RazzyBlog

Douchebag of the Moment: Rick Reilly

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 05:42:00 +0000

So, it's been awhile, and I've decided to limit my lame excuses for my absence from the internets to two short sentences. I was dating this guy (any blog about that would be boring and bad for my relationship), I was really busy at work (any blog about that would be just plain boring), and I just needed a long break from being Razzy. I felt like this blog was a chore rather than a relaxing hobby, and I didn't want to catch shit about it with my man and at work. Well, my work is plugging along, I've returned to my natural state (single, Razzified), and I thought I'd just get back to doing what I do best: going off on those deserving of my bitchy ire.

Currently, this is a certain Mr. Rick Reilly. Rick Reilly is a sportswriter specializing in bullshitting about golf. This makes him particularly beloved amongst middle-to-retired-aged men with bad backs and money to burn. But let's be real. Unless you are a determined gold digger (and an incompetent one, if you're going for a sportswriter...even a successful sportswriter), Rick Reilly is at heart a GOLF fanboy douche so inept that he wears one of those shirts bearing gigantic Polo logos. Because the assholes looking at said shirt have such shitty vision in their old age, they can't tell whether it is a Ralph Lauren shirt that retails for 80 bucks at the South Hill Mall (aka Puyallup) Macy's without seeing the Polo logo cantering all over most of it. This is Rick fucking Reilly:

As a matter of disclosure, I should inform you that I once purchased a book written by this man as a Christmas gift for my father, who is notoriously difficult to shop for, but who loves golf in a major way. He manufactures golf clubs for fun. He watches the Golf Channel. When he golfs at the local course in Puyallup, Lipoma Firs, I tell him that his golf course is named after a fatty tumor and he takes affront at my pointing that out. The man loves to hit the damn links, so I bought him a Rick Reilly book because it was about golf, and my dad kept the book on his bedside table for years. I'm not sure if he actually read it, or kept it there because he planned to read it but it actually sucked. Regardless, its nightstand staying power made that Rick Reilly book a far better Dad present than most of what I've ever purchased for him at the holidays. There ends my affection for Rick Reilly. The rest of him, I totally hate.

Case in point: an article he wrote about the recent Masters tournament. As described above, I don't give a fuck about the Masters. However, I do give a fuck about celebrities being shamed in the public eye, because it's frankly entertaining. I have been following Tiger Woods' case, I obviously know all about how he removed some bitch's tampon to do her doggystyle against his Yukon in the parking lot of a Perkins, and that apparently Ambien is the new Viagra for illicit porn star side-piece sex. I'll watch and comment on his mildly disturbing recent Nike commercial in which his dead adulterous father scolds him from beyond the grave. I'm the first person to hop on the observation deck watching the Tiger Woods trainwreck, and I will follow this shitshow until it stops being interesting. I actually don't really think that the infidelity-mediated shattering of the Tiger Woods mystique means much of anything, other than that Tiger is a horny dude prone to the same temptations all human beings face. However, when it comes to Tiger's performance in the Masters, I don't really care how he does. I'd rather hear more about this Ambien sex thing, which I am still somewhat confused about. Doesn't Ambien just make you go to sleep?

Rick Reilly is apparently not focused on the pertinent points of this story. First, he starts off his coverage of the end of the Masters by noting that Phil Mickelson's triumph is "a lipstick-sized victory" for women everywhere. I can't speak for the rest of the XX-bearing members of the human race, but I LOVE when backhanded feminist triumphs are afforded by middle-aged male golf writers with bad taste in shirts. I feel that those triumphs are particularly relevant and not remotely condescending when they are predicated exclusively on the fact that some old perennial silver medalist managed to beat Tiger Woods and somehow managed not to fuck around on his wife, who looks like a cut-rate Elin Nordegren with breast cancer ("a walking rainbow that could put a smile on a mortician's face," per Rick Reilly). Thank you, Rick Reilly, for pointing out that Phil Mickelson, by virtue of winning a tournament while keeping his dick in his pants, has taken all us women on a lipstick-sized trip through the fucking glass ceiling.

I am not suggesting that I wish ill on Phil and Amy Mickelson, but even if I cared about the Masters, I wouldn't begrudge Tiger Woods winning it if he had done so. Conversely, I don't think Phil Mickelson–who apparently won by playing great golf–should have to endure having his win parceled off as some sort of feminist triumph which, if not actually the moronic misunderstanding of feminism by a dude who wears the previously discussed terrible shirts, is pyrrhic at best. Should anyone be judged by whether or not they fucked around? And does a man who doesn't fuck around winning a top-tier sporting event signal a victory for women everywhere? Phil MIckelson put on a green fucking jacket. Give the dude a minute to be appreciated for besting everyone, at the very least because both women and Phil Mickelson deserve far better than Rick Reilly's derivative assessment of the situation.

Tiger Woods fucked around, basically admitted it, lost a lot of money in the process, and...what the fuck ever. So he was a dick to some of his mistresses, so he lied to his wife, so he was an asshole. Just because you can't be running around fucking D-list porn stars on the side doesn't mean that it's a feminist victory when someone who also hasn't done that wins a tournament. Especially if said marriage-honoring winner also boasts a family full of women with malignancy-riddled tits. And especially if said marriage-honoring winner deserves accolades for his accomplishment, without having it belittled by Rick Reilly's pathetically misogynistic and patronizing added subtext.

And finally, "lipstick" is the term I use to describe a dog's penis. Even a small human penis in my vocabulary is a "chapstick dick." While I'm not sure that chapstick is an improvement, to call something "lipstick-sized" in my book is to equate them forever with canine genitals. I went to Smith College, and in my authoritative opinion, that is not a triumph for feminism, or Phil Mickelson's victory. Rick Reilly, go back to reporting on fucking golf. Isn't that your fucking job?!

Thanks be to fucking God (I never got that stupid tattoo)

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:34:00 +0000

I managed to escape my teens and twenties without a single tattoo. Mercifully, I do not have a dreamcatcher tramp stamp, or a dolphin leaping over my shoulder, or any random Chinese characters, or ANYTHING subcutaneously airbrushed on my body. This is a good thing, too. All the tattoos I ever wanted to get were extraordinarily lame, and I'm glad I was either too young, too lazy, or too broke to get them.

In high school, while deeply smitten with my girlfriend, I painted the case of my TI-85 graphing calculator with illustrations of the tattoos I was going to get to declare my extreme baby dyke radical feminist views and my obsession with aforementioned girlfriend. I don't remember all of them, but I do recall that I wanted to get an armband tattoo that was a sort of vine of roses entangled with irises because those were our favorite flowers at the time. I painted this all around the perimeter of my TI-85 cover. I also remember that I wanted to get a pink triangle on the bottom of my foot, to "remind me where I stand." That wouldn't have been too bad or noticeable, but lacking that certainly didn't cause me to forget that I like to lick snatch sometimes and I support the civil rights of others who choose to get in on some hot same-sex action.

Later, in my early twenties, LL Cool Jew, Wmania, and myself were going to get matching Georgia O'Keefe deer skulls as a testament to our deep and abiding friendship. I planned on getting this on my right shoulder, LL Cool Jew was going to get it on her chest, and Wmania wanted the classic small-of-back cum catcher. Additionally, we wanted to get "WAR" below this famous reproduction of a decomposed, decapitated cervid, in Eazy-E's Compton hat gangsta font (it is an acronym of our initials). For some reason, we thought such a look was classier than any tattoo we would have opted for in college, and would be a cherished and not remotely regrettable addition to our bodies. After all, who wouldn't disfigure themselves for the sake of friendship?

Sha. Suffice to say, I can only imagine how annoyed LL Cool Jew would have been at her wedding had antlers been sprouting out of the bodice of her Vera Wang wedding gown and despoiling her hot-ass tits at her nuptial celebration. Luckily, those tattoos were all about $250 more than we had budgeted for our exercise in making a permanent physical record of our friendship. Still more luckily, we are all still friends, despite lacking Georgia O'Keefe deer skull tattoos.

In spite of all the dumb ideas I had with regard to body art, there is one tattoo I wanted for a long period of time that I never got. I just never got around to it, but I always figured if I found myself in a position where tattooing made sense, I would ask for that. Over my many years of Catholic education, I developed a fetish for graven images, and my favorite of all time was the sacred heart of Jesus.

At one time, I thought this heart-shaped, briar-encircled Zippo lighter of Christ was an awesome image. It was at once cool, relatively unique, less associated with Latin gangs than the Our Lady of Guadalupe, and scratched my old-timey-Catholic-stuff itch. It was personal, appropriate, and up to my standards, and I wouldn't have to draw it.

It was also the tattoo equivalent of a fucking Ed Hardy shirt. I realized this today, when I went to my favorite internets gossip site and found THIS:

When you realize that Michael Lohan--a convicted felon, estranged deadbeat patriarch of one of the most trainwrecktastic clans currently grasping desperately for a glance of the public eye, and probably the most detestable non-celebrity famewhore on the entire internet-- has your former dream tattoo, and is further flaunting it to the most accursed of bottom-shelf, we-wish-we-were-x17 paparazzi, you can go ahead and thank your lucky stars you never went ahead with that sacred heard of Jesus tattoo. You can also swear on the risen motherfucking Christ whose sacred heart that supposedly is that you never made it a permanent part of your epidermis, as I very nearly did. Bullet DODGED.

