RazzyBlog

Fuck your moms

2009-12-16T21:18:00.006-05:00

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

2009-11-29T16:48:00.002-05:00

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)

2009-11-22T20:22:00.006-05:00

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

2009-11-22T19:42:00.002-05:00

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

2009-09-11T10:14:00.004-05:00

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

2009-07-29T05:48:00.000-05:00

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

2009-07-28T10:34:00.003-05:00

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

2009-07-28T09:42:00.006-05:00

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

2009-07-15T07:19:00.002-05:00

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

2009-07-06T10:34:00.003-05:00

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!

2009-06-25T10:22:00.003-05:00

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

2009-06-23T06:19:00.000-05:00

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

2009-06-22T10:13:00.003-05:00

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'

2009-06-19T10:43:00.003-05:00

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

2009-06-11T11:12:00.006-05:00

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

2009-06-09T00:40:00.005-05:00

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

2009-06-08T20:44:00.005-05:00

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?

2009-06-08T09:06:00.007-05:00

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

2009-06-04T09:39:00.006-05:00

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

2009-06-02T09:51:00.006-05:00

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?

2009-06-01T09:13:00.007-05:00

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?

2009-05-31T23:59:00.002-05:00

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!

Look at this fucking Seattle asshole

2009-05-28T06:55:00.001-05:00

This past weekend, my roll dog TAFKAMA persuaded me to attend the Northwest Folklife festival. Well, actually, TAFKAMA's girlfriend persuaded me, because TAFKAMA was almost as unenthused about the prospect as myself. The last time I went to Folklife (in 1997), it was pouring rain and the marijuana enthusiasts I was cavorting with insisted that we take shelter in this gigantic lean-to built of random tarps, garbage bags, and 2x4s stuck haphazardly into the muddy grass. I was surrounded by unbathed assholes in homemade clothes made of wet, moldy-smelling hemp trying to spread their scabies and mooch from my stash. It was like being in a sauna scented with patchouli, compost, and B.O., complete with a drum circle and stupid bitches on too many hallucinogens trying to dance. To make matters worse, my cousin dropped acid, and was apparently tripping balls when the structural integrity of this refugee camp for people who don't bathe or shave their armpits by choice began to collapse. One of the supports came loose in the mud, striking my cousin in the head and inspiring a proufoundly disturbing freakout on my cousin's part. I spent the rest of the night trying to keep him from getting arrested and/or sent to the hospital. I did not like Folklife then, and I didn't suppose that I'd like it now.

For those of you unfamiliar with Seattle's busy municipal festival schedule, Folklife is a big clusterfuck of crafts, fair foods, performance art, and music held on Memorial Day weekend at the Seattle Center. There's a bunch of free music shows, an Elephant ear stand, plenty of skateboarding and hacky sacking, and ample space for every random hippie craft peddler in the Northwest to hawk the ugliest sea glass jewelry and pewter salmon-shaped belt buckles money can buy. Basically, this event is a bug light for people that I inherently loathe. However, since I'm a glass half-full type of bitch, I decided to make the best of it and cope in my own way: by making fun of everyone! And since there was no way I could keep track of all the many people to mock by virtue of their great numbers, I brought my camera.

Behold, the multitudes of Seattle and their strange musical instruments, their asinine tattoos, and their unfortunate style choices. The Emerald City at its finest.

Bag pimpin'. Seriously, bagpipes and Scottish bullshit in general is apparently SO HOT right now with the antiestablishment set. It's like everyone watched Highlander, remembered that Sean Connery decapitating bitches is badass, and traded in their anarchy shirts for kilts.

Seattle couture alert! I knew it was only a matter of time before I stumbled across some sexpot capable of combining civil liberty, work freebies, and a bare chest. Who IS this ravishing rogue in the ACLU fleece vest with nothing underneath?! And what better way to exercise one's most basic civil liberty than to ask some passing hottie if you can bum a smoke off her?! Free speech, motherfucker!

And on the Third Day, after Jesus rose from the dead in fulfillment of the scriptures, he hired Artie Lang as a bodyguard and restyled himself as a safari photographer and avid drum circle participant.

"So guys, Ken says we should meet him and Skipper over at the Cha Cha later."

Axl Rose, is that you?

All of the boys and all of the girls are NOT dying to If You Seek THIS DUDE.

Milk may do a body good, but it sure as shit isn't doing anything for this Blossom's-dad/Patrick Duffy hybrid's ugly face.

It was a challenge for me to stay away from these tantalizing specimens. Effeminate Joey Ramone and Firecrotch Paul Westerberg and their gang of merry MMORPG-playing virgins were about 10,000 degrees of sizzling hot sex. I can only assume that they weren't swarmed with every legwarmer-wearing, shaggy-haired slag at the music festival because they burned them with their scorching hotness.

