Tuesday, November 14, 2006
From the Smith College vault: Tangling with the Dead Gays
People seem to like my stories about Smith, and since very little has gone on with me lately besides work, work, work (and who the hell wants to hear about my mice? NOBODY, myself included), I figured that I would relate one instead of talking about how lame my life is at present. Besides, I was thinking of this because that fat little bastard Chingy! got into a box that had some of my old college photos and letters in it, and cleaning up the destroyed remnants of assorted college treasures (such as the masticated remnants of my old Metallica And Justice For All tape) that he scattered all over the floor inspired a wave of reminiscing. I ended up grabbing my old binder of my newspaper clippings from my Smith days and leafing through it.
My senior year, I wrote a column for The Sophian, our page-turner of a newspaper, called "Angie's Weekly Rant," which was sort of the proto-RazzyBlog, except with less swearing. Since I was the associate editor, I would strongarm the editorial board into letting me write about whatever the fuck I felt like. This meant that every week, I would get half a page in the Op/Ed section to bitch about whatever was pissing me off that week. That meant that sometimes I tackled "real" issues (ie: articles entitled "Family weekend is a crock") and other times I just tore apart people who I didn't like (ie: "Morrow: Worst of the Quad"). Right before Christmas 1999, the Y2K hysteria was in full effect, and I decided to compile a list of reasons why I hoped the world was ending. It was like the Razzy version of Martin Luther's nailing his theses to the cathedral at Wittenburg, but instead of complaining about the selling of indulgences, simony, lay investiture, etc., I took issue with virtually every flavor of stupid cunt at Smith. I had 99 problems, and a bitch could account for every single one of them.
(P.S. I know this didn't scan well but that's what you get when you pay <$100 for a shitty HP printer/copier/scanner)
In this article, "Waiting patiently for the Apocalypse", I basically had a bulleted list of all the things that make me mad or annoy me, such as "annoying introspective female folk/pop singers", "MTV game shows which simulate our judicial system", "Jewel's burgeoning career as a poet and actress," "idiotic discourse on how to shave your pubic hair on the Smith Daily Jolt (Smith-specific internet bulletin/message board)," and "dirty hippies." Like I said, this was the proto-RazzyBlog. Anyway, one of the things I listed was "dead gay performance art," which immediately got me into hot water with the Dead Gays.
Every year there was a party in the Quad, where I lived, called Celebration of Sisterhood. It was started in response to a "homophobic incident" in the early 90s, where some retarded cow started distributing signs that said something along the lines of "Smithies, reclaim your pearls and penny loafers!", insinuating that the increasingly vocal lesbian population on campus had no business being at Smith, and that the college would be better served to hearken back to a time when it was a blueblooded finishing school producing mainly upper crust wives and suicidal poets. I mean, what would Anne Morrow Lindbergh or Nancy Reagan say about all these muff divers running around with their shaved heads, Doc Martens, and pride rings?!?!
Anyway, the lesbians and "allies" (straight people who are down with the gays) fought back by staging the Celebration of Sisterhood, which was a combined candlelight vigil/Quad house sketch comedy and talent show. Mainly it was an excuse to get drunk and feel all warm and fuzzy about getting along with people, as well as an excellent opportunity for the curious to give kissing a girl a try. However, my senior year, a group of pretentious snatches decided that Celebration of Sisterhood was sending the wrong message, and decided to crash it.
All of a sudden, Wilson House was in the middle of a skit about acceptance or whatever, when all these bitches storm the stage wearing black robes and white skeleton-esque face paint. Their costumes looked like a cross between a Carmelite nun and the Halloween costumes that Johnny and his henchman from the Kobra Kai dojo wear in the first part of The Karate Kid, where they beat the living shit out of Daniel-san.
