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Well, it’s settled. “¿Ud. a visto una china gorda?” (The gist: Have you ever seen a fat chinese chick?) is, without question, the most disgusting line every used to peddle diet tea to Spanish speakers [Ad via Advertising Age].
We’ve got a tip for Nutri-Pharmaceuticals, who are trying to make a buck off of this ad, with the contact number 1-877-CHINITO (little Chinese): DO BETTER.
And our answer to their question, which is:
Yes, we have. And she is always the hottest, baddest bitch in the room, just like every single one of our Chinese sistas. ¡Paz!
Remember. It’s not about whether or not you can afford to buy anything at Chanel [purrs].
What’s important is if, after glancing at a paparazzi photo of you with your ass-cheek-baring, Wet Seal denim shorts, cheap blue contacts, dirty knee boots, and just-bought treasures in hand, Intern Jasmine wonders innocently:
“[Maybe she's] like my mom, who saves shopping bags from fancy department stores and then reuses them to carry her lunch around.”
In which case… we’re looking at a great-looking lunch.
It was reported this week that Russell Simmons has agreed to pay $40k a month in child support (that’s $20k per progeny) to the fabulous house of Kimora Lee, who is retaining sole legal and physical custody of their kids. This arrangement will be in place until each child reaches the age of 19½.
$40k a month! Just to keep those kids well-fed and fabulous!
Sheezus. Suddenly, Kimora’s eight-year marriage to that creepy old dude sounds waaaaaaaaaaaaay the heck more worth it.
Ladies and Gents…
Actually, just the Gents. Young Gents. Young, straight Gents…
We’ve got some thoughts on how to guarantee you get laid, if you bring a lassie back to your apartment and just need to close the deal. Bottom line: Your digs totally matter.
As RuPaul would say, “Don’t fuck it up.”
Subscribe to our YouTube channel here.
Tiger Woods returned to golf this week after knee surgery and an 8-month absence. Despite being dispatched in the 2nd round of the Accenture Match Play Championship today, his fellow competitors have to be shitting in their golf pants. This new Nike commercial probably sums up their feelings:
But look on the bright side, golfers-who-aren’t-Tiger. With Tiger back, people actually think golf is a sport again!
STAR TV, the Hong Kong-based satellite TV service that reaches over 300 million viewers in 54 countries and is owned by Rupert Murdoch, censored the words “gay” and “lesbian” from the Oscar acceptance speeches of Milk‘s screenwriter Dustin Lance Black and lead actor Sean Penn in its re-telecast of the Academy Awards in Asia Monday evening. The sound from those speeches was reported to have dropped out when those words were uttered in Malaysia, Singapore, and India. Jannie Poon, a STAR spokeswoman, defended the company’s decision, saying STAR has “a responsibility to take the sensitivities and guidelines of all our markets into consideration.”
Adding, “Unless you’re gaysian, in which case, fuck you.”*
*Not actually uttered, but obviously implied.
Filed under: Dishonoring the Gaysian, Gaysians, India, Lesbians, LGBT, Malaysia, News Corp, Rupert Murdoch, Silence = Death, Singapore, STAR TV, STAR TV Censorship, STAR TV Oscars Censorship, This is Bullshit
It’s difficult to really wrap your head around the reality of the recession when you live in Los Angeles. There are the warning signs–the NYT and CNN coverage is grim, the Thai restaurant you always ordered takeout from closes its doors, the Circuit City on Sunset is suddenly an empty lot. But while listening to the speculation from Washington unfold on the satellite radio in the car, you’re still getting cut off by a brand-new Audi R8 with dealer plates and an Obama/Biden bumper sticker. You’re in bumper-to-bumper traffic on thoroughfares like Robertson and 3rd Street and Melrose, where everybody seems to have time and pocket money for a two-cocktail lunch. Jesus, the end of the street is closed, not because we can’t afford to repair it, but because the fucking Oscars are about to go live–that sort of thing. Looking around LA, one does not see people formerly employed at the car manufacturing plant lining up for 40 available jobs, nor rows of housing foreclosures, nor empty food banks and emptier supermarkets. In this city, yes, the recession is happening. But this place must be so wrapped up in make-believe that it barely feels real.
