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Whoever said that a lazy racist isn’t an effective one?
Last week, Rush Limbaugh’s ching-chong impression of Hu Jintao caused a major stir. Some people were shocked, some weren’t surprised, heaps were deeply offended, scads joined in on a collective smack of the forehead. More definitively, a group of Asian-American lawmakers, led by Sen. Leland Yee (D-CA), demanded an apology for the comments.
Limbaugh–always a victim of the left–called his racist tirade “a service.” But I call it a big, sweaty, hairy back off of which even more brainless (Imagine!), more hateful, more ignorant, more racist dickburgers saw the opportunity to leapfrog, into a space much more dark, even dangerous.
Take for example, a death threat that was sent by one of those ignorant dickburgers to Sen. Yee, by fax, on Wednesday, in defense of Limbaugh:
Filed under: "Marxist Nigger Thug", anonymity, Chickenshits, Chinglish, Damn Foreigners, Death Threats, Fax Machines, Fish Heads, In Defense Of Cheesdicks, Leland Yee, Marxists, Nooses, Racist Epithets, Rush Limbaugh, This is Bullshit, WTF?
In Touch caused quite a stir this week by releasing an exclusive interview with “Bill,” a man who claims to be a former bodyguard for Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. The “ugly truth?” Angie’s apparently a bad mother:
“In my opinion, the real Angelina is self-centered and a control freak. She has no patience at all. She doesn’t do things out of the kindness of her heart. And she’s totally psycho.” While Brad is laid-back and patient with his kids’ often wild behavior, Angelina is anything but. “She screams and yells a lot, then walks away,” Bill says, explaining that Angelina would often “disappear into her suite for hours,” leaving staffers — and Brad — to deal with her children. “She would punish them with silence,” says Bill, adding, “I think she could be abusive at times in a mental way.” If the children were to get upset by her withholding behavior, he says, Angelina didn’t seem to care. “She is not moved by tears,” he explains. Still more disturbing, he recalls, Angelina has a “quirky habit” of “giggling when one of her kids would start crying.”
Hmm. This passage actually makes me feel kinda nostalgic (Mommy? Mommy?)…
Here’s a theory: Perhaps Mama Jolie has just been trying her darndest to be an authentic Hardass Asian Mom for her boys! Has anybody ever stopped to think of that? If this guy speaks the truth*, she’s doing a damn good job of giving Maddox and Pax a slice of home!
*Sorry, “Bill”–I don’t believe this shit for a second.
Filed under: "Bill", Adoption, Amazian Jr., Angelina, Angelina Jolie, anonymity, Brad Pitt, Chinese Exclusion Act 1882, Hardass Asian Moms, I Call Bullshit, I Want to be Adopted by Brad and Angelina, In Touch Magazine, Maddox Jolie-Pitt, Mental Abuse, Pax Thien, The Almighty Jolie-Pitts, Yeah Yeah
By now you’ve probably heard the story: Former model Liskula Cohen, 37, subpoenas Google in January, in pursuit of a defamation suit “concerning her appearance, hygiene and sexual conduct” against the anonymous author of a Blogspot site called “Skanks in NYC.” The blog features only five posts with photographs, all devoted to calling Cohen a “skank,” “hag” and “ho.” Cohen ultimately wins in court, and Google is forced to fork over the IP address and email of the anonymous blogger, identified as Cohen’s acquaintance, Rosemary Port. A media frenzy ensues.
Dizzying, isn’t it? And fascinating. Even though we live on and in it, sometimes it’s easy to forget that the Interwebz is still a rather young entity, and we’re only just starting to understand the power–both positive and negative–of this vast, largely anonymous space.
Inevitably, people have landed on both sides of this matter. And though a court did side with Cohen when she initially pressed Google, we’re likely see the saga shift legal momentum with respect to Port’s suit (perhaps “all the way to the Supreme Court”), for months.
The Web being a maze of aliases, handles, social identities and passwords, it’s only natural for us to revel in the freedom of its virtual invisibility cloak. After all, stalking an ex quietly on Facebook is much easier than hunting the fucker down at his neighborhood haunts. Pay-as-you-go online porn is effortless compared to walking behind the partition at a dingy, outdated video store. Discussion boards for personal problems are sometimes more accessible and helpful than group therapy. Who would sniff their nose at a buffer for the stuff we’re not so proud of?
But anonymous Internet flaming, which we see so often on blogs, YouTube, social networks and message boards, is the e-quivalent of pulling a shirt over your head, running over to somebody, kicking them in the mouth, yelling, “You’re a fat asshole, you fucking fat asshole!” and then taking off down the street. Afterwards, one person’s still bleeding, and their attacker–a total chickenshit–has already moved on.
Or, as Maureen Dowd cited in NYT’s Opinion section:
“The velocity and volume on the Web are so great that nothing is forgotten and nothing is remembered,” says Leon Wieseltier, the literary editor of The New Republic. “The Internet is like closing time at a blue-collar bar in Boston. Everyone’s drunk and ugly and they’re going to pass out in a few minutes.”
It’s simply impossible to respect this brand of cowardice, at least for us. Recently, some anonymous shitbag lamely slammed DISGRASIAN for being “BOOORRINNG” on The Roast List. Every comment posted in reply was also anonymous (save for a dude named “RelentlessX”, who’s probably either a huge fan of Avril Lavigne and the Pussycat Dolls, or this guy). To be honest, it’s hard to dignify criticism from phantoms: Er… um… we guess we’re sorry we don’t impress a bunch of dickless, spineless, St. Martin’s Guide-less, anonymous pussies. Perhaps they’re just not our demo? Our demo probably gets laid more.
We at DISGRASIAN don’t have a legal position (Sorry Mom, still not going to law school!) on Port’s anonymous mudslinging, but we do have an opinion. And we’re posting it here:
Rosemary Port’s worst anonymous words may have been: “How old is this skank? 40 something? She’s a psychotic, lying, whoring, still going to clubs at her age, skank.” Not only is her prose a hot mess, but she didn’t have the nards to stand behind them. We couldn’t care less that a model loves snorting crack while wearing uncooked bacon and at the center of a bukkake circle (Don’t they all? Hee!), if the person telling us can’t stand up while saying so.
That’s an opinion, like it or not. We’re not only willing to state it, but sign our names behind it.
Mine is Diana Nguyen.
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.
TMZ.com snapped this 4th of July clip of our friend Bai Ling joking that she had married her “friend” of two weeks–Dionne Warwick’s son Damon Elliott–earlier in the day.
Note: If your friend will only refer to himself as “Anonymous” in association with you on camera, it’s a very, very bad sign.