And what have we here? Why, it's one of Seattle's most eligible bachelors looking single and ready to mingle, as he's dressed to impress. This low rent Layne Staley donned his finest fedora, bandit-style neck kerchief, and Iron Maiden muscle shirt, grabbed a latte, and put out the vibe. No word on whether he managed to score.

Apparently today's generation of skater punks are easily bewitched by trick yo-yo-ing. Or maybe the guy on the right is just considering his next career move, since festival roving yo-yo performer is probably one of the good-paying jobs that actually does start after he gets up.

These guys look like they are either the last remnants of the Manson Family or about to attempt to sell me cunt and whiskey at the Gem Saloon in Deadwood. And please believe that whichever comparison is more apt, their band still sucked extraordinarily.

Here I captured a quiet, reflective moment in which this young, wallet chain-bearing man and his black widow forearm tat discreetly pour a PBR (of COURSE) into a Steamers soda cup. He stares off into the distance as he ponders who he will bum his next cigarette from.

This fat Fred Durst-looking dude came by with his busted Andy Samberg-looking friend and actually asked me to take his picture. Well, he made a comment about me taking pictures of the crowd, I asked if he'd like his picture taken, and he answered in the affirmative. He was like "Make sure you e-mail that to fatfreddurstlookingdudeorwhatevs@google.com." I responded, "Actually, just go to my website. I'm reporting on this event for RAZZY.org. That's R-A-Z-Z-Y dot ORG! Check it, Big Guy!"

"Dude, as long as you're up, can you get me some curly fries? I'm busy practicing my I'm-in-denial-that-I-should-buy-tank-tops-at-Lane-Bryant squat. And texting."

TAFKAMA managed to find a pair of sunglasses even stupider and with more tines than the ones he was wearing. He indicated his excitement by rapidly pumping his fists. The forks actually work on him.

I can't think of a less appealing offer than a complimentary hug from this aspiring vagrant/jelly bracelet aficionado. Except maybe what was on the other side of this cardboard placard: "DONATIONS OF CASH AND CIG'S ACCEPTED."

Local artists: because if you roll with the socks-and-Tevas set, you can never have enough pictures of the Cascades or the Columbia River hanging around your yert.

Real men wear shirts covered with a jaunty Scottish terrier pattern when singing atonal renditions of "Blowin' In the Wind" for spare change.

A little bit grungy, a little bit metrosexual. Seriously, are those punk hipster man-pris that he's wearing? God, no wonder the best asymmetrically-coiffed pussy he could get has such an extreme FUPA that for a second I thought she might have a little retro style-mixing, hygiene-eschewing bun in the oven.

Whatever this grouchy chick in the green is bitching about, I probably agree with her, since I can't imagine she's hating on anything besides her friend's poor hairstyle choices. I can practically smell that unwashed cat-scratching post lounging across from her radiating a foul vapor of fermenting armpit sweat and rancid nag champa from through my computer screen.

This lady right here is a common variety of Seattle craftswoman. She probably drives an Outback or a CRV, she always eats weird shit like sunflower seed butter and muesli and yak yogurt for lunch, and she has a REI platinum card, which she probably used to buy an REI fanny pack. She likes to camp, hike, recycle, and wear unattractive cowboy hats. She actually buys and listens to CDs of Andean flute players. She's got a closet full of ponchos and you know that homegirl rocks denim jackets with corduroy collars in the fall. She lives on a farm in Issaquah and likely owns horses. If you look in the mirror behind her, you can see me, and my expression pretty much says it all.

Behold, the genesis of a Craigslist "missed connection."

"ZOMG, I can't believe that guy is wearing a HOLLISTER shirt! Who wears Hollister shirts? They're like so unoriginal, not at all like the Vuarnet shades and terrorist scarf I'm rocking. What a total conformist follower."

This guy's grave expression lets the world know that he wants to be taken extremely seriously.

Miley Cyrus hearts recycling.

Jamie-Lynn Spears, what are you doing here?!

I was unaware that the band Insane Clown Posse was still around and had actively practicing fans. In fact, I had forgotten about Insane Clown Posse's very existence. When pressed, I vaguely remember that they made shiteous rap metal and used to hose each other down homoerotically with bottles of some weird Detroit-specific brand of soda. However, the ICP faithful–which the internets inform me are called "juggaloes" on account of their clown-themed tomfoolery and their attempt to associate themselves with male prostitutes–were out in full makeup and regalia at Folklife.

