Posts tagged ‘gary adrian randall’
Every time I got to Florida, I am reminded of just how hard Floridians party, and how if I hadn’t left there when I did, I would probably be dead. Floridians party in a different way than New Yorkers. When they go out, its all about having a ridiculously crazy, fun time. They don’t give a shit if they look good. They are my kind of people.
I went down to support Square One Florida, a company that produces large scale art shows that I started with my friend years ago. (He has since gone on to turn that company into the producer of one of the biggest art shows in Florida). JMO and Emsy were headed down to perform an amazing dance number they choreographed for the event, called Invincible Summer. I helped with the costuming (basically covering them in glitter and drawing muscles on them) and a little with the choreography (fine-tuning things, like telling him not to actually stick his fist in her butthole).
If you think that all of us being there is going to incite a chain reaction of utter insanity, you are right. But my sister was there, too. So it was more like a super nova of intense partying the likes of which the American people (especially the Christians, Republicans, and virgins) cannot possibly fathom. Except, of course, the people who were there. Here is all the shit that went down, in no particular order, with no names, named.
I remember my friend letting me play with his assault rifle. No, that isn’t a euphemism- altho these particular friends have learned not to give me a loaded gun when I’m loaded because apparently I take them all hostage and then don’t remember it in the morning. I ate salt and vinegar chips in the bathtub of a Ramada Inn with my sister. Somebody spent an entire night making out with a married couple. Somebody licked some pretty strange substances off a random iPad. There was a hotel party in our room at the Hilton Garden Inn where I ended up in a fur vest and my undies while crazy bitches all around me took pics of their brown boobs. We had brunch at Hamburger Mary’s in Ybor, which we kindly referred to as Cheeseburger Meredith’s. Apparently Nadia isn’t as hated by all the drag queens as we thought. In fact, they love her. They love her so much they basically put a spotlight on her called her a tranny in front of the entire restaurant. I think their exact words were “This is an OG bitch that we love so much and she has a penis. In her panties. Even though she looks like a girl. She has a penis. A penis.” The rest of the weekend we referred to her as the great and powerful Nadia. If I had a troup of trannies that loved me that much I would storm San Francisco Gaza-style. Too soon, I know. You don’t have to say it. We continued our brunch at Gaspar’s Grotto where they have $2 whiskey shot/beers. The New York side of the table took advantage of this and drank 15 shots and 15 beers EACH. Some straight guy was clinging to us that day (I’m pretty sure that he was egged on by the fact that one of us was trying to dick him hardcore in a very gay way) (PS, it wasn’t me for once) and invited a stripper friend of his to our festivities. She literally looked like an anorexic hatchet-face meth mother with so many stretch marks on her tits you could use them to decipher the DaVinci code. Julia was not having it, so she relocated us to another bar where we held an impromptu fashion show with some random girl’s purse that we found on the bar. Our good friend from Chicago got a VIP area at G Bar, which was awesome because it gave us all a meet-up area since me and my sister are apparently club nomads who get there, and run around meeting strangers passing like ships in the night. We danced our tits off, and I met a cute guy. At that point I was so drunk tho that I found it difficult to think of anything between bouts of dancing to say other than Read more…
Sidebar: The Shell earrings are clearly from a t-shirt store that sells Welcome to Florida magnets, and the necklace is obviously Mary Kate for Texaco Couture. Did Britney Spears spend all her money on Natty Light and Nappy weave?
Do you remember Britney Spears’s song Overprotected back in the day when she was still heavily controlled by her managers (before she became heavily controlled by substances)? If you haven’t, basically the song is about how sheltered she was in her youth. Then, do you remember when she shaved her head and went all Mary Poppins on some paparazzi? That is either proof that her managers had the right idea, or proof that you shouldn’t shelter a teen popstar, because as soon as they have a little freedom they will go ape-shit.
My theory is that Britney Spears stopped giving a shit a long time ago. Think about it- she walks out of the house wearing the ultimate fashion travesty-denim cutoff shorts and Uggs. She never spends more than $35 on weave. She doesn’t diet or eat right. She gives concerts so lackadaisical that Michael J. Fox has more rhythm. On X Factor, (which I absolutely love btw) she obviously has a stylist, but even with a professional trying to get her together she still looks like a Lousiana ex pageant queen that let herself go, and now sits on her Lazy Boy watching reruns of Toddlers & Tiaras while eating frosting with her fingers. Britney Spears became a millionaire when she was a teenager. She doesn’t give a fuck anymore, and has reverted back to the exact same person she would have been if she had never been famous. And I respect her for that.
But since she gives so few fucks, her fans have stepped in, and defended her personally. Do you remember that little mangina Chris Crocker with his “Leave Britney Alone” diatribe? (sidebar: he is actually hot now, which is some Twilight Zone, Lost, Clockwork Orange bullshit).
I am just saying.
