And thanks to them, I now have a picture of me doing what everyone in the world secretly wants to do and tapped into the cultural zeitgeist captured by the aforementioned Coors Light commercials: act the fool up in the Puyallup house party with a twin on each arm. I couldn't have rang in the New Year any better.
I AM the American dream, bitches!
Labels: G-Boner, hot dudes, HotLawyer, I LOVE IT, M-Boner, Morrissey'sHair, Razzification, Razzyphiles
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Must buys for my boudoir
A friend of mine employed by a major news network has just tipped me off to some serious breaking news in the business world. It seems my boyfriend Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson has just informed GQ that he plans on further broadening his line of signature products to include condoms and sex toys. And I quote:
"I need to make a 50 Cent condom, and a motorized version of me."While he has stated that he wants his condom line to promote HIV/AIDS awareness and safe sex, he doesn't quite have the particulars figured out regarding his 50 Cent vibrator. I applaud the amount of thought he's putting into it, though. Clearly he's trying to think from a woman's point of view, as he's considered many of the more practical aspects of vibrator use:
"A motorized version of me will definitely have to be waterproof, so you could utilize it in the tub. A lot of them (vibrators) aren't waterproof."I could add that, in my experience, a superior vibrator is one that plugs into a wall outlet. The Sharper Image sells a lot of "neck massagers" that are excellent for this purpose. I've found that the battery-powered ones, while having the advantage of portability, often lose their juice too quickly. However, it is true that there are precious few vibrators that can stand immersion, or more importantly, that won't electrocute you if introduced to the bath or shower. For years, women have been compromised with those variable-speed massaging shower-heads, which I've always found to be woefully inadequate for rubbing one off (it's easier to just do it the old-fashioned way with your dominant hand) AND potent inducers of urinary tract infections. Fitty would clearly be getting into a market with plenty of room to grow by making a waterproof vibrator. This isn't the only concern my man Curtis has for his line of G-Unit pleasuring devices, though.
"Blue is my favorite color, so it would probably be blue. But I don't know how big. I don't know if big is better, because I'm not sure a man wants his woman playing with a really big dildo."Typical men...always concerned first and foremost with their own stupid fucking penis insecurity issues. I wonder if this isn't a clever ruse to distract consumers from the fact that a "motorized version" of himself might not be the hugest weiner women have ever seen. I mean, I've obviously seen his penis like a zillion times, but I'm not at liberty to say how big it actually is because he swore me to secrecy. All I have to say to him is baby, if you want to make a product that women will want to use, that shit better have some girth and *several* different speeds! At least Fitty's final word on the project makes sense:
"I want to create something like that, that's fun and sexually exciting for women."If you pull it off, bitches everywhere will be glad to get in your car, Fitty!
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, capitalism, I LOVE IT, masturbation, perversion, rap, sex
So this explains it
Since I got back to New York, I've gotten several queries along the lines of "I read your blog. Are you hitting it with chicks again?"
The answer to that is no, not really. I think chicks are hot and sexy, and I'd rather look at a naked chick than a naked dude, but when it comes down to it, I'm in for the function over form. Therefore, I'll always be partial to a good, old-fashioned hard penis. Just because I've occasionally strayed from my "strictly dickly" approach to my sexuality doesn't mean that I'm switching teams permanently.
Now I have some insight, direct from the pages of Nature, which may help those curious about why I'll occasionally indulge in some Sapphic action. For whatever reason, Nature seems to devote far more coverage to the science of same-sex doin' it than any other elite science journal. For example, there were no pictures of gay animal sex (ie: male giraffes fudge packing or male whales sticking their dicks in each others' blowholes) in Science or Cell, but Nature devoted an entire page to it. J-Sexy has this picture hanging above her desk, indicating that Nature is obviously the go-to journal regarding stories appealing to scientists with more prurient interests.
The "News and Views" section of Nature covers interesting research published this week in any journal. I am glad they do, because I don't routinely read Proceedings of the Royal Society, and I would have missed an important study modeling the prevalence of the as-yet unidentified gay gene in the human population. I abbreviated it here, because nobody really cares about Gavrilets and Rice's speculative theories about whether this hypothetical gay gene is X-linked or autosomal or their musings about homosexuality being "a Darwinian paradox." The important part is highlighted in bold text anyway, and is quite succinct. Read for yourself:
Yes! Finally, a genetics study that's actually interesting! Note the conclusion in the abstract of this blurb: "The model also predicts widespread bisexuality in humans." The next time someone asks me why I'm getting down with the ladies, I'll just refer them to this article and attribute it to the normal phenotype of someone heterozygous for gay and straight alleles at the sexual preferences locus. It makes sense. I hope that next they tackle distribution of the pull-my-hair-while-you're-doing-me-doggystyle gene among the population. Gavrilets and Rice are doing some of the most meaningful genetics research EVER...it's way more insightful than dicking around with Drosophila or C. elegans. I hope they get funding for years to come, and I look forward to all their future papers.
The answer to that is no, not really. I think chicks are hot and sexy, and I'd rather look at a naked chick than a naked dude, but when it comes down to it, I'm in for the function over form. Therefore, I'll always be partial to a good, old-fashioned hard penis. Just because I've occasionally strayed from my "strictly dickly" approach to my sexuality doesn't mean that I'm switching teams permanently.
Now I have some insight, direct from the pages of Nature, which may help those curious about why I'll occasionally indulge in some Sapphic action. For whatever reason, Nature seems to devote far more coverage to the science of same-sex doin' it than any other elite science journal. For example, there were no pictures of gay animal sex (ie: male giraffes fudge packing or male whales sticking their dicks in each others' blowholes) in Science or Cell, but Nature devoted an entire page to it. J-Sexy has this picture hanging above her desk, indicating that Nature is obviously the go-to journal regarding stories appealing to scientists with more prurient interests.
The "News and Views" section of Nature covers interesting research published this week in any journal. I am glad they do, because I don't routinely read Proceedings of the Royal Society, and I would have missed an important study modeling the prevalence of the as-yet unidentified gay gene in the human population. I abbreviated it here, because nobody really cares about Gavrilets and Rice's speculative theories about whether this hypothetical gay gene is X-linked or autosomal or their musings about homosexuality being "a Darwinian paradox." The important part is highlighted in bold text anyway, and is quite succinct. Read for yourself:
Yes! Finally, a genetics study that's actually interesting! Note the conclusion in the abstract of this blurb: "The model also predicts widespread bisexuality in humans." The next time someone asks me why I'm getting down with the ladies, I'll just refer them to this article and attribute it to the normal phenotype of someone heterozygous for gay and straight alleles at the sexual preferences locus. It makes sense. I hope that next they tackle distribution of the pull-my-hair-while-you're-doing-me-doggystyle gene among the population. Gavrilets and Rice are doing some of the most meaningful genetics research EVER...it's way more insightful than dicking around with Drosophila or C. elegans. I hope they get funding for years to come, and I look forward to all their future papers.
Labels: I LOVE IT, perversion, Razzification, science, sex
More than meets the eye
I always envied my brother's toys when I was little. Boy toys are way better than girl toys, because they lend themselves to much more interesting adventures than dolls and fake fucking kitchen sets that they give little girls to play with. As far as I was concerned, nothing involving domestic chores could be considered a fun toy (anyone who has seen my skills as a housekeeper can attest that I maintain this view to this day). I never played with my girl toys right anyway.
My Barbies were all ambitious career women, earning their keeps as librarians, scientists, mortgage brokers, high-level diplomats, fighter pilots, etc. They were all also lesbians because there weren't enough Ken dolls to go around. My two pathetic Ken dolls wound up forgotten, cuckolded pussies on unemployment sitting around while their female counterparts ruled the world and drove each other to and from work in the pink Corvette they all shared. I never saw the point of my My Little Ponies, except as the occasional transportation to the office for my Barbies when the Vette was in the shop. My Little Ponies didn't have opposable thumbs and could thus accomplish no useful job besides that of a pack animal, and their greatest attributes were glittery mane and tail hair and scratch-and-sniff brands on their asses. Even the "Pegasus" My Little Ponies, which would be useful because they can supposedly fly, had these stupid vestigial wings that wouldn't have been remotely functional in any real world flying situation, and particularly wouldn't have produced enough lift to hoist a fat horse's ass off the ground. Meanwhile, my Cabbage Patch Kids, rather than stirring my innate maternal instincts and getting me to look forward to when I can be a mommy to a REAL baby, were doing duty as the foundation of the discarded crap pile in my room.
I thought my brother, Lil Tevie, had far superior toys. G.I. Joes, He Man and the Masters of the Universe, Transformers, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were all much more interesting to me. They were toys with a premise of action, and had a purpose, whether it be battling covert terror organizations or harnessing the Power of Grayskull. I thought those callings were far more interesting than toys that exist mainly to be orphan babies harvested from a vegetable patch or pastel-colored ponies that were piss-poor even as beasts of burden.
That is why, when I saw this trailer, I got really excited. Ever since Dolph Lundgren ruined the cinematic legacy of He Man, I've been skeptical about the conversion of rad boy toys into movies. But if anyone can do it, Michael "More Explosions!" Bay can, and so far, it appears he's going to rock my fucking face off:
How cool is that? If I were a dude, I'd have like the world's biggest erection after seeing that trailer. Yes, that is the mind-blowing awesomeness of applying a huge budget to tell the tale of the benevolent Martian robots that transform into long-haul 18-wheelers pitted against evil Martian robots that transform into military aircraft, with humanity hanging in the balance. In other words, it's the Autobots v. the Decepticons! Robots in disguise! FUCKING RAD!
My Barbies were all ambitious career women, earning their keeps as librarians, scientists, mortgage brokers, high-level diplomats, fighter pilots, etc. They were all also lesbians because there weren't enough Ken dolls to go around. My two pathetic Ken dolls wound up forgotten, cuckolded pussies on unemployment sitting around while their female counterparts ruled the world and drove each other to and from work in the pink Corvette they all shared. I never saw the point of my My Little Ponies, except as the occasional transportation to the office for my Barbies when the Vette was in the shop. My Little Ponies didn't have opposable thumbs and could thus accomplish no useful job besides that of a pack animal, and their greatest attributes were glittery mane and tail hair and scratch-and-sniff brands on their asses. Even the "Pegasus" My Little Ponies, which would be useful because they can supposedly fly, had these stupid vestigial wings that wouldn't have been remotely functional in any real world flying situation, and particularly wouldn't have produced enough lift to hoist a fat horse's ass off the ground. Meanwhile, my Cabbage Patch Kids, rather than stirring my innate maternal instincts and getting me to look forward to when I can be a mommy to a REAL baby, were doing duty as the foundation of the discarded crap pile in my room.
