Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: male strippers
DOB: ???
Occupation: disrobing for cash
Hometown: ???
Current residence: in Brad's case, somewhere near Washington, DC
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: My friend LL Cool Jew is the matron of honor in our college buddy Wmania's wedding, so naturally she took it upon herself to organize the wedding shower and bachelorette party, and the latter means one thing: hiring some professional semi-nude entertainment. Since before she married BigBagel, LL Cool Jew was a lesbian, we took her to Scores for her bachelorette party and had her literally covered in writhing topless ladies for three hours. Wmania, despite being a Smith alumna herself, has previously shown minimal interest in those without a Y chromosome, so LL Cool Jew realized that to return the favor, she ought to get a male stripper.
Initially, we planned to get a midget stripper to hump a small donkey, because Wmania used to work for the Democrats and because a midget would probably make the somewhat prudish Wmania go into convulsions from the shock. However, we couldn't track down a midget, so we had to find a regular-sized sausage showoff. Thus, LL Cool Jew called Amazing Entertainment and hired some dude named Brad.
The night before the bachelorette party, Brad called LL Cool Jew to get an idea of his audience. "Well, some of the crowd might be a little...conservative," she explained.
"I appreciate your candor," Brad replied. "Would you do me a favor and ensure those ladies have a few cocktails before the appointed time?"
"Dude, he was really professional," remarked LL Cool Jew, after assuring him that we'd get the "conservative" ladies (specifically the bride-to-be) sufficiently liquored up prior to his performance. Later she noted that she was fascinated by her "first official transaction in the sex industry" (although I've seen that hooker stuffing bills into plenty a lady's G-string, so that's not entirely accurate). We were all looking forward to seeing the candor-loving Brad demonstrate his professional skills.
The next night we adorned Wmania in the typical bachelorette party crap, including the piece de resistance, a blinking penis tiara. We popped a case of champagne and between the eight of us, finished it in two hours like the champion alcoholics we are. Then, the gracious hostess admitted Brad, claiming he was her neighbor.
"Oh my God, DUDE," exclaimed Wmania. "I know what's going on here."
Brad actually wasn't that great looking. According to FalloniusMonk, he actually looked like a grotesquely swollen Kevin Bacon. However, he was indeed very nice and professional (before beginning he advised us that he has two rules: no video although still pictures are fine, and no punching him in the nuts). He also managed to lay Wmania on the floor and remove dollar bills from her ginormous rack with his teeth without her looking too exceptionally uncomfortable. While she didn't look as though she enjoyed Brad's attentions much, the rest of us were laughing. Naturally, when her turn was over and Brad asked who was next, she pointed right at me and said "RAZZY!"
I sat down on Brad's provided stepstool and while he gave me a lap dance, I whispered in his ear that I wasn't one of the conservative ladies LL Cool Jew had mentioned in her briefing the day before.
"Okay, then you want to do something crazy?" he asked.
"Sure, why not?" I said.
"Are you wearing panties?"
I thought for a minute. "Amazingly, I am," I replied.
"Are you scared of heights?"
"Nope."
"Okay, get ready to fly," he said. Then he grabbed my ass and did this:
I stuffed my entire wad of dollars into his G-string for giving me an extended face ride. Granted, I had a bunch of residual fake tanner and coconut oil on my thighs afterward, but it was well worth it just for the expression on Wmania's face while Brad twirled me around the room and tried to avoid hitting my head on any light fixtures.
Later, after Brad departed, the ladies were discussing it, and there were a lot of comments going around describing the experience of watching a jiggling beefcake as "gross" and "disgusting." I was surprised because, while not necessarily a sexy experience, I thought it was hilarious. Generally I think male strippers are pretty boring, because mainly all they do is waggle their thong-clad packages at you and give lame lap dances, they don't smell as nice as lady strippers, and there's usually some kind of oil on them which can stain clothing. However, I have to recognize a male stripper who incorporates a lot of sexually suggestive participatory acrobatics into his routine. I might dispute his website's claim of him being the embodiment of male perfection (on account of his not being a black doctor, a Jewish nerd, an MIT graduate, or a swarthy rogue), but I have to applaud his dedication to a lively and interactive performance. I almost always prefer female peelers, as they have breasts and are generally prettier than the generic beefcakes dominating the sausage-swanging circuit. Besides, male strippers never show their weiners, and I can look at a Calvin Klein ad if I want to see some well-defined pecs. However, when a male stripper can actually make up for his cock shyness and overcompensating muscles by inducing hysterical laughter, I have to give my wholehearted approval. Well played, Brad. I salute your professionalism.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, FalloniusMonk, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, LL Cool Jew, nudity, Wmania
Thursday, May 22, 2008
My confession
I haven't received the sacrament of reconciliation in sixteen years. The grade school I went to forced us to confess prior to Christmas and Easter. Even the few non-Catholics had to go in and talk to the priest even if they couldn't write off their misdeeds with a few Hail Marys. Unfortunately, I hadn't really done any major sinning at that point so it was kind of an exercise in futility. I figured that merciful Christ would not damn me to the fires of Hell for fighting with my little brother or whatever small-time child's play sinning I repented. In high school, we had the option of going to either study hall or confession during Advent and Lent, and I only exercised the confession option once during my freshman year. After that I got on my unfortunate radical feminist jag, and rejected Catholicism for being too patriarchal. Well, and because there's no better way to perpetrate some rebellious teen angst than declaring oneself an atheist carpet muncher at your Jesuit high school. Anyway, the last time I went to confession was when I was thirteen my first semester of high school. I don't remember the sins I sought absolution for. After that, I opted for study hall and I have ever since.
