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
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Cinco de Mayo
DOB: May 5, 1862
Occupation: causing severe hangovers on school days
Hometown: Puebla, Mexico
Current residence: everywhere EXCEPT Mexico
Douchebaggery: I have previously gone off about St. Patrick's Day and why I think it's stupid, because it's amateur night for alcoholics. At the risk of incurring the wrath of the pseudo-Mexicans as I incurred the wrath of the pseudo-Irish for that post, I feel the same way about Cinco de Mayo. I was planning on celebrating with a pizza and an episode of "The Hills" in the comfort of my apartment, happy to be away from all the fucktards in sombreros who need to pretend to be Mexican in order to get blasted on a Monday night. However, I got an e-mail around 6-ish from CorporateCard asking if I wanted to go celebrate "Drinko de Mayo." Initially I demurred, thinking I'd stay at lab for a while longer. Then I realized that to finish up what I was doing, I'd be at lab three hours longer. At the same time, Twathopper Gchatted me to see if I wanted to have a drink and hear more of her sexless lesbian drama. I figured I shouldn't fight the inevitable. I told both ladies I was headed for the subway.
Following my buddy HotLawyer's old adage that you should go to a Mexican place on St. Patrick's Day and an Irish bar on Cinco de Mayo to avoid all the incompetent drunks that these holidays draw out, I suggested we meet at a place called McAleer's on the Upper West Side. Trying halfheartedly to get into the spirit, they both ordered awful Irish pub margaritas. I had a scotch. If I had been smart, I would have cut myself off after the singular drink I pledged to have. I am not smart, however, so we decided to order a bucket of Coronas. Then another bucket of Coronas. And then another. Then JerseyGirl showed up, and that called for another few buckets of cerveza. By the time we left, we were muy borracha. The other ladies decided to go to yet another Irish bar, P.D. O'Hurley's, a place that has been my utter ruin on several past Monday nights. I wisely elected to go home and spend time with my dogs.
Anyway, for these reasons, I'm not feeling like doing much of anything besides whining about how hung over I am from spending five hours last night quelling alcoholic Mexican piss and a few subpar nachos at an Irish bar. Chinga tu madre, Cinco de Mayo.
Labels: alcoholism, CorporateCard, Daily Douchebag, excuses, JerseyGirl, Twathopper
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Go Heineken!
I've usually been staunchly against environmentalism. Not because I hate the planet or enjoy pollution, but because I find environmentalists infuriatingly annoying. I about lost it when Al Gore got the Nobel Peace Prize for what LL Cool Jew called a "Chicken Little Power Point presentation." Like their demigod, Al Gore, the tree huggers of the world are insufferably pretentious about their stupid carbon footprints and the adjustments they've made in order to "go green." I resent being condescended to and lectured by people who have done little more than change a few lightbulbs and buy an extra trash can for recyclables.
Even in college, before eco-friendliness became as in vogue as it is today, my hatred of earth-lovers was well-known. I would run around turning on the house parlor lights after the "Energy Czarina" turned them off every night just to be an asshole. My ex-boyfriend Benzo once talked me into renting the movie Cannonball Run on the basis that "the bad guys are environmentalists!" Well, that, and Burt Reynolds is in it, but I digress. I've always resisted getting worked up about the environment, because no matter how much I recycle or install thermostat timers or drive hybrids, my actions aren't going to fix the hole in the ozone currently blowing up thanks to China's cheap air conditioners.
However, now I think I've finally found an environmental cause I can get behind, thanks to the continually excellent investigative work performed by the greatest newspaper in the history of journalism, the New York Post. On the Post's website this morning, I was deeply alarmed to see these grim tidings:
I've always thought climate change in the form of higher temperatures seemed like a good thing. I wouldn't complain if I could wear skirts and open-toed sandals all year long. I could care less about rising sea levels or whether the polar bears can survive warm weather (and according to "Lost," they do just fine in the tropical clime of the South Pacific), but an ecological threat to beer is something I simply cannot abide. According to the article, "high beer prices are on tap" due to "radical shifts in weather and more parched lands [are] making it harder to grow grains and hops." NOOOOOOOO!!!!
I'm already poor and I can't afford to pay more than the already ridiculous $10 a six-pack I currently cough up for my beautiful, green-bottled, Dutch poison of choice. For the first time, I think that global warming is very, VERY bad, and I'm prepared to change every lightbulb in my apartment to back this up. If the price of beer skyrockets, I'm totally screwed. My liver might actually become healthy, and I can't have that. How am I supposed to further my alcoholism without affordable beer? My world would end! As Dr. Ray Stantz said in the inimitable film Ghostbusters, "this is a crisis of Biblical proportions!"
