Thursday, September 11, 2008
Not grounded, not dead
Reason #4765 to stop fucking whining: we're not fucking dead.
Wednesday was a different day around the Experiential Marketing ranch. It became a little tougher to endure the nonstop river of conference call inanities, the continual misinterpretations of cretin clients and Cro-Magnon coworkers. The words "leverage" and "manage change" came tinged with far more bitterness than usual. What could be the matter? Too much carbon monoxide coming from the vents? A widspread, sudden existential crisis? Was everyone simultaneously unlucky in love?
Perhaps so, but more pressing: the Swiss were poised to conduct a test on a particle accelerator in the hours to come, at 2:30 in the American morning.
If it ended up a success, we would make a great leap in particle physics and introduce some compelling questions about the nature of matter. Hoo ha. Well, not we; the professor and the nearly 2,000 other physicists whose input he requested. But no matter.
IF, however, THE SUCKER FAILED, those no-side taking, unempathetic fucktard Swiss would have swiftly conducted the planet into a black motherfucking hole, thereby bringing on the end of the motherfucking world.
Blessed be, though, we were able to wake up on Thursday morning, not dead. Our phone bill was not sent off in vain. We still had time to call our moms. There would be yet another big fat bucket of movie popcorn in the bright future to come. We could return to work, able-bodied and with a bounce in our steps. Work wasn't any less mind-numbing. But we were no longer faced with spending the last day of our lives at fucking work. How do you say "amen" in Swiss German?
Wednesday was a different day around the Experiential Marketing ranch. It became a little tougher to endure the nonstop river of conference call inanities, the continual misinterpretations of cretin clients and Cro-Magnon coworkers. The words "leverage" and "manage change" came tinged with far more bitterness than usual. What could be the matter? Too much carbon monoxide coming from the vents? A widspread, sudden existential crisis? Was everyone simultaneously unlucky in love?
Perhaps so, but more pressing: the Swiss were poised to conduct a test on a particle accelerator in the hours to come, at 2:30 in the American morning.
If it ended up a success, we would make a great leap in particle physics and introduce some compelling questions about the nature of matter. Hoo ha. Well, not we; the professor and the nearly 2,000 other physicists whose input he requested. But no matter.
IF, however, THE SUCKER FAILED, those no-side taking, unempathetic fucktard Swiss would have swiftly conducted the planet into a black motherfucking hole, thereby bringing on the end of the motherfucking world.
Blessed be, though, we were able to wake up on Thursday morning, not dead. Our phone bill was not sent off in vain. We still had time to call our moms. There would be yet another big fat bucket of movie popcorn in the bright future to come. We could return to work, able-bodied and with a bounce in our steps. Work wasn't any less mind-numbing. But we were no longer faced with spending the last day of our lives at fucking work. How do you say "amen" in Swiss German?
Labels: FalloniusMonk, pro-apocalyptic zeitgeist, science
Monday, August 04, 2008
Makaveli in this
The other day I was hanging out with FalloniusMonk and we were talking about our usual nerdtastic selection of topics (ie: history, classical literature, office politics, and lesbian sex), when she suddenly got very excited and said, "Oh my God, DUDE, you have to see this!"
She dove into her hipster bag and whipped out a book. It was a copy of Niccolo Machiavelli's The Prince.
"Uh, dude, did you take a history class in high school? Because I've read that," I said. "Several times, in fact."
"NO, dude, I know you've read it. Look at the fucking picture on the front!"
At first I was like, "What? It's just the usual Penguin Classics appropriation of some random Botticelli portrait or something." For a minute I felt like I was playing some European history-oriented Renaissance painting version of Erotic Photo Hunt. Then FalloniusMonk shouted "WEST SIIIIIDE!" and I instantly realized what was going on. I've seen this hand gesture before:
Now I know why Tupac was so into calling himself "Makaveli" and frankly, why he probably picked up his first copy of The Prince from the prison library in his first place. Certainly the Westside Connection's designs on world domination are in keeping with Machiavelli's political theories, although I certainly wonder these days how O'Shea "Ice Cube" Jackson is going to accomplish that lofty goal via films like Are We There Yet? I can't really see it, but maybe it's how he reconciled the question as to whether it is better for a leader to be loved or feared. He's feared by studio gangstas, police, and Jerry Heller, and loved by children under the age of twelve. It's not really what springs to mind when I think of the word "Machiavellian," but I guess it works.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, librophilia, nerd alert, rap
Monday, July 28, 2008
Daily Douchebag: bar tabs like this
DOB: July 25, 2008
Occupation: making everybody who had a piece of this seriously consider the extent of their alcoholism
Hometown: our dirty hot waiter's apron at El Rey del Sol
Current residence: the financial ledgers at El Rey del Sol
Douchebaggery: I'm generally a pretty thirsty bar patron, but every once in a while I drink so much alcohol that I even surprise myself. Last Friday night was one of those occasions. My friend JerseyGirl throws these happy hours, primarily because she likes any excuse to make an Evite about getting shitfaced. At almost all of these events, I get wasted and very frequently laid with one of the horny gentlemen working with JerseyGirl in the trenches of cable news production. However, at this most recent occasion, JerseyGirl recently broke up with her boyfriend, I've been stressed to the point of almost getting my old poetry notebook out and scrawling out some appalling verse, Rack's boyfriend TheOldGuy's mom just passed away, and Twathopper's been lamenting her usual incompetence at lesbianism, so this happy hour could be a "quiet night out" with closer friends. There weren't as many random cubicle neighbors Evited as usual.
In hindsight, it was probably a mistake not to throw the usual bar-banger, because instead of leaving early to pork some hot swarthy employee of MSNBC or FOX News, I stayed until the finale when the bill arrived, and I was HAMMERED. I was so drunk that on the way home, I almost fell asleep in the cab, something I've sworn never to do ever since my first year in New York I wound up with a cabdriver who started jerking off on the Henry Hudson where there was no escape for me. With those kind of guys taking drunk bitches home, there's no way I'm going to get unconscious and trust the driver will wake me at my humble tenement rather than in some abandoned alley in the Bronx where he'll rape me and dump my lifeless body for the Special Victims Unit to find. I was so drunk that the simple task of staying semi-conscious was a Herculean feat on the way home. I was really, really drunk.
That's why I was not surprised to recall later that we drank over NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS WORTH OF MARGARITA PITCHERS. I remember being surprised at the time, and raving about "there is NO WAY we drank that much! I'm practically sober!" like the truly delusional drunk-ass bitch I was by the time the waiter closed us out. "NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS?!? Wait, we didn't REALLY drink that much...did we?" Okay, well some of that was the tip and tax, and in fairness we ate a paltry $31 worth of nachos, but otherwise we drank probably literally twenty five extraordinarily stiff pitchers of tequila-based cocktails...among a maximum of twenty people, some of whom didn't drink much. As I estimate that around 15 of us drank margaritas, that means we each had 1.67 pitchers each over the course of around four hours. Even for boozehounds like us, that is a shitload of well tequila to consume.
