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
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
From the Smith College vault: Razzy makes a vegan cry
LL Cool Jew was sending me all kinds of awesome news yesterday, like the fact that my hero Senator John McCain said of racist asshole Mitt Romney's fluctuating position on immigration issues, "maybe his solution will be to get out his small varmint gun and drive those Guatemalans off his lawn." Priceless. Anyway, she also sent me this e-mail:
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: awesome
Another win for the omnivores!! I thought you as a scientist would
especially like this. Face it – vegetables are inferior! Take that
Smith College!
Attached was this article:
My sophomore year at Smith, I was loading up on waffles and bacon in the dining room on one of my favorite Smith dining nights: breakfast for dinner. Smith's unique housing arrangement, like sororities without pledging, included the "perk" of family style dining, something you don't get at other snotty liberal arts colleges. This was definitely more a curse than a blessing, though, because Jordan House, where I lived, was assigned an absolutely horrible cook. He was also extremely sensitive to criticism, and once didn't speak to me for a week when I advised him that I never wanted to see him attempt General Tso's chicken ever again. Breakfast for dinner was one of the few meals he could do right, and as usual, I ate for a week, knowing that the food would not be this good again for some time.
I ended up sitting at my usual table, and there was this first year that one of my housemates had made friends with sitting with us. I barely knew her, but already had decided to dislike her. Immediately upon arrival she'd dyed her hair fuschia, and was really loud (even louder than me, but unlike me, she was not funny or interesting, and thus had nothing by which to redeem her booming voice). Furthermore, her name was Stephanie, but she went by Sassy. Sassy Spray, as a matter of fact. While that name would be good for a porn star or perhaps a hair styling product, on a wide-eyed Smith first year it served just to annoy me for being a stupid name. I found her MySpace, and although it's set to private, it looks like she still lives in Assachusetts all these years after Smith. I bet she still lives in Northampton...LOSER!
Sassy, like many other Smith first years, was super enthusiastic about having just discovered her sense of vocal self-righteousness. Thus, she did a lot of boobmashing with the other LUGs (lesbian until graduation), chalking anti-World Bank and/or Free Mumia statements around campus, and attending panel teach-ins about the women of Afghanistan suffering under Taliban rule, but her favorite cause was veganism. Veganism always manages to work me up into a frenzy of rage because, in addition to being completely contraindicated from a biological standpoint as discussed in the Times article above, vegans are always disagreeable, grouchy assholes. I suspect that they're always so crabby because they're starving all the time. I'd encourage them to eat, but if they wasted away to nothing that's fewer idiots on the planet and everybody wins, so I just fight with them.
Anyway, Sassy was going off about how there was nothing for her to eat on breakfast for dinner night as even the vegetarian options were rife with eggs and dairy, and as I proceeded to tear my way through a pound of bacon, she was glaring at my meal with contempt and disgust. She switched from bitching about only eating corn flakes and soymilk to passive-aggressive anti-meat bullying. Ho didn't know who she was fucking with.
"I just feel so strongly for the animals," she said. "They have thoughts and feelings, and it's just not right to degrade them by manufacturing them and treating them as food. That slice of bacon was a living being at one time. I don't eat anything derived from the abuse of animals. A cheeseburger used to have a face, and I can't eat that in good conscience." Sassy eyed me beadily across the table as her friend, this girl in my year who was also vegan, looked on approvingly.
I popped another piece of bacon in my mouth. "Well, that's all well and good for you," I said. "But I love meat. I'm never going to stop eating meat. Slaughter the fucking cows!"
To my shock, Sassy's eyes began to fill with big crocodile tears. She let out a loud, choked sob and fled the table. Everyone around me was staring at me accusingly, like, "Way to go, Razzy, you asshole, you made her cry." One of my friends started pestering me to go apologize to her. I refused. Why should I apologize for stating my love for meat when she can off about veganism for hours? I find that as equally abhorrent as she found my pro-carnivorous stance. Finally, after the entire table turned against me and demanded that I go at least make sure "she was okay," as though I had scarred the dumb bitch for life, I wandered into the kitchen.
Sassy was bawling like a colicky baby to Sally, the dishwasher/food runner. Sally was a frightening woman, and she cornered me and demanded that I do something about Sassy's emotional distress. I said I was sorry that she took what I said so personally. It wasn't a real or sincere apology, and it shut everyone up who was demanding that I apologize, so I was okay with it. However, the whole incident was one of those Smith College moments of clarity, where you look around with a suddenly new perspective and say, "What the hell kind of crazy shitshow did I choose for college?"
That summer, I attended a family reunion, and wound up telling this story to one of my cousins, who is an avid hunter, card-carrying NRA man, and staunch Republican. He's also funny as hell and only about ten years older than me, so we have a good time deriding the world when we get together. I was telling him this story, knowing that unlike the ladies at Smith, he would praise me for it. He also had some sage wisdom and extremely awesome gifts for me.
"What you need," he advised, taking a swig of his beer. "Is something to keep those morons away. I suggest taxidermy."
"I don't have any taxidermy. You know how my dad is...he doesn't like hunting, so I don't know where I'd get any."
"Hell, I'll take you hunting if you want to go. But if you don't have time I'll just give you a head for your wall."
"What?! You'd part with one of your heads for my wall?"
"Sure, ever since I shot that cougar I haven't had enough wall space, and the old lady won't let me take down any paintings. Want it?"
"Hell yes!"
"Great. I'm telling you, hang it up and it will keep the vegans way in the hell away from you."
I picked up the deer head later that summer. As it turns out, it was the first deer he ever shot (I think he gave it away because it's only a six-pointer, which is pretty pussified as a trophy), and he gave me its pelt along with the head. The pelt has served me well as an accessory to various Halloween costumes I've worn over the years, including as a Viking cape and as a dress when I went as a caveman my first Halloween in NYC, where it nearly fell off and where I ended up making out with KatieScarlett and beating a guy with a stick at Avalon when he tried to grab me by my hair, early man-style. That pelt has seen some crazy times. The head, meanwhile, did its job. Sassy Spray moved out of our house and never bothered me again, and the vegans stayed well away from my animal murder decor. The head and pelt both have places of honor on my wall to this day. Take that, Smith College!
From: LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: awesome
Another win for the omnivores!! I thought you as a scientist would
especially like this. Face it – vegetables are inferior! Take that
Smith College!
Attached was this article:
The New York TimesAs a scientist, I definitely appreciated this article for saying what I've said for a long time: veganism is unnatural. I especially liked the whole "Take that, Smith College!" quip LL Cool Jew threw in at the end. This reminded me of my ongoing battle with the vegans back in my Smith days.
May 21, 2007
Death by Veganism
By Nina Planck.
WHEN Crown Shakur died of starvation, he was 6 weeks old and weighed 3.5 pounds. His vegan parents, who fed him mainly soy milk and apple juice, were convicted in Atlanta recently of murder, involuntary manslaughter and cruelty. This particular calamity -- at least the third such conviction of vegan parents in four years -- may be largely due to ignorance. But it should prompt frank discussion about nutrition. I was once a vegan. But well before I became pregnant, I concluded that a vegan pregnancy was irresponsible. You cannot create and nourish a robust baby merely on foods from plants. Indigenous cuisines offer clues about what humans, naturally omnivorous, need to survive, reproduce and grow: traditional vegetarian diets, as in India, invariably include dairy and eggs for complete protein, essential fats and vitamins. There are no vegan societies for a simple reason: a vegan diet is not adequate in the long run.
Protein deficiency is one danger of a vegan diet for babies. Nutritionists used to speak of proteins as ''first class'' (from meat, fish, eggs and milk) and ''second class'' (from plants), but today this is considered denigrating to vegetarians. The fact remains, though, that humans prefer animal proteins and fats to cereals and tubers, because they contain all the essential amino acids needed for life in the right ratio. This is not true of plant proteins, which are inferior in quantity and quality -- even soy.
A vegan diet may lack vitamin B12, found only in animal foods; usable vitamins A and D, found in meat, fish, eggs and butter; and necessary minerals like calcium and zinc. When babies are deprived of all these nutrients, they will suffer from retarded growth, rickets and nerve damage.
Responsible vegan parents know that breast milk is ideal. It contains many necessary components, including cholesterol (which babies use to make nerve cells) and countless immune and growth factors. When breastfeeding isn't possible, soy milk and fruit juice, even in seemingly sufficient quantities, are not safe substitutes for a quality infant formula.
Yet even a breast-fed baby is at risk. Studies show that vegan breast milk lacks enough docosahexaenoic acid, or DHA, the omega-3 fat found in fatty fish. It is difficult to overstate the importance of DHA, vital as it is for eye and brain development.
A vegan diet is equally dangerous for weaned babies and toddlers, who need plenty of protein and calcium. Too often, vegans turn to soy, which actually inhibits growth and reduces absorption of protein and minerals. That's why health officials in Britain, Canada and other countries express caution about soy for babies. (Not here, though --perhaps because our farm policy is so soy-friendly.)
Historically, diet honored tradition: we ate the foods that our mothers, and their mothers, ate. Now, your neighbor or sibling may be a meat-eater or vegetarian, may ferment his foods or eat them raw. This fragmentation of the American menu reflects admirable diversity and tolerance, but food is more important than fashion. Though it's not politically correct to say so, all diets are not created equal. An adult who was well-nourished in utero and in infancy may choose to get by on a vegan diet, but babies are built from protein, calcium, cholesterol and fish oil. Children fed only plants will not get the precious things they need to live and grow.
My sophomore year at Smith, I was loading up on waffles and bacon in the dining room on one of my favorite Smith dining nights: breakfast for dinner. Smith's unique housing arrangement, like sororities without pledging, included the "perk" of family style dining, something you don't get at other snotty liberal arts colleges. This was definitely more a curse than a blessing, though, because Jordan House, where I lived, was assigned an absolutely horrible cook. He was also extremely sensitive to criticism, and once didn't speak to me for a week when I advised him that I never wanted to see him attempt General Tso's chicken ever again. Breakfast for dinner was one of the few meals he could do right, and as usual, I ate for a week, knowing that the food would not be this good again for some time.
I ended up sitting at my usual table, and there was this first year that one of my housemates had made friends with sitting with us. I barely knew her, but already had decided to dislike her. Immediately upon arrival she'd dyed her hair fuschia, and was really loud (even louder than me, but unlike me, she was not funny or interesting, and thus had nothing by which to redeem her booming voice). Furthermore, her name was Stephanie, but she went by Sassy. Sassy Spray, as a matter of fact. While that name would be good for a porn star or perhaps a hair styling product, on a wide-eyed Smith first year it served just to annoy me for being a stupid name. I found her MySpace, and although it's set to private, it looks like she still lives in Assachusetts all these years after Smith. I bet she still lives in Northampton...LOSER!
Anyway, Sassy was going off about how there was nothing for her to eat on breakfast for dinner night as even the vegetarian options were rife with eggs and dairy, and as I proceeded to tear my way through a pound of bacon, she was glaring at my meal with contempt and disgust. She switched from bitching about only eating corn flakes and soymilk to passive-aggressive anti-meat bullying. Ho didn't know who she was fucking with.
