Monday, January 12, 2009
It's called the "Great" Northwest for a reason
I know I've been seriously AWOL lately, and for that I apologize to all the Razzyphiles who have been rending their garments, self-flagellating, weeping, gnashing their teeth, and generally experiencing crushing despair due to useless bullshit withdrawal. I spent the holidays frantically dispatching mice in my lab and arranging postdoc interviews for later this week. I'm also trying to make a serious dent in my dissertation and write two papers. In short, I'm working my tits off (thankfully, not literally), and I have barely had time to eat or sleep. Hell, I've barely had time to get my daily rub-off in, and that's just unacceptable.
As of today, I'm in the beautiful (and by "beautiful" I mean "gray and overcast") P-N-Dub, sitting at my parents' kitchen counter working diligently away on still more science-type stuff. However, I did break away long enough to go out and get my drink on in Tacompton with HotLawyer and Morrissey'sHair this past weekend. While I was at Doyle's, a standard Tacoma watering hole, I was informed by the barkeep and Razzyphile extraordinaire Startender that my site has gone neglected for so long that I'm second-to-last on his internet surfing history. Nonetheless, Startender still hooked me up with some complimentary scotch for being the source of all things Razzified, but I drank it with a sense of shame. Despite my legitimate excuses for doing so, I've been appallingly remiss at blessing you with my prosaic hotness. I plan to do a little making up for that now, if only so that Startender doesn't regret his generous gift of Johnnie Walker.
Unfortunately, I haven't been up to speed on my internets gossip on account of spending 90% of my online time on PubMed. So instead of railing on whatever current event has pissed me off and/or excited me I will instead try to answer a question that a number of people have been asking me lately: Why am I moving back to the P-N-Dub?
Oh, did I mention? I'm probably moving back to the P-N-Dub this spring after I get Ph.ake doctored. I love New York like crazy, but I'm so tired of being broke all the time and living in what could pass for a Gangs of New York-style tenement. Seriously, if I live there any longer, I'm going to have to sharpen my teeth and become proficient in hand-to-hand combat with meat cleavers and various farm tools. I'm also tired of struggling to find dogsitters and being so far away from my family. So like all great affairs, mine with living in New York City is coming to an end in favor of stupid, dumb Seattle. Also, there are some hot-ass virologists up at the University of Washington who I can get a sweet postdoc with.
Now, I realize that Seattle is a lame fucking city that annoys me to no end. Seattle people, whether they fall into the category of Overblown Yuppie, Scruffy Hipster, or Environmental Nazi, are all ultimately the same in the sense that most of them are from backwater towns like Eatonville and Mukilteo and Chehalis and compensate for such humble upbringings by being insufferably condescending to everyone crossing their paths. I do not like most of them and they usually do not like me. Tacoma, while I love it for its more unassuming, blue collar atmosphere, is too far away from Seattle to live. I did that commute for three years and vowed that I would never again live so far away from my place of employment. After-work happy hour is a critical part of my professional life, and long driving commutes are not conducive to early evening drunkenness. However, there are many bonuses to living in the P-N-Dub in spite of Seattle's wholesale suckery. In spite of my tendency to be a ruthless, brutal hater, I actually am a very optimistic, glass-half-full kind of person, and I've compiled a list of things that are going to be AWESOME about living here.
1. Close proximity to my parents and little brother. This pretty much speaks for itself. I'm very close to my family, so being able to come over, raid the fridge, do laundry, and get free dogsitting services is hella awesome. Notice I said "hella." I'm getting back into West Coast mode!
2. Taco Time.
For those who have never been to the P-N-Dub, you've probably never heard of Taco Time, and that is your grave misfortune. It is the best fucking fake-me-out Mexican fast food you will ever eat. The crisp beef burrito is like a sublime tube of deep-fried meat and their Mexi-Fries (aka deep fried tater tots with taco seasoning on them) are mind blowing. Taco Time is the only fast food I will deign to consume. When I'm in New York, I have had dreams about eating Taco Time.
3. I always get laid like crazy in the P-N-Dub. I certainly get plenty of action in New York, too, but never like it is here. I don't know what it is about the honeys here, but they LOVE my ass. They're practically lining up to knock this thang out. I'm barely in town for one day and I've got my hand down some random 24-year-old's pants. Then the next night I got some totally different ass! I'm a true playerette for real wherever I'm at, but my inherent game is at its apex here in the Dub-A.
4. It's cheaper than New York. With the exception of some ridiculously priced Lagavulin scotch I drank the other night while I was hanging out at my buddy TAFKAMA's neighborhood bar in Seattle, booze, food, rent, gas, and life in general is less expensive. In New York, I not only have to pay a state income tax and a state sales tax, I also have to pay CITY income and sales taxes. In Washington, there isn't even a state income tax and top shelf scotch in Puyallup is $5.
5. Pretty scenery.
6. Rainier Beer
Otherwise known as "Vitamin R," Rainier is the next best thing to the nectar of the gods. Truly there is no finer lager in the entire world than Rainier. Okay, well, that might not be true because Rainier is pretty shitty. However, as far as shitty beers go, Rainier sets a standard of excellence that all other canned beverages can only dream of achieving. Thus far I've already consumed at least 3 Vitamin R tallboys, and I've still got a week of this working vacation to go.
7. Seahawks fans abound
While the Seahawks may have had one of their worst seasons since the mid-90s this past year, I never stopped wearing my jerseys. Even when we were 2-10 I gritted my teeth and headed for the bar bravely rocking my Tatupu jersey in spite of the derisive statements some of my fellow bar patrons made concerning the Hawks' performance this season. The nicer people (ie: my friends and/or dudes who want to bone me) attributed it to the rash of injuries suffered by the Seahawks. The assholes (ie: Cowboys, Eagles, Giants, Patriots, Jets, and/or Bears fans) attributed it to the phenomenon known around the P-N-Dub as "S.O.S.", or Same Old Seahawks, the local term for the Hawks' reversion to the old days when they sucked harder than a toothless hooker. Moving back to the P-N-Dub means I don't have to put up with any of this bullshit. Instead, I can simply wallow in everyone else's collective depression. It also means I don't have to explain what the fuck "SEA-fence" means.
8. Lots of people for me to mock.
The other night, my friend TAFKAMA took me to a hipster bar on karaoke night. When we walked in, I was like, "TAFKAMA, this place sucks! I feel like I'm in goddamned Williamsburg, what with all these losers in their trucker hats singing bad Blondie covers. Do you come here because you actually hang out with these people? I want to go back to the classy bar with the expensive scotch."
"I never come here with anyone," he confessed. "It's not like I come here because I want to be part of this scene. I only come here to watch and make fun of these people. I know you'd be into that. And there's $1.25 cans of Oly."
