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A home video made in September by four cheesedicks at the University of the Free State (we shit you not) on Reitz Island, South Africa surfaced this week depicting five black workers at the school engaged in hazing-type rituals that included eating a stew that one of the cheesedicks had pissed in. The cheesedicks are white, the workers were suckered, and the video was made, according to the AFP, to oppose “an integration policy introduced this year that aims to make black and white students mix more in university hostels.”
Here’s the ten minutes of garbage:
The message at the end of the video says, “That, at the end of the day, is what we think of integration.”
The cheesedicks still at the school (two graduated) have since been barred from campus. We think their punishment should be more extensive, and include being forced to listen to the Chariots of Fire-theme over and over, Guantanamo-style, and eating 3 squares of piss a day.
Filed under: Chariots of Fire, Cheesedicks, Clutching a Cold One, Eating Piss, In the Words of Clay Davis--That is Some Shameful Sheeit, Racial Integration Now and Forever, South Africa, Unfunny Stuff
After watching the painfully unfunny trailer for Mike Myers’s latest character launch, The Love Guru, a myriad of questions swirled through my head.
1. Why would the man who is responsible for some of the most time-tested, money-pooping characters of all movie time:
…waste his time with a character Rob Schneider could have built? Nay, a character Schneider would have turned down. “Sorry guys, too hacky.”
2. And doesn’t being one of the most money-pooping comedy minds of our time grant you the right to cast higher grade talent then the cute girl from box-office snoozer Good Luck, Chuck?
3. Who would I rather lay: Shrek or The Love Guru? Definitely Shrek. Definitely. Mostly because the Guru is DISGRASIAN, but not entirely.
4. Are Mike Myers and I still MySpace friends?
5. I should check the DISGRASIAN MySpace page to see how many new friends we have. Oh wait. That’s not a question.
6. Why do Bollywood spoofs bug me so much?
7. Who would I rather lay: Vladimir Putin or The Love Guru?
8. What’s Jen doing right now?
9. Did Kanye and Hurricane Katrina knock the funny out of Mike? If so, is there some kind of reverse-centrifuge that can bring it back? Kind of like when Superman brings Lois Lane back from her well-deserved death by spinning the world backwards on its axis (by the way, this never made any scientific sense to me, but who cares about science when there’s Kryptonite in a locked chest?)?
10. And lastly, in what has always seemed like a very difficult rhetorical question, who would I rather lay, Justin Timberlake or Bruce Lee?
Well now that I’ve seen them side-by-side, the answer is easy: I’d take Bruce’s golden dropkick over Justin’s Timbersnake any day!
Duuude. I’m so pissed that the Clips let you go. As some people know, you bear an uncanny resemblance to my wai puo and I just, like, love you for that. All of these sports writers are now calling you “injury-prone” and old, which may be true, but shoot, so is grandma, and when it’s time for her to suit up and get her mah-jong game on, she brings it and cleans her friends’ clocks. I know you’re cut from the same cloth. So do the Celtics, apparently, which is a helluva step up from the Clips. Who are now dead to me.
See you in the Eastern Conference finals, Sam-ma!
…Tila Tequila still fancies herself a stripper. And I fancy myself a blogger. SHOCKER.
March 2nd will mark the very important birthdays of Jen’s Dad (who I’ve got on the brain, bought Jen her first car–an import, and is responsible for her being a bad-ass softball slugger at a mere 40 lbs.), my sister Anh (who beat me up for sixteen years until I realized I was taller than her and even now, when I fall during motocross, yells things like, “Goddammit, you almost flooded the gas tank! Oh, also, are you ok?”)…
…and US! HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY TO DISGRASIAN! I guess you aren’t really supposed to wish yourself a happy day, so we’re so glad our best friend (who is also, technically, one year old) did it for us:
See, Gwen, now you know what it’s like for your Harajuku slaves to be bound and unable to speak! It’s heartbreaking, right?
Oh wait, you don’t care.
Right before my 16th birthday, I decided to give myself a middle name. Up until that point, I belonged to the unfortunate group of misfits who could not answer the most personal of schoolyard questions, “What’s your middle name?” And yes, I suffered greatly as a result, but like so many people born with this defect, I preferred not to think of myself as “handicapped.”
