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Well, I should preface this post by saying that I don’t really participate in the whole St. Patrick’s Day flurryfaloo.
Why? I’m not Irish or Catholic. I’m not in a frat. I am uncomfortable wearing green plastic leprachaun hats. I don’t particularly get anything out of drinking green-tinted alcohol. My Irish accent sounds a lot more like a pirate accent. I don’t appreciate being pinched. I have no interest in regretting tonight’s sloppy sex with a stinky stranger during tomorrow’s spine-shivering hangover. I have an aversion to standing, body-to-body, with smelly people. And I’m no novice partier (Lord knows all of the novices will be out tonight, they’ve been sporting awful green wigs and tube tops at your local pub since 6am this morning… I really loathe those people).
That said, hey! Maybe you’re like, “Top ‘o the mornin, Diana! Don’t bee such a spoilsparrt! It’s thee luck of thee Irish! I want to be havin’ a grand ol’ time at the pub! Arrrr, avast, ahoy!” (Oh shoot, there I go talking like a pirate again.)
Anyway, if you are going out tonight, don’t let me poop on your parrty, fiddle-dee-dee! I just have a few words of advice:
Tip #1: A successful St. Patty’s night can be about EITHER an excess of corned beef and cabbage OR an excess of Irish car bombs. BUT NOT BOTH.
Tip #2: Don’t bother wearing a “Kiss me, I’m Irish” t-shirt if you ain’t Irish. Just write “I’m drunk at a bar on St. Patrick’s Day. I’m drunk. I want to get laid. I’m drunk!” in Sharpie across your stomach. You’ll get the point across without having to lie about your ethnicity.
Filed under: Advice, Bars, Being Honest, Drunken Messes, Getting Laid, Holidays, National Holidays, Nights When Novices Party, Pinching, Public Drunkenness, St. Patrick's Day, Texts From Last Night, Wearing Green, Weird Irish-ish Behavior
Wong Fu Productions has debuted a new video–the first (?) of “Rick’s Man Tutorials”–and it’s a satirical guide to gettin’ fresh for an evening out (We also like to think of it as a proper pre-cursor to sealing the deal at the end of the night).
But let’s talk about “Rick” for a second.
Rick wears muscle tees.
Rick talks about his slutty ex.
Rick sprays himself with Febreze and lotions his face with saliva.
He owns hair gel.
I can’t deal with that guy. But I also… kind of… love him. Maybe because he looks like Phil Wang?
Oh ick, muscle tees.
Filed under: Angry Asian Man, Angry Asian Man's 30 Under 30, Cleaning Up, Exes Suck, Getting Laid, Going Out, Hair Gel, Lame Dudes, Muscle Tees, Phil Wang, Philip Wang, Primping, Production Companies, Rick's Man Tutorials, Ted Fu, The Importance of Cleanliness, Tutorials, Wesley Chan, Wong Fu Production
Okay, fine: We’re not WOW experts. So we don’t really know what it means to kill 390,895 creatures, accumulate 7,255,538,878 points of damage, complete 5,906 quests, raid 405 dungeons and hug 11 players–but it sounds like a shit-ton of warcraft to us! And we’re huge fans of hugging!
A fella in Taiwan, whose handle is “Little Gray,” apparently did all of the above and then some, making him the first person to accomplish basically everything that can be accomplished in 11.5 million people’s favorite lifestyle game, World Of Warcraft. Basically, he’s “beaten” the unbeatable game.
Sure, there are some bitchy WOW sticklers that are already poo-pooing on the epic win, citing a glitch in the, uh, “B.B. King achievement” and a “false victory point” used by Little Gray to override it. But we figure that people suffering from PC eye strain and extended periods of virginity just get grouchy. Details, details.
Filed under: 2D Life, Dubious Achievements, First To Beat World of Warcraft, Gamers, Gaming, Getting Laid, Guilds, Hugs, Little Gray, Nerds, Taiwan, Taiwanese, Taiwanese Man, W.O.W., World of Warcraft, Wow
Daisy De La Hoya, one of my favorite jilted lovers ever to be dismissed by Bret Michaels on Rock of Love 2, is–rather surprisingly–a strong enough character to carry her own show. Predictably, Daisy of Love features Miss Daisy taking a booze-and-gasp-filled tour down Douchebag Lane, in hopes that she’ll be able to settle down with a boyfriend that’s VD-free and mentally stable-ish enough to emotionally support her through rocky career exploits of modeling and singing.