Idea #11 for Bono's consideration: GO AWAY

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 15:52:00 +0000

Normally, the New York Times tends to piss me off with its overbearing erudition and pompous undertones. However, I read it anyway, if only because there's nothing more hilarious than reading the Grey Lady's attempts at making a review of a Soulja Boy Tell 'Em album excessively literary. I also like to supplement my knowledge of New York local news from the greatest publication in the history of print journalism (the NY Post, duh), because I miss New York and there's usually more interesting stuff going on there than in Seattle. And I like to bust on Maureen Dowd simply because she's so oblivious to her own stupidity, and her hair color is appalling.

There is one thing, however, that I truly cannot abide in the Times. On what seems like a quarterly basis, Bono decides to show the staff of the Times how a REAL pretentious tool does it, and writes some heavy-handed op/ed that makes me want to go on a destruction spree against any business that has ever allowed anything from the (failed) Product (RED) line to pollute its shelves.

Guess what? Noel Gallagher had a great idea for Bono back in 2007. Play "One" and shut the fuck up about Africa. That idea might be three years old, but it's still as timely as ever, now that Bono fancies himself the next Thomas L. Friedman and has taken it upon himself to encourage Times readers' participation in his dumb New Year's resolutions. Take a gander at this aberration and see if you want to follow the lead of a media whoring asshole so delusional he apparently thinks that egregiously making multiple self-referential "rock star" comments is self-deprecating.

I could see why Bono might have some credibility if, in spite of his insufferable tone, he actually came up with some "great" ideas. Bono's ideas are as stupid, self-important, and unnecessary as those ubiquitous D&G shades he's been wearing for the past 25 years. Let's review his top ten list of ways for dumbasses who think they are smart and globally conscious to achieve new levels of obnoxious hypocrisy, just like their rose bespectacled messiah.

1. Return of the Automobile as a Sexual Object. Apparently, most American cars from the past couple decades have been too fat and boxy for Bono's taste, and he's calling upon the powers that be in Detroit to start making cars he'd be willing to fuck. Which basically means he wants Steve Jobs to design a next-gen hybrid Ford Focus.

2. Intellectual Property Developers. While this "idea" is pretty vague, it actually means that Bono wants the internet to use China's model for suppressing dissention to keep people from illegally downloading U2 albums for free. He also blames internet service providers for "reverse Robin Hooding," stealing from the "poor" (AKA record labels and movie studios) by allowing file sharing networks to flourish in cyberspace. Though I've got no love for Comcast, Bono is about as sympathetic a victim to lost profits from downloaded music as Lars Ulrich was back in the Napster era. Loathsome as the idea of having U2 songs on my iTunes might be, I might just illegally download The Joshua Tree out of fucking spite.

3. An Equal Right to Pollute (and the Polluter-Pays Principle). Per Bonoconomics, a starving Ethiopian subsistence farmer can sell all the carbon they don't emit to "mild greens" in the developed world who want to pollute freely without a guilty conscience, and somehow this will reduce carbon emissions. That way, Bono can't take his private jet across the Atlantic to satisfy a craving for New York style pizza without first writing a check to some poor person in Africa. Because nothing assuages the shame of glaringly obvious hypocrisy like having a receipt to say you are paid in full.

4. A Person (Dr. William Li) and a Word (Angiogenesis). Bono explains that the study of angiogenesis (the formation of new blood vessels) and its role in tumor growth (tumors need a blood supply to grow and spread). How does Bono know so much about cancer? Well, admittedly he doesn't have a "medical pedigree," luckily his pal The Edge apparently does. Well, The Edge has given money to Dr. William Li, anyway, and he runs some foundation promoting the study of...angiogenesis. According to Dr. Li, studying the role of angiogenesis in malignancy is "the first medical revolution of the 21st century." That would be nice, if studying angiogenesis in cancer hadn't already been pioneered by the late Dr. Judah Folkman, who first proposed this notion in 1971, nearly 30 years before the advent of the 21st century. I guess Dr. Edge didn't review the historical literature while he was obtaining his medical degree from the University of Tax-Deductible Donations to Dr. Li's Foundation.

5. Matter Doesn't Matter. Although Bono humbly admitted his lack of knowledge in medicine, quantum physics is another MATTER entirely. Apparently, Bono once experienced quantum teleportation backstage in Berlin in the early 1990s (what a great joke, Bono, and thanks for reminding us again that you are a rock star!), and is thus qualified to comment on Dr. Anton Zeilinger's work in this field. Per Dr. Bono, "E=mc2 ends in a cosmic punchline," which is that Dr. Zeilinger is inventing a way to beam people up, and this means God is both a nerd and a Trekkie.

6. Festival of Abraham. Are you tired of keeping track of which religious holidays your friends celebrate? Bono is, and furthermore, he has deduced that this is the source of all those unpleasant political problems in the Middle East. Thankfully, Bono has played concerts all over the world and has used his extensive worldliness to come up with a solution. Festivus! Actually, he wants to call it the "Festival of Abraham," after the ancient, pious horndog common to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Furthermore, being from Ireland and all, Bono knows that terrorists will be compelled to lay down their pipe bombs if bands play songs and get famous. Therefore, politicians can't participate in this inclusive, Mideast peace-brokering political holiday. Good thinking, Bono! Maybe U2 can calm down Hamas like they singlehandedly calmed down the IRA with songs like "Sunday Bloody Sunday"!

7. People Power and the Upside-Down Pyramid. Um...Hillary Clinton is saving Africa by meeting with local leaders instead of corrupt government officials in some kind of reverse pyramid scheme.

8. Taking the Fight to Rotavirus. I guess I can't complain that Bono is pro-childhood vaccination.

9. Viva la (Nonviolent) Revolucíon. Obama got elected, the Berlin Wall came down, and that poor Neda woman was killed in Iran. According to the Gospel of Bono, these things wouldn't have happened if not for Martin Luther King, Jr. and other peaceful protestors. Well, except that Neda mess, but Bono thinks that Ahmadinejad and his fellow tyrannical dictators (Kim Jong Il, dude in charge of Myanmar, etc.) will watch Gandhi and change their evil, oppressive, human rights-violating ways thanks to the commanding performance of Sir Ben Kingsley. I mean, the Berlin Wall came down thanks to the musical stylings of David Hasselhoff, so I guess anything's possible.

10. The World Cup Kicks Off the African Decade. Bono just watched Invictus, and he wants Nelson Mandela to attend the World Cup in South Africa. Oh, and for those of you who thought that they wouldn't build the stadiums in Pretoria or Cape Town or Johannesburg or wherevs? Suck some Afrikaner dick, fools, because they're ready for some hard core SOCCER down there. Bono saves the world again with his keen insights and unsurpassed understanding of the global community.

Seriously, Bono, the only thing you are any good for these days are annoying mobile device endorsements (although not that good, as U2's iPod commercial from five years ago singlehandedly discouraged me from getting an iPod until three months ago). There are many places for Bono's "great ideas": his Twitter, a U2 album liner, the trash, etc. The New York Times op/ed page is not one of them. If Bono wants to do anything for the new year, he should consider not writing any more columns. Now that is a "great idea" that I could celebrate. Slainte!

Fuck your moms

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 02:18:00 +0000

My feelings about kids (specifically, that they suck and should be destroyed) have long been publicly known. Therefore, it shouldn't surprise anyone that the plethora of ads using motherhood as a qualifying selling point for crappy scams do nothing but piss me off. If you've ever used Facebook, or gone on the internet at all, you've seen these ads touting weight loss and tooth-whitening secrets discovered BY A MOM.

These mom ads are even worse than those old ads bragging that Airborne was discovered "BY A TEACHER!" I don't see what makes a person versed solely in herding unruly second graders and instructing them in complicated topics such as cursive and subtraction remotely qualified to develop products sold as antimicrobial drugs. Certainly it would make more sense to say Airborne was discovered by a virologist, but I suppose they probably couldn't get a virologist to go along with that marketing scheme. Speaking as a virologist (and one who even used to work on the common cold), I would never be so disingenuous as to suggest I discovered vitamin C, which is basically what Airborne is. Furthermore, I would consider it professionally irresponsible to claim that taking vitamin C will somehow act as a magical shield that will allow you to fly surrounded by sick, sneezing people and remain impervious to any kind of respiratory pathogens.

That said, at least a teacher inventing an infuriatingly overpriced vitamin C supplement is still better than hearing that A SINGLE MOM (!!!) invented some kind of fabulous breakthrough in tooth-whitening or weight loss by accident. Granted, there are many women who are mothers as well as competent scientists. If you are talking about Dr. Carol Greider, who was awarded this year's Nobel prize in medicine and physiology and who also has a couple kids, then I might believe that she came up with such a novel discovery. However, the notion that motherhood alone is somehow so superior to rational scientific research that random single moms discover bullshit in ten minutes of their spare time is ludicrous and offensive. If child-bearing is qualification enough to make a person a credible inventor of fabulous new technologies, then any of the following people may as well have accidentally tripped and fallen on the ultimate secret to tooth-whitening:

Yeah, I'm sure Kendra or Britney are likely to stumble upon a cure for AIDS now that they've joined the ranks of intellectual elite by ejecting progeny from their wombs. I'm sure that when Stephenie Meyer isn't encouraging teenage girls to devote themselves unquestioningly to chaste, sparkling Mormon vampires, she dabbles in developing a unified field theory of physics. And that when Courtney Love isn't overwhelming Twitter with incoherent ranting, she's whipping up a time machine. That's plausible...because that's what happens when, despite your intellect or your maternal skills, you squeeze out a rugrat to annoy me with. Your vagina gets used as a human egress, and you become an instant genius.

