Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Jon Lester
DOB: January 7, 1984
Occupation: pitcher for the Boston Red Sox
Hometown: Puyallup, Washington AKA MY HOMETOWN
Current residence: Boston, Assachusetts
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Much as I'm loath to give "Daily Dude" status to any jackass in a Red Sox uniform, I can't sit idly by and not give a shout-out to Jon Lester, current baseball pride of the P-N-Dub. Like me, he was born and raised in beautiful Puyallup, Washington, and also like me, he went to Bellarmine Preparatory School in Tacoma, Washington (LION PRIDE, BABY!). In 2006, he beat lymphoma, in 2007 he pitched the final (winning) game of the World Series, and just this Monday, he pitched a no-hitter against the Royals. He's the first left-handed Red Sox pitcher to do so since 1956, and the 18th pitcher in team history to do so.
Being in such limited company in Red Sox record books is certainly impressive. The Red Sox may as well be a damn geologic formation, their history is so epic. Back when I was dating Benzo, all I ever heard about was bitching and moaning about how somehow the Red Sox got screwed out of this or that X times since 1901 or whenever. In fact, three years of sleeping with a diehard Red Sox-loving native Masshole resulted in my absolutely HATING them. On the rare occasions that Benzo and I fought, it usually had something to do with the Red Sox. The only time he ever hung up on me was when I said "How about those Indians?" after Cleveland knocked the Sox out of the American League divisional playoffs in 1998. Another time that we went to see the Mariners play the Sox at Fenway, he was a bitchy grouch the entire ride back to Northampton after the game because the Mariners had the audacity to win. As far as I'm concerned, the Red Sox are harbingers of NO SEX, and there's nothing hot about that.
However, since Jon Lester is blessing Red Sox Nation with his Puyallup-bred and Bellarmine-honed pitching style, I have to begrudgingly admit that there's at least one stud worthy of my approval in a Boston uniform. It could be a lot worse; he could play for the Yankees, in which case, he'd be beyond redemption. At least this way, those of us born doing the Puyallup can finally have some self-respect and brag about a professional athlete whose name doesn't end in "Huard." Okay, fine, nobody was bragging about them anyway. Except when I wear my dad's old Brock Huard Seahawks jersey to bed, but since I only do that when nobody is around to see, that hardly counts as "bragging."
Labels: Assachusetts, Benzo, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Do the Puyallup, fuck the Yankees, sportsmen
Friday, February 01, 2008
Daily Douchebag: the New England Patriots...AGAIN
DOB: 1960, but the modern era of the Patriot scourge began in 2000 when Bill Belichick signed on as head coach
Occupation: existing as the most hateworthy team in the history of professional football next to the 2005 Shitsburgh Stealers
Hometown: Boston, Assachusetts
Current residence: Glendale, Arizona
Douchebaggery: I HATE THE FUCKING PATRIOTS SO GODDAMN MUCH! I really, really, deeply, wholeheartedly LOATHE them. All season I've been channeling as much negative energy in their direction as possible. They continued to dominate. I've douchebagged them on my blog. They kept winning. I've talked all sorts of smack to every Pats fan that has crossed my path. They won and bragged about it. I made an ill-advised wager on the Patriots-Dolphins game in week 16 that resulted in my public humiliation. Ultimately I threw a few Hail Marys of my own in the form of prayers to Jesus, Mary, God the Father, the Holy Spirit, and every saint I could think of to intervene and teach them some humility. The Pats had a perfect season. Not even Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes, could hook a bitch up with a solitary Pats loss. And now those assholes are going to the Super Bowl.
I hate the insufferably obnoxious Patriots fans, who are right up there with Yankees fans for me. I hate everyone affiliated with the team in any way. I hate Bill Belichick's unethical, taciturn, slovenly ass. I hate Tom Brady, I hate Randy Moss, I hate Tedy Bruschi, I hate Stephen Gostkowski, I hate Mike Vrabel, I hate Rodney Harrison, and I even hate Junior Seau! I hate Bob Kraft and I hate Scott Pioli and I hate Pat Patriot and I even hate the cheerleaders! I HATE THEM ALL! Why? I don't even really know. I just know that I do.
Obviously, come Sunday I will be rooting for the Giants. This will be challenging for me, because while I don't hate the Giants with the same vitriolic gusto that I reserve for the Patriots, Colts, and Stealers, the Giants have historically been one of my go-to teams for mocking. Encouraging Eli Manning to be sharp, perceptive, and awesome goes against my instinct for having fun at his Fetal Alcohol Syndrome-having expense. This ambivalence is reflected here in a recent Gchat I had with LL Cool Jew:
LL Cool Jew: don't mean to interrupt you again but i had to share this tidbit from the nyt story on eli manning and his upbringing:It goes against everything natural in my world to wish success on a member of the Manning family, but I will root for FAS and love every minute that I see his slack-jawed dullard face so long as he runs up the score against the Patriots. The Pats MUST lose! The amount of aggressive arrogance that will emerge from New England if they actually win the Super Bowl could well be powerful enough to destroy the entire planet.
LL Cool Jew: It was not the first time Manning and his mother had bonded over stories. Long before he learned to read defenses, Manning struggled to decipher Dr. Seuss. “I had trouble reading,” he said.
LL Cool Jew: what a surprise.
LL Cool Jew: xoxo
Razzy: PRICELESS
Razzy: classic FAS
LL Cool Jew: how hilarious is it
LL Cool Jew: he scored a 39 out of 50 on the Wonderlic test
LL Cool Jew: which i just took
LL Cool Jew: and scored 100percent on in less than 5 minutes
Razzy: LOL
LL Cool Jew: even with my weak quantitative skills dude
Razzy: that is AWESOME
LL Cool Jew: have you taken it? it is SO DUMB
Razzy: what's wonderlics, precious, eh?
LL Cool Jew: it's apparently the intelligence test the nfl administers to draft prospects!
LL Cool Jew: how about peyton scored 11 points LOWER THAN ELI
Razzy: are you kidding????
LL Cool Jew: that's what the nyt article said!!
Razzy: how did i not know about this?
LL Cool Jew: i'm not sure!
Razzy: dude i'm bringing this up from now on EVERY TIME someone is like "peyton manning has such a sharp mind"
[Two minutes later]
Razzy: dewd i just scored 100% on the wonderlic test in less than 2 minutes
Razzy: i'm so much smarter than brian griese
Razzy: and both bros manning
Razzy: combined
LL Cool Jew: omg right??
Razzy: dude i should be a nfl QB
Razzy: too bad i'm not a boy :(
Razzy: i'm even smarter than steve young and dan marino
Razzy: and brett favre and drew bledsoe
LL Cool Jew: i take it you took teh test
LL Cool Jew: it's amazing these people can't answer these kinds of questions.
Razzy: oh yes
Razzy: 50, baby!
Razzy: i'm used to taking harder IQ tests
Razzy: this is like easier than the SAT
LL Cool Jew: i know!
LL Cool Jew: even I could do it1
Razzy: brett favre only got a 22
LL Cool Jew: that is so mississippi dude
Razzy: HA marcus vick, michael's bro, scored ELEVEN
LL Cool Jew: how is that even possible
LL Cool Jew: you have to not even try
LL Cool Jew: the wonderlic.
LL Cool Jew: hilarity
Razzy: it's pathetic dude
Razzy: but it proves you don't have to be smart to succeed as a nfl qb
Razzy: and smarts don't guarantee good performance on field
Razzy: cases in point:
Razzy: alex smith
Razzy: jp losman
Razzy: joey harrington scored in the high 30s
Razzy: meanwhile, david garrard got a whopping 14
LL Cool Jew: yeah, and who the f are they
LL Cool Jew: they ain't leaders of men, that's for sure
Razzy: don't forget sage rosenfels with 32
Razzy: (rosenfels=i think he's a jew!)
Razzy: michael vick=20
Razzy: i'm surprised it's that high
Razzy: arrrgh, tom brady did comparatively well at 33
Razzy: hate hate hate
LL Cool Jew: ew of course he did mr perfect
Razzy: whatever, we got 50!
Razzy: ha, tom brady!
Razzy: we're smarter than tom brady
Razzy: stupid dumb tom brady
Razzy: and whatever tom brady
Razzy: FAS Manning got a 39!
At least the Boston Globe's premature confidence in victory bodes well. This was on Amazon yesterday, until it got pulled after the Boston sports blogs went batshit crazy about it being the biggest jinx of all time.
GO GIANTS!
Labels: Assachusetts, assholes, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Mannings, fuck the Pats, NFL football
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Tom Brady's leg
DOB: August 3, 1977
Occupation: slightly limping
Hometown: San Mateo, California
Current residence: gently practicing in Phoenix, Arizona
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Tom Brady's leg over the past week has demonstrated the most attractive feature it ever could possibly have: a slight limp. Tom was spotted strolling around with some ugly flowers for Gisele last week here in the colony of Nieuw Amsterdam with a walking boot on his ouchie ankle (while rocking his designer metrosexual casual wear to the effect of looking like a grade A tool, I might add). Since then, speculation has been rampant about the severity of the high minor ankle sprain he sustained during the AFC Championship game.
Unfortunately, the grand dreams I initially had of Brady being felled prior to the Super Bowl and the Patriots losing thanks to their offense being put into the clumsy hands of Matt Cassel (who thus far has attempted a meager seven passes in six games this season) were shattered when he showed up to a press conference and vowed to return the Lombardi trophy to Foxborough. However, there is still a glimmer of hope that Brady will fuck up bad, thus causing the Patriots to get totally spanked by the Giants defense this Sunday. Apparently, his ankle is still tender and he's only barely been practicing. I am thus cautiously optimistic that Mr. Perfect will hobble out onto the field Sunday and get promptly owned. If all goes well, the last thing he'll see before his ankle totally gives up and the Patriots see their perfect season go to shit is Michael Strahan's diastema bearing down on his bitch ass.
So keep up the good work, Tom Brady's ankle! All of us who hate the Patriots are counting on you.
Labels: Assachusetts, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, I LOVE IT, NFL football
Monday, January 14, 2008
Patriots fans are dumb
No disrespect to my ex Benzo, because he is a smart guy, but Boston fans are fucking retarded. Benzo can't help being from Assachusetts, thus mandating that he will be among the obnoxious hordes emanating from that region to be bad losers and even worse winners, and he is the exception to the rule as far as the collective IQ of the New England faithful is concerned. I am convinced that Boston fans are like a bunch of bulls: big, dumb, and easily spooked to moronic, head-butting, irrational, indsicriminately ass-beating, animal anger. It is impossible to argue with them about anything, and their teams' recent confluence of dominance has made them almost incorrigible. The Sox won the World Series...AGAIN...and the Patriots went 16-0, and even the Celtics are doing well. I fear that the end times are nigh.
However, I can take heart knowing that even if the Pats defeat the vaunted San Diego Chargers next Sunday, at least the Patriots fans will continue to remind us all how stupid they are and the rest of us can laugh at their mouth-breathing idiocy. For example, look at this articulate gentleman with his snide sign gloating about how the Patriots' record should put any naysayers crowing about the whole "Spygate" business to rest (for those of you who don't follow the NFL, Patriots coach Bill Belichick got fined and busted for illegally videotaping the Jets' defensive signals earlier this season, and some have suggested that any success the Patriots have this season will always be tainted by that controversy):
An ASTERICK? Is that anything like an ASTERISK? Or maybe that's just some stupid Masshole regional pronunciation thing, like the way "Worcester" is pronounced "Woostah." I guess I shouldn't judge, since anyone whose head seems to be predominantly chin and jowls rather than actual brain-containing cranium probably didn't ace their second grade punctuation and vocabulary tests, but still. One would think that a spell-check might be advisable for someone with such a sketchy academic track record before using a complicated (for this guy, anyway) word like "asterisk" as a means of delivering his "cheaters do prosper" message.