"I just feel so strongly for the animals," she said. "They have thoughts and feelings, and it's just not right to degrade them by manufacturing them and treating them as food. That slice of bacon was a living being at one time. I don't eat anything derived from the abuse of animals. A cheeseburger used to have a face, and I can't eat that in good conscience." Sassy eyed me beadily across the table as her friend, this girl in my year who was also vegan, looked on approvingly.
I popped another piece of bacon in my mouth. "Well, that's all well and good for you," I said. "But I love meat. I'm never going to stop eating meat. Slaughter the fucking cows!"
To my shock, Sassy's eyes began to fill with big crocodile tears. She let out a loud, choked sob and fled the table. Everyone around me was staring at me accusingly, like, "Way to go, Razzy, you asshole, you made her cry." One of my friends started pestering me to go apologize to her. I refused. Why should I apologize for stating my love for meat when she can off about veganism for hours? I find that as equally abhorrent as she found my pro-carnivorous stance. Finally, after the entire table turned against me and demanded that I go at least make sure "she was okay," as though I had scarred the dumb bitch for life, I wandered into the kitchen.
Sassy was bawling like a colicky baby to Sally, the dishwasher/food runner. Sally was a frightening woman, and she cornered me and demanded that I do something about Sassy's emotional distress. I said I was sorry that she took what I said so personally. It wasn't a real or sincere apology, and it shut everyone up who was demanding that I apologize, so I was okay with it. However, the whole incident was one of those Smith College moments of clarity, where you look around with a suddenly new perspective and say, "What the hell kind of crazy shitshow did I choose for college?"
That summer, I attended a family reunion, and wound up telling this story to one of my cousins, who is an avid hunter, card-carrying NRA man, and staunch Republican. He's also funny as hell and only about ten years older than me, so we have a good time deriding the world when we get together. I was telling him this story, knowing that unlike the ladies at Smith, he would praise me for it. He also had some sage wisdom and extremely awesome gifts for me.
"What you need," he advised, taking a swig of his beer. "Is something to keep those morons away. I suggest taxidermy."
"I don't have any taxidermy. You know how my dad is...he doesn't like hunting, so I don't know where I'd get any."
"Hell, I'll take you hunting if you want to go. But if you don't have time I'll just give you a head for your wall."
"What?! You'd part with one of your heads for my wall?"
"Sure, ever since I shot that cougar I haven't had enough wall space, and the old lady won't let me take down any paintings. Want it?"
"Hell yes!"
"Great. I'm telling you, hang it up and it will keep the vegans way in the hell away from you."
I picked up the deer head later that summer. As it turns out, it was the first deer he ever shot (I think he gave it away because it's only a six-pointer, which is pretty pussified as a trophy), and he gave me its pelt along with the head. The pelt has served me well as an accessory to various Halloween costumes I've worn over the years, including as a Viking cape and as a dress when I went as a caveman my first Halloween in NYC, where it nearly fell off and where I ended up making out with KatieScarlett and beating a guy with a stick at Avalon when he tried to grab me by my hair, early man-style. That pelt has seen some crazy times. The head, meanwhile, did its job. Sassy Spray moved out of our house and never bothered me again, and the vegans stayed well away from my animal murder decor. The head and pelt both have places of honor on my wall to this day. Take that, Smith College!
Labels: defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, LL Cool Jew, ranting, retard rage, scathing indictments, sexy delicious animals, Smith College Vault
Monday, May 14, 2007
From the Smith College vault: Tangling with the PAGANS
I was reminiscing about good times at Smith earlier today, and then my ex-boyfriend Benzo texted me:
I'm in Northampton and there are smithies everywhere
I responded:
Offend some for me
It seemed relevant to write something about Smith, and I haven't written one of these "From the Smith College vault" things for awhile, so I thought I would relate the story of the newspaper staff's face-off with the Association of Smith Pagans, because every time I think of it, it makes me snicker. And it probably makes everyone else involved snicker, as well. Well, everyone except the pagans, who apparently have no sense of humor.
The Smith pagans were a very active religious group on campus even though there were around 5 or 6 of them in total. It seems they always had some type of equinox, solstice, or other miscellaneous celestial event to celebrate, and they would plaster the campus in flyers and sidewalk chalk trying to recruit people. I would often entertain my fellow editors at the Smith College Sophian with dramatic readings of their flyers. I remember there was some event called Samhain where they were going to be running around campus performing "the laying of soul cakes." We soon deduced that "soul cakes" meant "Oreos or other assorted cookie items stolen from the Tyler House dining room" and I suggested writing an editorial that decried leaving food to molder and decay all over our picturesque New England campus right at the peak of foliage season. I never ended up writing that because 5 or 6 pagans with unappealing yet dogged marketing instincts celebrating some holiday by littering weren't really important enough to make the news, even by our standards, which were EXTREMELY low.
That doesn't mean we forgot about the pagans though. The next spring, we put out our April Fool's edition of the paper. The April Fool's edition, known as the So Fine, was always entertaining (to us), because it was all made up, all written under assumed names (mine was Dr. Unk N. Stoned, of course), and all hilarious. At least the parts I wrote were. One thing we did was make a fake calendar of events, and we decided to have some fun at the Association of Smith Pagans' expense. We included a calendar entry that said something along the lines of, "P.A.G.A.N. rally. The Smith chapter of the People Against Goodness and Normalcy will be sacrificing the virgin Connie Swail at Helen Hills Hills Chapel this Tuesday. BYO Goat Leggings." This isn't the most original thing in the world, since it's entirely a reference to the underappreciated but totally awesome movie Dragnet starring Dan Aykroyd, Tom Hanks, and Captain Von Trapp as the head P.A.G.A.N. We were amused and probably drunk, so we put the paper to bed and congratulated ourselves for putting together yet another brilliant edition of the So Fine.
One thing I should say right here about the paper was that most people did not read it, so we very rarely had anyone take issue with stuff written there. Occasionally we'd get an angry letter to the editor, but for the most part, people largely ignored this fine publication that our tireless staff put so much work into every week. In fact, people generally liked us overall. The Smith cops were always stopping by our office to say hi, we'd get discounts at Davis student center, and our neighbors in Capen Annex, the building where our office was housed, liked us for the most part. There was one incident where I hung a sign on the door that said something like, "New rule for Capen Annex: no vampyres, vampire slayers, demons, ogres, ghosts, ghouls, elves, orcs, hobbits, goblins, dragons, dragonslayers, witches, warlocks, wizards, mages, spaceship captains, time travelers, shapeshifters, shades, or other forms of mythical beasts permitted. BEGONE, beings most foul! By order of the Roman Catholic Church." This was directed at members of the Smith Science Fiction and Fantasy Society (SSFFS), who had their "reading room" upstairs and who had bothered us with several minor complaints about things that interrupted their reading Philip K. Dick novels in peace, like blasting "Armageddon It" while laying out the Features page or me smoking pot in the darkroom. Our managing editor was a member of SSFFS and she immediately tore the sign down and yelled at me, thus ensuring that relations with SSFFS did not further deteriorate. Apart from those types of largely insignificant incidents, nobody really had a problem with us.
One day, shortly after the So Fine dropped, we heard some very authoritative stomping on the Capen Annex front porch. LL Cool Jew, Wmania, myself, and other various members of the newspaper staff had been in the main room, where I was having a field day tearing apart a press kit sent to us by Ani DiFranco's marketing staff that said "Eat pussy not cows" all over it. It took a place of honor right next to the press kit for M.O.T. (Members of the Tribe), a hardcore Orthodox Jewish rap group, on our bulletin board. Suddenly the door flew open, and we were faced with a half-dozen furious Smith pagans.
Their leader was this computer science major named Nicole Shields. She was dressed in her usual style, which was Dune meets The Crow by way of a medieval whorehouse. Nicole was a big girl, and notable for her monstrous breasts. Her tits were like the continental shelf protruding from her chest, and she always strapped them into some kind of absurd corset or something. It was like being set upon by Jabba the Hutt if he were masquerading as some sort of cross-dressing prostitute at a Cure concert. I couldn't find an actual picture of her on MySpace or the internets, but I found a couple close approximations:
You get the idea. Anyway, Nicole was accompanied by her cadre of wiccans, who were likewise clad in crushed velvet capes and Kiss Army boots, and generally looked like extras off the set of The Craft. She got her massive tits right up in our faces and shook a copy of the So Fine angrily at us.
"This is RELIGIOUS INTOLERANCE!" she shouted. "People WILL NOT TAKE US SERIOUSLY if you write stuff like this."
I wondered whether there was a chance anyone would ever take these pentagram jewelry aficionados seriously, but bit my tongue.
"We do not wear GOAT LEGGINGS," she continued. "This piece is full of misconceptions and bigotry. We are a LEGITIMATE RELIGION, and it is totally unacceptable to mock us."
Someone, probably the diplomatic editor Coolbeans, then advised them that the So Fine is obviously a parody, so it was doubtful that anyone would change their opinion of paganism or wicca or whatever based on a three-line joke from the fictional event calendar.
Nicole shot back, "Well, you wouldn't make fun of other religions, would you?! You wouldn't, say, write that Hillel is making matzoh with the blood of Christian children! "
I blurted out, "Of course not. That isn't funny."
"Funny? You call being persecuted FUNNY?"
We all looked at each other, and said, "Well, yes. In this case, it is."
"We demand a retraction."
I started snickering derisively. The pagans stared at me furiously. Coolbeans then stated that we only made retractions for factual errors, and not for anything in the So Fine. Defeated, Nicole gathered up her angrily heaving bosom and stalked out with her coven in tow.
"Dude, Razzy, they're probably forming a sacred circle and invoking the spirits of fire and wind or whatever against you right now," cautioned Coolbeans.
"Yeah, if by that you mean organizing a panel discussion/teach-in that nobody will attend," I said. "Regardless, bring on the hexing. I've got Jesus Christ and all the power of the Vatican on my side. We smoked their idol-worshipping asses during the Inquisition, and I'll have no trouble destroying them in a rematch."
Unfortunately, the Smith chapter of the People Against Goodness and Normalcy never bothered us again, so I didn't get the opportunity to put any of them in an Iron Maiden or otherwise elicit confessions via torture like an accomplished Inquisitor. Nicole Shields graduated that year and took her giant cans off to California to write code for PlayStation games. I have yet to experience the ill effects of any curse they may or may not have placed upon me.
I'm in Northampton and there are smithies everywhere
I responded:
Offend some for me
It seemed relevant to write something about Smith, and I haven't written one of these "From the Smith College vault" things for awhile, so I thought I would relate the story of the newspaper staff's face-off with the Association of Smith Pagans, because every time I think of it, it makes me snicker. And it probably makes everyone else involved snicker, as well. Well, everyone except the pagans, who apparently have no sense of humor.
The Smith pagans were a very active religious group on campus even though there were around 5 or 6 of them in total. It seems they always had some type of equinox, solstice, or other miscellaneous celestial event to celebrate, and they would plaster the campus in flyers and sidewalk chalk trying to recruit people. I would often entertain my fellow editors at the Smith College Sophian with dramatic readings of their flyers. I remember there was some event called Samhain where they were going to be running around campus performing "the laying of soul cakes." We soon deduced that "soul cakes" meant "Oreos or other assorted cookie items stolen from the Tyler House dining room" and I suggested writing an editorial that decried leaving food to molder and decay all over our picturesque New England campus right at the peak of foliage season. I never ended up writing that because 5 or 6 pagans with unappealing yet dogged marketing instincts celebrating some holiday by littering weren't really important enough to make the news, even by our standards, which were EXTREMELY low.