What's even better is that, per countless other sidebar and pop-up ads, I've been informed that Obama would like to enhance our nation's inventive capacity by sending MOMS TO SCHOOL. After all, if being a mother alone is sufficient for being an innovator on par with Thomas Edison, then imagine how Obama's post-partum educational mandate will produce a veritable technology boom. Bitches are going to be discovering cold fusion and establishing the existence of the hypothesized Higgs boson in between making peanut butter sandwiches and turning on Spongebob Squarepants. Even worse, childless underachieving losers like myself will probably be out of work.

And it's just as well, because I'm obviously NOT qualified to make fabulous discoveries anyway. For example, I always thought moms were women with children. It turns out they were Jesus-esque, hirsute, barechested, male indigents this whole time:

Now I know what to get my mom for Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 21:48:00 +0000

Looking for something special to get your favorite Rammstein fan this Christmas, but can't find anything they don't already have? Well, look no further. Rammstein is selling limited edition box sets of their new album, Liebe Ist Für Alle Da (which I'm pretty sure means "Our Band Sucks" in German) that comes complete with a six-pack of dildos, handcuffs, and some lube.

Now, while I normally make it a policy not to look a gift dildo in the mouth, I don't think I would really welcome this present. The fact that these dildos are packed with a Rammstein CD is a big turnoff, since that basically seems like it screams "loser." I suspect that most of the people who rushed out and bought this have no reason to use handcuffs or dildoes on anyone, much less six at a time. In fact, I bet the main demographic targeted by this item are sad, lonely shut-ins with little to do besides cash unemployment checks who rant incoherently on the internet, and have no experience with sex toys other than posing for self-portraits with them. I can't imagine that anyone I'd be fucking would get remotely excited that I was offering them a choice of custom Rammstein dildoes, especially since these fake weiners are supposed to represent each member of the band. So not only are you pulling a dildo out of a custom Rammstein case, you can imagine that you are actually banging one of the guys in Rammstein. Danke, but I'll pass.

For those of you who have not heard of Rammstein before, they Germany's answer to Ministry. They do a lot of shouting (which is doubly frightening because it's in German), they wear a lot of ridiculous outfits, and, despite their tendency to write songs with titles like "Pussy," they always take a lot of really homoerotic pictures.

Yeah, these dudes look like a bunch of major pussyhounds to me. Regardless of their lyrical content, I do NOT believe for a second that their expertise in the dildo department has anything to do with their alleged love of vagina. Therefore, if you are looking for the perfect gift for your favorite angry closeted loser, you can thank Rammstein for this option. Seriously, nothing screams "I need to get a fucking life" than this box of weiners.

Faith Hill is in league with Satan (there's no other explanation)

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 01:22:00 +0000

If there's anything that could fire me up enough to brush the dust off my blog and return to a more prolific state of active bitchery, it's Faith Hill killing my figurative boner for Sunday Night Football. Every week I've been watching this bitch and her tranny equine countenance trying to do her best "sexy Hank Williams" routine to segue between "Football Night in America" and the actual game. And every week I've been getting progressively more pissed off.

Faith Hill's "Drag Queen Kim Zolciak" look is not sexy, it does not make me believe that my rowdy friends have gathered anywhere nearby or accessible, and it most definitely does not get me ready for some football. On the contrary, it gets me ready for a cerebrovascular accident. Faith Hill is so talentless and dumb that she couldn't even write her own football song, and thus shamelessly stole "I Hate Myself for Loving You" from Joan Jett. This song has not been improved with new lyrics reminding me that the Gollum of sideline reporters, Andrea Kremer, will be prowling the sidelines and irritating me even more all evening. The entire atrocity is like when you're about to hook up with a really hot guy, only to achieve trouser access and realize he's rocking a golf pencil. That's hardly the way you want to start out a goddamn football game.

Even worse, Al Michaels and Cris Collinsworth are contractually obligated to constantly name-check this appalling introduction. This evening, the punting unit took the field after a lackluster drive by the Bears' offense, and Al Michaels thought this would be a perfect opportunity to remind everyone what a sour note the game began on, stating, "Unlike Faith Hill, Jay Cutler has NOT been waiting all week for Sunday night...his confidence has definitely been shaken." Thanks for the Faith Hill-based analysis of Jay Cutler's humanity, Al. It really helps me understand the game better. One thing NFL fans has been missing and, in fact, clamoring for is more commentary revolving around FAITH HILL AND HER PLAGIARIZED STUPID FUCKING SUNDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL INTRO SONG!

Really, what marketing executive decided that the key to getting more people to watch Sunday Night Football on NBC was Faith Hill? I forgot that this bitch even fucking existed. Didn't Taylor Swift make her irrelevant? Nonetheless, she seems to be the executive producer of "Football Night in America," since the entire game is filled with Faith Hill references. In fact, it's not just NBC. The NFL can't seem to get enough of Faith Hill-related endorsements. Last week, I received an e-mail from NFL.com touting Tim McGraw's bit part in a movie about football.

And this isn't just any movie about football, it's a movie about football starring Sandra Bullock, a veteran of about 8,000 shiteous chick flicks. So it makes sense for the NFL to give this movie some free press, as football fans are a demographic teeming with fans of The Lake House. What does not make sense is thinking that featuring Tim McGraw will butch this movie up for the NFL audience. Tim McGraw designed not one but TWO colognes. He probably doesn't even drive a damn truck, or if he does, it only has two-wheel drive. He's certainly no Toby Keith. He

I do not understand why the NFL and its affiliates have entered into this unholy alliance with Tim McGraw and Faith Hill. Granted, the NFL has made some questionable marketing choices in the past (such as sending me a Super Bowl XL Commemorative Steelers' Gear Catalog), but I'm completely at a loss as to why the celebrities leading their marketing efforts are these two washed-up pieces of country-fried trash. Seriously, these two must have sold their souls, or are in league with the Freemasons, or found a magic genie-filled lamp at some point, because there's just no other logical reason for them to be on my television ruining football.

Break's over

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 00:42:00 +0000

This past weekend, my friend TAFKAMA gave me a talking-to about how much dust this little blog of mine has been gathering.

"I'm on sabbatical," I told him. "My heart's just not into it. I needed a break."

This is all true. Over the last couple months, every time I'd try to write something, I'd feel uninspired and bored by my efforts. I felt that if I was bored thinking about what I was going to write, certainly others would be too. I'd rather write nothing than write a bunch of forced, banal shit, so I wrote nothing.

The reason I was so uninspired was that I did need a break. I was tired of having to write something all the time. I realized that if I was thinking of the blog as a horrible chore on par with vacuuming or folding my clothes, it was probably time to step away from it for awhile. I wanted to focus on my job, and my life in general off the internets. As an added bonus, I figured that taking a break for awhile might drive away some of the gross Razzyphiles who think I'm going to fuck them or strip for them or in some other way perform sexual favors for them just because they read this blog. For the record, those kind of expectations annoy me and creep me out, and basically guarantee that I won't even speak to you if I meet you in person, much less fuck your socially challenged ass.

That said, all the desperate pleading from many of my other loyal, non-creepy, and genuinely awesome Razzyphiles has not gone unnoticed. TAFKAMA said on Friday that he would help me, not only as a contributor, but in terms of revamping the layout of the site sometime in the near future. I think a makeover would suit it well, and some assistance would suit me well in terms of motivation. So, put your suicide implements away, because I'm back. Fuck yes.

Here's your 9/11 present

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 15:14:00 +0000

Okay, first off, I'm not even going to make excuses for being so absent and causing you all to feel such great pain and abandonment. I've somehow managed to acquire one these–ahem–boyfriends, and I've been busy getting laid constantly. Oh, and working a lot too. So I apologize, as I know the Razzyphiles have suffered great neglect and most of you were probably contemplating going the Sylvia Plath route. My bad, dudes.

Anyway, I am going to be better about blogging more regularly and I thought there's no better way to do so than by wishing you all a very merry 9/11. And apparently the terror squad (the muhajadeen catchers, not Fat Joe's rap cartel) decided to give us a present this year! They managed to nab the Taliban's PR guy, Muslim Khan, thus striking a terrible blow against the terrorists' ability to deliver do-it-yourself crazy anti-Western manifestos.

I can see why the loss of Muslim Khan is probably devastating to the Taliban's whole program, since he's done such a capital job of promoting them in the international press. I mean, what if people actually stop thinking that they are murderous, misogynistic terrorists with large teacup collections? Image management skills like Muslim Khan's are hard to come by, especially when you're wandering around Pakistan in some rattletrap convoy of assault rifles and RPGs, tea services, and Arabian night-style tents trying to find some permanent stronghold like a big troupe of militant jihadist Joads. So have fun looking like a bunch of total assholes on Al-Jazeera, stupid dumb Taliban guys! USA! U! S! A!

