Thursday, May 03, 2007
The proof is in the pussy-loving hat
LL Cool Jew's abilities as a highly trained graduate of THE Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism have proved themselves yet again, as she has solved the greatest mystery currently confounding Hollywood gossip aficionados: is Lindsay Lohan licking snatch, or is she not?
I received the following e-mail from LL Cool Jew this morning with several compromising photographs and LL Cool Jew's commentary:
is this perhaps a subtle reference to her allegedly lesbish fling with that girl dj?? you know the one...
Indeed I do. "That girl dj" is this chick, Samantha Ronson, who would be awesome because she's the daughter of Mick Jones from Foreigner and has a deal with Roc-A-Fella records, except she runs around with Lindsay Lohan acting like a complete and total celebutante tool most of the time. She also lists "turntabology" as her musical style on her MySpace page, and that annoys me...since when did spinning shitty house music at Hyde or whatever become a fucking science? Anyway, take one gander at Samantha Ronson, and see if you agree that this chick is awash in a super dykified aura:
Yes, the only way it could be more obvious that Samantha Ronson likes to stick her face in that firecrotch is if she put that peace sign up to her face and started flicking her tongue through it. She and Lohan have probably exchanged matching friendship bracelets by now.
Anyway, the pictures that LL Cool Jew directed me to are these, and I think they basically close the book on whether or not Lohan is hitting that hot butchy mess above:
YES! Lindsay Lohan gives a millinery shoutout to my alma mater, the most famous liberal arts institution of higher learning catering to wealthy white box-munchers in America: Smith College, baby! And why would Lindsay be showing love for Smith and repping 413? She certainly didn't go there, but maybe if she were to pursue a bachelor of arts, it would be her first choice. Smith is basically famous for three things: depressed poets, feminazis, and dykestravaganza, so unless Lohan is secretly a closet Sylvia Plath fan or really LOVED reading Revolution from Within (assuming she can read), I'm betting that this is a coded message to all the women-loving women.
Samantha Ronson is tapping that vadge for sure. Go Pioneers!
I received the following e-mail from LL Cool Jew this morning with several compromising photographs and LL Cool Jew's commentary:
is this perhaps a subtle reference to her allegedly lesbish fling with that girl dj?? you know the one...
Indeed I do. "That girl dj" is this chick, Samantha Ronson, who would be awesome because she's the daughter of Mick Jones from Foreigner and has a deal with Roc-A-Fella records, except she runs around with Lindsay Lohan acting like a complete and total celebutante tool most of the time. She also lists "turntabology" as her musical style on her MySpace page, and that annoys me...since when did spinning shitty house music at Hyde or whatever become a fucking science? Anyway, take one gander at Samantha Ronson, and see if you agree that this chick is awash in a super dykified aura:
Anyway, the pictures that LL Cool Jew directed me to are these, and I think they basically close the book on whether or not Lohan is hitting that hot butchy mess above:
Samantha Ronson is tapping that vadge for sure. Go Pioneers!
Labels: celebrities, Dumb Smith bitches, lezbollah, LL Cool Jew, media whores, sex, sluts
Friday, March 02, 2007
Different class, same old bullshit
Yesterday I got an email from JerseyGirl:
To: Rack (rack@fashiondesigncompany.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com), FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: JerseyGirl (jerseygirl@freedomlovingnewsnetwork.com)
this makes me upset. why couldn't we have gloria steinem? as i recall, ll cool jew, you and i had someone named lani gunier and i literally do not remember one word that she spoke. oh yes and then there was the infamous vagina artist. this sucks, i'm jealous.
After getting over my initial amusement that JerseyGirl is still a regular reader of the Sophian five years after her stint as editor-in-chief of that illustrious publication, I experienced indignance of a different sort about my alma mater's choice of commencement speaker. That's the laziest, most uninspired selection of speaker ever. It's even worse than when they booked Judy Chicago, the aforementioned "infamous vagina artist", for my commencement because Jodie Foster bailed at the last minute out of concern that Hollywood's worst kept secret (that she's a dyke) might get out if she wished my class at Ugly Bitch U lots of success. (And incidentally, our Sophian coverage was way better than the boring sycophantic article above; I believe we put the headline "Can you hear the Smithies crying, Claireeeece?" above Foster's picture on the front page.) Scheduling Gloria Steinem is like the people who kiss celebrity ass for commencement speaker gigs didn't even try.
Gloria Steinem, "feminist icon" (which I'm is what she lists as her occupation on her tax return), went to Smith, is on the Smith Board of Trustees, and was always rustling her hideous high-waisted corduroy pants and batik peasant blouses all over campus. I've personally seen Gloria Steinem like 50 fucking times skulking about College Hall. I even dressed up as her for Halloween once. She might as well have been the Smith College mascot. The lazy administrators and trustees on the speaker-choosing committee probably were like, "Hmm...let's see. Madeline Albright? Oh, she's already booked for UNC? Well, what about Hillary Clinton? Oh, right...she's busy running for president. And she went to Wellesley. Bitch. Umm...shit, I can't think of anyone. Fuck it, let's just call up Gloria. I'm sure she's available."
Who really cares about commencement speakers anyway? I found out from her speech last year at Penn that the only thing Jodie Foster would have done was sing Eminem songs at us badly. I ignored Vagina Ashtray's speech at my commencement because she seemed like a busted loser and I didn't need her advice; at LL Cool Jew and JerseyGirl's graduation, I got so staggeringly drunk thanks to FalloniusMonk's toolbox full of Mr. Boston vodka that I fell down several times and fucked Motherbucker's friend Fergus in some bitch's freshly vacated room in Chase House. The only thing I would care about hearing from Gloria is what it was like to be stepmother to the hotness that is Christian Bale for three years, and somehow I doubt she'll cover that. She'll probably lecture everyone about how it's their duty to break the glass ceiling and demand equal pay as our male colleagues and generally be pushy, disagreeable bitches in order to get anywhere, or some similarly useless advice. Lame.
On the bright side, though, I am SO glad that they hired a professional uptight slag to mark the finale of Tej Bindra's matriculation.