I thought my brother, Lil Tevie, had far superior toys. G.I. Joes, He Man and the Masters of the Universe, Transformers, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were all much more interesting to me. They were toys with a premise of action, and had a purpose, whether it be battling covert terror organizations or harnessing the Power of Grayskull. I thought those callings were far more interesting than toys that exist mainly to be orphan babies harvested from a vegetable patch or pastel-colored ponies that were piss-poor even as beasts of burden.
That is why, when I saw this trailer, I got really excited. Ever since Dolph Lundgren ruined the cinematic legacy of He Man, I've been skeptical about the conversion of rad boy toys into movies. But if anyone can do it, Michael "More Explosions!" Bay can, and so far, it appears he's going to rock my fucking face off:
How cool is that? If I were a dude, I'd have like the world's biggest erection after seeing that trailer. Yes, that is the mind-blowing awesomeness of applying a huge budget to tell the tale of the benevolent Martian robots that transform into long-haul 18-wheelers pitted against evil Martian robots that transform into military aircraft, with humanity hanging in the balance. In other words, it's the Autobots v. the Decepticons! Robots in disguise! FUCKING RAD!
Labels: I LOVE IT, movies, Razzification
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Playoffs?!
Last night while I was having a heart attack about the Seahawks' extremely fucking lucky, ridiculous win over the Cowboys, my buddy Catman sent me a text message which read "Cmon seahawks!...U c jim mora sr coors commercial? Playoffs?" I hadn't seen this commercial, because I didn't get to start watching the Seahawks game until the fourth quarter, as I'd been attending CorporateCard's birthday dinner. It was held in this extremely campy, Bollywoodish Indian restaurant that touted its decor as "where Christmas and chili pepper lights meet." I thought that was a little inadequate, as they should have made a statement about the reflector tape used to paper the walls. Epileptics should think twice before going to the Panna II Indian Garden in the East Village. Needless to say, there wasn't a TV there, so I had to insist that we go for after-dinner drinks somewhere with a TV tuned to the Seahawks-Cowboys game. When I got Catman's text message, I was pissed I hadn't seen the commercial he mentioned, because I knew EXACTLY what it was going to entail.
Jim Mora, Sr. was formerly the coach of the New Orleans Saints and the Indianapolis Colts. He is famous for ranting and raving in press conferences. There are two that come to mind. The first is his final press conference as head coach of the Saints. This got him fired, even though I would consider his assessment (which, among other things, accused the offense of accomplishing "diddly poo") an accurate summary of the game the Saints had just played:
The most famous Jim Mora, Sr. tirade of all time is popularly known as the "Playoffs" rant, when, after tearing apart the offense's performance and implying that the Colts couldn't beat a high school JV practice squad because they "just SUCKED", some hapless reporter asked him what the Colts' chances were of making the playoffs after such an abysmally bad showing. This is what went down:
SO awesome. I never get tired of watching this, and I'm not the only one. My buddy NeisMan always names his Fantasy Football team having something to do with Jim Mora, Sr. This past season his team was called "Mora's Crappy Team", and the season before it was simply "Playoffs?!". Jim Mora, Sr. may be no longer employable as a NFL head coach due his combined losing records and blistering rants to the media, but his legacy lives on for all NFL fans who experienced a legendary Mora, Sr. press conference. Therefore, it was high time for Coors Light to advertise their beer via a faux press conference featuring the legendary "Playoffs" rant.
Coors Light has been doing these relatively amusing commercials where they splice footage of former NFL head coaches (Dick Vermeil, Bill Walsh, and Mike Ditka) answering questions at press conferences posed by Coors Light-swilling football fans. I particularly enjoyed the Dick Vermeil ads, but nothing, and I mean NOTHING, can achieve the supreme quality and brilliance of Jim Mora, Sr. Behold the awesomeness:
Looks like I'm going to have to switch to Coors Light next weekend at the football bar, because I MUST support any company who produces such commendable advertising. I will gladly tap the Rockies in exchange for Jim Mora, Sr. footage. It's only a matter of time before Coors releases another commercial featuring scenes from the "diddly poo" incident. The Playoffs?! are going to rule.
Jim Mora, Sr. was formerly the coach of the New Orleans Saints and the Indianapolis Colts. He is famous for ranting and raving in press conferences. There are two that come to mind. The first is his final press conference as head coach of the Saints. This got him fired, even though I would consider his assessment (which, among other things, accused the offense of accomplishing "diddly poo") an accurate summary of the game the Saints had just played:
The most famous Jim Mora, Sr. tirade of all time is popularly known as the "Playoffs" rant, when, after tearing apart the offense's performance and implying that the Colts couldn't beat a high school JV practice squad because they "just SUCKED", some hapless reporter asked him what the Colts' chances were of making the playoffs after such an abysmally bad showing. This is what went down:
SO awesome. I never get tired of watching this, and I'm not the only one. My buddy NeisMan always names his Fantasy Football team having something to do with Jim Mora, Sr. This past season his team was called "Mora's Crappy Team", and the season before it was simply "Playoffs?!". Jim Mora, Sr. may be no longer employable as a NFL head coach due his combined losing records and blistering rants to the media, but his legacy lives on for all NFL fans who experienced a legendary Mora, Sr. press conference. Therefore, it was high time for Coors Light to advertise their beer via a faux press conference featuring the legendary "Playoffs" rant.
Coors Light has been doing these relatively amusing commercials where they splice footage of former NFL head coaches (Dick Vermeil, Bill Walsh, and Mike Ditka) answering questions at press conferences posed by Coors Light-swilling football fans. I particularly enjoyed the Dick Vermeil ads, but nothing, and I mean NOTHING, can achieve the supreme quality and brilliance of Jim Mora, Sr. Behold the awesomeness:
Looks like I'm going to have to switch to Coors Light next weekend at the football bar, because I MUST support any company who produces such commendable advertising. I will gladly tap the Rockies in exchange for Jim Mora, Sr. footage. It's only a matter of time before Coors releases another commercial featuring scenes from the "diddly poo" incident. The Playoffs?! are going to rule.
Labels: hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, Jim Mora Sr., NFL football, ranting, Seahawks
Thursday, January 04, 2007
More proof that alcoholism is healthy
Today while catching up on all the EXCITING developments in rhinovirology and mouse dendritic cell immunology, I came across an unrelated but equally thrilling article in the riveting journal Proceedings of the National Academy of the Sciences, or as J-Sexy and I call it, Pe-NAS. I'm not in the arthritis business, but some people who are decided to do the following awesome study, as published in the January 2, 2007 issue of PNAS. Feel free to skim the attached abstract. Oh yeah, and FYI, ethanol=potable booze.
Ethanol prevents development of destructive arthritis
Ing-Marie Jonsson,Margareta Verdrengh , Mikael Brisslert , Sofia Lindblad , Maria Bokarewa , Ulrika Islander , Hans Carlsten , Claes Ohlsson, Kutty Selma Nandhakumar, Rikard Holmdahl, and Andrej Tarkowski
Environmental factors are thought to play a major role in the development of rheumatoid arthritis. Because the use of ethanol is widespread, we assessed the role of ethanol intake on the propensity to develop chronic arthritis. Collagen type II-immunized mice were given water or water containing 10% (vol/vol) ethanol or its metabolite acetaldehyde. Their development of arthritis was assessed, as well as the impact of ethanol on leukocyte migration and activation of intracellular transcription factors. Mice exposed daily to this dose of ethanol did not display any liver toxicity, and the development of erosive arthritis was almost totally abrogated. In contrast, the antibody-mediated effector phase of collagen-induced arthritis was not influenced by ethanol exposure. Also, the major ethanol metabolite, acetaldehyde, prevented the development of arthritis. This antiinflammatory and antidestructive property of ethanol was mediated by (i) down-regulation of leukocyte migration and (ii) up-regulation of testosterone secretion, with the latter leading to decreased NF-
B activation. We conclude that low but persistent ethanol consumption delays the onset and halts the progression of collagen-induced arthritis by interaction with innate immune responsiveness.
In case you got cross-eyed reading all the above science, I'll just quickly translate for you. This study used mice that get arthritis after being immunized with collagen, thus causing their immune systems to attack their joints and destroy them. When they constantly drank a solution of 10% booze, THEY DIDN'T GET IT. Now, I'm just going to gloss over the part about it inhibiting the immune system by downregulating leukocyte (white blood cell) migration and NF-B activation, and will completely ignore any papers in the future that show alcohol making mice more susceptible to infectious disease or tumors via negative modulation of immune responses. The point here is that THIS paper, which was so important that it graced the cover of PNAS (which may not be Science, Nature, or Cell, but is a solid journal nonetheless), says that alcoholism will keep your joints healthy (and macho--note where it says it upregulates testosterone).
I would expect nothing less than important studies like these to come from a lab so thoroughly populated by Scandinavians. Furthermore, this paper has just become the cornerstone of my marathon-training strategy (well, apart from running my tits off, of course). When I'm running those agonizing 26.2 miles this fall, my joints will be replete with collagen and I'll be in great shape, laughing in the face of all those super-healthy athletes who trained without the benefit of joint-sustaining beer and scotch. In your FACE, Runners Temperance League! Age may be destroying my soul (at least according to Tej Bindra), but it's certainly not going to do a number on my knees or knuckles since I'm being protected by my persistent alcohol consumption. Thanks to booze, I am a robust physical specimen, the picture of health, vitality, and resistance to arthritis. So drink up, motherfuckers! Science says it's good for you.