The real player-haters of Atlanta

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 10:48:00 +0000

In this economy, you can't blame a bitch for trying to hustle a little extra paper on the side. In Lawrenceville, Georgia, this hot construction worker (and certifiable clam digger...trust this) decided to help offset her mortgage payments by converting her home into a part-time business. Normally, this would be a triumph of the American spirit, a heartwarming pull-oneself-up-by-the-bootstraps type of tale. Unfortunately, a bunch of player-hating neighbors and police had something else to say. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution has the entire tragic story of how this bold young entrepreneur is being persecuted for building a successful cottage industry.

Since Constance Trahan didn't want to do something really degrading like sell Amway or crack to make ends meet, she decided to start peddling something even more American and to her liking: good, old-fashioned amateur pussy. According to police, evidence provided by a sign stating "1 dollar jello shots," a whiny-ass fun-hating neighbor, and some snitch busted on a minor possession charge was sufficient to arrest Connie for "keeping a disorderly house." Apparently that means she let a bunch of hoes shake their cakes for cash in her garage and basement and freely dispensed cocktails of grain alcohol and gelatin without the proper permits.

I fail to see why this should even be illegal, or at least illegal enough to merit a trip to the pokey. First off, if "keeping a disorderly house" is a crime, then it's damned lucky I don't live anywhere near Lawrenceville, Georgia, because I'd constantly run afoul of the law in that regard. Second, how can anyone blame a hard-working American like Constance cooking up a practical way to pay off her Home Depot charge account? Constance was providing a service that was clearly in demand by consumers at affordable prices. If you've ever been to a strip club, you know that you can't get anything there for $1, so those jello shots were definitely a bargain. I can only imagine that she was slinging lap dances at bargain basement, Big Lots-type prices. Too bad Constance's fun-killing communist neighbor couldn't be bothered with a simple pair of earplugs and decided to hate on the fact that Con was the baddest ass competitor in the DIY basement suburban Atlanta strip club game.

I thought we were supposed to celebrate ingenuity and can-do attitudes as key attributes to patriotism, facets of our national spirit as American as NASCAR and Budweiser. I guess all it takes is one freedom-hating dickbag of a neighbor filing a noise complaint to undermine the most cherished principles of American capitalism. Free Constance Trahan! Or, as I think she is free on bond, at least acquit her from this grossly unfair misdemeanor charge. First the government takes away your home strip club, then it's the rest of your freedoms! Tell the player-haters that all Americans should feel secure in their right to get their hustle on. USA! U! S! A!

K-Fed is Overfed

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 15:34:00 +0000

Every time I see a picture of Kevin Federline, I'm continually shocked that he manages to get even fatter. At first, I was like "Wow, K-Fed's packed on a little chunk. He's not going to get any backup dancing gigs looking like that." Then, I was like, "K-Fed could easily afford a personal trainer with the $30K a month from Brit Brit's coffers that he stacks each month." I thought to myself how sad it is that K-Fed would give up on his lifelong dream of being a complete mockery of a rap star just because he was busy cashing in on the child support and alimony gold mine and living's easy. Does the man have no dignity or self-respect?

Now I am actually wondering if he's really just a savvy businessman. K-Fed has gone beyond the one-too-many-meals-a-day-at-Popeye's level of fat and has exploded into the elite upper echelons of morbid obesity. I mean, the ground shakes when he approaches like it's fucking Jurassic Park. Seriously, I look at him, and I see one of the cave trolls from Lord of the Rings wearing a douched-up pair of D&G shades. Give the man a mace or a club and he's ready to fuck up some hobbits.

This can mean only one thing: he's angling for a show on TLC. He's got all the makings of a TLC star: a staggeringly astronomical body mass index score, too many children, a crazy ex-wife, and minor celebrity gleaned from basically just fucking around. It will be like "The 750-lb Man" meets "Jon and Kate Plus 8." Ratings gold!

(Yes, I'd watch it.)

Screw U2, says Dublin. I heart Dublin, says me

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Tue, 28 Jul 2009 14:42:00 +0000

I laughed scornfully today when I read an article about how U2's tour promoters were crying about being behind schedule on their European tour because their very own countrymen were fed up with their bullshit. Specifically, they were pissed that after three shows at Ireland's largest stadium, local residents were treated to some around-the-clock raucous related to dismantling their elaborate stage set-up. Therefore they decided to protest, and as a result, the "more than 50 trucks carrying much of the band's 390-ton stage, TV screens, lighting, and sound equipment missed their intended morning ferry." Consequently, the tour manager has noted, "It affects the tour schedule."

Oh, NO!!!! Now the rest of Europe might have to wait a day or two before they can plunk down their $250 to watch a gigantic Blackberry ad. Maybe Bono can do something about this. After all, he is singlehandedly solving Africa's poverty, political upheaval, and AIDS crises. However, when reached for comment after just stepping down from his private jet in Nice, France, Africa's savior sent his PR flunky out to throw down some bullshit about how the band feels "pure disappointment. It's just really put a damp squib (that is Irish for sponge, not a person with non-magical abilities born to wizarding stock) on something that was a fantastic experience and a fantastic show." He forgot to add, "It's treasonous for anyone of Irish heritage to disrupt, piss off, disappoint, mock, disparage, or otherwise speak in non-reverent tones about U2, and these freedom haters will be summarily labeled enemy combatants and sent to the Irish equivalent of Gitmo. Well, if such a thing existed anyway."

Clearly Bono, The Edge, and whatever other stupidly-named Irishmen are in U2 are devastated. However, Bono is mostly likely taking life's lemons and using them to make lemonade for those legions of starving, AIDS-ridden Africans he likes to lecture everyone about. Or maybe just being so incredibly disappointed that he can barely enjoy any of the earthly delights the French riviera has to offer. This is clearly what an extremely depressed megalomaniac with delusions of messianic grandeur looks like:

Poor Bono. I guess he'll have to drown his sorrows in a combination of sanctimonious lectures about the excesses of the developed world and some random Katy Perry-meets-Zoey Deschanel cooze. I mean, Bono knows hard times, and nothing is harder than depriving continental Europe of halfassed, corporate-retooled performances of "With or Without You" and "One." Oh, the humanity!

In other news, I still totally hate the shit out of U2. The protestors in Dublin get a Razzy Medal of Service to Humanity for disrupting the well-greased wheels of dickbaggery. Well played, Croke Park neighborhood coalitions.

It's okay to avoid like leprosy

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 12:19:00 +0000

I did not think it possible, but I have managed to find an ad campaign that makes me even more furious than Twitter whore Ashton Kutcher's COOLPIX ads. In fact, they make my feelings toward Ashton's buffoonery seem downright warm and charitable. This is the single most unappealing pitch for a dating site ever. It's even worse than that gross, snaggletoothed old Christian dude that used to sell e-Harmony with a lot of soporific jabber about compatibility and a lot of ugly couple success stories. These ads make e-Harmony, a company that is currently being sued for refusing to match gay couples and that seems to regard marrying a fat guy with a cell phone clipped to his belt a perfect outcome, seem like my ideal dating site. The horror of which I speak is the match.com "It's okay to look" ad campaign.

I am not sure what upsets me more, the slogan or the representative match.com singles from the commercials that I will ostensibly meet should I decide to partake of their services. The slogan is pretty bad. I don't need some disembodied female voice with the patronizing yet facile intonations of an overcompensating day care supervisor informing me that it's cool to cruise the internets for ass. I know plenty of people who get laid thanks to the miracle of the world wide web. I also think it's find to look for hookups at bars, clubs, restaurants, coffee shops, work, the gym, the park, the library, the designer mall, the waiting room at Planned Parenthood...hey, you never know when you might find someone. Really, the only place it's NOT okay to look is at a family reunion (although I have been hit on at one of those...but that's a whole other story). I am always looking, so thanks for stating the obvious about how "okay" it is to be doing so, match.com. I suppose next you're going to tell me that it's okay to drink coffee or it's okay to eat breakfast or it's okay to walk my dogs. Fuck off, match.com, with trying to make me feel validated enough to shell out for your subscription fee.

If I'm going to PAY to look, then I had better be looking at some hot pieces of ass who aren't insane. One of the biggest reasons people avoid internet dating (myself included) is the possibility of meeting a complete lunatic and/or stalker. I do a good enough job finding those without any e-assistance, so if I'm going to actually pay to peep at some frisky honeys on the prowl themselves, they better not be ugly and/or behaving like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. However, according to match.com's own promotional material, that's EXACTLY what they are selling.

If you go to match.com's website, you'll see SmilesforMiles01 and devco2000, AKA Fake Liz Phair and Pauly Shore/John C. Reilly's bastard child, letting us know in one sentence the dumbest, least interesting thing about both of them.

I only know a mere phrase worth of information about either of these people and already I hate them. You can tell that SmilesforMiles01 uses that lawn mowing line as part of her nagging routine. I can practically hear her shrill, shrewish voice issuing forth from within the unattractive folds of the Liz Claiborne blouse she's rocking: "Mow the lawn. It's THERAPEUTIC. Take out the garbage. IT'S THERAPEUTIC." And devco2000 would just rather that I think he's some kind of Jimmy Buffett-meets-Balthazar Getty rather than a sorry impersonator of the lead in Bio Dome. I should add, these are just the still promotional shots on the match.com website. The singles I'm supposed to get excited about looking at in the TV spots are infinitely more infuriating.