If I'd been more on top of the questionable literacy of those hailing from Assachusetts and the other shiteous New England states (ie: CONNECTICUT, the worst state in America), I would have bet a little more carefully when I wagered Benzo that the Dolphins would beat the Patriots, and if they didn't I'd write about the Patriots' greatness and exhibit pro-Patriots sentiments on my tits. Well, they didn't (although it was a CLOSE game, if you consider a three touchdown margin to be close, and apparently only I do and only in this situation), so I had to pay up:
I should have written "PATS ROOL" on my girls instead. Every New England fan reading this probably guffawed at my shame and said, "Stupid dumb girl! She doesn't know how to spell 'ROOL'! She's stupid and dumb! Nice cans, though." Oh yeah, and that was just an excuse to show off how awesome my boobs are yet again. Not that I get many complaints about that.
Even if New England wins yet another Super Bowl title and I have to listen to the insufferable braggadocio issuing forth from every Assachusetts native crossing my path, at least I can take heart knowing that I could beat the vast majority of them in a spelling contest. Even my ex-boyfriend, Benzo, who as I said before is generally smart, has misspelled Bill Belichick's name. This other honey I boned once who is also a tremendous Pats shit-talker and whiny Boston fan (to the point where he got Sports Illustrated to take down a FanNation website entitled "Tom Brady is a fag") makes at least one spelling or grammatical error in every e-mail he's ever sent me (and that's in spite of him being a professional writer). One of my Yankee buddies from grad school who is brilliant at math and physics can't spell to save her life. And the token Boston chick in our Fantasy league, when she deigns to leave some snide remark on our league message board, should keep a dictionary handy. Okay, I'm not sure she's actually ever left a snide remark, but I bet if she did, she'd spell something wrong! HA HA, Boston, Ass! You SUCK at SPELLING!
However, I can take heart knowing that even if the Pats defeat the vaunted San Diego Chargers next Sunday, at least the Patriots fans will continue to remind us all how stupid they are and the rest of us can laugh at their mouth-breathing idiocy. For example, look at this articulate gentleman with his snide sign gloating about how the Patriots' record should put any naysayers crowing about the whole "Spygate" business to rest (for those of you who don't follow the NFL, Patriots coach Bill Belichick got fined and busted for illegally videotaping the Jets' defensive signals earlier this season, and some have suggested that any success the Patriots have this season will always be tainted by that controversy):
If I'd been more on top of the questionable literacy of those hailing from Assachusetts and the other shiteous New England states (ie: CONNECTICUT, the worst state in America), I would have bet a little more carefully when I wagered Benzo that the Dolphins would beat the Patriots, and if they didn't I'd write about the Patriots' greatness and exhibit pro-Patriots sentiments on my tits. Well, they didn't (although it was a CLOSE game, if you consider a three touchdown margin to be close, and apparently only I do and only in this situation), so I had to pay up:
I should have written "PATS ROOL" on my girls instead. Every New England fan reading this probably guffawed at my shame and said, "Stupid dumb girl! She doesn't know how to spell 'ROOL'! She's stupid and dumb! Nice cans, though." Oh yeah, and that was just an excuse to show off how awesome my boobs are yet again. Not that I get many complaints about that.Even if New England wins yet another Super Bowl title and I have to listen to the insufferable braggadocio issuing forth from every Assachusetts native crossing my path, at least I can take heart knowing that I could beat the vast majority of them in a spelling contest. Even my ex-boyfriend, Benzo, who as I said before is generally smart, has misspelled Bill Belichick's name. This other honey I boned once who is also a tremendous Pats shit-talker and whiny Boston fan (to the point where he got Sports Illustrated to take down a FanNation website entitled "Tom Brady is a fag") makes at least one spelling or grammatical error in every e-mail he's ever sent me (and that's in spite of him being a professional writer). One of my Yankee buddies from grad school who is brilliant at math and physics can't spell to save her life. And the token Boston chick in our Fantasy league, when she deigns to leave some snide remark on our league message board, should keep a dictionary handy. Okay, I'm not sure she's actually ever left a snide remark, but I bet if she did, she'd spell something wrong! HA HA, Boston, Ass! You SUCK at SPELLING!
Labels: Assachusetts, Benzo, fuck the Pats, grammar gestapo, NFL football, retard rage, scathing indictments
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Man is not made for defeat, but I just might be
My favorite author Ernest Hemingway once wrote, "Man can be destroyed but not defeated." Unfortunately, it seems that the opposite is true with women, because yesterday while my utter destruction did not occur, I assuredly was defeated thanks to the Miami Dolphins' failure to beat the New England Patriots as I had predicted. Thus Benzo won the bet I made with him concerning whether the Dolphins would stop the Pats from having a perfect season, and I now have to pay up.
Well, I never let my mouth write a check my ass--or in this case, my tits--can't cash and I'm about to make good on the terms of this wager. If you recall, I promised to post topless photos of myself with "Patriots Rule" written on my cans, and to write an excessive post describing the Patriots' awesomeness in graphic detail. I'll do just that, with one exception. My boobs are going to have to say "Pats Rule" instead of "Patriots Rule," as my rack just isn't big enough to spell out "Patriots" on my right breast backwards in cocksucker red lipstick. Furthermore, I am currently at my parents' house for the holidays, and I don't want to be answering any pesky questions about why I have red lipstick all over my shit later today when the family gathers together to attend Christmas mass. Bare breasts posted on the internets have to be kept on the low here at casa de Razzy. However, I'm sure this will still be satisfactory to Benzo and all the other Patriots fans who have been eagerly lining up for a glimpse of my combined hot set of jugs and my ignonimous loss of dignity. Enjoy.
The New England Patriots are the greatest football team in the AFC, and ALMOST the greatest team in the entire National Football League (the greatest team being, of course, the vaunted Seattle Seahawks, but that's for another posting). They have won three Super Bowls in the past five years, and will without a doubt win a fourth (unless, of course, they play the aforementioned Seahawks, in which case it will be a battle more epic than the Trojan War which the Pats will just BARELY lose). The Patriots will have a perfect 16-0 season this year, and will lay waste to the AFC as they march toward Super Bowl XLII with the same merciless fury as General Sherman marching to Atlanta, leaving nothing but flames and ruin in their wake.
Why are the Patriots so amazing, you ask? For starters, their personnel are a bunch of true professionals with exceptional football ability. As Bengals right tackle Willie Anderson once said of the Pats, "They're grown men who take football seriously." This is true. Even Randy Moss, who once had all sorts of behavioral problems, including but by no means limited to squirting officials he didn't agree with, claiming to play only when he wanted to, and running over a meter maid with his tricked-out Lexus, has behaved like the consummate professional now that he's in his New England uniform. Yesterday, he demonstrated once again how far he has come when he caught two touchdowns to help the Pats rout the Dolphins 28-7 (thus precipitating this article).
Which brings me to the guy throwing those touchdown passes: the rugged, chiseled granite block of macho stud known as Tom Brady. Fueled by a limitless supply of Stetson cologne, extreme self-confidence, virile face stubble, and supermodel pussy, he is an unstoppable offensive force capable of adjusting to almost any scenario he might face. He can complete a pass to Randy Moss in triple coverage as easily as he can spread the ball out to Wes Welker, or he can pitch it to Laurence Maroney. Either way, he does what he has to do, and the Patriots just roll all over everyone. Tom Brady is so good that even if Patriots forgot to send out the other ten players on their offense, he could singlehandedly destroy whatever hapless opponent unlucky enough to be facing him. Then he'd onside kick to himself, and play an all-offense game, and basically own everyone.
I should add that Tom Brady is really hot. He's so hot that he could turn the Reverend Fred Phelps gay. He's so hot that Al Gore has cited him along with petroleum and Freon coolants as a primary cause of global warming. He's so hot that even in December, Gillette Stadium feels like it is in south Florida rather than Foxborough, Assachusetts. When he played for Michigan, Tom Brady kept the sidelines warm and toasty with his smoldering caloric output. It's no wonder he's always getting top shelf ass. Probably even the hookers he cheats on Gisele with are ridiculously good-looking. In physics, magnetic intensity is expressed by the equation J=moM, and when applied to the square-jawed Mr. Brady, where M (magnetisation) corresponds to his physical attractiveness and mo (permeability) represents the extent to which women will notice him, then solving for J as a measure of his pussy magnetism results in an off-the-chart quantity of Teslas.
And speaking of pussy magnets, let me take a minute to wax poetic about Bill Belichick. Coach Belichick has mastered the art of inexplicable sexiness. He is the kind of tight-lipped guy who never reveals much of anything and makes everyone wonder what exactly is going on beneath that taciturn, curt-yet-obtuse facade. You won't be seeing any Coors Light commercials with Coach Belichick in them anytime soon since, unlike Dennis Green, Bill Parcells, or Jim Mora, Sr., the most emotion you get out of him in a press conference is "We're moving on from the Jets game. Anyone have a question about the Chargers? Let's talk about playing the Chargers." He's the strong, silent type, and I think any woman can agree with the hotness of that. Furthermore, anyone who doesn't like the Patriots (ie: yours truly) just really wants to hate fuck him hard. I'd be like, "I'll give you something illegal to videotape, baby," and then make him leave his pungent, unwashed, cutoff sweatshirt on while I ride him like a triple crown jockey. Those quiet types always end up being really hot in the sack.
Besides, I have to give Belichick and the Pats' front office credit for making some quality decisions off the field. Not only is Belichick a great coach in the sense that he keeps his team focused, on task, and doesn't distract them with a bunch of antics in the media, I continue to be astounded by the foresight of the Pats' decisions. For example, even though they lost their 2008 first-round draft pick due to the whole Spygate business, they still have San Francisco's from a deal they made in 2006. And the Pats managed to acquire a little player named Randy Moss from the Raiders for a fourth-round draft pick, they used on John Bowie. Good going, Oakland; that was a fair deal. I'm sure Bowie is really keeping receivers honest when they play the Raiders' practice squad.
Now, if I were to go off on the Pats' defense, I could be writing all day. However, since it is my Lord and Savior's birthday, I have some important Christian business to attend to (wearing my new Julian Peterson jersey and napping in front of the special edition Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix currently showing on my parents' flatscreen. Therefore, I'll just start wrapping this up now. I think I've paid my dues and hopefully all the anti-Patriots smack I've been talking has been remedied and I've been sufficiently shamed.
In conclusion, I would like to note that my ex-boyfriend Benzo is right about everything having to do with the dominance of the New England Patriots. This is what I get for making bets against the man who originally taught me about football: I was totally schooled, yet again. Thus I lose some face, and Benzo is once again vindicated concerning the inherent glorious awesomeness of the Patriots. Benzo (and every other Pats-loving New Englander I've ever boned) probably would like nothing better under their Christmas trees than my smack-talking ass topless and thoroughly humbled. Well, as Benzo is Jewish, he probably doesn't care about my unwrapped tits being under an actual Jesus-vagina-ejection-commemorating Christmas tree, but you get the point.