Anyway, these people started swarming through the crowd handing out flyers that said "Resist heteronormativity!" and "Marriage=Death", then performed some type of grim funerary wedding mock ritual thing...I think. I remember not having any idea what the fuck they were doing, while simultaneously my Smith Dumb Bitch detector was going berserk. When they left the stage, I think they were all congratulating themselves at having done something revolutionary and groundbreaking. However, most of the people in the crowd were just puzzled, not having any idea what their point was. Were they against straight people? Or marriage? Or gay people acting straight? Or gay marriage? What were they getting at? Was "heteronormativity" even a real fucking word?? Their propaganda sheets and presentation were unclear and confusing, so people just shrugged and went back to the cute "we're sisters...yay!"-themed skits and then got drunk and fingerbanged their friends, or whatever. I probably went back to my room and took bong hits and then hit a bar with my boyfriend Benzo.
Anyway, a couple days later, the people behind this disruption identified themselves in the school events calendar as the Dead Gays, and scheduled a "panel teach-in" about their message to clarify why in the hell they interrupted Celebration of Sisterhood. Much to their disappointment, nobody showed up except most of the Sophian editorial staff, who apart from being there to report the story, had been having lots of fun at the Dead Gays' expense during editorial board meetings. The girl who was reporting the news story asked the who, what, when, where, how, and most importantly, why questions, and they went off on some incomprehensible tirade about "performance art pieces facilitating a revolution against conformity" that made no sense. Every time the news reporter would ask, "So, was this intended as art, or as a political statement?" she'd get a bullshit answer like "Neither, and both," and then a heaping helping of condescending artfag gibberish.
Then it was my turn. I raised my hand and began with, "I'm Razzy, and I write an opinion column in the Sophian, and I have a few que-"
The Head Dead Gay in charge raised her hand to silence me (thus instantly earning my eternal disdain), then said in her frostiest possible tone, "We know who you are."
Hmmm....I guess the Dead Gays, some of whom lived in Talbot House, didn't like the article I wrote about their Immorality party in which I discussed their "infirm physiques", their "mediocre DJ and unfriendly, extremely paranoid bartenders," and quoted a male partygoer complaining about "too many fat girls in tight clothes, the girl pouring the keg had a happy strip bigger than mine". It's also possible that they were pissed off by one or more of my many other Sophian editorials, most of which had titles like "Veganism fails to stop human suffering" and "Keep depleting that ozone", not to mention my status as the paper's official "Republican" (I was the closest thing to an actual Republican, what with my ideas about small government and lower taxes, and I liked McCain) in the political point-counterpoint section. In any event, the Dead Gays made their dislike for me quite clear.
"Okay," I said, preparing myself for a hostile exchange. "So, what exactly was the point of your little performance?"
"It was a performance art piece," said the Head Dead Gay.
"Yes, I heard that, but what exactly was it about? What did you hope to accomplish with it?" I asked.
Head Dead Gay and her cohorts all looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then started rattling off more nonsensical bullshit about how performance art doesn't have to have a point, as it is just a means of expression. "What were you trying to express?" I asked. It went on like this for several minutes, with them getting becoming more convoluted and patronizing by the second, and me getting progressively more irritated by the bitch's tone.
I should have known better than to expect any kind of straight answer from the Dead Gays. The Head Dead Gay was this artsy BDOC (Big Dyke on Campus) named K8 Hardy. I'm sure her name was originally Katherine or something, but undoubtedly spelling her name in the style of a text message gave her some authentic artist street cred. It's lucky that K8 has continued her career as a pretentious artfag, because there is no shortage of pictures of her dressed like a fucking idiot when you Google "K8 Hardy".
For example, in this photo, she manages to offset her crotchless pants with the face and hair of the walking dead. I'm betting she totally hired one of George A. Romero's effects guys to style this shoot. I can almost hear her thinking, "Come on, K8, channel your inner uppity feminist zombie, channel it!"
There's also this downright disgusting picture of K8's lopsided tits and stank crotch. I honestly can't tell if that's her gash I can see through these underwear or a fresh period stain, but either way, EWWWW! I just lost my appetite. I love me some naked chicks, but I'd say this definitely falls under the rubric of BAD NUDITY. Close your legs, ho, and while you're at it, SHAVE THEM!
