Hammered Leigh Alexander to indifferent bar patrons: “I AM game journalism!”

BOSTON, MA — College-age kids and twentysomethings imbibing at Patrick O’Hanhrahan’s Public House were put on notice Friday night by a severely intoxicated Leigh Alexander, who reminded her fellow patrons that she IS gaming journalism.

Maureen Delaney, 22, said she was at the bar with three friends when one of them mentioned receiving a copy of the Kama Sutra as a gift from her boyfriend. Alexander — who had been nodding off a few seats away — sat straight up, then almost fell from her bar stool as she shrieked at Delaney and her friends: “That was MY publication!” Alexander screamed. “I was the fucking editor of Gamasutra!”

Unsure of how to respond — or even what Alexander was talking about — Delaney and her friends said they avoided making eye contact and tried to ignore the outburst, hoping she’d fall asleep again after another shot. But Alexander was enraged.

“That piece of shit site is NOTHING without me,” Alexander said, according to witnesses. “I have a hundred thousand Twitter followers!”

At the urging of Delaney’s friend, 20-year-old Jill Thomas, the bartender tried cutting Alexander off and was picking up the phone to call a cab for the inebriated journalist when Alexander slammed a fist on the bar.

“I won’t have it!” Alexander screamed, according to witnesses. “Do you know who the fuck I am? Do you? Do you who who THE FUCK I am?”

“I AM game journalism!”

Met with blank stares, Alexander whirled around so her back was to the bar and cupped her hands so the rest of the patrons could hear her over the music: “I’m Leigh fucking Alexander! I AM game journalism!”

Most of the bar’s patrons didn’t seem to notice, witnesses said, and a handful of others gave confused shrugs and turned back to their conversations.

“That pissed her the fuck off,” Thomas said.

Bar staff eventually resorted to having the bouncer, 36-year-old DeMarcus “Night Train” Houston, forceably remove Alexander from the bar, witnesses said. The 285-pound bouncer grimaced as he lifted the drunken Alexander onto his shoulder, then carried her out.

“Stop it! Stop it, you fucking hood rat!” Alexander screamed at Houston, sources said. “Do you know who the fuck I am? I’m Leigh fucking Alexander, you piece of shit hood trash!”

“Bitch is heavier than she look,” Houston said before unceremoniously dumping the legendary journalist onto the sidewalk outside.

Okay, who brought the dog?

PZ Myers-owned copy of Skepchick nude calendar now on eBay!

Copies of the now-infamous Skepchick nude calendar are hard to come by these days, but Skepchick fans can now get their hands on a copy previously owned by PZ Myers himself.

Myers, the celebrated evo-devo biologist and popular feminist blogger, is auctioning off his personal copy of the racy calendar as part of the The Pamper Initiative, a fundraiser created to send a dozen people to this year’s Free Thought Convention. The fundraiser aims to cover airfare, hotel and convention fees to the members-only event hosted by popular skeptic and atheist bloggers.

“It’s an item that has enormous sentimental value, obviously,” Myers told reporters. “I’ve always kept it as a reminder that women aren’t objects, and that the female form can be empowering, in this case as a way to raise money for a good cause.”

The original image of Rebecca Watson from the Skepchick nude calendar (left) and the PZ Myers-owned copy up for bid (right).

Bidding started at a modest $150, but by Tuesday — just a day after the auction went live — the highest bid had topped out at $3,216.43.

“Item is classified as fair to worn condition,” the auction description reads. “Cover is faded and scuffed from storage under mattress. The following months on the calendar are either worn, bent or stained: April (Rebecca Watson), June (Greta Christina), September (Amy Roth), and October (Melody Hensley). Pages for June (Greta Christina) and July (Jen McCreight) are joined in some places by organic adhesive. Buyers must agree to purchase calendar as-is, with the understanding that this is a used item. Refunds will not be granted based on item condition.”

More than 300 users posted bids to own PZ Myers’ personal copy of the infamous Skepchick nude calendar.

UNRELEASED COMMENTARY ON GAME OF THRONES BY REBECCA WATSON AND AMANDA MARCOTTE

UNUSED AUDIO COMMENTARY FOR GAME OF THRONES PILOT, “WINTER IS COMING”, RECORDED FALL 2011 BY REBECCA WATSON AND AMANDA MARCOTTE, HBO SPECIAL EDITION BLU-RAY FEATURING 26 SECONDS OF ADDITIONAL FOOTAGE.

