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Contrary to popular belief…
We’re taking a little time off for winter R&R and holiday celebrasian. But don’t worry, on January 5, we’ll be back–and Hardass as ever.
See ya next year! Now go play Guitar Hero!
Why is some asshole young’un always stealing my gosh-darned thunder?
First it was that little tramp* that beat me to the punch on a landmark Jewsian Bat Mitzvah–complete with glorious photos and full NYT coverage.
Now, it’s some little brat* that’s trying to beat me out on my dream of making my mark as the second coming of Neil Peart.
Um, trying…rather, er, successfully.
*Not actually a tramp. Actually the most adorable little Jewess you ever did see.
*Not actually a brat. Actually a total freakin’ genius and my hero.
We’ve never really wronged you, dude. We listened to, and didn’t shit all over, your most-expensive-album-of-all-time Chinese Democracy, which in the words of our friend Colin, “came and went like a whisper” (and truth be told, we don’t think was worth the $$$). We have spent countless hours discussing your meteoric rise in the 1980s: that magnificent freshman opus–our longtime lover, Appetite for Destruction–you helped unleash upon the world, Mike Clink’s capture of lightning in a fucking bottle, the album that forever changed the lives of everyone we know that owned a Walkman in 1987.
We tend to gloss over the fact that you’re an angry, violent man, whose porcelain skin (so luminescent and alluring in your youth) just looks so pasty and creepy on an aging rager in his forties. We forgive the fact that you can’t look like that (see your yummy former self, right) forever. We’re psyched for you that you’re no longer dressing like an umpire, teaching Stephanie Seymour lessons with your fists, or dragging hundreds of people into the studio for two decades while you try to revitalize your rockstar dick.
In short, we haven’t started any beef witchu.
So why are you getting all up in our business? Why do I feel your crazy braids all tangled up in DISGRASIAN’S grill? And by that I mean, why are you attacking the presence of GNR songs–that have brought us so much joy and thrills of achievement–in our favorite game of life, Guitar Hero? DO YOU REALIZE that as we slay Slash’s solos on “Welcome to the Jungle,” we feel our blood racing as if we’re 20-year old boys laying out our musical guts in front of an arena full of followers? DO YOU REALIZE that when we split up the parts on “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” we feel like we are actually playing in the real, magnificent, ’87-era GNR with our best friend at our side? DO YOU REALIZE that these experiences may be the happiest ones we have ever felt or will feel?
Stop being a pathetic asshole and leave a little dignity in your sad, tired band’s legacy. And don’t start fronting with us, or we will begin going to fucking town on you.
A 40 year-old man identified only as “Jameel” was arrested this week in Bangalore, India for expressing his support for Muntadar al-Zaidi, aka The Shoe Thrower, at his workplace. The Times of India reported that the police are now investigating Jameel’s “suspected terror links.”
And here we thought terrorists were all sneaky and shit. Don’t real terrorists train in secret camps and hide out in caves? Or, if they do live among us, don’t they typically try to seamlessly blend in so that no one will suspect them of actually being terrorists so that they can, you know, spring a surprise attack, like real terrorists did on 9/11, and more recently in Mumbai?
If “Jameel” is, in fact, a terrorist, then he sucks at it. Does al Qaeda really recruit blabbermouths like Jameel? If he’d give up his terrorist ties so easily over the water cooler, then imagine how that sad sack would do over a waterboard! If he’s a terrorist, then they sure don’t make ‘em like they used to, and, by golly, George Bush–The Shoe Throwee–was right, and we are winning the War of Terror.
Or not. Because by this notion of terrorism, they are everywhere. We ourselves have located two major terrorist cells on Facebook, one with close to 3,000 jihadists and another with over 16,000. That would also mean our friends here are card-carrying terrorists. Oh shit–does that mean we’re terrorists?! We triple-swear that we’re totes not! But, but…you know that guy in Egypt who wants to marry his daughter off to the Shoe Thrower? He totes is! Arrest that man!
Oh. Wait. On second thought, that guy in Egypt probably isn’t a terrorist. He’s just wicked creepy.
But whatever…arrest him for being creepy! That’s a crime, too, isn’t it?