That doesn't mean we forgot about the pagans though. The next spring, we put out our April Fool's edition of the paper. The April Fool's edition, known as the So Fine, was always entertaining (to us), because it was all made up, all written under assumed names (mine was Dr. Unk N. Stoned, of course), and all hilarious. At least the parts I wrote were. One thing we did was make a fake calendar of events, and we decided to have some fun at the Association of Smith Pagans' expense. We included a calendar entry that said something along the lines of, "P.A.G.A.N. rally. The Smith chapter of the People Against Goodness and Normalcy will be sacrificing the virgin Connie Swail at Helen Hills Hills Chapel this Tuesday. BYO Goat Leggings." This isn't the most original thing in the world, since it's entirely a reference to the underappreciated but totally awesome movie Dragnet starring Dan Aykroyd, Tom Hanks, and Captain Von Trapp as the head P.A.G.A.N. We were amused and probably drunk, so we put the paper to bed and congratulated ourselves for putting together yet another brilliant edition of the So Fine.
One thing I should say right here about the paper was that most people did not read it, so we very rarely had anyone take issue with stuff written there. Occasionally we'd get an angry letter to the editor, but for the most part, people largely ignored this fine publication that our tireless staff put so much work into every week. In fact, people generally liked us overall. The Smith cops were always stopping by our office to say hi, we'd get discounts at Davis student center, and our neighbors in Capen Annex, the building where our office was housed, liked us for the most part. There was one incident where I hung a sign on the door that said something like, "New rule for Capen Annex: no vampyres, vampire slayers, demons, ogres, ghosts, ghouls, elves, orcs, hobbits, goblins, dragons, dragonslayers, witches, warlocks, wizards, mages, spaceship captains, time travelers, shapeshifters, shades, or other forms of mythical beasts permitted. BEGONE, beings most foul! By order of the Roman Catholic Church." This was directed at members of the Smith Science Fiction and Fantasy Society (SSFFS), who had their "reading room" upstairs and who had bothered us with several minor complaints about things that interrupted their reading Philip K. Dick novels in peace, like blasting "Armageddon It" while laying out the Features page or me smoking pot in the darkroom. Our managing editor was a member of SSFFS and she immediately tore the sign down and yelled at me, thus ensuring that relations with SSFFS did not further deteriorate. Apart from those types of largely insignificant incidents, nobody really had a problem with us.
One day, shortly after the So Fine dropped, we heard some very authoritative stomping on the Capen Annex front porch. LL Cool Jew, Wmania, myself, and other various members of the newspaper staff had been in the main room, where I was having a field day tearing apart a press kit sent to us by Ani DiFranco's marketing staff that said "Eat pussy not cows" all over it. It took a place of honor right next to the press kit for M.O.T. (Members of the Tribe), a hardcore Orthodox Jewish rap group, on our bulletin board. Suddenly the door flew open, and we were faced with a half-dozen furious Smith pagans.
Their leader was this computer science major named Nicole Shields. She was dressed in her usual style, which was Dune meets The Crow by way of a medieval whorehouse. Nicole was a big girl, and notable for her monstrous breasts. Her tits were like the continental shelf protruding from her chest, and she always strapped them into some kind of absurd corset or something. It was like being set upon by Jabba the Hutt if he were masquerading as some sort of cross-dressing prostitute at a Cure concert. I couldn't find an actual picture of her on MySpace or the internets, but I found a couple close approximations:
You get the idea. Anyway, Nicole was accompanied by her cadre of wiccans, who were likewise clad in crushed velvet capes and Kiss Army boots, and generally looked like extras off the set of The Craft. She got her massive tits right up in our faces and shook a copy of the So Fine angrily at us.
"This is RELIGIOUS INTOLERANCE!" she shouted. "People WILL NOT TAKE US SERIOUSLY if you write stuff like this."
I wondered whether there was a chance anyone would ever take these pentagram jewelry aficionados seriously, but bit my tongue.
"We do not wear GOAT LEGGINGS," she continued. "This piece is full of misconceptions and bigotry. We are a LEGITIMATE RELIGION, and it is totally unacceptable to mock us."
Someone, probably the diplomatic editor Coolbeans, then advised them that the So Fine is obviously a parody, so it was doubtful that anyone would change their opinion of paganism or wicca or whatever based on a three-line joke from the fictional event calendar.
Nicole shot back, "Well, you wouldn't make fun of other religions, would you?! You wouldn't, say, write that Hillel is making matzoh with the blood of Christian children! "
I blurted out, "Of course not. That isn't funny."
"Funny? You call being persecuted FUNNY?"
We all looked at each other, and said, "Well, yes. In this case, it is."
"We demand a retraction."
I started snickering derisively. The pagans stared at me furiously. Coolbeans then stated that we only made retractions for factual errors, and not for anything in the So Fine. Defeated, Nicole gathered up her angrily heaving bosom and stalked out with her coven in tow.
"Dude, Razzy, they're probably forming a sacred circle and invoking the spirits of fire and wind or whatever against you right now," cautioned Coolbeans.
"Yeah, if by that you mean organizing a panel discussion/teach-in that nobody will attend," I said. "Regardless, bring on the hexing. I've got Jesus Christ and all the power of the Vatican on my side. We smoked their idol-worshipping asses during the Inquisition, and I'll have no trouble destroying them in a rematch."
Unfortunately, the Smith chapter of the People Against Goodness and Normalcy never bothered us again, so I didn't get the opportunity to put any of them in an Iron Maiden or otherwise elicit confessions via torture like an accomplished Inquisitor. Nicole Shields graduated that year and took her giant cans off to California to write code for PlayStation games. I have yet to experience the ill effects of any curse they may or may not have placed upon me.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, intentional buffoonery, nerd alert, overcompensation, Smith College Vault, stank vaginas
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
From the Smith College vault: Tangling with the Dead Gays
People seem to like my stories about Smith, and since very little has gone on with me lately besides work, work, work (and who the hell wants to hear about my mice? NOBODY, myself included), I figured that I would relate one instead of talking about how lame my life is at present. Besides, I was thinking of this because that fat little bastard Chingy! got into a box that had some of my old college photos and letters in it, and cleaning up the destroyed remnants of assorted college treasures (such as the masticated remnants of my old Metallica And Justice For All tape) that he scattered all over the floor inspired a wave of reminiscing. I ended up grabbing my old binder of my newspaper clippings from my Smith days and leafing through it.
My senior year, I wrote a column for The Sophian, our page-turner of a newspaper, called "Angie's Weekly Rant," which was sort of the proto-RazzyBlog, except with less swearing. Since I was the associate editor, I would strongarm the editorial board into letting me write about whatever the fuck I felt like. This meant that every week, I would get half a page in the Op/Ed section to bitch about whatever was pissing me off that week. That meant that sometimes I tackled "real" issues (ie: articles entitled "Family weekend is a crock") and other times I just tore apart people who I didn't like (ie: "Morrow: Worst of the Quad"). Right before Christmas 1999, the Y2K hysteria was in full effect, and I decided to compile a list of reasons why I hoped the world was ending. It was like the Razzy version of Martin Luther's nailing his theses to the cathedral at Wittenburg, but instead of complaining about the selling of indulgences, simony, lay investiture, etc., I took issue with virtually every flavor of stupid cunt at Smith. I had 99 problems, and a bitch could account for every single one of them.
(P.S. I know this didn't scan well but that's what you get when you pay <$100 for a shitty HP printer/copier/scanner)
In this article, "Waiting patiently for the Apocalypse", I basically had a bulleted list of all the things that make me mad or annoy me, such as "annoying introspective female folk/pop singers", "MTV game shows which simulate our judicial system", "Jewel's burgeoning career as a poet and actress," "idiotic discourse on how to shave your pubic hair on the Smith Daily Jolt (Smith-specific internet bulletin/message board)," and "dirty hippies." Like I said, this was the proto-RazzyBlog. Anyway, one of the things I listed was "dead gay performance art," which immediately got me into hot water with the Dead Gays.
Every year there was a party in the Quad, where I lived, called Celebration of Sisterhood. It was started in response to a "homophobic incident" in the early 90s, where some retarded cow started distributing signs that said something along the lines of "Smithies, reclaim your pearls and penny loafers!", insinuating that the increasingly vocal lesbian population on campus had no business being at Smith, and that the college would be better served to hearken back to a time when it was a blueblooded finishing school producing mainly upper crust wives and suicidal poets. I mean, what would Anne Morrow Lindbergh or Nancy Reagan say about all these muff divers running around with their shaved heads, Doc Martens, and pride rings?!?!
Anyway, the lesbians and "allies" (straight people who are down with the gays) fought back by staging the Celebration of Sisterhood, which was a combined candlelight vigil/Quad house sketch comedy and talent show. Mainly it was an excuse to get drunk and feel all warm and fuzzy about getting along with people, as well as an excellent opportunity for the curious to give kissing a girl a try. However, my senior year, a group of pretentious snatches decided that Celebration of Sisterhood was sending the wrong message, and decided to crash it.
All of a sudden, Wilson House was in the middle of a skit about acceptance or whatever, when all these bitches storm the stage wearing black robes and white skeleton-esque face paint. Their costumes looked like a cross between a Carmelite nun and the Halloween costumes that Johnny and his henchman from the Kobra Kai dojo wear in the first part of The Karate Kid, where they beat the living shit out of Daniel-san.
Anyway, these people started swarming through the crowd handing out flyers that said "Resist heteronormativity!" and "Marriage=Death", then performed some type of grim funerary wedding mock ritual thing...I think. I remember not having any idea what the fuck they were doing, while simultaneously my Smith Dumb Bitch detector was going berserk. When they left the stage, I think they were all congratulating themselves at having done something revolutionary and groundbreaking. However, most of the people in the crowd were just puzzled, not having any idea what their point was. Were they against straight people? Or marriage? Or gay people acting straight? Or gay marriage? What were they getting at? Was "heteronormativity" even a real fucking word?? Their propaganda sheets and presentation were unclear and confusing, so people just shrugged and went back to the cute "we're sisters...yay!"-themed skits and then got drunk and fingerbanged their friends, or whatever. I probably went back to my room and took bong hits and then hit a bar with my boyfriend Benzo.
Anyway, a couple days later, the people behind this disruption identified themselves in the school events calendar as the Dead Gays, and scheduled a "panel teach-in" about their message to clarify why in the hell they interrupted Celebration of Sisterhood. Much to their disappointment, nobody showed up except most of the Sophian editorial staff, who apart from being there to report the story, had been having lots of fun at the Dead Gays' expense during editorial board meetings. The girl who was reporting the news story asked the who, what, when, where, how, and most importantly, why questions, and they went off on some incomprehensible tirade about "performance art pieces facilitating a revolution against conformity" that made no sense. Every time the news reporter would ask, "So, was this intended as art, or as a political statement?" she'd get a bullshit answer like "Neither, and both," and then a heaping helping of condescending artfag gibberish.
Then it was my turn. I raised my hand and began with, "I'm Razzy, and I write an opinion column in the Sophian, and I have a few que-"
The Head Dead Gay in charge raised her hand to silence me (thus instantly earning my eternal disdain), then said in her frostiest possible tone, "We know who you are."