To: Rack (rack@fashiondesigncompany.com), LL Cool Jew (llcooljew@dirrtydirrtynewspaper.com), FalloniusMonk (fmonk@bighugecorporateexperientialmarketingfirm.com), Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: JerseyGirl (jerseygirl@freedomlovingnewsnetwork.com)
this makes me upset. why couldn't we have gloria steinem? as i recall, ll cool jew, you and i had someone named lani gunier and i literally do not remember one word that she spoke. oh yes and then there was the infamous vagina artist. this sucks, i'm jealous.
After getting over my initial amusement that JerseyGirl is still a regular reader of the Sophian five years after her stint as editor-in-chief of that illustrious publication, I experienced indignance of a different sort about my alma mater's choice of commencement speaker. That's the laziest, most uninspired selection of speaker ever. It's even worse than when they booked Judy Chicago, the aforementioned "infamous vagina artist", for my commencement because Jodie Foster bailed at the last minute out of concern that Hollywood's worst kept secret (that she's a dyke) might get out if she wished my class at Ugly Bitch U lots of success. (And incidentally, our Sophian coverage was way better than the boring sycophantic article above; I believe we put the headline "Can you hear the Smithies crying, Claireeeece?" above Foster's picture on the front page.) Scheduling Gloria Steinem is like the people who kiss celebrity ass for commencement speaker gigs didn't even try.
Gloria Steinem, "feminist icon" (which I'm is what she lists as her occupation on her tax return), went to Smith, is on the Smith Board of Trustees, and was always rustling her hideous high-waisted corduroy pants and batik peasant blouses all over campus. I've personally seen Gloria Steinem like 50 fucking times skulking about College Hall. I even dressed up as her for Halloween once. She might as well have been the Smith College mascot. The lazy administrators and trustees on the speaker-choosing committee probably were like, "Hmm...let's see. Madeline Albright? Oh, she's already booked for UNC? Well, what about Hillary Clinton? Oh, right...she's busy running for president. And she went to Wellesley. Bitch. Umm...shit, I can't think of anyone. Fuck it, let's just call up Gloria. I'm sure she's available."
Who really cares about commencement speakers anyway? I found out from her speech last year at Penn that the only thing Jodie Foster would have done was sing Eminem songs at us badly. I ignored Vagina Ashtray's speech at my commencement because she seemed like a busted loser and I didn't need her advice; at LL Cool Jew and JerseyGirl's graduation, I got so staggeringly drunk thanks to FalloniusMonk's toolbox full of Mr. Boston vodka that I fell down several times and fucked Motherbucker's friend Fergus in some bitch's freshly vacated room in Chase House. The only thing I would care about hearing from Gloria is what it was like to be stepmother to the hotness that is Christian Bale for three years, and somehow I doubt she'll cover that. She'll probably lecture everyone about how it's their duty to break the glass ceiling and demand equal pay as our male colleagues and generally be pushy, disagreeable bitches in order to get anywhere, or some similarly useless advice. Lame.
On the bright side, though, I am SO glad that they hired a professional uptight slag to mark the finale of Tej Bindra's matriculation.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, feminazism, overcompensation, you're ugly
Thursday, February 15, 2007
I didn't even have to go 88 miles per hour
My lab bench might resemble Doc Brown from Back to the Future's workshop (minus all the alarm clocks) in terms of messy disorganization, but unlike that esteemed fictional scientist, I haven't come up with anything as cool as the flux capacitor. However, I wondered if I hadn't accidentally found a way to travel through time without the help of a Delorean and plutonium-having Libyan terrorists, because when I checked my e-mail today, I could swear it was 1999 and I was back at Smith.
From: Some Feminazi Ho
To: All the Columbia Grad Students
Subject: LUNAFest Tonight! & ICECREAM for charity & the Vagina Monologues!
Come out and support CUMC's V-DAY Campaign--the fight (no pun intended!) against VIOLENCE towards women:
1.) CHECK OUT tonight's LUNAFEST: A screening of short films and documentaries by women. Here's their website for the list of movies:
http://www.lunabar.com/community/lunafest2006.cfm?DocumentId=406
DATE: Thurs, Feb 15
LOCATION: Hammer 401
Time: 8.30pm
DONATIONs will be greatly APPRECIATED! (5$ donation suggested)
All proceeds go to Project FAITH (an organization providing aid/services to victims of Domestic abuse) and to the Breast Cancer Fund.
2.) ICECREAM: the Cold Stone Creamery on 162 W 72nd will be having a fundraising event for CUMC's V-Day 2007. From the total of all sales made in the shop between 5 and 9 PM, 20% will be donated to Project FAITH.
3.) Also, be sure to check out the VAGINA MONOLOGUES next week:
Friday, Feb 23rd 10pm
Saturday, Feb 24th 7pm
Sunday, Feb 25th, 3pm (SPANISH show)
Thanks in advance for ALL your support!
My inbox was always blowing up with e-mails like this at Smith, advertising events with similarly stupid names. LUNAfest...why is "luna" always the prefix of choice for womynist bullshit like this? At Smith they even renamed ultimate frisbee "Lunadisc" to make it more girly. MUST feminist bitches try to rally us ladies together under the banner of our menstrual cycles? And that's an inaccurate use of the lunar calendar anyway; I don't know about other bitches, but my period is scheduled by Ortho Tri-Cyclen, not the phases of the goddamned moon. Furthermore, LUNAfest seems like a serious fucking drag. I checked out the LUNAfest website and these awesome "movies" they are going to show include the following:
-A music video starring some singer named Shubda Mudgal (seriously, her last name is MUDGAL) about this other chick who married an abusive asshole, how she gained the courage to leave his wife-beating ass, her struggles to get a driver's license, and her triumphant rebirth as...a VAN DRIVER in Ahmedabad, India.
-Plum Flower, a thrilling tale of female infanticide in rural China.
-Slip of the Tongue, a movie exploring body image...basically four minutes of BBWs who got rejected from the Dove Real Women ad campaign.