While I'll always take a Vitamin R over an Oly, I did admit that I couldn't beat that deal and indeed I was into it. TAFKAMA is a lot of fun to rag on people with because he's extremely perceptive and chances are, he's already got a lot of material that he's just been waiting to try out. For example, I was wondering why these hipsters were so void of boxy glasses, an accessory that I assumed was as much a part of the uniform as a messenger bag or a copy of something by Camus for the pretense of intellect. TAFKAMA advised me, "Bushy Grizzly Adams beards are the new boxy glasses." He was right. Every last one of these assholes had a faceful of unkempt pubes to wear with their plaid button-up/vintage t-shirt combos. TAFKAMA and I proceeded to spend the next two hours tearing apart every asshole in the place, from the guy wearing some sort of Church of Satan shirt to the fat girl wearing what can only be described as pantaloons with a hideous sweater dress that made her look like a giant black-and-green bratwurst.
I could go to hipster karaoke every night if those are the kind of outfits I'm going to see. And in addition to the Hipster Douchebags are the Overblown Yuppies, who spend all their time talking about garlic presses and wines and trying to sound incredibly cosmopolitan and sophisticated in spite of the fact that they live in tiny-ass Seattle, and the Environmental Nazis, who bike everywhere, eat vegan, and constantly whine about being green. In otherwords, the material is limitless.
9. Second to last but not remotely least, all my old school friends. These people have known me since before I hit puberty in some cases, and they always ask when I'm going to move back. Well, the answer to that is probably "April 2009."
10. Finally, to all my devoted Razzyphiles, I am sorry for being so incommunicado. If I move to the P-N-Dub, I will be spending considerably less time freaking out over things like money and grad school and that sort of bullshit. That means I'll have more time for blogging. And since there's only nine good things I could think of about the P-N-Dub, there's a multitude of others that enrage me and will provide solid grist for the Razzy mill for a long time to come. Please be patient with me the next few months as I finish up at school and get a job. I'll check in at least once a week, and I'll be back for good before you know it.
XOBJBS,
Razzy
Labels: alcoholism, excuses, P-N-Dub, Razzification, Razzyphiles, Seahawks
Monday, November 17, 2008
The dirty thirties
Sorry to interrupt everyone's preparations for their Jonestown Massacre anniversary parties, but I wanted to let you all know that it's my thirtieth birthday today, and true to form, I decided to ring in my third decade of life with a soul-crushing hangover. I wanted to write a long ode to my own magnificent awesomeness today, but thanks to the inordinate number of complimentary shots and pitchers at my football bar yesterday, I'm barely going to be able to muster the energy to get to the afternoon talks of the thrilling virology conference that Mt. Sinai threw in honor of my natal celebration. So far my birthday weekend has involved drinking, football, drinking, Korean barbecue, drinking, hot lesbian sex, drinking, and drinking. An afternoon of talks about innate immunity and interferon antagonism (followed by more drinking, Monday Night Football with dudes from my fantasy league, and drinking) is certainly going to do a lot to distract from the fact that I currently look like I got trampled by a team of Budweiser Clydesdales.
Oh, yeah, and I dyed my hair brown to celebrate this historic occasion. Happy 30th Razzy Vagina Ejection Day! Razzyphiles can feel free to send pearls, which are traditionally given at thirtieth anniversaries of totally kickass instances, such as me blessing the earth with my inimitable (and loud, crass, obnoxiously charming) presence. I particularly appreciate receiving pearl necklaces. Razzy Haters, I'm a year older and thus an even MORE haggard, strung-out, washed-up, totally beat-down old crone, so have at it!
Labels: aging, alcoholism, Razzification, Razzy Haters, Razzyphiles
Monday, November 03, 2008
Me llamo es Sarah Palin
Just in time for the election, I've got what you were all undoubtedly waiting with bated breath all weekend to see: my Sarah Palin costume. As promised, I did dress up as Sarah Palin in a flag bikini. The bikini arrived at work just in time on Friday morning, and I eagerly tore open the package to shout "USA! U! S! A!" at my coworkers while modeling it over my clothes. Unfortunately, I realized that it wasn't quite the same stars-and-stripes design I expected. In fact, upon closer inspection, I realized with horror that the online flag bikini store fucked up my order and sent me a Puerto Rican flag bikini by mistake. Luckily, that turned out even better, because as numerous people at the party I attended pointed out, Sarah Palin probably thinks she can see Puerto Rico from Alaska. The bikini goes great with the giant Obama sign in the background.
Also as promised, I dressed my morbidly obese Pug Chingy! up as Sarah Palin's infant son Trig. Several people commented that it was one of the most offensive things anyone had ever seen, but nonetheless everyone laughed at it. Chingy! quickly proved his disdain for the extra large (yet still too small) Pull-Ups I put on him and in his typical fashion, proved to be far more ill-behaved and uncooperative than I've ever seen Trig Palin.
Another very un-Palin-esque behavior of Chingy!'s involved him going rogue and showing his undying love for pork barrel spending. Pork Barrel Spending is one of Chingy!'s very favorite Pugsitters, and she promptly removed the barrel and spent the evening cuddling with him and whispering sweet CHONGAYs into his stank, tarry little ears.
I'd show more pictures, but unfortunately our party host GayMan got very drunk (when I left the party at like 3 a.m., he had exhausted all the beer in the fridge and was resorting to Mike's Hard Lemonade). Despite the fact that he is a professional photographer, at this point all of his photos got awfully blurry. Additionally, you can tell that despite his name, GayMan is as hetero as they come. For evidence, take this photograph of me talking to my friend Moss, who dressed as what Governor Palin would classify as an Inuit.
Nice titty picture, GayMan. I should know; I am a connoisseur.
Anyway, CHONGAY CHONG, Sarah and Trig Palin costume! Oh, and if anyone needs a gently used Puerto Rican flag bikini, holler at your Alaskan governor.
Labels: alcoholism, CHONGAY CHONG, hilarious shit, intentional buffoonery, politics, spooktiness
Thursday, September 18, 2008
All beer and no restraint makes Razzy a miserably hung over girl
I didn't write anything yesterday because Tuesday night I was very, very, VERY stupid. Since the new "90210" is basically crap, I already guessed that Dylan was Kelly Taylor's baby daddy, and I have no interest in watching it unless the entire rest of the series consists of Jackie Taylor getting shitfaced on vodka rocks with Lucille Bluth, I resumed my usual Tuesday night bar trivia tradition. I intended to only have "a couple" beers and be home and in bed by eleven at the latest. Unfortunately, this didn't exactly work out. Our buddy GayMan showed up toward the end of trivia after spending the afternoon getting drunk at a paper conference. Yes, you read that right: he was getting shitfaced at a conference dedicated to recent advances in Post-Its, business cards, and legal pads. Then we won first prize as usual at bar trivia, and decided to continue celebrating. Then the bartender gave us a round of complimentary shots because we're regulars and great tippers. Then we decided to move to another bar for a change of scenery with still more beer.