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go organize a Save the Planet rally. Or at least a Save the Barley and Hops rally. GO GREEN! And by "green," I mean this:
Labels: alcoholism, fuck the planet, large exclamatory font, oh the horror
Monday, March 24, 2008
An Easter miracle
Yesterday evening I was very excited to see that "Rock of Love 2" FINALLY had some action worth watching since the departure of the incomparable cartoonish French low-budget gonzo porn slut Angelique. Much like Christ before her, HEATHER returned from the grave with her giant hair, giant silicone boobs, and giant collection of garish sideless spandex stripper dresses from the skank clearance bin at Forever 21. Also unlike Jesus, instead of coming to redeem mankind's sins, Heather is coming to bring the drama in the form of drunken whorishness.
In case you didn't watch the original "Rock of Love," Heather was one of the final two hard-livin' slags competing for the affections of Poison lead singer Bret Michaels. She is a thirty-two year old stripper renowned for her acrobatic polework, revealing that she had engaged in group sex with Bret and the nefarious Lacey by screaming "I watched you suck his dick, bitch!," and getting "Bret" tattooed on the back of her neck. Heather is hard-livin' even as far as hard-livin' slags go.
Last night, Heather announced her arrival on "Rock of Love 2" by shouting, "I hope you brought your extra liver, bitches!" She was there to dig up dirt on the girls to assist with Bret's elimination, and wasted no time getting everyone to take body shots. That was followed by a truth or dare game involving naked cartwheel, inquiries as to whether or not certain girls had been "fucked in the ass," and lots of crying. Unfortunately, one of the girls tried a little too hard to impress Heather with her drinking, and this wound up happening:
All in all, I was pleased to finally see an entertaining episode of "Rock of Love 2." This season is boring and it needs some Heather spice. The producers seem to realize this because thankfully, next week Heather is going to Vegas with Bret and the remaining girls to "party like a rock star." They'll probably watch a lame Bret Michaels concert in the basement lounge of the Hard Rock or wherever, get shitfaced, and either a vicious catfight or a wasted threesome will ensue. They need to keep Heather on for the rest of the show.
Labels: alcoholism, nudity, Rock of Love, sluts, TV, Vh1
Monday, March 17, 2008
Erin go Bragh Humbug
I totally forgot that it was St. Patrick's Day until I got to work and everyone was like, "Where are you going drinking for St. Patty's Day tonight?" I roll my eyes and responded with a bitchy "NOWHERE." This is partly because I have to get up at 4:30 a.m. to start a really long experiment tomorrow, and partly because St. Patrick's Day just annoys me.
There was a time when I thought St. Patrick's Day was a great excuse to get loaded and wear my grandfather's old "Erin go bragh" pin. Unfortunately, I got loaded one too many times on Irish car bombs and Jameson shots, lost my late grandfather's treasured "Erin go bragh" pin, and realized that I actually hate St. Patrick's Day. I don't like wearing green, I really don't like people thinking that they have license to pinch me for not doing so, drinking Guinness makes me feel like I just consumed a seven course meal, corned beef and cabbage sucks, and bars are nightmarishly crowded and annoying on St. Patty's. Irish drinking music is crappy, leprechauns are only cool if they creatively kill people after delivering corny puns and limericks, and the absolute worst type of drunks come out to guzzle on St. Patrick's Day. They should rename St. Pat's "amateur night for alcoholics," because every two-beer queer in America with a speck of Irish heritage is out vomiting Guinness and starting fights.
My friend HotLawyer says you should always go to a Mexican joint on St. Pat's and an Irish bar on Cinco de Mayo, because these two nights are so notorious for drawing out every dilettante drunkard in the area to annoy the real alcoholics with. I wholeheartedly agree, because every time I've found myself in an Irish bar on this Catholic feast day, I've been getting green beer spilled on my tits by novice lushes who haven't had a drink since New Year's Eve (another night that brings out the baby drinkers in force), and thus get staggeringly drunk before 10 o'clock. I get jostled, and thanks to the proliferation of incompetent boozehounds, it takes forever to get to the bar and get a damn drink. Since my alcoholism is at an extremely advanced expert level, it makes me decidedly cranky when I get thirsty between cocktails because I can't get a refill in a timely manner.
Therefore, I'm not doing a damn thing to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. I'm not wearing a speck of green, and if someone wants to try to pinch me, I'll be glad to punch them in return. The closest thing I'm going to do to a celebration of the celibate loser who drove all the snakes from Ireland (allegedly...I don't believe that) is hit on a redheaded bartender at the NON-Irish bar I'm going to get ONE happy hour drink at with I'mNotRussianGoddammit, who is a cranky Albanian and about as far from feeling celebratory about the land of Erin as a girl can get. Fuck my Irish heritage, fuck four-leaf clovers, fuck lesbians with Celtic armband tats, fuck green shit, fuck Notre Dame, fuck soda bread, fuck inexperienced drinkers, and FUCK ST. PATTY'S DAY!
Labels: alcoholism, defiance, retard rage, scathing indictments