PART I

(Editor’s note: This special audio commentary track has never before been released publicly. With Game of Thrones set to return later this week for a fourth season, we thought it would be a real treat for Rebecca’s fans to read a transcript of the commentary she recorded with well-known feminist Amanda Marcotte. Enjoy!)

Amanda Marcotte: This first episode begins with a cold open, right to the action. We see three rough-looking men leading horses through a dark tunnel, emerging in a clearing on the edge of what looks like a forest. It’s winter, obviously. The snows are half a foot deep. And although the program gives us no introduction to these characters, we’ll later learn that they’re members of a quasi-military order.

Rebecca Watson: The Night’s Watch.

AM: Exactly.

RW: An inherently sexist organisation. The Night’s Watch only allows men into its ranks. The majority of them are rapists hauled in from all four corners of Westeros. Not coincidentally, they’re all white. Already we can see what sort of people we’re dealing with here.

AM: They’re armed. Dirty, too. Squalid little men just out for a stroll beyond the Wall, looking to catch wildling women unawares for surprise rape.

RW: That’s a good point. From the bits and pieces of dialog here, it’s clear these men are operating under the pretense of “scouting” the wildlings, but really they’re out to rape. Now one of them comes upon a deserted wildling camp. Ugh, this is horrible. Blood and entrails everywhere. Severed heads, dismembered limbs.

AM: It’s obvious some sort of animal got to them.

RW: A dog probably. Or a Siberian tiger.

A Night’s Watch ranger hallucinates a ghastly scene of slaughter.

AM: And now the ranger is back with his mates, gesticulating wildly and yelling about so-called White Walkers.

RW: The White Walkers of Westeros are akin to the chupacabra of south America, are they not? They exist in stories meant to frighten children. They’re no more real than the Loch Ness monster or Bigfoot. Thankfully, the leader of this ranging group turns out to be a solid skeptic.

AM: He demands evidence of these so-called White Walkers, but there is none.

RW: Indeed. Not a spot of blood. You’d think there would be carnage, but it’s obvious the man was inventing the grisly scene in his head. You have to look at this logically: Not even the White Walkers of legend can slaughter an entire village and spirit away the evidence in a few minutes’ time. It takes time to execute people. When the Catholic Church executed Galileo, it took 20 minutes just to light the pyre.

AM: That’s right. And now these Night’s Watch rapists get their comeuppance in the form of wildling children avenging the rape of their mothers. Seems gratuitously violent, though.

RW: And it’s not entirely clear where these children came from. It feels like a non-sequitur.

AM: Now the opening credits roll, and we’ve arrived at what looks like some sort of domestic scene at Winterfell, the ancestral home of the noble Stark family.

RW: We see the girls of the Stark household forced to knit, while the boys are outside, enjoying the sunshine and practicing archery. Now we see young Brandon Stark holding a bow aloft. Behind him, older brothers Jon and Robb whisper in his ear: “Go on, father’s watching.” Indeed, up above on the balcony, Lord Eddard Stark looks on approvingly as his son is indoctrinated into the cycle of war.

AM: This is, literally, a patriarchy.

RW: That’s right. Poor Bran is learning the first of many hard lessons about manhood in Westeros. This is a land where, if you want to impress your father, violence is the only route.

AM: An arrow is loosed, finding its target. Bullseye!

RW: Oh, I love this scene!

AM: For a few seconds, we’re led to believe Bran hit his mark, but as the camera pans out, we see it was actually the handiwork of Arya, the youngest of the Stark girls. She curtsies, smiling, while still holding her bow. This is a girl who clearly will not confirm to gender norms.

A girl who refuses to conform to gender norms.

RW: Now we learn that one of the three men from that ill-fated Nights Watch expedition has indeed survived, but he’s left his post. That’s a capital crime in Westeros. The boys are brought along to watch Lord Stark behead the deserter.

AM: I’m torn here. On the one hand, this man is a rapist. On the other, he’s been conscripted into a solitary life on the wall by his betters, people who clearly enjoy a position of privilege in Westeros. Oh! Now we see the dire wolves!

RW: One for each Stark child.

AM: Adorable! But no dire wolf pup for Theon, and none for the servants. Clearly, dire wolves are for the privileged.

RW: Technically it’s summer, but the Starks here are bundled up against the cold because Winterfell is so far north. Have you ever wondered why seasons in Westeros last so long?

AM: I have, but I don’t have the scientific expertise you do. Why don’t you take us through it?