I'd be hard-pressed to come up with anything that screams "I AM A HUGE LOSER" more resoundingly than being a rabid, publicly out Juggalo. I can't fathom why anyone would embrace a culture based on shitty music, clown makeup, hatchets, fat people, and being stuck in 1998. These guys make World of Warcraft-playing shut-ins look like the world's most eligible bachelors in comparison. I could probably beat up these bitch-asses. FAIL.

In spite of what these ladies' shirts profess, it would really be more accurate to say they are "Keeping It Round." I am sad I didn't get a chance to see these gals' square dancing skills in action, because I always love me a large elephant stampede.

Ah, the innocence of girlhood! Nothing warms my heart more than seeing a young lass as refined as this. I nostalgically hearken back to my own days as a dewy-eyed maiden of ten or eleven, when I'd put on my favorite marijuana leaf-kerchief and go essential oil and dried herb shopping. Alas, if only I were a child again!

I'm calling it now: these people are from Puyallup, and came up to Seattle for this. If not from Puyallup, they are from somewhere nearby, like Graham, Spanaway, Pacific, Fife, Orting, or maybe Auburn or Kent. They're talking about how great it is to travel to the BIG CITY for this faincy outside-type party, even if Slipknot isn't playing.

And yep, she's definitely from down south. That's a meth country tramp stamp if I've ever seen one. Please believe I'll probably see this bitch at the Roadhouse one of these days.

When Robert Sylvester Kelly announced at the beginning of the song "Hotel" that "we in our throwbacks" in the hopes that the ladies would get the hint that "we got room keys," this was probably not the image he was trying to evoke.

Here's another entry into the "Most Stomach Churning Outfit" contest. I can only hope that Laura Ingalls Wilder is suggesting to Muffin Top that playing a stick with a long string on it is a great workout.

What's most frightening about the Brangelina of Folklife is that he's pushing a stroller. Apparently, they have reproduced. God help us all.

Every time a shitty improv jam band plays, a moronic skank in Rainbow Brite legwarmers gets her wings.

"I know the Weezer Tribute Band is playing on a stage around here somewhere."

"Dude, know what would be awesome? Let's skate down to Seattle Center and shop for some local salmon and/or thunderbird totem folk art."

Trust a veteran penis aficionado on this: homeskillet's ear-butt plugs are bigger than his dick. So is that American Spirit he's sucking on, for that matter.

When I was in grade school, my music teacher Mrs. Knudsen made us all play the recorder. In particular, she wrote this one shitty recorder song that went along with this Native American myth about the Whale in the Sky. Because I had played piano for five or six years at that point, I was completely unimpressed with her lame four-note interpretation of "Whale in the Sky." Even worse, she made half the class play it, and half the class sing these asinine lyrics she wrote for it, most of which consisted of repeating "WHA-ALE IN THE SKYYYYYYYY." Thanks to that incompetent recorder composer, every time I see someone playing a recorder, I immediately hear that shit in my head. It was like the Lady Gaga of grade school: something that gets in your head and despite your hatred for it, won't get out. Anyway, I saw this dude, and immediately thought, "WHA-ALE IN THE SKYYYYYYYYYYY."

And finally, TAFKAMA demonstrates how we managed to get through. He has these awesome hypercolor cups that make Vitamin R look like perfectly legal, innocuous strawberry lemonade. Said cups were very useful once my vodka ran out.

I think that from now on, when I go to a stupid event in Seattle, I'm going to bring my camera. This city is really like a horn of plenty brimming with people for me to rag on. A veritable scornucopia. Stay tuned, and if you live here, watch out.

This is a threat?

2009-05-26T23:08:00.006-05:00

You'd think that with all the important stories in today's news (new ho shooting to dethrone Ruth Bader Ginsberg as hottest bitch on the Supreme Court, prop 8 sadly stands, economic collapse, etc.), CNN could come up with a better use of their journalistic resources than THIS FUCKING STORY:

I've really had it with bitches who fall for this fucktard's antics. Ashton Kutcher is a snake oil charlatan with no talent save that of being inexplicably tolerable to stupid people. Everything about this motherfucker is despicable, and I don't know why people haven't recognized that since the late 90s or whenever "That '70s Show" was on. I basically hated him from the moment I gazed upon his guffawing, trucker hatted visage. A quick review of his CV reminds me that he came on the scene playing a dumb, lazy, unemployable stoner, then morphed into an annoying pest playing contrived pranks on people. Then he was mistaken for a celebrity anyone cares about by fucking and marrying Demi Moore. Then he became disgustingly overappreciative of his own value, made two years' worth of absolutely terrible films, and obnoxiously embraced Kabbalah. Now he's become my own personal multimedia gadfly, goading me with a deft combination of COOLPIX camera ads and self-aggrandizing pretensions that I should care about how this knuckle-dragger's Twitter habits influence his fickle relationship with his own media whorishness. Big deal: more assholes follow Ashton's Twitter feed than CNN's. He probably has more Facebook friends too. WHO CARES?! Larry King, please explain why you cluttered up your valuable primetime cable news space with this asshole's Twattery. It takes the average person about 30 seconds to not feel sorry for Ashton Kutcher being impaled upon his own proverbial e-sword. I'm losing approximately NO sleep knowing that Ashton worrying that someone might intrude upon and irritate him via the very media conduit he has used to torment the entertainment industry-consuming public for the past decade. Karma's a bitch, and so are you, Kutcher!

