You are currently browsing the archives for October, 2007

Halloween and Nipples Go Together Like Ramma Lamma Lamma Ka Dinga Da Dinga Dong

This Halloween, Bai Ling has decided to go as…

…a Topless Cowgirl-slash-Art History doctoral candidate of the Old Masturbators. Er, I mean, the Old Masters.


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A Shot At Sophisticasian

“Hey y’all. I’ve been reading DISGRASIAN, and I can see that you guys don’t really think I’m legit. But I am legit. I swear to god. I swear! Augh!

To prove that I’m more than just hair extensions and tits, I’ve decided to give myself a sophisticated makeover. I’ve got cloth over my nipples. And Check out my “Posh” bob! And look–I’m wearing a denim jumper that reminds me of that ugly thing Cameron Diaz wore a few months ago! Ooh ooh ooh, and these are 100% Authentic Jessica Simpson-brand shoes, y’all.

I’m still pretty, right? You still want to look at me, right? Don’t you? Hey. Hey! Take my ass seriously. …See my ass? See it?”


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We’re basically suckers for any project fronted by two rocking Asian females that don’t hesitate to use the word “fuck.” I suppose that’s why we like DISGRASIAN so much.

It may also explain why we’re fascinated by Washington, D.C. indie quintet Exit Clov, which features two teensy Asian frontwomen that have clearly funneled their young years of piano and violin lessons into something a little more, y’know, “D.C.” Exit Clov’s dreamy ditties prove as furiously dreary as those from Toronto outfit The Metric, but as painfully cute as songs sung by LA’s Ditty Bops–all with a little something extra. Call it cooperasian.

Check out some tunes on their MySpace page here.


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When Worlds Collide: Desperate Mogulwives

“Nanking,” a movie that tells the story of the 1937 Rape of Nanking, which Variety describes as a mix of “archive footage and readings by thesps such as Woody Harrelson, Stephen [Huh?] Dorff, Juergen Prochnow and Mariel Hemingway” screened on Monday in New York. “Nanking” is set to open on December 12.

Ivanka Trump and Wendi Dung Murdoch were both in attendance at the screening. Let’s listen in on their conversasian:

WENDI: OMG, Ivanka! What are you doing here?

IVANKA: Well, Wendi, what a lot of people don’t realize is that I am smart, I am my own person, I have an MBA from Wharton, and I really really care about your people. And sometimes, I like to keep my store-bought tits under wraps.

WENDI: Cool. Love your Kelly Bag!

IVANKA: Thanks!

WENDI: Awesome. Where’s your father tonight?

IVANKA: He’s shooting The Apprentice: Celebutard Edition. And trying to keep his comb-over in place. Where’s your grandfather?

WENDI: I don’t know what you mean.

IVANKA: That ancient guy that you’re always with. Y’know, he kinda looks like a mummy? And he’s even richer than my dad, which is key-crazy. Not that I care about my dad’s money, because I am smart, I am my own person, and I have an MBA…

WENDI: Uh, you mean Rupert?

IVANKA: Yeah, totally.

WENDI: He’s my husband.

IVANKA: Oh. Gosh. I always thought, y’know, because he looks about 800 years old…

WENDI: Yeah. I get that a lot.


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Caving In to Shame

The headline that caught my eye while I was slugging espresso trying to revive myself from this morning’s coma was this one: “Student lives in cave after examination shame.” China Daily reports that a college student named Li lived in a cave for 12 days and subsisted on wild fruits and vegetables because, after failing his college exams and failing to graduate, he did not want to go home to face his parents.

The last line of the story tells us that “Li has now returned home.” What it doesn’t tell us is “Li then got his ass beat by his mother and father first for failing his exams, and then for scaring the bejeezus out of his parents for 12 days.”


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Jackie is Ready

The Associated Press reported last week that DISGRASIAN Hall-of-Shamer Jackie Chan has recorded the official one-year countdown song for the Beijing Olympics, entitled, “We Are Ready.”

For those who aren’t fluent in Mandarin*, I’ve taken the liberty of translating the lyrics** for you here:

We are ready
Yes we are ready
For the Olympics in Beijing!

Hope you likey
Ride a bikey
When the ceremonies are in-ringing!

I will be there
With my bad hair
Maybe I will even sing…

But Chris Tucker
Oh that fucker
Won’t understand a thing!

I don’t mind though
We’re all money hoes
We just like to hear ka-ching!

So come to the games
Fine, forget our names
We rikey rice here ting-a-ling!

Or watch the actual song performance here:


*I don’t speak Mandarin either.
**Not actual lyrics

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Congratulasians to the Boston Red Sox on sweeping the World Series! Enjoy your victory parade today; it’s well-deserved. It was an up-and-down season, what with the addition of new players, the Yankees sucking then chasing your tails, and that nail-biter of an ALCS. I, more than anything, am relieved it’s over.