-Breached, a movie about some knocked up Mexican chick who goes through a bunch of border-hopping bullshit in hopes of giving birth in the good old U.S. of A. This sounds like something my high school Spanish teacher Senora "La Bruja" Rossi would have shown my class. She tormented me for a year with bad Chayanne videos and a slew of disturbing movies. She showed us this movie called El Norte once about the illegal alien children of a beheaded Guatemalan insurgent who are attacked by rats while crawling through Tijuana sewer tunnels to the U.S. and then subsequently die of plague. Seeing film was pointless for me learning more conversational Spanish (although I did pick up the useful verb chingar), but it traumatized me more than even the unsettling Julio Iglesias poster above her blackboard that seemed to watch you no matter where you went in the classroom.
-City Paradise, six minutes detailing the adventures of some Japanese woman who doesn't speak a word of English in London. She stumbles upon a secret world "inhabited by friendly little aliens and beautiful blossoms." I don't even want to know.
-Top of the Circle, a movie exploring the concept of the food chain and centering on one of the world's best meat products ever: bacon. If this movie were celebrating bacon for its sheer overpowering awesomeness, I'd be first in line to see it. However, I suspect this movie is going to diss bacon and encourage vegetarianism. Fuck that.
-Some movie about a woman who is totally going to die of breast cancer giving advice that her newborn daughter will supposedly find useful later. Tip #1: don't get fucking breast cancer.
-A documentary about an adopted Chinese girl named Kylie Goldstein, and how she's so American she plays baseball. BOOOOORRRRING.
-Agricultural Report, a cartoon that appears to be about a cow who becomes angry that her teats are being exploited by the nefarious dairy industry.
If LUNAfest wasn't already totally unappealing based on its name and the fact that the moment people start arriving, they're going to be bombarded with a bunch of depressing facts about smacked-up bitches and tit cancer only to watch a festival of shitty-ass movies for chicks. I guess that's why they're sending the fat armpit-hair-having bitches attending this thing for ice cream afterward, although that's poor compensation for putting up with the evening of torture-by-feminist-art-films. I'd be pissed as hell if I got through the cinematic selections of period-fest only to discover there isn't fucking booze, and told instead to go get some fucking ice cream on the Upper West Side in the middle of BITTER-COLD FEBRUARY. It's fucking sixteen degrees outside!
I guess the LUNAfest-throwing sluts running this show thought that the Columbia Medical Center campus would have only whet their appetites for estrogenic entertainment. Not only they are they having LUNAfest tonight (which, as I'm not feeling particularly hot today, I will decline to attend), but next week we have not one, not two, but THREE performances of The Vagina Monologues (!!!). And one of them is en espanol! Boy, I never thought I would get enough of this play where bitches sing the praises of their cooches...it never gets old. Back at Smith this event was so celebrated that the bitches running it hung two-story tall banners spelling out "VAGINA" on Seelye Hall to get the girls all excited for it.
Man, I am so glad this bullshit isn't limited to Smith College. I would feel like the dumb bitches at Columbia didn't care about doing pointless vadgetastic crap as much as the dumb bitches at Smith. Then again, I sort-of hoped that the dumb bitches at Columbia would be too busy doing their thesis projects in lab to spend their days putting together a week-long calendar of twatcentric events WITH NO ALCOHOL. I miss industry so much...when the hell am I going to get out of this ivory vagina tower?
From: Some Feminazi Ho
To: All the Columbia Grad Students
Subject: LUNAFest Tonight! & ICECREAM for charity & the Vagina Monologues!
Come out and support CUMC's V-DAY Campaign--the fight (no pun intended!) against VIOLENCE towards women:
1.) CHECK OUT tonight's LUNAFEST: A screening of short films and documentaries by women. Here's their website for the list of movies:
http://www.lunabar.com/community/lunafest2006.cfm?DocumentId=406
DATE: Thurs, Feb 15
LOCATION: Hammer 401
Time: 8.30pm
DONATIONs will be greatly APPRECIATED! (5$ donation suggested)
All proceeds go to Project FAITH (an organization providing aid/services to victims of Domestic abuse) and to the Breast Cancer Fund.
2.) ICECREAM: the Cold Stone Creamery on 162 W 72nd will be having a fundraising event for CUMC's V-Day 2007. From the total of all sales made in the shop between 5 and 9 PM, 20% will be donated to Project FAITH.
3.) Also, be sure to check out the VAGINA MONOLOGUES next week:
Friday, Feb 23rd 10pm
Saturday, Feb 24th 7pm
Sunday, Feb 25th, 3pm (SPANISH show)
Thanks in advance for ALL your support!
My inbox was always blowing up with e-mails like this at Smith, advertising events with similarly stupid names. LUNAfest...why is "luna" always the prefix of choice for womynist bullshit like this? At Smith they even renamed ultimate frisbee "Lunadisc" to make it more girly. MUST feminist bitches try to rally us ladies together under the banner of our menstrual cycles? And that's an inaccurate use of the lunar calendar anyway; I don't know about other bitches, but my period is scheduled by Ortho Tri-Cyclen, not the phases of the goddamned moon. Furthermore, LUNAfest seems like a serious fucking drag. I checked out the LUNAfest website and these awesome "movies" they are going to show include the following:
-A music video starring some singer named Shubda Mudgal (seriously, her last name is MUDGAL) about this other chick who married an abusive asshole, how she gained the courage to leave his wife-beating ass, her struggles to get a driver's license, and her triumphant rebirth as...a VAN DRIVER in Ahmedabad, India.
-Plum Flower, a thrilling tale of female infanticide in rural China.
-Slip of the Tongue, a movie exploring body image...basically four minutes of BBWs who got rejected from the Dove Real Women ad campaign.
-Breached, a movie about some knocked up Mexican chick who goes through a bunch of border-hopping bullshit in hopes of giving birth in the good old U.S. of A. This sounds like something my high school Spanish teacher Senora "La Bruja" Rossi would have shown my class. She tormented me for a year with bad Chayanne videos and a slew of disturbing movies. She showed us this movie called El Norte once about the illegal alien children of a beheaded Guatemalan insurgent who are attacked by rats while crawling through Tijuana sewer tunnels to the U.S. and then subsequently die of plague. Seeing film was pointless for me learning more conversational Spanish (although I did pick up the useful verb chingar), but it traumatized me more than even the unsettling Julio Iglesias poster above her blackboard that seemed to watch you no matter where you went in the classroom.