Excuse me, but WHAT, BITCH NAMED KATE GOSSELIN?!?!?!?!

2009-05-21T02:51:00.009-05:00

I am a glutton for punishment, and I really couldn't help myself. I went to the gossip internets and read more completely unsubstantiated, totally unreliable, and most likely false bullshit about the entirely loathsome "Jon and Kate Plus 8" family drama. It seems that there isn't much going on with real famous people, because the Gosselin parents are being thoroughly owned for their incompetence at media whorecraft. I could pretend that I'm the level of classy that stops after one glass of Franzia and takes the high road about obviously obnoxious twats, but let's be real about it: my new life goal apart from professional success and landing lots of hot ass is that THE GOSSELINS MUST BE STOPPED. I don't want to see them or hear about them and their gigantic litter of brats any longer, and I'm more than content to see the tides turn against them so severely that they are uniformly hated by the world and thus fade into the obscurity where they belong.

I'm clearly not the only one. The esteemed journalists at Us Weekly are obviously feeling me. The only thing they fail to point out is that she looked like a massive cunt even when she was just "a mom". She looks like the kind of mom who would force you to drink milk, eat raisins, and say unfamiliar Protestant prayers when you went over to hang out with her kids. This one girl I was friends with in sixth grade had a mom who did that, and she looked just like pre-monster Kate Gosselin. I bet if fleeting reality fame/infamy hadn't come her way, Kate Gosselin would have presumptuously overparented other people's children and decorated with God's eyes, framed needlepoint, and gingham-patterned geese just like Mrs. Gesch.

And due to their highly competent reportage, Us Weekly has managed to distill everything I hate about Kate Gosselin into a quick blurb, courtesy of a probably misappropriated quote from an obscure Associated Press features brief published in 2005:

Kate Gosselin said she feels society has a responsibility to help with the children, since modern medicine promotes the use of fertility drugs, which can lead to multiple births.

Kate Gosselin ought to get down on her knees and thank OctoMom's shameless social parasitism for distracting everyone from the fact that she is the true pioneer of egregious, infuriating media gaffes. However, Kate is finally getting the credit she deserves for her equally obnoxious attitude about subverting nature to achieve such a massive brood and then passing the responsibility off on the rest of us, and that's not going to translate into great "Jon and Kate Plus 8" ratings. Much like a predatory lender or American auto executive, it's a bad time to be a money hungry not-actually-that-famous reality star with eight mouths to feed and a broke-ass equally subfamous stump of a man who may or may not be banging some lesbian fifth grade teacher on the side. Probably because HOW *DARE* YOU BLAME SOCIETY FOR YOUR OWN VAIN BABY-OBSESSED CRAZY BITCH PSYCHOSIS THAT MY TAX DOLLARS SUBSIDIZE YOU FUCKING STUPID UGLY SELF-RIGHTEOUS TROLLOP-ASS CYPRESS MOSS-ESQUE-LABIA-HAVING PROSTITUTE!!!!

I would like to go around telling everyone that society has an obligation to support me because it encourages me to rule their faces off, but for reasons of not seeming like a delusional lunatic, I refrain from doing so. The vast majority of the society that supposedly encouraged Kate to take fertility drugs certainly won't embrace an annoying, shrewish, totally unendearing frigid nagfest pompously informing them that they need to pick up the tab for her own manifest selfishness. As someone who works in the field of "modern medicine" and an avowed child hater, I assuredly did not encourage Kate Gosselin or anyone else to take fertility drugs, and I strongly resent the implication that this bitch did so at my behest rather than her own arrogant desire to overbreed. And her suggestion that somehow I need to shoulder the burden of her own bad decisions makes me want to kill a bitch.

Kate's about to learn the hard way that it doesn't pay to be a mega cunt (literally and figuratively) with a detestable reproductive history and a fucking HORRIBLE Rosie O'Donnell circa 2002-meets-rabid Old Yeller's raised hackles haircut. People are going to quit that bitch and her show's going to get canceled, and she can go back to firing nannies and emasculating her husband without having a television audience to detest her. As far as I'm concerned, that joyous moment can't come soon enough. Down with the Gosselins!