Just to illustrate exactly how drunk our group was on a Tuesday night, take a look at GayMan's attempt to document...something. I'm not sure what's going on here beside our other friend The Continental rubbing his head on my tits and me being entirely too excited about one of the complimentary Post-It cubes GayMan picked up at his paper conference. First off, the quality sucks even for a picture taken with an iPhone, and that's in spite of GayMan's being a professional photographer with a photography job and a photography blog. He obviously had the drunken shakes while snapping it, which makes me look like an even more rancid booze-sodden sack of ass than I usually do when I'm wasted:
I'm just amazed that GayMan didn't get a photo of me trying my damndest to fellate that "Serious Paper" Post-It cube, which I vaguely recall doing. In fact, I have a hazy memory of making a valiant attempt to prove my Super Slut credentials by trying to dislocate my jaw like a Burmese python to fit it in (and failing...I can fit many things in my mouth, but large cubes of "Serious Paper" are apparently not among them.)
Just to illustrate exactly how drunk our group was on a Tuesday night, take a look at GayMan's attempt to document...something. I'm not sure what's going on here beside our other friend The Continental rubbing his head on my tits and me being entirely too excited about one of the complimentary Post-It cubes GayMan picked up at his paper conference. First off, the quality sucks even for a picture taken with an iPhone, and that's in spite of GayMan's being a professional photographer with a photography job and a photography blog. He obviously had the drunken shakes while snapping it, which makes me look like an even more rancid booze-sodden sack of ass than I usually do when I'm wasted:
I'm just amazed that GayMan didn't get a photo of me trying my damndest to fellate that "Serious Paper" Post-It cube, which I vaguely recall doing. In fact, I have a hazy memory of making a valiant attempt to prove my Super Slut credentials by trying to dislocate my jaw like a Burmese python to fit it in (and failing...I can fit many things in my mouth, but large cubes of "Serious Paper" are apparently not among them.)
In any event, I woke up the next morning still wearing my clothes with a mystery can of mace in my pocket (I vaguely recall this being a gift from TheContinental to thwart internet stalkers), no money in my wallet, and a brutal fucking hangover. I left work yesterday at three, ate a pizza, and passed the fuck out before "Project Runway" was even over. Hence my lack of anything remotely interesting to blog about and this relatively boring "Dear Diary"-type post. I'm just making excuses for willingly using beer to temporarily dull my mental faculties. I'm sure I'll be sharpened back up by tomorrow.
Labels: alcoholism, excuses, Razzification, you're ugly
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
FUCK! I'm LATE!
Sorry, dudes, but it's 10 a.m. and I just woke up. My alarm didn't go off, but even if it had, I am miserably hung over. This is very bad news for the story about the two really angry identical lesbians who confronted me after bar trivia night to give me a drive-by scolding about being "offensive" regarding statements I made as to the fuckability of Alicia Sacramone and Nastia Liukin. Apparently I'm not supposed to speculate on which Olympic athletes are gay at "a straight bar." I rebutted this argument by making out with a hot Wellesley alumna. Ultimately, I was out until 3 a.m. last night, and though I didn't intend to stay out that late, I did to drown my sorrows about China winning the gold in the team gymsnatchtits finals. So my apologies about my lack of productivity today. I'll be back in regular form tomorrow. XOBJBS!
Labels: alcoholism, excuses
Monday, July 28, 2008
Daily Douchebag: bar tabs like this
DOB: July 25, 2008
Occupation: making everybody who had a piece of this seriously consider the extent of their alcoholism
Hometown: our dirty hot waiter's apron at El Rey del Sol
Current residence: the financial ledgers at El Rey del Sol
Douchebaggery: I'm generally a pretty thirsty bar patron, but every once in a while I drink so much alcohol that I even surprise myself. Last Friday night was one of those occasions. My friend JerseyGirl throws these happy hours, primarily because she likes any excuse to make an Evite about getting shitfaced. At almost all of these events, I get wasted and very frequently laid with one of the horny gentlemen working with JerseyGirl in the trenches of cable news production. However, at this most recent occasion, JerseyGirl recently broke up with her boyfriend, I've been stressed to the point of almost getting my old poetry notebook out and scrawling out some appalling verse, Rack's boyfriend TheOldGuy's mom just passed away, and Twathopper's been lamenting her usual incompetence at lesbianism, so this happy hour could be a "quiet night out" with closer friends. There weren't as many random cubicle neighbors Evited as usual.
In hindsight, it was probably a mistake not to throw the usual bar-banger, because instead of leaving early to pork some hot swarthy employee of MSNBC or FOX News, I stayed until the finale when the bill arrived, and I was HAMMERED. I was so drunk that on the way home, I almost fell asleep in the cab, something I've sworn never to do ever since my first year in New York I wound up with a cabdriver who started jerking off on the Henry Hudson where there was no escape for me. With those kind of guys taking drunk bitches home, there's no way I'm going to get unconscious and trust the driver will wake me at my humble tenement rather than in some abandoned alley in the Bronx where he'll rape me and dump my lifeless body for the Special Victims Unit to find. I was so drunk that the simple task of staying semi-conscious was a Herculean feat on the way home. I was really, really drunk.
That's why I was not surprised to recall later that we drank over NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS WORTH OF MARGARITA PITCHERS. I remember being surprised at the time, and raving about "there is NO WAY we drank that much! I'm practically sober!" like the truly delusional drunk-ass bitch I was by the time the waiter closed us out. "NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS?!? Wait, we didn't REALLY drink that much...did we?" Okay, well some of that was the tip and tax, and in fairness we ate a paltry $31 worth of nachos, but otherwise we drank probably literally twenty five extraordinarily stiff pitchers of tequila-based cocktails...among a maximum of twenty people, some of whom didn't drink much. As I estimate that around 15 of us drank margaritas, that means we each had 1.67 pitchers each over the course of around four hours. Even for boozehounds like us, that is a shitload of well tequila to consume.
It's not surprising that the next day, many of the attendees reported incapacitating hangovers. I myself was miraculously not clutching the toilet bowl for the next twelve hours (a hangover that in my case seems to be reserved almost exclusively for mixing liquor nights, like when I switch back and forth between scotch, G&Ts, and vodka-Red Bulls). I was, however, very glad when my afternoon drinking plans were canceled so that I could convalesce and make amends to my own liver, because I still felt like shit. I need to remember this the next time we hit up a margarita happy hour, or I'm going to be calling Schick Shadel sooner than later.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, FalloniusMonk, HillsYes, JerseyGirl, Rack, Twathopper
Monday, July 21, 2008
Daily Douchebag: the Svedka vodka robot
DOB: 2007
Occupation: turning me off the idea of ever ordering Svedka vodka
Hometown: Sweden?