If you just swallowed your vomit, then relax, this next picture isn't gross, unless you're disgusted by shameless plagiarism and unnecessary displays of tricep definition. It's just K8 Hardy biting the personal style of Jeffrey Sebelia, equally smug deconstructionist tool and "Project Runway" winner:
And this last one, in which K8 Hardy attends the annual outdoor costume picnic of the American Association of Performance Tardists dressed as a combination of Kermit the Frog, that guy from A Clockwork Orange, and Stands with a Fist from Dances With Wolves, is my favorite. Bitch totally stuffed her codpiece. Wait for it, wait for it...
Anyway, that's the Head Dead Gay. She was such an insufferably obnoxious cunt at the Dead Gays' "panel teach-in" that I immediately added a line in my Sophian column about the end of the world listing "Dead Gay performance art" as a reason why I was eagerly waiting for the Apocalypse.
The Dead Gays were not pleased about this. For one thing, the news article about them was very small and, since they didn't give us a coherent explanation about whatever the hell it was they were trying to accomplish besides getting people's undivided (and totally befuddled) attention, it made it sound as though that were the only point they were trying to make. For another, I think they were pissed that they were included on my pro-Apocalypse list between "the Zappa children" and "aerosol cheese," as it all meant that we DIDN'T TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY.
For the rest of the year, the Dead Gays tried all sorts of passive aggressive shit to get back at us. After Senior Ball, they showed up at the afterparty LL Cool Jew and Wmania were having at their campus apartment and tried to bring in this giant cardboard wave decoration thing they stole from the dance (Senior Ball's theme was "Enchantment Under the Sea"...just like in Back to the Future, I shit you not). They were causing all sorts of trouble by being assholes to all of the guests. I remember getting into it with K8 Hardy and her monstrously fat, mustachioed dyke-along Monica, and being about this close to bathing them in my bottom-shelf gin and tonic. Finally, Wmania had enough, got bossy, and told them to leave. When they refused, she took the big cardboard wave they brought and threw it off the back staircase. When they went after it, she locked them out.
The night before we graduated, I threw a party on the Jordan second floor and those bitches showed up to drink the keg beer I bought with my "Award for excellence in research in microbiology and immunology" prize money. Since we had to move out soon, my shit was all over my room in the packing process. Those skanks brazenly walked into my room and started competing in feats of strength involving lifting my deer head. My deer head is one of my most prized possessions (it's still on my wall to this day), even if it is only a 6-point buck, so I'd be damned if it was going to get a cracked antler or something at the hands of a Dead Gay. I tossed them out with the help of the rest of the party (I think that one of the townies there may have given them an impromptu beer shower), and pretty much forgot about them.
However, when I attended my two-year reunion (Smith has reunions all the time to milk the alumnae for the sake of our endowment), LL Cool Jew brought us to some campus party in the very apartment where KatieScarlett and Miss Corbutt used to live. I quickly realized whose party it was...Monica, K8 Hardy's obese sidekick. She was still fat, still ugly, and still hadn't waxed off her pube 'stache. Fortunately, Benzo's stepbrother and his male friends from Vassar were with us, and they were fucking with so many Smith girls that ultimately Public Safety kicked us all out. On our way out, Wmania and I managed to swipe some typed up "sexual manifesto" off their apartment corkboard, which we read aloud outside to our hysterical drunken delight. Given that it was three pages of bad metaphors about lady unicorns in caves, it was apparent that this bitch had never had sex beyond the few times when she likely had too much peach schnapps and engaged in some reckless boobmashing with some equally repellant demi-Dead Gay.
According to Google, K8 Hardy lives in New York, so it's always possible that I could run into her. In fact, being that I associate with some artfags myself (although KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser are actually good at what they do and are not so pretentious as to try to claim that pictures of some old pervert whacking off is anything but a jerker, and Miss Corbutt doesn't really frequent the artfag circuit), it's always possible that our paths could cross at some sort of art function. If and when I see K8, I'm going to hope that narcissistic slut has come across this by Googling herself, so that we can throw down just like back in the 'Hamp. It's ALWAYS good times fucking with stupid Smith bitches. Always.