It's not surprising that the next day, many of the attendees reported incapacitating hangovers. I myself was miraculously not clutching the toilet bowl for the next twelve hours (a hangover that in my case seems to be reserved almost exclusively for mixing liquor nights, like when I switch back and forth between scotch, G&Ts, and vodka-Red Bulls). I was, however, very glad when my afternoon drinking plans were canceled so that I could convalesce and make amends to my own liver, because I still felt like shit. I need to remember this the next time we hit up a margarita happy hour, or I'm going to be calling Schick Shadel sooner than later.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, FalloniusMonk, HillsYes, JerseyGirl, Rack, Twathopper
Monday, July 21, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Nate Dogg
DOB: August 19, 1969
Occupation: down (but not out) hook singer
Hometown: Long Beach, California
Current residence: Pomona, California
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: I spent all weekend sharing the extremely distressing news about Nate Dogg's criminal problems and recent stroke with my friends, who were just as upset to discover this as I was. Since I'm the closest thing to a doctor in our little circle, I had to field a lot of questions about his medical condition. Not surprisingly, the most pressing concern I addressed related to whether or not smoking weed every day as Nate Dogg admittedly does can predispose a gangsta for a cerebrovascular accident at such a young age. Unfortunately, I haven't been keeping up on the literature concerning the likelihood that weed by the barrel in one's G'd up apparel increases one's risk for a premature stroke. In fact, I don't even have to check out PubMed to know that such studies haven't even been done, much less published in a peer-reviewed journal.
On Saturday, I got up at the crack of dawn to hit the LIRR for a beach day with my girls Rack and FalloniusMonk. On the way, when I informed them of the latest in Nate Dogg news, they got over their initial shock and horror and advised me that Rack probably gets the prize for Nate Dogg-philia among our friends. Rack actually owns Nate Dogg's solo CD, which is a whole other level of adoration. I didn't even know Nate Dogg had a solo CD. In fact, back in college, one of my drug deal–I mean, BUSINESS associates, the Byrdman, was listening to my Chronic 2001 CD with me and I wondered why Nate Dogg didn't have a more productive solo career. "Think about it, Razzy," he said. "You really want to hear a whole album of 'smoke weed every day'?"
I thought about it, and realized that Nate Dogg is probably best when his talents are used judiciously in conjunction with some talented West Coast rapper. However, Rack came to a different conclusion, and thus FalloniusMonk purchased her a copy of Nate Dogg's 2001 solo effort Music and Me. Rack loves this CD so much that she still maintains the entire thing on her iPod. When our drunk asses were trying to stay awake after a long day swimming and swilling gin and tequila in 95-degree sunshine all day on the train ride back to Penn Station, she passed me an earphone and cranked the Nate D-O-double G. I was immediately snapped out of my alcoholic stupor and was soon singing loudly "your wife, my bitch, your love, my trick, her mouth, my dick, I fucked, that's it" to the frowning disapproval of the fat Greek woman next to me. Since her ample, cellulite-dimpled ass was spilling out of her stretch capris into my seat and thus offending me horribly, I figured my verbalizing profane Nate Dogg lyrics made us even in the affront department.
If only this had been available when I was in college; it would have been alongside "Ain't No Fun (If the Homies Can't Have None)" and "The Chronic Outro" (AKA "Bitches Ain't Shit but Hoes and Tricks") in my treasured collection of feminist-angering anthems to blast out my window for disrupting the frequent vagina-centric candlelight vigils occurring in the Smith College Quad. Man, I miss those days. There's nothing more satisfying than bumping some West Coast flava while simultaneously interrupting some dumb self-righteous, overprivileged twats at a $30K per annum liberal arts college while they're trying to whine at/lecture me about the women in Afghanistan or female genital mutilation or whatever other cause du jour.
Anyho, I stand corrected on Nate Dogg's skills as a solo artist, and Rack has promised to burn a copy of Music and Me for my auditory pleasure. I again salute Nate Dogg, and wish him a speedy resolution to both his legal and neurological woes. I can't do much to help him legally or medically (although I'm pleased that he has a sweet Cobra head pimp cane to assist him with ambulation until he's fully rehabilitated), but I can try to offer my moral support by spreading his gospel. Enjoy "Your Wife":
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, FalloniusMonk, hot dudes, Rack, rap
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Workin for the Man: Today's Headlines in Business
Across the Big Apple, boredom reaches record-breaking levels. As the summer heat increases and fears for the economy compound, American business finds itself spiraling with even higher numbers of useless conference calls, canceled projects, strained communications and overall ennui.
Here are a few of the leading headlines from another hardworking, mind-numbing day of 9-to-5'ing.
Half-and-Half Shortage Strikes Exhausted Staff-base; 3 pm Slump Packs a Wallop; Freelancers Flee the Scene.
Outlook spazzed. Client Reschedules. Agency Scorned.
Fridge to Be Cleaned; Receptionist Sends Hostile Email. See "Lunch" on page 3
Smoke Break Interrupted by DNC Street Teams.
That Asshole Still Courting Lawsuit.
Scaffolding Removed; Passers-by No Longer Request Directions to Barnes & Noble.
Competing Tour Bus Ticket Vendors Target Same Overweight Family. Confusion Ensues.
Coworker Re-forwards Billy Dee Williams Smoothness Test; 5-bottle Smoothness Attained Once Again.
Popcorn Burned; Microwave Recovers in Seclusion. Office Coordinator Tracks Perp, Leades ID'd.
Toilet Paper Still Subject to Gravity, Sloth. See "Your Mom Doesn't Work Here So Clean Your Shit Up" on Page 7.
Rogue IM Interrupts Gchat Mid-keystroke - Male Art Director Accidentally Addressed as "Bandy-legged Snatch" in Chatting Misfire.
Thursday Drags; Life Passes.
Exact Change Required.
Here are a few of the leading headlines from another hardworking, mind-numbing day of 9-to-5'ing.
Half-and-Half Shortage Strikes Exhausted Staff-base; 3 pm Slump Packs a Wallop; Freelancers Flee the Scene.
Outlook spazzed. Client Reschedules. Agency Scorned.
Fridge to Be Cleaned; Receptionist Sends Hostile Email. See "Lunch" on page 3
Smoke Break Interrupted by DNC Street Teams.