Current residence: the internets
Douchebaggery: I see these ads for Svedka vodka all over the internets. I can't recall a single occasion in which I or anyone I've witnessed ever ordered Svedka vodka, but Svedka is trying to change that with totally ubiquitous online ads. All my trusty gossip websites, my social slutworking websites, even some of my news websites have ads pimping Svedka. Too bad Svedka's marketing strategy ensures that I'd rather choke on syphilitic dick than allow a stray drop of a Svedka martini cross my lips.
Svedka's ads rely on sex appeal, which normally does the job for me. I'll buy almost any product if it makes me think of getting laid. However, Svedka's "sex appeal" is embodied by this futuristic sex droid reminiscent of the offspring of a blow-up doll and the robots from the CGI shitshow known as I, Robot. There is something inherently really creepy about what looks like some sort of Kim Kardashian Terminator with all its flesh stripped off. From a strictly pragmatic perspective, I also think this sexbot looks pretty useless. How are you supposed to have sex with that thing? From what I can see, it doesn't come equipped with a vagina module. What good is a voluptuous robot with DD tits if you can't use it for your perverse gratification? From what I can tell, the best this thing can do is maybe give some oral, but I question even that since her mouth plug-in always seems busy drinking some kind of Svedka cocktail. I have no use whatsoever for an unsettling sexless sex machine that's going to sit around drinking all my swill.
I suppose Svedka could be less appealing by using webcam pedophile penis shots from the "To Catch a Predator" archives or footage of Star Jones's post-gastric bypass FUPA to sell their firewater, but that's pretty much all I can think of that would turn me off more than their skeezy fem-bot. Robo-tease is not hot, and she doesn't make me either horny or thirsty for a Svedka gimlet. FAIL, Svedka marketing department!
If Svedka truly aspires to be the world's best vodka in 2033, I strongly suggest they stop turning off their potential alcoholic customers with this disturbing spokesdroid. Besides, if they insist on using robots to somehow suggest that Svedka is the vodka of the future, I can think of two WAY sexier models they could employ:
However, until Svedka signs RoboCop and/or the ED-209 as celebrity vodka endorsers, I am sticking with Stoli.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, I'm Not Buying It, retard rage, RoboCop, scathing indictments
Monday, June 30, 2008
Post-party depression
I just spent the last two hours trying desperately to type something coherent about Pride, but unfortunately this just wasn't working. I barely managed to type two shoddy paragraphs but alas, I think I might still be drunk. All weekend I probably got a total of five hours sleep. I planned to leave Pride at a reasonable hour yesterday, but then I met this cute bisexual chick who invited me to an orgy, which I had to decline because Twathopper's drunk self was starting to work herself into a gloomy lesbian fugue state. I wound up taking her home to cheer her up with pizza, Miller Lite, and a few well-placed episodes of "Beverly Hills, 90210," and while maybe it would have been more impressive to end Pride by participating in an orgy with cute bisexual chicks, I wouldn't be any kind of decent lesbian mentor (or decent friend, for that matter), if I didn't take care of my girl in her time of need. Therefore, I was up late drinking after spending approximately the last 48 hours drinking, and now my elderly almost-thirty-year-old ass is paying the price. In fact, I tried to take a picture of my tits as a substitute for any real content and I couldn't even manage that.
Yeah...I'm a mess. Not even a hot mess, but just a straight-up MESS this morning. I look and feel completely and utterly busted. In fact, I'm physically busted. On Saturday, I ran out of lab through a torrential rainstorm and bit it on the stairs coming out of the building where I work. Luckily my ample (hot) ass cushioned my fall somewhat, but now the aforementioned hot ass is a battered shitshow:
Therefore, I'm going to quit before I get even further behind. Tomorrow I should have gotten my shit together enough to resume my routine of useless bullshittery, but for now I'm just going to pull the old shameless trick of posting links to useless bullshit I wrote before, but you should go ahead and read again. In the spirit of Pride, the theme will be TOTALLY LESBISH!
Building a mystery: I still haven't found this missing vibrator. As an added bonus, there's a whole tangent about how I'm not really bisexual. Obviously I got over that big case of denial.
Three's company: Threesomes are for winners. Trust this.
The proof is in the pussy-loving hat: Note that, based on her Smith College hat, I diagnosed Lindsay Lohan with a case of the carpet munching OVER A YEAR AGO. Yes, you heard it here first!
More slutty lesbian beauty queens!: I'd be way more into the pageant circuit if these bitches actually did more drunken girl-on-girl
Rosie, leave the FUCKING LESBIANS out of it!: Rosie O'Donnell sucks and is a blight on the good name of muff divers everywhere
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Dani from "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila": Some love for every androgyny-loving lipstick lezzie I know
Help out with my strap-on: Thanks to all your helpful advice, I finally did learn how to bang a broad doggystyle
Daily Douchebag: Gayelle: The dumbest new way of saying "lesbian" ever
I'm kind of a lesbian: Bisexuality is confusing
The Same Old Ugly-Ass Broad Kind of Ladies Night: Lesbian parties are SOOOOO lame
Daily Douchebag: Rumors that I've gone totally gayelle: Never fear, fellas...I haven't lost my appetite for kielbasa
Lesbian riot! Go Pioneers!: Oh, those predictably enraged Smith girls.
Daily Douchebag: shrinks: According to my ex-shrink, I'm a tranny!
Labels: alcoholism, excuses, lezbollah, Razzification
Friday, June 20, 2008
And speaking of birthdays...
My thirtieth isn't for a few months (November 17th...mark your calendars), but I know you're all already fretting about what to get me. Probably because it's almost impossible to top the "My Bitches" Razzy: Manhattan's Favorite Dog-Owning Bisexual Alcoholic figurine my friend Rack made for me last year.
However, I just found the perfect present for me. As anyone with the most basic Razzyphilic tendencies knows, I love me some Heineken beer. And as several lucky fellas can attest, I know several ways to have a great time in a hot tub, and a jacuzzi is one furnishing that my apartment sorely needs. Thus, behold the perfect birthday gift:
I'm not sure where you can actually get one of these, but someone's got to know. If you are that someone, you might want to get to shopping. Anyone getting me this to celebrate my third decade of life will reap great rewards, and by "rewards" I mean "grade A oral"! TRUST!
Labels: aging, alcoholism, I LOVE IT, Razzification
Monday, June 02, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Gianna Vigliotti
RAZZY Note: This is not Gianna Vigliotti. Gianna's Facebook profile is set to private, so I couldn't get hold of a decent sized picture of her, and her profile pic thumbnail was a barely viewable four-paneled Andy Warhol MacBook picture anyway. Therefore, I just went over to guidofistpump.com and found a picture of a lovely lady who most closely approximates what I imagine Gianna looks like. Okay, so maybe this girl is from Jersey rather than Strong Island, but whatever. Same difference.