Well, I never let my mouth write a check my ass--or in this case, my tits--can't cash and I'm about to make good on the terms of this wager. If you recall, I promised to post topless photos of myself with "Patriots Rule" written on my cans, and to write an excessive post describing the Patriots' awesomeness in graphic detail. I'll do just that, with one exception. My boobs are going to have to say "Pats Rule" instead of "Patriots Rule," as my rack just isn't big enough to spell out "Patriots" on my right breast backwards in cocksucker red lipstick. Furthermore, I am currently at my parents' house for the holidays, and I don't want to be answering any pesky questions about why I have red lipstick all over my shit later today when the family gathers together to attend Christmas mass. Bare breasts posted on the internets have to be kept on the low here at casa de Razzy. However, I'm sure this will still be satisfactory to Benzo and all the other Patriots fans who have been eagerly lining up for a glimpse of my combined hot set of jugs and my ignonimous loss of dignity. Enjoy.
WHY THE PATRIOTS ARE AWESOME
By Razzy
The New England Patriots are the greatest football team in the AFC, and ALMOST the greatest team in the entire National Football League (the greatest team being, of course, the vaunted Seattle Seahawks, but that's for another posting). They have won three Super Bowls in the past five years, and will without a doubt win a fourth (unless, of course, they play the aforementioned Seahawks, in which case it will be a battle more epic than the Trojan War which the Pats will just BARELY lose). The Patriots will have a perfect 16-0 season this year, and will lay waste to the AFC as they march toward Super Bowl XLII with the same merciless fury as General Sherman marching to Atlanta, leaving nothing but flames and ruin in their wake.
Why are the Patriots so amazing, you ask? For starters, their personnel are a bunch of true professionals with exceptional football ability. As Bengals right tackle Willie Anderson once said of the Pats, "They're grown men who take football seriously." This is true. Even Randy Moss, who once had all sorts of behavioral problems, including but by no means limited to squirting officials he didn't agree with, claiming to play only when he wanted to, and running over a meter maid with his tricked-out Lexus, has behaved like the consummate professional now that he's in his New England uniform. Yesterday, he demonstrated once again how far he has come when he caught two touchdowns to help the Pats rout the Dolphins 28-7 (thus precipitating this article).
Which brings me to the guy throwing those touchdown passes: the rugged, chiseled granite block of macho stud known as Tom Brady. Fueled by a limitless supply of Stetson cologne, extreme self-confidence, virile face stubble, and supermodel pussy, he is an unstoppable offensive force capable of adjusting to almost any scenario he might face. He can complete a pass to Randy Moss in triple coverage as easily as he can spread the ball out to Wes Welker, or he can pitch it to Laurence Maroney. Either way, he does what he has to do, and the Patriots just roll all over everyone. Tom Brady is so good that even if Patriots forgot to send out the other ten players on their offense, he could singlehandedly destroy whatever hapless opponent unlucky enough to be facing him. Then he'd onside kick to himself, and play an all-offense game, and basically own everyone.
I should add that Tom Brady is really hot. He's so hot that he could turn the Reverend Fred Phelps gay. He's so hot that Al Gore has cited him along with petroleum and Freon coolants as a primary cause of global warming. He's so hot that even in December, Gillette Stadium feels like it is in south Florida rather than Foxborough, Assachusetts. When he played for Michigan, Tom Brady kept the sidelines warm and toasty with his smoldering caloric output. It's no wonder he's always getting top shelf ass. Probably even the hookers he cheats on Gisele with are ridiculously good-looking. In physics, magnetic intensity is expressed by the equation J=moM, and when applied to the square-jawed Mr. Brady, where M (magnetisation) corresponds to his physical attractiveness and mo (permeability) represents the extent to which women will notice him, then solving for J as a measure of his pussy magnetism results in an off-the-chart quantity of Teslas.
And speaking of pussy magnets, let me take a minute to wax poetic about Bill Belichick. Coach Belichick has mastered the art of inexplicable sexiness. He is the kind of tight-lipped guy who never reveals much of anything and makes everyone wonder what exactly is going on beneath that taciturn, curt-yet-obtuse facade. You won't be seeing any Coors Light commercials with Coach Belichick in them anytime soon since, unlike Dennis Green, Bill Parcells, or Jim Mora, Sr., the most emotion you get out of him in a press conference is "We're moving on from the Jets game. Anyone have a question about the Chargers? Let's talk about playing the Chargers." He's the strong, silent type, and I think any woman can agree with the hotness of that. Furthermore, anyone who doesn't like the Patriots (ie: yours truly) just really wants to hate fuck him hard. I'd be like, "I'll give you something illegal to videotape, baby," and then make him leave his pungent, unwashed, cutoff sweatshirt on while I ride him like a triple crown jockey. Those quiet types always end up being really hot in the sack.
Besides, I have to give Belichick and the Pats' front office credit for making some quality decisions off the field. Not only is Belichick a great coach in the sense that he keeps his team focused, on task, and doesn't distract them with a bunch of antics in the media, I continue to be astounded by the foresight of the Pats' decisions. For example, even though they lost their 2008 first-round draft pick due to the whole Spygate business, they still have San Francisco's from a deal they made in 2006. And the Pats managed to acquire a little player named Randy Moss from the Raiders for a fourth-round draft pick, they used on John Bowie. Good going, Oakland; that was a fair deal. I'm sure Bowie is really keeping receivers honest when they play the Raiders' practice squad.
Now, if I were to go off on the Pats' defense, I could be writing all day. However, since it is my Lord and Savior's birthday, I have some important Christian business to attend to (wearing my new Julian Peterson jersey and napping in front of the special edition Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix currently showing on my parents' flatscreen. Therefore, I'll just start wrapping this up now. I think I've paid my dues and hopefully all the anti-Patriots smack I've been talking has been remedied and I've been sufficiently shamed.
In conclusion, I would like to note that my ex-boyfriend Benzo is right about everything having to do with the dominance of the New England Patriots. This is what I get for making bets against the man who originally taught me about football: I was totally schooled, yet again. Thus I lose some face, and Benzo is once again vindicated concerning the inherent glorious awesomeness of the Patriots. Benzo (and every other Pats-loving New Englander I've ever boned) probably would like nothing better under their Christmas trees than my smack-talking ass topless and thoroughly humbled. Well, as Benzo is Jewish, he probably doesn't care about my unwrapped tits being under an actual Jesus-vagina-ejection-commemorating Christmas tree, but you get the point.
Merry Christmas, Patriots fans. We 12th Men will see you in the Super Bowl.
Labels: Assachusetts, Benzo, comeuppance, fuck the Pats, hot dudes, NFL football, nudity, sportsmen
Friday, December 21, 2007
GO DOLPHINS!
This Sunday, several epic battles will be decided via the greatest sport ever: football, and no, I don't mean bitch-ass soccer. First, I am going to get the $300 I justly deserve for laying waste to the other fools in the Columbia Ballers Fantasy League when I destroy the Js and the Ps in C-Ballers Bowl V. While that will be satisfying and while the cash will buy this alcoholic bitch a lot of Heineken, even more awesome will be when I win a little gentlemen's wager I made with my ex-boyfriend Benzo who is both a native of Assachusetts and a die-hard New England Patriots fan (like every other Pats supporter, he's been a hardcore fan since 2001). This wager concerns the impending epic week 16 battle between the 1-13 Miami Dolphins and the 14-0 Patriots:
I predicted that the Dolphins will beat the Patriots this Sunday, thus ensuring that they remain the only team in the Super Bowl era with a perfect record. I think this is even more likely now that Miami is coming off their first triumphant win of the season last week. They are primed and ready to keep the winning streak alive! Look at how fired up Joey Porter is in spite of his absolutely hideous countenance! He's ready to lay some bitches out in Foxborough. Benzo scoffed at me, as did every other New England-loving Masshole who heard of this. "Miami doesn't play well late in the season on the road," they say. "Ricky Williams is out," they say (because Ricky Williams has done SO much besides smoke pot, do yoga, and sit on his hippie ass the last few years...who cares?). "Cleo Lemon is starting," they say. I say "SO FUCKING WHAT?" back. Stranger things have happened in the NFL. My prediction about Jessica Simpson ruining Tony Romo was correct, and like the Dolphins, I'm gearing up for a big old winning streak!
Anyway, since the terms of this wager will be borne out on the blogosphere, here's what you all have to look forward to.
GO RAZZY!
If I win this bet, Benzo has to not only buy me large volumes of scotch, he will have to take a picture of himself holding one sign that says "PATRIOTS SUCK" and another that says one of the following (totally true) statements:
1. BELICHICK SUCKS DICK
2. BRADY SUCKS DICK
3. BOB KRAFT SUCKS DICK
4. PATRIOTS CHEAT
This picture will then be posted on this very blog, along with a lot of gloating sentiments from me. I tried to also make him wear a Yankees cap and stuff his junk between his legs Buffalo Bill-style as a revolting shot at the tuck rule, but he drew the line at doing those things. Oh well. I guess I'll take free scotch and the satisfaction of seeing Benzo implying that one of his Hatriot idols is exceptionally competent at fellatio.
GO BENZO!
If the Patriots win for Benzo, then I will take a picture of myself topless with "PATRIOTS RULE" written on my tits. I will also write a lengthy blog posting to accompany said photo extolling the Patriots' many virtues and discussing their excellent prospects for continued domination without any sarcasm. I will subsequently tolerate any comments from pro-Assachusetts bastards rubbing in how great the Patriots are. On that post, anyway.
But like that's going to happen. I'm already looking forward to the drinks Benzo will be buying me, as well as seeing his handsome rosy-cheeked visage holding a sign that says, "BELICHICK SUCKS DICK." Prepare to be owned, Benzo.
Anyway, since the terms of this wager will be borne out on the blogosphere, here's what you all have to look forward to.
GO RAZZY!
If I win this bet, Benzo has to not only buy me large volumes of scotch, he will have to take a picture of himself holding one sign that says "PATRIOTS SUCK" and another that says one of the following (totally true) statements:
1. BELICHICK SUCKS DICK
2. BRADY SUCKS DICK
3. BOB KRAFT SUCKS DICK
4. PATRIOTS CHEAT
This picture will then be posted on this very blog, along with a lot of gloating sentiments from me. I tried to also make him wear a Yankees cap and stuff his junk between his legs Buffalo Bill-style as a revolting shot at the tuck rule, but he drew the line at doing those things. Oh well. I guess I'll take free scotch and the satisfaction of seeing Benzo implying that one of his Hatriot idols is exceptionally competent at fellatio.
GO BENZO!
If the Patriots win for Benzo, then I will take a picture of myself topless with "PATRIOTS RULE" written on my tits. I will also write a lengthy blog posting to accompany said photo extolling the Patriots' many virtues and discussing their excellent prospects for continued domination without any sarcasm. I will subsequently tolerate any comments from pro-Assachusetts bastards rubbing in how great the Patriots are. On that post, anyway.
But like that's going to happen. I'm already looking forward to the drinks Benzo will be buying me, as well as seeing his handsome rosy-cheeked visage holding a sign that says, "BELICHICK SUCKS DICK." Prepare to be owned, Benzo.