When I was a kid, I hated my last name: Nguyen. Not because it was Vietnamese, or because it looked funny–just because it was hard to say. It was difficult for telemarketers (“Can I please speak to Mister Engoovknen?”). It was tough for teachers (“Next to read her essay, Diana N–N–win.”). It was even a challenge for me (“New-yen. Well, that’s how I say it. Okay, there’s a proper way to say it in Vietnamese, but that requires accents, and this isn’t, well… this is just how my family and I say it…”). The name was a fucking drag. My name was just a goddamned drag.
As an adult, however, I fell in love with Nguyen. I love the N on both ends. I love when bartenders try to correct me on the pronunciation. I love that folks who take meetings with me prepare to tell me that they know other Nguyens, or share that they had a favorite Pho restaurant when they lived in the Bay area. I love the way Nguyen sounds when said aloud (whether you pronounce it like my parents, like my friend Jenny, like CNN anchor Betty, or like me), and how it looks in my fancy cursive handwriting on textured stationary. On paper, I think the six letters look strong (unlike more delicate Viet surnames like Do or Le, though those are also nice), and they remind me that I’ve got plenty of blood in me from my father’s pragmatic, thoughtful, gentle family to balance out the high-strung, prideful, wacky-but-fun dysfunctional blood of my mom’s side.
It makes me wonder then, how a name that brings me so much pride and joy is starting to feel more like a growing source of such painful, awful shame–as a result of others that share my beautiful moniker doing a bad job of reprzenting. This kinda thing happens all the time. I’m sure it’s hard, for example, to be so-and-so Nixon, Gilooly, Madoff, Palin, or Bush (kind of the reverse of how it’s great to be a Kennedy) and hold your head up high.
For the last three years or so, it’s become increasingly difficult to be a Nguyen, what with that famous “bisexual” of the same last name running around town, sullying all of our reps. Tila Tequila doesn’t even bother to use “Nguyen” in interviews unless she’s telling some sob story about her parents being immigrants (a subject easily trumped if someone prefers to ask about her tits)–yet still, that tiny bit of shared identity holds the capacity to pain all of the other Nguyens so deeply.
And to think it could get worse.
One of our readers unleashed a terrible truth on me today: the nameless ginormous boob skank (Wait, don’t call her that!) that shot to anonymous fame via one unfortunate Michael Phelps photo-op actually has a name–and that name is… Nguyen.
In fact, Naomi Nguyen, apparently a former fighter/now actress, has her own official website, replete with more ginormous boob photos:
But there’s more than just a name! You can actually get to know her in this charming, candid interview:
Okay. She’s no genius. She’s got some crazy fuckin’ circus boobies. But you know, I wouldn’t exactly state that I have anything against this not-ginormous boob skank per se.
…I just really, really, really, really, really wish we didn’t have the same last name.
A person who fetishizes Asian dress, food, religion, and/or culture, often to the detriment of his/her own health and that of others.
Yoga and hair weave-enthusiast Jeremy Piven was forced to drop out of a Broadway production of Mamet’s Speed-the-Plow this week after “shocking levels” of mercury–attributed to eating too much sushi and Chinese herbs–were found in his system. His doctor told People magazine that Piven’s decision to leave the play was purely medical and had nothing to do with the Entourage actor’s widely-perceived douchery.
Since Entourage is on hiatus, fans of the Pivert will have to settle for watching reruns of the Discovery Channel’s “Journey of a Lifetime with Jeremy Piven,” a 2006 series documenting Piven’s spiritual passage to India. Namaste!
I love meat. I’m an unrepentant carnivore. I know I’ve extolled the virtues of pork time and again, but what I really want to eat every single day is a bloody steak. And often I do. Which means I’ll probably die one day in the not so distant future of a heart attack. But I’ll die happy, sated, and oblivious to any notion of deprivasian, so fuck if I care, unless the vodka martini I’ve ordered with that death steak is only half-consumed by the time I keel over.
Burger King, I shit you not, has come out with a cologne called “Flame,” described as the “scent of seduction, with a hint of flame-broiled meat.” I know I should like this, I really should. But the thing is, I don’t like it when people smell like meat (a little salty meat-sweat, like the way you smell after you’ve been stuffing your face at the ballpark, is okay). It reminds me of our own fleshy-ness, and my mind drifts to cannibalism and mortality, two unappetizing thoughts. Just last night, Diana and I were trying to figure out where we were going to have Korean BBQ, and it was a toss-up between two of our favorite haunts. Ultimately, we picked the place where we wouldn’t emerge smelling like charred human meat.