Take, for example, LaSirene7, who wants her potential sex partners to know that she can't roller skate, she shrieks a lot, she has an annoying laugh, and she wears ugly dresses gleaned from the "Misses" section at the Puyallup Ross Dress for Less. In other words, she's basically walking birth control.

There's also 1Eamonn4U, a Kevin Federline-meets-Channing Tatum knockoff who thinks that chuckling and chasing around a butterfly will get him laid. Although I must commend him on going this route rather than his usual Ed Hardy shirt-wearing and roofie-slipping, I don't know many ladies who will eagerly follow a butterfly right into the awkwardly flailing arms of a low-functioning buffoon. He's so confident in his strategy that at the end of his ad, he says, "Heh heh heh, I can't wait 'til my ex-girlfriend sees this." Because she's going to be soooooooooooo jealous of all those girls who won't be able to resist 1Eamonn4U's lack of coordination and baffling lepidopteran amusements.

Or NYCGingerGirl, a low-rent Jami Gertz knockoff who can't seem to master the complex technical nuances of a chef hat. I can see why her name isn't NYCRocketScientist.

And then there's Buddy20, whose seduction game involves putting on his jaunty Robin Hood feathered cap and jogging in place in a suit while giggling maniacally. (SPOILER ALERT: Buddy20 is also totally a serial killer.)

Get an eyeful of Kumnandi, who is apparently suffering from dissociative schizophrenia and is letting her "Lenny Kravitz" personality manage her internet dating life.

One of my most hated ads is the one promoting HablawithMe, some mid-40s divorcee who is apparently obsessed with butchering simple phrases in German and Spanish. At the end of her asinine monologue (which is mostly comprised of her saying "um" and laughing at herself for no reason), she says "puedo no hablar el español," then guffaws and says, "Maybe someone out there understood that, somewhere." Maybe, bitch, because it's completely unfathomable that anyone out there speaks Spanish. And it doesn't take a wise Latina to realize that you said "I can't speak Spanish," which is frankly pretty fucking obvious.

And without fail, the worst, most loathsome installment in the "It's Okay To Look" serial shitshow, is the intolerable Adventure90. Every time I hear, "I'm just a goof, looking for my ball!" I want to pull out my strap and lay the bitch out, and in the rap way, not the hot girl-on-girl kind of way.

Seriously, who wants to go on a single date with ANY of these people? All these ads do is confirm the worst about internet dating: everyone on match.com is a weirdo and a freak, and irritating as fuck to boot. It's like these people exist in the world solely to work my very last nerve. It is okay to look, and it's also okay to say "HELL THE FUCK NO, MATCH.COM." Call me conservative and call me old-fashioned, but I'm going to pull my ass the traditional way: drag their drunk ass home from a bar!

And they say romance is dead

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 15:34:00 +0000

I was busy celebrating America's birthday with my dearest college pals LL Cool Jew and Wmania this weekend in San Francisco, so I wasn't really paying attention to my text messages until we left the party we attended and got back to Wmania's condo. Once there I noticed that one of my honeys back in the P-N-Dub had undoubtedly been watching all the many exploding fireworks and naturally thought of me, and sent me a text sharing his feelings. What followed was an exchange of brief messages so romantic and sentimental they make The Notebook look like it's about a one-night stand. And not a nice, respectful type of one-night stand either, but the kind of drunken, why-the-hell-did-I-bone-this-idiot one-night stand where you say you have to go see a guy about a thing immediately afterward, use his shirt to wipe the jizz off your chest without asking or thanking him, run the fuck out of there, and then put him on permanent send-to-voicemail status.

Anyway, this series of texts is way, WAY more romantic than any of that. I wouldn't be surprised if the fine folks over at Harlequin Publishing hit me up asking me to write a book with Fabio lording over a heaving bosom on the cover based on these texts, because they are just that beautiful. Cue the violins:

Dude: Hey Razzy?
Razzy: Yes Dude?
Dude: I want to put my wiener in your vagina.
Razzy: Well duh.
Dude: I was trying to sweet talk you.
Razzy: Mission accomplished. You better pen me in tomorrow, because I missed choking on your dick all weekend.
Dude: Oh I'll pencil you in all night long, if you know what I mean.

Jealous? It's okay...I know that every girl dreams of one day sharing drunken texts with a silver-tongued Prince Charming of her very own. Maybe, just maybe, if you drink enough scotch and sodas and add enough random pieces of dick to your stable, you too can live the dream, single ladies, and start receiving poetic sentiments such as these. Dream big!

Are you a moron? Maybe you should become a porn producer like Donny Long!

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 15:22:00 +0000

I saw with sadness but without much surprise that earlier this month, a porn actress tested positive for HIV. Per usual, the organization primarily responsible for testing porn stars, AIM, was not cooperating with public health officials. The last time an outbreak occurred in the porn community, AIM also refused to assist the health department, and then publicly disclosed the names of possibly infected talent when their press went accordingly south for being incompetent and more interested in self-preservation than the safety and health of people who work in the business.

As an interested follower and consumer of the pornographic industry, I promptly went to some of the industry blogs to see what sort of chatter was going on there. I was disappointed to see much of the usual: a lot of speculation about which actress was "responsible" for costing the production companies so much money. Because it's that unfortunate woman's fault for an industry standard that rejects condom use and relies on an organization run by an inept, self-serving media whore named Sharon Mitchell whose public health credentials include being a former junkie porn star and holding a bullshit Ph.D from an unaccredited institution.

I was even more disappointed to see that the loudmouth idiots working as producers in this industry took this as an opportunity to demonstrate what a bunch of accomplished homophobes they all are. In particular, this dumbass named Donny Long went to his equivalent at the cathedral at Wittenburg (aka the gofuckyourself.com message board) and nailed up the following theses regarding his concerns for the health of his employees:

HIV, fags, and tranny fuckers doing straight scenes in this business

So the time has came. Huge HIV break out in Los Angeles and I dont even live or run a business there any more hahahha. THANK GOD.

I have posted countless times about this issue and I want it to be known because the real news is about to come out.
I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO. I TOLD YOU ALL SO.

When you have a faggot agent that rep's trannies and faggots as well as more straight girls in this business than anyone you are asking for it. I am sitting in Florida laughing my ass off at all the idiots in LA that hire trannyfuckers for straight scenes and fag male talent for straight scenes. I wont even book from girls from the fags anymore because I have no need to and everyone that knows the agencies in LA know who I am talking about. All I can say is I feel bad for the victims of others stupidity, but I TOLD YOU ALL SO.

Anyone want some content from a place where we dont hire fags or trannyfuckers to fuck straight girls and or have HIV problems HIT ME UP!

Yes, Donny, the time has indeed came. And I'm hardly surprised, considering that the porn industry seems to be replete with idiots like Donny who seem to think that only gay men can transmit HIV, and that having a gay agent alone is enough to taint an actress. The worst part is that Donny's colleagues reading his message board thread all seem to agree with him, saying things like "most of the gays have HIV" and "when you hire gay talent to shoot straight...you are asking for this shit to happen."

Did I somehow get into a fucking Delorean going 88 miles per hour? Because reading the opinions put forth by the gfy.com brain trust, I'd think I was in 1985, since that's the last time anyone with a shred of intelligence thought that HIV might be an epidemic specific to the gay community. Then again, since I once heard a dude getting a Ph.D in biology at Columbia tell me that straight people can only swap HIV during anal, I should hardly marvel over the ignorance exhibited by these high school dropouts, especially considering said fucktards are all raging homophobes.

While there are probably far too many polysyllabic words on this website for an imbecile like Donny Long to cope with, I would like to offer my own professional opinion on the subject. ANYBODY CAN GET HIV FROM HAVING UNPROTECTED SEX WITH ANYONE ELSE AND **PLENTY** OF STRAIGHT PEOPLE ARE HIV POSITIVE. And by "straight" I mean people who never have had any kind of hot same-sex action whatsoever and contracted HIV from heterosexual sex, probably with someone who also contracted their HIV from heterosexual sex. Furthermore, given that porn producers always complain that condoms will cost them dearly by cutting them out of supposedly lucrative fetish markets like ass-to-mouth and facials and whatnot, it would be easy for a cohort of exclusively heterosexual performers to start spreading HIV around with one another. In fact, if you look at the statistics, in 1985, only 3% of new HIV infections were transmitted heterosexually in the United States. In 2004, 31% of new HIV infections were heterosexual. Worldwide, 85% of HIV transmission occurs from heterosexual sex. When you work in an industry where people are having unprotected sex with multiple partners and rely on an organization run by an inept woman whose sole medical credential is her chronic viral hepatitis infection, you are always at a higher risk of contracting HIV. Period.

In case anyone wants to criticize me for not "understanding" how the porn industry works because I am not a part of it, I'd like to acknowledge that may be true. However, I do have a Ph.D in microbiology from Columbia, and my current specialty is hepatitis C, which is transmitted EXACTLY THE SAME WAY AS HIV. Given that AIM doesn't routinely test for either hep B or hep C, I wouldn't be surprised if those are completely endemic among no condom performers, gay and straight. In my work, I have to undergo extensive training to avoid occupational exposure to hep C, HIV, and other bloodborne pathogens. I cannot work with any human samples without wearing proper protective equipment, and I'm issued a prophylactic antiviral drug cocktail to take on the way to the emergency room should I ever have an accidental exposure such as a needle stick. The porn industry has no such safety standards in place. Furthermore, you will not test positive for HIV the second you contract it. Even the most sensitive test can't detect infection for several days. Considering most performers are tested once or twice a month, it's easy to see how HIV could spread rapidly in this community.