DOB: 1991 (???--and holy shit, I feel old remembering that today's idiot teens were born in the 90s)
Occupation: creative liar, drunk driver, makeout slut
Hometown: Commack, New York (per her Facebook)
Current residence: Manhasset, New York
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: Normally I don't applaud drunk drivers, since even though I have--ahem--driven around after more than a few cocktails before, it's nothing I'm proud of, and I'm glad I live in New York City now where this is not an issue for me since I don't have a car and there are cabs everywhere. However, I have to give 17-year-old Gianna props for her rock star skills at trying to skate on a DUI.
Last Friday, Gianna's Volkswagen was spotted weaving around some main street in Long Island, and she was pulled over. Despite insisting that she hadn't been drinking, cops found beers under her seat and an empty beer can in her purse. Then, when she blew a 0.15 on the breathalyzer she broke out the excuses. In spite of having a blood alcohol level almost twice the legal limit and beer everywhere, she claimed she hadn't been drinking. All she had been doing, she said, was making out with a drunk guy.
That must have been some session of sucking face with a guy who must have been OBSCENELY drunk, since I've never heard of being able to ingest enough alcohol to be tipped over twice the legal limit just by some deep Frenching. Dude either has to slobber something serious and has salivary glands that excrete grain alcohol or Gianna's just a dumb teenager telling a total whopper of a lie. While the truth is probably more along the lines of the latter, I have to applaud Gianna for her balls in coming up with this excuse for being DUI. I've never heard of anyone saying they failed a breathalyzer for being a sober makeout slut, so props to her for originality. Maybe my buddy HotLawyer, who defends drunk driver clients all the time, should consider this as leverage for negotiating pleas in DUI cases. Then again, most of his clients are probably DUI for meth being that he practices in the great P-N-Dub, AKA the tweaker capital of North America, but still. It could work.
Labels: alcoholism, crime and punishment, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, sluts
Friday, May 30, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Wellbutrin XL
DOB: first synthesized in 1966, patented in 1974, FDA approved in 1985
Occupation: antidepressant, smoking cessation aid, hangover adjuvant
Hometown: GlaxoSmithKline manufacturing facility
Current residence: my medicine cabinet
Douchebaggery: My lame former shrink prescribed me Wellbutrin to aid in my smoking cessation efforts. I've taken Zyban (the name Wellbutrin is marketed under for smoking) in the past, and thought it worked pretty well. Plus, it didn't make me feel numb and emotionless like my brief post-abortion scrip Lexapro did, and I didn't experience any sexual side effects (obviously VERY important to me). Since I've been having trouble staying off the cancer sticks long-term, my shrink decided that long-term Wellbutrin therapy might help with both that and the stress issues which trigger relapses for me.
I don't know if I drank less when I took Zyban in the past or what, but in the past week I have had two completely incapacitating hangovers. Tuesday I couldn't even make it into work because I spent the whole day throwing up, and yesterday morning I spent lots of quality time clutching the toilet as well, and the afternoon experiencing the shakes so seriously that I could barely do any lab work. In both situations, I'd surely had lots to drink the night before, but not so much as to warrant such brutal after-effects. I'm an accomplished alcoholic, and it takes a LOT for me to suffer so tremendously.
Because I don't remember having such problems the last time I took Zyban, it didn't occur to me that Wellbutrin might be the culprit behind this until J-Sexy mentioned it.
"Razzy, you weren't even that drunk last night," she said yesterday as I picked green-faced at my steak at our post-doc's going-away lunch yesterday. "Do you think it might be because of your Wellbutrin?"
"But I took it before and I don't remember that happening," I said.
"Well, who knows? Maybe you drink more now, maybe you're older and it has different effects," she said.
Later she looked it up on the internets, and found some reported cases of people saying that Wellbutrin caused them to have significantly worse hangovers than they had when not taking it. That was all the convincing I needed to blame Wellbutrin for sending me into a miserable reverie of dry heaving after only 6 or 7 beers, which may sound like a lot to some people, but to me sounds like just the right amount for a barbecue on a school night. I'm a champion boozer, so a six pack is no big deal.
I'm going to stay on the Wellbutrin because quitting smoking is absolutely imperative. Smoking has made my childhood asthma return with a vengeance, and is something I can't afford to do health-wise or financially. I've been smoking for almost 20 years, and smoking a pack a day for almost 15 years. This has to stop now, so in my mind Wellbutrin isn't an option. However, I'm completely pissed that this might mean I have to cut down on my drinking too. While that's probably for the best from a hepatic perspective, it's going to really cramp my style to have people think I'm wussing out on my normal rock star-caliber alcoholism. Thanks for ruining my reputation, Wellbutrin.
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, drugs, medical drama, smoking
Friday, May 16, 2008
From the Smith College Vault: my two-year reunion
Smith likes to milk every penny possible from its alumnae, so they have reunions whenever possible to remind us of how fabulous our years at Fugly Bitch U were. The highlight of reunion is Ivy Day, the day before commencement, where graduating seniors and alumnae from the past five decades throw on virginal white dresses and march around campus carrying roses, ivy garlands, and signs that say lame shit like "2-4-6-8, let's hear it for the class of '68!"
Although I could care less about Ivy Day, I missed my college friends and thought reunion would be a great excuse to get really drunk with them for a few days. When my two-year reunion rolled around in 2002, I was living in the P-N-Dub. I decided to fly back for it, since my friend LL Cool Jew was graduating and I'd been meaning to visit my girls back east anyway. I called up my friend Wmania, who was working on Wall Street at the time, and we decided to get alumnae rooms and drive from NYC to Smith.
So I packed a white dress, flew to New York, hooked up with Wmania, and we got all excited to party our tits off in Northampton for the weekend. The next day we rented our car, double-parked outside Wmania's apartment on the Upper East Side, and ran upstairs to get our bags. We loaded up the trunk of the car and went to drive away, when Wmania unfortunately realized that she had thrown the car keys into the trunk with our luggage and slammed it shut. As our even worse luck would have it, the trunk release inside the car was broken. I called AAA, who sent a guy to disassemble the entire back seat of the car, and STILL couldn't get into the trunk. Those Chevy Caprices or whatever are like fortified tanks. Finally, Wmania convinced the car rental company to send someone with a spare key, and, two hours late, we were headed to New England.
We arrived, managed to barely make it to the Alumnae House for our room keys, and ran into K-Money, this girl who had lived in Jordan House with me and worked on the school paper. We dragged her off to Packard's, my old regular bar in town, and proceeded to get our drink on. LL Cool Jew showed up, and it was mostly a happy reunion. I say mostly because K-Money got all standoffish when I suggested that she was involved with the mob because she kept telling everyone she worked as an "union organizer," and she reiterated that she thought I hadn't worked hard enough/wasn't obedient enough to her during our senior year on the school newspaper. I shot back that she was a lousy editor-in-chief with poor management skills and she might just be jealous that people were more interested in reading my "Angie's Weekly Rant" column than her lame news stories. This could have turned out badly if we weren't distracted by the arrival of Death Rizzo, another friend from Jordan House, who made things right again.