Labels: Assachusetts, Benzo, comeuppance, Fantasia, fuck the Pats, intentional buffoonery, NFL football, Razzification
Friday, December 14, 2007
My gambling problem
So yesterday my ex-boyfriend Benzo, outspoken Boston sports fan extraordinaire, expressed interest in making a friendly wager with me concerning my prediction that the Miami Water Dogs will defeat the New England Patriots, thus spoiling their unbeaten record a week from this Sunday. He thinks otherwise, and is willing to back it up with a bet. I am willing to stand by my prediction, however improbable it might seem. It's just ridiculous enough to work! And I will gladly accept his wager, though I am too poor to make the stakes financially interesting.
Well, he doesn't know how to bet without money, so he wants me come up with the terms. I figured if I lose, I will write a lengthy blog posting extolling the virtues of the Hatriots, exploring the sweatshirt-mediated disgust that has evolved into a so-wrong-it's-right lust to hate-fuck Bill Belichick, and rhapsodizing over Tom Brady's rugged good looks AND sweet passer rating. I will celebrate their perfect season, join the Randy Moss fan club, and offer my services as a spy to them any time they need it. I will also post pictures of myself topless with "Go Patriots" or something like written on my tits. In fact, if anyone has Patriot gear they want to loan me, I'll wear that too (sorry, I draw the line at investing in wearable Pats logo products I'd rather wipe my ass with). Basically, I will humiliate myself publicly if I lose this bet.
However, since I'm NOT going to lose and the Dolphins WILL beat the Patriots, I need to come up with something good for Benzo to do if HE loses. At first I was like, "He should wear a Seahawks shirt every Sunday for the rest of the season," but that's not very creative and there's not a lot of 12th men here in New York to appreciate that. Besides, how would I know he was making good on the bet? I correspond with Benzo via e-mail and blog comments much more than I see him in person, so how could I even be sure he was wearing Seahawks gear as promised? I also think that, since Vegas probably has the Patriots winning this game by approximately 10,000 points, the payoff should be bigger if I am right. Therefore, in the interest of appeasing Patriots haters everywhere, I am posing this question to the internets.
What would you really like to see an (obnoxious, mouthy, smartassed) Boston sports fan do if the Patriots lose to the Dolphins (short of nudity or suicide, because I can tell you right now Benzo won't do either of those things)? What is the most humiliating thing a Patriots fan could do?
I have some other ideas, but why have all the fun myself? I may as well share it with my lovely Pats-despising Razzyphiles. So weigh in with some commentary.
And in the meantime, enjoy this video of Tom Brady's greatest pouty sadfaces:
Well, he doesn't know how to bet without money, so he wants me come up with the terms. I figured if I lose, I will write a lengthy blog posting extolling the virtues of the Hatriots, exploring the sweatshirt-mediated disgust that has evolved into a so-wrong-it's-right lust to hate-fuck Bill Belichick, and rhapsodizing over Tom Brady's rugged good looks AND sweet passer rating. I will celebrate their perfect season, join the Randy Moss fan club, and offer my services as a spy to them any time they need it. I will also post pictures of myself topless with "Go Patriots" or something like written on my tits. In fact, if anyone has Patriot gear they want to loan me, I'll wear that too (sorry, I draw the line at investing in wearable Pats logo products I'd rather wipe my ass with). Basically, I will humiliate myself publicly if I lose this bet.
However, since I'm NOT going to lose and the Dolphins WILL beat the Patriots, I need to come up with something good for Benzo to do if HE loses. At first I was like, "He should wear a Seahawks shirt every Sunday for the rest of the season," but that's not very creative and there's not a lot of 12th men here in New York to appreciate that. Besides, how would I know he was making good on the bet? I correspond with Benzo via e-mail and blog comments much more than I see him in person, so how could I even be sure he was wearing Seahawks gear as promised? I also think that, since Vegas probably has the Patriots winning this game by approximately 10,000 points, the payoff should be bigger if I am right. Therefore, in the interest of appeasing Patriots haters everywhere, I am posing this question to the internets.
What would you really like to see an (obnoxious, mouthy, smartassed) Boston sports fan do if the Patriots lose to the Dolphins (short of nudity or suicide, because I can tell you right now Benzo won't do either of those things)? What is the most humiliating thing a Patriots fan could do?
I have some other ideas, but why have all the fun myself? I may as well share it with my lovely Pats-despising Razzyphiles. So weigh in with some commentary.
And in the meantime, enjoy this video of Tom Brady's greatest pouty sadfaces:
Labels: Assachusetts, Benzo, fuck the Pats, NFL football, ridiculous absurdity
Monday, December 10, 2007
Daily Douchebag: the New England Patriots
DOB: established 1960, but really became hateworthy upon Bill Belichick taking the reins in 2000
Occupation: cheating, running up the score, being bad sportsmen, popularizing vagrant chic in terms of cutoff-sleeve sweatshirts
Hometown: Boston, Assachusetts
Current residence: Foxborough, Assachusetts
Douchebaggery: I know the Pats are winning and winning and winning and they're unstoppable and Randy Moss is amazing and they're setting all sorts of records and blah blah blah, but I just can't help sipping on my Patriots-flavored Haterade. Actually, fuck sipping...I'm CHUGGING it for the Pats. I just don't like them. I hate Tom Brady's ass-shaped chin and rugged good looks. I hate Belichick's terse press conference manner and resistance to pulling Jim Mora, Sr.-esque hilarious tirades (although at least I can console myself knowing he won't be spliced into a Coors Light commercial anytime soon). I hate the way they run up the score against shitty teams just to be assholes and just to help out certain people (named NeisMan) in my Fantasy league who have an all-Patriots team and who I am playing in our Fantasy playoffs next week. The Patriots are assholes and I just HATE THEM!
I didn't realize how deeply I hate the Patriots until yesterday, when I was at my usual football bar watching what I deemed the Asshole Bowl: the New England Cheaters versus the Shitsburgh Stealers. I found that I was actually rooting for the Stealers. For those of you not familiar with my football loyalties, I am a Seahawks fan, and like all Seahawks fans who suffered through the horror of February 6, 2006 AKA "Black Sunday" AKA Super Bowl XL, I loathe the Pittsburgh Steelers with every ounce of energy I have. I call them the "Stealers" because they straight up STOLE THE GODDAMNED SUPER BOWL via some obvious shady pact with the officials and possibly the devil. Roethlisberger was given a touchdown that he did NOT score, and the officials wouldn't stop making up bullshit offensive pass interference penalties against the Seahawks while flagrantly ignoring horse-collar tackles and face mask infractions committed by the Stealers. It was a dark day in the P-N-Dub, and one which I will never forget, and I have already described my (extremely bitter, angry, and pissed off) feelings about this at length in previous blog postings.
Considering that every time I cross paths with a Stealers fans, I want to throw paint on their Bettis jerseys and throttle them with their Terrible Towels, it's saying a lot that I was cheering when they scored (which was rarely). I always love to see the Stealers lose, and it was thus shocking to me that I was sad about this. I thought to myself, "My God, I really hate the Patriots."
I am not alone. The internets are full of like-minded people. There is a (totally awesome) website devoted to being INEPT (I hate the New England PaTriots):
There is a group on fannation.com hating the Patriots and questioning Tom Brady's sexuality (although I'd say his whole supermodel-fucking thing does argue for his being hetero):
There is a 1300+ member-strong group on Facebook:
Since JC isn't doing the job, I'll just hope against all hope that my prediction for the Patriots' first loss comes true. I always look for a silver lining, and I think that will come in two weeks in the form of the Miami Dolphins. Yes, you read that right...I predict that the Miami Water Dogs will get their first win of the season by taking out the Hatriots. Before you express audible scorn for this prediction, let me remind you that the 1972 Dolphins were the only team in the Super Bowl era to go undefeated. The 2007 Dolphins have not won a game, and rather than mark the 35th anniversary of their triumphant undefeated season with a winless one, they will get their shit together to take out New England in one of the greatest David versus Goliath victories in NFL history. It's going to be one of the greatest football stories of all time, because nobody is going to be expecting it. Nobody but RAZZY.org readers, that is! Just wait and enjoy watching the Patriots learn some humility from the worst team in pro football. And in the meantime, you can all enjoy bitchy comments that my ex-boyfriend Benzo is sure to leave juxtaposing tired boasting about Belichick's genius and the Red Sox World Series victory with weak insults about the NFC West being an easy division.
Labels: Assachusetts, assholes, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Pats, NFL football, Seahawks
Monday, October 29, 2007
Daily Douchebag: the Boston Red Sox...AGAIN
DOB: 1901
Hometown: Fenway Park, Boston, Assachusetts
Current residence: Taking a long-desired (by everyone else who isn't an obnoxious Boston fan) break from the spotlight after winning the damn World Series...I hope
Douchebaggery: Last night, instead of a Sunday night football game, the fucking Red Sox swept the World Series and won...again. While I've already awarded the Red Sox the illustrious title of Daily Douchebag once before, now that they've won their second Series in four years, I plan to hate, not congratulate. In spite of the fact that my ex-boyfriend Benzo, upon waking from his post-Sox winning revelry, will no doubt post some comment busting on the Mariners/Seahawks in retaliation for my anti-BoSox position, and in spite of the fact that the only good thing I can think about this victory is "at least the Yankees didn't win it," I don't have any problem saying that I'm already sick of the Red Sox--and any Assachusetts team, for that matter--being good. If the Patriots win the Super Bowl this year, which judging from the way they've been playing so far this season, they have a very, very good chance at doing, the world is going to have an epidemic of insufferably superior Boston fans refusing to shut up for the next year or ninety.
As far as I am concerned, the World Series this year was about as exciting as a Pampered Chef party minus a box of Franzia white zin, so I barely watched it. Last night, I was recovering so hard from the weekend's festivities that I actually had to leave Sunday football EARLY so I could take a nap for the first two-thirds of World Series game 7. I watched "America's Most Smartest Model" (if only to see Andre shout, "And victory again for the Soviets!") instead of most of the game, and just glared at the TV when I saw that the Sox had won. Man, fuck the Red Sox! The thing is, that even though they have won two championships in the past four years, Red Sox fans are STILL going to complain that it took them so damn long to start doing so. They could win the World Series every year for the next ninety years and Sox fans would still complain that somehow they're getting screwed over, most likely by the malicious specter of and/or a spell cast by the late Babe Ruth, or some other paranormal agent of the Yankees.
Speaking of the Yankees, they are acting as unpalatably arrogant as usual. Note the cover of today's New York Post, and see if you notice how much (or more appropriately, how little) they devote to World Series coverage:
Labels: Assachusetts, Benzo, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Yankees, large exclamatory font, NYC, sportsmen
Monday, October 22, 2007
Daily Douchebag: the Boston Red Sox
DOB: 1901
Occupation: being the second most despicable team in Major League Baseball (after the most hateful loser bitches and their archnemeses, the New York Yankees)
Hometown: Fenway Park, Boston, Assachusetts
Current residence: Fenway Park, Boston, Assachusetts
Douchebaggery: Last week, HotLawyer e-mailed me to request that I bust on the BoSox, and I was more than happy to oblige his request. I was hoping to do it after the Cleveland Indians smote their ruin upon the side of Jacobs Field, but fortune ceased to smile upon the Tribe and the Sox came back to win the damn ALCS last night.