That Asshole Still Courting Lawsuit.
Scaffolding Removed; Passers-by No Longer Request Directions to Barnes & Noble.
Competing Tour Bus Ticket Vendors Target Same Overweight Family. Confusion Ensues.
Coworker Re-forwards Billy Dee Williams Smoothness Test; 5-bottle Smoothness Attained Once Again.
Popcorn Burned; Microwave Recovers in Seclusion. Office Coordinator Tracks Perp, Leades ID'd.
Toilet Paper Still Subject to Gravity, Sloth. See "Your Mom Doesn't Work Here So Clean Your Shit Up" on Page 7.
Rogue IM Interrupts Gchat Mid-keystroke - Male Art Director Accidentally Addressed as "Bandy-legged Snatch" in Chatting Misfire.
Thursday Drags; Life Passes.
Exact Change Required.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, intentional buffoonery, Smeeberish
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: male strippers
DOB: ???
Occupation: disrobing for cash
Hometown: ???
Current residence: in Brad's case, somewhere near Washington, DC
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: My friend LL Cool Jew is the matron of honor in our college buddy Wmania's wedding, so naturally she took it upon herself to organize the wedding shower and bachelorette party, and the latter means one thing: hiring some professional semi-nude entertainment. Since before she married BigBagel, LL Cool Jew was a lesbian, we took her to Scores for her bachelorette party and had her literally covered in writhing topless ladies for three hours. Wmania, despite being a Smith alumna herself, has previously shown minimal interest in those without a Y chromosome, so LL Cool Jew realized that to return the favor, she ought to get a male stripper.
Initially, we planned to get a midget stripper to hump a small donkey, because Wmania used to work for the Democrats and because a midget would probably make the somewhat prudish Wmania go into convulsions from the shock. However, we couldn't track down a midget, so we had to find a regular-sized sausage showoff. Thus, LL Cool Jew called Amazing Entertainment and hired some dude named Brad.
The night before the bachelorette party, Brad called LL Cool Jew to get an idea of his audience. "Well, some of the crowd might be a little...conservative," she explained.
"I appreciate your candor," Brad replied. "Would you do me a favor and ensure those ladies have a few cocktails before the appointed time?"
"Dude, he was really professional," remarked LL Cool Jew, after assuring him that we'd get the "conservative" ladies (specifically the bride-to-be) sufficiently liquored up prior to his performance. Later she noted that she was fascinated by her "first official transaction in the sex industry" (although I've seen that hooker stuffing bills into plenty a lady's G-string, so that's not entirely accurate). We were all looking forward to seeing the candor-loving Brad demonstrate his professional skills.
The next night we adorned Wmania in the typical bachelorette party crap, including the piece de resistance, a blinking penis tiara. We popped a case of champagne and between the eight of us, finished it in two hours like the champion alcoholics we are. Then, the gracious hostess admitted Brad, claiming he was her neighbor.
"Oh my God, DUDE," exclaimed Wmania. "I know what's going on here."
Brad actually wasn't that great looking. According to FalloniusMonk, he actually looked like a grotesquely swollen Kevin Bacon. However, he was indeed very nice and professional (before beginning he advised us that he has two rules: no video although still pictures are fine, and no punching him in the nuts). He also managed to lay Wmania on the floor and remove dollar bills from her ginormous rack with his teeth without her looking too exceptionally uncomfortable. While she didn't look as though she enjoyed Brad's attentions much, the rest of us were laughing. Naturally, when her turn was over and Brad asked who was next, she pointed right at me and said "RAZZY!"
I sat down on Brad's provided stepstool and while he gave me a lap dance, I whispered in his ear that I wasn't one of the conservative ladies LL Cool Jew had mentioned in her briefing the day before.
"Okay, then you want to do something crazy?" he asked.
"Sure, why not?" I said.
"Are you wearing panties?"
I thought for a minute. "Amazingly, I am," I replied.
"Are you scared of heights?"
"Nope."
"Okay, get ready to fly," he said. Then he grabbed my ass and did this:
I stuffed my entire wad of dollars into his G-string for giving me an extended face ride. Granted, I had a bunch of residual fake tanner and coconut oil on my thighs afterward, but it was well worth it just for the expression on Wmania's face while Brad twirled me around the room and tried to avoid hitting my head on any light fixtures.
Later, after Brad departed, the ladies were discussing it, and there were a lot of comments going around describing the experience of watching a jiggling beefcake as "gross" and "disgusting." I was surprised because, while not necessarily a sexy experience, I thought it was hilarious. Generally I think male strippers are pretty boring, because mainly all they do is waggle their thong-clad packages at you and give lame lap dances, they don't smell as nice as lady strippers, and there's usually some kind of oil on them which can stain clothing. However, I have to recognize a male stripper who incorporates a lot of sexually suggestive participatory acrobatics into his routine. I might dispute his website's claim of him being the embodiment of male perfection (on account of his not being a black doctor, a Jewish nerd, an MIT graduate, or a swarthy rogue), but I have to applaud his dedication to a lively and interactive performance. I almost always prefer female peelers, as they have breasts and are generally prettier than the generic beefcakes dominating the sausage-swanging circuit. Besides, male strippers never show their weiners, and I can look at a Calvin Klein ad if I want to see some well-defined pecs. However, when a male stripper can actually make up for his cock shyness and overcompensating muscles by inducing hysterical laughter, I have to give my wholehearted approval. Well played, Brad. I salute your professionalism.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, nudity, Wmania
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Talk ridiculously to me
The other day, I was Gchatting with Twathopper and she was telling me some of the more offensive things her ex-paramour Superlez pulled during their brief stint dating. Apparently, although Superlez didn't seem very interested in having real-life sex, she loved phone sex. Granted, this was the lamest phone sex ever, since she spent 99% of it telling Twathopper how cute she was and what she liked about her. In the brief times they actually managed some light physical coupling, Superlez apparently also liked to dirty talk. One time she started bossing Twathopper around about her "cunt," and while the C-bomb doesn't really bother me, it's not one of Twathopper's favorite words and she had to argue with Superlez about whether or not it turned her on. Another time, Superlez pulled one of the grossest, most off-putting instances of dirty talk I've ever heard. Whilst hovering over Twathopper, she said, "Feed me!"
"Uh...what?" Twathopper didn't know what she was talking about.