It was lucky K-Money only stayed that one night, because she was the source of all sorts of problems. In addition to the escalating tension between her and myself, she and Wmania had history. She and Wmania are both straight, but they had hooked up and done a little light boobmashing during our senior year. The night before our graduation, I had bought a keg with the prize money I got for "excellence in microbiology and immunology research" at the Ivy Day ceremony earlier that day, and we were having a party so ridiculous on the Jordan second floor that a couch was actually thrown off the roof and narrowly missed destroying a Smith Public Safety cruiser. Wmania and K-Money decided that after a few drinks, they needed to have a heart-to-heart about their sexless lesbian relationship, and proceeded to start a major processing session. At some point someone alerted me to this, I announced, "There will be no fake lesbian processing tonight!" and tried to break it up. They sent me away, saying they were having an "important talk."
"Bullshit!" I declared. They were standing outside the back door of Jordan House, which is basically a big window pane. I stood inside while they kept talking and realized that no amount of teasing would get them back to the party, so I decided to just stand inside where they could see me and strip. I was totally nude by the time they noticed, but it was effective. Wmania immediately ceased gesticulating wildly as she described her emotions to K-Money, jerked open the door, and said something like, "JESUS CHRIST, Razzy, are you smoking CRACK COCAINE? YOU'RE BUTT NAKED!"
"No shit," I said. "Now are you guys going to cease and desist with the Smith girl bullshit and have another beer, or am I going to have to streak the Quad to distract you?" At that moment a bunch of random dudes came up the stairs and started hollering, "AWRIGHT, IT'S GET NAKED TIME!" Nobody took them up on their "it's get naked time" announcement, and I actually took that as a cue to put my clothes back on, but I thought it had permanently put a lid on Wmania's drama with K-Money. It did, until two-year reunion. After returning from Packard's, K-Money and Wmania started kissing and hanging out on the porch swing outside Albright House, where our alumnae rooms were. That turned into more processing, and when LL Cool Jew and I came outside to check on them, they were practically having another emotional girl spat. "Here we go again," I said, starting to unbutton my shirt.
"Oh God, are you going to strip again?" asked Wmania.
"If you two don't cut this out," I said.
"This is none of your business!" K-Money hissed at me.
"Let's go drink more," said Wmania. She came inside and the party resumed. K-Money was pissed. She left first thing the next morning and took all the bad vibes with her. From then on, it was straight-up PARTY TIME.
The next day, W-Mania and I went back to Packard's, and then out to dinner with LL Cool Jew's mom, her then-girlfriend Motherbucker, and a couple other random BDOCs (big dykes on campus) who were their friends. Then we went to Liquors 44, loaded up on gallons of every type of bottom shelf liquor, and went back to Albright House to get the party started. That was when our problems started with the girls in Albright.
Since commencement starts two weeks after finals, the only students around Smith in their dorms are graduating seniors. The empty rooms are then used for alumnae. We were unfortunate to get put up in Albright because they were notorious for being lamer than FDR's polio legs. LL Cool Jew lived in Albright her first year, and was accused of sexual harassment by some fugly LUG (lesbian until graduation AKA "the four-year plan") whose advances she'd declined. In fact, the coolest thing that ever happened in Albright House prior to our reunion was that my boyfriend Benzo popped my anal cherry there when I was crashing in some random girl's room during Spring Break my junior year. In the two years since I'd left Smith, Albright's residents had not gotten any less uptight, and within thirty minutes of our commencing partying there, some mousey bitch knocked on our door to complain about our smoking.
"Um, like, you need to, like, stop the smoking, because we can smell it in the hall," she said. No asking, just informing us passive-aggressively that we needed to be smoke-free. Motherbucker and I were at the door.
"So?" I said. "We're alumnae, we can do whatever we want."
"I, like, have asthma, so you really need to not do that," she reiterated.
Motherbucker blew a lungful of American Spirit smoke in this bitch's face, and she started coughing.
"I thought," she sputtered. "From one Smithie to another..."
"DON'T YOU EVER CALL ME A SMITHIE!" thundered Motherbucker. All my friends hate the term "Smithie." I think we'd all prefer to be called "Smith girls," "Smith alumnae," or "Smith bitches" over "Smithie."
The girl went back to her room. We resumed partying. There was soon another knock on our door. It was some buttoned-up turtleneck-wearing chick in her mid-thirties.
"Hi there, I'm from the Alumnae House, and some of the residents on this floor have complained about the smoke," she said.
"Isn't this a smoking floor?" someone asked.
"Well, yes, but if you could just try to be considerate so that you can enjoy your reunion and the residents of Albright can enjoy their commencement, that would be greatly appreciated."
"Okay, no problem," we said. As soon as she left, we all lit up. I think at some point we ventured over to LL Cool Jew's room in Chase House, where she told us that some girl down the hall had been giving her problems with noise complaints while she worked on her thesis. "I know I've been really NOISY underlining passages from The Quiet American," she fumed. "And I know that nothing says 'party' like Graham Greene's literary repertoire, but buy some fucking earplugs, bitch!"
"I'll take care of her," I said. I tiptoed to this girl's room and took a piss right outside her door. That'll learn her to complain about my little LL Cool Jew. Then I think we returned to Albright, so as not to get caught vengefully urinating on the hall carpet in Chase House.
At some point after all this partying, Motherbucker's male friend Fergus, who I had ignored because he was a redhead with mutton chop sideburns (both phenotypic traits I loathe) until I realized that he was fucking hilarious, stumbled into my room and passed out. When I finally made it there to pass out myself at around four, he was occupying my (twin-sized) bed. I shoved him over.
"Hey, asshole, you're going to have to make room for me if you're sleeping here, because I'm NOT sleeping on the fucking floor."
"No way are you sleeping on the floor," he replied, making room. I kicked off my shoes and climbed into bed.
Five minutes later, we were fucking. As it turns out, we were pretty physically compatible, and it was great sex in spite of our both being extremely drunk. I should add that I am NOT quiet when having sex, and especially not when having great sex. He wasn't quiet either, and being that we only had a creaky-springed twin bed and there was all sorts of spanking and that sort of thing going on, I'm pretty sure we woke up the asthmatic and all her equally uptight friends. I think we finally went to sleep around 7 a.m.
At 8 a.m., my phone alarm went off and I remembered that it was Ivy Day. "Fuck!" I said. "I'm supposed to go walk in the parade with the fucking alumnae." I looked out my window and saw that it was snowing. SNOWING! In the middle of May. "It's fucking snowing!" I exclaimed.
"You know what that means?" asked Fergus.