Hmmm....I guess the Dead Gays, some of whom lived in Talbot House, didn't like the article I wrote about their Immorality party in which I discussed their "infirm physiques", their "mediocre DJ and unfriendly, extremely paranoid bartenders," and quoted a male partygoer complaining about "too many fat girls in tight clothes, the girl pouring the keg had a happy strip bigger than mine". It's also possible that they were pissed off by one or more of my many other Sophian editorials, most of which had titles like "Veganism fails to stop human suffering" and "Keep depleting that ozone", not to mention my status as the paper's official "Republican" (I was the closest thing to an actual Republican, what with my ideas about small government and lower taxes, and I liked McCain) in the political point-counterpoint section. In any event, the Dead Gays made their dislike for me quite clear.
"Okay," I said, preparing myself for a hostile exchange. "So, what exactly was the point of your little performance?"
"It was a performance art piece," said the Head Dead Gay.
"Yes, I heard that, but what exactly was it about? What did you hope to accomplish with it?" I asked.
Head Dead Gay and her cohorts all looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then started rattling off more nonsensical bullshit about how performance art doesn't have to have a point, as it is just a means of expression. "What were you trying to express?" I asked. It went on like this for several minutes, with them getting becoming more convoluted and patronizing by the second, and me getting progressively more irritated by the bitch's tone.
I should have known better than to expect any kind of straight answer from the Dead Gays. The Head Dead Gay was this artsy BDOC (Big Dyke on Campus) named K8 Hardy. I'm sure her name was originally Katherine or something, but undoubtedly spelling her name in the style of a text message gave her some authentic artist street cred. It's lucky that K8 has continued her career as a pretentious artfag, because there is no shortage of pictures of her dressed like a fucking idiot when you Google "K8 Hardy".
For example, in this photo, she manages to offset her crotchless pants with the face and hair of the walking dead. I'm betting she totally hired one of George A. Romero's effects guys to style this shoot. I can almost hear her thinking, "Come on, K8, channel your inner uppity feminist zombie, channel it!"
There's also this downright disgusting picture of K8's lopsided tits and stank crotch. I honestly can't tell if that's her gash I can see through these underwear or a fresh period stain, but either way, EWWWW! I just lost my appetite. I love me some naked chicks, but I'd say this definitely falls under the rubric of BAD NUDITY. Close your legs, ho, and while you're at it, SHAVE THEM!
If you just swallowed your vomit, then relax, this next picture isn't gross, unless you're disgusted by shameless plagiarism and unnecessary displays of tricep definition. It's just K8 Hardy biting the personal style of Jeffrey Sebelia, equally smug deconstructionist tool and "Project Runway" winner:
And this last one, in which K8 Hardy attends the annual outdoor costume picnic of the American Association of Performance Tardists dressed as a combination of Kermit the Frog, that guy from A Clockwork Orange, and Stands with a Fist from Dances With Wolves, is my favorite. Bitch totally stuffed her codpiece. Wait for it, wait for it...
Anyway, that's the Head Dead Gay. She was such an insufferably obnoxious cunt at the Dead Gays' "panel teach-in" that I immediately added a line in my Sophian column about the end of the world listing "Dead Gay performance art" as a reason why I was eagerly waiting for the Apocalypse.
The Dead Gays were not pleased about this. For one thing, the news article about them was very small and, since they didn't give us a coherent explanation about whatever the hell it was they were trying to accomplish besides getting people's undivided (and totally befuddled) attention, it made it sound as though that were the only point they were trying to make. For another, I think they were pissed that they were included on my pro-Apocalypse list between "the Zappa children" and "aerosol cheese," as it all meant that we DIDN'T TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY.
For the rest of the year, the Dead Gays tried all sorts of passive aggressive shit to get back at us. After Senior Ball, they showed up at the afterparty LL Cool Jew and Wmania were having at their campus apartment and tried to bring in this giant cardboard wave decoration thing they stole from the dance (Senior Ball's theme was "Enchantment Under the Sea"...just like in Back to the Future, I shit you not). They were causing all sorts of trouble by being assholes to all of the guests. I remember getting into it with K8 Hardy and her monstrously fat, mustachioed dyke-along Monica, and being about this close to bathing them in my bottom-shelf gin and tonic. Finally, Wmania had enough, got bossy, and told them to leave. When they refused, she took the big cardboard wave they brought and threw it off the back staircase. When they went after it, she locked them out.
The night before we graduated, I threw a party on the Jordan second floor and those bitches showed up to drink the keg beer I bought with my "Award for excellence in research in microbiology and immunology" prize money. Since we had to move out soon, my shit was all over my room in the packing process. Those skanks brazenly walked into my room and started competing in feats of strength involving lifting my deer head. My deer head is one of my most prized possessions (it's still on my wall to this day), even if it is only a 6-point buck, so I'd be damned if it was going to get a cracked antler or something at the hands of a Dead Gay. I tossed them out with the help of the rest of the party (I think that one of the townies there may have given them an impromptu beer shower), and pretty much forgot about them.
However, when I attended my two-year reunion (Smith has reunions all the time to milk the alumnae for the sake of our endowment), LL Cool Jew brought us to some campus party in the very apartment where KatieScarlett and Miss Corbutt used to live. I quickly realized whose party it was...Monica, K8 Hardy's obese sidekick. She was still fat, still ugly, and still hadn't waxed off her pube 'stache. Fortunately, Benzo's stepbrother and his male friends from Vassar were with us, and they were fucking with so many Smith girls that ultimately Public Safety kicked us all out. On our way out, Wmania and I managed to swipe some typed up "sexual manifesto" off their apartment corkboard, which we read aloud outside to our hysterical drunken delight. Given that it was three pages of bad metaphors about lady unicorns in caves, it was apparent that this bitch had never had sex beyond the few times when she likely had too much peach schnapps and engaged in some reckless boobmashing with some equally repellant demi-Dead Gay.
According to Google, K8 Hardy lives in New York, so it's always possible that I could run into her. In fact, being that I associate with some artfags myself (although KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser are actually good at what they do and are not so pretentious as to try to claim that pictures of some old pervert whacking off is anything but a jerker, and Miss Corbutt doesn't really frequent the artfag circuit), it's always possible that our paths could cross at some sort of art function. If and when I see K8, I'm going to hope that narcissistic slut has come across this by Googling herself, so that we can throw down just like back in the 'Hamp. It's ALWAYS good times fucking with stupid Smith bitches. Always.
My senior year, I wrote a column for The Sophian, our page-turner of a newspaper, called "Angie's Weekly Rant," which was sort of the proto-RazzyBlog, except with less swearing. Since I was the associate editor, I would strongarm the editorial board into letting me write about whatever the fuck I felt like. This meant that every week, I would get half a page in the Op/Ed section to bitch about whatever was pissing me off that week. That meant that sometimes I tackled "real" issues (ie: articles entitled "Family weekend is a crock") and other times I just tore apart people who I didn't like (ie: "Morrow: Worst of the Quad"). Right before Christmas 1999, the Y2K hysteria was in full effect, and I decided to compile a list of reasons why I hoped the world was ending. It was like the Razzy version of Martin Luther's nailing his theses to the cathedral at Wittenburg, but instead of complaining about the selling of indulgences, simony, lay investiture, etc., I took issue with virtually every flavor of stupid cunt at Smith. I had 99 problems, and a bitch could account for every single one of them.
(P.S. I know this didn't scan well but that's what you get when you pay <$100 for a shitty HP printer/copier/scanner)
In this article, "Waiting patiently for the Apocalypse", I basically had a bulleted list of all the things that make me mad or annoy me, such as "annoying introspective female folk/pop singers", "MTV game shows which simulate our judicial system", "Jewel's burgeoning career as a poet and actress," "idiotic discourse on how to shave your pubic hair on the Smith Daily Jolt (Smith-specific internet bulletin/message board)," and "dirty hippies." Like I said, this was the proto-RazzyBlog. Anyway, one of the things I listed was "dead gay performance art," which immediately got me into hot water with the Dead Gays.
Every year there was a party in the Quad, where I lived, called Celebration of Sisterhood. It was started in response to a "homophobic incident" in the early 90s, where some retarded cow started distributing signs that said something along the lines of "Smithies, reclaim your pearls and penny loafers!", insinuating that the increasingly vocal lesbian population on campus had no business being at Smith, and that the college would be better served to hearken back to a time when it was a blueblooded finishing school producing mainly upper crust wives and suicidal poets. I mean, what would Anne Morrow Lindbergh or Nancy Reagan say about all these muff divers running around with their shaved heads, Doc Martens, and pride rings?!?!
Anyway, the lesbians and "allies" (straight people who are down with the gays) fought back by staging the Celebration of Sisterhood, which was a combined candlelight vigil/Quad house sketch comedy and talent show. Mainly it was an excuse to get drunk and feel all warm and fuzzy about getting along with people, as well as an excellent opportunity for the curious to give kissing a girl a try. However, my senior year, a group of pretentious snatches decided that Celebration of Sisterhood was sending the wrong message, and decided to crash it.
All of a sudden, Wilson House was in the middle of a skit about acceptance or whatever, when all these bitches storm the stage wearing black robes and white skeleton-esque face paint. Their costumes looked like a cross between a Carmelite nun and the Halloween costumes that Johnny and his henchman from the Kobra Kai dojo wear in the first part of The Karate Kid, where they beat the living shit out of Daniel-san.
Anyway, these people started swarming through the crowd handing out flyers that said "Resist heteronormativity!" and "Marriage=Death", then performed some type of grim funerary wedding mock ritual thing...I think. I remember not having any idea what the fuck they were doing, while simultaneously my Smith Dumb Bitch detector was going berserk. When they left the stage, I think they were all congratulating themselves at having done something revolutionary and groundbreaking. However, most of the people in the crowd were just puzzled, not having any idea what their point was. Were they against straight people? Or marriage? Or gay people acting straight? Or gay marriage? What were they getting at? Was "heteronormativity" even a real fucking word?? Their propaganda sheets and presentation were unclear and confusing, so people just shrugged and went back to the cute "we're sisters...yay!"-themed skits and then got drunk and fingerbanged their friends, or whatever. I probably went back to my room and took bong hits and then hit a bar with my boyfriend Benzo.
Anyway, a couple days later, the people behind this disruption identified themselves in the school events calendar as the Dead Gays, and scheduled a "panel teach-in" about their message to clarify why in the hell they interrupted Celebration of Sisterhood. Much to their disappointment, nobody showed up except most of the Sophian editorial staff, who apart from being there to report the story, had been having lots of fun at the Dead Gays' expense during editorial board meetings. The girl who was reporting the news story asked the who, what, when, where, how, and most importantly, why questions, and they went off on some incomprehensible tirade about "performance art pieces facilitating a revolution against conformity" that made no sense. Every time the news reporter would ask, "So, was this intended as art, or as a political statement?" she'd get a bullshit answer like "Neither, and both," and then a heaping helping of condescending artfag gibberish.
Then it was my turn. I raised my hand and began with, "I'm Razzy, and I write an opinion column in the Sophian, and I have a few que-"
The Head Dead Gay in charge raised her hand to silence me (thus instantly earning my eternal disdain), then said in her frostiest possible tone, "We know who you are."