Fast-forward to the present day, and I could assuredly benefit from some quality time with a priest in a confessional. I have done a hell of a lot of sinning since the last time I got my "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned" on. You could rephrase this to say that I've done a hell of a lot of premarital, extramarital, same sex, and/or group fucking since I was thirteen. The problem with me confessing these sins is that I'm not particularly sorry about most of them. Here and there, I regret times I've used sex to hurt people, or when I've handled sex so cavalierly and insensitively with someone that it fucked up my relationship with that person. However, I don't regret the fact that I stuck my face in a girl's crotch at fifteen and jumped on a dick at sixteen and have been doing that with gusto ever since.
There is, one thing, that I feel very, very bad about. I regret it deeply, and I feel that it is the greatest sin I've ever committed. I've alluded to it in the past, and tried to make light of it, but it is something that haunts me every day of my life. I need to confess it, but I'm still too much of a coward to hear what a priest might tell me. I think I'm afraid of being forgiven for it, because I don't know if I can ever let it go. Certainly a couple trips around the rosary will be insufficient penance. Since I'm too cowardly to seek the sacrament of reconciliation, I figure maybe I should confess this to the rest of the world. If I can give this up to the internets, maybe I'll be able to give this up to a man of the cloth and save my immortal soul from eternal damnation. Therefore, without further ado or pitiful showcases of my Catholic guilt, I'll just get on with the confessing.
In January 2004, after a Christmas vacation spent catching up with my stable of honeys in the P-N-Dub, I returned to New York. I noticed that my New Year's hangover never really quite went away in the sense that I began to experience nausea that became almost constant. At first, I attributed this to a stomach bug, since I am religious about taking my birth control pills on time and have been since the age of 16. When my monthly visitor did not arrive, however, I started to get a really bad feeling about the malady causing this. One night, my friend Miss Corbutt was hanging out at my apartment, and after a few drinks I finally articulated my secret fears to her.
"Dude, I think I might be pregnant."
"WHAT?!" she said.
"Well, I missed my period, and I'm throwing up all the time. I bought a pregnancy test, but I'm afraid to take it."
"It's going to be okay. Take the test first thing in the morning. I'll be here with you. In the meantime, have another beer."
So we drank and then went to bed, and then the next morning I braced myself. I knew I was pregnant. I didn't have to take the test to know it. Something was different with my body, and I could feel it. But even though I knew, I said a prayer that the test would prove this was all in my head. So I pissed on it and tried to hope that my instincts were wrong.
My instincts weren't wrong. I was indeed knocked up. I sat there, not knowing what to do. Miss Corbutt didn't ask what I was planning to do, or give me any advice. She just rubbed my back and told me everything was going to be okay. I told her that I just needed to think. She left me alone to do so.
I didn't really need to think. I knew what I had to do. The situation pretty much dictated what had to happen. I was in my first year of graduate school. I had classes and lab rotations. I didn't have time to become a single mother. I'd have to drop out of Columbia and probably move back to Puyallup. I'd become the unremarkable, economically and intellectually static woman I'd been working my whole life not to be. Add to it that on account of my brazen sluttiness, there were THREE candidates for Baby Daddy. I'm pretty sure I know which one it was, since Bachelor #1 had a serious case of whiskey dick, Bachelor #2 wore a condom and came down with prophylactic-induced erectile dysfunction, and Bachelor #3 gave me at least four cream pies. While I'd bet on Bachelor #3, I didn't really like the idea of involving him (especially since he was living with another woman) only to have the baby's paternity disproven upon its appearance. It would be pretty easy to tell whose kid it was once it came out, since Bachelor #1 was Arab, Bachelor #2 was white, and Bachelor #3 was black. It would be just my luck to have Bachelor #3 coaching me through delivery only to pop out a blonde-haired, blue-eyed baby. The only thing that could make that worse is Maury Povich popping in to declare, "Bachelor #3, you are NOT the father." Needless to say, I didn't feel I had any choice about what to do. I just couldn't bring myself to put the wheels in motion.
I called LL Cool Jew, who lived in Washington, DC at the time. She is steady and manages to combine practical here's-what-we-do actions with lots of compassion. Sometimes you need someone to tell you what to do and make the arrangements for you. I had done the same for her with regard to a bad breakup the year before, so I figured she would be able to do the same for me. I figured correctly.
"Hey, gurrrrrlllll," said LL Cool Jew.
"Dude, I'm pregnant," I said.
LL Cool Jew was quiet for a moment as she assumed a situation-appropriate sobriety. "Are you sure?"
"Tottlez, dude. I just took a test. What do I do?"
"Can you come down to DC in the next couple weekends?"
"Can I bring Caesar?" I asked.
"Duh."
"Yeah, sure."
"Let me call you right back," she said, getting off the phone. Five minutes later she called back.
"So, rent a car for weekend after next," she said. "I made an appointment for you."
"Great. I can't wait to see your and Wmania's new apartment," I said. I didn't know what else to say.
That was it. That was how I decided to have an abortion. I asked my friend to do it for me and acted like it was an excuse to check out LL Cool Jew and Wmania's new digs.