-City Paradise, six minutes detailing the adventures of some Japanese woman who doesn't speak a word of English in London. She stumbles upon a secret world "inhabited by friendly little aliens and beautiful blossoms." I don't even want to know.
-Top of the Circle, a movie exploring the concept of the food chain and centering on one of the world's best meat products ever: bacon. If this movie were celebrating bacon for its sheer overpowering awesomeness, I'd be first in line to see it. However, I suspect this movie is going to diss bacon and encourage vegetarianism. Fuck that.
-Some movie about a woman who is totally going to die of breast cancer giving advice that her newborn daughter will supposedly find useful later. Tip #1: don't get fucking breast cancer.
-A documentary about an adopted Chinese girl named Kylie Goldstein, and how she's so American she plays baseball. BOOOOORRRRING.
-Agricultural Report, a cartoon that appears to be about a cow who becomes angry that her teats are being exploited by the nefarious dairy industry.
If LUNAfest wasn't already totally unappealing based on its name and the fact that the moment people start arriving, they're going to be bombarded with a bunch of depressing facts about smacked-up bitches and tit cancer only to watch a festival of shitty-ass movies for chicks. I guess that's why they're sending the fat armpit-hair-having bitches attending this thing for ice cream afterward, although that's poor compensation for putting up with the evening of torture-by-feminist-art-films. I'd be pissed as hell if I got through the cinematic selections of period-fest only to discover there isn't fucking booze, and told instead to go get some fucking ice cream on the Upper West Side in the middle of BITTER-COLD FEBRUARY. It's fucking sixteen degrees outside!
I guess the LUNAfest-throwing sluts running this show thought that the Columbia Medical Center campus would have only whet their appetites for estrogenic entertainment. Not only they are they having LUNAfest tonight (which, as I'm not feeling particularly hot today, I will decline to attend), but next week we have not one, not two, but THREE performances of The Vagina Monologues (!!!). And one of them is en espanol! Boy, I never thought I would get enough of this play where bitches sing the praises of their cooches...it never gets old. Back at Smith this event was so celebrated that the bitches running it hung two-story tall banners spelling out "VAGINA" on Seelye Hall to get the girls all excited for it.
Man, I am so glad this bullshit isn't limited to Smith College. I would feel like the dumb bitches at Columbia didn't care about doing pointless vadgetastic crap as much as the dumb bitches at Smith. Then again, I sort-of hoped that the dumb bitches at Columbia would be too busy doing their thesis projects in lab to spend their days putting together a week-long calendar of twatcentric events WITH NO ALCOHOL. I miss industry so much...when the hell am I going to get out of this ivory vagina tower?
Labels: artfaggotry, Dumb Smith bitches, feminazism, retard rage, scathing indictments, stank vaginas
Saturday, December 30, 2006
2006: The Year of the Slut
It's that time again: the year in review. Here are the top hits that I knew about for the year - lovingly dubbed "The Year of the Slut" by my buddy Garbo. NEW YEAR'S EVE: We rang it in with more than good cheer. It's Rack's birthday, assholes, so the New Year is the least important of the relevant events. There were spankings from a Bettie Page look-alike, potfulls of thrice-spiked cider, a Harppon-employee (ergo free beer for three solid days), make-out sessions on linoleum floors, probably table-dances (can't remember), and more drastic instances of misbehavior. Well worth the drive and looking forward to the sequel tonight.
THE FIFA WORLD CUP: If you forget about the TOTAL shock of its outcome, the raucous good times of floating boozily through Irish bars in Manhattan, and the really remarkable number of hookups that invariably accompany this sort of endless social event, the title goes to Zinedine-I'm'a-fuck-your-face-up-Zidane. I was so drunk for a month that I couldn't feel my face when he cracked skull on the field, but I sure felt my jaw drop. Right into my next beer.
THE O.J. BOOK: Don't matter if Murdock prints it or not, which is great because he won't. But what FUCKING SHIT WAS THAT. Just when we thought that this pivotal post-Rodney King, pre-Dialo racial moment couldn't get any weirder, we are reminded why models and football players are not allowed to speak.
SADDAM HUSSEIN: [...]
AMERICA VOTES: The Democrats swept the nation in the 2006 elections. The outcomes hangs in the balance to see what can get done in this political gridlock, as our Commandante in Chief struggles with English and leadership, and the threat of any level of disaster to a Democratic Senator can upset the balance, but hell - the victory parties have been unrivaled.
TEJ OFFENSIVE: An evil plot to silence Razzy is foiled. Still ugly. But foiled. NOICE!
PLUTO DEMOTED: After millienia of devoted service, Pluto is kicked back down the cosmic ladder to middle management. No gold-plated watch. Just the outer ranks of outerspace. Qouth my father, "It throughs astrology into a tailspin." All I wanna know is, who's fucking head can I cut off for this? MY SALARY: In contrast to Pluto's diminished status, my shit hit a seismic spike. make no bones about it: it pays to be experiential. Fingers crossed for my bonus, when I can finally silence those rat bastard credit cards.
NORTH KOREA'S NUKES: Bless.
MY MOM IS DONE WITH MENOPAUSE: Score!
NASA: Three cheers for these poor sons of bitches for getting their shit together. They saved their funding, they pulled off three launches and they're thinking big on four for next year, they got shit on Mars, and they actually studied their data to apply it to the Orion - shit is rosy for America in SPACE Space space. Here's to you, JFK. TEACHER'S HIGH SCHOOL REUNION: My buddies Teach and Tubby hit their South Kakalaka high school reunion where the Most Popular Guy in their class, piss drunk and hard up for cash, tried to sell Tubby a dime bag. Almost simultaneously, M.P.G.'s remarkably drunker girlfriend made a confession to Teach that she and M.P.G. had met on MySpace, and requested discretion. Both bits of news hit the floor about eight minutes later. Luckily, M.P.G. was involved in a fist fight at the punch table for other reasons, and was forcibly ejected by security.
PLASTIC SURGERY: That is, my grandmother, at 80, has decided to close the door on face lifts.