Hmmm....I guess the Dead Gays, some of whom lived in Talbot House, didn't like the article I wrote about their Immorality party in which I discussed their "infirm physiques", their "mediocre DJ and unfriendly, extremely paranoid bartenders," and quoted a male partygoer complaining about "too many fat girls in tight clothes, the girl pouring the keg had a happy strip bigger than mine". It's also possible that they were pissed off by one or more of my many other Sophian editorials, most of which had titles like "Veganism fails to stop human suffering" and "Keep depleting that ozone", not to mention my status as the paper's official "Republican" (I was the closest thing to an actual Republican, what with my ideas about small government and lower taxes, and I liked McCain) in the political point-counterpoint section. In any event, the Dead Gays made their dislike for me quite clear.
"Okay," I said, preparing myself for a hostile exchange. "So, what exactly was the point of your little performance?"
"It was a performance art piece," said the Head Dead Gay.
"Yes, I heard that, but what exactly was it about? What did you hope to accomplish with it?" I asked.
Head Dead Gay and her cohorts all looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then started rattling off more nonsensical bullshit about how performance art doesn't have to have a point, as it is just a means of expression. "What were you trying to express?" I asked. It went on like this for several minutes, with them getting becoming more convoluted and patronizing by the second, and me getting progressively more irritated by the bitch's tone.
I should have known better than to expect any kind of straight answer from the Dead Gays. The Head Dead Gay was this artsy BDOC (Big Dyke on Campus) named K8 Hardy. I'm sure her name was originally Katherine or something, but undoubtedly spelling her name in the style of a text message gave her some authentic artist street cred. It's lucky that K8 has continued her career as a pretentious artfag, because there is no shortage of pictures of her dressed like a fucking idiot when you Google "K8 Hardy".
For example, in this photo, she manages to offset her crotchless pants with the face and hair of the walking dead. I'm betting she totally hired one of George A. Romero's effects guys to style this shoot. I can almost hear her thinking, "Come on, K8, channel your inner uppity feminist zombie, channel it!"
If you just swallowed your vomit, then relax, this next picture isn't gross, unless you're disgusted by shameless plagiarism and unnecessary displays of tricep definition. It's just K8 Hardy biting the personal style of Jeffrey Sebelia, equally smug deconstructionist tool and "Project Runway" winner:Anyway, that's the Head Dead Gay. She was such an insufferably obnoxious cunt at the Dead Gays' "panel teach-in" that I immediately added a line in my Sophian column about the end of the world listing "Dead Gay performance art" as a reason why I was eagerly waiting for the Apocalypse.
The Dead Gays were not pleased about this. For one thing, the news article about them was very small and, since they didn't give us a coherent explanation about whatever the hell it was they were trying to accomplish besides getting people's undivided (and totally befuddled) attention, it made it sound as though that were the only point they were trying to make. For another, I think they were pissed that they were included on my pro-Apocalypse list between "the Zappa children" and "aerosol cheese," as it all meant that we DIDN'T TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY.
For the rest of the year, the Dead Gays tried all sorts of passive aggressive shit to get back at us. After Senior Ball, they showed up at the afterparty LL Cool Jew and Wmania were having at their campus apartment and tried to bring in this giant cardboard wave decoration thing they stole from the dance (Senior Ball's theme was "Enchantment Under the Sea"...just like in Back to the Future, I shit you not). They were causing all sorts of trouble by being assholes to all of the guests. I remember getting into it with K8 Hardy and her monstrously fat, mustachioed dyke-along Monica, and being about this close to bathing them in my bottom-shelf gin and tonic. Finally, Wmania had enough, got bossy, and told them to leave. When they refused, she took the big cardboard wave they brought and threw it off the back staircase. When they went after it, she locked them out.
The night before we graduated, I threw a party on the Jordan second floor and those bitches showed up to drink the keg beer I bought with my "Award for excellence in research in microbiology and immunology" prize money. Since we had to move out soon, my shit was all over my room in the packing process. Those skanks brazenly walked into my room and started competing in feats of strength involving lifting my deer head. My deer head is one of my most prized possessions (it's still on my wall to this day), even if it is only a 6-point buck, so I'd be damned if it was going to get a cracked antler or something at the hands of a Dead Gay. I tossed them out with the help of the rest of the party (I think that one of the townies there may have given them an impromptu beer shower), and pretty much forgot about them.
However, when I attended my two-year reunion (Smith has reunions all the time to milk the alumnae for the sake of our endowment), LL Cool Jew brought us to some campus party in the very apartment where KatieScarlett and Miss Corbutt used to live. I quickly realized whose party it was...Monica, K8 Hardy's obese sidekick. She was still fat, still ugly, and still hadn't waxed off her pube 'stache. Fortunately, Benzo's stepbrother and his male friends from Vassar were with us, and they were fucking with so many Smith girls that ultimately Public Safety kicked us all out. On our way out, Wmania and I managed to swipe some typed up "sexual manifesto" off their apartment corkboard, which we read aloud outside to our hysterical drunken delight. Given that it was three pages of bad metaphors about lady unicorns in caves, it was apparent that this bitch had never had sex beyond the few times when she likely had too much peach schnapps and engaged in some reckless boobmashing with some equally repellant demi-Dead Gay.
According to Google, K8 Hardy lives in New York, so it's always possible that I could run into her. In fact, being that I associate with some artfags myself (although KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser are actually good at what they do and are not so pretentious as to try to claim that pictures of some old pervert whacking off is anything but a jerker, and Miss Corbutt doesn't really frequent the artfag circuit), it's always possible that our paths could cross at some sort of art function. If and when I see K8, I'm going to hope that narcissistic slut has come across this by Googling herself, so that we can throw down just like back in the 'Hamp. It's ALWAYS good times fucking with stupid Smith bitches. Always.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, feminazism, Razzification, retard rage, Smith College Vault, stank vaginas
Thursday, October 05, 2006
From the Smith College vault: Razzy gets busted for possession
The other night LL Cool Jew was in town, so JerseyGirl, FalloniousMonk, and myself met her on the Upper West Side for drinks. Since she couldn't meet up with us until later in the evening on account of it being Yom Kippur and having a date with many relatives and a platter of smoked fishes for fast-breaking on the Upper East Side, JerseyGirl and I elected to prefunk at her apartment.
I hadn't seen JerseyGirl in ages before I ran into her randomly at a yoga studio a couple of years ago. Even though we went to Smith together and were buddies from the school newspaper, she was two years behind me and lived in a different house, so we hadn't really kept in touch. However, once she had suffered through a punishing Bikram's class with me, I invited her back to LL Cool Jew and my crib for cheap Chinese food, canned beer, dog admiring, and conversation. We've been hanging out ever since, because she's funny as shit. She works at a certain freedom-loving cable news channel as a producer for a certain famous mustachioed journalist(think angry skinheads hurling chairs), and her stories about life at work, as well as about the New Jersey town she originates from, are priceless.
However, because we've only recently become more frequent hangout buddies, JerseyGirl was unfamiliar with many of the particulars of the hijinks I regularly involved myself in during my college years. Somehow we got to reminiscing about life in the Quad (Jordan House obviously being the best to live in, but I conceded to her that Scales wasn't too bad either), and got to talking about how I scored pot while I was matriculating. There had been a guy who I'll call the Byrdman working in the kitchen of my house who probably every girl smoking pot at Smith had bought from at one time or another, until he got arrested and hauled out of my house. I was rattling off the Byrdman anecdotal tales, and JerseyGirl was loving it to the point where she said, "You should start a blog that's just about Smith. Your stories are hilarious."
I thought about this for a minute. Indeed, I could start a blog that is comprised about just stories about Smith and have ample material at my disposal for fun-poking. However, I can barely keep up with this blog, or my Fantasy Football blog which is turning into a neglected shitshow. Therefore, I decided that when I think of some really good Smith College story I'll just relate it here, and maybe some of my friends from Smith will actually start reading it regularly (yes, I mean you, LL Cool Jew, Wmania, FalloniousMonk, JerseyGirl, Miss Corbutt, and anyone else whose name isn't KatieScarlett). So without further ado, here is the story of my bust for possession by the Smith College "Police" and the subseqent trial before a tribunal of judgmental transgendered bitches:
At Smith we had these party weekends creatively called Winter Weekend and Spring Weekend. Almost all the houses at Smith would host parties, even the lame ones like Talbot and Lamont House, and horny knuckle-dragging men from all over the northeast, from West Point to Dartmouth to the University of fucking Maine, would show up for some action with some desperate Smith girls.
A lot of people are under the misconception that Smith is a "lesbian" school because somewhere in the neighborhood of 30% of the students identify as openly gay. However, I would say that a good 20% of those are LUGs (lesbian until graduation) on the "four-year plan" driven to boobmash by a combination of curiosity and desperation, which makes Smith only 10% gay, just like the rest of the world. Apart from the real dykes and the LUGs, the other 70% is comprised of straight girls with no social skills who want nothing more than to meet a nice guy and GET LAID. Therefore, Winter and Spring weekends represented an excellent opportunity for guys to show up, get laid with minimal effort, and possibly carry out some type of important rite of passage for fraternity pledges. I remember one time this guy in a diaper hauled me into a bathroom, stuck a magic marker in my hand, and informed me that he needed X number of signatures to qualify as a Phi Beta Suckalottacocka or whatever, and would I sign my name and all my friends' names on his back. I whirled him around, then wrote, "I HAVE A MINISCULE PENIS AND CAN'T MAINTAIN AN ERECTION. TELL YOUR FRIENDS NOT TO FUCK ME UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES." Later, once he apparently found out what I'd written, my network of girls informed me that he was looking to have words about how "wrong" it was that I'd written that instead of a list of plagiarized girls' signatures. I guess the self-righteous complaint aspect of the prototypical Smith girl was catching. He never found me, because I was probably already in my room smoking pot with half the party by then.
The Quad, where I lived and where most of these shenanigans went down, generally hosted the best parties. We would have like 6 or 7 kegs. At most state and/or large co-ed schools that's a Tuesday night, but by Smith standards, these were like Spring Break in Mazatlan. However, on Winter or Spring weekend, the turnout was usually so big that these kegs were gone within two or three hours, leaving people angry and beverage-deprived. At that time, I'd corral my group of revelers, and we'd cruise up to my room for unearthing private liquor stashes and the rolling of many joints. Usually my entire floor would do this, so there was always a decent after party at the Jordan second floor. One night during my junior year Winter Weekend, I proceeded to do just this with a large group of girls and their assorted hangers-on, my boyfriend, and some of his townie friends. Shortly after we'd smoked our first joint, there was a loud, authoritative pounding on my door.
"Public Safety! Open up!"
I was a little worried, but not terribly, because Smith doesn't like to compile stats about drug busts, and therefore, they'll generally let it slide to keep promotional material such as the "Crime on Campus" statistic brochure appealing to parents and wealthy alumnae. I hid my bag somewhere, threw the roach out my window, and opened up.
FOUR Public Safety guys marched in and started acting like we were running a sweat shop or something in there. "Where is your marijuana?" demanded the alpha Public Safety guy, a short man with glasses and impeccably gelled hair.
"Marijuana? We were smoking cigarettes," I said, waving my lit Parliament light around to show him so.