Even though I loathe watching Oprah, I tuned in for a Lisa Ling’s special report yesterday. She traveled back to her hometown of Sacramento, to investigate a basically-illegal tent city where displaced citizens are trying to keep their lives afloat without jobs or homes.
It’s impossible not to hurt for the people featured in the piece, who were working, middle-class people until they lost their jobs and were forced out of their homes. But what I find most troubling about these very personal stories is the amount of shame each person seems to harbor in their situation–whether it be for dirt on their faces and fingernails, or in their reluctance to burden their children with the knowledge of their homelesness.
These troubled economic times should not be about shame, or about shouldering that shame alone. It’s everybody’s issue, everybody’s loss, everybody’s failure. And this recession is real. Very real.
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I guess we should be glad that a glorious, gorgeous, out-of-this-world, epicurean goddess like yourself would agree to do a commercial for a fast-food joint. Because even though you have a beating heart, two eyes… even though you drink, sleep, excrete, and screw, it’s hard for us to accept that you’re a real-live person, much less one of the people.
Okay, we can appreciate what’s going on here: the fact that you’ll soon be using that face to peddle sloppy burgers for Hardee’s/Carl’s Jr. (same beast) brings you down to Earth. It shows us your lowest common denominator. It proves that processed meats and sesame seed buns are not just for the ignorant, saddle-bagged, Tuna Helper masses of Middle America, but also for famous, particular, beautiful, elegant TV hosts from Manhattan. It’s meant to show us that this famous author’s ex-wife is real, and for that matter, so is Hardee’s. Now everybody, rich or poor, finicky or not, has the ability to get real along with you. Yeah. That’s really lovely.
But Padma. We feel that despite the motivation, you’re better than this. You do not want to take career cues from Paris Hilton. We’ve watched enough Top Chef to know that these quick burgers are not up to your standards, even after a bottle of wine (trust us, we’ve eaten enough of them for anybody). More importantly, we’ve never actually seen a commercial of this ilk that made us want to even eat food–in fact, they almost always inspire waves of nausea and a lasting aversion to the sound of chewing.
Maybe your “beautiful love song to food” will be enough to change our minds. But at the moment, we’re hard-pressed to truly believe that.
This week, we’d like to wish a happy 35th birthday to N.E.R.D./The Neptunes’ producer/songwriter/musician/Renaissance Man Chad Hugo!
How will he celebrate the big event? Bottle service somewhere sexy-sexy? Dinner and a dance at home with the wife?
We hope that he’ll ring in the new year by growing his hair out again (‘cuz he looks friggin’ hawt with a coif) and inviting us to his major rager, before producing the first DISGRASIAN hit rekkid (If you’re reading, Chad: Don’t worry, Jen can actually sing!).
Jen can sing really, really beautifully. I can’t. Her voice is like velvet and she reminds me of Patsy Cline. Mine sounds like gravel and I remind myself of buttwipes.
But just you wait. I’m hopping on a plane to Beijing. I’m going to beg music teacher Li Wenxing to take me on as a student. I’ll take out his trash, wash his dishes, use a humidifier, practice my octaves. I’ll do whatever it takes to sing like him.
And then, I will ask Jen to karaoke with me.
It’ll be a beautiful day. Just beautiful.
Thanks for the tip, Thomas!
Alright, alright. If you’ve been following I Am Spoonbender for years, don’t hate. I’m slow. I just realized that one of my favorite chicks, Robynn Iwata (guitar-plucker from the now-defunct Vancouver band, cub), has been rocking keys, vox, and freaky-rad bangs for IAS since ’97.
It’s everything that’s good about Electro-prog-indie-synth-fuzz-werk–disjointed, spacey, futuristic, danceable, visceral tunes that infiltrate your dreams. What have I been doing without it for the last decade? Just crying, motionless, here on Earth, I suppose.
If this kid isn’t DISGRASIAN’s love child…
You fucking rule, kid.