I don't hate the Red Sox with the vitriol I reserve for the New York Yankees, but the Red Sox have caused me nothing but trouble with the honeys throughout my life. My ex-boyfriend Benzo and I had a great relationship with each other...EXCEPT when the Red Sox would run into trouble. I would estimate that 90% of the domestic issues we had were somehow related to the Red Sox and their misfortunes. One time Benzo took me to see the Mariners play the Sox at Fenway Park, and the M's won, and Benzo was a total brat about it the entire way back to Northampton. He wasn't even cheered by the fact that "that guy who was the bad guy in Midnight Run" was sitting behind us. Another time, I talked some shit to him about how the Red Sox were eliminated by the Indians in the 1998 playoffs, and Benzo HUNG UP ON ME! That was the only time in three years he ever slammed the phone down on me, and it was particularly unfair, because the Indians had eliminated the Mariners prior to that and Benzo took great glee in rubbing in their loss. Benzo's mood was so directly related to the Red Sox and their fortunes that I was always SOOOOOO thankful when baseball season was over and we could return to our blissful domestic life together sans whining about the Sox's illustrious history of losing.
More recently, I fucked this dude who blew me off via text message for a "date" (ie: beers followed by sex) watching the damn Red Sox! I know full well that his excuse of eating "bad Thai food" was bullshit; he just wanted to pout about the Red Sox losing in peace, as is the habit of all obnoxious Boston fans. Not that I missed out on great sex or anything because of it (it was more than apropos that he went to UMass, as he was truly a Minuteman), but I still blame the Red Sox entirely for having to spend that Friday night being pissed off and not laid. The Red Sox are terrible losers, worse winners, and legendary cockblockers in my experience, and as far as I'm concerned, the world would be a better place without them.
LL Cool Jew and I have been spending the past week abusing the Sox for these and a variety of other transgressions, the number one being Manny Ramirez. Manny Ramirez is an asshole with terrible personal hygiene. He looks like a damn indigent.
Labels: Assachusetts, assholes, Benzo, Daily Douchebag, fuck the Yankees, sportsmen
Thursday, September 27, 2007
De-Colonize this
Unfortunately, I sometimes get annoying e-mails from undergraduates at Columbia who are all caught up in the whole college activism thing. Granted, I think many of the activist causes are good ideas in theory, but usually the people who get into it are such a bunch of humorless, condescending jerkoffs that you end up rooting against them regardless of your beliefs in their mission to end racism, sexism, classism, ageism, homophobia, or whatever else. I was hoping that being in grad school for hard science would result in exposure primarily to people concerned about no cause other than their thesis who are too busy working to waste time being insufferable demagogues. Generally, this is the case, but every once in a while something comes up.
My first year, some girl used the grad school listserv to encourage everyone to go to Central Park and participate in some kind of anti-George Bush 5K fun run, and the three diehard Republicans went apeshit about using the listserv to facilitate whiny liberal propaganda or whatever. I'm also constantly getting e-mails about Columbia abusing eminent domain to take over part of Manhattanville, where they plan to build a slick new campus for all the neuroscience research because neuro is SO HOT right now. So long as Dinosaur BBQ stays in business, I could care less. They have awesome ribs and brisket. Anyway, every once in a blue moon, some campus organization sends something that is so unbelievably stupid that I wonder if the idea didn't originate at Smith College. This is one of those e-mails:
Well, Samantha, I hate to burst your self-righteous bubble or otherwise interrupt your gathering of other overprivileged Ivy League college students to whine about oppression, but "the historic myth of conquest" is not a myth. If it was a myth that those conquistadores who tore up South America with smallpox and muskets, the explorers who exterminated tribes of people in the West Indies, and the European powers who eventually cowed the indiginous peoples of North America, then you'd have nothing to complain about. They actually did that shit. It wasn't right, but it actually happened, so it's not a fucking myth!
Also, by declaring your lack of support for "the historical myth of conquest," do you mean that you're planning on making up a "decolonization myth" instead? Because that indeed would be a myth, since colonialism happened for a couple centuries. Last I checked, my hometown was still part Indian reservation and socioeconomic class-based racial stratification still is in full swing, so how does your renaming of Columbus Day do anything but assuage the apparent historical white man's guilt you and all the other bitches from Connecticut felt in your History of Indiginous Peoples class? But then again, I guess that's what myth-perpetuating is all about.
I'd like to know how exactly "claim(ing) campus spaces" for a bunch of interminable drum circles and hacky-sacking is supposed to "empower those whose lives, homes, and cultures were stolen." Because nothing--and I mean NOTHING--can mitigate the sting of historical wrongs like the slave trade, the Trail of Tears, and the fall of the mighty Aztecs like a bunch of hippies skipping class and stinking up the steps of Low Library. Unless you plan to ship all the white people back to Europe, you're not "de-colonizing" so much as "distracting" and "irritating" everyone else with your extraordinarily lame way of spending Columbus Day, which is a righteous holiday because it's a day off with absolutely no obligation to do anything but enjoy it.
Since Samantha and crew are so busy committing to issues and "performing their solidarity " (a performance that I suspect will involve many hairy armpits and acoustic guitars) because they're so worked up about the name of Columbus Day, and the only issue clearly articulated here is the problem of using the name "Columbus" which is apparently synonymous with every dominating , native people-abusing European power of yesteryear, I would be remiss if I didn't point out that she'd better start filling out her (Smith College) transfer application now. Because in spite of her dumb ass attributing all the past evils of the world to the name "Columbus," she seems unaware that the school she attends--Columbia--is in fact named after Columbus also! "Columbia" is the feminine version of "Columbus"! And since I can't imagine any more than a handful of radically-minded morons would want to change the name of this hallowed ivory tower to Decolonization University, this renaming as an antidote to historically shameful exploration programs is clearly an idea drafted by stupid, narrow-minded retards.
Needless to say, I'm "madddddd busy," so much so that I won't have time to "get the deetz" to come up with a "dope" way to "perform my solidarity" on October 8th. Sadly, grad students don't really get to take Columbus Day off, so I'll be too busy in lab to make it to the Morningside Campus for this pointless orgy of pseudo-empowerment. I will, however, give a suggestion as to how undergrads could better use their boundless energy on Columbus Day.
When I was in my junior year at Smith, I was stuck at school on Columbus Day when nearly everyone else had gone home to their families for the long weekend. I was sitting around drinking with two of my friends H and A, one of whom was also from the west coast (and, in fact, the P-N-Dub) and thus didn't fly all the way back to Oregon, and one of whom was from Northampton, so she was already home. We were bored and drunk, and somehow decided that it would be funny if we made an amateur porn movie. So I went and borrowed a camcorder from this other bitch down the hall (who declined to be in it...pussy), and then asked my boyfriend Benzo, "hey, do you want to go over to your parents' house (they were out of town) and videotape us having sex with H and A?" What kind of guy says no to that? Not Benzo, that's for sure. "Uh...YES!" he responded.
Appropriately, Benzo's parents' house was on COLUMBUS Street and he chose the name "Bobby Columbus" for his amateur porn debut. After an all-girl three-way brought about by a poorly acted attempt to rearrange furniture into a more orgy-friendly configuration, "Bobby Columbus" the door-to-door dildo salesman demonstrating his wares on A, and me fucking Bobby Columbus in cowgirl, Columbus Day would forever have a far different meaning for me than a celebration of the subjugation of the indiginous people by imperialistic European colonial assholes. And that's how you dumb 19-year-olds at Columbia should be spending your Columbus Day, not busy getting empowered with a bunch of idiotic blowhard activists. You're in college for God's sake; lighten up and try not to be so fucking stupid.
My first year, some girl used the grad school listserv to encourage everyone to go to Central Park and participate in some kind of anti-George Bush 5K fun run, and the three diehard Republicans went apeshit about using the listserv to facilitate whiny liberal propaganda or whatever. I'm also constantly getting e-mails about Columbia abusing eminent domain to take over part of Manhattanville, where they plan to build a slick new campus for all the neuroscience research because neuro is SO HOT right now. So long as Dinosaur BBQ stays in business, I could care less. They have awesome ribs and brisket. Anyway, every once in a blue moon, some campus organization sends something that is so unbelievably stupid that I wonder if the idea didn't originate at Smith College. This is one of those e-mails:
From: Samantha Stanton (shs2121@columbia.edu)
To: every single last Columbia e-mail address including mine
Subject: de-colonization day
Hey guys,
I know you folks are maddddd busy, but it would really be dope if you could do something for De-Colonization Day. As you know, SPEaK and Latino Heritage Month are putting it on October 8th, here's our little blurb:
On October 8th we will rename "Columbus day" "decolonization day" because we do not support the historical myth of conquest. We instead empower those whose lives, homes and cultures were stolen. On this day we claim campus spaces to express our histories, celebrations, oppressions, visions and triumphs. There will be music and performance on Low Plaza from 12-2 as part of latino Heritage Month. We invite your organizations to join us in our celebration of decolonization by participating in the day's festivities.
If you are interested in celebrating DECOLONIZATION DAY, please RSVP with your commitment to an issue, and how you will perform your solidarity on October 8th.
Let me know if you need more deetz
peace, power and love,
--
Samantha Stanton
Columbia College, 2009
"Don't talk about it, be about it"
Well, Samantha, I hate to burst your self-righteous bubble or otherwise interrupt your gathering of other overprivileged Ivy League college students to whine about oppression, but "the historic myth of conquest" is not a myth. If it was a myth that those conquistadores who tore up South America with smallpox and muskets, the explorers who exterminated tribes of people in the West Indies, and the European powers who eventually cowed the indiginous peoples of North America, then you'd have nothing to complain about. They actually did that shit. It wasn't right, but it actually happened, so it's not a fucking myth!
Also, by declaring your lack of support for "the historical myth of conquest," do you mean that you're planning on making up a "decolonization myth" instead? Because that indeed would be a myth, since colonialism happened for a couple centuries. Last I checked, my hometown was still part Indian reservation and socioeconomic class-based racial stratification still is in full swing, so how does your renaming of Columbus Day do anything but assuage the apparent historical white man's guilt you and all the other bitches from Connecticut felt in your History of Indiginous Peoples class? But then again, I guess that's what myth-perpetuating is all about.
I'd like to know how exactly "claim(ing) campus spaces" for a bunch of interminable drum circles and hacky-sacking is supposed to "empower those whose lives, homes, and cultures were stolen." Because nothing--and I mean NOTHING--can mitigate the sting of historical wrongs like the slave trade, the Trail of Tears, and the fall of the mighty Aztecs like a bunch of hippies skipping class and stinking up the steps of Low Library. Unless you plan to ship all the white people back to Europe, you're not "de-colonizing" so much as "distracting" and "irritating" everyone else with your extraordinarily lame way of spending Columbus Day, which is a righteous holiday because it's a day off with absolutely no obligation to do anything but enjoy it.