The series premiere, which first aired over the weekend, introduces viewers to 20 guys vying for the lady of the hour’s heart (Note if you haven’t yet watched: Without fail, every time you gasp in horror at the level of douchery exhibited by a newly-introduced cast member, prepare to hear Daisy say something like, “Yummy!” or “Just my type!”).
It’s like an all-encompassing television answer to the hypothetical questions I often find myself ask when eying the creepy, forced “alt” stores on Melrose Ave., Hollywood Blvd., or St. Mark’s Pl.: “Who the hell buys pre-safety pinned mesh tank tops?” or “Are people still dying their hair with Manic Panic?” or “People don’t pierce their muthafuckin’ foreheads now, do they? ” Oh, and less often: “Is it really possible to get a 6 gauge Prince Albert piercing? That shit can’t feel good.”
By episode’s end, five dudes get the boot. Without blinking, the little lady dismisses three Swedish brothers that share a band, a personality, and a lady (and who seem about as cool as, like, Tokio Hotel), that are more interested in eating the set’s catered buffet than making a love connection. Also saying “lates”: a goofy, pale, high school dropout that Daisy isn’t attracted to.
But as is often the case, the most interesting parts of elimination night are the reveal of the big winner and big loser, in this case also a study of the difference between “Being Asian and Getting Laid” and “Being Asian and Not Getting Jack Shit.”
At the top of the pack lands Daniel, aka Fox:
And how does he seal the deal? Doling out compliments, flashing his pearly whites, and sucking face on the first night. An easy peasy technique that almost always works. Kudos to Fox–can somebody grab this guy a Costco pack of Trojans?
But booooooo… closing out the cuts is Kenn, aka Torch:
If Torch’s chin pubes and Jem hair don’t scare a lady, his weak conversational skills and incessant determination to speak Swahili to non-Swahili speakers certainly will.
Lord knows I won’t miss Torch in the episodes to come. Not him, not his hair, and not his clickity-clackety tongue. After all–with 15 jokers to choose from–Daisy can definitely find herself a better tongue (albeit probably a pierced one).
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.
Just in case you missed it, a photo of Miley Cyrus and her pretty pals making chinky-chong-chong faces for the camera hit the Internet running yesterday (Miley Cyrus? In a leaked photo? Shocker!), and hasn’t lost gas. Maybe when you first peeped it, you were like us, and commented on the one Asian schmuck in the picture. Like any douche worth his seat next to Hannah Montana--the tool undoubtedly bit his lip (“Yeah! Slanty! Hee! No, it’s funny cuz I’m here! You guys are great!”) and giggled while his friends talked to him in buck-toof. And then wondered at night why he doesn’t get laid.
In response, OCA (a non-profit, pro-social APA group) distributed a press release yesterday to address the mess, including one rather obvious point:
“The inclusion of an Asian Pacific American individual in the photo does not make it acceptable.”
Er, ya think? Frankly, we would have imagined a more succinct:
“Tell Hannah Montana to stop listening to that little, yellow friend of hers. He’s just a silly chink!”
I started high school at the tail end of my twelfth year, which wasn’t so strange for me considering I
was a fookin’ genius from birth started school early and was always two years young for my grade. By age thirteen, I had clocked in a season of high school cheerleading, seven broken heart episodes, and enough time as VP of my class to think that I ran the whole goddamn place. I swooped ahead to take AP Biology and chemistry at the same time, and started tutoring kids older than me in regular biology, or what I had started referring to as “elementary-level science for the masses.” I ruled. At thirteen years of age, I totally fucking ruled. Thirteen? I felt twenty-three.
Still, it wasn’t enough to just rule. The varsity football team found out how young I was on my first day in the halls, after which, none of them would touch me with a grabby-hand or a ten foot pole (unless, I suppose, they wanted to spend their senior year in jail). There was no faking my age, not with a seat in AP Bio, not with a fake ID, not with a stuffed bra, not with a very well-crafted lie. And thus, for me, there would be no feel-ups by BMOCs, no freshman year glory screws, just me, my AP Bio book, and my ego to keep me company.
It’s no wonder that I have paid special attention the controversy surrounding the champion Chinese gymnasts, many of whom have been scrutinized by every media outlet in the world (besides the Chinese) for lying about their ages.
Sure, sure, it’s important that, if the girls in question really are thirteen or fourteen rather than sixteen (as their legal passports state), there’s a whole institutionalized cheating thing being perpetuated by Chinese authorities and we’ve got a real fucking problem on our hands.