MICROSOFT VISTA: At long fucking last, Gates takes a cue from Apple. If it ever comes out, we'll maybe have computers we can use. After all, the only criticism comes from Forbes.com is that it's not "people-ready". Quote they, "The new system is bloated and overly complex. Why wait?"
JACK BAUER: First of all, Keifer Southerland's career is officially saved. After Flatliners, we weren't sure, but things are on the up and up for the son of the Donald.
STEP DOWN: Lance Armstrong abdicates. David Beckham steps aside. Rumsfeld is out. But Jigger's back, bitches, and that's all that matters.
NATURAL DISASTER: 2004 gave us the Thai tsunami. 2005 was back with a vengeance with hurricanes so extraordinary, Katrina included, that we ran out of letters and had to start with the Greek alphabet. Fingers crossed that we make it through the next seven hours.
SNAKES ON A PLANE: Best line ever, forgive me if I paraphrase, the Samuel L. wrach delievred: "Enough is enough! I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane!" I mean, after holiday travel, who isn't?
SMOKING GUN: Paris announces it will shortly ban smoking. I can't hear you.
TOM CRUISE: L. Ron strikes again. But on Oprah this time.
JACK PALANCE & GERALD FORD: Rest your souls, gents.
WATCH OUT, WILT CHAMBERLAIN: Cuz Kobe Bryant is the close saludatorian on all your titles, bro. But in this instance, I'm only talking about the game against the Raptors.
PAUL McCARTNEY: He gets that one-legged hooker to stand down, and also Rack and I stood within eight feet of him at JFK. He fucking smiled at her. Eat that, Beatle lovers. And also, no more Beatles died this year. With any luck, Death will focus on the Bay City Rollers for a while.
K-FED-ED: I need not say more. Free at last, Miss Britney, to reclaim your battered rock stardom.
LOYD IS GONE: With his charges mostly resolved, the renovations mostly done, and his rent mostly paid, Loyd is no longer employed as the Schnieder of the Blythewood Fallon household. No more advances on the paycheck, no more half-assed networking attempts of the dental laboratory technology, and no more visits for fucking nothing at 7 am. My parents fired his moochin ass, Pax Fallonia regained. Fuck that last unhung door.
BLYTHEWOOD, S.C.: Maybe y'all 'on'y know 'bout Doko, but Blythewood is on the climbin track this year. There are now five - count them, five - stoplights in my one-stoplight town. Four gas stations, three hotels, two grocery stores, partridge and shit, and a high school. And not just any high shcool. in its first year out of the gate, the highly anticipated Blythewood Bengals spank fat AAA-ass to take the state title in their first season. First of all, this just don't happen. And second of all - this just don't happen. Let's hear it for country ass in motion. 
JACK SPARROW: He lives, and so does Keith Richards, steadily enough to pop up in the next Pirates of the Caribbean. This is a monumentous occasion, and let us give thanks for both.
THE DA VINCI CODE: The American public still spends money on Tom Hanks. Cuz after all, life is a box of chocolates. And that's what Ron Howard gives his boyfriend.
BORAT: Ali G's years of underground genius finally make him some fucking money. High five. PINK TUTU: That is, my mom suggested that I wear one while I do dishes. This may sound insane to some of you, but the reality is that, had you placed a bet ten years ago as to which one I do first, you'd'a a fifty-chance of winning. Now that I support myself, I do, on occasion, wash dishes, so she was just testing the limits. Rest assured, though, that if your bet was on dishes, you won.
THE REAL WORLD: My sister is a college ga-gaduala, got a real job, and has a really good relationship in the works. And she has the CUTEST DOG. Gold medal for my bitch.
PLAYING THE FIELD: The Duke Lacrosse team is back. Into what, you ask? Remains to be seen.
PARIS HILTON: Still fucking famous, someone help me understand.
MICHAEL RICHARDS: Fuck bird flu. This erstwhile semi-celebrity gets foot-in-mouth disease by bringing back that old Ku Klux favorite joke, LYNCHING BLACK PEOPLE. Lest we think En Vogue's "Colorblind" made headway, beware ye hostile stand-ups and Seinfield hasbeens.
MEL GIBSON LEARNS TO DRIVE SLOWER: The miracle is, Russell Crowe's been off the grid for too long for comfort - watch out, 2K7.
REHAB: Robin Williams and Keith Urban. Their tell-all novel will def sell out.
MARGARET SANGER: The morning after pill cracks the glass ceiling. OU812 and RU486 step aside for drugs and concepts with names.
LOCAL DOG DISCOVERS ASPIRIN: As New York canines make confessions to their therapists, South Carolina native pooch Toby renews his own lease on life with aspirin for his arthritis, and gets back to his bee-biting, possum-cornering, car barking, ear scratching, and Alpo at seven[-ish].
TORINO: The Flying Tomato takes all.
MARDI GRAS: It happened, motherfuckers. And so did the Jazz Festival. Big fuck you, Mother Nature. Our boozing ceases not.
MR. T.: Sheds chains and still has TV career. I pity the naysayin' fool.
GET YOUR GAME ON: X-box 360 or Nintendo Wii, that is - either way, these gadgets had folks in line like it was a Star Wars premier - and fortunately, with better execution.
RESPITE OF THE SITH: Thanks be to the benevolence of Baby Jesus, George Lucas remained silent on the scriptwriting front, and our minds were able to rest from bungled romantic space operas. The capacity of Americans to show affection and have feelings dramatically rises. HD-DVD VERSUS BLU-RAY: Either begins or continues "taking digital perfection to a higher level."
NEW MEXICO: Chosen for Branson's Virgin Galactic SPACE Space space flight landing dock. Just a $20K deposit and you too can be on the waiting list to look at a lot of stars and then a whole lot of fucking sand. So spake my hero Han Solo, "This ain't like dustin' crops, boy. "
MADONNA REINSTATES SLAVE TRADE: But the kid will invariably get an awesome track suit from H&M in exchange for his daddy.
THE BIG RED HOOTER: Mal discovers the cocktail of the year, from across the great waters. Two shots tequila, one shot amaretto, fill the shit with pineapple juice and splash in some grenadine. Drunk dial me after three. I FOLD: After a decade of arbitrary resistance, I finally agree to watch Buffy: The Vampire Slayer with my family. My sister doesn't home and fucks up the plan, but the concession stands.