I had the good fortune of attending Game 3 of the World Series in Denver, thanks to our friend Jess and a Rockies fan willing to unload her tickets at a merciful price. I was there from the time the Coors Field gates opened and in a pinch-me daze for the next 8 hours. I am at the World Series, and the Sox are up 2-0. It didn’t seem real.

During batting practice, I hustled my way over to where the pitchers were warming up and got really close.

I took several photos of reliever Mike Timlin, my baseball Jake Ryan, i.e. I want him to be my boyfriend and he doesn’t know I exist. Dice-K was starting that night, so his warm-up routine was pretty much him sticking his juicy badonkadonk out to stretch and then doing some sprints by himself. Hideki Okajima was throwing lightly next to him. I was so close, I could see the whiskers on his chin.

After about a half hour, most of the pitchers dispersed, and Hideki was the only player who stopped to sign autographs. Anticipating this very moment, I had bought a Sharpie outside the stadium for 5 dollars. I had nothing to sign, but I was going to present the sleeve of my shirt. What could be better than Hideki Okajima’s signature on my shirt sleeve?!?

He signed the brats’ kids’ balls first, and then he even got to the grizzled, emphysematic, professional autograph hounds who were probably going to sell that shit on Ebay from their crackberries at the game. This group of skeezy men kept yelling “Okajima! Okajima!” while I stuck out that Sharpie and said in my girly voice, “Hidekiiiiiii! Hidekiiiiii!” And then a hilarious conversation ensued.

SKEEZY OLD MAN #1: His name is Okajima.

ME: Uh-huh.

SKEEZY OLD MAN #2: You’re right. His name is Okajima. Right?

SKEEZY OLD MAN #1: I’m pretty sure his name is Okajima.

ME: His name IS Okajima.

SKEEZY OLD MAN #1: That’s what I’m saying.

ME: Sweet Christ. His first name is Hideki. His last name is Okajima.

SKEEZY OLD MAN #2: Really? His name is…Hideki…and…Okajima? Huh.

SKEEZY OLD MAN #3: Well, I mean, she would know.

Oh right. I would know, because…well, who cared? I was THIS CLOSE to Hideki. He signed a person’s ball to my right. He signed one of the Skeezy Old Men’s World Series tickets. I was definitely next. I extended the Sharpie. Would he think it was weird to sign my shirt? I tried to remember what little Japanese I knew…it did not include the words “Sign my shirt, please.”

And then, at that moment, without a word, Hideki gave the crowd a little wave and…walked away. WHAAAT?

I almost cried. I almost pulled a Marie Osmond and dropped lifeless to the concrete steps. I haven’t wanted an autograph that badly since I chased this poor semi-famous gymnast through a Limited Express in the 8th grade. None of this personal drama really had an impact on the game, which the Sox won 10-5. It was closer than the final score would make it seem, however. The Sox went up 6-0 in the 3rd, but by the time they brought in Okajima in the 7th, it was 6-2 and there were two men on.

Okajima’s first pitch? Slammed for a three-run homer. Suddenly the score was 6-5. And the next night, he gave up a a two-run homer, making it a one-run game again. Things turned out fine in the end, but I can’t help thinking that IF HE HAD SIGNED MY DAMN SHIRT SLEEVE, dare I say, my magic shirt sleeve, things might have worked out better (and, no, Sox faithful, I did not put a curse on him, though I toyed oh-so-briefly with the idea out of shallow bitterness).

In related news, Japan is proud of Dice-K again, after his Game 3 win. Well, sort of.


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Name: Geoff McFetridge

Occupation: Graphic Designer, Director, Artist

Known for:

…his artwork that has graced magazine covers/furniture/posters/clothing (his CalArts thesis project Chinatown won a distinctive merit award from I-D Magazine and pieces from his professional career are included in the SFMOMA permanent collection), his skateboard company Solitary Arts, his design studio Champion Graphics, and his extensive motion graphics/directorial work in commercial and music video.

Half-Chinese McFetridge’s latest lauded project, the music video for Whitest Boy Alive’s “Golden Cage,” just won Best Music Video at this month’s Swerve Festival and continues to receive critical acclaim. The entire thing is a masterpiece of his hand-drawn work, and totally rocks our socks off. Check it out!

Full bio here.

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M.D. Stands for Major Douche

Driving down the 5 Freeway the other week, my friends and I pulled up behind this shiny, new Lexus with vanity plates:

When we got close enough to read the license plate, I was STOKED. A Ninja M.D.? Holy shit. Did that mean the driver was a doctor to Ninjas–who I imagine have special injuries like stab wounds to the spleen that we mere mortals would never survive–or was the driver both a Ninja and a doctor, a scenario that could only be described as a Hardass Asian Parent’s wettest dreamiest wet dream?

I made my friend Matt, who was driving his pimped-out Cadillac, pull up alongside this mystery martial-arts healer. Was he/she in their black-as-night Ninja uniform? Was he/she steering that shiny, new Lexus without touching the wheel? Would he/she be invisible to us civilians?