RW: Sure. Well, as you know, Earth’s seasons are the direct result of the planet’s elliptical orbit around the sun. Summer happens when the Earth reaches aphelion, its closest point in orbit. The extra heat from being so close to the sun is what gives us those gorgeous 85-degree days in July. Winter, of course, is the opposite — during winter, the Earth is at its greatest distance from the sun in the ellipse.

AM: Interesting. So if Westerosi seasons can last a decade or longer, the planet must occupy a much larger orbit around its star than our Earth, yeah?

RW: Correct. Some people have posited that we’re dealing with a binary star system here, but that would mean the planet in the Game of Thrones universe would have to follow a figure-eight orbit. Binary star systems are also famously inhospitable to life, to the point where astronomers no longer waste their time with those systems in the search for potential life-supporting planets. Ah, but this isn’t an astronomy lesson, and here comes the king!

AM: Finally, the royal train arrives in Winterfell. The King, his retainers, the Hound, and the famously blond Lannisters!

King Robert, head of the Westerosi patriarchy.

RW: Cersei looks fantastic for a woman who’s been riding for a month. Joffrey looks regal, doesn’t he?

AM: Indeed. Much more so than his lecherous father, who is so overstuffed he can’t even dismount from his horse without assistance from his servants. Oh, sorry! I forgot for a second that you and Mark Addy…

RW: It’s okay. No, really. Mark is a great guy, but we’ve gone our separate ways. Anyway, Mark…er, Robert…asks Lord Stark to take him to “the crypts,” an underground, sort of foreboding place where the Stark clan buries its dead.

AM: Like any man who’s had a sex object taken away from him, King Robert is mournful for Leanna Stark, Lord Stark’s late sister. We’re told a man named Rhaegar Targaryan killed poor Leanna, and now we’re beginning to see how dangerous life can be for a Westerosi woman caught between the affections of two men.

RW: We’re not told whether Leanna had a choice in all this.

AM: Of course not. Lord Stark tells the King, “All the Targaryens are dead, Your Grace.” But now we see that’s not true.

RW: Finally! A scene that doesn’t look as if it was shot in dreary Ireland. I fucking hate Ireland.

AM: We learn there are actually two Targaryen alive — Danaerys and her older brother, Viserys. And Viserys has hatched a plan to marry his young sister off to some tribal chieftan in exchange for an army.

 

PLEASE CHECK BACK WITH REBECCA WATSON FAN CLUB FOR PART II OF THIS VERY SPECIAL TRANSCRIPT LATER THIS WEEK!

Rebecca Watson Is Right About JREF, by Uri Geller

By Uri Geller

Special Guest Columnist

Do not try and bend the spoon. That’s impossible. Instead… only try to realize the truth: There is no spoon. Then you’ll see, that it is not the spoon that bends, it is only yourself.

July is rapidly approaching, and like every spring, I find myself counting the days until the James Randi Educational Foundation’s “The Amazing Meeting.”

“But Uri,” you’ll say, “isn’t James Randi your mortal enemy?”

Indeed, he is. But what most people don’t realize is that, endowed with the powers of remote viewing, I attend The Amazing Meeting every year. Using the technique taught to me by the Great Guru Ingo Swann, I am able to activate my Seventh Chakra via the Enchanted Tomes of George Noory, which are engraved in Sanskrit, and commune with the spirit form of Frank Chu, who guides me toward the dimensional gateway of the 12 Galaxies.

Through this sophisticated technique, I am able to visit TAM and collect vital information on the enemy. I’m even able to eat from the buffet table in spirit form, and in 2012 I achieved an earth-shaking orgasm whilst remote viewing into Sarah Mayhew’s hotel room shower. Upon climaxing, I transfigurated lotus flowers with my spirit sperm and recreated the bathroom floor as a dewy meadow, achieving nirvana as sweet Sarah’s nude form shimmered like opalescent lilies in the lake of the palace of the celestial maidens.

I’ve also…seen things. Things no man should be made to endure. In fact, I was meditating on the anima of another favorite muse (known to me as Anandmurti Guramaa, and to you as Rebecca Watson), when I was confronted with a most disturbing vision: I saw the most base bacchanalia, presided over by Evil Incarnate in the form of a white-bearded man seated on a throne of silver with a young, naked boy on each knee. “Science!” the devil breathed as he sniffed a juvenile armpit.

Then I heard anguished cries, and turned to see Three Subsequent Visions of Anandmurti Watson: In the first apparition, Guru Watson was trapped in a small enclosure, perhaps 10 feet by 10 feet, with an aggressive bear wearing a JREF t-shirt. The Guru screamed and jabbed desperately at a panel of illuminated circles on the wall as the bear asked her to coffee. In the second vision, Guru Rebecca stood atop a raised dais, imparting wisdom to a rapt crowd in a vast hall. As she spoke, green-finned serpents slithered toward her from behind, but she did not see them — not until it was too late, and the Guru was groped, grabbed and touched in other non-consensual ways.