For the next week and a half, my morning sickness grew steadily worse. In fact, I'm not sure why it's even called "morning sickness" since I was afflicted with it at all hours of the day. I got in the habit of carrying a bottle of Pepto-Bismol with me everywhere I went. Some of my classmates at Columbia eventually began to inquire about my health. I told them I had a lingering case of stomach flu. One of my classmates eventually suggested that I see a doctor, since it wasn't right for such an ailment to persist, as we got into an elevator following another riveting Cell Membranes and Organelles class. "It's actually not a stomach flu," I said. "I'm pregnant."
There was a collective gasp from the elevator full of first-year grad students. I guess this is the kind of information you're supposed to hide and be ashamed of, but I have an almost compulsive need to be honest about myself. If I have no skeletons in my closet, nobody can ever hold anything over my head. Besides, I am an absolutely terrible liar. So I just came out with the truth. Then I felt sorry for shocking everyone else, so I comforted them. "Don't worry, I'm getting it taken care of next weekend." Everybody was still shocked, so I just tried to act as nonchalant and emotionally uninvolved as possible, like I'd just informed everyone I was going to the dermatologist to get a mole lasered off.
The time came, and I rented a car and loaded Caesar into it (this was pre-Chingy!), and drove to our nation's capital. LL Cool Jew, Wmania, and I drank wine and watched trash TV and made jokes about getting up early to be at the abortion clinic.
The next morning Wmania drove me to the clinic for my appointment at 8. It was in a suburban part of Maryland, in an unmarked, unassuming office building. "There's no sign," I observed. "Yeah, probably to keep the bombers away," said Wmania.
"That's comforting," I said. The waiting room was largely empty when I checked in.
"I'm here for an appointment to terminate my pregnancy," I said quietly, in the same tone of voice I'd use at a library or a funeral. I figured this was a somber occasion.
"Medical or surgical abortion?" said the receptionist loudly. My somber occasion was just another day at the office for her.
"Uhhh...what's the RU486 one? Medical, I guess," I said. The receptionist handed me some forms to fill out and said mechanically, "The purple form explains everything."
The purple form basically told me how the whole schtick was going to go down. They'd confirm my pregnancy, give me a shot of methotrexate in the ass to terminate my pregnancy, and after a week, I'd shove some misepristone pills in my cooch to induce a miscarriage of my dead fetus.
The waiting room started to fill up, and I waited and waited. Because the demand for the clinic's services apparently greatly exceeded its capacity to supply, they showed movies to help pass the time waiting. You might think that they'd show cheerful, lighthearted fare to lift the undoubtedly gloomy spirits of your average abortion clinic waiting room denizen, but you would be wrong. That morning they were showing Narc, an extremely violent movie about police corruption, drug dealing, torture, and murder. After a particularly lovely scene in which a dude blows his head off while taking a bong hit out of a loaded shotgun, Wmania said, "What the FUCK are we watching? Whoever put this movie in for this crowd was obviously smoking CRACK COCAINE." Whenever someone does something Wmania disapproves of, she always attributes it to the recent use of "crack cocaine."
Finally, they called me in. They wouldn't let Wmania come with me. I paid and made a lame joke about how, since I got airmiles for purchases made using my credit card, I should have abortions more often. The woman taking my payment did not laugh. Instead, she told me that I'd have to return afterward for a follow-up, and wanted to book the appointment then.
"How is February 14th?" she asked.
"Fine," I said. "It's going to be the most romantic Valentine's Day ever," I added. The woman again did not laugh. She sent me to a room for an ultrasound and then I had to piss in a cup for a pregnancy test. It took me an hour to produce a goddamn drop of urine. I attributed my urinary dysfunction to my constant vomiting. Finally, after I managed to piss, I was ushered into the gynecologist's examination room.
The doctor performed a pelvic exam on me. I remembered that she had the knobbiest knuckles I'd ever felt in my vagina. She brusquely advised me that I'd signed a form which legally obligated me to follow through with the abortion once I'd received my methotrexate, because otherwise I'd give birth to a deformed monster. I advised her that I was aware of that, and dropped a little science about methotrexate blocking proliferation of rapidly dividing cells by inhibiting dihydrofolate reductase. I told her she'd have to give me the methotrexate as an injection rather than a syrup, because I couldn't even keep water down. She told me to roll over and gave me a shot in the ass. Then she gave me a little packet of pills and told me to shove them up my vagina before bed in a week. She also gave me a prescription for Vicodin.
"Will I need this? Isn't this just going to be like a heavy period?" I asked.
"You might have some cramping," she said. "Just fill the prescription." Then, her clinical manner subsided and she squeezed my hand and shot me a kind, sympathetic expression. Even though her knuckles felt like ping pong balls, it was very comforting. "Make this as painless as possible for yourself," she said. "And avoid folic acid, it interferes with the methotrexate. But you already know that."
I left and Wmania escorted me out. I threw up in the parking lot. Wmania was very alarmed. "Holy shit, Razzy, pregnancy is like a disease to you!" When we got back to their apartment, I pointed out that the brochure the clinic gave me listed their phone number as 1-800-ABORTION. "Dude, I can't believe you fixed me up with this place by calling 1-800-ABORTION!" I said to LL Cool Jew.
"I did NOT call 1-800-ABORTION! They were the first clinic listed in the phone book, and it was a (202) number!"
"Whatever, you probably finished ordering new lenses from 1-800-CONTACTS and then figured you'd do the same for me by dialing 1-800-ABORTION," I teased her.
LL Cool Jew got rather indignant. "I SWEAR I did NOT dial 1-800-ABORTION!" I would have persisted in ragging on her, but I had to go throw up again.