NATIVITY: The Greatest Story Ever Told. Told again. And again. And again. You guys ever heard of this guy, Jesus? Wicked plot. CANCER: Not cured. Again. Raz, you're still up.
BRANGELINA: Still being seen. Again. Good news is, whatever Brad's doing has put an end to her making out with her brother on-screen.
ON HUMAN BOND-AGE: Daniel Craig returns for a James Bond renewal in Casino Royale. He can't drive stick, he's afraid of water, and hates guns just like what'sit in Layer Cake, but goddamnit he's hot, and Sean Connery didn't protest, so it's all good. At least Bond lives on.
JONBENET RAMSEY: Still dead. But we got a revisitation with the possibility that her killer had finally been located. Since it turned out to be shoite, we have great hopes for more thrilling updates in 2007. And by the way, she's buried in the same graveyard as my old Georgia family.Labels: alcoholism, assholes, Britney Spears, crime and punishment, Dumb Smith bitches, FalloniusMonk, Johnny Depp, Kevin Federline, movies, Mr. T, Razzy Haters, smoking, tragedy
Thursday, December 14, 2006
The ghosts of bitchery past
I just woke up from a dream in which all these people I've made fun of showed up in my lab to remind me of past blog-related transgressions. This Dickensian troupe of spirits included Tej and Katie, Kendra from "The Girls Next Door", failed country singer Razzy Bailey (complete with scary combover), Jade from "America's Next Top Model" cycle six, and former Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert. Instead of rattling their chains in a menacing, Jacob Marleyesque way, however, they were there for a different purpose. Well, Rep. Hastert just sat there croaking "Bud-weis-er", Jade snapped her fingers at me like some kind of demonic beat poet, Kendra wouldn't stop giggling and saying "aight", Razzy Bailey sang mournful tunes about his dog dying, and Katie didn't say a single word, but in the dream Tej told me that she had rethought her position, realized that my blog was very funny, wouldn't dream of depriving the world of its awesomeness by trying to frighten me into censoring myself, hoped that we could be friends, and asked if I'd dust off my white dress to wear in the alumnae parade on the Ivy Day before her graduation. By the end of the dream, Tej even hugged me tightly with her thick, meaty arms.
While I in no way believe this is the type of reception I would get if I were actually face to face with Tej in reality, it did get me thinking. Granted, the ghosts of bitchery future didn't appear next to show me my early grave (or more likely, me ruling the world, fucking Reggie Bush on the daily, and owning the Seahawks), but nonetheless I didn't want to feel like a big Scrooge without a single solitary shred of compassion. Although most of my heart (and my liver) are black and necrotic at this point in my life, this dream affected what was left of my viable cardiac tissue, and for that matter, the remnant of my soul that the ravages of age have not yet destroyed. I'm not going to stop making fun of people, or remove anything I've written, but I feel that it would be honest and fair to clear Tej's name of some of the wrongdoings I've accused her of. Also, since the legions of faithful Razzyphiles expressed concern about the whole Craigslist situation, I thought I should address this matter. Although at first it was funny (and if unsolicited penis pictures of ugly men were gold, I'd be richer than Bill Gates and Paul Allen put together), it eventually devolved into threats of sexual assault and identity theft, causing myself and others to worry for my safety and well-being, and prompting me to contact law enforcement. Thus, I figure I should provide an update on the ongoing investigation anyway to make certain that everyone, Razzyphiles and Haters alike, are up to speed. Who am I to ignore the promptings of my own subconscious?
As part of my own determination not to be cowed by "razzysux@gmail.com", I contacted Craigslist to find out if they could provide some information on the person at this e-mail address who posted my naked pictures and phone number in their "casual encounters" section. For some reason, I thought it was unlikely they would do anything besides send me some form e-mail telling me they would look into it and thanks for bringing it to their attention. Wrong! Apparently Craigslist isn't too fond of people who post other people's personal information in a pathetic attempt at harassment such as what "razzysux@gmail.com" did with me, so they immediately rolled on the perp and gave me his/her IP address. I subsequently did a DNS search, and determined to my surprise and shock that it was NOT from the Smith campus.
I was so certain that Tej was behind it, I had even contacted the Dean of Students at Smith to request that she determine if this was originating from Tej's room in Wesley House, and said Dean sent the file to Smith Public Safety and put their dicks on the case. I just could not imagine why someone would go to so much trouble and solely demand that I remove posts related to Tej from my blog if it wasn't Tej. Most people just don't care about other people enough to venture into felony territory on their behalf, and certainly random blog readers never get that righteously pissed about it. I mean, look at Ryan Benser. I posted his name, e-mail address, angry correspondence, and MySpace profile, and didn't hear a peep out of him or any angry Ryan Benser apologists (though in fairness all his "friends" are probably comprised exclusively of the internet porn stars he masturbates to, and they're too busy getting bukkaked to take up his cause). Nor do you see, for example, rabid Chloe Sevigny fans sending perverts to my front door in repayment for my besmirching her appallingly bad sense of style and taste in men a la Vincent Gallo. I reasoned that the only person who would go so far out of their way to harass and menace me to force me to remove posts about Tej Bindra was indeed Tej Bindra herself. Thus I was absolutely astounded to see that "razzysux@gmail.com" was posting on Craigslist from a private home in Billerica, Assachusetts.
Billerica is much closer to Boston than it is to Northampton, and it is certainly far enough away from Smith that it's not plausible as a home for any Smith student living off campus. Also, I was getting hits from Northeastern University's server, which has a campus in nearby Tewksbury, so I wonder if it's not some friend or relative of Tej's at Northeastern doing her dirty work on her behalf, or out of some misguided yet profound sense of loyalty. Since I am unable to determine the identity of the poster without serving a subpoena to their ISP, my investigation ends here. I passed the offending IP address on to the Federales, so as far as I'm concerned, it's in the FBI's hands now. The calls from creepy Craigslist guys have stopped, and even if "razzysux" does something untoward with my social security number, there's not much they can do. I make <$30K a year and live in New York City, so consequently, my credit sucks anyway. Have fun maxing out whatever piece of shit $200 credit limit Capital One card you get, or whatever. I've literally got "razzysux's" number, and so do the Feds, so if he/she foolishly decides to pursue the identity theft route, "razzysux" will be the person who pays dearly for it. I WIN. I didn't have to take a damn thing off my site except some copyrighted photos belonging to the Alumnae Quarterly, and I've resumed sleeping peacefully through the night.