"Feed me!" repeated Superlez, who then began suckling on Twathopper's tits like some sort of demented baby from hell. This was such a huge turn-off that Twathopper–in spite of being hard-up for lezzie sex–stopped their hooking up in its tracks, because in her words "I'm not into baby fantasies and shit" as having "a grown woman suck on my tits like a fucking infant" was off-putting to say the least. As she put it, "equating the adult act of sex with children" is "not hot at all," and I couldn't agree more. For one thing, I hate kids, and for another...if there's one thing that doesn't go together it's HOT SEX and IMITATING CHILDREN. Another one of my friends was dating this guy a while back, and he used to baby talk all the time. It was mildly disturbing enough that he would routinely say things like "I wuv wu, sweetie-weetie" and stuff like that in front of her friends at bars and restaurants. In the bedroom he was even worse. He would say stuff to her like "Baby, will wu sucky wucky my cocky wocky?" When she told me about this, I thought that if any dude ever said something like that to me, my first response would be, "EW! Oh my GOD, NO! Never again!"
When it comes to dirty talk, there's a fine line between hot and creepy that clearly some people cross with flying leaps. I have certainly engaged in my fair share of dirty talk, but luckily I've never had anyone try to baby talk me in bed. I have, however, on many occasions had some sexy talk turn really fucking funny quickly. Obviously, I'm the kind of person who gets turned on by humor and laughing, so this isn't a problem except in the realm of phone sex. I am terrible at phone sex because I get about two lines deep and start cracking up. In the past I've tried a few times and haven't gotten farther than "...and then I pull your giant, hard cock out of your pants..." before I dissolve into giggles like the totally mature, sophisticated lady that I am. I'm a lot better at dirty talk when I'm actually getting it on, but even then I sometimes can't control myself if something surprisingly hilarious comes out.
For example, the guy who told me that I performed fellatio with a great deal of "flair" made me snicker on his dick, which could have turned into a very bad situation with my gag reflex had I been deep throating rather than doing some between-swallowing head work at that particular moment. I could not control the full belly-laugh that happened when this dude (who I apparently lured back to my web of sin and depavity with my incredibly seductive rendition of the Scorpions' "Wind of Change") blowing his load all over my ass shouted "DRAAAAIIINAGE!" Luckily he had a good sense of humor and wasn't put off by my clutching my side laughing at his money shot move. I've had some other instances of pretty hilarious dirty talk, as well. One of my former booty calls would always start fucking me and demand, "TELL ME ABOUT MY COCK!" I'd then proceed to come up with all sorts of outlandish stuff, like comparing his dick to a Johnsonville brat, telling him to buck like a raging stallion, and complimenting his ability to drill me like a Texas oil rig. Another dude I was dating would always ask me to "play with his chest," which was code for giving him vicious titty twisters. Seemingly pinching his nipples encouraged him to say incredibly ridiculous stuff along the lines of "I'm going to split you in half with my big black snake, girl" and "I'm fucking you so deep my dick's going to come out the top of your head." And yet another dude who was apparently really into artistic ejaculation techniques asked if I wanted some jewelry before giving me a pearl necklace. And yet another Mr. Right Now who I dated for a few months back in Seattle told me that my pussy tasted like the duck sauce Chinese restaurants give you to dip egg rolls in (I disagree...I think my pussy–like most pussy–tastes like a milder version of salt and vinegar potato chips).
I'm somewhat amazed, however, that I seem to have way more stories about this than most of my friends. This is in large part due to the fact that I'm the most open about my sluttery, and I seem to attract ridiculous sexual partners more than my friends. This makes sense, because I'll be the first to admit that I'm pretty ridiculous myself. I asked JerseyGirl, who has done enough silly drunk things to last a lifetime, and the best she could think of was that her boyfriend sometimes says how hot she is "in an 'i'mgonnablowmyloadanyminute' kind of way." I also asked this lovely girl I'll call Tits because she has the hottest natural rack I've ever seen in my life. Tits always has to leave everything early so she can fuck her boyfriend, and while she admitted to trying to convince her boyfriend to let her peg him (he declined), she couldn't think of anything funny that happened with her man. Since she then had to go fuck her boyfriend, I told her to get some dirty talk going on and report back. I have yet to be debriefed. At least FalloniusMonk proved to me that she shares my ability to attract the crazy dirty talk. One time, she was hooking up with some dude who "in the same breath" explained that he was a descendant of Mark Antony and wondered if they could still work together IF THEY WERE MARRIED! Because of their semi-work relationship and his obvious craziness, she elected to never hire him for freelance work again. Another time, "a crazy dyke" asked her if she liked fighter jets in the middle of sex. Sadly, FalloniusMonk did not indicate her love for F-16s by popping in "Highway to the Danger Zone" for the rest of their tryst. Then again, nobody ever accused Kenny Loggins of writing effective lesbian sex jams. Still another time, she fucked some girl in a church parking lot, and the girl asked if she thought Jesus was watching. Well, in Catholic school they taught me that Jesus is basically everywhere, so probably...but I can't imagine he'd be doing anything besides wanking it hard to some hot backseat girl-on-girl in the church parking lot. FalloniusMonk I'm sure came up with some similar don't-worry-about-Jesus-worry-about-lesbian-sex sentiment since she's a pro ho at closing the deal with the ladies, or as she puts it, "Can this just happen? Instead of the Katy Perry horseshit? This isn't about chapstick, it's about pussy!"
Anyway, while it's fun to hit the sheets and do a little dirty talk, in my experience it's actually seldom as dirty as it is either hilarious or creepy. I'm sure some of y'all have stories of your own, and I invite you to share. I suspect that there's a lot more silliness (or possibly creepiness) with the sexiness than sexiness alone. Share, bitches!
Labels: FalloniusMonk, gross, hilarious shit, I LOVE IT, lezbollah, perversion, ridiculous absurdity, sex, Twathopper
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
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Homo Fide
In used-to-be late-breaking news, California announced that the bill to ban same-sex union has been rejected, allowing homosexuals throughout the Golden State to walk down the aisle with legal sanction. In 30ish days time, the law will be signed into effect.
Meanwhile, homos from North to South have already begun to plan they nuptials.
While controversy will certainly arise in the days and months to come, divided parties will agree on one certainty: this decision offers a great deal of hope for the struggling economy in the creation of several new, essential jobs.
Ye seekers of employment, hone your skills and head into any of these 'bout-to-burgeon professions:
FINERY - Tuxedo rentals will see a spike, so for the retail- and customer service-savvy, high thee to the formal wear vendor nearest you. Plus- and petite-sizes a perfect must.
CATERING - Homosexual appeptites will undoubtedly run up, and spikes in the creation, cooking and service of food and beverage is to be expected. Think hummus and tuna tartare, champers and Kentucky rye. The rest will fall into place.
BOUNCERS - The lines at the Unitarian Church will inevitably stretch from White Castle to the Nile - or at least Baja to Berkeley. The services of steady butchesque types the state over will be in high demand, to keep the... peace.