After treating my nausea with a little medical marijuana, LL Cool Jew and Wmania took me out to lunch at Lauriol Plaza, which is the only place in Washington, DC I like at all. I'm a sucker for delicious fajitas. We ordered margaritas, and after a hilarious moment when Wmania decided to ask the non-English-speaking bus boy if they contained folic acid, resumed acting like my abortion was a great excuse for a weekend visit.
The next weekend, LL Cool Jew drove up to New York to keep me company for the actual fetus-purging part of the abortion. I was not in good shape. Despite my pregnancy being halted in its tracks by the methotrexate, I was still suffering from almost crippling nausea. I kept waking up in the night to vomit. In spite of my best efforts to joke about the situation ("Dude! Welcome to the party of the century!"), LL Cool Jew was extremely worried about me. She made sure the Vicodin was ready, she bought maxi-pads for me (trust that I am normally a tampon girl, but these are a no-no during an induced miscarriage), and she walked Caesar for me (a troublesome task given her penchant for five-inch stilettos and Caesar's tendency to pull hard on his leash). Finally, right before bed, I shoved the pills up my vadge, took a Vicodin, and went to bed.
Several hours later, I woke up feeling like my uterus was being rototilled. I tried to be stoic, but the pain was so severe that I started crying. I went into the bathroom so I wouldn't wake up LL Cool Jew. I sat on the toilet, where I realized that I was literally hemorrhaging. I was a fucking mess. Then I had to get off the toilet so that I could throw up into it. During this time, I bled on the floor. I started crying harder when I flushed because I realized that I had not only expelled my child into a toilet, I had puked on top of it and then unceremoniously sent it into the NYC sewer system. At this point, there was a quiet knock on the bathroom door. I'm not sure if my whimpering or my retching woke LL Cool Jew, but she was up and wanting to know if I was okay.
I tried to convince her that I was just fine and would be out in a minute, but failed. LL Cool Jew let herself in to find me wiping blood and chunks of fetus off the bathroom floor between dry heaves and sobs.
"Oh my fucking God, Razzy," she said. "You are NOT okay."
I was a complete mess. LL Cool Jew gave me another couple Vicodin and helped me back to bed. I think I managed to clean up most of the floor before her entrance, so there wasn't much for her to finish. I couldn't keep those Vicodin down. I spent the rest of the night writhing in pain. I felt like someone was wringing out my reproductive organs. LL Cool Jew stayed up with me, stroking my hair and feeling bad about not being able to help me more. Finally, I managed to fight back the urge to vomit long enough to let more pain meds kick in, and fell asleep for a couple hours.
The next day LL Cool Jew and I stayed in bed all day watching Lord of the Rings and eating pizza. I felt a little better. My friend KatieScarlett came over to visit. I was so exhausted and finally able to eat that I fell asleep early while KatieScarlett and LL Cool Jew got to know each other. They ended up dating for almost a year after that. Nothing kindles lesbian love like a mutual friend's abortion.
I figured that LL Cool Jew and KatieScarlett's relationship demonstrated that something good could come out of what was otherwise a horrible and traumatic experience. I resolved to finish off the whole abortion experience on a positive note, so when I went back to DC for my Valentine's Day follow-up confirming my now-empty uterus, LL Cool Jew and I decided that it would be really, really fun to go to Medieval Times for some post-abortion clinic faux jousting.
After the clinic, LL Cool Jew and I went to pick up Wmania from her boyfriend's apartment. She said she would meet us outside, because her then-boyfriend probably didn't want us traipsing around in his den of WASPiness and messing up his golf tee collection (and I'm not kidding...this d-bag from Connecticut actually collected tees from all the expensive golf courses he'd played at). When we arrived, Wmania and said boyfriend were clearly having some sort of fight, as they were standing aggressively opposed and gesturing wildly. LL Cool Jew and I pulled up, blasting "Night Train" by GNR, and I leaned out the window with a Parliament Light hanging out of my mouth and shouted, "Happy Valentine's Day, lovebirds! I just got done at the abortion clinic and I'm ready to drink some mead and watch some fucking jousting, so get your ass in my rental car, bitch!"
Wmania's lame boyfriend just stared at us, clearly offended into silence. He muttered a goodbye to Wmania, adjusted the collar of his polo shirt, and shuffled off to dust his golf tees or whatever. Wmania, LL Cool Jew, and I proceeded to have a great time drinking overpriced Bud Light and shouting about whatever fake knight our seating arrangements required us to support. On our way out, we took a picture in some fancy photo booth that put a picture of us in front a background that said "Bad Attitude." As is my custom, I exposed my right breast for the photo, and only realized upon exiting that there was a large screen outside the booth displaying the picture of my naked tit for everyone in the mall to see.
"Dude, we have to get out of here before we, like, get arrested for indecent exposure or something," Wmania cautioned.
We left and proceeded to spend a lot more time drinking and carousing and forgetting the entire reason for my trip to our nation's capital. However, any distraction from this event in my life is temporary. Not a day has passed since then that I haven't thought about it. It does not escape my notice that if I had made a different choice, I would have a four-year-old today. I have dreams about what my child would have looked like. I can't forgive myself for doing this, but I can't punish myself for it either. I regret it constantly, but in spite of that, I would do the same thing if I found out I was pregnant today.