"I distinctly smell marijuana. If you don't produce the marijuana, I will search your room."
Since Smith technically owned my room, I had absolutely NO right to privacy at any time. One time Public Safety was investigating something else and accidentally came into my room right while I was fucking my boyfriend. I didn't answer the door, because I didn't want to deal with them, so the officer just let himself right in. I managed to get a bathrobe on just as the door opened, but still there was one hell of an awkward moment as the officer stated that he had the wrong room, and sorry. I knew that they wouldn't hesitate to tear all my personal belongings apart, and if they did, they would find at least two bongs, several assorted pipes, a stack of Zig Zag rolling papers, a large container of seeds left over from my failed attempts at horticulture, and definitely at least a quarter ounce of weed. I didn't want that to happen, so I grabbed the book I had rolled the joint on. "Here is my marijuana," I said. "As you can see, there's hardly anything."
The Public Safety officer looked suspiciously at me, then at the book. There were indeed a few scraps of weed on the book. Acting like some sort of CSI, he made a show about brushing the scraps into a plastic baggie as "evidence." As an afterthought, he also confiscated two candles, because candles are a fire hazard and thus against the rules. Fortunately, this placated him and he didn't search my room. "We're going to have to write you up," he told me. "Expect to be contacted by the director of Public Safety and the Dean of Students about possible disciplinary action."
I knew one of the Public Safety officers there, because he always hung out at the newspaper office. The year prior, when I posed nude for the April Fool's edition of The Sophian, he told me that I had "balls down to here" and requested an autographed copy, which he supposedly hung in his work locker. I asked him if there wasn't anything he could do.
"Sorry," he said. "Normally there would be, but your RC called us specifically to report you. There's a record. My hands are tied."
They left, and I was reeling. I had been ratted out to the fuzz, and I was getting all Tony Soprano about doing horrible, murderous things to the snitch. However, I could do very little, because she was my RC. "RC" stands for "resident coordinator," and they are like RAs at any other school. The RC position was new, and was especially for first-year alumnae who couldn't bear the thought of life somewhere besides Smith. In return for their services and their supposed maturity, they received free board, a suite with a private bathroom, and a "generous" stipend of $11,000. In other words, Smith had created a job tailor-made for losers who couldn't move on with their lives post-graduation. My RC that year fit this description perfectly.
She was this fat bitch named Crystal Daugherty, and yes, that is her real name. She was a women's studies major who drove a VW Fox with fucking daisy stickers all over it, and was the type who thought she knew EVERYTHING. I had already made enemies with her at the LBTA panel discussion in our house when I went as the "ally" (hetero breeder) and wore a shirt that said "It's okay to be straight" on it. I further pissed her off that night at the party by getting mouthy with her when she wasn't letting people in (particularly those of the Y chromosome persuasion) because they weren't on the guest list. I said, "Put them on my guest list, then. Parties are for everyone." She gave me this exasperated, maternal sigh and told the doorwomen to ignore me. Furiously, I marched outside with a piece of paper, took down everyone's names, came in, and gave the sheet to Crystal. "Here is my revised guest list, Crystal, and if you so much as reject one of my friends on it, I'll file a complaint against you with the office of student affairs. If someone is on a guest list, they must be admitted. It's in the fucking handbook under the rules about social functions." Crystal glared at me, knowing there was nothing she could do, and not wanting to mar her perfect disciplinary record with the school with legitimate complaints for which there were witnesses. However, I should have known not to think an obese, socially retarded womyn like her wouldn't immediately seek vengeance that would both stick it to me good and restore her sense of indisputable self-importance. For Crystal, revenge was a dish best served by Public Safety.
I promptly received a letter the next week informing me that I was to report to the judicial board for an inquiry concerning the charges of "possession of a class D substance and candles." I tried to have some words with Crystal about it, but she blew me off with some bullshit about how the particulars of her job were non-negotiable. Even worse, at our Sophian editorial board meeting that week, the rest of the staff thought my inclusion in the "Police Blotter" section of the paper was riotously funny. I was irate, so I decided to get some payback the best way I knew how: I wrote an editorial. The piece was a scathing indictment of the RC program and how it was infringing on our quality of life by ruining the few remotely decent parties that ever happen at Smith. Since Crystal had pissed off plenty of other people the night I got busted by throwing people out of the party because she felt like it, trying to send my neighbors to their rooms, and screaming "GO HOME! THIS IS OUR HOUSE! WE DON'T WANT YOU HERE!" to the entire party the second the kegs were kicked, I had plenty of ammunition to make an example out of her without dragging my legal troubles into it. I argued that the RC program was a failure because no self-respecting Smith girl will be cowed by the authority of someone who acts like an incompetent 12-year-old babysitter, and then likened Crystal and her fat underling (the house "Diversity Coordinator") to Hitler and Mussolini. Crystal was feminazi to the core, so I felt the comparison was valid. Crystal, however, did NOT appreciate it.
Finally, Crystal decided that she wanted to talk, so that we could "understand each other." I trudged down to her suite and sat on her couch. One quick look at the decor told me that we were going to get nowhere in terms of finding common ground. Apart from her Smith diploma prominently displayed on the mantle of her decorative fireplace, the rest of the place was done up in trite-ass feminist icon framed prints (Rosie the Riveter, 70s-era Steinem, etc.) and an ENTIRE WALL devoted to magazine cutouts of Agent Scully from "The X-Files." There was even one Entertainment Weekly cover of Agents Mulder and Scully in bed together, and she'd cut David Duchovny out of the picture. I guess she had a thing for redheads in pleated pants, and she wasn't going to let any inconvenient penis stand in the way of her obsessively lusting after the same.
Anyway, we sat down and she explained to me in a motherly, extraordinarily condescending tone that her job isn't personal, but as RC she has to take drastic action if she suspects drug use. I listened, seething more with every minute of her bullshit story. I most certainly was not the only person smoking pot on the second floor that night, yet somehow the cops only went to my door. Furthermore, she'd been turning a blind eye to underage drinking all night. I know because I had only recently turned 20, and all night long I was arguing with her while clutching a beer.
"Cut the crap, Crystal," I told her. "We all know that it's common practice for RCs to generally overlook things, especially on Winter Weekend. You only called Public Safety on me because you don't like me."
"Why wouldn't I like you?"
"Because I told you that you were full of shit to your face. Maybe I should have gone behind your back in classic Smith non-confrontational tradition."
"That's not what you did! You were trying to let in unsafe, STRANGE MEN! I was just looking out for my house."
"Your house, Crystal? I've lived here for three years. You moved in this year because the school paid you to."
This conversation went like this for about an hour, with both of us becoming increasingly hostile and standoffish. Eventually, we parted with me lying that I wasn't planning on smoking pot anymore anyway, given my date with the judicial board, so I'd appreciate it if she would not immediately dial 2407 and call Public Safety on me whenever she was feeling shemasculated without first investigating herself. Also I believe that I encouraged her to get a real job.
Anyway, I returned to my room only to field a call from Saratoga120, an English professor I'd had my first year. This woman was a total character: she'd been at Smith for twenty years, she was a hard-core Catholic who smoked these foot-long cigarettes (the Saratoga 120s for which she is named) that she carried around in an embroidered cigarette purse, and made scathing comments about people in her class whose writing she thought was "amateurish" or "patently talentless." Fortunately, she liked my writing, and decided to make me a pet project of hers. She was always giving me her two cents on my Sophian articles, constantly pestering me to drop science and become an English major (I told her there was no way unless I'd somehow get out of the Milton-Chaucer-Beowulf requirement), and inviting me to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes with her. So Saratoga120 called me up and launched into a lecture about how stupid I was to be smoking pot. Clearly the word about my bust had made it through the faculty grapevine to her, and she wasn't going to bite her tongue. "I smoked pot twenty years ago at a faculty party!" she raged. "And I threw up on my way home. And dope makes you stupid. You don't want to be stupid, do you?"
After a few minutes of me meekly conceding to her remarks, she then said, "Well, obviously, you'll need representation at your hearing."
"I already read the handbook. I'm not allowed to bring counsel."
"Read it more closely, Razzy, I know that comprehension is one of your strong suits, so don't bullshit me. You're not allowed to have an attorney. You are, however, allowed to have a faculty member plead your case, and thus I will be going with you. Those people on the judicial board are intellectual lightweights, and I won't have them suspending you."
I was delighted. All of a sudden, Fortuna was spinning my way. When the fateful day came, not only did Saratoga120 show up ready to hand the judicial board their asses, but she brought along one of the college's demi-Deans with her. In fact, he was the demi-Dean responsible for overseeing the judicial board. I tried to hide my pleasure and act respectful and somewhat contrite.
When we walked into the judicial board room, I couldn't have been happier to have a posse of impressive faculty and administrators with me. I was faced with a long table populated by a bunch of uptight girls in Smith College sweatshirts and ugly cardigans smiling at me grimly, as if to say, "We can't wait to lord our power over you, you depraved bitch." I'd like to add that I'd been making fun of these types of bitches for two years in the newspaper, and I'm certain that my reputation for being an asshole preceded me into this room. Much like now, my writing in college made people either love me and laud me as hilarious, or hate me with every ounce of their being. The judicial board types were the latter, excepting one woman, a pornography heiress who had once tried to fuck me underneath the giant Georgia O'Keefe lily poster in her room. However, their smiles of imminent Razzy-suspending pleasure were promptly wiped off their smug, acne-ridden faces when my entourage seated themselves alongside me.
The "woman" at the head of the table, and the Chief Bitch of the Judicial Board, glared furiously. S/he was a transgendered person named Gloria Macri who insisted that people call him/her "Billy", yet another example of F2M trannies choosing stupid fucking boy names. My cause would have been hopeless without Saratoga120 and the Dean, as not only did s/he clearly dislike me on principle, but she was also an Ada (meaning "student of non-traditional age", meaning old). However, once s/he saw my entourage, s/he softened his/her reproachful glare immediately and began kissing ass.
"Oh, Dean! Oh, Professor Saratoga120! So NICE to see you! I'm surprised that you would take the time to appear for an insignificant hearing like this one."
I said, "I don't think it's insignificant," earning a kick under the table from Saratoga120, who had advised me to "keep your big mouth shut unless you are asked a specific question, and then answer only that without elaborating. Otherwise, they'll railroad you."
"Yes, well, shall we begin?" asked Billy/Gloria. "The charges are 'possession of a class D substance and candles.' We have your statement here, Ms. Razzy, in which you admit to using the class D substance as well as possessing the candles despite both being expressly prohibited by the school handbook of rules. What do you have to say on the subject?"
"It's all in my statement," I replied.
"Are you aware that marijuana is an illegal drug?"
"Yes. I exercised bad judgment, and for that I apologize," I responded. That was it for the why-were-you-doing-drugs line of questioning. However, the judicial board really wanted to know about the second part of the charge.
"It's obvious why you were using marijuana, but why were you in possession of the candles?"
"Um...decoration, I guess." I couldn't believe I had to come up with a reason for having candles, but I didn't think the right answer was "a flame source for doing hot knives."
"Decoration? Do you ever light them? The Public Safety report says they had clearly been lit."
"Yes, well, you know, to create mood."
"Mood? Mood for what?"
"Romantic mood for when my boyfriend visits."
"You have a boyfriend?"