DOGS - Got something [anything] to do with dogs? Prepare ye the coming of boom. Grooming, sitting, schooling, vending, outfitting, walking - you name it. There will be many an abandoned or undisciplined canine, be it left behind on a honeymoon or slated to be a ring bearer.
UHAULs - No joke needed.
RAV4 / SCION STRETCH LIMO RENTALS - Joke needed. But the fact remains that many members of the wedding Parties will need a seat in a practical vehicle. Preferably... boxy.
DIVORCE LAWYERS - Gays will finally be able to take advantage of their God-given rights as Americans to both marry and separate formally . So get with the picture and sharpen your knowledge of marital law. Social services will always be there as a back-up when the, er, dam breaks.
Expect a steady hold in lace, a hold in contraception, a spike in latex and a potential turn in the California housing market. Wills/testaments may also see an increase, but plan carefully.
And so. The skeptical, curious and optimistic eyes of the nation turn west anew to await the new chapter in our nation's social history. The clever among us will seize the day to serve this new wave of change in the most advantageous way, with Amer'can ingenuity, pluck, and other-cheekness. Till death do us.
Meanwhile, homos from North to South have already begun to plan they nuptials.
While controversy will certainly arise in the days and months to come, divided parties will agree on one certainty: this decision offers a great deal of hope for the struggling economy in the creation of several new, essential jobs.
Ye seekers of employment, hone your skills and head into any of these 'bout-to-burgeon professions:
FINERY - Tuxedo rentals will see a spike, so for the retail- and customer service-savvy, high thee to the formal wear vendor nearest you. Plus- and petite-sizes a perfect must.
CATERING - Homosexual appeptites will undoubtedly run up, and spikes in the creation, cooking and service of food and beverage is to be expected. Think hummus and tuna tartare, champers and Kentucky rye. The rest will fall into place.
BOUNCERS - The lines at the Unitarian Church will inevitably stretch from White Castle to the Nile - or at least Baja to Berkeley. The services of steady butchesque types the state over will be in high demand, to keep the... peace.
DOGS - Got something [anything] to do with dogs? Prepare ye the coming of boom. Grooming, sitting, schooling, vending, outfitting, walking - you name it. There will be many an abandoned or undisciplined canine, be it left behind on a honeymoon or slated to be a ring bearer.
UHAULs - No joke needed.
RAV4 / SCION STRETCH LIMO RENTALS - Joke needed. But the fact remains that many members of the wedding Parties will need a seat in a practical vehicle. Preferably... boxy.
DIVORCE LAWYERS - Gays will finally be able to take advantage of their God-given rights as Americans to both marry and separate formally . So get with the picture and sharpen your knowledge of marital law. Social services will always be there as a back-up when the, er, dam breaks.
Expect a steady hold in lace, a hold in contraception, a spike in latex and a potential turn in the California housing market. Wills/testaments may also see an increase, but plan carefully.
And so. The skeptical, curious and optimistic eyes of the nation turn west anew to await the new chapter in our nation's social history. The clever among us will seize the day to serve this new wave of change in the most advantageous way, with Amer'can ingenuity, pluck, and other-cheekness. Till death do us.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, holy fucking matrimony, lezbollah, vulgar display of faggotry
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
Monday, January 07, 2008
Recipe for a perfect Saturday
1. Wake up. Note time.
2. Masturbate. Take tonsil meds. Haul sorry ass out of bed.
3. Shower and get ready while watching the Saturday morning lineup of "Beverly Hills, 90210" on SoapNet. Get excited because they are showing the episode where Dylan's dad, disgraced crooked financier Jack McKay AKA Roman from "Days of our Lives", gets blowed up in a car bomb. Of course, it turns out in six years that Jack McKay actually just faked his death to enter the witness protection program, and that sends Dylan spiraling out of control once again into the substance abuse drama that has tormented him throughout his brooding, privileged life, but that's another story. The scene where Jack McKay supposedly explodes is awesome because it features many shots of Luke Perry screaming "DAAAAAAAD!!!!! WHHYYYYYYYYY?!" like Nancy Kerrigan.
4. Walk dogs.
5. Go to JerseyGirl's apartment.
6. Watch three episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210" season three with JerseyGirl, Senioritis, Rack, and FalloniusMonk. Make fun of when Brenda pretends to be French to impress Dean Cain. Get hot and bothered about the sexual tension between Dylan and Kelly. Laugh hysterically when Donna Martin says things like, "Je suis AMERICAN. And if you don't like it, then too bad!" Eat an awesome club sandwich and fries. Consume Heineken.
7. Go to P.D. O'Hurley's, the bar that is practically downstairs from JerseyGirl's apartment, and meet your (Redskins fan) friend MultipleScorgasms for NFC Wild Card playoff football. Wear your new Julian Peterson Seahawks jersey. Look totally hot. Explain that Jamie Moyer is a beloved former Mariners pitcher when his physically enthusiastic raising of the 12th man flag before the game prompted JerseyGirl to ask, "Dude, why is that guy like totally wildin' out?"
8. WATCH AS THE SEAHAWKS LAY WASTE TO THE REDSKINS. Laugh in MultipleScorgasm's face as this occurs. Convince all your Bev Niner friends--who aren't really paying attention to the game--that they should say things like "Go Seahawks!" at opportune moments. Okay, so there were a few tense minutes in the fourth quarter where things weren't looking so great for Seattle, but I knew they could pull it out and they did. How can you beat Seattle? We have the 12th man. And we have our mighty Sea-Fence.
9. Go back to JerseyGirl's apartment to drink more and watch two more episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210." Let Senioritis convince you to accompany her back to P.D. O'Hurley's to watch the end of the Pittsburgh-Jacksonville game, because, like T-Pain, she likes the bartender and apparently did him once, she needs a wingman, and she knows that I am always easily persuaded with the prospect of watching football. She planned to work this into free drinks for us.
10. LAUGH AS THE SHITSBURGH STEALERS LOSE! And drink scotch while chatting up some hot fellas watching the game nearby. They showed a surprising lack of obnoxious jackassery considering they were New England fans. One of them said I looked hot in my NOT PINK Seahawks jersey. Truth. I thanked him and conceded that at least I don't hate the Patriots as much as I hate the Stealers. Then I tapped my bottomless reserve of hatred for anyone wearing yellow and black and went off on one of my predictable tirades about the officiating in Super Bowl XL. I then reveled when the Jags smote the Steelers' ruin upon Heinz Field thanks to key plays like this one where Najeh Davenport gets totally owned by Rashean Mathis:
Then I noted that Jack Del Rio is kind of a hot piece. He really works that challenge flag.