Since Samantha and crew are so busy committing to issues and "performing their solidarity " (a performance that I suspect will involve many hairy armpits and acoustic guitars) because they're so worked up about the name of Columbus Day, and the only issue clearly articulated here is the problem of using the name "Columbus" which is apparently synonymous with every dominating , native people-abusing European power of yesteryear, I would be remiss if I didn't point out that she'd better start filling out her (Smith College) transfer application now. Because in spite of her dumb ass attributing all the past evils of the world to the name "Columbus," she seems unaware that the school she attends--Columbia--is in fact named after Columbus also! "Columbia" is the feminine version of "Columbus"! And since I can't imagine any more than a handful of radically-minded morons would want to change the name of this hallowed ivory tower to Decolonization University, this renaming as an antidote to historically shameful exploration programs is clearly an idea drafted by stupid, narrow-minded retards.
Needless to say, I'm "madddddd busy," so much so that I won't have time to "get the deetz" to come up with a "dope" way to "perform my solidarity" on October 8th. Sadly, grad students don't really get to take Columbus Day off, so I'll be too busy in lab to make it to the Morningside Campus for this pointless orgy of pseudo-empowerment. I will, however, give a suggestion as to how undergrads could better use their boundless energy on Columbus Day.
When I was in my junior year at Smith, I was stuck at school on Columbus Day when nearly everyone else had gone home to their families for the long weekend. I was sitting around drinking with two of my friends H and A, one of whom was also from the west coast (and, in fact, the P-N-Dub) and thus didn't fly all the way back to Oregon, and one of whom was from Northampton, so she was already home. We were bored and drunk, and somehow decided that it would be funny if we made an amateur porn movie. So I went and borrowed a camcorder from this other bitch down the hall (who declined to be in it...pussy), and then asked my boyfriend Benzo, "hey, do you want to go over to your parents' house (they were out of town) and videotape us having sex with H and A?" What kind of guy says no to that? Not Benzo, that's for sure. "Uh...YES!" he responded.
Appropriately, Benzo's parents' house was on COLUMBUS Street and he chose the name "Bobby Columbus" for his amateur porn debut. After an all-girl three-way brought about by a poorly acted attempt to rearrange furniture into a more orgy-friendly configuration, "Bobby Columbus" the door-to-door dildo salesman demonstrating his wares on A, and me fucking Bobby Columbus in cowgirl, Columbus Day would forever have a far different meaning for me than a celebration of the subjugation of the indiginous people by imperialistic European colonial assholes. And that's how you dumb 19-year-olds at Columbia should be spending your Columbus Day, not busy getting empowered with a bunch of idiotic blowhard activists. You're in college for God's sake; lighten up and try not to be so fucking stupid.
Labels: Assachusetts, assholes, correspondence, Dumb Smith bitches, grad school bullshit, intentional buffoonery, perversion, porn, Razzification, retard rage, scathing indictments, sex, sluts
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The Hottest Houses
FalloniusMonk was kind enough to forward on this dipshit Newsweek ranking of "the hottest colleges" in America, because FINALLY Smith takes a lead spot in rankings. Okay, so we're stagnating at the bottom of the top 20 in U.S. News and World Report's liberal arts college rankings (number 19 two years running...WOO HOO!), and this Newsweek ranking also included categories like "Hottest Liberal Arts College You've Never Heard Of" (Centenary College of Louisiana) and "Hottest for No SAT or ACT Needed" (Bates College), but SO WHAT? Finally Smith is tops at something and not just ugly LUGs (lesbians until graduation).
According to the article, Smith is the "Hottest Woman's College" (and HELLO, people, it's woMEN's--as in plural--not woMAN'S). My alma mater earned this distinction, not because of the precious few hot women actually matriculating there, but because "students who prefer a coed college change their minds when they see the cottage-style houses Smith students reside in." The Smith admissions department propaganda could not have said it any better.
When I went to Smith, it was actually because I didn't get into Harvard and I had been super lesbish in high school, but that didn't stop Smith from endlessly crowing about their awesome housing system. Basically, Smith houses were like sororities without the pledging. They were "self-governed" (ie: electing a powerless cabinet, including officials with lofty titles like "Energy Czarina"--that was the bitch who turned off lights left on), and looked more like fancy manor houses than dorms. All the houses also got their own reputations for attracting different types of people. Since they're so fucking "hot," I might as well explain a little about these charming "cottage-style" abodes which dissuade bitches from their preferred coed experience.
Albright House
In my experience, Albright was one of the lamest houses on campus. LL Cool Jew was once brought up on bogus sexual harassment charges from some dumb, crazy bitch who lived there, and when I was back for my two-year reunion, that's where the alumnae association placed me. In the course of our group of friends' revelry, we managed to piss off every Smith bitch still living there. They complained to us about how our smoking was bad for their asthma, and once we established hostile relations (ie: Motherbucker blew a heavy drag off an American Spirit in the face of Asthma Girl), they started bitching to everyone who would listen. The night before these hos graduated from college, instead of partying and celebrating like they should have been, they were holed up having a meeting about what a bunch of assholes they thought we were. I happened to pass by on my way back from buying more mixers and cigarettes and overheard their heated debate. "That one woman blew smoke in my face!" one indignantly said. "And another one had sex all night long yesterday...with a MALE!" Being that I was the alumna having the offending heterosexual sex (yes, I managed to get laid with a random dude at my women's college reunion...I'm a player...all I gotta do is flirt with him and I get them drawers), and I was eavesdropping with the dude who I was boning, we high-fived and elected to make our passions even louder that night. I think we actually broke the bed. Anyway, those bitches actually had Smith Public Safety throw us out for "bolsterous" behavior, and they permanently cemented my assertion that Albright is LAME. In Albright's defense, however, I did pop my anal cherry there when I was staying in some bitch's room during spring break my junior year. That's probably the coolest thing that has ever gone down within that den of uptight virgins.
Baldwin House
Ah, Baldwin. Albright's neighbor and sister in lameness. That's basically all I know about Baldwin. I never went to a party there, or knew any bitches that lived there. It may as well not exist, but I guess they have to put the hookers with no personalities (even by Smith standards) somewhere.
Capen House
All I know about Capen was that the newspaper editor my sophomore year lived there, and there was some kind of insanely dramatic incestuous lesbian drama going on up in that "example of classical revivalist architecture." Apparently it wasn't all the paper snowflake making and organizing apple-picking trips that the Smith website says Capenites get up to.
Chapin House
I went to a party at Chapin House one time, for no good reason except that there was nothing going on all night. I left almost immediately because the dumb bitch behind the bar wouldn't serve me (I was underage but SO? It's college!) and I responded with some typical Razzy profanity-laden sass. Then I think I tried to get my boyfriend Benzo to get me a drink, and dumb bitch behind the bar wasn't having that. When we left to go use my fake ID at a bar, dumb bitch was in tears crying to her friend about how I was a great big bitch. A rockin' party, if I do say so myself.
Chase House
Chase is the seniors-only house, where hookers move if they don't like whatever house they're in and don't luck out with a Friedman apartment. LL Cool Jew lived there her senior year, and even though she's cool and promptly sought out all the other cool people around, she still managed to have problems with some bitch who said she was too noisy. LL Cool Jew spent most of her senior year writing a thesis about the literary achievements of Graham Greene, which I'm sure was more raucous noise than the even nerdier twat down the hall could possibly manage. I mean, how is she supposed to finish her Fulbright application with LL Cool Jew noisily underlining passages out of The Quiet American right down the hall?
Comstock House
And finally we get to a Quad house. The Quadrangle is 10 houses arranged in accordance with their name, around a central courtyard. The Quad is what passes for the "party houses" at Smith, and "Quad Bunnies" are the booze-swilling, frat boy-banging hotties that live there and garner disdain from snotty bitches elsewhere on campus. Comstock's claim to fame is an annual party called the "Get Lei'd" party, in which everyone gets a lei, which you lose if you say "no" for any reason. The party was a lot less exciting than its name implied, but at least they weren't stingy with the keg beer.
Cushing House
Also a Quad house, Cushing faced the house I lived in (see Awesomest Smith House Ever AKA Jordan House, below). Cushing housed the least attractive women in the Quad, and alongside Gardiner and Morrow houses, the least remarkable.
Cutter House
An architectural blight on the ivy-covered brick New Englandyness that is Smith's general theme, Cutter is a post-modern monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an industrial park in 1974. The rooms inside have linoleum floors, fluorescent lighting, and cinder block walls reminiscent of a state-funded mental ward. The first week of my first year, some fugly lezbot invited me over to her room at Cutter for what I hoped would be beer drinking fun, but my hopes were quickly dashed when she handed me a cup of chamomile tea, cranked the Melissa Ferrick, and asked if I played chess. Needless to say, no fingerbanging went down that night. I never went back to visit anyone living in Cutter ever again.
Dawes House
Dawes is super cute, has a full kitchen for student use, and everyone there has a single room, but there is one little catch: it also goes by "La Maison Francaise." As much as I'd have liked the accommodations, there's no way I could have tolerated French flag decorations everywhere. Furthermore, there's the added problem that I don't speak any French apart from "hors d'oeuvres" and "merde," and fluency in French is a requisite for living there.
Duckett House
Duckett is connected to Chase House, but the only thing I know about it is that it has an elevator, and for some reason, there were always panel discussions happening there in the dining room. For example, the Bitches Who Hate the WTO would have "anti-globalization" lunches and shit there. Obviously, I never managed to make it to one of those shindigs.
Emerson House
Emerson was right next to the house where I lived, and we were connected to them. There were some cool girls in Emerson who used to come party on the Jordan second floor with me and my crew (I actually made an amateur porn with two of them, and NO I'm not posting that here), and there were also some seriously uptight snatches. To seek vengeance, I stole a couch out of their hall sitting room for my dorm, and the night before I graduated, gave the illicit couch to some townies drinking from our illicit keg to throw off the roof. They almost hit a Public Safety cruiser with it. Another time, this girl in my house pulled their fire alarm at 3 a.m. to get back at them for making noise complaints about our house. They were so pissed. It was awesome.
Friedman Apartments
The Friedmans were the only campus apartments, and they were in high demand. Girls would flip out over whether or not they could secure a Friedman. I had a few friends who lived in Friedmans, and there were some kickass parties there for sure. One time I walked into a friend's birthday party at Friedman B-2, and she greeted me at the door in a pair of devil horns and on so much Ecstasy that she looked like one of those people from the "Black Hole Sun" video. She proceeded to greet me with one of the sloppiest, most tongue-filled kisses I've ever received, and then put a drink in my hand. Good times. Friedman residence, however, didn't guarantee that you weren't going to be an impossibly lame typical Smith hag. At my two-year-reunion, we got kicked out of some fat, mustachioed, Fuzzy Navel-drinking bitch's Friedman because my ex-boyfriend Benzo's stepbrother Nate Dogg was harassing her...AKA talking shit about Smith girls because he went to VASSAR. Only at Smith does that get you ejected from a party.
Gardiner House
Gardiner was a real pearls-and-penny loafers type of Smith house, and even though they were in the Quad, they were notorious for their elitist, buttoned-up, WASPy residents. They actually even tried to start a sorority and hung up their letters on their second floor bay window. In response, I started a fraternity my junior year and hung up our letters in the Jordan House window facing Gardiner. I chose the Pi Kappa Epsilon frat, because the Pikes were notorious for date rape and vicious hazing and other egregious fratty violations. For an entire year, I had my PKE letters fixed firmly upon my door, and I think I even drew them on my arm one time for a Gardiner House party. Whether the bitches at Gardiner got it or not is unclear, but they were nonetheless displeased that I'd chosen to make light of what they thought was a brilliant idea. Because a Smith sorority is a great idea...if there's one thing Smith needs more of, it's cadres of stupid bitches reveling in their exclusivity.