Ethanol prevents development of destructive arthritis
Ing-Marie Jonsson,
Environmental factors are thought to play a major role in the development of rheumatoid arthritis. Because the use of ethanol is widespread, we assessed the role of ethanol intake on the propensity to develop chronic arthritis. Collagen type II-immunized mice were given water or water containing 10% (vol/vol) ethanol or its metabolite acetaldehyde. Their development of arthritis was assessed, as well as the impact of ethanol on leukocyte migration and activation of intracellular transcription factors. Mice exposed daily to this dose of ethanol did not display any liver toxicity, and the development of erosive arthritis was almost totally abrogated. In contrast, the antibody-mediated effector phase of collagen-induced arthritis was not influenced by ethanol exposure. Also, the major ethanol metabolite, acetaldehyde, prevented the development of arthritis. This antiinflammatory and antidestructive property of ethanol was mediated by (i) down-regulation of leukocyte migration and (ii) up-regulation of testosterone secretion, with the latter leading to decreased NF-
B activation. We conclude that low but persistent ethanol consumption delays the onset and halts the progression of collagen-induced arthritis by interaction with innate immune responsiveness.In case you got cross-eyed reading all the above science, I'll just quickly translate for you. This study used mice that get arthritis after being immunized with collagen, thus causing their immune systems to attack their joints and destroy them. When they constantly drank a solution of 10% booze, THEY DIDN'T GET IT. Now, I'm just going to gloss over the part about it inhibiting the immune system by downregulating leukocyte (white blood cell) migration and NF-
B activation, and will completely ignore any papers in the future that show alcohol making mice more susceptible to infectious disease or tumors via negative modulation of immune responses. The point here is that THIS paper, which was so important that it graced the cover of PNAS (which may not be Science, Nature, or Cell, but is a solid journal nonetheless), says that alcoholism will keep your joints healthy (and macho--note where it says it upregulates testosterone).I would expect nothing less than important studies like these to come from a lab so thoroughly populated by Scandinavians. Furthermore, this paper has just become the cornerstone of my marathon-training strategy (well, apart from running my tits off, of course). When I'm running those agonizing 26.2 miles this fall, my joints will be replete with collagen and I'll be in great shape, laughing in the face of all those super-healthy athletes who trained without the benefit of joint-sustaining beer and scotch. In your FACE, Runners Temperance League! Age may be destroying my soul (at least according to Tej Bindra), but it's certainly not going to do a number on my knees or knuckles since I'm being protected by my persistent alcohol consumption. Thanks to booze, I am a robust physical specimen, the picture of health, vitality, and resistance to arthritis. So drink up, motherfuckers! Science says it's good for you.
Labels: alcoholism, I LOVE IT, science
Monday, December 25, 2006
Christmas with the Razzies
So today is Christ's birthday, and since this year I was naughty instead of nice (although to be truthful, naughty is nice in my view), Santa gave me a brutal head cold in my stocking, or more specifically, in my frontal sinuses. I suppose that this is my deserved reward for spending the past year taunting and mocking most of humanity, drinking with reckless abandon, publicly stripping, and fucking my friends. For the past two days I've been steadily depleting the entire supply of Puffs Plus and DayQuil in the greater South Hill/unincorporated Pierce County area on account of my sinuses being filled with what feels like enough cement to add an extra lane to I-5. This morning I got on the phone with my cousin, and I barely said "Merry Christmas" to her when she says, "God, you sound terrible. Do you have pneumonia or throat cancer or something?" On the bright side, it's very rare that I'm actually sick in the presence of my mom, and can thus garner sympathy and consequent waiting-upon.
In the spirit of the holiday, however, I figured I'd provide a little update about what else has gone on with me during this blessed and festive season. It hasn't all been boozing and lesbian sex...in fact, yesterday, I went to church! Despite praying for relief from my congestion and sore throat, God chose to ignore my pleas for healing and redemption. That's probably because my brother and I were too busy being assholes during mass to warrant any divine mercy of any sort.
My brother, Lil' Tevie, is in many ways my polar opposite. He is quiet and reserved, he doesn't really drink much, and he actually likes and gets along with children (he's a P.E. teacher). However, in one way, my brother is VERY much like me in that he is hilarious and will make fun of everything and everybody. Normally, my family goes to the 10:30 p.m. mass on Christmas Eve, but this year we elected to go at 5 p.m. That's because my mom let it slip that the priest is a smoker, and therefore keeps mass blissfully short so he can get outside and feed his addiction. "Let's go to his mass," I insisted.
"But it's the childrens' mass," said my mom. She knows I hate kids.
"I don't care. If it's short, and it means not going all the way to Eatonville for the 10:30 mass, I say it's childrens' mass all the way."
"I second that," said Lil' Tevie.
Unfortunately, we forgot that mass coincided with the end of the Seahawks game, and my mom huffed off to find a seat in the church while my dad, brother, and I listened to the extremely upsetting "And Rivers completes a 37-yard pass to the end zone...touchdown San Diego!" Fuck!
Anyway, we went inside and located my mom, and no sooner had Lil' Tevie and I sat down between our parents than we started making fun of people. "Mullet alert!" said Lil' Tevie, pointing.
"Is that a man or a woman? I really can't tell. Too bad we're not Muslims, then we'd have to see which side of the mosque it would sit on." I responded, once I'd zeroed in on the person Lil' Tevie was mocking. The person was morbidly obese, as well as wearing a very gender neutral sweatsuit.
"It's Pat," said Lil' Tevie. "Check out that lady over there. Nice fanny pack!"
"Don't be mean, it has a Christmas tree on it! Obviously she picked that out especially for the holidays." I said, then spied a man with a beard, bald head, and slightly tinted wire-framed glasses. "Hey, don't look now, Teves, but I think that's the BTK killer!"
Lil' Tevie started snickering and my mom turned and glared at us both. "Am I going to have to separate you two?" she asked. We both then looked slightly humbled. It's embarrassing to be in your mid-to-late-twenties and have your mother threaten to separate you for bad behavior in the house of the Lord.
"As long as there's no air-humpers in front of us, we'll be fine," Lil' Tevie said. Several years before, there was a kid standing in front of us who spent the entire mass rocking back and forth from the fulcrum of his pelvis, and Lil' Tevie had deemed him "the air-humper." On that occasion, Lil' Tevie made this proclamation at the moment when the priest was consecrating the host. The priest had barely said, "Do this in memory of me," and was mid-way through a reverent bow to the eucharist when I burst out laughing...loudly. My mother didn't approve, but nonetheless she couldn't suppress a giggle in memory of the air-humper. "Well, just try to be quiet. And stop comparing people in church to serial killers, Razzy!"
Then mass started, and since it was the childrens' mass, the priest had barely started speaking when there was a pounding at the doors of the church. The pounding was all part of this hokey "there's no room at the inn and my wife and newborn baby and I need a place to stay" Nativity skit. Once the couple playing Mary and Joseph walked in with their baby, Lil' Tevie leaned over to me and said, "Okay, we made room for you and your stupid kid, now shut up so we can get on with mass."
"Dude, Mary is totally NOT a virgin," I said to Lil' Tevie. "Nor is she fifteen. That bitch is like 35!"
"She's not a carpenter's wife, either. Look at that rock on her finger!" Lil' Tevie was very observant. Mary's engagement band contained at least a two-karat stone.
Fortunately, once Mary, Joseph, and the non-Jesus Baby Jesus got settled, the priest rolled through the mass. They even skipped doing a second reading and went straight to the gospel after the responsorial psalm. Unfortunately, though, the homily was geared toward the younger parishioners.
"What's this?" asked the priest, waving around some type of plush puppet.
"It looks like that guy from Total Recall who was in the dude's stomach!" Lil' Tevie whispered to me.
"Quaiiiid. Start the reactorrrr! Free Mars!" I replied. We started laughing. My mom shot us a death stare.
"It's a turtle!" she hissed at us. "Quit talking in church, you two!"
Lil' Tevie astutely pointed out two deaf kids across the aisle who were busy conversing furiously during the homily in sign language. "They get to talk in church."
"Yeah, it's not fair," I added. "I wish we were deaf, Tevie."
My mother glared at us again. Fortunately, she got so sick of our bullshit that she hustled us out after the first verse of "What Child is This?" that closed out the mass. "I'm NEVER letting you two sit next to each other in church! Is it too much to ask for you two to not be total wiseasses for just one hour once a year? I almost liked it better when Razzy used to fake sick so she wouldn't have to go!"
"But Mom," I protested. "I am sick this year. I couldn't be quiet, because I had to keep blowing my nose!"
That distracted my mom, and she went back into "oh, you poor thing" mode. She patted my dad on the arm. "Taz, stop at this Walgreen's so we can get your daughter some more Kleenex." Lil' Tevie gave me a silent high-five for ceasing the litany of "why can't you behave yourselves in church, you are adults now" complaints by referencing my infirm, cold-having status. Operation Be-Assholes-In-Church-And-Evade-Mom-Problems was successful once again!
And that is how we Razzies roll around holiday time. It's a combination of mockery, bitchery, and, since tonight following dinner my relatives democratically decided to watch RoboCop unedited on Encore immediately followed by "Engineering an Empire: The Byzantines", total awesomeness, as well. Christmas with my family, and especially my brother, totally rules.
In the spirit of the holiday, however, I figured I'd provide a little update about what else has gone on with me during this blessed and festive season. It hasn't all been boozing and lesbian sex...in fact, yesterday, I went to church! Despite praying for relief from my congestion and sore throat, God chose to ignore my pleas for healing and redemption. That's probably because my brother and I were too busy being assholes during mass to warrant any divine mercy of any sort.
My brother, Lil' Tevie, is in many ways my polar opposite. He is quiet and reserved, he doesn't really drink much, and he actually likes and gets along with children (he's a P.E. teacher). However, in one way, my brother is VERY much like me in that he is hilarious and will make fun of everything and everybody. Normally, my family goes to the 10:30 p.m. mass on Christmas Eve, but this year we elected to go at 5 p.m. That's because my mom let it slip that the priest is a smoker, and therefore keeps mass blissfully short so he can get outside and feed his addiction. "Let's go to his mass," I insisted.
"But it's the childrens' mass," said my mom. She knows I hate kids.
"I don't care. If it's short, and it means not going all the way to Eatonville for the 10:30 mass, I say it's childrens' mass all the way."
"I second that," said Lil' Tevie.
Unfortunately, we forgot that mass coincided with the end of the Seahawks game, and my mom huffed off to find a seat in the church while my dad, brother, and I listened to the extremely upsetting "And Rivers completes a 37-yard pass to the end zone...touchdown San Diego!" Fuck!
Anyway, we went inside and located my mom, and no sooner had Lil' Tevie and I sat down between our parents than we started making fun of people. "Mullet alert!" said Lil' Tevie, pointing.
"Is that a man or a woman? I really can't tell. Too bad we're not Muslims, then we'd have to see which side of the mosque it would sit on." I responded, once I'd zeroed in on the person Lil' Tevie was mocking. The person was morbidly obese, as well as wearing a very gender neutral sweatsuit.
"It's Pat," said Lil' Tevie. "Check out that lady over there. Nice fanny pack!"
"Don't be mean, it has a Christmas tree on it! Obviously she picked that out especially for the holidays." I said, then spied a man with a beard, bald head, and slightly tinted wire-framed glasses. "Hey, don't look now, Teves, but I think that's the BTK killer!"