"That I'm going to freeze my tits off in this spaghetti-strap white dress I brought?" I asked.
"That you should blow off Ivy Day, get back into bed, and blow me instead," he said. I thought his reasoning was sound, so I shrugged, threw my dress back into my suitcase, and obliged. I'd rather suck dick than shiver and nip out of my Ivy Day dress in a freak spring snowstorm any day. Plus, I figured that a BJ would result in oral for me and regular sex afterward (it did). After fucking again, we went back to sleep and didn't get up until noon. We got up, showered, reconvened with the rest of the crew, and spent the afternoon bar hopping. That night, we promptly resumed the party in Wmania's room. There were probably about 10 people crammed in there, drinking and smoking and having a generally great time, when we ran out of mixers. For some reason, Fergus was fairly sober, so he offered to drive over to Cumberland Farms and restock, and volunteered me to go with him since I was his girlfriend for the weekend. On our way back with the mixers, we passed the asthmatic girl's room and could hear that she was having an impassioned discussion with her hallmates about how much she hated us. Naturally, we stood outside her door and eavesdropped, trying not to laugh audibly at the Harry Potter whiteboard she had on the outside of her door.
"And then, she BLEW SMOKE IN MY FACE! AFTER I TOLD THEM I HAD ASTHMA!"
"NO! That's terrible!" exclaimed some other girl, scandalized.
"You know what else," said yet another girl. "One of them is staying across the hall from me, and woke me up this morning HAVING SEX."
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" they asked, aghast.
"And get this...it was MALE-FEMALE SEX. Like, WITH A MAN."
This ushered in a cacophony of "OH MY GODs" and other similar expressions of disapproving horror.
Fergus and I gave each other a congratulatory knuckle pound and went back to tell everyone else what we'd heard. Everyone in our group was appalled that these girls were so undeniably lame that the night before their college graduation, they were wallowing in righteous outrage about how much more fun we were having than them rather than celebrating like any normal college student. Even by Smith standards, that's pathetic.
I guess their little emotional circle-jerk compelled them to further action, because there was soon a knock at the door. Actually, it was more of an authoritative pounding accompanied by an announcement "PUBLIC SAFETY! Open up!"
We opened the door to find a bespectacled Public Safety officer who looked like Lewis from Revenge of the Nerds grown up and employed as an unarmed rent-a-cop at an all-girls liberal arts school. He told us to take the party elsewhere or we'd be kicked out.
We protested. "We paid for these rooms," Wmania said. "We're all over 21. There's no reason why we shouldn't be allowed to drink in them."
"Listen, you can drink, but you've gotten over 5 noise and smoke complaints in the last 24 hours. And I can see that you're all acting very bolsterous."
"BOLSTEROUS?" I said.
LL Cool Jew shushed me before I could point out that the word he was looking for was actually "boisterous" and it was decided that it would be easier to just go somewhere else than get kicked out of alumnae housing and spend the night sleeping in our rental car. So we went to Capen Annex, the office of the school newspaper, The Sophian, and tried to figure out how to break in. Motherbucker climbed a tree, broke into the yearbook's office upstairs, and came downstairs to let everyone in. We partied there until 5 a.m., vandalizing the place (I think I wrote "YOU'LL HAVE TO PAINT OVER ME TO GET ME OUT OF CAPEN ANNEX" on the wall in Sharpie) and listening to Dr. Dre.
The next morning, I put on my bikini. It was only 50 degrees out, but I had worn a bikini to every Smith commencement I attended except my own (where I think I wore a bikini under my gown), and I wasn't about to stop. I made Bloody Marys for everyone, and we settled onto "tar beach", a stretch of roof between Jordan and Emerson House, to watch the ceremonies. FalloniusMonk showed up right when my vodka ran out with a toolbox of booze, which kept the party going. By the time commencement was over, I was absolutely shitfaced. I was so drunk I literally fell on my ass while I was talking to my favorite professor Saratoga120. Then I made an ass out of myself at the house in Hatfield where LL Cool Jew's mom's friends, who were Tai Chi and yoga instructors, held a graduation party in her honor. FalloniusMonk told me she'd give me a ride back to New York so Wmania could leave early (she was over it and ready to resume her life as a responsible private equity analyst.) Besides, FalloniusMonk had a big fat joint, which we smoked on our way back to Smith from this party. Once back, she rounded up Rack, Rack's then-girlfriend, and their other friend while I tracked down Fergus for one last horizontal mambo before we parted ways.
That was the last time I visited Smith College, and it's high time I went back. I have no doubt that within 5 minutes of my arrival, I'll find the handful of cool kids there, get wasted, hopefully get laid, and piss off everyone else within earshot. Now, if only my Razzyphiles in Jordan House invite me back for alumnae tea, I'll show them all how a real hardcore Smith bitch does it: drunk, hollering, and constantly in trouble with the Smith establishment.
Labels: alcoholism, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, LL Cool Jew, Motherbucker, Smith College Vault, Wmania
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: Jordan House
DOB: 1922
Occupation: Smith College's biggest party house
Hometown: Northampton, Assachusetts
Current residence: Paradise Road, Northampton, Assachusetts
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: While stalking myself on the internets, I discovered a new link to my website from some chick's Livejournal page. I went to this page, and was surprised and delighted at what I read:
Last Thursday at senior banquet everybody got willed a bunch of shit my the seniors. I got some horrible faded rainbow 3-d cloth stapled to a piece of plywood, a t-shirt that says "totes not vomitor betch," and a huge picture of Audrey Hepburn. Ellie and Kaitlin, on the other hand, got the most amazing will ever: A diary from a girl's first year at Smith, a '99 grad. By the time they get willed this gift, I'm completely drunk from the 40 Aliza got me (yeah, lightweight), so I stole it from their box (temporairily), ran upstairs, and started reading it because I am such a sucker for hearing stories about a person's 'college days.' Needless to say, the girl was fucking crazy. An incredible writer, who often, and without modesty, talked about how awesome she was, spoke about her days of taking Ketmine, smoking more weed than you can imagine, fucking guys, and hating herself.I thought this was amusing. I didn't even remember keeping a diary my first year at Smith. Well, I do, but I still have that diary (mainly because in the back of it is my official and comprehensive sex partner list), so I thought it was funny that not only did I keep some other diary, but that it's now a treasured heirloom being willed from one Jordan House resident to another at Senior Banquet. I have no doubt that it's mine, since the "talking about how awesome (I) was" and "taking Ketamine, smoking more weed than you can imagine, (and) fucking guys" part seems right on the mark. As for the part about hating myself, I was pretty unhappy my first year at Smith adjusting to living on the East Coast and making new friends, although I don't recall it actually getting into self-loathing territory. I was 18, however, and tended to be more overly dramatic about my personal issues than now, so I'm sure I was probably comprehensively self-deprecating.