Now that he's lost his typical funeral suit with garish Jags-colored tie, I'd hit that. Usually I like a man in a suit, but Jack Del Rio has bad taste in suits and looks stupid wearing them on the sidelines. I appreciate his effort to class it up, but he just doesn't wear a suit well with his giant Motorola headset. It doesn't work. Also, he has a real problem with wearing these Oakleys that are straight out of 1997, and it's not a good look for him. He needs to wear outfits like this leather jacket number more often. It gives him that kind of rugged, middle-aged bad boy dad look that Steve Mariucci used to rock to great effect back when he was tearing his hair out over Joey Harrington's passer rating in Detroit.
Then I polished off the last of my Johnnie Walker, saluting both Jack's good looks and his team's owning of Pittsburgh (who promptly started complaining about the officials ignoring holding penalties committed by the Jaguars...isn't karma a bitch?), and went home.
Unless somehow you figure out a way to make my tonsil feel 100% back to normal and include R. Kelly showing up in a trenchcoat ready to pull a switcheroo and strip for me with a pepperoni pizza and the director's cut of Total Recall, that is about as close as you get to a perfect Saturday: Seattle wins, Pittsburgh loses, and ample Bev Niner in between. Good times. And watch out, Green Bay...because Seattle's going to be kicking some cheesehead ass this coming weekend! Trust!
2. Masturbate. Take tonsil meds. Haul sorry ass out of bed.
3. Shower and get ready while watching the Saturday morning lineup of "Beverly Hills, 90210" on SoapNet. Get excited because they are showing the episode where Dylan's dad, disgraced crooked financier Jack McKay AKA Roman from "Days of our Lives", gets blowed up in a car bomb. Of course, it turns out in six years that Jack McKay actually just faked his death to enter the witness protection program, and that sends Dylan spiraling out of control once again into the substance abuse drama that has tormented him throughout his brooding, privileged life, but that's another story. The scene where Jack McKay supposedly explodes is awesome because it features many shots of Luke Perry screaming "DAAAAAAAD!!!!! WHHYYYYYYYYY?!" like Nancy Kerrigan.
4. Walk dogs.
5. Go to JerseyGirl's apartment.
6. Watch three episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210" season three with JerseyGirl, Senioritis, Rack, and FalloniusMonk. Make fun of when Brenda pretends to be French to impress Dean Cain. Get hot and bothered about the sexual tension between Dylan and Kelly. Laugh hysterically when Donna Martin says things like, "Je suis AMERICAN. And if you don't like it, then too bad!" Eat an awesome club sandwich and fries. Consume Heineken.
7. Go to P.D. O'Hurley's, the bar that is practically downstairs from JerseyGirl's apartment, and meet your (Redskins fan) friend MultipleScorgasms for NFC Wild Card playoff football. Wear your new Julian Peterson Seahawks jersey. Look totally hot. Explain that Jamie Moyer is a beloved former Mariners pitcher when his physically enthusiastic raising of the 12th man flag before the game prompted JerseyGirl to ask, "Dude, why is that guy like totally wildin' out?"
8. WATCH AS THE SEAHAWKS LAY WASTE TO THE REDSKINS. Laugh in MultipleScorgasm's face as this occurs. Convince all your Bev Niner friends--who aren't really paying attention to the game--that they should say things like "Go Seahawks!" at opportune moments. Okay, so there were a few tense minutes in the fourth quarter where things weren't looking so great for Seattle, but I knew they could pull it out and they did. How can you beat Seattle? We have the 12th man. And we have our mighty Sea-Fence.
9. Go back to JerseyGirl's apartment to drink more and watch two more episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210." Let Senioritis convince you to accompany her back to P.D. O'Hurley's to watch the end of the Pittsburgh-Jacksonville game, because, like T-Pain, she likes the bartender and apparently did him once, she needs a wingman, and she knows that I am always easily persuaded with the prospect of watching football. She planned to work this into free drinks for us.
10. LAUGH AS THE SHITSBURGH STEALERS LOSE! And drink scotch while chatting up some hot fellas watching the game nearby. They showed a surprising lack of obnoxious jackassery considering they were New England fans. One of them said I looked hot in my NOT PINK Seahawks jersey. Truth. I thanked him and conceded that at least I don't hate the Patriots as much as I hate the Stealers. Then I tapped my bottomless reserve of hatred for anyone wearing yellow and black and went off on one of my predictable tirades about the officiating in Super Bowl XL. I then reveled when the Jags smote the Steelers' ruin upon Heinz Field thanks to key plays like this one where Najeh Davenport gets totally owned by Rashean Mathis:
Then I polished off the last of my Johnnie Walker, saluting both Jack's good looks and his team's owning of Pittsburgh (who promptly started complaining about the officials ignoring holding penalties committed by the Jaguars...isn't karma a bitch?), and went home.
Unless somehow you figure out a way to make my tonsil feel 100% back to normal and include R. Kelly showing up in a trenchcoat ready to pull a switcheroo and strip for me with a pepperoni pizza and the director's cut of Total Recall, that is about as close as you get to a perfect Saturday: Seattle wins, Pittsburgh loses, and ample Bev Niner in between. Good times. And watch out, Green Bay...because Seattle's going to be kicking some cheesehead ass this coming weekend! Trust!
Labels: alcoholism, Bev Niner, comeuppance, FalloniusMonk, JerseyGirl, NFL football, Rack, Razzification, Seahawks, Senioritis, Stealers suck
Friday, November 16, 2007
Saturday night special
Attention all you Razzyphiles in the New York City area who have always desired to meet me and buy me a cocktail! Tomorrow is my 29th birthday, and there's a big huge party for me and FalloniusMonk (who turned 29 on November 11th)!
And FalloniusMonk wanted to wear some sweater vest she bought so she demanded the party be golf-themed. I don't do golf or sweater vests, so I told my guests the party would be tit-themed. FalloniusMonk doesn't do tits (well, she does because she's a big old lezzie, but she doesn't do them like me...in other words, she keeps them stowed within her shirt like a dignified lady unlike me), so at least we can agree on scotch being the official drink of "The 29th Hole."
And you should come, with money you will use to purchase me or FalloniusMonk or both of us Johnnie Walker Blacks on the rocks. All the NYC-located RAZZY.org characters you've always wanted to meet will be there (JerseyGirl, Miss Corbutt, KatieScarlett, Rack, J-Sexy, Neo, and all les bitches), and I will be drunk, wearing a crown, and undoubtedly on the prowl. It will be fun. I especially encourage attendance of hot, swarthy dudes with big dicks and stacked blonde bitches who like snatch. And who will respect me and be nice to me in the morning when I kick them out on my way to the bar where I watch football!