My senior year, I wrote a column for The Sophian, our page-turner of a newspaper, called "Angie's Weekly Rant," which was sort of the proto-RazzyBlog, except with less swearing. Since I was the associate editor, I would strongarm the editorial board into letting me write about whatever the fuck I felt like. This meant that every week, I would get half a page in the Op/Ed section to bitch about whatever was pissing me off that week. That meant that sometimes I tackled "real" issues (ie: articles entitled "Family weekend is a crock") and other times I just tore apart people who I didn't like (ie: "Morrow: Worst of the Quad"). Right before Christmas 1999, the Y2K hysteria was in full effect, and I decided to compile a list of reasons why I hoped the world was ending. It was like the Razzy version of Martin Luther's nailing his theses to the cathedral at Wittenburg, but instead of complaining about the selling of indulgences, simony, lay investiture, etc., I took issue with virtually every flavor of stupid cunt at Smith. I had 99 problems, and a bitch could account for every single one of them.
(P.S. I know this didn't scan well but that's what you get when you pay <$100 for a shitty HP printer/copier/scanner)
In this article, "Waiting patiently for the Apocalypse", I basically had a bulleted list of all the things that make me mad or annoy me, such as "annoying introspective female folk/pop singers", "MTV game shows which simulate our judicial system", "Jewel's burgeoning career as a poet and actress," "idiotic discourse on how to shave your pubic hair on the Smith Daily Jolt (Smith-specific internet bulletin/message board)," and "dirty hippies." Like I said, this was the proto-RazzyBlog. Anyway, one of the things I listed was "dead gay performance art," which immediately got me into hot water with the Dead Gays.
Every year there was a party in the Quad, where I lived, called Celebration of Sisterhood. It was started in response to a "homophobic incident" in the early 90s, where some retarded cow started distributing signs that said something along the lines of "Smithies, reclaim your pearls and penny loafers!", insinuating that the increasingly vocal lesbian population on campus had no business being at Smith, and that the college would be better served to hearken back to a time when it was a blueblooded finishing school producing mainly upper crust wives and suicidal poets. I mean, what would Anne Morrow Lindbergh or Nancy Reagan say about all these muff divers running around with their shaved heads, Doc Martens, and pride rings?!?!
Anyway, the lesbians and "allies" (straight people who are down with the gays) fought back by staging the Celebration of Sisterhood, which was a combined candlelight vigil/Quad house sketch comedy and talent show. Mainly it was an excuse to get drunk and feel all warm and fuzzy about getting along with people, as well as an excellent opportunity for the curious to give kissing a girl a try. However, my senior year, a group of pretentious snatches decided that Celebration of Sisterhood was sending the wrong message, and decided to crash it.
All of a sudden, Wilson House was in the middle of a skit about acceptance or whatever, when all these bitches storm the stage wearing black robes and white skeleton-esque face paint. Their costumes looked like a cross between a Carmelite nun and the Halloween costumes that Johnny and his henchman from the Kobra Kai dojo wear in the first part of The Karate Kid, where they beat the living shit out of Daniel-san.
Anyway, these people started swarming through the crowd handing out flyers that said "Resist heteronormativity!" and "Marriage=Death", then performed some type of grim funerary wedding mock ritual thing...I think. I remember not having any idea what the fuck they were doing, while simultaneously my Smith Dumb Bitch detector was going berserk. When they left the stage, I think they were all congratulating themselves at having done something revolutionary and groundbreaking. However, most of the people in the crowd were just puzzled, not having any idea what their point was. Were they against straight people? Or marriage? Or gay people acting straight? Or gay marriage? What were they getting at? Was "heteronormativity" even a real fucking word?? Their propaganda sheets and presentation were unclear and confusing, so people just shrugged and went back to the cute "we're sisters...yay!"-themed skits and then got drunk and fingerbanged their friends, or whatever. I probably went back to my room and took bong hits and then hit a bar with my boyfriend Benzo.