Well over half of my friends have gone through the same thing. Often they call me when they have to, because everyone knows that I have had the same experience (since my favorite means of coping is to pretend it doesn't bother me and make irreverent jokes about it). It is heartbreaking for all of them. One of my friends undergoing a "medical" abortion called me during the week between the methotrexate and the misepristone, crying and saying over and over, "My baby is dying! I can feel it dying!" Another friend called after her abortion ended and said, "I feel like a terrible woman. I feel like Medea." After assuring her that references to infanticidal witches of Greek mythology will get her nowhere in terms of coping, I still felt like a shit because I still couldn't offer her any tips as to how to get this out of your system. If there is a way to move past this, I haven't discovered it. I still think about it all the time. I'm in therapy because of it. Even if I use the impersonal nomenclature (ie: "terminating a pregnancy") that makes an abortion sound like a simple medical procedure, I can't escape the part of me that thinks I killed my child. I can try to justify it by saying that I killed my bastard to save my own life, but this is not a simple thing to think about or put to rest.
The sad thing is that so many women have gone through this, and nobody talks about how complex the experience is. When people talk about abortion, the discussions tend to be political (either "abortion is murder" or "keep your laws off my body") and don't even come close to addressing what it's like to actually have an abortion. I'm sure women exist who think abortion is very casual and can have one without thinking about it at all, but everyone I know, obviously including myself, has not emerged from the clinic unscathed, undamaged, and without a significant measure of grief and remorse. While every woman I know, also including myself, believes she made the right decision, it is not easy living with it. And writing this all down and putting it on display for the internets and the world doesn't mitigate this burden, but at least it's not something I've got festering away secretly inside me anymore. I don't know if I'll ever find absolution or peace, but now that I've confessed, at least I can hope I'm on the right track. Besides, now you all know, and as GI Joe cartoons used to advise me, that's half the battle.
Labels: Catholicism, destroy all children, for serious people, LL Cool Jew, Miss Corbutt, Razzification, Wmania
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
Friday, February 01, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Wmania
Name: Wmania
DOB: 1978
Occupation: newly promoted vice president of a major PR company
Hometown: Aptos, California
Current residence: the seat of federal governance, taxation without representation, and Murder Capital of the U.S. of A.
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: My friend Wmania is a crazy workaholic, and that apparently pays off, because yesterday she found out that she is now getting a promotion to executive status. She is now the first of my close friends to run around slinging business cards that denote her as an official part of upper management and that list her occupation as president of vice. I'm so proud of her! Yay Wmania!
I've known Wmania since we worked at the Smith newspaper, and we've been through a lot together. We've gone to Spain together, gone to family planning clinics together, eaten Thanksgiving dinner together, tossed back countless dranks together, bitched about our jobs together, searched for her missing personal communication devices together, walked down the aisle ahead of LL Cool Jew together, tipped strippers together, smoked cigarettes together, prevented her cat from beating the shit out of Caesar together, paid too much for "mead" (Bud Light) at a Medieval Times outside Baltimore, and watched countless hours of "Beverly Hills, 90210" together. I could tell lots of embarrassing stories about Wmania--such as the one about the times that I had to strip naked to stave off some faux lezzie drama at Smith and then at our Smith two-year reunion (stripping made sense at the time, and it did stop the processing immediately) or about how her unitesticular ex-boyfriend stole her car and left it parked in the middle of the street with a pumpkin smashed on the windshield as payback for dumping him--and she could certainly tell plenty of embarrassing tales about me. However, I'll spare Wmania from having all her adorable silliness aired on the internets and just stick to extolling her many virtues.
Wmania is a professional rock star. She worked on Wall Street (well, not actually on Wall Street itself...I think her office was in midtown but she was totally into some kind of hardcore investment banking), then went into politics, and now she's apparently rocking the tits off of the public relations industry. I have no idea what she actually does except that it has something to do with the Panama Canal and teenage cough syrup addiction, but she does it well since she's now the vice bitch in charge at her office. I expect her to be running the company in a couple years.
In addition to her prowess at work, Wmania is a charming and genuinely endearing person. She is hilarious, holds her liquor well, and laughs at all my jokes. Anytime Wmania laughs is a good time; she has the kind of laugh that would be a billion-dollar product if you could bottle and sell it. If such a product existed, depression would be a thing of the past. Wmania is a little scatterbrained sometimes, but she is so sweet and caring. One time, we went to a Mexican restaurant after she held my hand through a grueling morning at an abortion clinic, and she actually asked the barely English-speaking bus boy if the margaritas we were about to consume had folic acid in them, because it was counterindicated by the methotrexate shot I'd just gotten to terminate my pregnancy. She is loyal and sincere and completely earnest in her daily actions, and I love her dearly.
That's why I just had to brag about her success at work. I admire her tremendously, and at the risk of sounding cheesy, I am lucky to be friends with such a pro ho and a terrific person. So the entire staff here at RAZZY.org (ie: myself, Caese, and CHONGAY!) send Wmania our fondest wishes and most heartfelt congratulations on her many achievements. Wmania rules so hard.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, for serious people, hot chicks, I LOVE IT, Wmania
Friday, August 03, 2007
T-t-t-totally dude!
When I first played the Shop Boyz (not to be confused with the Pet Shop Boys) song "Party Like a Rockstar", J-Sexy paused in lab and inquired, "Yo, Razzy, did he just say 'totally, dude'?"
"I think so," I replied. "I think he also just said, 'I'm a surfer screaming cowabunga, totally dude!' I'll have to check that these Shop Boyz guys aren't named after Renaissance painters, because that's some Ninja Turtle-sounding shit right there."