We'll see you at:
THE BLACK DOOR
127 West 26th Street
(Betwixt 6th and 7th Avenues)
On the fair isle of Mannahattas in the colony of Nieuw Amsterdam
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17th, 2007
TEN P.M. UNTIL WHENEVS!
See you there, Razzyphiles!
And FalloniusMonk wanted to wear some sweater vest she bought so she demanded the party be golf-themed. I don't do golf or sweater vests, so I told my guests the party would be tit-themed. FalloniusMonk doesn't do tits (well, she does because she's a big old lezzie, but she doesn't do them like me...in other words, she keeps them stowed within her shirt like a dignified lady unlike me), so at least we can agree on scotch being the official drink of "The 29th Hole."
And you should come, with money you will use to purchase me or FalloniusMonk or both of us Johnnie Walker Blacks on the rocks. All the NYC-located RAZZY.org characters you've always wanted to meet will be there (JerseyGirl, Miss Corbutt, KatieScarlett, Rack, J-Sexy, Neo, and all les bitches), and I will be drunk, wearing a crown, and undoubtedly on the prowl. It will be fun. I especially encourage attendance of hot, swarthy dudes with big dicks and stacked blonde bitches who like snatch. And who will respect me and be nice to me in the morning when I kick them out on my way to the bar where I watch football!
We'll see you at:
THE BLACK DOOR
127 West 26th Street
(Betwixt 6th and 7th Avenues)
On the fair isle of Mannahattas in the colony of Nieuw Amsterdam
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 17th, 2007
TEN P.M. UNTIL WHENEVS!
See you there, Razzyphiles!
Labels: aging, alcoholism, FalloniusMonk, NYC, Razzification
Monday, October 29, 2007
It's Razzy, bitch!
So hot off the press is the first glimpse of this year's Halloween costume and its execution for the annual grad student party I attend every year:
My Britney look went pretty well considering I did it all at the very last minute. I went out for brunch Saturday morning with LL Cool Jew and BigBagel, Rack and TheOldGuy, Fallonius Monk, JerseyGirl and Kodiak, and J-Sexy. Then I went over to hang out at LL Cool Jew and BigBagel's hotel for a moment, but that was thwarted when LL Cool Jew became violently ill from drinking one too many Campari-and-sodas the night before with yours truly. I was pretty hung over myself from drinking from 5 pm, throughout the Morrissey concert, after the Morrissey show with Miss Corbutt and her boyfriend, and then after that with LL Cool Jew at two different bars. I got to bed at 4 in the morning and had to get up again at 10.
However, in spite of having a busy schedule of cocktail consumption, concerts, and catching up with all my tightest bitches, I knew that I could get the costume shopping done in around an hour by heading for Manhattan nexus of places to buy cheap, slutty underwear, fake hair, and glue-on French manicure fingernails for my "Gimme More" Britney outfit: 125th Street.
I first stopped at Rainbow, a trashtastic store where you can buy 15 different styles of hoop earrings for under $3 per pair, the most painful, shabbily made stripper shoes imaginable, and bras that cost less than $5. I initially found the perfect black, sparkly bra, but as I went through the rack, I noticed that the entire stock was a little too big. I have pretty big tits for a girl my size, but 48DD is a whole other species of gigantic rack compared to my comparatively modest 34C. "Why the fuck are all these damn bras so big?" I wondered, then noticed that all the matching boy-short panties were also quite voluminous. Again, I have a pretty big ass for a girl my size, but not so big as to warrant a "3X"-sized panty. After another examination of the merchandise, I realized I'd accidentally stumbled into "plus-size" territory. Crap! Those black, sparkly bras were only available in size 14, and despite aspersions concerning my weight advanced by some Razzy Haters on the comments page of this very blog I am nowhere NEAR being a size 14. Thus, I had to give up on the perfect bras and get the closest substitute in my size. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do.
Then, I picked up some tacky nails at the nearby Rite-Aid, and tried fruitlessly to explain the concept of my costume to the mostly non-English speaking Haitian guy working at the beauty supply store J-Sexy recommended. In spite of the fact that he seemed determined to sell me $50 skeins of copper-colored hair, I managed to find some $6 Barbie hair. I picked up an iced tea at Starbucks (I know, I should have gotten a caramel Frappuccino, but I just wasn't in the mood to consumer 15,000 liquid calories in any other form besides beer), snagged a pack of Marb lights, glued nail tips to all my fingers but the right ring, and behold...I AM the legendary Ms. Britney Spears:
I may have gotten the costume at the last minute, but I didn't work out for a full month to achieve this perfect Britney body. No sit-ups, no Gauntlet, not even so much as a single, short, mile-long trot around the park, just so I could have the perfect quantity of love handle to spill over the waistband of my $3.50 Rainbow boy shorts. That's dedication. I've successfully trashy-slutted up another Halloween party, and I knew this to be true when Captain Jack Sparrow stumbled up to me and informed me that I was "the most beautiful woman in the history of the world" right before he locked himself into the bathroom to regurgitate the bottle of Captain Morgan's he'd unwisely chugged in a little over an hour. Halloween: mission accomplished.
However, in spite of having a busy schedule of cocktail consumption, concerts, and catching up with all my tightest bitches, I knew that I could get the costume shopping done in around an hour by heading for Manhattan nexus of places to buy cheap, slutty underwear, fake hair, and glue-on French manicure fingernails for my "Gimme More" Britney outfit: 125th Street.
I first stopped at Rainbow, a trashtastic store where you can buy 15 different styles of hoop earrings for under $3 per pair, the most painful, shabbily made stripper shoes imaginable, and bras that cost less than $5. I initially found the perfect black, sparkly bra, but as I went through the rack, I noticed that the entire stock was a little too big. I have pretty big tits for a girl my size, but 48DD is a whole other species of gigantic rack compared to my comparatively modest 34C. "Why the fuck are all these damn bras so big?" I wondered, then noticed that all the matching boy-short panties were also quite voluminous. Again, I have a pretty big ass for a girl my size, but not so big as to warrant a "3X"-sized panty. After another examination of the merchandise, I realized I'd accidentally stumbled into "plus-size" territory. Crap! Those black, sparkly bras were only available in size 14, and despite aspersions concerning my weight advanced by some Razzy Haters on the comments page of this very blog I am nowhere NEAR being a size 14. Thus, I had to give up on the perfect bras and get the closest substitute in my size. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do.