Fans all over the world change their last names to Spears on Facebook and collect photos of her (mostly old photos if you notice). They defend her on message boards, social media sites, and in person. My roommate recently went on a date that visibly blanched every time someone mentioned Beyonce, because he was so obsessed with Britney. People treat her like she’s the village idiot-someone who doesn’t know any better and can’t stand up for herself. Gay guys get in fights over it. Its absolutely ridiculous because she CLEARLY doesn’t care anymore, so I don’t understand why her fans do.
All this is a result of Instagram. Sometimes, when I am watching shows I like to pause the TV just to see what kind of bat-shit faces I can catch people making (yes, sometimes I am even sober when I do this). I uploaded a picture of ole Britsy yesterday and received the comment below. I am in no way posting this to call this guy out (okay, maybe I am calling him out a little, but in fairness he hashtagged that I #needalife when his name is BryanJSpears) (Also, follow me in Instagram @gary_adrian_randall) but I want to point out how ridiculous Britney fans are that they think they need to defend her like she’s some charity case.
News Flash: Britney Spears is sitting in a fucking mansion right now on top of a four wheeler, smoking a Marlboro red, drinking a beer, and watching her kids mud wrestle in her jacuzzi. She doesn’t need your pity. She doesn’t need you to protect her. All she wants is to be left the fuck alone long enough to watch a marathon of “Deadliest Catch”.
I think she has earned that.
I think self-knowledge is a super important thing. In the span of your lifetime, the person you will be spending the most time with is you, so you really have no excuse for not getting to know yourself. I won’t lie–once you get inside your own head you will have to face some of the ugly shit inside. Maybe you used to murder guinea pigs when you were a kid. Maybe as a teenager, you gave yourself an abortion by watching too many episodes of Thats So Raven. Maybe you are insecure, or bitchy, or envious, or all of the above. Whatever it is, you will never be able to get over it/fix it if you don’t first face it.
I am insensitive. That’s my thing. I have been told this in every relationship I have ever been in, including those that only lasted 30 minutes on the side of a freeway below the Mason Dixon line. Considerate things like opening doors, remembering birthdays, or pissing on someone when they are on fire just don’t occur to me naturally. I finally had to ask my friends what they considered my biggest flaw in order to let it sink in. Then, I was able to modify my behavior a little for the sake of my relationships. The moral of the story is, I didn’t even realize I was being a dick. Until I discovered that, there was Read more…
Okay, admittedly this probably really isn’t a photo of Ryan Seacrest, but when I think of his childhood photos, I think of the words gay and fat (PS, every time I try and type the word “gay” I always accidentally type “Gary”. Accident? I’m not so sure). All little Ryan Seacrest wanted when he was a pudgy little kid was to grow up, come out to society at a fabulous debutante ball, marry Luke Perry under the willow trees at his parent’s white slavery plantation in Savannah, Georgia and be a train conductor. Or, get gang-banged by a train of roughneck latinos. Or train for a national Rhythmic Gymnastics championship. Or ride the choco-train to Doo-Doo Brown Town. I forget, it was something with trains.
Anyway, he ended up hosting a national TV show that is sinking faster than the childhood version of him, in a community pool trying to escape the purple cloud of urine that he just squeezed out. Some would call him a great success. I wouldn’t call him at all.
Mostly because I don’t have his phone number.
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Do you know what the worst part of having a closeted gay husband is? Knowing that you don’t have a penis when your husband craves constant cock 24/7. Do you know what the best part of it is? You can blackmail the shit out of him when you get divorced. Now that Katie Holmes’ bearding contract is finally up she filed papers with a quickness. She probably prepared the papers on their wedding night and kept them on a jump drive shoved up her robot snizz in PDF format.
Now, all she has to do is threaten to write a tell-all memoir and (even though their pre-nup is as ironclad as Tom’s industrial strength chrome dildo) she will Read more…
A photo of Channing Tatum before Magic Mike looking gayer than any male stripper ever has a right to look.
Before we jump in, I feel like its my responsibility to reiterate (as if its not obvious by my affinity for chugging cans of Nattie Ice in phone booths) that I am Florida trash too. As many of you may know, Channing Tatum first tasted the glamorous bright lights and sparkly casting couch blowjobs of fame when he was a stripper in Tampa, Florida. I have to honestly say that while I totally get why everyone finds him so fucking hot, I am not that attracted to him. Maybe its because I have seen plenty of Florida strippers, and I am just desensitized to the smell of tanning oil, tramp stamps, and the vision of a slightly out-of shape paunchy straight guy gyrating for dollars in a smoke-filled bar.
Here is my evidence that Channing Tatum is Florida trash:
The Frosted tips: A constant giveaway every time, because if you live in Florida, you need to have at least one streak of blond in your hair, even if you are as black as the Reverend Al Sharpton.
The Buzz cut: Ever wanted to trick a girl into thinking you are in the Military (which translates into: I am not stuck in this town working at Kash N Karry, and I have great benefits so if you poke a hole in the condom and Read more…