J-Sexy laughed, "What a ridicolos song! Why did you download this?"
"You know me, I'm a hip old granny. Sometimes I like to turn off the Lawrence Welk and see what kids these days are listening to. Besides, anything entitled 'Party Like a Rock Star' is bound to attract my attention."
Also attracting my attention is the fact that, given the exceptionally large number of "totally dude"-s present in their songs and album art, the Shop Boyz' marketing strategy was likely designed by my friend Wmania. Of course, if she actually had, their album cover would read "tottaly dude" (her preferred spelling), but I suspect she influenced it. She says "totally dude" even more than I do, and "rock star" is one of her favorite things against which to compare anything she likes. It's also her favorite diet energy drink.
Anyway, I discovered through the internets today that some morning radio show in Vegas made a parody of this song entitled "Party Like a Lohan." Given my obsession with celebretard criminals, I of course immediately clicked on it. I was amused. You can enjoy these musical stylings by ->->->CLICKING HERE<-<-<-.
In case you don't feel like actually listening to this 30-second clip of genius, here's the lyrics.
[CHORUS]
Party like a Lo
Party like a Lohan
Party like a Lo
Party like a Lohan
Party like a Lo
Party like a Lohan
She's totally screwed
You better party big when you party like Lohan
You lookin' good in your mugshot--nice tan
What better way to make your sober debut
Than with a pocket full of blow and a point one two?
Rehab not so bad when you're a star like Lindsay
That ankle band just another fashion accessory
It'd take more than that to make Lindsay embarrassed
How bout you get yourself locked up like Paris?!
[REPEAT CHORUS 2X]
Pretty good for a bunch of morning show DJs, who as a general rule annoy me to the point of getting into someone else's Denali myself and then running them down. They get extra points for working in a diss on Paris Hilton, too. Anyway, I found it an amusing way to kick off a Friday. Good work, guys. It'll probably be a bigger hit than any of the songs Lindsay has released in her career as a singer. T-t-t-totally dude.
"I think so," I replied. "I think he also just said, 'I'm a surfer screaming cowabunga, totally dude!' I'll have to check that these Shop Boyz guys aren't named after Renaissance painters, because that's some Ninja Turtle-sounding shit right there."
J-Sexy laughed, "What a ridicolos song! Why did you download this?"
"You know me, I'm a hip old granny. Sometimes I like to turn off the Lawrence Welk and see what kids these days are listening to. Besides, anything entitled 'Party Like a Rock Star' is bound to attract my attention."
Anyway, I discovered through the internets today that some morning radio show in Vegas made a parody of this song entitled "Party Like a Lohan." Given my obsession with celebretard criminals, I of course immediately clicked on it. I was amused. You can enjoy these musical stylings by ->->->CLICKING HERE<-<-<-.
In case you don't feel like actually listening to this 30-second clip of genius, here's the lyrics.
[CHORUS]
Party like a Lo
Party like a Lohan
Party like a Lo
Party like a Lohan
Party like a Lo
Party like a Lohan
She's totally screwed
You better party big when you party like Lohan
You lookin' good in your mugshot--nice tan
What better way to make your sober debut
Than with a pocket full of blow and a point one two?
Rehab not so bad when you're a star like Lindsay
That ankle band just another fashion accessory
It'd take more than that to make Lindsay embarrassed
How bout you get yourself locked up like Paris?!
[REPEAT CHORUS 2X]
Pretty good for a bunch of morning show DJs, who as a general rule annoy me to the point of getting into someone else's Denali myself and then running them down. They get extra points for working in a diss on Paris Hilton, too. Anyway, I found it an amusing way to kick off a Friday. Good work, guys. It'll probably be a bigger hit than any of the songs Lindsay has released in her career as a singer. T-t-t-totally dude.
Labels: celebrities, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, J-Sexy, rap, Wmania
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Edward Fortyhands
This weekend I attempted to drink forties with my friends LL Cool Jew, JerseyGirl, Wmania, and FalloniusMonk. After a long discussion covering such topics as the existence of diet low-carb 40s for those on impending wedding diets, establishing that New York City bodegas are the best places to purchase these beverages, accepting Wmania drinking Boone's Farm instead because she's now too grown-up and sophisticated for beer, debating whether or not Colt 45 is, as claimed by Billy Dee Williams, the smoothest, we attempted to purchase said forties. Unfortunately, since FalloniusMonk and I both live in the heart of the ghetto, where the bodega trade in forties is brisk, our opinion of the availability of 40s through all parts of the five boroughs was skewed. We completely didn't reckon on the snotty organic juice-peddling bodega/gourmet deli by JerseyGirl's Upper West Side apartment NOT SELLING A SINGLE BRAND OF FORTY. So we bought Heineken and Michelob Ultra instead.
While we were drinking, we got to talking about how we wished we had been able to purchase forties. JerseyGirl started telling us about some college party custom she'd heard about called "Edward Fortyhands", in which a forty is duct-taped into one's hand, thus mandating rapid consumption to prevent the beverage inside from warming via body heat. There's truly nothing worse than sipping on warm malt liquor, no matter HOW drunk you already are, so I can see how this sufficiently motivates the alcoholic to chug that King Cobra fast. I thought this was stupid and wanted to know which hellhole Garden State township this idea originated in. JerseyGirl squealed, "I can't believe you've never heard of this before!"