"Yes, as it clearly says in my statement. Benzo. He's a townie. He works at Cha Cha Cha."
"The one with the rosy cheeks?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I love him, he's so nice!" exclaimed one of the judicial board justices. Benzo has always been a hit with the Smith girls. Even girls who despised me always adored Benzo.
Anyway, Billy/Gloria's tough interrogation tactics were out the window once her cohorts started gushing about how charming and sweet my boyfriend was when he served them black bean burritos, and s/he informed me that I would be receiving my punishment in campus mail. The Dean in my corner advised them that he "would be following up" to ensure that the punishment fit the crime of a first-time offense.
A week later, I received my punishment: a letter on my "permanent record" and loss of priority in the spring housing lottery. I didn't even get probation! The loss of priority in the spring housing lottery sucked, because even though I wound up in my beloved Jordan House, I got shafted from any decent room on the second floor. I ended up in the Dead Girl's Room, a room where during my sophomore year its resident hung herself from a steam pipe and was there for three days before her body was found. Nobody wanted to live there because of rumors going around that it was haunted. I don't believe in ghosts (nor did I see one while living there), so I gladly took it and my only complaint was that it got really shitty light. No wonder the poor girl who lived there killed herself; it was more dreary than a broom closet at Jane Eyre's boarding school.
Crystal Daugherty was clearly appalled by my failure to be removed from her house, and was a royal bitch to me afterward. "So the judicial board didn't even give you probation?" she inquired once after cornering me in the dining room. "That's right," I said happily. "I guess they thought your charges were pretty bogus." I walked away, before she could splutter out any more bullshit about just doing her job. Later that year she tried to have me busted again, but I didn't get caught (although the fake Smith cops were suspicious and got the Dean of Student Affairs to send me to one drug counseling session, but at least I didn't have to explain myself before the judicial board again). She also implied that she would boot my boyfriend out of the house for violating the "no guests may stay longer than 28 consecutive days" rule, but since he usually spent one night of the week at his place, this accusation was groundless as well. That fat bitch was defeated, and undoubtedly spent many nights praying to her shrine to Agent Scully that her totalitarian rule would regain its credibility and allow for the ejection of hateful cockroaches like me.
The next year, despite having to live in the Dead Girl's Room, the RC situation was dramatically improved. First, she didn't display her Smith diploma, and immediately replaced the wall of Agent Scully with a hot black-and-white poster of young Mickey Rourke (9 1/2 Weeks Mickey Rourke, not post-pugilist cheek implants Mickey Rourke). Second, she immediately explained that she was only RC because she couldn't get a job, and wanted an inexpensive, furnished place in which to study for her LSATs. Most importantly, however, not only was she totally down with smoking pot, but she was dating the Byrdman and he got a job in our kitchen. Even when he got arrested (by the real cops) and fired for possessing drugs at work, she moved him covertly into her suite. So when I had previously had to towel my door, light incense, keep the air freshener handy, exhale bong hits through a toilet paper tube stuffed with fabric softener sheets, etc., now I could just stroll downstairs to the RC suite, buy a bag, and smoke it there. Way to rectify your past transgressions, Smith College. I never wrote a derogatory article about the RC program again.
I hadn't seen JerseyGirl in ages before I ran into her randomly at a yoga studio a couple of years ago. Even though we went to Smith together and were buddies from the school newspaper, she was two years behind me and lived in a different house, so we hadn't really kept in touch. However, once she had suffered through a punishing Bikram's class with me, I invited her back to LL Cool Jew and my crib for cheap Chinese food, canned beer, dog admiring, and conversation. We've been hanging out ever since, because she's funny as shit. She works at a certain freedom-loving cable news channel as a producer for a certain famous mustachioed journalist(think angry skinheads hurling chairs), and her stories about life at work, as well as about the New Jersey town she originates from, are priceless.
However, because we've only recently become more frequent hangout buddies, JerseyGirl was unfamiliar with many of the particulars of the hijinks I regularly involved myself in during my college years. Somehow we got to reminiscing about life in the Quad (Jordan House obviously being the best to live in, but I conceded to her that Scales wasn't too bad either), and got to talking about how I scored pot while I was matriculating. There had been a guy who I'll call the Byrdman working in the kitchen of my house who probably every girl smoking pot at Smith had bought from at one time or another, until he got arrested and hauled out of my house. I was rattling off the Byrdman anecdotal tales, and JerseyGirl was loving it to the point where she said, "You should start a blog that's just about Smith. Your stories are hilarious."
I thought about this for a minute. Indeed, I could start a blog that is comprised about just stories about Smith and have ample material at my disposal for fun-poking. However, I can barely keep up with this blog, or my Fantasy Football blog which is turning into a neglected shitshow. Therefore, I decided that when I think of some really good Smith College story I'll just relate it here, and maybe some of my friends from Smith will actually start reading it regularly (yes, I mean you, LL Cool Jew, Wmania, FalloniousMonk, JerseyGirl, Miss Corbutt, and anyone else whose name isn't KatieScarlett). So without further ado, here is the story of my bust for possession by the Smith College "Police" and the subseqent trial before a tribunal of judgmental transgendered bitches:
At Smith we had these party weekends creatively called Winter Weekend and Spring Weekend. Almost all the houses at Smith would host parties, even the lame ones like Talbot and Lamont House, and horny knuckle-dragging men from all over the northeast, from West Point to Dartmouth to the University of fucking Maine, would show up for some action with some desperate Smith girls.
A lot of people are under the misconception that Smith is a "lesbian" school because somewhere in the neighborhood of 30% of the students identify as openly gay. However, I would say that a good 20% of those are LUGs (lesbian until graduation) on the "four-year plan" driven to boobmash by a combination of curiosity and desperation, which makes Smith only 10% gay, just like the rest of the world. Apart from the real dykes and the LUGs, the other 70% is comprised of straight girls with no social skills who want nothing more than to meet a nice guy and GET LAID. Therefore, Winter and Spring weekends represented an excellent opportunity for guys to show up, get laid with minimal effort, and possibly carry out some type of important rite of passage for fraternity pledges. I remember one time this guy in a diaper hauled me into a bathroom, stuck a magic marker in my hand, and informed me that he needed X number of signatures to qualify as a Phi Beta Suckalottacocka or whatever, and would I sign my name and all my friends' names on his back. I whirled him around, then wrote, "I HAVE A MINISCULE PENIS AND CAN'T MAINTAIN AN ERECTION. TELL YOUR FRIENDS NOT TO FUCK ME UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES." Later, once he apparently found out what I'd written, my network of girls informed me that he was looking to have words about how "wrong" it was that I'd written that instead of a list of plagiarized girls' signatures. I guess the self-righteous complaint aspect of the prototypical Smith girl was catching. He never found me, because I was probably already in my room smoking pot with half the party by then.
The Quad, where I lived and where most of these shenanigans went down, generally hosted the best parties. We would have like 6 or 7 kegs. At most state and/or large co-ed schools that's a Tuesday night, but by Smith standards, these were like Spring Break in Mazatlan. However, on Winter or Spring weekend, the turnout was usually so big that these kegs were gone within two or three hours, leaving people angry and beverage-deprived. At that time, I'd corral my group of revelers, and we'd cruise up to my room for unearthing private liquor stashes and the rolling of many joints. Usually my entire floor would do this, so there was always a decent after party at the Jordan second floor. One night during my junior year Winter Weekend, I proceeded to do just this with a large group of girls and their assorted hangers-on, my boyfriend, and some of his townie friends. Shortly after we'd smoked our first joint, there was a loud, authoritative pounding on my door.
"Public Safety! Open up!"
I was a little worried, but not terribly, because Smith doesn't like to compile stats about drug busts, and therefore, they'll generally let it slide to keep promotional material such as the "Crime on Campus" statistic brochure appealing to parents and wealthy alumnae. I hid my bag somewhere, threw the roach out my window, and opened up.
FOUR Public Safety guys marched in and started acting like we were running a sweat shop or something in there. "Where is your marijuana?" demanded the alpha Public Safety guy, a short man with glasses and impeccably gelled hair.
"Marijuana? We were smoking cigarettes," I said, waving my lit Parliament light around to show him so.
"I distinctly smell marijuana. If you don't produce the marijuana, I will search your room."
Since Smith technically owned my room, I had absolutely NO right to privacy at any time. One time Public Safety was investigating something else and accidentally came into my room right while I was fucking my boyfriend. I didn't answer the door, because I didn't want to deal with them, so the officer just let himself right in. I managed to get a bathrobe on just as the door opened, but still there was one hell of an awkward moment as the officer stated that he had the wrong room, and sorry. I knew that they wouldn't hesitate to tear all my personal belongings apart, and if they did, they would find at least two bongs, several assorted pipes, a stack of Zig Zag rolling papers, a large container of seeds left over from my failed attempts at horticulture, and definitely at least a quarter ounce of weed. I didn't want that to happen, so I grabbed the book I had rolled the joint on. "Here is my marijuana," I said. "As you can see, there's hardly anything."
The Public Safety officer looked suspiciously at me, then at the book. There were indeed a few scraps of weed on the book. Acting like some sort of CSI, he made a show about brushing the scraps into a plastic baggie as "evidence." As an afterthought, he also confiscated two candles, because candles are a fire hazard and thus against the rules. Fortunately, this placated him and he didn't search my room. "We're going to have to write you up," he told me. "Expect to be contacted by the director of Public Safety and the Dean of Students about possible disciplinary action."
I knew one of the Public Safety officers there, because he always hung out at the newspaper office. The year prior, when I posed nude for the April Fool's edition of The Sophian, he told me that I had "balls down to here" and requested an autographed copy, which he supposedly hung in his work locker. I asked him if there wasn't anything he could do.
"Sorry," he said. "Normally there would be, but your RC called us specifically to report you. There's a record. My hands are tied."
They left, and I was reeling. I had been ratted out to the fuzz, and I was getting all Tony Soprano about doing horrible, murderous things to the snitch. However, I could do very little, because she was my RC. "RC" stands for "resident coordinator," and they are like RAs at any other school. The RC position was new, and was especially for first-year alumnae who couldn't bear the thought of life somewhere besides Smith. In return for their services and their supposed maturity, they received free board, a suite with a private bathroom, and a "generous" stipend of $11,000. In other words, Smith had created a job tailor-made for losers who couldn't move on with their lives post-graduation. My RC that year fit this description perfectly.
She was this fat bitch named Crystal Daugherty, and yes, that is her real name. She was a women's studies major who drove a VW Fox with fucking daisy stickers all over it, and was the type who thought she knew EVERYTHING. I had already made enemies with her at the LBTA panel discussion in our house when I went as the "ally" (hetero breeder) and wore a shirt that said "It's okay to be straight" on it. I further pissed her off that night at the party by getting mouthy with her when she wasn't letting people in (particularly those of the Y chromosome persuasion) because they weren't on the guest list. I said, "Put them on my guest list, then. Parties are for everyone." She gave me this exasperated, maternal sigh and told the doorwomen to ignore me. Furiously, I marched outside with a piece of paper, took down everyone's names, came in, and gave the sheet to Crystal. "Here is my revised guest list, Crystal, and if you so much as reject one of my friends on it, I'll file a complaint against you with the office of student affairs. If someone is on a guest list, they must be admitted. It's in the fucking handbook under the rules about social functions." Crystal glared at me, knowing there was nothing she could do, and not wanting to mar her perfect disciplinary record with the school with legitimate complaints for which there were witnesses. However, I should have known not to think an obese, socially retarded womyn like her wouldn't immediately seek vengeance that would both stick it to me good and restore her sense of indisputable self-importance. For Crystal, revenge was a dish best served by Public Safety.