Donny Long should just be honest about why he's laughing at those unfortunate enough to have contracted HIV occupationally. It's because he's a fucking homophobe and a prick, which accounts for his completely asinine epidemiological theories. When Donny Long decides to stick his dick in some porn bitch who meets his criteria of not being represented by a "fag agent" or who has not shot scenes with a "tranny fucker" and contracts HIV or viral hepatitis anyway, I will be the one saying "I TOLD YOU SO."

HIV is a bloodborne pathogen that doesn't care what your sexual orientation is, or what gender you are, or what gender you have adopted. As a virus, its sole objective is to find a new host, and condom-free pornography of any genre is a great way to facilitate that process. Donny Long ought to grow a fucking brain and a pair of fucking balls and just admit that he's a fucking bigot of the highest and most idiotic order.

Washington state ride or die

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 11:19:00 +0000

Those of you who are not addicted to the gossip internets may not be familiar with Katie Price, a sophisticated English lady who became famous posing topless for London's version of the New York Post. She got so famous showing her tits–sorry, I mean glamour modeling–that she decided to get a new set of modest F cups installed. Then she banged out a bunch of British footballers, starred in approximately 50 British reality shows, and married some boy bander named Peter Andre.

After spitting out some kids with Peter, things went south for the happy couple, and they split up. She has clearly tried to handle her public divorce with all the care and consideration of any celebrity mother of three concerned about making it as easy as possible on her children: by dumping the kids with her ex and heading to Ibiza to slut it up with her new (gay) boy toy.

I'd normally have approximately ZERO interest in this story if it weren't for the shirt her main homo is wearing. I could be mistaken due to the deep cleavage-baring scoop neck on that shirt, but I do believe it says "Washington State Riders."

I have been to Ibiza and I live in Washington state, and you frankly could not have two more incongruous places. I have no idea why this shirt was being peddled in Europe, much less represents something fashionable for Katie Price/Jordan's rebound queen to rock around Ibiza's many soap bubble clubs. This reminds me of the time I was in Belize and some local who had clearly never been off Ambergris Cay to mainland Belize, much less western Massachusetts, rode by on a beat up old Schwinn wearing a Smith College Biology shirt. Somehow I don't have a Smith College Biology shirt, and I graduated from Smith College with a fucking degree in biology, but a dude living in a corrugated metal shanty on an island off the coast of Belize with no paved roads and sporadic running water somehow managed to rock this fashion.

And I'm not even sure what the "Washington State Riders" are, but I'm equally indignant that somehow this shirt is hot in España but not in Washington state. I Googled "Washington State Riders" and found a bunch of stuff about motorcycles, although no group named exactly that. However, I could be wrong, but it looks like there's a horse on that lemon meringue pie of a top he's wearing. How do eurotrash fame whores know about some "riding" club in my home state that neither I or the internets are privy to?

Or maybe, squinting at it a little more, that's actually a picture of a rooster on his shirt. If that's the case, that makes a little more sense. I can understand why the Washington State (Cock) Riders club doesn't have much of an internet presence, being that we're a more discreet bunch of sluts (ha). I certainly believe that should Katie Price/Jordan's man get a model/acting gig in Seattle, he'll likewise join this club with a quickness.

Happy 21st birthday to HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 15:13:00 +0000

An unofficial holiday here at RAZZY.org is the birthday of my friends HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair. Apart from being acquainted for almost twenty years and being good friends and generally great guys, they were among the pioneering Razzyphiles. They have been avid consumers of useless bullshit since I put a damn Friendster bulletin up about trying out this website thing, which should tell you how long they've been tapping this awesomeness. I was glad that this year, on account of my moving back to the P-N-Dub, I was able to celebrate their special day in person.

In the past, I've always put up a picture of Morrissey since they are both big fans. Once Morrissey'sHair bailed on hanging out with me when I was visiting from New York because Morrissey was in town and he wanted to get up early and prowl places he thought Morrissey might go. However, this year, I feel that in all fairness to HotLawyer's changing tastes, I ought to put up a picture of William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts II to truly wish him a "bawse" birthday. Since Morrissey and the biggest boss I've seen thus far are incongruous to say the least, I am putting up a picture of Chingy! celebrating in his own way.

Yesterday morning I woke up and staggered blearily out of HotLawyer's suite at the W. My eye makeup was smeared, I was wearing a sparkly halter top with no bra and my nipples were definitely taking notice of the chilly morning, and I wasn't sure exactly where in downtown Seattle I was. I looked particularly classy doing my ho stroll walk of shame past all the wholesome people having Sunday breakfast and dressed in their church-type finery. As soon as I managed to hail a cab and get back home, I kicked off my shoes and went to change into something more pajama-like prior to walking the dogs. Chingy! took the opportunity to turn my uncomfortable, cheap, internet skank shoes into a pillow–or, more accurately, a jowl rest, which I'm pretty sure is his way of saying "CHONGAY CHONG, HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair!"

Anyway, although their birthday was actually yesterday, I wanted to once again acknowledge their unwavering Razzyphilia, commend them on their taste and sophistication, and thank them for their contributions in terms of enthusiasm and pro bono legal services. I heart you guys! BAWSE.

Coozin' for a bruisin'

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 15:43:00 +0000

The other night I was banging one of my honeys and as always had a grand old time...until the next day, when I went to get in the shower and realized that I looked like I'd been beat down. I have bruises on both arms, my left tit, my right thigh, my left ass cheek, and my left hip, which are not my favorite reminders of a torrid night of passion. This is surprising, because I do not recall sustaining these injuries, and I wasn't even that drunk.

Mystery sex bruises have bedeviled me since I started boning dudes. Thanks to my Scandinavian-Irish heritage, I bruise easily, and there have been times when I've woke up and wondered why I look like a domestic violence PSA. I can never figure out why sometimes I emerge without a scratch, and other times I look like a UFC fighter after a bad night in the Octagon. Granted, I like it rough, and I grow bored if not given a healthy measure of spanking and hair pulling, but I've been satisfied in that manner many times without developing hematomas. I didn't think I got such a dose of the roughness the other night as to warrant looking like I just showed up at the YWCA asking for a bed and a new identity.

My current hypothesis about how this occurred concerns the fact that the dude is what I call a baker. There are some common guy bedroom archetypes that I call the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. A butcher is a dude who likes to dick-slap your ass like he's tenderizing a roast, a candlestick maker is a dude who likes to jerk off in front of you, and a baker is a dude who likes to grab your tits and/or ass hard like he's kneading bread dough. This guy was a baker, which explains the T and A marks. However, I still can't figure out how a week ago, this guy knocked this thang out without leaving a single blemish, and how today, he made me look like I'm trying to imitate J-Lo in Enough. The timing is further terrible, because tomorrow is my friends and Razzyphile Black card holders HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair's birthday party, and they're both big fans of breasts, and I was planning to honor their natal day by dressing accordingly. That's not going to work with big black-and-blue thumbprint marks on my cans. Damn you, mystery sex bruises!

Big ass LOL

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 16:12:00 +0000

The other day when Faheem "T-Pain" Najm posted photographs of his unique new diamond jewelry on his Facebook, he obviously neglected to upload the most hilarious shot of them all.

Yes, you're seeing that right. That's Taylor Swift, the Lolita of crossover pop country music, rocking the urban camo to seem more convincingly thugged out and aiming to steal Vanessa Hudgens's Ecko Red spokesmodel job. Taylor probably spent hours practicing her Ice Cube scowl in the mirror just so she could take her Kevin Federline game to the next level in this photo shoot. Apparently she and Teddy Pinnedherassdown are collaborating (cut to my friend HotLawyer exploding with excitement), which means that the world's burning curiosity to hear Taylor Swift sing through an autotuner will finally be satiated. FINALLY.

Seriously, I don't know who thought this was a good idea. I definitely blame this on the Henny.

The Naomi-Wolf-Is-Smart Myth

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 05:40:00 +0000

I guess the editors at Harper's Bazaar decided to smarten up a cover full of pronouncements about summer's sexiest dresses and looking chic at any price by getting Naomi Wolf to write the latest installment in the canon of Angelina Jolie worship. Naomi Wolf raving about the Baby Collector's beauty in a fashion magazine is particularly awesome, considering Naomi Wolf made her name trashing the fashion and beauty industry for being a tool of the patriarchal hegemony meant to keep us ladies too busy being insecure.