Anyway, a couple days later, the people behind this disruption identified themselves in the school events calendar as the Dead Gays, and scheduled a "panel teach-in" about their message to clarify why in the hell they interrupted Celebration of Sisterhood. Much to their disappointment, nobody showed up except most of the Sophian editorial staff, who apart from being there to report the story, had been having lots of fun at the Dead Gays' expense during editorial board meetings. The girl who was reporting the news story asked the who, what, when, where, how, and most importantly, why questions, and they went off on some incomprehensible tirade about "performance art pieces facilitating a revolution against conformity" that made no sense. Every time the news reporter would ask, "So, was this intended as art, or as a political statement?" she'd get a bullshit answer like "Neither, and both," and then a heaping helping of condescending artfag gibberish.
Then it was my turn. I raised my hand and began with, "I'm Razzy, and I write an opinion column in the Sophian, and I have a few que-"
The Head Dead Gay in charge raised her hand to silence me (thus instantly earning my eternal disdain), then said in her frostiest possible tone, "We know who you are."
Hmmm....I guess the Dead Gays, some of whom lived in Talbot House, didn't like the article I wrote about their Immorality party in which I discussed their "infirm physiques", their "mediocre DJ and unfriendly, extremely paranoid bartenders," and quoted a male partygoer complaining about "too many fat girls in tight clothes, the girl pouring the keg had a happy strip bigger than mine". It's also possible that they were pissed off by one or more of my many other Sophian editorials, most of which had titles like "Veganism fails to stop human suffering" and "Keep depleting that ozone", not to mention my status as the paper's official "Republican" (I was the closest thing to an actual Republican, what with my ideas about small government and lower taxes, and I liked McCain) in the political point-counterpoint section. In any event, the Dead Gays made their dislike for me quite clear.
"Okay," I said, preparing myself for a hostile exchange. "So, what exactly was the point of your little performance?"
"It was a performance art piece," said the Head Dead Gay.
"Yes, I heard that, but what exactly was it about? What did you hope to accomplish with it?" I asked.
Head Dead Gay and her cohorts all looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then started rattling off more nonsensical bullshit about how performance art doesn't have to have a point, as it is just a means of expression. "What were you trying to express?" I asked. It went on like this for several minutes, with them getting becoming more convoluted and patronizing by the second, and me getting progressively more irritated by the bitch's tone.
I should have known better than to expect any kind of straight answer from the Dead Gays. The Head Dead Gay was this artsy BDOC (Big Dyke on Campus) named K8 Hardy. I'm sure her name was originally Katherine or something, but undoubtedly spelling her name in the style of a text message gave her some authentic artist street cred. It's lucky that K8 has continued her career as a pretentious artfag, because there is no shortage of pictures of her dressed like a fucking idiot when you Google "K8 Hardy".
For example, in this photo, she manages to offset her crotchless pants with the face and hair of the walking dead. I'm betting she totally hired one of George A. Romero's effects guys to style this shoot. I can almost hear her thinking, "Come on, K8, channel your inner uppity feminist zombie, channel it!"
If you just swallowed your vomit, then relax, this next picture isn't gross, unless you're disgusted by shameless plagiarism and unnecessary displays of tricep definition. It's just K8 Hardy biting the personal style of Jeffrey Sebelia, equally smug deconstructionist tool and "Project Runway" winner:Anyway, that's the Head Dead Gay. She was such an insufferably obnoxious cunt at the Dead Gays' "panel teach-in" that I immediately added a line in my Sophian column about the end of the world listing "Dead Gay performance art" as a reason why I was eagerly waiting for the Apocalypse.
The Dead Gays were not pleased about this. For one thing, the news article about them was very small and, since they didn't give us a coherent explanation about whatever the hell it was they were trying to accomplish besides getting people's undivided (and totally befuddled) attention, it made it sound as though that were the only point they were trying to make. For another, I think they were pissed that they were included on my pro-Apocalypse list between "the Zappa children" and "aerosol cheese," as it all meant that we DIDN'T TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY.
