Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Beauty-disadvantaged is the new ugly
I've never been to Australia, but judging by what I've learned from a spate of Foster's commercials and Mick "Crocodile" Dundee, it's a continent full of awesomely crazy people. Along with other traditional Aussie customs like drinking, barbecuing shrimp, and putting random water buffalo to sleep with some kind of Aboriginal hoodoo hand puppetry, outlandish craziness in all matters is a revered cultural tradition Down Under. That's why I loved reading the news about some mayor of a town called Mount Isa begging ugly women to come visit.
Mayor John Molony wants "beauty-disadvantaged women" to know that they're always welcome in his "bloke-heavy" Australian mining town.
"May I suggest if there are five blokes to every girl, we should find out where there are beauty-disadvantaged women and ask them to proceed to Mount Isa," Molony tells the Townsville Bulletin. "Quite often you will see walking down the street a lass who is not so attractive with a wide smile on her face. Whether it is recollection of something previous or anticipation for the next evening, there is a degree of happiness."
In other words, ugly chicks DEFINITELY get laid in Mount Isa, because all those miners are horny as hell and they'll take anything with three holes and two legs. Actually, I'm not sure the "two legs" part even fits into those standards. I bet the goat population in Mount Isa will be sitting pretty gingerly if Mayor Molony's plea for ugly bitches goes unanswered.
Mayor Molony seems like a dirty guy suggesting that the "beauty disadvantaged" among us head to Mount Isa just because the guys there are desperate to fuck any female in Genus Homo regardless of her facial severity, but he goes on to prove that he's not. Rather than just another bloke in a bloke-heavy mining encampment, he's a profound philosophical thinker who goes so far as citing a fairy tale which may or may not exist to prove the old adage that beauty isn't skin deep.
"Often those who are beauty-disadvantaged are unhappy with their lot. Some, in other places in Australia, need to proceed to Mount Isa where happiness awaits," he says. "And, really, beauty is only skin deep. Isn't there a fairy tale about an ugly duckling that evolves into a beautiful swan?"
Not surprisingly, the few women already in Mount Isa aren't responding to the Mayor's entreaty for more ugly bitches with "a wide smile" on their faces.
One woman tells the Brisbane Times "there just aren't top quality men here."Uh oh. I think the Mayor has stirred up a hornet's nest of trouble. I went to Smith College, and I know all about "beauty disadvantaged" women suffering from a dearth of "quality" sex partners who have caught the protesting bug. I used to blast Too $hort songs about treating fine-ass bitches like dirt and breaking hoes for scrilla at their candlelight vigils for sport. Those girls used to get so mad! Fun times.
Some of the city's women plan to hold a protest.
"It's offensive to women everywhere, let alone women in Mount Isa," Betty Kiernan, a member of the Far North Queensland parliament, tells the Bulletin.
Anyway, ugly, undersexed girls with a mission act like every cause–from encouraging recycling to calling for a protest of Domino's Pizza to petitioning for the residential dining serve to cease serving North African Vegetable Stew–is tantamount to stopping the genocide in Darfur. They will annoy you to death with their shrill, shrewish, inane harping, and will never rest their circular arguments until finally you're finally so bored and irritated with fighting them that you just throw up your hands in surrender and validate them and go get a drink or otherwise occupy your time more productively. The mayor of Mount Isa is about to learn this the hard way, because if there's any cause ugly girls rally for, it's being called "ugly." At Smith, I think these chicks would probably rather see the oceans' ecosystems destroyed by 19th century whaling practices or women's suffrage repealed than be called "ugly." I'm quite certain that the ladies of Mount Ida aren't all that different, judging by the magnitude of their response and their eagerness to commence protesting.
However, I do give the mayor props for his attempt at political correctness with the employ of the term "beauty disadvantaged." That's the kind of roundabout euphemism that usually spastic protestors use to obfuscate logical flaws with pseudo-intellectual excess vocabulary. I'd congratulate the mayor on his caginess for beating the pissed-off women at their own game if I thought it was remotely intentional. Sadly, I bet this poor mayor actually looks like Donk from Crocodile Dundee: a thick-necked, occasionally violent, grimy man with a smell like transmission fluid, Lucky Strike butts, and three years worth of sweat simmered under the unforgiving Queensland sun, a moonshine still behind the corrugated metal lean-to he calls home, and a smile that's more teeth than gums. He probably just wants to get laid so badly that he was hoping to haul a large catch of desperate ugly girls without offending them directly by casting aspersions regarding their appearance. Poor guy doesn't know what he's gotten himself into, but I'm pretty sure it's not going to be beauty-disadvantaged pussy.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, hilarious shit, international intrigue, sluts, you're ugly
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Hottest Smith alumnae on the planet
It's that time of the quarter again! What time, you ask? Time for the new edition of the Smith Alumnae Quarterly! What do you mean, "I didn't go to Smith, I don't get the Smith Alumnae Quarterly?" You don't have to go to Smith to read the greatest magazine in the world! Who wouldn't want to read articles about subjects like a scrappy band of student activists creatively calling themselves "Coke Off Campus" rallied together on behalf of bottling plant employees in Colombia (seriously, they bottle COKE at sweatshops...in Colombia?) and India to ban Coca-Cola products from the Campus Center, or how some chick got a job at Google thanks to the all-powerful alumnae network (which, I should add, has yet to do shit for me besides give Tej Bindra my home address so she could conspire with her friends to get me raped by an inadvertent pervert on Craigslist)? This shit is more informative than the damn Economist!
Okay, I kid...I don't even get the SAQ anymore since I think they put me on probation after the Tej Offensive, which was started by Tej Bindra '07 calling me an assfuck and suggesting I get some Zoloft to treat my tendency to make fun of dumb SAQ articles about the dorm room she shared with her fellow flatchested Dar Williams aficionado. The last time I got a SAQ, I promptly douchebagged the entire magazine, and I think that was the last straw that broke the cameltoe's back. Presumably they booted me from the subscription list, because I haven't received a SAQ since. Oh well, who needs a SAQ to prove that she's got a "baccalaureum artibus" degree from Smith when she's got a fancy leather bound diploma--with seals and Latin and everything--tucked safely away in her bedside table with her vibrators, condoms, and lube?
Anyway, there's a section in the back of the SAQ that you can send updates to about whatever the fuck you've been up to at Smith. Usually it's along the lines of "some dumb bitch from Talbot House got married" or "some dumb bitch from Chase House just had her second kid" or "some dumb bitch from Northrop House just got another master's degree." Luckily, my friends have JerseyGirl to send in our updates. JerseyGirl is on the board of the Smith College Club of New York, and while she's given up trying to get me to do things like attend Christmas tree lightings on Sundays during NFL season or go to $100-a-head art history lectures, she felt duty bound to report on how our little group of friends has been keeping busy. Unfortunately, she probably had one too many brewdogs before she sent off our update:
Go Pioneers!
Anyway, there's a section in the back of the SAQ that you can send updates to about whatever the fuck you've been up to at Smith. Usually it's along the lines of "some dumb bitch from Talbot House got married" or "some dumb bitch from Chase House just had her second kid" or "some dumb bitch from Northrop House just got another master's degree." Luckily, my friends have JerseyGirl to send in our updates. JerseyGirl is on the board of the Smith College Club of New York, and while she's given up trying to get me to do things like attend Christmas tree lightings on Sundays during NFL season or go to $100-a-head art history lectures, she felt duty bound to report on how our little group of friends has been keeping busy. Unfortunately, she probably had one too many brewdogs before she sent off our update:
JerseyGirl '02 is a television news producer in Manhattan. She was recently elected to the New York Smith club board of directors and organizes events and parties for the club. JerseyGirl hangs out with Razzy '00, FalloniusMonk '01, and Rack '01, during monthly 90210 parties and weekly get-togethers that include cooking and watching the awesomeness that is VH1 reality programming...JerseyGirl regularly sees lots of other Smithies in New York City, most of whom were at the wedding of LL Cool Jew '02 in April '07.This rules so hard. While everyone else was out getting married, procreating, or adding more letters behind their name, JerseyGirl announces that we've all been watching Bev Niner and "I Love New York." She seems embarrassed that she actually bragged to the SAQ that we're into "the awesomeness that is VH1 reality programming" instead of the typical boring Smith alumnae crap. I mean, I have gotten two master's degrees since Smith and by next year I'm going to make every motherfucker I meet call me "Doctor," but who cares about that? I'd certainly rather hear about how we loyally watch DVDs of the greatest show in the history of television and teach JerseyGirl how to make grilled cheese sandwiches during commercial breaks in "Flavor of Love 3" and "The Hills." Smith College must be so proud.