Lil' Tevie started snickering and my mom turned and glared at us both. "Am I going to have to separate you two?" she asked. We both then looked slightly humbled. It's embarrassing to be in your mid-to-late-twenties and have your mother threaten to separate you for bad behavior in the house of the Lord.
"As long as there's no air-humpers in front of us, we'll be fine," Lil' Tevie said. Several years before, there was a kid standing in front of us who spent the entire mass rocking back and forth from the fulcrum of his pelvis, and Lil' Tevie had deemed him "the air-humper." On that occasion, Lil' Tevie made this proclamation at the moment when the priest was consecrating the host. The priest had barely said, "Do this in memory of me," and was mid-way through a reverent bow to the eucharist when I burst out laughing...loudly. My mother didn't approve, but nonetheless she couldn't suppress a giggle in memory of the air-humper. "Well, just try to be quiet. And stop comparing people in church to serial killers, Razzy!"
Then mass started, and since it was the childrens' mass, the priest had barely started speaking when there was a pounding at the doors of the church. The pounding was all part of this hokey "there's no room at the inn and my wife and newborn baby and I need a place to stay" Nativity skit. Once the couple playing Mary and Joseph walked in with their baby, Lil' Tevie leaned over to me and said, "Okay, we made room for you and your stupid kid, now shut up so we can get on with mass."
"Dude, Mary is totally NOT a virgin," I said to Lil' Tevie. "Nor is she fifteen. That bitch is like 35!"
"She's not a carpenter's wife, either. Look at that rock on her finger!" Lil' Tevie was very observant. Mary's engagement band contained at least a two-karat stone.
Fortunately, once Mary, Joseph, and the non-Jesus Baby Jesus got settled, the priest rolled through the mass. They even skipped doing a second reading and went straight to the gospel after the responsorial psalm. Unfortunately, though, the homily was geared toward the younger parishioners.
"What's this?" asked the priest, waving around some type of plush puppet.
"It looks like that guy from Total Recall who was in the dude's stomach!" Lil' Tevie whispered to me.
"Quaiiiid. Start the reactorrrr! Free Mars!" I replied. We started laughing. My mom shot us a death stare.
"It's a turtle!" she hissed at us. "Quit talking in church, you two!"
Lil' Tevie astutely pointed out two deaf kids across the aisle who were busy conversing furiously during the homily in sign language. "They get to talk in church."
"Yeah, it's not fair," I added. "I wish we were deaf, Tevie."
My mother glared at us again. Fortunately, she got so sick of our bullshit that she hustled us out after the first verse of "What Child is This?" that closed out the mass. "I'm NEVER letting you two sit next to each other in church! Is it too much to ask for you two to not be total wiseasses for just one hour once a year? I almost liked it better when Razzy used to fake sick so she wouldn't have to go!"
"But Mom," I protested. "I am sick this year. I couldn't be quiet, because I had to keep blowing my nose!"
That distracted my mom, and she went back into "oh, you poor thing" mode. She patted my dad on the arm. "Taz, stop at this Walgreen's so we can get your daughter some more Kleenex." Lil' Tevie gave me a silent high-five for ceasing the litany of "why can't you behave yourselves in church, you are adults now" complaints by referencing my infirm, cold-having status. Operation Be-Assholes-In-Church-And-Evade-Mom-Problems was successful once again!
And that is how we Razzies roll around holiday time. It's a combination of mockery, bitchery, and, since tonight following dinner my relatives democratically decided to watch RoboCop unedited on Encore immediately followed by "Engineering an Empire: The Byzantines", total awesomeness, as well. Christmas with my family, and especially my brother, totally rules.
Labels: Catholicism, family matters, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT
Monday, December 18, 2006
Go get "Go Getta"
So last week, Jay "Young Jeezy" Jenkins released his sophomore album, The Inspiration nee Thug Motivation 102. Obviously, I immediately purchased it. In fact, I had to purchase it twice because I initially accidentally bought the "clean" version on iTunes, and I like my rap music explicit and nasty.
Now, I'll probably write an entire review of this eventually, because I think that my boy Da Snowman is fucking hilarious, and so far I'm enjoying the entire album. Jeezy claims that he dropped the Thug Motivation 102 subtitle from the album because it's such a tremendous departure from his first album Let's Get It!: Thug Motivation 101, I guess the beats are kind of different, but as far as I can tell the entire thing is about souped-up Chevies, avoiding the "red dogs" (AKA the police) and dominating the Atlanta street cocaine dealing scene (AKA "trapping"). Since these are the main topics addressed in every Young Jeezy song ever written, and since in the first song Jeezy's saying stuff like "Call me Rubik's cube, we got the white squares" and "I got a half a brick left, do anybody want it?" and doing his usual trademark "ad libs" (ie: barking "jeah!", "tha's riiiiiight", "daaaayum", and "ayyyy" during lyrical pauses), I don't see what's all that different about The Inspiration that warrants ejection from the syllabus of Jeezy's instructional Thug Motivation courses, but whatever. My comparative analysis of Young Jizzle's musical repertoire is of little consequence.
The purpose of this particular post is to praise one particular song, entitled "Go Getta." I hadn't really paid close attention to the other people who were lending their vocal talents to this album, but as soon as "Go Getta" started, I immediately snapped to attention. "Young Jeezy," sang a familiar voice to kick off the song, and said voice definitely reminded me of somethin', somethin' along the lines of my jeep, sound, car, and bank account...could it be? COULD IT FUCKING BE?! Validating my suspicions, the voice next sang, "...and ya boy Keeellllllls." YES! YES! YES!!!! My boyfriend Robert Sylvester Kelly and Young Jeezy teaming up to sing about trapping all day and playing all night being the life of a go getta! AWESOME!
I pointed this out to J-Sexy, who, when I told her I'd purchased the Young Jeezy album, rolled her eyes and said, "Ugh, that dis-gos-ting fat man, I don't know why you like him." I was like, "well, first because he compares himself to Will Smith and then names his gun Jada, and secondly, and most interesting to you, THAT GUY SINGING THE HOOK IS R. FUCKING KELLY!" and cranked my computer speakers so she could hear my Robert singing about how "ya boy Kells out da coupe in Miami white linen" to "put D on chicks like Wallace." (Why exactly he's trying to defend himself against these women in the manner of Chicago Bulls center Ben Wallace is unclear, but presumably it means something other than that he'll be battling them for rebounds, because later he notes that he and Jeezy are leaving with a "shitloada women.") In case you're now dying to hear this song, here's a really ghetto "video" (meaning there is no video at all besides a still shot of the Jeezy album cover):
J-Sexy loves her some R. Kelly, and I think she liked it a little though she subsequently pronounced the song "ridicolos" and went back to loading her protein gel. However, I noticed that she was doing a little wining while working in spite of herself. You can't fool me, Life Partner! I, in turn, promptly played "Go Getta" like 5 more times until, much to J-Sexy's relief, I had to run some errands and thus had to relinquish my status as Lab DJ. However, to all my friends in the P-N-Dub, I fully burned The Inspiration, and you can expect me to annoy you all for the next two weeks with "Go Getta" starting with my arrival at Seattle-Tacompton airport tomorrow night!
Now, I'll probably write an entire review of this eventually, because I think that my boy Da Snowman is fucking hilarious, and so far I'm enjoying the entire album. Jeezy claims that he dropped the Thug Motivation 102 subtitle from the album because it's such a tremendous departure from his first album Let's Get It!: Thug Motivation 101, I guess the beats are kind of different, but as far as I can tell the entire thing is about souped-up Chevies, avoiding the "red dogs" (AKA the police) and dominating the Atlanta street cocaine dealing scene (AKA "trapping"). Since these are the main topics addressed in every Young Jeezy song ever written, and since in the first song Jeezy's saying stuff like "Call me Rubik's cube, we got the white squares" and "I got a half a brick left, do anybody want it?" and doing his usual trademark "ad libs" (ie: barking "jeah!", "tha's riiiiiight", "daaaayum", and "ayyyy" during lyrical pauses), I don't see what's all that different about The Inspiration that warrants ejection from the syllabus of Jeezy's instructional Thug Motivation courses, but whatever. My comparative analysis of Young Jizzle's musical repertoire is of little consequence.
The purpose of this particular post is to praise one particular song, entitled "Go Getta." I hadn't really paid close attention to the other people who were lending their vocal talents to this album, but as soon as "Go Getta" started, I immediately snapped to attention. "Young Jeezy," sang a familiar voice to kick off the song, and said voice definitely reminded me of somethin', somethin' along the lines of my jeep, sound, car, and bank account...could it be? COULD IT FUCKING BE?! Validating my suspicions, the voice next sang, "...and ya boy Keeellllllls." YES! YES! YES!!!! My boyfriend Robert Sylvester Kelly and Young Jeezy teaming up to sing about trapping all day and playing all night being the life of a go getta! AWESOME!
I pointed this out to J-Sexy, who, when I told her I'd purchased the Young Jeezy album, rolled her eyes and said, "Ugh, that dis-gos-ting fat man, I don't know why you like him." I was like, "well, first because he compares himself to Will Smith and then names his gun Jada, and secondly, and most interesting to you, THAT GUY SINGING THE HOOK IS R. FUCKING KELLY!" and cranked my computer speakers so she could hear my Robert singing about how "ya boy Kells out da coupe in Miami white linen" to "put D on chicks like Wallace." (Why exactly he's trying to defend himself against these women in the manner of Chicago Bulls center Ben Wallace is unclear, but presumably it means something other than that he'll be battling them for rebounds, because later he notes that he and Jeezy are leaving with a "shitloada women.") In case you're now dying to hear this song, here's a really ghetto "video" (meaning there is no video at all besides a still shot of the Jeezy album cover):
J-Sexy loves her some R. Kelly, and I think she liked it a little though she subsequently pronounced the song "ridicolos" and went back to loading her protein gel. However, I noticed that she was doing a little wining while working in spite of herself. You can't fool me, Life Partner! I, in turn, promptly played "Go Getta" like 5 more times until, much to J-Sexy's relief, I had to run some errands and thus had to relinquish my status as Lab DJ. However, to all my friends in the P-N-Dub, I fully burned The Inspiration, and you can expect me to annoy you all for the next two weeks with "Go Getta" starting with my arrival at Seattle-Tacompton airport tomorrow night!