In case you actually had some sort of life and desire for fun and not a bunch of feminist grousing in 1990, you may have missed Naomi Wolf's book The Beauty Myth. This book became notorious for heralding the birth of third-wave feminism, which is basically the idea that feminists need to start being really intellectually condescending about the same bullshit feminists have always been super bitchy about. All the women's studies types thought this was great except that hot bitch Camille Paglia, who started a beef because she thought (correctly) that The Beauty Myth made feminists seem really annoying and stupid due to the fact that Naomi Wolf is both. Naomi Wolf spends most of the book blabbing on about how our concept of beauty is all a giant patriarchal conspiracy designed to keep women in place and punish them for breaking free from male domination. Currently, I think Naomi Wolf needs to lighten the fuck up, but then again I may just be bitter that back in the day, her ideas and intellectual influence were largely responsible for THIS lamentable fashion misstep (and many, MANY like it):

Think of how many skanky titty shirts I could have purchased with the stacks I was dropping for ill-fitting fleece and bulky wool Cosby sweaters at Eddie Bauer and REI! Be assured that I was wearing a pair of dark brown suede Birkenstock clogs and a pair of Woolrich socks on my feet, to top off this ill-fitting and shapeless ensemble. Subverting the patriarchy Naomi Wolf-style is not a pretty sight and it barely got me laid. Thanks a lot, Naomi Wolf. Team Paglia.

Anyway, now I have another reason to hate Naomi Wolf besides her indirect effect on my regrettable style choices in high school. She wrote this article for a fashion and beauty magazine about how stupid, obnoxious Angelina Jolie is the perfect woman, "bosomy and wasp-waisted, with that curtain of hair and those crazy pillowy lips, she is an obvious male sex fantasy." Naomi Wolf goes on to gush that through deft PR, image management, and Brad Pitt-fucking, Angelina has transcended the banality of being a mere mortal to achieve the status of female archetype. She also manages to work in an insinuation that the patriarchy killed Princess Di and that Angelina Jolie has become the dominant female "ego ideal." The entire article is one lengthy, excessively devoted fan letter bearing the nauseating title "Why Women Want Angelina Jolie's Life."

If Naomi Wolf could pull her clueless academic head out of her own ass, she might take note that I do NOT want Angelina Jolie's life, and I bet there are a lot of other women who don't either. Brad Pitt seems like an asshole with stupid tattoos, and I would hate all those kids running around. Not to mention that with all the media whoring Angelina so graciously includes her children in those brats are going to grow up to be absolute monsters. In approximately eight years, TRUST that Maddox Jolie-Pitt is going to be the Paris Hilton for the next generation: attention-seeking, disgustingly overindulged, and one of the most loathsome individuals on earth. No fucking thank you to being legally and morally responsible for unleashing that upon the Hollywood club scene and the world.

Even moreso than a brood of spoiled tyrants, I do not want a life where I'm constantly reminding everyone what a big hypocrite I am. I wouldn't want to bring a swarm of photographers to document me getting off a private jet to "help" starving refugees in Chad by merely standing in their presence and posing. I also wouldn't want to run around giving impassioned speeches against poverty and chastising everyone else in the world for not doing their part, and then go with my common-law dickbag movie star boyfriend to drop half a million dollars on a gold couch. In fairness, Angelina is more visible than me and can thus raise more awareness about important issues like poverty and civil upheaval in Chad and Sudan. I'd just like to know how much of that raised awareness has fixed things in Darfur. Angelina Jolie pretends to do shit when in reality she just promotes herself and her haughty-ass persona. Sorry, but I'd rather actually do shit and back up my haughtiness with substance rather than duplicitous media skankery.

Then again, I can see why Naomi Wolf appreciates Angelina Jolie's self-promoting fakery, since she's been using the same scam for years to get the academic types to think she's not an intellectual lightweight. She makes her name declaring that fashion, beauty, and the cult of female celebrity are forms of patriarchal subjugation, and then twenty years later she writes in a fashion magazine about how a female celebrity's beauty has entranced modern women everywhere, most certainly including herself. Naomi Wolf's scholarly credentials involve specializing in wrapping the same overbearing, tired whining about the patriarchy in a thin veneer of hypocritical bullshit and selling it to people stupider than her (like me aged 15). Feminism deserves better than this vapid slag telling us that Angelina Jolie is the best thing to happen to women since vibrators were invented. STFU, Naomi Wolf!

Rock of NEXT

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 01:44:00 +0000

There has yet to be an iteration of any exploitive trashtastic reality shitshow at Vh1 called "_____ of Love" that I won't watch. In fact, I'll watch any show involving the word "love" produced by Mark Cronin and Cris Abrego Vh1 cares to air. "Flavor of Love," "Rock of Love," "I Love New York," "Real Chance of Love," "For the Love of Ray J," and of course "I Love Money": I will watch them all. Trust that there's more than one episode of "Daisy of Love" saved on my DVR.

Of these shows, I have had a major love-hate affair with "Rock of Love." I LOVED season one, yawned through season two until finally giving up out of boredom, and started paying attention halfway through season three when I realized they'd abandoned all pretense of Bret Michaels finding love and made no effort to disguise casting a posse of utterly shameless, drunken sluts with careers in the adult film, "glamour modeling," webcam whoring, prostitution, and stripping industries. However, I'm a little sick of Bret Michaels. I'm totally over listening to him whine about his damn diabetes and laud the (WORST TEAM IN THE NFL EVER HATE HATE HATE) Steelers. I wouldn't mind if they traded him in for a newer model of washed-up rock star. Give Nikki Sixx or Richie Sambora a season on the casino tour circuit with a busload of skank-ass hoes because I'm so sick of hearing "don't need NO-THIN...but a GOOD TIME..."

Apparently all the theater queens on Broadway thought so too, because as Bret sang that very song at the (*snicker*) Tony Awards this past weekend, some sort of stage prop "accident" nearly ripped his cheap-ass HairDO by Jessica Simpson QVC clearance bin tracks out from under his bandana.

Bret should take heed the signs and at least take a leave of absence. He should pass the torch before he is too overexposed to keep booking shows at the Emerald Queen casino–AKA "the entertainment capital of the Northwest"–in my charming hometown of Puyallup. Seriously, hang up the decorative cowboy hats and give some other has-been a chance to share pubic lice with the tattoos-and-fishnets set.

Who has the biggest chain I've seen thus far?

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Mon, 08 Jun 2009 14:06:00 +0000

I'm friends with Faheem "T-Pain" Najm on Facebook, and he's probably one of my favorite Facebook friends. He updates his status all the time, and it's usually something hilarious. It's also nice to know that T-Pain can descend from the lofty peaks of the Tallahassee McMansion where he spends the days sipping Nuvo and Patron to dick around on Facebook when he's bored like the rest of us little people (ie: accompanying a link to the Adult Swim website with the commentary "full episode of aqua teen hunger force. fuck i am good.") Because of this I know all sorts of information about T-Pain, including that he named his most recent child Kaydnz Kodah (!) and he and his wife like to have orgies with strippers in Costa Rica. I'm not even kidding.

T-Pain also likes to post photos frequently, especially of the many custom products he commissions. Teddy Pinnedherassdown is a man of refined tastes, and he likes to bless the Facebook masses with visual evidence that he's a little more sophisticated than your average rappa ternt sanga. For example, this lovely and touching tribute to his late dear friend, the recently departed Roderick "Dolla" Burton II.

After all, anyone can send flowers or sympathy cards or make a charitable donation, but there's really not more of a sentimental memorial than airbrushing your one-hit wonder collaborator's image on the hood of your vintage Chevelle. Tallahassee Pain is nothing but class. He makes the Queen of England look like a stinking derelict begging for change on a freeway offramp in comparison.

Anyway, today I was pleased to see that T-Pain continues to set the standard for elegance with a recent piece of diamond jewelry he obviously made to dazzle the other social elites he clearly rubs elbows with on the regular. I knew something was going to be good when my news feed alerted me that T-Pain had prefaced a new photo on his wall with the declaration, "I told everybody I'm not playing no more anybody wanna try to out do me then we goin at it like next door neighbors. Believe dat." I believed dat, and immediately looked at the picture and was nearly blinded with the intensity of this ice. Seriously, get a sweater, because the man and his Louis Vuitton purses (see background in second picture) are more frozen than Antarctica:

Dayum, shawty snappin! All I want to know is whether or not this is causing any drama in T-Pain's relationship with pretend cocaine kingpin/former correctional officer William Leonard "Rick Ross" Roberts II, AKA the self-proclaimed biggest boss I've seen thus far. Previously, Rick Ross has prided himself on wearing the largest, most ridonkulous chains in the entire Sunshine State. Rick Ross is so serious about his extremely large jewelry that he was deeply insulted when one of his baby mamas and Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson accused him of renting his signature giant self-portrait yellow diamond pendant. However, his sometime collaborator, purported friend, and fellow Floridian T-Pain has clearly challenged him when making Facebook wall statements like "DUDES AND GIRLS I JUST WANNA GIVE A QUICK PREVIEW OF THE LAST CHAIN ULL EVER LIKE. IM SHUTTIN IT DOWN."

Them's fightin' words. I think the next logical course is for Rick Ross to pick up the "Big Ass Chain"-shaped gauntlet T-Pain has thrown and get something so large and absurd that he walks hunched over when he wears it. That would be quite the achievement, since Rick Ross is a pretty big fella with a great deal of heavy chain-rocking experience, and probably has the neck weightbearing capabilities of an Oregon Trail cart ox. Break out the candy-colored rocks and let's take this battle to the next level!

Read the Bible: Jesus was very pro-whore

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 14:39:00 +0000

Yesterday HotLawyer sent me a link to a local news story from the intellectual backwater and hallowed site of white supremacist history known as Whidbey Island. Of course, megachurch evangelical Christianity has seduced many of Whidbey's native yokels, and not much goes on there, so the hard-hitting journalists over at the Whidbey News-Times decided to write a story showcasing exactly what a bunch of lameasses these people are.