I advised her that the only Edward ______hands I'm interested in is Edward Penishands, which involves some of the finest acting in the history of adult hardcore pornographic cinema. I seriously BELIEVE the dude in that movie is Johnny Depp; his performance as a 15-inch dildo-handed savant with Lead-Singer-of-Korn-esque hair and a skin-bleaching fetish is that convincing. However, it seems that out on the internet, "Edward Fortyhands" has captured enough of the zeitgeist to warrant a video on YouTube.
Cue up the absurdly-placed synth-heavy classic rock:
Who the hell listens to Journey when they're drinking forties besides intentionally ironic hipster girlie boy members of "The Cock Country Club"? Journey is for roller skating and redneck lesbian makeout sessions, not Edward Fortyhands. Put on some Dr. Dre, you fools!
While we were drinking, we got to talking about how we wished we had been able to purchase forties. JerseyGirl started telling us about some college party custom she'd heard about called "Edward Fortyhands", in which a forty is duct-taped into one's hand, thus mandating rapid consumption to prevent the beverage inside from warming via body heat. There's truly nothing worse than sipping on warm malt liquor, no matter HOW drunk you already are, so I can see how this sufficiently motivates the alcoholic to chug that King Cobra fast. I thought this was stupid and wanted to know which hellhole Garden State township this idea originated in. JerseyGirl squealed, "I can't believe you've never heard of this before!"
I advised her that the only Edward ______hands I'm interested in is Edward Penishands, which involves some of the finest acting in the history of adult hardcore pornographic cinema. I seriously BELIEVE the dude in that movie is Johnny Depp; his performance as a 15-inch dildo-handed savant with Lead-Singer-of-Korn-esque hair and a skin-bleaching fetish is that convincing. However, it seems that out on the internet, "Edward Fortyhands" has captured enough of the zeitgeist to warrant a video on YouTube.
Cue up the absurdly-placed synth-heavy classic rock:
Who the hell listens to Journey when they're drinking forties besides intentionally ironic hipster girlie boy members of "The Cock Country Club"? Journey is for roller skating and redneck lesbian makeout sessions, not Edward Fortyhands. Put on some Dr. Dre, you fools!
Labels: alcoholism, FalloniusMonk, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, porn, ridiculous absurdity, Wmania
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Sperm bowling?!
So I heard back from the latest stripper to try and solicit work from our LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party Yahoo! group, and I can't decide whether to laugh or be deeply disturbed. One thing is clear, though, and that's that Motherbucker, FalloniusMonk, Wmania, and myself were all wrong in assuming that this particular dancer was a woman...because female strippers don't usually perform party tricks like "sperm bowling."
From: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
love your title razzy,, director of strippers too
funny
i'm handsome , just not a bodybuilder type but im not
tubby
either id be the joke entertainment maybe serve
drinks nude
then some party tricks im good at sperm bowling but need
a lil rest between frames hope you ladies enjoy your party just
figured
id throw myself out there and besides id be no charge
i appreciate you stickin up for the nuthin special contingent
im
sure you put up a valiant fight for me
keep me in mind your reply was a piss take
care
I'm not sure I know what exactly "sperm bowling" is, but it sounds like some sort of latently homosexual fraternity initiation rite, variations of which might involve a plate of crackers. While I'm not inclined to look a gift stripper in the mouth, I have to say that I don't believe there is such a thing as a free stripper, despite his assertions that he'd be "no charge." I also don't trust anyone who can't identify denigrating sarcasm when he sees it, or who has such an obvious fondness for using the Tab key in his correspondence.
He's right about one thing, though. I did put up a "valiant fight"...to embarrass him on the internet. Mission accomplished.
From: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
love your title razzy,, director of strippers too
funny
i'm handsome , just not a bodybuilder type but im not
tubby
either id be the joke entertainment maybe serve
drinks nude
then some party tricks im good at sperm bowling but need
a lil rest between frames hope you ladies enjoy your party just
figured
id throw myself out there and besides id be no charge
i appreciate you stickin up for the nuthin special contingent
im
sure you put up a valiant fight for me
keep me in mind your reply was a piss take
care
I'm not sure I know what exactly "sperm bowling" is, but it sounds like some sort of latently homosexual fraternity initiation rite, variations of which might involve a plate of crackers. While I'm not inclined to look a gift stripper in the mouth, I have to say that I don't believe there is such a thing as a free stripper, despite his assertions that he'd be "no charge." I also don't trust anyone who can't identify denigrating sarcasm when he sees it, or who has such an obvious fondness for using the Tab key in his correspondence.
He's right about one thing, though. I did put up a "valiant fight"...to embarrass him on the internet. Mission accomplished.
Labels: crazies, FalloniusMonk, gross, LL Cool Jew, Motherbucker, oh the horror, perversion, real-life rejects, ridiculous absurdity, weiners, Wmania
Monday, February 12, 2007
Nuthin' special
LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party Yahoo! group is certainly attracting its fair share of interested adult entertainers. Previously we had Not-Shy George instructing us to "not be afraid to touch" on the big night while passive-aggressively advertising his disrobing services. Today, Motherbucker forwarded the latest unsolicited correspondence from a net surfing stripper to the party planners:
From: Motherbucker (motherbucker@somecampaignofficeoranother.org)
To: FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: FWD: APPROVE -- i_iwanna wants to join llcooljewsparty
lol - dudes...this ho wants to be a part of our group...so she can "Strip" for us, despite the fact that she's "nuthin' special"
Forwarded message:
Hello,
The following person would like to join the llcooljewsparty group:
Email address: i_iwanna <iwanna4253@aol.com>
Comment from user:
would love to strip for ll cool jew and you other girls, im nuthin special but willing to do a show for you gals
I don't know exactly what "I wanna 4253" was thinking when designing this particular sales pitch, but it needs a little work. I can't imagine the situation where us planners, all a group of debauched drunks, dykes, and general titty aficionados, would willingly hire someone who describes herself as "nuthin' special" for our dear friend's last night of unmarriedness. At the very least, we ought to salute LL Cool Jew's graduating from Smith summa cum laude with her English degree and the highest honors her thesis on Graham Greene won with a stripper who can spell "nothing" properly.