Labels: Dirrty Dirrty, I LOVE IT, J-Sexy, rap, Razzification, Robert Sylvester Kelly, Young Jeezy
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Reggie (Get In My) Bush
Man, Reggie Bush is hot. Every Sunday, my buddies NeisMan and Js and Ps declare that they're rooting for the Pepsi Machine in those "Reggie Bush Project" commercials, and I disagree emphatically. The scenario in these commercials is that Reginald Alfred Bush II (yes, that is his real name) is competing against a Pepsi vending machine for position of starting running back for the New Orleans Saints to the soaring synthesizer riffs of Europe's "The Final Countdown." Somehow I suspect that this is implausible both because Reggie Bush's contract is larger and thus more imperative than the Pepsi machine's, and because the Pepsi machine doesn't have a Heisman on its bookshelf, but whatever. Okay, so the Pepsi machine can definitely block and tackle better than Reggie Bush, but PLEASE. Reggie Bush takes the agility drills. Furthermore, the Pepsi machine will never be able to comply with NFL official rules regarding appropriate official NFL team garb (as clarified during the Terrell Owens now-infamous "Sharpie" incident, your ass has to have everything tucked in and no markers in your socks) and second, the Pepsi machine didn't score four touchdowns last week. More importantly, ladies, who would you rather bang? The fucking Pepsi machine, or THIS guy:
I wish Reggie Bush weren't 21, hot as fuck, ultimate Fantasy keeper league running back, and most likely getting laid like Caligula at a Senate wives' party, because then I would have a modicum of hope that one day I might actually have a shot at him. However, that is not the case, so let me just wallow in passionate yet ultimately doomed adoration for a second. Reggie Bush RULES.
I wish Reggie Bush weren't 21, hot as fuck, ultimate Fantasy keeper league running back, and most likely getting laid like Caligula at a Senate wives' party, because then I would have a modicum of hope that one day I might actually have a shot at him. However, that is not the case, so let me just wallow in passionate yet ultimately doomed adoration for a second. Reggie Bush RULES.
Labels: hot dudes, I LOVE IT, NFL football, Reggie (Get In My) Bush, sex
Friday, November 10, 2006
Poppin' Razzy's thangs
I've gotten several queries about my feelings regarding Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson. Why does he hold #1 boyfriend status? Why is he your top MySpace friend? Don't you know he's gay?
Well, yes, but that's not the point. If anyone still has any doubts about 50's status on the down low, you should check out his Vitamin Water bus ads, which feature a ribbed mock turtleneck-clad 50 carrying a New York Times, a bottle of Formula 50, and a Jack Russell terrier beneath the caption "No groupies, no rented mansion, just 50." Since I couldn't find a picture of that on the internet (reason #457 why I desperately need a digital camera), here is the next best thing, a screen capture from the Vitamin Water website about his signature grape-flavored health beverage. How much you want to bet the ad exec who wrote this got paid extra for every authentic rap word they managed to incorporate in the text? I mean, "a cheddar check-in with the accountants"? Come ON.
Anyway, in spite of his faggy beverage endorsements, the reasons I love 50 so much are so numerous I could fill a large tome. Nobody wants to read that, so I'll just explain the genesis of my 50 adoration. I first became interested in him after seeing the G-Unit's "Poppin Them Thangs" video. The premise of this video is that the Gorilla Unit is a high-powered heavy hitter in the world of international organized crime, and they are attending a meeting with a number of bigwigs presumably inspired by Grand Theft Auto games.
Somehow we are supposed to believe that 50 Cent, accompanied by his henchmen Lloyd Banks and Young Buck, is the leader of the G-Unit branch of this global crime syndicate. The camera pans around the table and the viewer is introduced to the various criminal overlords of the Japanese Yakuza, the Russian Mafiya, some random Colombian cartel, the Chinese Triad, the Hell's Angels, the Don Whatever family of New York, and...the G-Unit. Then the boys from G-Unit start rapping, and it's immediately apparent why they are included in this group. 50 starts off the song by talking about how he beat up his baby mama for cussing him out after the 2002 VMAs, how he cuts the grass where he walks so you can see his sneakers, which female R&B singers he wants to bang (good luck with Missy Elliott, dude...everyone knows she's a big old lesbo), and accessorizing cars with his clothes. Lloyd Banks and Young Buck then clarify that they are out for vengeance (against who and for what is unclear), as Lloyd says "I'm out for revenge like one of Bin Laden's cousins" and Buck says, "On the front of the Maybach it say 'payback'". I am still not sure what the G-Unit brings to the metaphorical table at this clandestine warehouse meeting of the high-powered criminal underworld, but I guess it has something to do with drug dealing, as right after Lloyd Banks brags about a woman who had his balls head first like a soccer star, he says something about how he "takes care of birds like an animal doctor." I suppose that given Tony Yayo was in absentia due to being in prison for the extremely gangsta crime of possessing a phony passport, the G-Unit is also useful for their expertise at forgery.
It seems that the other criminal leaders are not fond of 50 Cent and the G-Unit, because his "theatrics" are "bad for business." 50 doesn't care, and announces that he "wants in" on the myriad illicit money-making schemes, such as "sanitation contracts in Chicago" and "corporate takeovers in Japan." The other leaders oppose this, so 50 invites half of Jamaica, Queens to the warehouse, scaring everyone and paving the way for Tony Yayo to own a trucking company as a front for more sordid enterprises.
Anyway, just watch it for yourself, because this video is absurd and hilarious, and after seeing it, I immediately made a point to familiarize myself with all of 50's greatest achievements. Then I fell in love. And that's why 50 is my main man. If he's not yours after watching this, then there's something wrong with you.
Well, yes, but that's not the point. If anyone still has any doubts about 50's status on the down low, you should check out his Vitamin Water bus ads, which feature a ribbed mock turtleneck-clad 50 carrying a New York Times, a bottle of Formula 50, and a Jack Russell terrier beneath the caption "No groupies, no rented mansion, just 50." Since I couldn't find a picture of that on the internet (reason #457 why I desperately need a digital camera), here is the next best thing, a screen capture from the Vitamin Water website about his signature grape-flavored health beverage. How much you want to bet the ad exec who wrote this got paid extra for every authentic rap word they managed to incorporate in the text? I mean, "a cheddar check-in with the accountants"? Come ON.
Anyway, in spite of his faggy beverage endorsements, the reasons I love 50 so much are so numerous I could fill a large tome. Nobody wants to read that, so I'll just explain the genesis of my 50 adoration. I first became interested in him after seeing the G-Unit's "Poppin Them Thangs" video. The premise of this video is that the Gorilla Unit is a high-powered heavy hitter in the world of international organized crime, and they are attending a meeting with a number of bigwigs presumably inspired by Grand Theft Auto games.
Somehow we are supposed to believe that 50 Cent, accompanied by his henchmen Lloyd Banks and Young Buck, is the leader of the G-Unit branch of this global crime syndicate. The camera pans around the table and the viewer is introduced to the various criminal overlords of the Japanese Yakuza, the Russian Mafiya, some random Colombian cartel, the Chinese Triad, the Hell's Angels, the Don Whatever family of New York, and...the G-Unit. Then the boys from G-Unit start rapping, and it's immediately apparent why they are included in this group. 50 starts off the song by talking about how he beat up his baby mama for cussing him out after the 2002 VMAs, how he cuts the grass where he walks so you can see his sneakers, which female R&B singers he wants to bang (good luck with Missy Elliott, dude...everyone knows she's a big old lesbo), and accessorizing cars with his clothes. Lloyd Banks and Young Buck then clarify that they are out for vengeance (against who and for what is unclear), as Lloyd says "I'm out for revenge like one of Bin Laden's cousins" and Buck says, "On the front of the Maybach it say 'payback'". I am still not sure what the G-Unit brings to the metaphorical table at this clandestine warehouse meeting of the high-powered criminal underworld, but I guess it has something to do with drug dealing, as right after Lloyd Banks brags about a woman who had his balls head first like a soccer star, he says something about how he "takes care of birds like an animal doctor." I suppose that given Tony Yayo was in absentia due to being in prison for the extremely gangsta crime of possessing a phony passport, the G-Unit is also useful for their expertise at forgery.
It seems that the other criminal leaders are not fond of 50 Cent and the G-Unit, because his "theatrics" are "bad for business." 50 doesn't care, and announces that he "wants in" on the myriad illicit money-making schemes, such as "sanitation contracts in Chicago" and "corporate takeovers in Japan." The other leaders oppose this, so 50 invites half of Jamaica, Queens to the warehouse, scaring everyone and paving the way for Tony Yayo to own a trucking company as a front for more sordid enterprises.
Anyway, just watch it for yourself, because this video is absurd and hilarious, and after seeing it, I immediately made a point to familiarize myself with all of 50's greatest achievements. Then I fell in love. And that's why 50 is my main man. If he's not yours after watching this, then there's something wrong with you.
Labels: 50 cent, boyfriends, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, rap, ridiculous absurdity
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Adobe Illustrator + Micro Nerd=Happy Razzy
So today Blogger directed me to this "blog of note" called Adopt A Microbe. It's basically one post after another of cartoon bacteria introducing themselves. I was pleased to see that the fucking infectious disease dorks of the world are alive and wasting time on the computer while neglecting their graduate studies. Judging by the illustrations and accompanying text, it's clear that the keeper of this blog geeks out on epidemic history as much as I do. My only criticism of the author's bacterial lab cred is that she fails to properly italicize or underline taxonomic classifications (scientific names) and also occasionally incorrectly capitalizes species names, but whatever. I still think it rules, at least to those who get their rocks off sucking up information about the microbial biome like yours truly. Plus, the little bugs are kind of cute.
For example, Shigella dysenteriae is rocking a sweet camouflage commando helmet, obviously a nod to the ability of dysentery to tear shit up (literally) in trench warfare:
I'm not sure why Vibrio cholerae is flashing a peace sign, because cholera certainly doesn't give the afflicted any peace. I suppose it was easier to show the bug flashing a big V for Vibrio than to depict it inducing up to 15 liters per day of chalk-colored diarrhea. Extra points to the artist for giving it Vibrio's characteristic apostrophe shape!
I particularly love how Haemophilus ducreyi, as the causative agent of a STD, is wearing a pair of panties on its head:
And my favorite of the bunch is good old Yersinia "Bubonic Plague" pestis, rocking some authentic medieval Black Death couture!
Really, my only complaint is that there are no viral or rickettsial diseases anywhere on her blog. They would make cute little cartoons, too! Rabies virus, for example, is bullet-shaped and could fit into an adorable (albeit mildly disturbing) illustration involving Old Yeller. Smallpox virus is biscuit-shaped and it could be wearing 17th century British military regalia and chasing around Native Americans. Poliovirus is like a sweet little scoop of ice cream, which would be a great illustration because that's how monkey brain homogenates infected with vaccine strains were originally fed to the retarded kids they were first unethically tested on. I noticed that the yeasts, molds, and other fungi are also underrepresented there. Microbes constitute way more than what used to be called Kingdom Monera, so bacteria shouldn't have all the fucking fun.