Then, I picked up some tacky nails at the nearby Rite-Aid, and tried fruitlessly to explain the concept of my costume to the mostly non-English speaking Haitian guy working at the beauty supply store J-Sexy recommended. In spite of the fact that he seemed determined to sell me $50 skeins of copper-colored hair, I managed to find some $6 Barbie hair. I picked up an iced tea at Starbucks (I know, I should have gotten a caramel Frappuccino, but I just wasn't in the mood to consumer 15,000 liquid calories in any other form besides beer), snagged a pack of Marb lights, glued nail tips to all my fingers but the right ring, and behold...I AM the legendary Ms. Britney Spears:
Labels: Britney Spears, FalloniusMonk, fat fucks, Halloween, Harlem world, J-Sexy, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, nudity, NYC, Rack, Razzification, sluts, vanity
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
To revadge or not to revadge?
Last week, BigBagel, who is obviously VERY busy covering health issues on the Gulf Coast of the mighty Mississip in his waning days as a newspaper reporter, sent out the following query to LL Cool Jew and some of her friends:
In case you didn't read the above article, it's all about how vaginoplasty (cosmetic reconstruction of the vadge and/or surrounding lady bits) has come into vogue either to improve one's genital appearance or to make a new fake hymen for crazy Christian bitches who want to physically repent for their old, sluttish ways. The article explores concerns among surgeons about vaginoplasty being an unnecessary and potentially dangerous procedure. LL Cool Jew was mortified that BigBagel had decided this was a move sanctioned by the very beautiful and sweet marriage vows they exchanged back in April:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org), FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Rack (rack@fashiondesignhouse.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandistnonprofit.org), Jersey Girl (jerseygirl@thirdrankedcablenewscompany.com), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), MillerTime (mtime@tacomahmo.com), Motherbucker (mbucker@somepoliticalplaceoranother.com), HotLawyer (hotlawyer@criminaldefenselawfirm.com), Morrissey'sHair (morrisseyshair@bankruptcylawfirm.com)
From: BigBagel (bigbagel@pulitzerprizewinningdirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
Subject: being that i am now a married man...
ah, the funny things I come across as a health journalist. anyway, I feel a little more comfortable asking about this now that I am a married man, well, really since I now have access to a network of female friends.
http://www.reuters.com/article/healthNews/idUSN3125637420070831
this is a totally unscientific survey entirely for non-professional curiosity reasons. this is also an attempt to deal with my senioritis issues at work, even though I have a fuckload to do right now. Anyway, what do y'all think of the vaginoplasty procedure? Would you consider it for yourself? If so, under what cirucmstances? Cosmetic ever be a consideration? Performance-based reasons? "revirgination"? I can tell you from my perspective, no goddamn way i'd let anyone get a knife near my johnson unless it was somehow the only way to prevent it from falling off.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listI then felt the need to respond, not because I was shocked BigBagel decided to solicit this informal poll, but because this topic has interested me ever since I saw some old bitch get vaginoplasty on an episode of "Nip/Tuck" a couple seasons back and since I heard the rumors on the internet about the horrors that befell Jenna Jameson when she underwent this procedure:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@trotskyitepropagandistnonprofit.org)
zomg, i cannot *believe* my husband just sent a vaginoplasty article to all my friends...it was an unsanctioned move, fyi, and btw bigbagel, hotlawyer and morrissey'shair are men...
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listI felt that pretty much covered it, and so did FalloniusMonk, albeit for apparently different reasons. I'm assuming she was referring to point #5 about fucking dudes with penis piercings, since she's a big ol' lesbo.
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
NO FUCKING WAY.
1. My vagina is a goddamn work of art, and it has many admirers who agree with me (including certain unnamed parties on this e-mail list).
2. Because of this procedure, Jenna Jameson's vagina looks like Petra after the hot Nazi stupidly brought the Grail over the Seal at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. In fairness, I haven't seen her post-surgical modifications, but if the work she's had done on the rest of her is any indication of her surgeon's skill, I sincerely doubt its appearance has been improved.
3. I don't know why any woman would consider this unless her cooch looks like the Mines of Moria. If your vadge is too loose, there's this little exercise called a Kegel that EVERY woman should know about and do on the regs, and that can fix it up.
4. As to the notion that I might have unattractive external or internal genitalia...SHA RIGHT. Like I said, my shit looks like a freakin' Georgia O'Keefe lily. Except better.
5. After a particularly memorable (in a most unpleasant way) one-night stand with a dreadlocked retard who had eleven penis piercings and experienced the extremely painful process of healing from a vaginal shredding, including walking bow-legged (and not in the good way promised to strippers by R. Kelly in "R&B Thug"), I have decided not to let anything sharp and metal near my twat ever again. That dude also gave me a visible hickey and a urinary tract infection...bastard.
You might also be interested to know that there is also a type of collagen injection called "The G Shot" that, per its website (www.thegshot.com), "can temporarily augment the Grafenburg spot in sexually active women with normal sexual function." MAYBE I would consider something like that because I'm down for more intense orgasms and it's just a little shot...except in this case, the lengthy list of risks (http://thegshot.com/risks.htm ) including "vesico-vaginal fistula (hole between the bladder and vagina)," "erosion," "exposed material," and "local tissue infarction and necrosis," mitigates the reward. NO THANKS! I'll stick to my regular old orgasms and leave my lady parts unsullied by medical intervention.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listMotherbucker, likewise a big ol' lesbo, decided to take a more snarky approach in her response:
From: FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com)
They should call it Revagination.
I leave the eloquence to Dr. Raz. For wildly different reasons, BigBagel, I concur with her - and you, for that matter: hell motherfucking no.
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listJerseyGirl, as all of our friends would have predicted, responded with a typical "ew, gross!" sentiment. JerseyGirl once almost threw up when I was discussing some of the messier aspects of anal sex, so this topic didn't suit her rather squeamish temperament.
From: Motherbucker (mbucker@somepoliticalplaceoranother.com)
I would definitely get it. I want my twat to remain forever tight for all the hot dick I regularly get involved with...
To: the Vadgetastic e-mail listSo far, with the exception of Motherbucker who was being 100% sarcastic, nobody has taken a pro-vaginoplasty stance. However, to relieve BigBagel's insatiable curiosity about the wild world of revagination, I thought I'd bring the debate to the internets. If anyone has an opinion about whether they'd personally would or would not get vaginoplasty or why they would or would not encourage their bitch to get a Twat 2.0, spend those two cents on the comment page, y'all! Maybe BigBagel can write another Pulitzer-worthy investigative report on it. Also, I'm still waiting to hear from HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair about what they think as far as their vaginas are concerned.
From: JerseyGirl (jerseygirl@thirdrankedcablenewscompany.com)
That is gross. No.
Labels: FalloniusMonk, gross, HotLawyer, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, MillerTime, Motherbucker, oh the horror, plastic surgery, Rack, science, sex, stank vaginas
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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