So I wrote the stripper back to advise her that we weren't interested, and, in the spirit of compassion, to give her some tips on how to improve her cold-calling technique. My sales skills are a little rusty, but I did sell over $10,000 worth of fine kitchen cutlery one summer in college, and I didn't do that by telling motherfuckers that Cutco knives were "nothin' special," so I figured I could help the bitch out a little bit. And by "help the bitch out a little bit", I mean make her reconsider ever making a similar proposition by filling my letter with disdain and palpable sarcasm.
To: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Recently, our party planning group has engaged in a heated debate over whether or not "nuthin special" is a valid criterion for selecting the strippers we plan to employ for the pleasure of the bride-to-be. Despite my passionate argument for "nuthin special" strippers, the pro-special contigent has won out, and thus I regret to inform you that we will be unable to accept your generous offer.
Thank you for your interest, and best of luck in your future endeavors and solicitations.
Cordially,
Razzy
Director of Strippers, LL Cool Jew's Bachelorette Party
We have done nothing to advertise our little Yahoo! group, and I believe it's even designated "private" (although given that so far two degenerate unemployed strippers have attempted to join it, I'm not sure that "private" means anything at all). Nonetheless, we seem to be attracting the deepest, darkest dregs of the stripper world. Fucking typical...even though we try to keep our business on the low, there's still ugly bitches pestering us without provocation. Do we just give off a "we went to Smith, so therefore we're tolerant of stank twats offering the same for our amusement" vibe or something? Just because we all went to Ugly Bitch U does not mean we'll put up with some Betty Friedan-looking cooches slutting around LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party with a set of tasseled pasties and a feather boa, so to all other marginally attractive, fat, "nuthin' special" exotic dancers considering submitting a bid...DON'T BOTHER!
From: Motherbucker (motherbucker@somecampaignofficeoranother.org)
To: FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Wmania (wmania@bighugecorporatePRfirm.com), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: FWD: APPROVE -- i_iwanna
lol - dudes...this ho wants to be a part of our group...so she can "Strip" for us, despite the fact that she's "nuthin' special"
Forwarded message:
Hello,
The following person would like to join the llcooljewsparty group:
Email address: i_iwanna <iwanna4253@aol.com>
Comment from user:
would love to strip for ll cool jew and you other girls, im nuthin special but willing to do a show for you gals
I don't know exactly what "I wanna 4253" was thinking when designing this particular sales pitch, but it needs a little work. I can't imagine the situation where us planners, all a group of debauched drunks, dykes, and general titty aficionados, would willingly hire someone who describes herself as "nuthin' special" for our dear friend's last night of unmarriedness. At the very least, we ought to salute LL Cool Jew's graduating from Smith summa cum laude with her English degree and the highest honors her thesis on Graham Greene won with a stripper who can spell "nothing" properly.
So I wrote the stripper back to advise her that we weren't interested, and, in the spirit of compassion, to give her some tips on how to improve her cold-calling technique. My sales skills are a little rusty, but I did sell over $10,000 worth of fine kitchen cutlery one summer in college, and I didn't do that by telling motherfuckers that Cutco knives were "nothin' special," so I figured I could help the bitch out a little bit. And by "help the bitch out a little bit", I mean make her reconsider ever making a similar proposition by filling my letter with disdain and palpable sarcasm.
To: i_iwanna (iwanna4253@aol.com)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Recently, our party planning group has engaged in a heated debate over whether or not "nuthin special" is a valid criterion for selecting the strippers we plan to employ for the pleasure of the bride-to-be. Despite my passionate argument for "nuthin special" strippers, the pro-special contigent has won out, and thus I regret to inform you that we will be unable to accept your generous offer.
Thank you for your interest, and best of luck in your future endeavors and solicitations.
Cordially,
Razzy
Director of Strippers, LL Cool Jew's Bachelorette Party
We have done nothing to advertise our little Yahoo! group, and I believe it's even designated "private" (although given that so far two degenerate unemployed strippers have attempted to join it, I'm not sure that "private" means anything at all). Nonetheless, we seem to be attracting the deepest, darkest dregs of the stripper world. Fucking typical...even though we try to keep our business on the low, there's still ugly bitches pestering us without provocation. Do we just give off a "we went to Smith, so therefore we're tolerant of stank twats offering the same for our amusement" vibe or something? Just because we all went to Ugly Bitch U does not mean we'll put up with some Betty Friedan-looking cooches slutting around LL Cool Jew's bachelorette party with a set of tasseled pasties and a feather boa, so to all other marginally attractive, fat, "nuthin' special" exotic dancers considering submitting a bid...DON'T BOTHER!
Labels: correspondence, crazies, holy fucking matrimony, LL Cool Jew, Motherbucker, real-life rejects, ridiculous absurdity, sluts, stank vaginas, Wmania, you're ugly
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