Go Pioneers!
Labels: Bev Niner, correspondence, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, I LOVE IT, I Love New York, intentional buffoonery, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, Rack, The Hills, Vh1
Friday, May 30, 2008
I TOLD YOU SO!
Proving once again that my Smith College education and occasional taste for tuna has honed my keen lesbadar to an admirable accuracy rate, the gossip internets this week are abuzz that Lindsay Lohan is going to take advantage of California's decision to legalize homo marriage and make it official with her special girlfriend Samantha Ronson.
I publicly called this one over a year ago when LL Cool Jew spotted Lindsay Lohan sporting the following hat, which might as well be a set of pride rings or a pink triangle in terms of its lesbian-revealing powers:
I mean, if wearing a Smith College hat despite not having gone to Smith doesn't announce to the world that you're a clam digger, then I don't know what does. It's not like LiLo is a big fan of Smith's rugby team (and if she is, that's even more of a giveaway that she's gone gayelle). Girlfriend just wishes she could run around drawing giant chalk labias outside Neilson Library on Coming Out Day and boob-mashing hard to a Dar Williams CD with the androgynous BDOC (that's "big dyke on campus") set. Go Pioneers!
Well, the celebrity gossip world has been all over Lindsay's lesbish ways the past week. Apparently she was making out with Snatch-mantha Ronson on Diddy's yacht in Cannes, then showed up to a party wearing hers-and-hers rings on their wedding fingers and blabbed about her impending nuptials. This is after they've been reportedly doing all sorts of couple stuff, like walking around holding hands and spending Passover together at the Ronsons'. Yesterday, the greatest and most reliable newspaper in the history of print journalism, the magnificent New York Post, not only reported that Lindsay and Sam are going to walk down the aisle at City Hall in California soon, but that it's going to help Lindsay's image by making her an icon embodying "lesbian chic."
Alright, Lindsay! I honestly can't think of a better way to rehabilitate Lindsay's image than by settling down and licking some twat. And I'm pleased as a petted pussy about the fact that I called this OVER A YEAR AGO, long before it ended up on Page Six. I'm going to send the happy couple a strap-on to celebrate their happy day when they actually make honest women of each other. I'm sure they can find a use for it while honeymooning on an Olivia cruise.
Labels: celebrities, Dumb Smith bitches, holy fucking matrimony, large exclamatory font, lezbollah, LL Cool Jew, sluts
Friday, May 23, 2008
Boomers: The Wackest Generation
Like everyone else, I was saddened to learn this week of Sen. Ted Kennedy's cancer diagnosis. But I have a terrible confession. Inwardly, I experienced an undeniable, haughty jubilation. "That's right, Boomers," I thought. "Your era is coming to an end." Across the nation, aghast, stricken Boomers clumsily BlackBerry'd each other the news after retreating to the executive washroom to stare at themselves in the mirror and, perhaps for the very first time, contemplate their own mortality. Yes, Boomers – you never thought it possible while slinging mud at Woodstock or jumping the barricades at the 1968 Chicago Democratic Convention, but YOU TOO WILL DIE!
As a Gen-Xer, of course I realize that my parents are Boomers, as are my beloved husband's beloved parents, as are Razzy's and etc. Duh, I don't want them to die! Individually, we love our Boomers – but as a demographic, THEY ARE SO ANNOYING! Here's why:
They refuse to admit they ARE The Establishment.
Yeah, that's right. What, you think that what little remains of the enfeebled World War II generation is still running this bitch? No, the world is racing against the clock to collect their oral histories before the last few of them start pushing up daisies. Just because you aren't rocking humongous Watergate-hearings-style, black-rimmed Coke-bottle glasses and grumbling about "kids these days" doesn't mean you haven't yourselves become The Man. Nothing chaps my ass quite like a rich, powerful boomer airing out his liberal laundry and railing against "out-of-touch politicians in Washington" or "greedy corporate pigs." Know who those folks are, dude? They aren'ts your parents' generation, because face it -- they're either invalid or dead. THE ESTABLISHMENT IS YOU, BOOMERS. You.
They refuse to retire.
Despite their visceral hatred for The Establishment, boomers demonstrate little to no interest in relinquishing their death grip on their cushy jobs bossing the rest of us around. Not only do they want to keep working past retirement age, those that do decide to hang it up are all too often followed by members of the seemingly endless boomer depth chart. They're like shark's teeth - there's always another waiting in the background to replace them. This leaves those of us 40 and under to wallow in the ranks of white-collar, low-to-mid-pay-grade servitude, waiting haplessly for the strapping boomers ahead of us to decide they'd like to take up wood-turning in lieu of work, since their sweet health insurance plans keep them strong as bulls. For the love of all things sacred, boomers, take your cue from Dennis Hopper already and RETIRE! Jump out of planes, ski the Swiss alps, take a hot-air balloon tour over wine country or whatever the hell else you think is awesome - God knows you can afford it!
They like to boast inappropriately and unimpressively about their crazy college days and "drug phase(s)."
Gotta love a boomer who freaks out and stages an intervention when his college-aged children get busted for pot possession by Dartmouth campus police, then in the next breath breaks into a gasconade about their mind-blowing, Carlos Castaneda-inspired peyote odysseys on the Hopi Reservation back in '72. You know who's taken aback by your forays into the world of hallucinogens? Your parents. Guess what? They're dead. Everyone younger than you thinks those grainy YouTube vids of hippie boomers dancing horrifically while blasted out of their minds on weak LSD are totally f'ing pathetic. You could never do as many drugs as Lil' Wayne or the incredible walking crack ho Amy Winehouse. How are we supposed to even be fazed by your wack nuggets of fake-me-out druggie nostalgia? You sent us to private school, remember (how progressive of you!)? Thanks to the spoiled, rich friends we made there, we surpassed your level of drug experience by sophomore year and STILL got straight As. Do you hear us bragging about it??
They have propagated the taking-over of university buildings as a means of protest.
Am I the only one who is already completely f'ing bored by the constant "this day in 1968" 40th-anniversary boomer nostalgia news stories that have become totally ubiquitous? My (least) favorite so far was presented recently by NPR "All Things Considered" host and uber-boomer Robert Siegel, and focused on the taking-over of several Columbia University buildings in order to protest the Vietnam War. In addition to being pissed about gym construction in a local park, "Members of the radical group Students for a Democratic Society opposed Columbia's ties to a think tank involved in weapons research for the Vietnam War," the story explained. "Mark Rudd, then-chairman of Columbia's SDS chapter, tied the two issues together, saying at the time that students would not attend a university that exploited black people and developed weapons to kill them and murder the Vietnamese. 'I see it as part of the enormous part of the anti-Vietnam War movement involving millions of people,' says Rudd, a retired math teacher who lived underground as a revolutionary for seven years. 'We stopped a war of aggression.'" DID YOU? FOR REALS? According to my feeble GenX memory, the Vietnam War ended in 1975, fully seven years after your slumber party at the dean's office. NICE WORK! Seems to me the war ended whenever the president f'ing felt like it. Now, forty years later, your big legacy on this front is that idiot college students will take over a building for any damn reason. How the hell is shutting down College Hall at Smith going to help Mumia Abu-Jamal in any form or fashion?
They are completely clueless about sex.