For example, Shigella dysenteriae is rocking a sweet camouflage commando helmet, obviously a nod to the ability of dysentery to tear shit up (literally) in trench warfare:
I'm not sure why Vibrio cholerae is flashing a peace sign, because cholera certainly doesn't give the afflicted any peace. I suppose it was easier to show the bug flashing a big V for Vibrio than to depict it inducing up to 15 liters per day of chalk-colored diarrhea. Extra points to the artist for giving it Vibrio's characteristic apostrophe shape!
I particularly love how Haemophilus ducreyi, as the causative agent of a STD, is wearing a pair of panties on its head:
And my favorite of the bunch is good old Yersinia "Bubonic Plague" pestis, rocking some authentic medieval Black Death couture!
Really, my only complaint is that there are no viral or rickettsial diseases anywhere on her blog. They would make cute little cartoons, too! Rabies virus, for example, is bullet-shaped and could fit into an adorable (albeit mildly disturbing) illustration involving Old Yeller. Smallpox virus is biscuit-shaped and it could be wearing 17th century British military regalia and chasing around Native Americans. Poliovirus is like a sweet little scoop of ice cream, which would be a great illustration because that's how monkey brain homogenates infected with vaccine strains were originally fed to the retarded kids they were first unethically tested on. I noticed that the yeasts, molds, and other fungi are also underrepresented there. Microbes constitute way more than what used to be called Kingdom Monera, so bacteria shouldn't have all the fucking fun.
Labels: down with OPB (other people's blogs), epidemic geekery, I LOVE IT, science
Saturday, October 28, 2006
FYI regarding the MOST IMPORTANT EVENT OF THE YEAR
A monumental event is coming up. I have waited for YEARS for this event, and now the waiting is almost over. This is almost on par with the Seahawks going to the Super Bowl in terms of long-awaited hugeness. The BEST show ever is hitting the DVD shelves:
Yes! Yes! YES!!!! It's BEVERLY FUCKING HILLS, 90210! After years of anticipation, Bev Niner is finally going to take its appointed place in my DVD collection. Prepare yourself for the excitement of the pilot season, in which the Walsh family (uptight dad Jim, sympathetic mom Cindy, responsible boy twin Brandon, and tempestuous girl twin Brenda) moves from Minnesota to the now-infamous California zip code and experience all the highs and lows of life with their friends Kelly Taylor, Steve Sanders, Dylan McKay, Donna Martin, David Silver, and Andrea Zuckerman. During the first season, the gang tackles such issues as teenage alcoholism, coming of age, sex, pregnancy, gun control, the holocaust, hip hop, dyslexia, the lasting consequences of playing games like "skeletons in the closet", condoms, AIDS, shoplifting from Fred Segal, marital infidelity, the horror of maternal cocaine abuse at high school mother-daughter fashion shows, the phenomenon of karaoke, drunk driving, and date rape. Among the highlights:
Donna and David's burgeoning sexless relationship (lasting until David gets caught fucking Babyface's tour manager in a limo in season three, then rekindling and lasting again until David fucks Valerie, then rekindling and lasting again until David steals a check from Donna to pay rent for the Peach Pit After Dark, then rekindling again and resulting in their marriage)
The advent of Dylan and Kelly's sexually charged and extremely annoying relationship, which will go from casual screwing in empty cabanas at the Beverly Beach club to Dylan trying to trump Brandon's engagement ring with a trip around the world (Kelly eventually rejected both and chose self) to Dylan becoming a heroin addict in response to the mob hit death of his wife Antonia Marchette, AKA Rebecca Gayheart the Noxema fresh face girl. I think Kelly always liked him initially because he was a father figure, being the only 35-year-old student at West Beverly High.
The first rocky months of Brenda and Dylan's relationship, which was characterized by Brenda doing a lot of crying, yelling, running away, and shouting "Dylan, you're scaring me!" and Dylan angrily pacing, breaking flowerpots, sculptures, and various other handy ceramics, drinking airplane-sized bottles of bourbon out of various Bel Age Hotel minifridges, and boning Kelly on the side.
Andrea Zuckerman establishes herself as the official cast pain in the fucking ass. When not pining after Brandon, irritating everyone with her intellectual elitism and insufferable moral superiority, or ruining someone's life in the school paper, Andrea continues to piss everyone off by making constant "I told you so" faces and shopping for hideous scrunchies to both youth her up and tether down her mane rendered uncontrollable by decades of spiral perms and Nice 'n' Easy color treatments to cover up gray hairs.
The gang goes together like shoulder padded blazers, rayon floral scoopnecked peasant blouses, and high-waisted pleated jeans go with huge belts. Bev Niner is the best show ever!!!!
Oh, and by the way, my 28th birthday is just ten days after the Season One DVD drops (November 17th), and THIS
would make a *GREAT* present. So would THIS, which comes out the same day as the 9er DVDs. And so would lots and LOTS of money...
Yes! Yes! YES!!!! It's BEVERLY FUCKING HILLS, 90210! After years of anticipation, Bev Niner is finally going to take its appointed place in my DVD collection. Prepare yourself for the excitement of the pilot season, in which the Walsh family (uptight dad Jim, sympathetic mom Cindy, responsible boy twin Brandon, and tempestuous girl twin Brenda) moves from Minnesota to the now-infamous California zip code and experience all the highs and lows of life with their friends Kelly Taylor, Steve Sanders, Dylan McKay, Donna Martin, David Silver, and Andrea Zuckerman. During the first season, the gang tackles such issues as teenage alcoholism, coming of age, sex, pregnancy, gun control, the holocaust, hip hop, dyslexia, the lasting consequences of playing games like "skeletons in the closet", condoms, AIDS, shoplifting from Fred Segal, marital infidelity, the horror of maternal cocaine abuse at high school mother-daughter fashion shows, the phenomenon of karaoke, drunk driving, and date rape. Among the highlights:
Donna and David's burgeoning sexless relationship (lasting until David gets caught fucking Babyface's tour manager in a limo in season three, then rekindling and lasting again until David fucks Valerie, then rekindling and lasting again until David steals a check from Donna to pay rent for the Peach Pit After Dark, then rekindling again and resulting in their marriage)
The advent of Dylan and Kelly's sexually charged and extremely annoying relationship, which will go from casual screwing in empty cabanas at the Beverly Beach club to Dylan trying to trump Brandon's engagement ring with a trip around the world (Kelly eventually rejected both and chose self) to Dylan becoming a heroin addict in response to the mob hit death of his wife Antonia Marchette, AKA Rebecca Gayheart the Noxema fresh face girl. I think Kelly always liked him initially because he was a father figure, being the only 35-year-old student at West Beverly High.
The first rocky months of Brenda and Dylan's relationship, which was characterized by Brenda doing a lot of crying, yelling, running away, and shouting "Dylan, you're scaring me!" and Dylan angrily pacing, breaking flowerpots, sculptures, and various other handy ceramics, drinking airplane-sized bottles of bourbon out of various Bel Age Hotel minifridges, and boning Kelly on the side.
Andrea Zuckerman establishes herself as the official cast pain in the fucking ass. When not pining after Brandon, irritating everyone with her intellectual elitism and insufferable moral superiority, or ruining someone's life in the school paper, Andrea continues to piss everyone off by making constant "I told you so" faces and shopping for hideous scrunchies to both youth her up and tether down her mane rendered uncontrollable by decades of spiral perms and Nice 'n' Easy color treatments to cover up gray hairs.
The gang goes together like shoulder padded blazers, rayon floral scoopnecked peasant blouses, and high-waisted pleated jeans go with huge belts. Bev Niner is the best show ever!!!!
Oh, and by the way, my 28th birthday is just ten days after the Season One DVD drops (November 17th), and THIS
would make a *GREAT* present. So would THIS, which comes out the same day as the 9er DVDs. And so would lots and LOTS of money...Labels: aging, Bev Niner, I LOVE IT
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
NOT especially heinous
On the street outside my apartment, there are a bunch of signs taped to the lampposts, signs, etc. informing me that a television production will be filmed there this evening. Upon closer inspection, I was delighted to see that it's going to be THIS SHOW:
I LOVE "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" for a few reasons. First, Tamara "Medical Examiner Warner" Tunie, the woman on the right between Richard "Detective John Munch" Belzer and Ice "Detective Odafin Tutuola" T lives in my neighborhood, and often walks her French bulldog Spraga around St. Nicholas Park. Second, Mariska "Detective Olivia Benson" Hargitay is H-O-T. Third, it has Ice-T in it, for God's sake, and there's really nothing better than watch a porn producer/pretend cop killer/rapper with a silicone wife named CoCo lecture a fictional depraved perp about the sexual exploitation of women. I could watch these people work all day...
And this evening, maybe I'll get a chance to see them work their craft in person if I lurk around the production site. It is right outside my front door, so perhaps I'll join the usual crew of teenagers and drug addicts who like to skulk about on the stoop to catch a glimpse of the "SVU" crew in action.
In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories.
And this evening, maybe I'll get a chance to see them work their craft in person if I lurk around the production site. It is right outside my front door, so perhaps I'll join the usual crew of teenagers and drug addicts who like to skulk about on the stoop to catch a glimpse of the "SVU" crew in action.
Labels: celebrities, I LOVE IT, Ice-T, Law and Order
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Good news for chronic consumption
Apart from being awesome at alleviating glaucoma, counteracting cachexia (wasting), curbing chemotherapy-induced nausea, and getting you totally high, a team from Scripps showed that marijuana blocks the pathogenesis of Alzheimer's disease. Go on with your bad selves, medical researchers using mouse models to produce insightful and useful information! This is an excellent finding, because it makes me think happy thoughts, like "Hey, Ronald Reagan, bet you wish you had just said YES, asshole!"
This is also rad because it supports a new legitimate bullshit story to tell law enforcement officials should they catch you carrying. "I'm doing what I have to in order to stave off the debilitating effects of Alzheimer's disease," you can argue. I mean, if I'm getting a cold, it's not a crime to take vitamin C and drink orange juice, is it? If I feel an amyloid plaque coming on, then I shouldn't be criminally liable for taking necessary preventative measures. Even better, amyloid plaques can't be detected without some major cranial invasion, so nobody can even tell if you're truly experiencing early-onset asymptomatic Alzheimer's or just coming up with some bullshit excuse because you're high. Brilliant. I love it when a plan comes together!