Gillett House
I actually know nothing about Gillett House. It's yet another unremarkable bitch trap.
Haven/Wesley House
It's where would-be internet-mediated rape facilitator TEJ BINDRA lived, and I think that says it all. An interesting piece of trivia about the room where Tej lived is that my friend Wmania once vomited Kahlua and Bailey's all over it. Oh, and Sylvia Plath lived there too.
Hopkins House
I know absolutely nothing about Hopkins House, either. Dumb, boring bitch repository!
Hubbard House
Again, dumb, boring bitch repository! The best thing they've got going for them is that Julia Child lived there at the turn of the century, or whenever the hell in antiquity it was that she went to Smith.
Jordan House (AKA AWESOMEST SMITH HOUSE EVER)
Guess where I lived all four years at Smith? Only the most notorious party house at Smith in the history of the college. When I would tell people, "I live in Jordan," I'd get this knowing look, that was full of "oh, you must be a drunk" judgment, concern that I might become unhinged at any moment, and hushed awe. When I first got to Smith, Jordan was on social probation because the year before, the house president's boyfriend (a member of the Holyoke, MA chapter of the Latin Kings) orchestrated an epic Sharks v. Jets battle in the second floor hallway with a group of white trash Masshole townies. My ex-boyfriend was there, and he had taken refuge in this girl's room (where I think she gave him a blowjob), and he said you could feel the walls shake as bodies slammed up against it in the hall. On that legendary night, crack was smoked in the bathroom and somebody had a gun. By Smith standards, that is INSANITY. Nothing of that caliber happened during my time, but we still had ridiculous parties, used the entire second floor as our personal smoking lounge, employed a drug dealer as our kitchen guy, hired strippers for senior banquet parties, and drew the ire of feminist students and faculty alike for hosting a degrading "Pimps and Hos"-themed party. Jordan House rocked the tits off Smith College back in my day, and hopefully it's still doing so without apology.
King House
King was one of those Quad houses that tried (and failed) to give Jordan a run for its money in the party department. I think FalloniusMonk lived there, too, so props to King House.
Lamont House
Lamont is about as exciting as the department store in Puyallup that shares its name (or used to...I think Lamont's is Gottschalks now, but either way, it's still a clearinghouse for the world's ugliest Liz Claiborne rayon blouses). Even by Smith's abysmally low standards, Lamont was known as a dweeb colony.
Lawrence House
I don't even remember where this veritable pit of fug was on campus. That's how insignificant the prostitutes were that lived there.
Morris House
See what I just said about Lawrence House.
Morrow House
Morrow was the most despicable house in the Quad. The bitches there were super uptight, and no fun at all. They didn't have parties because nobody came to them, on account of their policy toward serving minors, their horrible DJs, and their bad attitudes. They also refused to participate in Quad Riot several years running (Quad Riot was an annual drunken food fight), and I became their number one enemy when I declared them "Worst of the Quad" in my newspaper column and called them pussies. Stupid bitches. That's what you get for living in a house named after the trust fund wife of a famous aviator and mother of a famous kidnapped baby...your legacy is about as storied and admirable as Anne Morrow Lindbergh's career of marriage and babymaking.
Northrop House
Northrop House? There was a Northrop House?
Park House
I knew a couple girls in Park House, but my most significant memory of a Park slut was that of this chick who lived down the hall from me's girlfriend emerging one night at 11 o'clock precisely to tell us all that it was quiet hours and time for us to go to bed, because she had crew practice the next morning at five. I got all up in her face with my friend Martindale, who was an intimidating bruiser from Long Island, and we told her that if her beauty sleep was so fucking important, then "take your ass back to Park House. We know it's quiet there." I'm not sure that horse-faced bitch ever slept over again.
Parsons House
I also don't remember where Parsons House was. I think it was somewhere behind the Friedmans, but I can't be sure.
Scales House
My friend JerseyGirl and her crew brought Scales House to a level of party prominence almost on par with Jordan's. They had this platform where it was all 90210 and bong hits, all the time. Scales House was the dope shit in JerseyGirl's era.
Sessions House
Lesbian orgy, anyone? Sessions was ground zero for all BDOCs (big dykes on campus), and I'll never forget that during my first year, this girl from my floor said that she regularly attended these lesbo sex parties there. That sounds kind of fun...except when you account for what the average Smith BDOC looks like and acts like. I can imagine that they somehow managed to take a normally fun orgy and turn it into an exhibition of overcompensatory macho posturing on par with a swordfight in a frat house.
Talbot House
Talbot used to have this party called "Immorality" that was immoral in name only. The one time I went, they ran out of alcohol, wouldn't let anyone in because of concerns regarding the fire code, and seemed determined to prevent anyone from having any fun at all. It's immoral, in my book, to have a party dedicated to immorality in which all depravity is squashed before it can even begin. LL Cool Jew once wrote a joke column in the paper called "The Gay Agenda," in which she detailed the daily schedule of your average Smith dyke. An item on this was "7:30 p.m.-Insert tattered copy of Bound into Talbot House VCR. Masturbate gloomily." That says it all for Talbot House.
Tenney House
I think Tenney was where all the vegans lived. They had a vegetarian-only kitchen or something. Obviously I never hung out there.
Tyler House
A lot of jocks live in Tyler because it was close to the athletic fields and gym. KatieScarlett lived there her first year, and she and I initially bonded over laughing about her housemate and my biology 101 classmate, this girl named Annie Prickett. She was from Delaware, was obsessed with horses, looked like a strapping young farm boy, and always introduced herself as "Annie...PrickETT!" Her dream was to become a horse breeder and KatieScarlett and I had a lot of fun laughing about her life's ambition to spend her working years with her arm stuck in a horse's ass up to the elbow. KatieScarlett's rugby girlfriend once had snowballs thrown at her by Annie Prickett on the way to Senior Ball (because Annie would have much rather built a snow fort than attend a semi-formal) and apparently went after Annie screaming, "You threw a snowball at my fucking dress, you stank whore!" Annie skedaddled into Tyler House legend.
Washburn House
I smoked pot with some hippie chick from one of my humanities classes there once. Oh, and they had a computer lab in the house, I think.
Wilder House
I went to a rugby party in the basement of Wilder once, and after watching a bunch of burly rugger dykes tear apart 15 large pizzas and drink Killian's Red out of their dirty cleats, I left stepping over various lesbian couples going to second base on my way out. Wilder's aight in my book.
Wilson House
One of my weed dealers lived in Wilson House. When she graduated, she filled her bathtub with forties and rolled 100 joints, and I only vaguely remember being at that party. In fact, I can't think of a single time I was in Wilson House that I wasn't more stoned than a white chick with dreadlocks and a backless shirt at a Phish show. I'm sure it was fun, but Wilson House is a blur to me.
Ziskind House
See "Cutter House" above for commentary on Ziskind's hideous asylum-style architectural features and equally crazy residents.
And there they are...the hottest houses. With domiciles like these, it's hardly a surprise Smith rocketed to the top of Newsweek's Hottest Colleges rankings. Watch out, Wellesley...we're coming for your cushy spot on the U.S. News and World Report next!
According to the article, Smith is the "Hottest Woman's College" (and HELLO, people, it's woMEN's--as in plural--not woMAN'S). My alma mater earned this distinction, not because of the precious few hot women actually matriculating there, but because "students who prefer a coed college change their minds when they see the cottage-style houses Smith students reside in." The Smith admissions department propaganda could not have said it any better.
When I went to Smith, it was actually because I didn't get into Harvard and I had been super lesbish in high school, but that didn't stop Smith from endlessly crowing about their awesome housing system. Basically, Smith houses were like sororities without the pledging. They were "self-governed" (ie: electing a powerless cabinet, including officials with lofty titles like "Energy Czarina"--that was the bitch who turned off lights left on), and looked more like fancy manor houses than dorms. All the houses also got their own reputations for attracting different types of people. Since they're so fucking "hot," I might as well explain a little about these charming "cottage-style" abodes which dissuade bitches from their preferred coed experience.
Albright House
In my experience, Albright was one of the lamest houses on campus. LL Cool Jew was once brought up on bogus sexual harassment charges from some dumb, crazy bitch who lived there, and when I was back for my two-year reunion, that's where the alumnae association placed me. In the course of our group of friends' revelry, we managed to piss off every Smith bitch still living there. They complained to us about how our smoking was bad for their asthma, and once we established hostile relations (ie: Motherbucker blew a heavy drag off an American Spirit in the face of Asthma Girl), they started bitching to everyone who would listen. The night before these hos graduated from college, instead of partying and celebrating like they should have been, they were holed up having a meeting about what a bunch of assholes they thought we were. I happened to pass by on my way back from buying more mixers and cigarettes and overheard their heated debate. "That one woman blew smoke in my face!" one indignantly said. "And another one had sex all night long yesterday...with a MALE!" Being that I was the alumna having the offending heterosexual sex (yes, I managed to get laid with a random dude at my women's college reunion...I'm a player...all I gotta do is flirt with him and I get them drawers), and I was eavesdropping with the dude who I was boning, we high-fived and elected to make our passions even louder that night. I think we actually broke the bed. Anyway, those bitches actually had Smith Public Safety throw us out for "bolsterous" behavior, and they permanently cemented my assertion that Albright is LAME. In Albright's defense, however, I did pop my anal cherry there when I was staying in some bitch's room during spring break my junior year. That's probably the coolest thing that has ever gone down within that den of uptight virgins.
Baldwin House
Ah, Baldwin. Albright's neighbor and sister in lameness. That's basically all I know about Baldwin. I never went to a party there, or knew any bitches that lived there. It may as well not exist, but I guess they have to put the hookers with no personalities (even by Smith standards) somewhere.
Capen House
All I know about Capen was that the newspaper editor my sophomore year lived there, and there was some kind of insanely dramatic incestuous lesbian drama going on up in that "example of classical revivalist architecture." Apparently it wasn't all the paper snowflake making and organizing apple-picking trips that the Smith website says Capenites get up to.
Chapin House
I went to a party at Chapin House one time, for no good reason except that there was nothing going on all night. I left almost immediately because the dumb bitch behind the bar wouldn't serve me (I was underage but SO? It's college!) and I responded with some typical Razzy profanity-laden sass. Then I think I tried to get my boyfriend Benzo to get me a drink, and dumb bitch behind the bar wasn't having that. When we left to go use my fake ID at a bar, dumb bitch was in tears crying to her friend about how I was a great big bitch. A rockin' party, if I do say so myself.
Chase House
Chase is the seniors-only house, where hookers move if they don't like whatever house they're in and don't luck out with a Friedman apartment. LL Cool Jew lived there her senior year, and even though she's cool and promptly sought out all the other cool people around, she still managed to have problems with some bitch who said she was too noisy. LL Cool Jew spent most of her senior year writing a thesis about the literary achievements of Graham Greene, which I'm sure was more raucous noise than the even nerdier twat down the hall could possibly manage. I mean, how is she supposed to finish her Fulbright application with LL Cool Jew noisily underlining passages out of The Quiet American right down the hall?