Much like their boastful prattling about drugs, boomers love to be "cool" about sex. Premarital sex, nonmonogamous sex, outdoor sex, oh my! Y'all were real sexual deviants. Problem is, since they can't be bothered to see past their own graying wangs, boomers have failed to keep pace with modern developments in sexual behavior and identity. This is best demonstrated by a trip to a boomer shrink, as Razzy recently discovered. It doesn't matter if the visit was prompted by your concerns with how much you drink or an unexpected death in the family - tell a boomer shrink you've dated a chick and the conversation cannot be re-railed. Since they are incapable of believing a queer person can be emotionally stable - that queerness can prompt anything but confusion, isolation, and/or self-hatred - you're forced to spend way too much of your expensive-ass 45 minutes convincing your all-knowing boomer shrink that no, you actually don't have any problem with your sexual orientation. "Impossible," the boomer shrink insists. "After all, I made vicious fun of fellow students I suspected were gay in high school and only recently realized it made me hip and with-it to have a couple of gay friends. And that 'Will & Grace' is so funny! But I digress...surely you've considered suicide at least three or four times. Queer people aren't HAPPY. You haven't considered suicide? Well...shouldn't you, now?" Yes, doc. Sitting in your office at this moment, it's true, I do in fact wish I were dead. Now write me a goddamn prescription.
They are the most offensive Obamamaniacs because they take personal credit for his candidacy.
Boomers are at their worst when en route to the Obama rally. As a friend of mine sagely observed after a recent such gathering in Oregon, the crowds resembled a "glorious-dear-leader" third-world throng. Since the boomers in attendance couldn't be bothered to mingle with the hoi polloi, many of them chose to take in the message of Hope and Change from the comfort of their kayaks. From their coastal enclaves, liberal boomers are smiling and slowly nodding with self-satisfaction as they watch Obama's Hitler Jugend-style supporters flip the fuck out like they were at a Miley Cyrus concert. Not only are boomers convinced they are personally and individually responsible for the fact that a black guy is being taken seriously as a presidential candidate, they also think they can be rejuvenated by voting for Obama because their kids are into him. A couple of glasses of Prosecco into a recent dinner with a couple of my mom's lady boomer friends who were in town for Jazz Fest, one of them declared to me, "You young people are for him, all of you are behind him, it's so inspiring, who am I to stand in your way?"
They refuse to admit they ARE The Establishment.
Yeah, that's right. What, you think that what little remains of the enfeebled World War II generation is still running this bitch? No, the world is racing against the clock to collect their oral histories before the last few of them start pushing up daisies. Just because you aren't rocking humongous Watergate-hearings-style, black-rimmed Coke-bottle glasses and grumbling about "kids these days" doesn't mean you haven't yourselves become The Man. Nothing chaps my ass quite like a rich, powerful boomer airing out his liberal laundry and railing against "out-of-touch politicians in Washington" or "greedy corporate pigs." Know who those folks are, dude? They aren'ts your parents' generation, because face it -- they're either invalid or dead. THE ESTABLISHMENT IS YOU, BOOMERS. You.
They refuse to retire.
Despite their visceral hatred for The Establishment, boomers demonstrate little to no interest in relinquishing their death grip on their cushy jobs bossing the rest of us around. Not only do they want to keep working past retirement age, those that do decide to hang it up are all too often followed by members of the seemingly endless boomer depth chart. They're like shark's teeth - there's always another waiting in the background to replace them. This leaves those of us 40 and under to wallow in the ranks of white-collar, low-to-mid-pay-grade servitude, waiting haplessly for the strapping boomers ahead of us to decide they'd like to take up wood-turning in lieu of work, since their sweet health insurance plans keep them strong as bulls. For the love of all things sacred, boomers, take your cue from Dennis Hopper already and RETIRE! Jump out of planes, ski the Swiss alps, take a hot-air balloon tour over wine country or whatever the hell else you think is awesome - God knows you can afford it!
They like to boast inappropriately and unimpressively about their crazy college days and "drug phase(s)."
Gotta love a boomer who freaks out and stages an intervention when his college-aged children get busted for pot possession by Dartmouth campus police, then in the next breath breaks into a gasconade about their mind-blowing, Carlos Castaneda-inspired peyote odysseys on the Hopi Reservation back in '72. You know who's taken aback by your forays into the world of hallucinogens? Your parents. Guess what? They're dead. Everyone younger than you thinks those grainy YouTube vids of hippie boomers dancing horrifically while blasted out of their minds on weak LSD are totally f'ing pathetic. You could never do as many drugs as Lil' Wayne or the incredible walking crack ho Amy Winehouse. How are we supposed to even be fazed by your wack nuggets of fake-me-out druggie nostalgia? You sent us to private school, remember (how progressive of you!)? Thanks to the spoiled, rich friends we made there, we surpassed your level of drug experience by sophomore year and STILL got straight As. Do you hear us bragging about it??
They have propagated the taking-over of university buildings as a means of protest.
Am I the only one who is already completely f'ing bored by the constant "this day in 1968" 40th-anniversary boomer nostalgia news stories that have become totally ubiquitous? My (least) favorite so far was presented recently by NPR "All Things Considered" host and uber-boomer Robert Siegel, and focused on the taking-over of several Columbia University buildings in order to protest the Vietnam War. In addition to being pissed about gym construction in a local park, "Members of the radical group Students for a Democratic Society opposed Columbia's ties to a think tank involved in weapons research for the Vietnam War," the story explained. "Mark Rudd, then-chairman of Columbia's SDS chapter, tied the two issues together, saying at the time that students would not attend a university that exploited black people and developed weapons to kill them and murder the Vietnamese. 'I see it as part of the enormous part of the anti-Vietnam War movement involving millions of people,' says Rudd, a retired math teacher who lived underground as a revolutionary for seven years. 'We stopped a war of aggression.'" DID YOU? FOR REALS? According to my feeble GenX memory, the Vietnam War ended in 1975, fully seven years after your slumber party at the dean's office. NICE WORK! Seems to me the war ended whenever the president f'ing felt like it. Now, forty years later, your big legacy on this front is that idiot college students will take over a building for any damn reason. How the hell is shutting down College Hall at Smith going to help Mumia Abu-Jamal in any form or fashion?
They are completely clueless about sex.
Much like their boastful prattling about drugs, boomers love to be "cool" about sex. Premarital sex, nonmonogamous sex, outdoor sex, oh my! Y'all were real sexual deviants. Problem is, since they can't be bothered to see past their own graying wangs, boomers have failed to keep pace with modern developments in sexual behavior and identity. This is best demonstrated by a trip to a boomer shrink, as Razzy recently discovered. It doesn't matter if the visit was prompted by your concerns with how much you drink or an unexpected death in the family - tell a boomer shrink you've dated a chick and the conversation cannot be re-railed. Since they are incapable of believing a queer person can be emotionally stable - that queerness can prompt anything but confusion, isolation, and/or self-hatred - you're forced to spend way too much of your expensive-ass 45 minutes convincing your all-knowing boomer shrink that no, you actually don't have any problem with your sexual orientation. "Impossible," the boomer shrink insists. "After all, I made vicious fun of fellow students I suspected were gay in high school and only recently realized it made me hip and with-it to have a couple of gay friends. And that 'Will & Grace' is so funny! But I digress...surely you've considered suicide at least three or four times. Queer people aren't HAPPY. You haven't considered suicide? Well...shouldn't you, now?" Yes, doc. Sitting in your office at this moment, it's true, I do in fact wish I were dead. Now write me a goddamn prescription.
They are the most offensive Obamamaniacs because they take personal credit for his candidacy.
Boomers are at their worst when en route to the Obama rally. As a friend of mine sagely observed after a recent such gathering in Oregon, the crowds resembled a "glorious-dear-leader" third-world throng. Since the boomers in attendance couldn't be bothered to mingle with the hoi polloi, many of them chose to take in the message of Hope and Change from the comfort of their kayaks. From their coastal enclaves, liberal boomers are smiling and slowly nodding with self-satisfaction as they watch Obama's Hitler Jugend-style supporters flip the fuck out like they were at a Miley Cyrus concert. Not only are boomers convinced they are personally and individually responsible for the fact that a black guy is being taken seriously as a presidential candidate, they also think they can be rejuvenated by voting for Obama because their kids are into him. A couple of glasses of Prosecco into a recent dinner with a couple of my mom's lady boomer friends who were in town for Jazz Fest, one of them declared to me, "You young people are for him, all of you are behind him, it's so inspiring, who am I to stand in your way?"