However, just so Tej Bindra doesn't have to fret about being kicked out of Smith for being a dumbfuck unjustly accused of harassing me, I should add that I did inform Smith Public Safety about the IP address of the Craigslist person, thus exonerating Tej. Tej and all her friends can leave bitchy anonymous comments self-righteously accusing me of racism on the basis of being white and liking 50 Cent to their heart's content, and so long as they don't send depraved motherfuckers to my door expecting sex, they can rest easy knowing that their status as a matriculating Smith student will remain unchallenged. Getting Smith involved was not an attempt to seek revenge on Tej for disliking me or my blog, or calling me names, or sending poorly composed e-mails. I simply didn't want to end up being a case ripped from the headlines for an episode of what MillerTime called "SVU: Sugar Hill," and I felt that if law enforcement wasn't able to take action to protect me from the person actively sending dudes to my home presuming that they'll get to fuck me when they get there, the college certainly would. Supporting my theory that the culprit is an acquaintance of Tej's, there was radio silence from "razzysux@gmail.com" immediately after Smith Public Safety commenced their investigation, so I have a feeling that Tej called up her accomplice in Billerica and was like, "Dude, mission abort! I won't be able to stand it if my vague ambitions about becoming a human rights lawyer are crushed by expulsion from Smith in my senior year."
So, like I said, Tej can chill out. The only concerns she'll have about her future is that prospective employers/law schools might Google her and find out that she took the communication skills she learned at her summer internship with the New York City Commission for Human Rights and informed a resident of NYC that she's an assfuck for writing useless bullshit. I told Public Safety that it wasn't her posting to Craigslist, and (after giving kudos to my investigative work and praising my abilities as a writer) they graciously told me that if I felt they could assist in any way in the future, I should let them know. As much as I make fun of Smith, the college officials I dealt with, and particularly those in the Department of Public Safety, could not have been more professional, courteous, or attentive to this matter, and although I've already done so in correspondence, I'd like to thank them again publicly. This is in spite of the fact that my permanent record with the college contains a conviction for possession of a class D substance and candles, as well as several EXTREMELY critical articles I wrote about the Dean of the College (at one point, I believe I suggested she had learned how to deal with dissent from Joseph Stalin) and other administrators when I worked for the school paper, a stint during my sophomore year where I avoided academic probation by the skin of my teeth, a D in physics that I've openly attributed to skipping class to feed my "Beverly Hills, 90210" addiction, and video footage of me at my Commencement ceremony standing on my chair double-fisting bottles of Freixenet in clear violation of the "no-alcohol-at-graduation" rules. Despite my history as a student, and my current hobby of ranking on Smith students past and present mercilessly, the college took me utterly seriously and treated me with respect and consideration, and I am grateful for that. While I'm not going to stop making fun of Smith bitches at ALL (and I have some good stories about rugby parties and my two-year reunion on the back burner for future "Smith College Vault" entries), I will say to all the Smith-affiliated readers who were greatly upset by this whole incident that fortunately the criminal aspects of this furor did NOT originate in the college servers, and I could not have been happier with the way the college handled it. I even want to write a laudatory letter to the U.S. News and World Report in hopes of bringing Smith's precipitous descent in their Best Colleges rankings to a screeching halt.
So that's where this all stands now. I've cleared Tej's eminent name, gave Smith some well-deserved asskissery, solved the "razzysux" mystery, and can attend Christmas mass with the rest of Clan Razzy back in Puyallup with a clean conscience and nary a care in the world. I can now go back to cracking the cases I prefer (those containing frosty cold Heinekens), and resume business as usual: writing useless bullshit, massacring scores of innocent mice, geeking out over my FACS data and the History Channel, obsessing over my dogs, gearing up for the NFL playoffs, and pursuing hot, slutty guys to ravish. God bless us, every one.
While I in no way believe this is the type of reception I would get if I were actually face to face with Tej in reality, it did get me thinking. Granted, the ghosts of bitchery future didn't appear next to show me my early grave (or more likely, me ruling the world, fucking Reggie Bush on the daily, and owning the Seahawks), but nonetheless I didn't want to feel like a big Scrooge without a single solitary shred of compassion. Although most of my heart (and my liver) are black and necrotic at this point in my life, this dream affected what was left of my viable cardiac tissue, and for that matter, the remnant of my soul that the ravages of age have not yet destroyed. I'm not going to stop making fun of people, or remove anything I've written, but I feel that it would be honest and fair to clear Tej's name of some of the wrongdoings I've accused her of. Also, since the legions of faithful Razzyphiles expressed concern about the whole Craigslist situation, I thought I should address this matter. Although at first it was funny (and if unsolicited penis pictures of ugly men were gold, I'd be richer than Bill Gates and Paul Allen put together), it eventually devolved into threats of sexual assault and identity theft, causing myself and others to worry for my safety and well-being, and prompting me to contact law enforcement. Thus, I figure I should provide an update on the ongoing investigation anyway to make certain that everyone, Razzyphiles and Haters alike, are up to speed. Who am I to ignore the promptings of my own subconscious?
As part of my own determination not to be cowed by "razzysux@gmail.com", I contacted Craigslist to find out if they could provide some information on the person at this e-mail address who posted my naked pictures and phone number in their "casual encounters" section. For some reason, I thought it was unlikely they would do anything besides send me some form e-mail telling me they would look into it and thanks for bringing it to their attention. Wrong! Apparently Craigslist isn't too fond of people who post other people's personal information in a pathetic attempt at harassment such as what "razzysux@gmail.com" did with me, so they immediately rolled on the perp and gave me his/her IP address. I subsequently did a DNS search, and determined to my surprise and shock that it was NOT from the Smith campus.