This is also rad because it supports a new legitimate bullshit story to tell law enforcement officials should they catch you carrying. "I'm doing what I have to in order to stave off the debilitating effects of Alzheimer's disease," you can argue. I mean, if I'm getting a cold, it's not a crime to take vitamin C and drink orange juice, is it? If I feel an amyloid plaque coming on, then I shouldn't be criminally liable for taking necessary preventative measures. Even better, amyloid plaques can't be detected without some major cranial invasion, so nobody can even tell if you're truly experiencing early-onset asymptomatic Alzheimer's or just coming up with some bullshit excuse because you're high. Brilliant. I love it when a plan comes together!
Labels: drugs, epidemic geekery, I LOVE IT, politics, science
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Vindication
Today I was at the gym, and guess who was flopping around on my Gauntlet stairmaster?
Yes, it was Treadmill Bitch, that saggy old red-headed bitch who once told me that it would make my ass--actually, the word she chose was "rear"--undesirably big. She was perched atop it with her towel, her Vitamin Water, and her sleeveless Susan G. Komen foundation shirt, sweating profusely but looking just as uptight as ever. I smirked up at her as I waited my turn, and could only barely restrain myself from giving her a loud, satisfying "I told you so!"
Maybe one of her kids informed her that asses are all the rage right now. Or maybe hell froze over and Good Housekeeping, Sunset, or Old Bitch Monthly interviewed Bubba Sparxxx or E-40 and she immediately resolved to embrace volumizing and lifting her "rear." Whatever the case, while I'm glad she presumably won't be talking any more shit to me about my fine voluptuous backside in the ladies locker room, that old slut better not start monopolizing my Gauntlet or she and I are going to have a whole new problem.
Yes, it was Treadmill Bitch, that saggy old red-headed bitch who once told me that it would make my ass--actually, the word she chose was "rear"--undesirably big. She was perched atop it with her towel, her Vitamin Water, and her sleeveless Susan G. Komen foundation shirt, sweating profusely but looking just as uptight as ever. I smirked up at her as I waited my turn, and could only barely restrain myself from giving her a loud, satisfying "I told you so!"
Maybe one of her kids informed her that asses are all the rage right now. Or maybe hell froze over and Good Housekeeping, Sunset, or Old Bitch Monthly interviewed Bubba Sparxxx or E-40 and she immediately resolved to embrace volumizing and lifting her "rear." Whatever the case, while I'm glad she presumably won't be talking any more shit to me about my fine voluptuous backside in the ladies locker room, that old slut better not start monopolizing my Gauntlet or she and I are going to have a whole new problem.
Labels: exercise drama, I LOVE IT, stank vaginas, vengeance is sweet
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 13, 2006
Smile! You're in Jamaica.
...Well, actually it's Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn at the West Indies Day parade the weekend before last, but it's the next best thing to Jamrock here in the States. Of course I attend this event annually, because my laboratory life partner J-Sexy is Jamaican, and therefore I am a Jamaican-in-law by virtue of our platonic couple status. I got there late on account of having to work that morning, and sadly I missed the most awesome of the few Jamaican floats (J-Sexy told me that while there are plenty of Jamaicans out in force, apparently the Trinidadians have been monopolizing the floats in the actual parade), which featured Sean Paul and his right antics to turn me on, Beenie Man, the horrifically ugly Elephant Man, and Baby Cham, El Polaco was kind enough to send me the photographs he took of it:
Thankfully, Elephant Man has covered his hideous visage in this picture with his national colors, thus saving his wretched features from overshadowing the rest of this picture and ruining it. Also thankfully, Beenie Man appeared to be too busy singing about being a dude with the wickedest slam who will do me in his van to work on "breeding the girls," which J-Sexy tells me is his "trademark." Apparently he has so many illegitimate children that he makes the late Ol' Dirty Bastard look downright chaste and responsible about birth control.
A commenter on the previous Dutty Wine post wanted to know why I was so interested in learning about the culture of the "illiterate" people of Jamaica and the Caribbean (and there were PLENTY of signs bearing writing disproving this assertion), and attending this parade is one of the reasons why. West Indians just celebrate the fuck out of their heritage, and I think that's awesome. I've gone to a number of Scandinavian Days festivals in recognition of my own cultural roots, and while I can eat the hell out of a room full of abelskiver, lefse, potatis korv, and krumkake, it's not really that much fun to walk around looking at painted wooden horses and meticulously embroidered jumpers while consumed by the noxious haze generated by a host of geriatrics eating pea soup. There's way more focus on the rugged beauty of the fjords and lutefisk cookbooks at these events than on cool aspects of Viking history, like exploration, pillaging, and laying waste to most of northern Europe, because these aren't parties so much as an excuse for the elderly to take a day trip from their nursing homes. West Indian celebrations involve constant dancing, music, cheering, nearly naked women, pirates, straight partying, and genuine, unadulterated joy. Much like at Pride (although ironically, being gay isn't thought of particularly kindly in Jamaica), the atmosphere is lively, raucous, and full of mirth, and unless you hate having fun, anyone can enjoy it and partake in the asskickery of being around people intent on celebrating who they are.
Unlike the gays, the West Indians incorporate a shitload of delicious food into their parade festivities. I did get to stuff myself like a pig with all manner of Caribbean food, which ruled. By the time I left, I was so fucking full of roti and jerk chicken that I thought I was going to split open and start leaking curry. Fortunately, my friend Neo located a bodega selling $2 Red Stripes complete with convenient paper bags for open container law-compliant public drinking to wash down the gluttonous quantity of food I consumed. Although I probably gained 5 pounds in one day, it didn't stop me from doing what I do best: making fun of people. Here I am saying something to my life partner J-Sexy (who looks so awesome in this picture I wish I could bottle the look on her face and sell it as an antidepressant):
I have no doubt that I'm either chiding her for losing the Jamaican flag she lends to me annually to use as a do rag, or I'm saying something to her along the lines of, "Dude, that bitch isn't wearing any pants," regarding this flock of revellers:
I FUCKING *****LOVE***** THE WEST INDIES!
Thankfully, Elephant Man has covered his hideous visage in this picture with his national colors, thus saving his wretched features from overshadowing the rest of this picture and ruining it. Also thankfully, Beenie Man appeared to be too busy singing about being a dude with the wickedest slam who will do me in his van to work on "breeding the girls," which J-Sexy tells me is his "trademark." Apparently he has so many illegitimate children that he makes the late Ol' Dirty Bastard look downright chaste and responsible about birth control.
A commenter on the previous Dutty Wine post wanted to know why I was so interested in learning about the culture of the "illiterate" people of Jamaica and the Caribbean (and there were PLENTY of signs bearing writing disproving this assertion), and attending this parade is one of the reasons why. West Indians just celebrate the fuck out of their heritage, and I think that's awesome. I've gone to a number of Scandinavian Days festivals in recognition of my own cultural roots, and while I can eat the hell out of a room full of abelskiver, lefse, potatis korv, and krumkake, it's not really that much fun to walk around looking at painted wooden horses and meticulously embroidered jumpers while consumed by the noxious haze generated by a host of geriatrics eating pea soup. There's way more focus on the rugged beauty of the fjords and lutefisk cookbooks at these events than on cool aspects of Viking history, like exploration, pillaging, and laying waste to most of northern Europe, because these aren't parties so much as an excuse for the elderly to take a day trip from their nursing homes. West Indian celebrations involve constant dancing, music, cheering, nearly naked women, pirates, straight partying, and genuine, unadulterated joy. Much like at Pride (although ironically, being gay isn't thought of particularly kindly in Jamaica), the atmosphere is lively, raucous, and full of mirth, and unless you hate having fun, anyone can enjoy it and partake in the asskickery of being around people intent on celebrating who they are.
Unlike the gays, the West Indians incorporate a shitload of delicious food into their parade festivities. I did get to stuff myself like a pig with all manner of Caribbean food, which ruled. By the time I left, I was so fucking full of roti and jerk chicken that I thought I was going to split open and start leaking curry. Fortunately, my friend Neo located a bodega selling $2 Red Stripes complete with convenient paper bags for open container law-compliant public drinking to wash down the gluttonous quantity of food I consumed. Although I probably gained 5 pounds in one day, it didn't stop me from doing what I do best: making fun of people. Here I am saying something to my life partner J-Sexy (who looks so awesome in this picture I wish I could bottle the look on her face and sell it as an antidepressant):
I have no doubt that I'm either chiding her for losing the Jamaican flag she lends to me annually to use as a do rag, or I'm saying something to her along the lines of, "Dude, that bitch isn't wearing any pants," regarding this flock of revellers:
I FUCKING *****LOVE***** THE WEST INDIES!
Labels: celebrities, gluttony, I LOVE IT, J-Sexy
Miami Sound Masheen
Bienvenido-a-Miami is apparently sick to death of sitting in her office cubicle working "with hell's minions" writing reviews about throw pillows and carpet samples, so she started a blog of her own. Being that she's of Cuban extraction, the name of said blog is an homage to her hometown hero Gloria Estefan's original band, Miami Sound Machine. While I have yet to read anything there involving an ode to such Gloria masterpieces as "Come on, shake your body, baby, do that conga, I know you can't control yourself any longa, feel the rhythm of the music getting stronga, etc.", I'm just relieved she chose to pay tribute to Gloria rather than some other Cuban cause, like bringbackeliangonzalez.com or something like that.
Anyway, she writes for a living, and she's good at it. Her shit is funny. Por ejemplo:
While gushing about her love for Liza Minnelli, she tells about her trip to see Liza at Coney Island earlier this summer:
"I expected to be pressed up against a thousand topless beefy gay men blowing kisses at her, but much to my surprise, I was wrangled in by what must have been every single geriatic ward in the five boroughs of New York City. I'd never seen so many wheelchairs in my life--and all the old people were wasted too!"
Regarding Christina Ricci's latest movie role:
"The movie, about a wealthy young woman born with a pig's snout for a nose, is played by Christina Ricci, who obviously gleaned inspiration for her role by simply looking in the mirror."
Then she rips on Chloe Sevigny, much to my delight:
"Speaking of untalented, vacuous, and overrated 'Indie-goddesses', PAPER magazine has recently deemed Chloe Sevigny as the 'Art World's Favorite Movie Star.' Yikes. What an insult to the art world."
Concerning Suri Cruise:
"The great thing about being a Scientologist is that once you reach level 10 of insanity, you're awarded special sperm powers, and that, my friends, is how Suri came to be."
Anyway, her material is great, and well worth your time. Besides, there's no way I could NOT give her a shout out when she sent me a mass e-mail alerting everyone to her presence on the internet that read "It's not as amazing as RAZZY.org, but it's a start." SOOOO flattering!