"I voted for Hillary in the primary," I deadpanned, precipitating an uncomfortable silence. That's right - even a boomer candidate is better than a boomer fad.
They're going to cost us the goddamn farm, y'all.
There are just so many of them, and they're going to live 10 or 20 years longer than our grandparents did. So while you're pumping your meager savings into your own 401k, convinced as we all are that it will not be augmented by payments from the Social Security fund into which we've been practically hemorrhaging tax dollars out of our paychecks, it's probably not a bad idea to set some of your nonexistant riches aside for the in-law apartment you're going to need next to your kids' rooms. Because - God love 'em - the boomers will be moving in before long, but not before they blow their entire savings on SUVs and NFL season tickets and Mediterranean cruises.
They're going to cost us the goddamn farm, y'all.
There are just so many of them, and they're going to live 10 or 20 years longer than our grandparents did. So while you're pumping your meager savings into your own 401k, convinced as we all are that it will not be augmented by payments from the Social Security fund into which we've been practically hemorrhaging tax dollars out of our paychecks, it's probably not a bad idea to set some of your nonexistant riches aside for the in-law apartment you're going to need next to your kids' rooms. Because - God love 'em - the boomers will be moving in before long, but not before they blow their entire savings on SUVs and NFL season tickets and Mediterranean cruises.
Labels: aging, Barack Obama, Dumb Smith bitches, LL Cool Jew, politics, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments
Friday, May 16, 2008
From the Smith College Vault: my two-year reunion
Smith likes to milk every penny possible from its alumnae, so they have reunions whenever possible to remind us of how fabulous our years at Fugly Bitch U were. The highlight of reunion is Ivy Day, the day before commencement, where graduating seniors and alumnae from the past five decades throw on virginal white dresses and march around campus carrying roses, ivy garlands, and signs that say lame shit like "2-4-6-8, let's hear it for the class of '68!"
Although I could care less about Ivy Day, I missed my college friends and thought reunion would be a great excuse to get really drunk with them for a few days. When my two-year reunion rolled around in 2002, I was living in the P-N-Dub. I decided to fly back for it, since my friend LL Cool Jew was graduating and I'd been meaning to visit my girls back east anyway. I called up my friend Wmania, who was working on Wall Street at the time, and we decided to get alumnae rooms and drive from NYC to Smith.
So I packed a white dress, flew to New York, hooked up with Wmania, and we got all excited to party our tits off in Northampton for the weekend. The next day we rented our car, double-parked outside Wmania's apartment on the Upper East Side, and ran upstairs to get our bags. We loaded up the trunk of the car and went to drive away, when Wmania unfortunately realized that she had thrown the car keys into the trunk with our luggage and slammed it shut. As our even worse luck would have it, the trunk release inside the car was broken. I called AAA, who sent a guy to disassemble the entire back seat of the car, and STILL couldn't get into the trunk. Those Chevy Caprices or whatever are like fortified tanks. Finally, Wmania convinced the car rental company to send someone with a spare key, and, two hours late, we were headed to New England.
We arrived, managed to barely make it to the Alumnae House for our room keys, and ran into K-Money, this girl who had lived in Jordan House with me and worked on the school paper. We dragged her off to Packard's, my old regular bar in town, and proceeded to get our drink on. LL Cool Jew showed up, and it was mostly a happy reunion. I say mostly because K-Money got all standoffish when I suggested that she was involved with the mob because she kept telling everyone she worked as an "union organizer," and she reiterated that she thought I hadn't worked hard enough/wasn't obedient enough to her during our senior year on the school newspaper. I shot back that she was a lousy editor-in-chief with poor management skills and she might just be jealous that people were more interested in reading my "Angie's Weekly Rant" column than her lame news stories. This could have turned out badly if we weren't distracted by the arrival of Death Rizzo, another friend from Jordan House, who made things right again.
It was lucky K-Money only stayed that one night, because she was the source of all sorts of problems. In addition to the escalating tension between her and myself, she and Wmania had history. She and Wmania are both straight, but they had hooked up and done a little light boobmashing during our senior year. The night before our graduation, I had bought a keg with the prize money I got for "excellence in microbiology and immunology research" at the Ivy Day ceremony earlier that day, and we were having a party so ridiculous on the Jordan second floor that a couch was actually thrown off the roof and narrowly missed destroying a Smith Public Safety cruiser. Wmania and K-Money decided that after a few drinks, they needed to have a heart-to-heart about their sexless lesbian relationship, and proceeded to start a major processing session. At some point someone alerted me to this, I announced, "There will be no fake lesbian processing tonight!" and tried to break it up. They sent me away, saying they were having an "important talk."
"Bullshit!" I declared. They were standing outside the back door of Jordan House, which is basically a big window pane. I stood inside while they kept talking and realized that no amount of teasing would get them back to the party, so I decided to just stand inside where they could see me and strip. I was totally nude by the time they noticed, but it was effective. Wmania immediately ceased gesticulating wildly as she described her emotions to K-Money, jerked open the door, and said something like, "JESUS CHRIST, Razzy, are you smoking CRACK COCAINE? YOU'RE BUTT NAKED!"
"No shit," I said. "Now are you guys going to cease and desist with the Smith girl bullshit and have another beer, or am I going to have to streak the Quad to distract you?" At that moment a bunch of random dudes came up the stairs and started hollering, "AWRIGHT, IT'S GET NAKED TIME!" Nobody took them up on their "it's get naked time" announcement, and I actually took that as a cue to put my clothes back on, but I thought it had permanently put a lid on Wmania's drama with K-Money. It did, until two-year reunion. After returning from Packard's, K-Money and Wmania started kissing and hanging out on the porch swing outside Albright House, where our alumnae rooms were. That turned into more processing, and when LL Cool Jew and I came outside to check on them, they were practically having another emotional girl spat. "Here we go again," I said, starting to unbutton my shirt.
"Oh God, are you going to strip again?" asked Wmania.
"If you two don't cut this out," I said.
"This is none of your business!" K-Money hissed at me.
"Let's go drink more," said Wmania. She came inside and the party resumed. K-Money was pissed. She left first thing the next morning and took all the bad vibes with her. From then on, it was straight-up PARTY TIME.
The next day, W-Mania and I went back to Packard's, and then out to dinner with LL Cool Jew's mom, her then-girlfriend Motherbucker, and a couple other random BDOCs (big dykes on campus) who were their friends. Then we went to Liquors 44, loaded up on gallons of every type of bottom shelf liquor, and went back to Albright House to get the party started. That was when our problems started with the girls in Albright.
Since commencement starts two weeks after finals, the only students around Smith in their dorms are graduating seniors. The empty rooms are then used for alumnae. We were unfortunate to get put up in Albright because they were notorious for being lamer than FDR's polio legs. LL Cool Jew lived in Albright her first year, and was accused of sexual harassment by some fugly LUG (lesbian until graduation AKA "the four-year plan") whose advances she'd declined. In fact, the coolest thing that ever happened in Albright House prior to our reunion was that my boyfriend Benzo popped my anal cherry there when I was crashing in some random girl's room during Spring Break my junior year. In the two years since I'd left Smith, Albright's residents had not gotten any less uptight, and within thirty minutes of our commencing partying there, some mousey bitch knocked on our door to complain about our smoking.
"Um, like, you need to, like, stop the smoking, because we can smell it in the hall," she said. No asking, just informing us passive-aggressively that we needed to be smoke-free. Motherbucker and I were at the door.
"So?" I said. "We're alumnae, we can do whatever we want."
"I, like, have asthma, so you really need to not do that," she reiterated.
Motherbucker blew a lungful of American Spirit smoke in this bitch's face, and she started coughing.
"I thought," she sputtered. "From one Smithie to another..."