Finally, the third apparition — men, all of them old and white, stood in judgment of Guru Anandmurti Guramaa Watson. They called the Guru a liar, and through vile sorcery interrupted her incantations of the Spell of Safe Space. Guru Watson ran screaming, and the men cackled maniacally.

Through Guru Rebecca’s tireless work, the world now knows that James Randi his JREF Minions are content to blame the victims of touching in non-consensual ways. Nay, it is not enough to blame them — Guru Rebecca has taught us that, when presented with a victim, they refuse to even acknowledge an atrocity took place! In the words of another great guru, Peeznavanda Saraswati: They do not believe the victims!

And yet now I, Uri Geller, offer truth. This is my first-hand, third-eye-witness account, based upon my experiences remote viewing into the dark corners and showers of The Amazing Meeting, where the Minions of Randi feel most comfortable being themselves because they believe no one is watching. I have remote viewed since TAM 3, ghost-walking among the attendees during the conference’s glory days, and faithfully attending on the spirit plain even the last few years, when attendance was 98% male and the banquet rooms smelled of Axe and smug.

No, I say to you, James Randi has not changed his habits of unwanted physical contact, not since the day when he touched my spoons on the Tonight Show in 1973.

Uri Geller is a psychic and Lvl. 85 Wizard who was the inspiration for the character Neo in The Matrix trilogy of films. He was gifted paranormal powers by benevolent extraterrestrials, a fact confirmed by scientists Russell Targ and Harold Puthoff of Stanford University, and has been in the employ of the FBI and CIA, using his abilities to erase KGB documents and track serial killers. He considers himself a defender of the mystic arts, an ardent supporter of Guru Rebecca Anandmurti Guramaa Watson, and the prime detester of James Randi and the rapscallions who serve as his henchmen. Mr. Geller believes James Randi is a relic of “old skepticism,” and embraces as new skeptical order headed by more prestigious modern-day skeptic leaders like Guru Watson.

Watson drubs MRA scrub in Skeptic Battle Raps XVI: The Wreckoning

It was the punchline heard ’round the world.

Rebecca Watson was looking to cruise through this year’s Skeptic Battle Raps semi-finals en route to another championship, but MRA stalwart and speed-flow specialist Gary “The Rapist” Bayless was having none of it.

“It’s second nature to me, they call me the Atheist Chief,” Bayless rhymed, “Imma magna cum loud,  all over your communications degree!”

As the crowd erupted into a collective “DAMN!” and Bayless clutched for half a bar to let the laughter die down, judges D.J. Grothe and Phil “Thundaf00t” Mason were doubled over in fits of manginular giggles. At one point, Mason was able to suppress his laughter enough to stand up and declare, “Bitch got SERVED!” to the delight of the angry men in the crowd.

Rebecca Watson, feminism’s shining light. Little known fact? Also dope on the mic.

Watson, face reddened with embarrassment, wasn’t deterred. The eight-time champion issued a blistering salvo, telling Bayless that wack isn’t just what he is, “wack is what you do alone in your room at night!”

“This is new ground for the both of us,” Watson rapped, “so don’t act like a wussy. I don’t wreck many rookies, you don’t get any pussy. Little birdie just fly away, another woman won’t give you the time of day! Bitch, this battle is over: Mangina Raped!”

The venue shook with the delivery of Watson’s final stanza, punctuated by the shrieks of feminist icon Amanda Marcotte, who cheered Watson on from the rear of the crowd where she lounged with a martini, held aloft in a palanquin by a bevy of well-muscled and shirtless men. What followed was a surreal scene as Watson crowd-surfed during a spirited 20-minute ovation. A clearly shaken Grothe took to the podium but was unable to command the attention or respect of the crowd until Watson herself silenced them.

“Let us hear what this man has to say, shall we?” Watson asked.

Grothe, appearing shaken, prostrated himself before Watson on the stage. Watson settled back into a throne that was quickly carried on stage by emasculated MRA activists and, as she fed candied figs to one of her three dragons, settled her gaze onto Grothe.

“Speak.”

Grothe’s mouth moved, but no words would come. In desperation, the humbled misogynist looked to Mason for help, but the might “Thunderf00t” was frozen in fear, a pool of terror-piss forming  beneath his feet as Watson’s dragons roared.