Never been kissed: Bride-to-be waits for her wedding day

When Todd Ritter is told to kiss the bride at the altar this July in front of 277 of their closest friends and family, people will understand if it’s a little clumsy.

It will be the couple’s very first kiss.

“I’m wondering, will I be a good kisser? Do I know what I’m doing? I’m nervous, but excited,” says Rachel Welch, 21, who is marrying 23-year-old Ritter in Oak Harbor.

The couple instated a “no-kissing” policy, to keep things from getting out of hand before marriage. Welch decided at age 14 to save kissing for someone special, and hoped that her first lip-lock would shortly follow “I do.”

Personally, I think this kind of bullshit is actually very anti-Christian. If you read the Gospels, you'll notice that Jesus is kissing all over everyone on the regular. He kisses babies, lepers, homeless dudes, and whores, and doesn't think twice about it. The skankiest prostitutes in all of Galilee were JC's roll dogs, and one would think that such a devout couple of youth ministers would have at least considered that before instituting such a rigid policy. Especially since, judging by their chattiness regarding their Eskimo kissing, chaperone policies, and foot massaging, they apparently have no problem being media whores. They even gave the Whidbey News-Times a frightening, look-we're-scary-super-Christians picture in which you can practically hear them condemning evolution and elaborating on how gay marriage and anyone who helps it become legal is going to burn in eternal damnation.

And since I have been kissed before–on numerous parts of my body and usually as a prelude to getting my sinful nonmarital fuck on–let me explain to Rachel and Todd exactly how lame their marriage is going to be thanks to their policy of extreme abstinence. Since neither of them have any idea what they are doing and are probably taking pointers from the Michael W. Smith "I Will Be Here for You" video, their first heavy makeout sesh is going to be nothing short of disgusting. Todd looks like one of those guys who thinks that hot tongue kissing involves licking and slobbering all over every part of your face except your mouth, so I hope Rachel enjoys a good spit shine. And as far as Rachel is concerned, if Todd thinks that once he's made an honest uptight prude out of her it's going to be all hot legit Christian sex, he's gravely mistaken. Bitches don't go from Eskimo kisses and love letters to blowjobs and anal overnight, and Rachel strikes me as the type who won't put out on her wedding night. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if both of them are so abysmally bad at sex that they wind up doing it as infrequently as possible. After all, who even needs a sex life when you have the rapture to look forward to?

This is why I always fuck on the first date. I'm not going to invest my time and emotion in someone without giving them a test drive and making sure they are competent at turning me out. As a result of this policy, if I ever do get married, please believe that my future spouse will be a tiger in the sack and will likewise benefit from my extensive experience in this area. I also take umbrage with Todd's assertion that Rachel's no-kissing purity vow is an indicator of her "awesome" self-respect, thus implying that sleeping around means I don't respect myself. I have an awesome amount of respect for myself (you can't fancy yourself the most awesome human being on earth EVER without having a healthy amount of self-esteem), and I can't think of any better way to demonstrate that than by giving myself the gift of plenty of varied hot ass. I think it's actually disrespectful to yourself and your partner not to be the best lay you can be, especially if you're about to take vows promising to never hit the sheets with anyone else ever again. It's a sacred duty to your future spouse to get out there and practice on as much strange as possible before you limit genital privileges to just one person. Then again, since neither Todd nor Rachel have any basis for comparison, maybe they won't even know what they are missing when they are rutting clumsily away at one another with the lights off and their shirts on. Ignorance is bliss for the abstinent purity ring set, I guess.

Boo-cock-ay

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 14:51:00 +0000

Yesterday I was at work being awesome when I checked my Gmail and saw that LL Cool Jew had an urgent matter for my attention.

LL Cool Jew: did you get my text?
Razzy: no my phone's been off all morning!
Razzy: meetings, viruses, etc.
Razzy: let me check
LL Cool Jew: k thanks

I checked my phone to see the following text message from LL Cool Jew: "What is bukkake and how do you pronounce?"

Razzy: lol
Razzy: bukkake is pronounced "boo-cock-ee"
Razzy: or "boo-cock-ay"
Razzy: which is probably the more correct japanese pronunciation
LL Cool Jew: k
Razzy: it is the specific genre of porn--or the act in general--of ejaculating all over a girl
LL Cool Jew: k that makes sense
Razzy: in classic bukkake, it's usually multiple men acting as the bukkake-ers
Razzy: but sometimes it's misused to just describe a garden variety facial from one dude although that isn't really "bukkake" if you want to be a purist about it
Razzy: of course this all originated in japan
Razzy: why, did bigbagel ask if you'd be into it or something?
Razzy: and ps--it's fucking typical that I know all this minutiae about the true definition of bukkake
LL Cool Jew: i knew you would be the right person to ask

As it turns out, LL Cool Jew has not decided to spice up her marriage by inclusion of bukkake. She noticed mention of bukkake in the context of some snarky jokes on Dlisted and got curious. However, she wisely recognized that whatever bukkake was, it was probably best not to have a search for its Wikipedia page turn up on her work computer browser history. So she went to the next best thing to the "perv" section of Wikipedia: yours truly. JerseyGirl must have told her what an informative resource I was when I explained to her how ass to mouth differs from a conventional rim job.

This is not to say that I have ever been bukkaked. I wouldn't rule it out, because I've been known to do stuff that's not even particularly appealing to me just to tell the story later, but I don't really see the appeal, in spite of my pronounced semen fetish. I mean, I like dudes to get creative when blowing their loads and I am a champion swallower, but I also like to get off in the course of eliciting said climax. In fact, I insist upon it. Squatting uncomfortably and watching a host of dudes jerk is not going to make me have an orgasm, so I'll pass on taking a ride on the bukkake express.

I'm not really sure how I'd find myself in a situation where there were multiple dudes with whom I'd even consider the prospect. I know plenty of horny dudes, but I can't imagine calling them up and saying something like, "So, I've been interested in getting bukkaked...got plans this Friday night?" Nor can I even imagine getting wasted with a bunch of dudes and somehow thinking that would be a great afterparty. The closest I've ever come to that was one time when a dude I was banging came over with his best friend, and said best friend asked if I'd be willing to let the run a train on me. I declined immediately (although not because I'm a prude who would never consider taking two guys in immediate succession but because the best friend was fat). Since I've not had a similar offer since, I can't imagine this scenario is going to be frequent enough to consider going the extra mile and getting bukkaked instead of gangbanged. I also would never in a million years find a bukkake crew from Craigslist, because I can only imagine the types of winners trolling that shitshow for random people to jizz on. That's not an option due to sheer public health considerations alone.

I am now curious to know if bukkake ever occurs outside of porn or other branches of the sex industry. I'm sure there are people who have bukkake parties out there, but is this something that's even remotely common? Please leave any information you might have on the topic on the comment pages. Inquiring perverts would like to know.

Will the real Slim Shady please sit the fuck down?

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 14:13:00 +0000

Last night the MTV Movie Awards were on, and it was basically a big snorefest, except for this choice moment:

Having Sacha Baron Cohen's junk in my face would be a sublime experience. He's swarthy, hot, and hilarious, plus he's like 10 feet tall so I'd wager he's packing. Should SBC–as himself, Brüno, or anyone else–ever descend from above like a flamboyant, ridiculous angel, my response would be similar to Eminem's "Are you fuckin' serious?" However, my response would NOT be in the vein of the humorless crybaby attitude exhibited by Mr. Mathers. I would be shocked at being in such great luck as to be blessed with a live closeup of SBC's business end, not demonstrating that I'm the asshole who can't take a joke.

Eminem is really one to get pissed off about this, considering that his signature videos mock many of his colleagues in the entertainment industry. Speaking from experience, if you dish it out, you'd better learn to take it because you will get it. He should have learned this in 2002 when he stormed out of the VMA's because Triumph the Insult Comic Dog ragged on him. Eminem's apparent steadfast inability to accept a little criticism continues to support my suspicions about his diminutive penis size. Also supporting my Eminem small weiner theory is his knee-jerk homophobia, and I do mean PHOBIA, since the mere proximity of Brüno's crotch sent him running from the theater.

As he's trying desperately to claw his way back from obese complacency to cultural relevance, he should be glad for the association with a hot movie that's about to drop and will most likely be very successful. Hell, considering the state of his career's stagnation, he should be glad he even got an invitation to the MTV Movie Awards, whether his seat came with surprise SBC ass or not. Being on the radio for the first time in four years with that forgettable "Crack a Bottle" song does not restore the kind of celebrity gravitas excusing being a whiny, insecure bitch who can't take a joke. Can Eminem's comeback just fail and send him back to Detroit to verbally abuse his immediate family members, get fat again, and generally drink a tall glass of bitch, shut your trap? Because his very presence just reminds me of how over him current popular culture ought to be. Please, Eminem, make like your song and LOSE YOURSELF...in obscurity.

What happens to a dream deferred?

noreply@blogger.com (Razzy) — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 04:59:00 +0000

I don't know if Chingy! knows the answer to that, but he certainly knows a thing or two about what a raisin in the sun looks like.

CHONGAY CHONG, Langston Hughes!