"DON'T YOU EVER CALL ME A SMITHIE!" thundered Motherbucker. All my friends hate the term "Smithie." I think we'd all prefer to be called "Smith girls," "Smith alumnae," or "Smith bitches" over "Smithie."
The girl went back to her room. We resumed partying. There was soon another knock on our door. It was some buttoned-up turtleneck-wearing chick in her mid-thirties.
"Hi there, I'm from the Alumnae House, and some of the residents on this floor have complained about the smoke," she said.
"Isn't this a smoking floor?" someone asked.
"Well, yes, but if you could just try to be considerate so that you can enjoy your reunion and the residents of Albright can enjoy their commencement, that would be greatly appreciated."
"Okay, no problem," we said. As soon as she left, we all lit up. I think at some point we ventured over to LL Cool Jew's room in Chase House, where she told us that some girl down the hall had been giving her problems with noise complaints while she worked on her thesis. "I know I've been really NOISY underlining passages from The Quiet American," she fumed. "And I know that nothing says 'party' like Graham Greene's literary repertoire, but buy some fucking earplugs, bitch!"
"I'll take care of her," I said. I tiptoed to this girl's room and took a piss right outside her door. That'll learn her to complain about my little LL Cool Jew. Then I think we returned to Albright, so as not to get caught vengefully urinating on the hall carpet in Chase House.
At some point after all this partying, Motherbucker's male friend Fergus, who I had ignored because he was a redhead with mutton chop sideburns (both phenotypic traits I loathe) until I realized that he was fucking hilarious, stumbled into my room and passed out. When I finally made it there to pass out myself at around four, he was occupying my (twin-sized) bed. I shoved him over.
"Hey, asshole, you're going to have to make room for me if you're sleeping here, because I'm NOT sleeping on the fucking floor."
"No way are you sleeping on the floor," he replied, making room. I kicked off my shoes and climbed into bed.
Five minutes later, we were fucking. As it turns out, we were pretty physically compatible, and it was great sex in spite of our both being extremely drunk. I should add that I am NOT quiet when having sex, and especially not when having great sex. He wasn't quiet either, and being that we only had a creaky-springed twin bed and there was all sorts of spanking and that sort of thing going on, I'm pretty sure we woke up the asthmatic and all her equally uptight friends. I think we finally went to sleep around 7 a.m.
At 8 a.m., my phone alarm went off and I remembered that it was Ivy Day. "Fuck!" I said. "I'm supposed to go walk in the parade with the fucking alumnae." I looked out my window and saw that it was snowing. SNOWING! In the middle of May. "It's fucking snowing!" I exclaimed.
"You know what that means?" asked Fergus.
"That I'm going to freeze my tits off in this spaghetti-strap white dress I brought?" I asked.
"That you should blow off Ivy Day, get back into bed, and blow me instead," he said. I thought his reasoning was sound, so I shrugged, threw my dress back into my suitcase, and obliged. I'd rather suck dick than shiver and nip out of my Ivy Day dress in a freak spring snowstorm any day. Plus, I figured that a BJ would result in oral for me and regular sex afterward (it did). After fucking again, we went back to sleep and didn't get up until noon. We got up, showered, reconvened with the rest of the crew, and spent the afternoon bar hopping. That night, we promptly resumed the party in Wmania's room. There were probably about 10 people crammed in there, drinking and smoking and having a generally great time, when we ran out of mixers. For some reason, Fergus was fairly sober, so he offered to drive over to Cumberland Farms and restock, and volunteered me to go with him since I was his girlfriend for the weekend. On our way back with the mixers, we passed the asthmatic girl's room and could hear that she was having an impassioned discussion with her hallmates about how much she hated us. Naturally, we stood outside her door and eavesdropped, trying not to laugh audibly at the Harry Potter whiteboard she had on the outside of her door.
"And then, she BLEW SMOKE IN MY FACE! AFTER I TOLD THEM I HAD ASTHMA!"
"NO! That's terrible!" exclaimed some other girl, scandalized.
"You know what else," said yet another girl. "One of them is staying across the hall from me, and woke me up this morning HAVING SEX."
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" they asked, aghast.
"And get this...it was MALE-FEMALE SEX. Like, WITH A MAN."
This ushered in a cacophony of "OH MY GODs" and other similar expressions of disapproving horror.
Fergus and I gave each other a congratulatory knuckle pound and went back to tell everyone else what we'd heard. Everyone in our group was appalled that these girls were so undeniably lame that the night before their college graduation, they were wallowing in righteous outrage about how much more fun we were having than them rather than celebrating like any normal college student. Even by Smith standards, that's pathetic.
I guess their little emotional circle-jerk compelled them to further action, because there was soon a knock at the door. Actually, it was more of an authoritative pounding accompanied by an announcement "PUBLIC SAFETY! Open up!"
We opened the door to find a bespectacled Public Safety officer who looked like Lewis from Revenge of the Nerds grown up and employed as an unarmed rent-a-cop at an all-girls liberal arts school. He told us to take the party elsewhere or we'd be kicked out.
We protested. "We paid for these rooms," Wmania said. "We're all over 21. There's no reason why we shouldn't be allowed to drink in them."
"Listen, you can drink, but you've gotten over 5 noise and smoke complaints in the last 24 hours. And I can see that you're all acting very bolsterous."
"BOLSTEROUS?" I said.
LL Cool Jew shushed me before I could point out that the word he was looking for was actually "boisterous" and it was decided that it would be easier to just go somewhere else than get kicked out of alumnae housing and spend the night sleeping in our rental car. So we went to Capen Annex, the office of the school newspaper, The Sophian, and tried to figure out how to break in. Motherbucker climbed a tree, broke into the yearbook's office upstairs, and came downstairs to let everyone in. We partied there until 5 a.m., vandalizing the place (I think I wrote "YOU'LL HAVE TO PAINT OVER ME TO GET ME OUT OF CAPEN ANNEX" on the wall in Sharpie) and listening to Dr. Dre.
The next morning, I put on my bikini. It was only 50 degrees out, but I had worn a bikini to every Smith commencement I attended except my own (where I think I wore a bikini under my gown), and I wasn't about to stop. I made Bloody Marys for everyone, and we settled onto "tar beach", a stretch of roof between Jordan and Emerson House, to watch the ceremonies. FalloniusMonk showed up right when my vodka ran out with a toolbox of booze, which kept the party going. By the time commencement was over, I was absolutely shitfaced. I was so drunk I literally fell on my ass while I was talking to my favorite professor Saratoga120. Then I made an ass out of myself at the house in Hatfield where LL Cool Jew's mom's friends, who were Tai Chi and yoga instructors, held a graduation party in her honor. FalloniusMonk told me she'd give me a ride back to New York so Wmania could leave early (she was over it and ready to resume her life as a responsible private equity analyst.) Besides, FalloniusMonk had a big fat joint, which we smoked on our way back to Smith from this party. Once back, she rounded up Rack, Rack's then-girlfriend, and their other friend while I tracked down Fergus for one last horizontal mambo before we parted ways.
That was the last time I visited Smith College, and it's high time I went back. I have no doubt that within 5 minutes of my arrival, I'll find the handful of cool kids there, get wasted, hopefully get laid, and piss off everyone else within earshot. Now, if only my Razzyphiles in Jordan House invite me back for alumnae tea, I'll show them all how a real hardcore Smith bitch does it: drunk, hollering, and constantly in trouble with the Smith establishment.