Furthermore, cologne is designed, apart from its purpose to mask B.O., to get people to fuck you. But I don’t want to literally fuck a piece of meat, although I won’t judge you if you do (okay, I will a little). I want that kind of meat to smell like cheap soap and laundry detergent, in that order, and then have my bloody steak after, when I’m done with it.
Beef up here, at the official Burger King “Flame” website.
Your locks are luscious, that skin is smooth, and those arms are buff. In our opinion, you don’t look a day over 22.
So, dear, we wish you nothing but smiles, hot babes, and stiff drinks in the New Year. If you want to share those stiff drinks with two fun ladies, please feel free to call on us.
As she told Japan Today in a recent interview, “I thought life would be more relaxed but I am still busy.”
We can only imagine what that must be like, especially because we know that the little miss as also a blogger (does that mean that she abuses caffeine and alcohol, flogs herself daily, and ritually beats her head on the desk, like we do?). Like us, she seems to get blasted with tons of reader mail. ““I get many questions, usually about how to be beautiful. Younger women ask me how to be beautiful outside, what cosmetic products to use, how I do my makeup, and so on.”
Jeez. That could take all day.
Fortunately, Mori is not without role models and mentors. When asked about Miss Universe owner Donald Trump, she was filled with praise:
When I first read about the Chinese man who mistook his pet Arctic fox–a rare, protected species–for a Pomeranian, I was like, Whaaaa?! But then I saw a picture of Mr. Zhang, the confused pet owner, and I had SO MANY MORE QUESTIONS.
Is the color super-saturated in this photo, or did that fox, who would frequently bite his owner, make steak tartare out of Zhang’s face? Or are those horrible burns? Wicked bad rosacea? Why is Zhang wearing lipstick? Is this what happens to people after something terrible happens to them, like getting their face chewed off by a dog-fox or surviving a fire, that they become incapable of distinguishing between animal species and knowing what’s what in the universe?
So many questions.
ZAC: Yeah, baby.
VANESSA: [eyeing Zac sweetly] I love you…
ZAC: [eyes aglaze] Mmhmm.
VANESSA: Ahem. I love you…
ZAC: Yep. [frowning suddenly] Babe, these seats are courtside. Aren’t you watching the game?
VANESSA: Yes, but for some reason, I feel like I hate Kobe.
ZAC: Hunh. I don’t see why. Don’t you at least find him kinda hot? I think he–I mean, if I was a girl–I’d think he was pretty hot.
VANESSA: [slightly thrown] Well I, uh, I mean yeah, I guess I’m with you, there. He’s hot.
ZAC: Totally. I was actually thinking of buying that $100,000 vintage tennis racquet he signed.
VANESSA: Why on earth would you do that?
ZAC: Because you also get lunch with Kobe at Carl’s Jr.!
VANESSA: You never eat at Carl’s Jr.! You said it makes people fat!
ZAC: Well, I would go if Kobe were there.
VANESSA: [eyes narrowing] What about me?
ZAC: What about you? Are you bidding, too?
VANESSA: [smacks forehead with her hand]
ZAC: I look kinda like a dark knight tonight.
VANESSA: [peeved] You look like a poseur.
ZAC: I’m a rebel without a cause!
VANESSA: In what way are you a rebel? Tell me. Is it the paycheck you get from Disney or the facial you got on Monday?
ZAC: Well, my hair, for one.
VANESSA: You have fifteen gallons of Bumble & Bumble in your hair. You look like you’re in the sequel to Hairspray.
ZAC: I’m wearing all black! This is real leather!
VANESSA: [sneering] My ex-boyfriend was a real rebel. He wore pleather.
ZAC: You stop that right now.
VANESSA: What’s wrong… jealous?
ZAC: Pleather is just…tacky. They give my thighs a rash.
VANESSA: I don’t quite know what to say.
ZAC: What’d you say?
VANESSA: Nothing. Just watching the game. Go Knicks.