But let’s not bury the headline. There is, essentially written proof that at least one Chinese gymnast, He Kexin, was reported last year by Chinese press as aged thirteen, and now that story is being repudiated as inaccurate. Written proof! And all this chick has to tell reporters is, “My real age is sixteen. I don’t pay any attention to what everyone says,” and everyone nods their heads and the FIG and IOC give their collective thumbs-up, and the team goes on to win its gold medal, blah blah blah. If all of this drama is actually true, it surely boils down to this: Kexin and Co. have got some damn good people working with ‘em.
SO WHERE WERE THESE PEOPLE WHEN I WAS TRYING TO GET LAID IN HIGH SCHOOL?
Filed under: China Gymnastics Age Controversy, China Gymnastics Scandal, Chinese Gymnasts, Getting Laid, Goddammit, Lying About Your Age, Scandals, the Olympics, This is Bullshit, We Start Ruling at Birth
Thanks in large part to our Hardass Parents, Asians looove a headstart. I was potty-trained and walking at 11 months and talking in complete sentences by age 2 (I also, apparently, had a serious boyfriend in preschool); I learned to add and subtract at 3 and picked up geometry and algebra around 8 or 9. I thought I was pretty hot shit in the child development-department until I met Diana, who learned to read at 2, started kindergarten at 3, graduated high school at 16, and had a real job by age 20. (Bitch!)
I was reminded of the value Asians place on precociousness when I read today that two female Chinese gymnasts may be too young to compete in the Olympics (the minimum age is 16). Chinese officials were quick to say that the gymnasts, He Kexin and Jiang Yuyuan, are both 16, despite online records that list their age as 14. Even more curious is the fact that China’s government-run newspaper, the China Daily, ran a story in May heralding the arrival of “14-year-old newcomer” He Kexin, a gold medal favorite in the uneven bars.
But it was only after reading He’s Wikipedia page, which says that the eensy-beensy gymnast:
- Has already won two World Cup titles on the uneven bars this year
- Is “one of the few gymnasts in the world to score over 17.00 under the current Code of Points”
- Has one of the highest difficulty scores in the world in the uneven bars
…that I started to wonder. Given that most gymnasts are considered “old” at 18 and younger girls tend to compete better and do the most outrageous tricks because they have no sense of failure or mortality (Nadia Comaneci was 14 when she scored the first perfect 10 at the ’76 Games), I gotta think that THOSE GIRLS ARE SO TOTALLY NOT 16. At some point, the ambivalence creeps in, you don’t think you’re such hot shit anymore, and, of course, you want to get laid. Maybe that explains why I was better at geometry at 8 than I was at 14?
I went to see the Red Sox play the so-called Los Angeles Angels Sunday, when the Sox got swept cuz they’ve been sucking on the road and they have no middle relief. But I was sitting two rows behind their dugout (thanks to my friend Jess) so fuck if I cared. I got to stare at Jacoby Ellsbury’s ass for three hours. At the end of my row, there was a guy about my dad’s age wearing these really dope baseball oxfords (pictured). They were broken-in perfectly, and they looked just like a baseball you’ve been tossing around in the backyard for a couple years. Scuffed and a little grey. I hate talking to strangers, but I told him on my way to the loo, “Nice shoes.”
I coveted those shoes, even though they’re kinda dude-ish. And I was curious about their provenance. Yesterday, I discovered after much googling that they’re made by Børn footwear. That was when I got a good look at their soles for the first time.
#27 on the long list of Things That Make My Blood Run Cold: Shoes with Sneaker Soles. Let me be clear–I have no problem with sneakers. I love sneakers, especially on men (although I have a slight allergy to Pumas, which are too Aging Hipster for my taste). When I see a man in a pair of Chucks, or New Balance, or Stan Smiths, or Dunks even, I think, Good. Not trying too hard. I’ve never understood the mutant “shoe-ker,” however. It’s creepy on the order of magnitude of the Easy Spirit “Looks Like a Pump, Feels like a Sneaker” commercial where women were playing basketball in heels. The shoe-ker makes my skin crawl. It’s fug. It’s sloppy. It’s just so…wrong.
The concept behind a shoe-ker is that you can dress up but still stay comfy. Bullshit. Fashion is not about comfort. Sometimes it is about ease, a whole different animal, but comfort? Negative. Comfort is for the home, where you are allowed to do other unsociable things like pick your nose, not wash your hair, and adjust your balls.
Which leads me to the most important point about the shoe-ker and why it has no place out in the world: YOU DON’T GET LAID WEARING THIS SHOE.
Filed under: Baseball, Born Footwear, Boston Red Sox, Comfort Is Overrated, Fuck Me-Shoes, Fug Shoes, Getting Laid, Jacoby Ellsbury, Looks Like a Pump..., Misguided Sartorial Fantasies, Rants, Shoe-kers, Sneakers
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!