So. We looked her up on google. She's still crazy, has this fucked up website with a really cynical blog and pictures of her boobs, but it's so weird that she talks about my house, the dead girl's room, Jordan House parties, ect.
I left a comment on this girl's blog, thanking her for calling me "an incredible writer" and asking whether the treasured pot leaf necklace that I had long ago willed to my friend Martindale, was still being passed down from stoner to stoner. It turns out that in fact it was willed to the girl's roommate, and furthermore that "all the Jordanites who read (my) blog think (I am) fucking awesome" and I should expect an invitation to their alumnae tea. FUCK YES! It seems that Jordan is maintaining its reputation as the Smith College party house (or, at least in the words of my bloggity admirer, "the least lame house on campus"), for which it was legendary back in days of yore (ie: 10 years ago when I was living there).
Now, I can hear the collective scoffing coming from everyone on the internets who knows anything about Smith College. I know that nothing at Smith can be described as a "party house" compared to any average undergrad's apartment at almost any state school. I went to visit my friend G-Boner at her school (Arizona State) during my sophomore year at Smith, and their Tuesday night was a more happening party with more kegs and bong hits and hot girls than anything Smith produced when it tried to party hard. However, by Smith standards, Jordan was positively insane, so it's fitting I lived there for four years.
When I first got to Smith, I was told that Jordan couldn't have parties until October due to social probation levied after an incident the previous year. The house president at the time was dating a member of the Holyoke chapter of the Latin Kings, and a fight broke out between the gang members and these townies who were also there. My ex-boyfriend Benzo was there that night, and he said that most people had taken refuge in the rooms on the second floor (he himself was getting a BJ from this girl who used to hook me up with Ritalin when I had to learn a semester's worth of organic chemistry in three nights for finals). From these rooms, they could hear screaming and bodies being thrown up against the walls as the entire floor was occupied by a straight-up brawl. Supposedly, people were also caught smoking crack in the second floor bathroom that night, and some dude was arrested after brandishing a gun, although these might be fanciful embellishments to the Jordan legend. The house president was no longer there when I started as a first-year, but Jordan's legacy as the nerve center of Smith's party scene was cemented, and I knew I was in the right house.
During my tenure at Smith, a whole hell of a lot of things happened on my watch to ensure that Jordan's reputation continued. Within two days of my arrival, I got busted for assisting a junior I had befriended with carrying in cases of beer she bought for us. My first-year class had floor parties good enough to attract almost all the cool upperclassbitches on the second floor and half of Amherst College. Over the years in Jordan, I proceeded to become one of the most notorious potheads in Smith College memory (right down to getting busted for possession of a class D substance and candles, and thus punished with a semester in "the dead girl's room," where this unfortunate girl had hung herself my sophomore year). I tried to start a fraternity of girls in Jordan House, and spent a good year making everyone tape "PKE" to their doors. I watched a hell of a lot of "Beverly Hills, 90210," made a porn with my boyfriend and two girls living in Emerson House, took so many bong hits it's a miracle I'm not still stoned, and was sad to depart.
Yesterday while I was home convalescing and waiting for new episodes of "Deadwood" to download, I was Gchatting with LL Cool Jew and decided to mention the shout-out from current Jordan denizens to her. Unlike me, who stayed put in Jordan all four years, LL Cool Jew was a Smith nomad. During her first year she lived in Albright House, an unbearably lame house where she was wrongly accused of sexual harassment by a girl she'd rejected, then she moved to Jordan for one semester, then into a Friedman apartment, then somewhere else I don't remember since I had graduated by that point, and then into Chase House for her senior year. She moved out of Jordan because my friend Martindale lived around the corner from her, and Martindale was then involved in a tempestuous relationship with this townie guy that ultimately ended with grand theft auto, a restraining order, and him doing jail time, but that's another story. However, LL Cool Jew's one semester in Jordan was enough to qualify her as at least a Jordan appreciator. Once a Jordanite, always a Jordanite.
Razzy: want to see something that's not liz ame?
Razzy: http://sparklemotion89.livejournal.com/9990.html
Razzy: extant smith college girls think i'm "fucking awesome" and want to invite me to their alumnae tea!
Razzy: at JORDAN HOUSE
LL Cool Jew: WOW
Razzy: i know!
LL Cool Jew: that is ridonk
Razzy: cracked me up!
Razzy: i would love to go to that fucking jordan house alumnae tea
LL Cool Jew: ME TOO
LL Cool Jew: even though i only lived there one semester
LL Cool Jew: it was a harrowing experience
Razzy: that counts!
Razzy: indeed
Razzy: constantly hearing martindale's domestic battles
LL Cool Jew: it was at the height of martindale's insantiy with her boyfriend
LL Cool Jew: the townie
LL Cool Jew: on alternate nights i could hear them humping passionately or fighting
Razzy: that was how they rolled
LL Cool Jew: my room was kitty corner to hers
Razzy: i know your room was, i moved into it after you left!
Razzy: remember, cause i was in the dead girl's room!
LL Cool Jew: that's right!
Razzy: that's how i met (LL Cool Jew's grandmother, who liked me so much she sent us to Ibiza for Spring Break that year, so LL Cool Jew could spend more time with our friend Wmania and myself before we graduated)!
Razzy: she called looking for you
Razzy: x7080
LL Cool Jew: oh RIGHT....
LL Cool Jew: jesus dude
LL Cool Jew: your mind is like the proverbial steel trap
Razzy: i can't believe i remember the extension
LL Cool Jew: how the f do you do that
Razzy: steel trap for useless bullshit
LL Cool Jew: sometimes the things you remember startle me.
Razzy: they startle me too
LL Cool Jew: anyway, that was a pretty good smith room
Razzy: it was!
Razzy: it was big
Razzy: got great light
Razzy: quadside
LL Cool Jew: the dead girls room wasn't tho
LL Cool Jew: teence
Razzy: the dead girl's room was also dark
Razzy: no wonder she offed herself
Razzy: it was gloomy as shit
LL Cool Jew: and full of dead girl vibes dude
Razzy: yeah i didn't notice much of that
Razzy:didn't see any ghosts while there
Razzy: i figure that poor girl was so unhappy
Razzy: she wouldn't want to be stuck for eternity at smith
LL Cool Jew: god no
I'm so hardcore about Jordan that I even remember the extension of that room. I think the dead girl's room was extension x7181, the room I lived in my junior year right about the Jordan front door was x7076, and the room I lived in my sophomore year next to the dead girl's room was x7183. Jordan has clearly made an indelible mark on my psyche. I really hope I get invited to that alumnae tea so I can buy liquor for the current Jordanites, smoke their pot, and maybe even get some hot girl-on-girl with any cute bi girls dwelling there! Jordan for life!
Labels: alcoholism, Daily Dude I Want to Hit, Dumb Smith bitches, LL Cool Jew
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