I secretly kept a list in my Trapper Keeper for about a year. I would write out my first and last name, and then insert a delightful-sounding middle name in between. Then I would repeat this full name over and over in my head like a mantra, sometimes for weeks on end. I was really fixated on “Francis” for a while, but there was another Chinese-American chick at my school named Francis who also bore my surname, and she was an evil cow. Alas, goodbye Francis. Then I moved on to “Emily,” because Emily was the name of the girl that everyone adored. But after a while, I came to the painful realization that I really wasn’t that girl. So, so long, Emily.
I even bought a baby name book and tried out all kinds of fanciful appellations: Chloe, Alexandra, Beatrice, Hazel, Tatiana. Soap opera names, really. But none of them really stuck. As my 16th birthday and the thought of getting my first form of ID in my driver’s license approached, I panicked. And I reached for a name that was familiar to me. My mother’s name.
When I tell people this story, they usually go, Aww, how sweet! A tribute to your mother! But really, it was an act of desperation (sorry, Mom). Besides, her name wasn’t exactly her real name; it was given to her as a child in Taiwan at Confirmation. But I had to have a middle name. It was going to define my future and allow me to achieve greatness, like it did for John F. Kennedy and C. Thomas Howell. Which is why I completely understand conservative radio host Bill Cunningham’s intentions in repeatedly calling Barack Obama “Barack Hussein Obama” at a McCain rally Tuesday:
Since, not to pat myself on the back, I’m in the business of handing out middle names, and we’re talking tributes to our mothers, I thought I would give Bill Cunningham both…
Bill “MyMomIsaWhore” Cunningham!
Try it for a little while, Bill, see how ya like it!
In honor of Jen’s amazian Physics genius father, we’d like to wish Daniel C. Tsui, Chinese-born American physicist and Nobel Laureate, a very happy 69th birthday. We know that Jen’s dad is proud of him! And believe us, that’s the best present he’s gonna get all year…
Cavil at Rest singer/guitarist Ryan Hanh–that adorable, curly-mopped chap driving the white car you see above–was a military brat born in the UK, raised in Singapore, and dumped into the ‘burbs of Southern California. Because of his last name, I’d been convinced for time that his kinky ‘fro actually belied his blood heritage–and he was actually through-and-through Vietnamese, like me. I finally asked (he’s not). But, he maintains, he feels Asian. And I realized then that sometimes, that’s all that matters.
Cavil at Rest is your new favorite band. Look at all those dudes–from the top left, Matt, Taylor, Andy, Kelcey, and Ryan–so gosh-darn sweet-faced, so compact, so fashionably v-necked. Through their charged urban-hippie soul rock I pull references from MC5 to The Doobie Brothers to The Rolling Stones to The Potatomen to the southwestern guitarist that played at my friend Dan’s New Mexico wedding. That’s not a bad palette for a band from my coastal South Orange County homeland (which, as Jen will attest to, is a expensively ugly breeding ground for average tastes and mediocre spirits).
Lend an ear here. Enjoy.
It’s Paris Fashism Week, and Japanese label Issey Miyake and designer Dai Fujiwara created quite a stirr thurr yesterday with a “green” collection that featured biodegradable clothes made of paper. I don’t get how disposable clothes are really all that eco, but the paper creations were stunning and all that.
Sayonara, bitches! Barry Bonds may be headed to Japan.
Bonds’ agent Jeff Borris has been trying to land a deal for his 43 year-old client with the Tampa Bay Rays (they presumably removed the “Devil” from their name because they blame Satan for sucking), but he remains open to internasianal options:
“He’s not retiring,” Bonds’ agent, Jeff Borris, told Metro yesterday. “He intends to play somewhere. If a door doesn’t open for Barry in the major leagues, as unbelievable as that possibility sounds, then Japan certainly is an option.”
Bonds in Japan? Getting lost in translasian might be just what Bonds needs, what with his winning personality. And it sure beats jail.
That said, the criminalization of steroids is bullshit. Bud Selig needs to step it up and keep testing, fining, suspensions, and all other punishment in-house. Ban players from the league, don’t let them get thrown in jail. The Congressional Steroid Circus is only a waste of our fuckin’ tax dollars.