Labels: alcoholism, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, LL Cool Jew, Motherbucker, Smith College Vault, Wmania
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Jordan House
DOB: 1922
Occupation: Smith College's biggest party house
Hometown: Northampton, Assachusetts
Current residence: Paradise Road, Northampton, Assachusetts
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: While stalking myself on the internets, I discovered a new link to my website from some chick's Livejournal page. I went to this page, and was surprised and delighted at what I read:
Last Thursday at senior banquet everybody got willed a bunch of shit my the seniors. I got some horrible faded rainbow 3-d cloth stapled to a piece of plywood, a t-shirt that says "totes not vomitor betch," and a huge picture of Audrey Hepburn. Ellie and Kaitlin, on the other hand, got the most amazing will ever: A diary from a girl's first year at Smith, a '99 grad. By the time they get willed this gift, I'm completely drunk from the 40 Aliza got me (yeah, lightweight), so I stole it from their box (temporairily), ran upstairs, and started reading it because I am such a sucker for hearing stories about a person's 'college days.' Needless to say, the girl was fucking crazy. An incredible writer, who often, and without modesty, talked about how awesome she was, spoke about her days of taking Ketmine, smoking more weed than you can imagine, fucking guys, and hating herself.I thought this was amusing. I didn't even remember keeping a diary my first year at Smith. Well, I do, but I still have that diary (mainly because in the back of it is my official and comprehensive sex partner list), so I thought it was funny that not only did I keep some other diary, but that it's now a treasured heirloom being willed from one Jordan House resident to another at Senior Banquet. I have no doubt that it's mine, since the "talking about how awesome (I) was" and "taking Ketamine, smoking more weed than you can imagine, (and) fucking guys" part seems right on the mark. As for the part about hating myself, I was pretty unhappy my first year at Smith adjusting to living on the East Coast and making new friends, although I don't recall it actually getting into self-loathing territory. I was 18, however, and tended to be more overly dramatic about my personal issues than now, so I'm sure I was probably comprehensively self-deprecating.
So. We looked her up on google. She's still crazy, has this fucked up website with a really cynical blog and pictures of her boobs, but it's so weird that she talks about my house, the dead girl's room, Jordan House parties, ect.
I left a comment on this girl's blog, thanking her for calling me "an incredible writer" and asking whether the treasured pot leaf necklace that I had long ago willed to my friend Martindale, was still being passed down from stoner to stoner. It turns out that in fact it was willed to the girl's roommate, and furthermore that "all the Jordanites who read (my) blog think (I am) fucking awesome" and I should expect an invitation to their alumnae tea. FUCK YES! It seems that Jordan is maintaining its reputation as the Smith College party house (or, at least in the words of my bloggity admirer, "the least lame house on campus"), for which it was legendary back in days of yore (ie: 10 years ago when I was living there).
Now, I can hear the collective scoffing coming from everyone on the internets who knows anything about Smith College. I know that nothing at Smith can be described as a "party house" compared to any average undergrad's apartment at almost any state school. I went to visit my friend G-Boner at her school (Arizona State) during my sophomore year at Smith, and their Tuesday night was a more happening party with more kegs and bong hits and hot girls than anything Smith produced when it tried to party hard. However, by Smith standards, Jordan was positively insane, so it's fitting I lived there for four years.
When I first got to Smith, I was told that Jordan couldn't have parties until October due to social probation levied after an incident the previous year. The house president at the time was dating a member of the Holyoke chapter of the Latin Kings, and a fight broke out between the gang members and these townies who were also there. My ex-boyfriend Benzo was there that night, and he said that most people had taken refuge in the rooms on the second floor (he himself was getting a BJ from this girl who used to hook me up with Ritalin when I had to learn a semester's worth of organic chemistry in three nights for finals). From these rooms, they could hear screaming and bodies being thrown up against the walls as the entire floor was occupied by a straight-up brawl. Supposedly, people were also caught smoking crack in the second floor bathroom that night, and some dude was arrested after brandishing a gun, although these might be fanciful embellishments to the Jordan legend. The house president was no longer there when I started as a first-year, but Jordan's legacy as the nerve center of Smith's party scene was cemented, and I knew I was in the right house.
During my tenure at Smith, a whole hell of a lot of things happened on my watch to ensure that Jordan's reputation continued. Within two days of my arrival, I got busted for assisting a junior I had befriended with carrying in cases of beer she bought for us. My first-year class had floor parties good enough to attract almost all the cool upperclassbitches on the second floor and half of Amherst College. Over the years in Jordan, I proceeded to become one of the most notorious potheads in Smith College memory (right down to getting busted for possession of a class D substance and candles, and thus punished with a semester in "the dead girl's room," where this unfortunate girl had hung herself my sophomore year). I tried to start a fraternity of girls in Jordan House, and spent a good year making everyone tape "PKE" to their doors. I watched a hell of a lot of "Beverly Hills, 90210," made a porn with my boyfriend and two girls living in Emerson House, took so many bong hits it's a miracle I'm not still stoned, and was sad to depart.
Yesterday while I was home convalescing and waiting for new episodes of "Deadwood" to download, I was Gchatting with LL Cool Jew and decided to mention the shout-out from current Jordan denizens to her. Unlike me, who stayed put in Jordan all four years, LL Cool Jew was a Smith nomad. During her first year she lived in Albright House, an unbearably lame house where she was wrongly accused of sexual harassment by a girl she'd rejected, then she moved to Jordan for one semester, then into a Friedman apartment, then somewhere else I don't remember since I had graduated by that point, and then into Chase House for her senior year. She moved out of Jordan because my friend Martindale lived around the corner from her, and Martindale was then involved in a tempestuous relationship with this townie guy that ultimately ended with grand theft auto, a restraining order, and him doing jail time, but that's another story. However, LL Cool Jew's one semester in Jordan was enough to qualify her as at least a Jordan appreciator. Once a Jordanite, always a Jordanite.
Razzy: want to see something that's not liz ame?
Razzy: http://sparklemotion89.livejournal.com/9990.html
Razzy: extant smith college girls think i'm "fucking awesome" and want to invite me to their alumnae tea!
Razzy: at JORDAN HOUSE
LL Cool Jew: WOW
Razzy: i know!
LL Cool Jew: that is ridonk
Razzy: cracked me up!
Razzy: i would love to go to that fucking jordan house alumnae tea
LL Cool Jew: ME TOO
LL Cool Jew: even though i only lived there one semester
LL Cool Jew: it was a harrowing experience
Razzy: that counts!
Razzy: indeed
Razzy: constantly hearing martindale's domestic battles
LL Cool Jew: it was at the height of martindale's insantiy with her boyfriend
LL Cool Jew: the townie
LL Cool Jew: on alternate nights i could hear them humping passionately or fighting
Razzy: that was how they rolled
LL Cool Jew: my room was kitty corner to hers
Razzy: i know your room was, i moved into it after you left!
Razzy: remember, cause i was in the dead girl's room!
LL Cool Jew: that's right!
Razzy: that's how i met (LL Cool Jew's grandmother, who liked me so much she sent us to Ibiza for Spring Break that year, so LL Cool Jew could spend more time with our friend Wmania and myself before we graduated)!
Razzy: she called looking for you
Razzy: x7080
LL Cool Jew: oh RIGHT....
LL Cool Jew: jesus dude
LL Cool Jew: your mind is like the proverbial steel trap
Razzy: i can't believe i remember the extension
LL Cool Jew: how the f do you do that
Razzy: steel trap for useless bullshit
LL Cool Jew: sometimes the things you remember startle me.
Razzy: they startle me too
LL Cool Jew: anyway, that was a pretty good smith room
Razzy: it was!
Razzy: it was big
Razzy: got great light
Razzy: quadside
LL Cool Jew: the dead girls room wasn't tho
LL Cool Jew: teence
Razzy: the dead girl's room was also dark
Razzy: no wonder she offed herself
Razzy: it was gloomy as shit
LL Cool Jew: and full of dead girl vibes dude
Razzy: yeah i didn't notice much of that
Razzy:didn't see any ghosts while there
Razzy: i figure that poor girl was so unhappy
Razzy: she wouldn't want to be stuck for eternity at smith
LL Cool Jew: god no
I'm so hardcore about Jordan that I even remember the extension of that room. I think the dead girl's room was extension x7181, the room I lived in my junior year right about the Jordan front door was x7076, and the room I lived in my sophomore year next to the dead girl's room was x7183. Jordan has clearly made an indelible mark on my psyche. I really hope I get invited to that alumnae tea so I can buy liquor for the current Jordanites, smoke their pot, and maybe even get some hot girl-on-girl with any cute bi girls dwelling there! Jordan for life!
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dumb Smith bitches, LL Cool Jew
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Lesbian riot! Go Pioneers!