“Ninja MD” turned out to be a man. He didn’t exactly look like a Ninja. He was Asian and middle-aged and I suspect, rockin’ out to the wicked vocal stylings of Josh Groban. And then it occurred to me that he might just be a doctor, but because he was Asian, he fancied himself a Ninja, too.

Then I just felt depressed.

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Another Shot

One of the folks over at Oh No They Didn’t discovered this casting notice in her box today…

Another season of A Shot At Love With Tila Tequila is coming???

Oh, Tila. You and your homisogynasian pals over at MTV are going to keep DISGRASIAN in business!

We’ll be waiting.

This is the casting couch Source, but if you apply, Jen and I will hunt you down and flog you.

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Diana and I realized this week that we are masochists. What else explains why we subject ourselves to shows like A Shot at Love with Tila Tiqueerla or the CW’s Gossip Girl, which is not unlike gouging away at our eyeballs with thumbtacks?

Truth be told, we’ve been blinding ourselves with Gossip Girl to track the progress of the HARAGOSSIP GIRLS. You know, the Black Chick and the Asian Chick who never talk but always dress identically? Their name, for those of you just checking in with us, pays homage to DISGRASIAN Hall-of-Shamer Gwen Stefani’s Harajuku Girls, the original posse of Asian Chicks who trail their blonde master everywhere, never talk, and always dress identically.

The HaraGossip Girls are no different. They have more handbags than they’ve had lines on the show. But boy, have those bitches looked fierce.

Here they are in the pilot, mutely flanking Chuck, the James Spader-as-Steff-in-Pretty in Pink impersonator:

Then we have them in the second episode, “Wild Brunch,” trailing their owner Blair, aka A Poor Man’s Rachel Bilson:

I just love them as accessories! Oops–Freudian slip–what I meant to say was, I love their accessories! Where can I get me an ostrich bag?

And there was my own personal favorite, “Poison Ivy,” where everyone was trying to brown-nose their way into the Ivies:

And the sleepover episode, “Dare Devil,” where the HaraGossip Girls dared to give each other matching pearls!

Finally, this week, in the ever-so-aptly titled “Handmaiden’s Tale,” the HaraGossip Girls actually had one, two lines maybe–but that was only because they had to do the bidding of their master Blair, by helping Blair’s drippy boyfriend Nate, A Poor Man’s Ian Somerhalder (which is welfare-poor), “find” their owner at the masquerade ball.

“You look hot, betch.”
“No, you look hot, betch.”
“That’s what I said.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Are we the same person?”
“Are we the same person?”
“Stop it!”
“You stop it!”

But not to worry. This week, a new colored girl, Vanessa, was introduced as the old flame of Dan Humphrey, aka The Poor Kid, back suddenly from a year-stint in Vermont… and she talks! Here she is with her ex:

Her outfit suggests “Washington Heights Dominican,” which is wonderful, because now the show has all the colors of the rainbow reprzented. It’s clear after this week’s episode that this saucy Latina really wants Dan back. Does she plan to get between The Poor Kid and his Poor Little Rich Girl Serena Whoser Whatsen?

Hmm. Wait a minute. I’m getting a strong sense of deja vu.

Oh right. The exact same scenario happened in Josh Schwartz’s other pile of caca show The OC, when Ryan’s ex Theresa DIAZ suddenly reappeared in his life, preggers with an abusive boyfriend, whom Ryan saves her from, thus breaking up his improbable but hopelessly romantic Poor Kid/Poor Little Rich Girl relationship with Marissa.

So, to recap. What has DISGRASIAN learned from Gossip Girl thus far in the season? Colored girls are best suited to…shut up and look pretty. And when they don’t–boy, do they fuck things up for everybody.

Source:, aka The Garbage Channel

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Oh Really?

Those asstards at Maxim–y’know, the ones that spend so much time deconstructing how one can get a blow job since they’ve never actually been fellated–recently responded to Esquire‘s annual “Sexiest Woman Alive” announcement with an opposite list: “The Five Unsexiest Women Alive.”

In last place landed Britney Spears (fair enough)–although we take issue with scoffing at Madonna for being nearly menopausal, or Sarah Jessica Parker for having a horsey face, or…

…Our girl, Sandra Oh??? For WHAT?

Maxim elaborates:

WHY SHE’S UNSEXY: The only thing worse than a show about doctors is a show about sappy chick doctors we´re forced to watch or else our girlfriends won´t have sex with us. We´re holding Dr. McSkinny, with her cold bedside manner and boyish figure, personally responsible.

Sure, we’ve been thrown by Oh’s crazy face before, but we think she and her tight bod are hot. The woman is fierce, smart, strong, fascinating, and in our opinion, superduper sexy. So we are ANNOYED, we are mind-boggled, we are PISSED, we are damn riled up about this decision!!!

What kind of Asian lady does Maxim find sexy, anyway?

Um, never mind. We don’t care anymore.


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