Comstock House
And finally we get to a Quad house. The Quadrangle is 10 houses arranged in accordance with their name, around a central courtyard. The Quad is what passes for the "party houses" at Smith, and "Quad Bunnies" are the booze-swilling, frat boy-banging hotties that live there and garner disdain from snotty bitches elsewhere on campus. Comstock's claim to fame is an annual party called the "Get Lei'd" party, in which everyone gets a lei, which you lose if you say "no" for any reason. The party was a lot less exciting than its name implied, but at least they weren't stingy with the keg beer.
Cushing House
Also a Quad house, Cushing faced the house I lived in (see Awesomest Smith House Ever AKA Jordan House, below). Cushing housed the least attractive women in the Quad, and alongside Gardiner and Morrow houses, the least remarkable.
Cutter House
An architectural blight on the ivy-covered brick New Englandyness that is Smith's general theme, Cutter is a post-modern monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an industrial park in 1974. The rooms inside have linoleum floors, fluorescent lighting, and cinder block walls reminiscent of a state-funded mental ward. The first week of my first year, some fugly lezbot invited me over to her room at Cutter for what I hoped would be beer drinking fun, but my hopes were quickly dashed when she handed me a cup of chamomile tea, cranked the Melissa Ferrick, and asked if I played chess. Needless to say, no fingerbanging went down that night. I never went back to visit anyone living in Cutter ever again.
Dawes House
Dawes is super cute, has a full kitchen for student use, and everyone there has a single room, but there is one little catch: it also goes by "La Maison Francaise." As much as I'd have liked the accommodations, there's no way I could have tolerated French flag decorations everywhere. Furthermore, there's the added problem that I don't speak any French apart from "hors d'oeuvres" and "merde," and fluency in French is a requisite for living there.
Duckett House
Duckett is connected to Chase House, but the only thing I know about it is that it has an elevator, and for some reason, there were always panel discussions happening there in the dining room. For example, the Bitches Who Hate the WTO would have "anti-globalization" lunches and shit there. Obviously, I never managed to make it to one of those shindigs.
Emerson House
Emerson was right next to the house where I lived, and we were connected to them. There were some cool girls in Emerson who used to come party on the Jordan second floor with me and my crew (I actually made an amateur porn with two of them, and NO I'm not posting that here), and there were also some seriously uptight snatches. To seek vengeance, I stole a couch out of their hall sitting room for my dorm, and the night before I graduated, gave the illicit couch to some townies drinking from our illicit keg to throw off the roof. They almost hit a Public Safety cruiser with it. Another time, this girl in my house pulled their fire alarm at 3 a.m. to get back at them for making noise complaints about our house. They were so pissed. It was awesome.
Friedman Apartments
The Friedmans were the only campus apartments, and they were in high demand. Girls would flip out over whether or not they could secure a Friedman. I had a few friends who lived in Friedmans, and there were some kickass parties there for sure. One time I walked into a friend's birthday party at Friedman B-2, and she greeted me at the door in a pair of devil horns and on so much Ecstasy that she looked like one of those people from the "Black Hole Sun" video. She proceeded to greet me with one of the sloppiest, most tongue-filled kisses I've ever received, and then put a drink in my hand. Good times. Friedman residence, however, didn't guarantee that you weren't going to be an impossibly lame typical Smith hag. At my two-year-reunion, we got kicked out of some fat, mustachioed, Fuzzy Navel-drinking bitch's Friedman because my ex-boyfriend Benzo's stepbrother Nate Dogg was harassing her...AKA talking shit about Smith girls because he went to VASSAR. Only at Smith does that get you ejected from a party.
Gardiner House
Gardiner was a real pearls-and-penny loafers type of Smith house, and even though they were in the Quad, they were notorious for their elitist, buttoned-up, WASPy residents. They actually even tried to start a sorority and hung up their letters on their second floor bay window. In response, I started a fraternity my junior year and hung up our letters in the Jordan House window facing Gardiner. I chose the Pi Kappa Epsilon frat, because the Pikes were notorious for date rape and vicious hazing and other egregious fratty violations. For an entire year, I had my PKE letters fixed firmly upon my door, and I think I even drew them on my arm one time for a Gardiner House party. Whether the bitches at Gardiner got it or not is unclear, but they were nonetheless displeased that I'd chosen to make light of what they thought was a brilliant idea. Because a Smith sorority is a great idea...if there's one thing Smith needs more of, it's cadres of stupid bitches reveling in their exclusivity.
Gillett House
I actually know nothing about Gillett House. It's yet another unremarkable bitch trap.
Haven/Wesley House
It's where would-be internet-mediated rape facilitator TEJ BINDRA lived, and I think that says it all. An interesting piece of trivia about the room where Tej lived is that my friend Wmania once vomited Kahlua and Bailey's all over it. Oh, and Sylvia Plath lived there too.
Hopkins House
I know absolutely nothing about Hopkins House, either. Dumb, boring bitch repository!
Hubbard House
Again, dumb, boring bitch repository! The best thing they've got going for them is that Julia Child lived there at the turn of the century, or whenever the hell in antiquity it was that she went to Smith.
Jordan House (AKA AWESOMEST SMITH HOUSE EVER)
Guess where I lived all four years at Smith? Only the most notorious party house at Smith in the history of the college. When I would tell people, "I live in Jordan," I'd get this knowing look, that was full of "oh, you must be a drunk" judgment, concern that I might become unhinged at any moment, and hushed awe. When I first got to Smith, Jordan was on social probation because the year before, the house president's boyfriend (a member of the Holyoke, MA chapter of the Latin Kings) orchestrated an epic Sharks v. Jets battle in the second floor hallway with a group of white trash Masshole townies. My ex-boyfriend was there, and he had taken refuge in this girl's room (where I think she gave him a blowjob), and he said you could feel the walls shake as bodies slammed up against it in the hall. On that legendary night, crack was smoked in the bathroom and somebody had a gun. By Smith standards, that is INSANITY. Nothing of that caliber happened during my time, but we still had ridiculous parties, used the entire second floor as our personal smoking lounge, employed a drug dealer as our kitchen guy, hired strippers for senior banquet parties, and drew the ire of feminist students and faculty alike for hosting a degrading "Pimps and Hos"-themed party. Jordan House rocked the tits off Smith College back in my day, and hopefully it's still doing so without apology.
King House
King was one of those Quad houses that tried (and failed) to give Jordan a run for its money in the party department. I think FalloniusMonk lived there, too, so props to King House.
Lamont House
Lamont is about as exciting as the department store in Puyallup that shares its name (or used to...I think Lamont's is Gottschalks now, but either way, it's still a clearinghouse for the world's ugliest Liz Claiborne rayon blouses). Even by Smith's abysmally low standards, Lamont was known as a dweeb colony.
Lawrence House
I don't even remember where this veritable pit of fug was on campus. That's how insignificant the prostitutes were that lived there.
Morris House
See what I just said about Lawrence House.
Morrow House
Morrow was the most despicable house in the Quad. The bitches there were super uptight, and no fun at all. They didn't have parties because nobody came to them, on account of their policy toward serving minors, their horrible DJs, and their bad attitudes. They also refused to participate in Quad Riot several years running (Quad Riot was an annual drunken food fight), and I became their number one enemy when I declared them "Worst of the Quad" in my newspaper column and called them pussies. Stupid bitches. That's what you get for living in a house named after the trust fund wife of a famous aviator and mother of a famous kidnapped baby...your legacy is about as storied and admirable as Anne Morrow Lindbergh's career of marriage and babymaking.
Northrop House
Northrop House? There was a Northrop House?
Park House
I knew a couple girls in Park House, but my most significant memory of a Park slut was that of this chick who lived down the hall from me's girlfriend emerging one night at 11 o'clock precisely to tell us all that it was quiet hours and time for us to go to bed, because she had crew practice the next morning at five. I got all up in her face with my friend Martindale, who was an intimidating bruiser from Long Island, and we told her that if her beauty sleep was so fucking important, then "take your ass back to Park House. We know it's quiet there." I'm not sure that horse-faced bitch ever slept over again.
Parsons House
I also don't remember where Parsons House was. I think it was somewhere behind the Friedmans, but I can't be sure.
Scales House
My friend JerseyGirl and her crew brought Scales House to a level of party prominence almost on par with Jordan's. They had this platform where it was all 90210 and bong hits, all the time. Scales House was the dope shit in JerseyGirl's era.
Sessions House
Lesbian orgy, anyone? Sessions was ground zero for all BDOCs (big dykes on campus), and I'll never forget that during my first year, this girl from my floor said that she regularly attended these lesbo sex parties there. That sounds kind of fun...except when you account for what the average Smith BDOC looks like and acts like. I can imagine that they somehow managed to take a normally fun orgy and turn it into an exhibition of overcompensatory macho posturing on par with a swordfight in a frat house.
Talbot House
Talbot used to have this party called "Immorality" that was immoral in name only. The one time I went, they ran out of alcohol, wouldn't let anyone in because of concerns regarding the fire code, and seemed determined to prevent anyone from having any fun at all. It's immoral, in my book, to have a party dedicated to immorality in which all depravity is squashed before it can even begin. LL Cool Jew once wrote a joke column in the paper called "The Gay Agenda," in which she detailed the daily schedule of your average Smith dyke. An item on this was "7:30 p.m.-Insert tattered copy of Bound into Talbot House VCR. Masturbate gloomily." That says it all for Talbot House.
Tenney House
I think Tenney was where all the vegans lived. They had a vegetarian-only kitchen or something. Obviously I never hung out there.
Tyler House
A lot of jocks live in Tyler because it was close to the athletic fields and gym. KatieScarlett lived there her first year, and she and I initially bonded over laughing about her housemate and my biology 101 classmate, this girl named Annie Prickett. She was from Delaware, was obsessed with horses, looked like a strapping young farm boy, and always introduced herself as "Annie...PrickETT!" Her dream was to become a horse breeder and KatieScarlett and I had a lot of fun laughing about her life's ambition to spend her working years with her arm stuck in a horse's ass up to the elbow. KatieScarlett's rugby girlfriend once had snowballs thrown at her by Annie Prickett on the way to Senior Ball (because Annie would have much rather built a snow fort than attend a semi-formal) and apparently went after Annie screaming, "You threw a snowball at my fucking dress, you stank whore!" Annie skedaddled into Tyler House legend.
Washburn House
I smoked pot with some hippie chick from one of my humanities classes there once. Oh, and they had a computer lab in the house, I think.
Wilder House
I went to a rugby party in the basement of Wilder once, and after watching a bunch of burly rugger dykes tear apart 15 large pizzas and drink Killian's Red out of their dirty cleats, I left stepping over various lesbian couples going to second base on my way out. Wilder's aight in my book.
Wilson House
One of my weed dealers lived in Wilson House. When she graduated, she filled her bathtub with forties and rolled 100 joints, and I only vaguely remember being at that party. In fact, I can't think of a single time I was in Wilson House that I wasn't more stoned than a white chick with dreadlocks and a backless shirt at a Phish show. I'm sure it was fun, but Wilson House is a blur to me.
Ziskind House
See "Cutter House" above for commentary on Ziskind's hideous asylum-style architectural features and equally crazy residents.
And there they are...the hottest houses. With domiciles like these, it's hardly a surprise Smith rocketed to the top of Newsweek's Hottest Colleges rankings. Watch out, Wellesley...we're coming for your cushy spot on the U.S. News and World Report next!
Labels: Assachusetts, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, Razzification, ridiculous absurdity
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