My friend DanRubin is an editor at a major sports magazine, and he is in charge of the college sports department, so he spends all day surfing the internets looking for interesting sports-related college news stories. Today, he stumbled on this story, and naturally immediately passed along the link, along with a preemptory "you're welcome." Obviously anything with the headline "LESBIAN RIOT AT SMITH COLLEGE!" is worth my time reading.
Basically, the Smith College Republican Club invited some moron named Ryan Sorba (not to be confused with Kevin Sorbo of "Hercules: The Legendary Journeys" fame) to speak. Ryan Sorba wrote some (currently unpublished) book called The Born Gay Hoax, in which he basically hates on homos and tries to use his experience taking Psych 101 at Cal State to disprove the theory that those of us who like to get a little hot same-sex action were born this way. I guess it fits that he went all the way to Northampton to speak about it, since the only place this might be true is actually at Smith, where there are LUGs (Lesbian Until Graduation, AKA the "Four Year Plan") in abundance. Presumably Ryan Sorba wrote this to try and convince himself that there's got to be some other reason for his lifelong attraction to men than him being inherently a big old sausage sucker. I assume he went the intellectual route for being a self-loathing Uncle Tom 'mo after he realized that as a rather slight, wimpy dude, the standard college-age male strategy for homosexual self-denial (calling random guys "fags" and threatening to beat their asses for existing) wasn't going to work out.
This is pretty typical of the Smith College Republicans. Granted, I'm KIND OF a Republican, but trust that I didn't hang out with those bitches at Smith (like my hero, John McCain, I'm a "maverick"). They were all the prototypical "pearls and penny loafers" Smith girls, who spent all their time complaining about the gays and feeling discriminated against for being privileged prissy rich princesses parroting their daddies' political beliefs on account of having no personality of their own. Basically, they were a bunch of dumb snatches who just wanted to make a club facilitating a group whine-a-thon about all the outspoken dykes taking over campus with their Subarus and wide-wale cords and bleeding heart politics, and rendering the campus a very Babs Bush/Nancy Reagan-unfriendly environment. The Smith Republicans are usually such a bunch of predictable twats that hiring some wannabe author with similarly reactionary homophobic beliefs is a pretty standard move from their playbook. Equally predictable as the Smith Republicans' poor choice of simple-minded bigots as seminar speakers is the reaction of the substantially larger LBT community at Smith: a peaceable riot.
The lesbians eventually got so loud that Ryan Sorba was shamed into sitting down. The best part of the video is when the obvious Republican (denoted by her neutral-toned blazer, tasteful brooch, and Ann Taylor slacks) starts frantically trying to decide what to do in the midst of a churning sea of ugly haircuts. Smith hasn't changed a bit since I completed matriculating there eight years ago. Ahhh...memories.
The only thing I have a problem with on the lesbians' end is their chant. I'm so sick of that tired old "We're here! We're queer! Get over it!" line. That's been in rotation since fucking Stonewall! Not that Smith lesbians are known for their creativity, since most come in roughly three flavors (Sporting Lesbian, Plain Lesbian, Androgynous Lesbian), but find some new protest chant already. I would be a lot more impressed if they'd marched into the meeting singing "Born to eat puss-ay" (to the tune of "Born in the USA"...DUH!) or something like that. If they can't think of anything as good as that, they could at least regurgitate some old Team Dresch lyrics. Anything besides that played-out "We're here! We're queer!" chant peppered with enthusiastic shrieks and woo-hooing. Switch it up for the next riot, gals!
The only thing I have a problem with on the lesbians' end is their chant. I'm so sick of that tired old "We're here! We're queer! Get over it!" line. That's been in rotation since fucking Stonewall! Not that Smith lesbians are known for their creativity, since most come in roughly three flavors (Sporting Lesbian, Plain Lesbian, Androgynous Lesbian), but find some new protest chant already. I would be a lot more impressed if they'd marched into the meeting singing "Born to eat puss-ay" (to the tune of "Born in the USA"...DUH!) or something like that. If they can't think of anything as good as that, they could at least regurgitate some old Team Dresch lyrics. Anything besides that played-out "We're here! We're queer!" chant peppered with enthusiastic shrieks and woo-hooing. Switch it up for the next riot, gals!
Labels: assholes, Dumb Smith bitches, lezbollah, vulgar display of faggotry
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
We are not dumb enough
Last night, I was at my friend JerseyGirl's apartment for our usual Monday night cooking lesson and trashy TV watching. During "The Hills," JerseyGirl and I kept the other ladies entertained by trying to reenact scenes from that night's episodes.
"So, like, I saw, Heidi and Spencer's sister at Vice like last night," I said, trying as hard as I could to master Audrina Patridge's perpetually confused, mouth-breathing smile.
"Too smart! You can tell that you're THINKING and it doesn't hurt," said HillsYes.
"Okay, shit, I'll be LC in this scene, then," I said. Compared to Audrina and Whitney, Lauren Conrad looks like a rocket scientist. "You be Audrina, JerseyGirl."
"Like, she came over and like, talked to me, and went off on this whole, like, thing, and like, I was all, I don't know. It was like really...yeah," said JerseyGirl.
"Still too smart!" crowed HillsYes. "I'm serious, you guys are both too intelligent to pull it off. Even at your dumbest, you're both too obviously smart to even do a decent LC."
"Okay, okay, let's try it again. With even less conversation. I'll be Whitney, you be Audrina, let's just pretend we're talking about our jobs," I said. "Like, it was like, really hard to leave my three-year internship at Teen Vogue, but like, I love saying 'go go go!' to the runway models in this, like, fashion show," I ventured.
"Epic Records is like...like..." said JerseyGirl.
"JerseyGirl just did a good Audrina!" approved HillsYes. As her name implies, she's our resident "Hills" expert. We all watch "The Hills," but nobody thinks about it as much as HillsYes. "You almost had me convinced that you were that fucking clueless. But you're both still too smart."
After we watched "The Hills," all the other girls left, and instead of turning in early like good girls, JerseyGirl and I proceeded to finish drinking all the beer in her fridge. If only HillsYes had stuck around, because we ultimately became Whitney and Audrina in real life. JerseyGirl couldn't figure out how to connect her laptop to the internet, and wanted to know if I would upload the pictures from her digital camera to what she alternately refers to as "MyFace" and "Spacebook."
"You're probably better at figuring out computers than me, anyway, Razzy," she said. "I mean, you do science and you have a website and stuff." This warranted a simultaneous laugh-out-loud, audible scoff, and exclamation of "sha right" from me. I went into biology so I wouldn't have to do any math beyond y=mx+b and I am so completely inept at computers that it's a miracle I can publish a solitary word to the internets.
True to form, I was unable to figure out how to connect her camera to my computer. Well, I connected the cable, but my computer refused to acknowledge the camera's presence even after I installed the camera's software three times. I eventually gave up, blaming it on my having a Mac. I have no idea if that's the problem, but it sounds sufficiently insurmountable and I wanted an excuse to give up since we were both getting frustrated.
"OMG, dude, we really are like Whitney and Audrina right now. No wonder they never asked Whitney to do any photo layouts for Teen Vogue." JerseyGirl said.
"I know we aren't this stupid. HillsYes said we looked too smart!"
"Looked smart," said JerseyGirl.
Luckily, then JerseyGirl had a stroke of genius. She could burn some of her pictures to her one blank CD on her computer, then I could load the disc into my computer and upload it to the social networking internets. We high-fived each other on a job (slightly) more well done than Whitney and LC's attempts to pick up their shoes prior to the Crillon Ball in Paris during the season premiere.
"Obviously I have to name this album 'Whitney and Audrina,'" I said, as I uploaded the pictures to my Facebook page.
"Okay, now we have to do something really dumb, like start tagging stupid stuff," said JerseyGirl. We wound up tagging a vegetable platter, a chair, my tits, our friend Rack's boyfriend TheOldGuy, a spatula, and a cake as JerseyGirl's boyfriend Kodiak and thought this was hysterically funny. Then JerseyGirl logged in to her Facebook account and proceeded to tag pictures of Chris Hansen and John Starks as me and we basically spent about an hour doing more of what JerseyGirl called "being renarded."