I promptly received a letter the next week informing me that I was to report to the judicial board for an inquiry concerning the charges of "possession of a class D substance and candles." I tried to have some words with Crystal about it, but she blew me off with some bullshit about how the particulars of her job were non-negotiable. Even worse, at our Sophian editorial board meeting that week, the rest of the staff thought my inclusion in the "Police Blotter" section of the paper was riotously funny. I was irate, so I decided to get some payback the best way I knew how: I wrote an editorial. The piece was a scathing indictment of the RC program and how it was infringing on our quality of life by ruining the few remotely decent parties that ever happen at Smith. Since Crystal had pissed off plenty of other people the night I got busted by throwing people out of the party because she felt like it, trying to send my neighbors to their rooms, and screaming "GO HOME! THIS IS OUR HOUSE! WE DON'T WANT YOU HERE!" to the entire party the second the kegs were kicked, I had plenty of ammunition to make an example out of her without dragging my legal troubles into it. I argued that the RC program was a failure because no self-respecting Smith girl will be cowed by the authority of someone who acts like an incompetent 12-year-old babysitter, and then likened Crystal and her fat underling (the house "Diversity Coordinator") to Hitler and Mussolini. Crystal was feminazi to the core, so I felt the comparison was valid. Crystal, however, did NOT appreciate it.
Finally, Crystal decided that she wanted to talk, so that we could "understand each other." I trudged down to her suite and sat on her couch. One quick look at the decor told me that we were going to get nowhere in terms of finding common ground. Apart from her Smith diploma prominently displayed on the mantle of her decorative fireplace, the rest of the place was done up in trite-ass feminist icon framed prints (Rosie the Riveter, 70s-era Steinem, etc.) and an ENTIRE WALL devoted to magazine cutouts of Agent Scully from "The X-Files." There was even one Entertainment Weekly cover of Agents Mulder and Scully in bed together, and she'd cut David Duchovny out of the picture. I guess she had a thing for redheads in pleated pants, and she wasn't going to let any inconvenient penis stand in the way of her obsessively lusting after the same.
Anyway, we sat down and she explained to me in a motherly, extraordinarily condescending tone that her job isn't personal, but as RC she has to take drastic action if she suspects drug use. I listened, seething more with every minute of her bullshit story. I most certainly was not the only person smoking pot on the second floor that night, yet somehow the cops only went to my door. Furthermore, she'd been turning a blind eye to underage drinking all night. I know because I had only recently turned 20, and all night long I was arguing with her while clutching a beer.
"Cut the crap, Crystal," I told her. "We all know that it's common practice for RCs to generally overlook things, especially on Winter Weekend. You only called Public Safety on me because you don't like me."
"Why wouldn't I like you?"
"Because I told you that you were full of shit to your face. Maybe I should have gone behind your back in classic Smith non-confrontational tradition."
"That's not what you did! You were trying to let in unsafe, STRANGE MEN! I was just looking out for my house."
"Your house, Crystal? I've lived here for three years. You moved in this year because the school paid you to."
This conversation went like this for about an hour, with both of us becoming increasingly hostile and standoffish. Eventually, we parted with me lying that I wasn't planning on smoking pot anymore anyway, given my date with the judicial board, so I'd appreciate it if she would not immediately dial 2407 and call Public Safety on me whenever she was feeling shemasculated without first investigating herself. Also I believe that I encouraged her to get a real job.
Anyway, I returned to my room only to field a call from Saratoga120, an English professor I'd had my first year. This woman was a total character: she'd been at Smith for twenty years, she was a hard-core Catholic who smoked these foot-long cigarettes (the Saratoga 120s for which she is named) that she carried around in an embroidered cigarette purse, and made scathing comments about people in her class whose writing she thought was "amateurish" or "patently talentless." Fortunately, she liked my writing, and decided to make me a pet project of hers. She was always giving me her two cents on my Sophian articles, constantly pestering me to drop science and become an English major (I told her there was no way unless I'd somehow get out of the Milton-Chaucer-Beowulf requirement), and inviting me to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes with her. So Saratoga120 called me up and launched into a lecture about how stupid I was to be smoking pot. Clearly the word about my bust had made it through the faculty grapevine to her, and she wasn't going to bite her tongue. "I smoked pot twenty years ago at a faculty party!" she raged. "And I threw up on my way home. And dope makes you stupid. You don't want to be stupid, do you?"
After a few minutes of me meekly conceding to her remarks, she then said, "Well, obviously, you'll need representation at your hearing."
"I already read the handbook. I'm not allowed to bring counsel."
"Read it more closely, Razzy, I know that comprehension is one of your strong suits, so don't bullshit me. You're not allowed to have an attorney. You are, however, allowed to have a faculty member plead your case, and thus I will be going with you. Those people on the judicial board are intellectual lightweights, and I won't have them suspending you."
I was delighted. All of a sudden, Fortuna was spinning my way. When the fateful day came, not only did Saratoga120 show up ready to hand the judicial board their asses, but she brought along one of the college's demi-Deans with her. In fact, he was the demi-Dean responsible for overseeing the judicial board. I tried to hide my pleasure and act respectful and somewhat contrite.
When we walked into the judicial board room, I couldn't have been happier to have a posse of impressive faculty and administrators with me. I was faced with a long table populated by a bunch of uptight girls in Smith College sweatshirts and ugly cardigans smiling at me grimly, as if to say, "We can't wait to lord our power over you, you depraved bitch." I'd like to add that I'd been making fun of these types of bitches for two years in the newspaper, and I'm certain that my reputation for being an asshole preceded me into this room. Much like now, my writing in college made people either love me and laud me as hilarious, or hate me with every ounce of their being. The judicial board types were the latter, excepting one woman, a pornography heiress who had once tried to fuck me underneath the giant Georgia O'Keefe lily poster in her room. However, their smiles of imminent Razzy-suspending pleasure were promptly wiped off their smug, acne-ridden faces when my entourage seated themselves alongside me.
The "woman" at the head of the table, and the Chief Bitch of the Judicial Board, glared furiously. S/he was a transgendered person named Gloria Macri who insisted that people call him/her "Billy", yet another example of F2M trannies choosing stupid fucking boy names. My cause would have been hopeless without Saratoga120 and the Dean, as not only did s/he clearly dislike me on principle, but she was also an Ada (meaning "student of non-traditional age", meaning old). However, once s/he saw my entourage, s/he softened his/her reproachful glare immediately and began kissing ass.
"Oh, Dean! Oh, Professor Saratoga120! So NICE to see you! I'm surprised that you would take the time to appear for an insignificant hearing like this one."
I said, "I don't think it's insignificant," earning a kick under the table from Saratoga120, who had advised me to "keep your big mouth shut unless you are asked a specific question, and then answer only that without elaborating. Otherwise, they'll railroad you."
"Yes, well, shall we begin?" asked Billy/Gloria. "The charges are 'possession of a class D substance and candles.' We have your statement here, Ms. Razzy, in which you admit to using the class D substance as well as possessing the candles despite both being expressly prohibited by the school handbook of rules. What do you have to say on the subject?"
"It's all in my statement," I replied.
"Are you aware that marijuana is an illegal drug?"
"Yes. I exercised bad judgment, and for that I apologize," I responded. That was it for the why-were-you-doing-drugs line of questioning. However, the judicial board really wanted to know about the second part of the charge.
"It's obvious why you were using marijuana, but why were you in possession of the candles?"
"Um...decoration, I guess." I couldn't believe I had to come up with a reason for having candles, but I didn't think the right answer was "a flame source for doing hot knives."
"Decoration? Do you ever light them? The Public Safety report says they had clearly been lit."
"Yes, well, you know, to create mood."
"Mood? Mood for what?"
"Romantic mood for when my boyfriend visits."
"You have a boyfriend?"
"Yes, as it clearly says in my statement. Benzo. He's a townie. He works at Cha Cha Cha."
"The one with the rosy cheeks?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I love him, he's so nice!" exclaimed one of the judicial board justices. Benzo has always been a hit with the Smith girls. Even girls who despised me always adored Benzo.
Anyway, Billy/Gloria's tough interrogation tactics were out the window once her cohorts started gushing about how charming and sweet my boyfriend was when he served them black bean burritos, and s/he informed me that I would be receiving my punishment in campus mail. The Dean in my corner advised them that he "would be following up" to ensure that the punishment fit the crime of a first-time offense.
A week later, I received my punishment: a letter on my "permanent record" and loss of priority in the spring housing lottery. I didn't even get probation! The loss of priority in the spring housing lottery sucked, because even though I wound up in my beloved Jordan House, I got shafted from any decent room on the second floor. I ended up in the Dead Girl's Room, a room where during my sophomore year its resident hung herself from a steam pipe and was there for three days before her body was found. Nobody wanted to live there because of rumors going around that it was haunted. I don't believe in ghosts (nor did I see one while living there), so I gladly took it and my only complaint was that it got really shitty light. No wonder the poor girl who lived there killed herself; it was more dreary than a broom closet at Jane Eyre's boarding school.
Crystal Daugherty was clearly appalled by my failure to be removed from her house, and was a royal bitch to me afterward. "So the judicial board didn't even give you probation?" she inquired once after cornering me in the dining room. "That's right," I said happily. "I guess they thought your charges were pretty bogus." I walked away, before she could splutter out any more bullshit about just doing her job. Later that year she tried to have me busted again, but I didn't get caught (although the fake Smith cops were suspicious and got the Dean of Student Affairs to send me to one drug counseling session, but at least I didn't have to explain myself before the judicial board again). She also implied that she would boot my boyfriend out of the house for violating the "no guests may stay longer than 28 consecutive days" rule, but since he usually spent one night of the week at his place, this accusation was groundless as well. That fat bitch was defeated, and undoubtedly spent many nights praying to her shrine to Agent Scully that her totalitarian rule would regain its credibility and allow for the ejection of hateful cockroaches like me.
The next year, despite having to live in the Dead Girl's Room, the RC situation was dramatically improved. First, she didn't display her Smith diploma, and immediately replaced the wall of Agent Scully with a hot black-and-white poster of young Mickey Rourke (9 1/2 Weeks Mickey Rourke, not post-pugilist cheek implants Mickey Rourke). Second, she immediately explained that she was only RC because she couldn't get a job, and wanted an inexpensive, furnished place in which to study for her LSATs. Most importantly, however, not only was she totally down with smoking pot, but she was dating the Byrdman and he got a job in our kitchen. Even when he got arrested (by the real cops) and fired for possessing drugs at work, she moved him covertly into her suite. So when I had previously had to towel my door, light incense, keep the air freshener handy, exhale bong hits through a toilet paper tube stuffed with fabric softener sheets, etc., now I could just stroll downstairs to the RC suite, buy a bag, and smoke it there. Way to rectify your past transgressions, Smith College. I never wrote a derogatory article about the RC program again.
Labels: crime and punishment, defiance, drugs, Dumb Smith bitches, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, Smith College Vault
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