For the rest of the year, the Dead Gays tried all sorts of passive aggressive shit to get back at us. After Senior Ball, they showed up at the afterparty LL Cool Jew and Wmania were having at their campus apartment and tried to bring in this giant cardboard wave decoration thing they stole from the dance (Senior Ball's theme was "Enchantment Under the Sea"...just like in Back to the Future, I shit you not). They were causing all sorts of trouble by being assholes to all of the guests. I remember getting into it with K8 Hardy and her monstrously fat, mustachioed dyke-along Monica, and being about this close to bathing them in my bottom-shelf gin and tonic. Finally, Wmania had enough, got bossy, and told them to leave. When they refused, she took the big cardboard wave they brought and threw it off the back staircase. When they went after it, she locked them out.
The night before we graduated, I threw a party on the Jordan second floor and those bitches showed up to drink the keg beer I bought with my "Award for excellence in research in microbiology and immunology" prize money. Since we had to move out soon, my shit was all over my room in the packing process. Those skanks brazenly walked into my room and started competing in feats of strength involving lifting my deer head. My deer head is one of my most prized possessions (it's still on my wall to this day), even if it is only a 6-point buck, so I'd be damned if it was going to get a cracked antler or something at the hands of a Dead Gay. I tossed them out with the help of the rest of the party (I think that one of the townies there may have given them an impromptu beer shower), and pretty much forgot about them.
However, when I attended my two-year reunion (Smith has reunions all the time to milk the alumnae for the sake of our endowment), LL Cool Jew brought us to some campus party in the very apartment where KatieScarlett and Miss Corbutt used to live. I quickly realized whose party it was...Monica, K8 Hardy's obese sidekick. She was still fat, still ugly, and still hadn't waxed off her pube 'stache. Fortunately, Benzo's stepbrother and his male friends from Vassar were with us, and they were fucking with so many Smith girls that ultimately Public Safety kicked us all out. On our way out, Wmania and I managed to swipe some typed up "sexual manifesto" off their apartment corkboard, which we read aloud outside to our hysterical drunken delight. Given that it was three pages of bad metaphors about lady unicorns in caves, it was apparent that this bitch had never had sex beyond the few times when she likely had too much peach schnapps and engaged in some reckless boobmashing with some equally repellant demi-Dead Gay.
According to Google, K8 Hardy lives in New York, so it's always possible that I could run into her. In fact, being that I associate with some artfags myself (although KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser are actually good at what they do and are not so pretentious as to try to claim that pictures of some old pervert whacking off is anything but a jerker, and Miss Corbutt doesn't really frequent the artfag circuit), it's always possible that our paths could cross at some sort of art function. If and when I see K8, I'm going to hope that narcissistic slut has come across this by Googling herself, so that we can throw down just like back in the 'Hamp. It's ALWAYS good times fucking with stupid Smith bitches. Always.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, feminazism, Razzification, retard rage, Smith College Vault, stank vaginas
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PLEASE don't ever put a picture of a foul, gross, disgusting, sickening vag like that up here ever again. I almost yakked! EWWWW IS RIGHT!
# posted by 
: 11/15/2006 2:49 PM
: 11/15/2006 2:49 PM
i'm positive that's a period stain. she should take off those dollar sign panties because there is nothing money about being oto lazy to put in a tampon. gross.
# posted by : 11/15/2006 7:11 PM
: 11/15/2006 7:11 PM
dude. you forgot the part where one of the dead gays ordered a drink from w. ORDERED A DRINK FROM HER.
# posted by : 11/16/2006 9:45 AM
: 11/16/2006 9:45 AM
I was there. May I say, my people, I was there. BUT, it was the very first year that I did not participate in the Monk-n-dorm comedy hour, which is how we did the resta them Celbrazioni - and also that shame, SHAME on K8 - there was another Smith chicken who was actually named thus (less the arabic numerals) and she was a fine woman. The gays are dead. Long live the.
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