Sadly, even at our most inebriated and stupid, I have a feeling that, had a sober observer been present, we still would have seemed more intelligent than Whitney and Audrina. Even at our dumbest, we can't exceed the lofty standards those two broads have set for being vapid morons. Judge for yourself. Here's some pictures of Whitney and Audrina:
And here's myself and JerseyGirl. To level the playing field, I made sure to use a couple pictures in which we are both clearly WASTED OFF OUR ASSES. These pictures were from New Year's Eve, and while I don't remember what JerseyGirl was drinking, I was rolling on a brutal combination of scotch, sake, champagne, and tonsillitis that landed me in the Columbia-Presbyterian ER a day later.
Even when visibly drunk off our asses and not performing at capacity intellectually, we just can't get to that level of visibly stupid. I guess we'll never get our own tightly scripted reality shows. Lame.
Labels: computer incompetence, Dumb Smith bitches, Facebook, HillsYes, JerseyGirl, sluts, The Hills, TV
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The Same Old Ugly-Ass Broad Kind of Ladies' Night
Yesterday, ElCyd Gchatted me about my disastrous run-in with Blu the morbidly obese bulldyke at the Cubby Hole this weekend, and we got to bitching about the lesbian scene in our respective cities:
ElCyd: even though my skinny dog-walker named Blue is clearly not the same "Blu" from this weekend, I feel compelled to apologize anyway.It's official: lesbians are the lamest party group in the universe. This is surprising because I know many lesbians who can tear it up, but I guess that's probably why those lesbians aren't crazily into the lezzie scene. A social scene doesn't get more abysmally, insufferably boring than this (at least, not without throwing in a performance by the Smiffenpoofs or some other caterwauling Smith College acapella group). Now I know what happened to all those girls at Smith who lived in one of the houses famed for extreme mousiness and overall fuggery (Morris, Lawrence, Albright, Baldwin, Hopkins, Hubbard, etc.). They are all sipping fuzzy navels at "A Different Kind of Ladies Night."
Razzy: LOL
ElCyd: for serious
Razzy: yeah "skinny" is NOT the adjective for old Blu
Razzy: ugh i was so annoyed
Razzy: never mind that there are only like 4 lesbian bars in nyc
Razzy: this is the only one that has chicks i'd even remotely CONSIDER effing at it
ElCyd: (a whopping 4 more than in dc)
Razzy: and this slut has to piss jamba juice all over my game
ElCyd: i was so irritated just reading it.
ElCyd: mostly because those are the only dykes in dc
Razzy: WHY are those crusty old bulldykes like that???
Razzy: it's SO common in that particular lezzie demographic!
ElCyd: they're the only ones who go out
ElCyd: at least regularly
Razzy: yeah because they're the only ones not all coupled up
ElCyd: although i'm surprised that you didn't roll to the shack.
Razzy: well, it's in brooklyn
ElCyd: you'd think there would be more femmes there trying to hit it
Razzy: and andro hipster lezzies annoy me too
ElCyd: right
Razzy: we'll probably go there some night when CasseeNova is around
Razzy: might as well see some familiar faces as long as i'm trekking all the way out to the slope
ElCyd: word.
ElCyd: i'm both fascinated and annoyed by hipster lezzies.
Razzy: i seriously can't believe there are no lez bars in DC
Razzy: DC gets lamer every time I hear something new about it
ElCyd: seriously
ElCyd: at least we have better and better food
Razzy: like, where do the ladies meet?
ElCyd: but that just makes us fat
Razzy: craigslist?
ElCyd: there's a rotating party - www.adkln.com
ElCyd: it's a once a week thing
ElCyd: and they have the regular "ladies night" festivities at the area bars
ElCyd: i mean, there's always Phase 1 or "the phase"
ElCyd: which is, i guess, a real deal lesbo bar
Razzy: hey they have one of these adkln things in NYC
ElCyd: but no one ever goes.
Razzy: these ladies night things
Razzy: oh
Razzy: dude the music on the website SUCKS
ElCyd: right?
ElCyd: fucking lame
Razzy: oh damn there's one tomorrow!
ElCyd: the chick who owns adkln has wanted to branch out
ElCyd: so it makes sense that they're in nyc
ElCyd: how does it look?
Razzy: well, i like the sound of "women, drinks specials, no cover"
Razzy: and there's a hottish ho on the site
ElCyd: look at the photos
ElCyd: it'll give you an idea of who goes
Razzy: ugh horsefaced girls playing ping pong
Razzy: annoying hipster dykes
Razzy: talking about teagan and sara
ElCyd: oh, ew.
ElCyd: gross
ElCyd: not that the scene in dc is better
ElCyd: but still
Razzy: jesus there is this one bitch
Razzy: who looks like she's going to eat me
Razzy: and not in a good way
ElCyd: omg
ElCyd: with the mutant teeth?
Razzy: YES
If you check out the photo gallery, you'll note two things:
1. Only about six lesbians go to these things
2. They're all BUTT-ASS UGLY
Take, for example, the prettiest girl there:
Nothing gets this low-rent Mandy Moore lookalike in the mood for some snatch-licking like a sexy game of PING-PONG. Not even beer pong? Losers.
There's also the aforementioned porker with "the mutant teeth." She's in a lot of the pictures, repping hard for the lezzie BBWs:
Again, Porky the Pie-Eater looks hungry, and even if I got drunk enough to mentally take 50 pounds off her, I'd be too scared she wouldn't think my goodies were a damn tuna melt or something. Back to the Old Country Buffet with you. You are not the one for me, fatty.
And of course there's a "Little Boy Lesbian" in attendance. These are the kind of lesbians who, for whatever reason, are taking style cues from Holden Caulfield. This one is sassing it up with a shirt encouraging me to "Avoid Temptation."
As tempted as I was by her lack of a figure, somehow I managed to avoid mentally ripping off her many layers of t-shirts and ravaging her in the boudoir of my mind.
Also, there's a Pixie Lesbo. You know this girl is totally a vegan.
Ugh, I can already imagine all the fairies and crystals and crap this bitch has stuck all over her apartment. She probably doesn't shave her pits, either. Gross.
Alert Macauley and Kieran! The Culkin brood is missing a baby dyke!
(In fairness, I can't bust too hard on this one because she kind of looks like me circa 1995. Give her a tattered copy of Arial and a Hole CD and she could be me).
And fresh from the pages of the Brothers Grimm comes this busted ball of frizz.
Sorry, honey, but I'm not into banging broads who look like they'll lure me to their gingerbread house and cook me into a stew.
Seven words: Smith College Science Fiction and Fantasy Society (SSFFS)
Back in my Smith days, SSFFS (pronounced like "Sisyphus") was my favorite club to bust on, because their office was next door to the newspaper where I worked. I was always hassling them. They'd complain we were blasting the Def Leppard too loudly, and I'd tell them they were reading their Robert Heinlein novels too loudly in response. Trust that this chick has a Philip K. Dick book stashed in her purse for the train ride home (alone) from ladies' night.
What lesbian party would be complete without a shiteous duo of armband tat-sporting fugly singer/songwriters clad head-to-toe in Urban Outfitters faux vintage casual wear? I can already hear the atonal Jewel covers full of lyrics about emotion and feelings drifting across the ping-pong tables.
"These hands are small, I know, but they are not yours, they are my own."
I don't see how this is a "different kind of ladies' night," because from what I can tell, this looks like every lame Smith party I ever went to. All they need is a teapot, a Subaru, and a "Smith College 1875-1975: A Century of Women on Top" shirt and we may as well be in Northampton, Assachusetts. It's the same old busted girls with no life and terrible taste in what makes a social gathering fun: carousing, hollering, showing your tits, drinking more than one non-fruit-flavored beer, making out with people, and generally causing a ruckus. Go back to your lame fucking nonprofit jobs and call me when you actually DO have a different kind of ladies night (specifically, when "different" means there will be hot chicks and a decent party!)
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, ElCyd, fat fucks, lezbollah, sluts, you're ugly
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