Check it out:
http://soundmasheen.blogspot.com
Anyway, she writes for a living, and she's good at it. Her shit is funny. Por ejemplo:
While gushing about her love for Liza Minnelli, she tells about her trip to see Liza at Coney Island earlier this summer:
"I expected to be pressed up against a thousand topless beefy gay men blowing kisses at her, but much to my surprise, I was wrangled in by what must have been every single geriatic ward in the five boroughs of New York City. I'd never seen so many wheelchairs in my life--and all the old people were wasted too!"
Regarding Christina Ricci's latest movie role:
"The movie, about a wealthy young woman born with a pig's snout for a nose, is played by Christina Ricci, who obviously gleaned inspiration for her role by simply looking in the mirror."
Then she rips on Chloe Sevigny, much to my delight:
"Speaking of untalented, vacuous, and overrated 'Indie-goddesses', PAPER magazine has recently deemed Chloe Sevigny as the 'Art World's Favorite Movie Star.' Yikes. What an insult to the art world."
Concerning Suri Cruise:
"The great thing about being a Scientologist is that once you reach level 10 of insanity, you're awarded special sperm powers, and that, my friends, is how Suri came to be."
Anyway, her material is great, and well worth your time. Besides, there's no way I could NOT give her a shout out when she sent me a mass e-mail alerting everyone to her presence on the internet that read "It's not as amazing as RAZZY.org, but it's a start." SOOOO flattering!
Check it out:
http://soundmasheen.blogspot.com
Labels: Bienvenido-a-Miami, down with OPB (other people's blogs), I LOVE IT
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Jamie Foxx is a predictable asshole
I hate Jamie Foxx. He is such a smug, smarmy piece of shit, I can barely stand to look at him. So what if he won a fucking Oscar? He got lucky. Maybe some dumbasses in Hollywood thought he deserved an Academy Award for Ray, but the rest of his repertoire isn't comprised of what I would call cinematic masterpieces: Booty Call, Breakin' All the Rules, and let's not forget Stealth. Like Jennifer Lopez, Jamie Foxx is one of those triple threats: he can dance, sing, and act. Also like Jennifer Lopez, he doesn't do those things very well, especially singing.
That's why I was so pissed the other day when PerezHilton.com (one of the various internet pop culture teats from which I routinely suckle) reported that Jamie Foxx said with regard to his singing career:
"I am the savior. I'm definitely going out there with my mic and my shield to declare, 'I am here to save R&B.' I will have the people saying, 'Sire, there is a man at the musical gates saying he is here to save R&B."
Are you fucking kidding me? Shield? Sire? Is Jamie Foxx taking orders from Pope Urban II and fighting in the Crusades to reclaim the Holy Land? What fantasy world does he live in, fucking Camelot? Cut the Arthurian knight linguistic affectations, asshole. Perhaps in fictional medieval pre-Saxon lore Jamie Foxx would bust down the portcullis and get the fiefdom crunk with his sweet melodies, but in the modern era, his product is what most people call bullshit. Has Jamie ever listened to his own song, that "Unpredictable" crap that has been on the radio ad nauseum for the past three months? The only part of that song where I stop wanting desperately to immolate myself is the part where Ludacris is rapping (also that's the best part because it means the song is almost over). Jamie has obviously been hanging out too much with his fellow egomaniacal asshole Kanye West, whose delusional Jesus complex seems to be catching.
Where does Jamie Foxx get off thinking that he has the musical chops to "save R&B"? Because he had two hit songs singing the hook for Kanye West? So did Syleena Johnson and you don't hear her talking all sorts of artistically self-aggrandizing shit. I don't consider "she take my money when I'm in need" and "some Marvin Gaye, some Luther Vandross, a little Anita will definitely set this party off right" to be the harbingers of the "Savior of R&B."
Maybe he thinks he has extra musician clout because he can actually play the piano. Big deal...so can I. "Georgia on my Mind" is a couple of elementary chords and finger exercises played over and over, and is at the difficulty level of an eight-year-old who has gotten through the first two Bastien method books. If we were to have a throwdown over the works of Frederic Chopin, I guarantee I'd whip his self-satisfied ass with my Nocturne No. 19 in E minor, and I'm out of practice. He's not all that at the piano.
More infuriating than the already irritating presumption of musical greatness is the fact that R&B is in no need of saving from the likes of Jamie Foxx so long as this man is out on bond awaiting trial:
That's why I was so pissed the other day when PerezHilton.com (one of the various internet pop culture teats from which I routinely suckle) reported that Jamie Foxx said with regard to his singing career:
"I am the savior. I'm definitely going out there with my mic and my shield to declare, 'I am here to save R&B.' I will have the people saying, 'Sire, there is a man at the musical gates saying he is here to save R&B."
Are you fucking kidding me? Shield? Sire? Is Jamie Foxx taking orders from Pope Urban II and fighting in the Crusades to reclaim the Holy Land? What fantasy world does he live in, fucking Camelot? Cut the Arthurian knight linguistic affectations, asshole. Perhaps in fictional medieval pre-Saxon lore Jamie Foxx would bust down the portcullis and get the fiefdom crunk with his sweet melodies, but in the modern era, his product is what most people call bullshit. Has Jamie ever listened to his own song, that "Unpredictable" crap that has been on the radio ad nauseum for the past three months? The only part of that song where I stop wanting desperately to immolate myself is the part where Ludacris is rapping (also that's the best part because it means the song is almost over). Jamie has obviously been hanging out too much with his fellow egomaniacal asshole Kanye West, whose delusional Jesus complex seems to be catching.
Where does Jamie Foxx get off thinking that he has the musical chops to "save R&B"? Because he had two hit songs singing the hook for Kanye West? So did Syleena Johnson and you don't hear her talking all sorts of artistically self-aggrandizing shit. I don't consider "she take my money when I'm in need" and "some Marvin Gaye, some Luther Vandross, a little Anita will definitely set this party off right" to be the harbingers of the "Savior of R&B."
Maybe he thinks he has extra musician clout because he can actually play the piano. Big deal...so can I. "Georgia on my Mind" is a couple of elementary chords and finger exercises played over and over, and is at the difficulty level of an eight-year-old who has gotten through the first two Bastien method books. If we were to have a throwdown over the works of Frederic Chopin, I guarantee I'd whip his self-satisfied ass with my Nocturne No. 19 in E minor, and I'm out of practice. He's not all that at the piano.
More infuriating than the already irritating presumption of musical greatness is the fact that R&B is in no need of saving from the likes of Jamie Foxx so long as this man is out on bond awaiting trial:
I am deeply offended at Jamie Foxx's implication that R&B needs his help while one Mr. Robert Sylvester Kelly still has his voice. Jamie Foxx never came up with anything NEARLY as good as "Bump 'n' Grind", "Feelin on Yo Booty," "You Remind Me of Something," "Thoia Thoing," "R&B Thug," "Snake," "Chocolate Factory," "Strip for You," "Down Low," "Sex Me," "Fucking You Tonight," "The Greatest Sex", "Your Body's Calling", "Ignition," "Fiesta", "The World's Greatest," or (Kells's most self-incriminating song) "Don't You Say No"...I could continue all day about how awesome R. Kelly's repertoire is. Jamie Foxx's only song from his crappy album so far is the shitty title track, "Unpredictable," which is at best a poor imitation of Kells's greatness. Jamie Foxx brags about his "creativity" and then vaguely promises sex in positions other than missionary. That's not creativity, that's a second date, stupid. If you truly strive for originality, why don't you compare sex with your woman/women to operating a remote control, driving a car/jeep, bumping a stereo, spending money, starting a vehicle, smoking a blunt, smoking a Cuban cigar, manufacturing candy, gorillas mating in the jungle, or playing tennis with Serena Williams. R. Kelly says that after having sex with him, women get vanity plates for their cars printed with "I love Kells" (or at least the women old enough to drive do.) I believe him, because that's just ridiculous enough to be true. Jamie Foxx's most creative idea is to say, "I know you're used to dinner and a movie...why not be my dinner, while makin' a movie." Oh, that's clever. You are full of surprises, Jamie Foxx. Too bad R. Kelly has you beat, because he wrote a whole SONG about it, "Sex in the Kitchen." Furthermore, if Jamie Foxx considers performing oral sex on a woman so infrequent an event that you never expect it, I certainly wouldn't want to be dating him.
I guess Jamie Foxx is just feeling insecure, because as of late, Kells has proved himself quite the thespian:
I have seen all twelve chapters of "Trapped in the Closet" and it's musical thugged-out R&B film noir at its finest. I never bothered seeing Ray because it looked long and boring, but I guarantee there wasn't a midget shitting his pants in terror at the sight of R. Kelly's chrome-plated Beretta 9-mil in it. Kells knew that his "hip-hop soap opera" was his vehicle for showing off his amazing skills as a dramatist. Jamie Foxx probably would never do Broadway because he sucks, and needs like 50 takes to get something right. R. Kelly, on the other hand, was so brave that he performed EVERY CHARACTER in "Trapped in the Closet" including Sylvester (philandering narrator), Cathy (random girl he bangs), Rufus (Cathy's husband on the DL), Chuck (Rufus's boyfriend), James (cop who is fucking Gwen), Gwen (Sylvester's wife), Twan (Gwen's brother, fresh out of prison), Rosey (nosy neighbor), Bridget (James's white trash wife, who hides the midget she is fucking under her double-wide pull out bed when James comes home), and Big Man (aforementioned midget who turns out to be Bridget's baby daddy). 
Watching one man perform that many diverse parts before a live audience (in particular, the audience at the VMAs) is a surreal experience; it's rare that you see a student of the craft with such range. Look at the pictures if you don't believe me. I am certain you will agree: the man can act. What does Jamie Foxx have? He can do four basic characters: hard-working everyman, goofy yet well-meaning guy from "the hood," Ray Charles, and soldier. Not only is Kells better than Jamie Foxx at R&B, he's able to incorporating acting into it much more effectively than Jamie Foxx ever could. So learn some humility, bitch!
Jamie Foxx's ability to entertain is more overrated than Ann Coulter's opinions, and his lackluster, vanilla persona is hardly Savior material. Until Jamie Foxx can deliver lines like "I like the way you move your cho-cha, it makes me wanna get to know ya" credibly, he needs to sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up. R. Kelly put the R-uh in R&B, and as a genre of music, it's doing just fine in his capable hands.
Labels: celebrities, I LOVE IT, retard rage, Robert Sylvester Kelly
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