I was so certain that Tej was behind it, I had even contacted the Dean of Students at Smith to request that she determine if this was originating from Tej's room in Wesley House, and said Dean sent the file to Smith Public Safety and put their dicks on the case. I just could not imagine why someone would go to so much trouble and solely demand that I remove posts related to Tej from my blog if it wasn't Tej. Most people just don't care about other people enough to venture into felony territory on their behalf, and certainly random blog readers never get that righteously pissed about it. I mean, look at Ryan Benser. I posted his name, e-mail address, angry correspondence, and MySpace profile, and didn't hear a peep out of him or any angry Ryan Benser apologists (though in fairness all his "friends" are probably comprised exclusively of the internet porn stars he masturbates to, and they're too busy getting bukkaked to take up his cause). Nor do you see, for example, rabid Chloe Sevigny fans sending perverts to my front door in repayment for my besmirching her appallingly bad sense of style and taste in men a la Vincent Gallo. I reasoned that the only person who would go so far out of their way to harass and menace me to force me to remove posts about Tej Bindra was indeed Tej Bindra herself. Thus I was absolutely astounded to see that "razzysux@gmail.com" was posting on Craigslist from a private home in Billerica, Assachusetts.
Billerica is much closer to Boston than it is to Northampton, and it is certainly far enough away from Smith that it's not plausible as a home for any Smith student living off campus. Also, I was getting hits from Northeastern University's server, which has a campus in nearby Tewksbury, so I wonder if it's not some friend or relative of Tej's at Northeastern doing her dirty work on her behalf, or out of some misguided yet profound sense of loyalty. Since I am unable to determine the identity of the poster without serving a subpoena to their ISP, my investigation ends here. I passed the offending IP address on to the Federales, so as far as I'm concerned, it's in the FBI's hands now. The calls from creepy Craigslist guys have stopped, and even if "razzysux" does something untoward with my social security number, there's not much they can do. I make <$30K a year and live in New York City, so consequently, my credit sucks anyway. Have fun maxing out whatever piece of shit $200 credit limit Capital One card you get, or whatever. I've literally got "razzysux's" number, and so do the Feds, so if he/she foolishly decides to pursue the identity theft route, "razzysux" will be the person who pays dearly for it. I WIN. I didn't have to take a damn thing off my site except some copyrighted photos belonging to the Alumnae Quarterly, and I've resumed sleeping peacefully through the night.
However, just so Tej Bindra doesn't have to fret about being kicked out of Smith for being a dumbfuck unjustly accused of harassing me, I should add that I did inform Smith Public Safety about the IP address of the Craigslist person, thus exonerating Tej. Tej and all her friends can leave bitchy anonymous comments self-righteously accusing me of racism on the basis of being white and liking 50 Cent to their heart's content, and so long as they don't send depraved motherfuckers to my door expecting sex, they can rest easy knowing that their status as a matriculating Smith student will remain unchallenged. Getting Smith involved was not an attempt to seek revenge on Tej for disliking me or my blog, or calling me names, or sending poorly composed e-mails. I simply didn't want to end up being a case ripped from the headlines for an episode of what MillerTime called "SVU: Sugar Hill," and I felt that if law enforcement wasn't able to take action to protect me from the person actively sending dudes to my home presuming that they'll get to fuck me when they get there, the college certainly would. Supporting my theory that the culprit is an acquaintance of Tej's, there was radio silence from "razzysux@gmail.com" immediately after Smith Public Safety commenced their investigation, so I have a feeling that Tej called up her accomplice in Billerica and was like, "Dude, mission abort! I won't be able to stand it if my vague ambitions about becoming a human rights lawyer are crushed by expulsion from Smith in my senior year."
So, like I said, Tej can chill out. The only concerns she'll have about her future is that prospective employers/law schools might Google her and find out that she took the communication skills she learned at her summer internship with the New York City Commission for Human Rights and informed a resident of NYC that she's an assfuck for writing useless bullshit. I told Public Safety that it wasn't her posting to Craigslist, and (after giving kudos to my investigative work and praising my abilities as a writer) they graciously told me that if I felt they could assist in any way in the future, I should let them know. As much as I make fun of Smith, the college officials I dealt with, and particularly those in the Department of Public Safety, could not have been more professional, courteous, or attentive to this matter, and although I've already done so in correspondence, I'd like to thank them again publicly. This is in spite of the fact that my permanent record with the college contains a conviction for possession of a class D substance and candles, as well as several EXTREMELY critical articles I wrote about the Dean of the College (at one point, I believe I suggested she had learned how to deal with dissent from Joseph Stalin) and other administrators when I worked for the school paper, a stint during my sophomore year where I avoided academic probation by the skin of my teeth, a D in physics that I've openly attributed to skipping class to feed my "Beverly Hills, 90210" addiction, and video footage of me at my Commencement ceremony standing on my chair double-fisting bottles of Freixenet in clear violation of the "no-alcohol-at-graduation" rules. Despite my history as a student, and my current hobby of ranking on Smith students past and present mercilessly, the college took me utterly seriously and treated me with respect and consideration, and I am grateful for that. While I'm not going to stop making fun of Smith bitches at ALL (and I have some good stories about rugby parties and my two-year reunion on the back burner for future "Smith College Vault" entries), I will say to all the Smith-affiliated readers who were greatly upset by this whole incident that fortunately the criminal aspects of this furor did NOT originate in the college servers, and I could not have been happier with the way the college handled it. I even want to write a laudatory letter to the U.S. News and World Report in hopes of bringing Smith's precipitous descent in their Best Colleges rankings to a screeching halt.
So that's where this all stands now. I've cleared Tej's eminent name, gave Smith some well-deserved asskissery, solved the "razzysux" mystery, and can attend Christmas mass with the rest of Clan Razzy back in Puyallup with a clean conscience and nary a care in the world. I can now go back to cracking the cases I prefer (those containing frosty cold Heinekens), and resume business as usual: writing useless bullshit, massacring scores of innocent mice, geeking out over my FACS data and the History Channel, obsessing over my dogs, gearing up for the NFL playoffs, and pursuing hot, slutty guys to ravish. God bless us, every one.
Labels: comeuppance, contrition, crime and punishment, Dumb Smith bitches, for serious people, retard rage, sexual assault, threats
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Cellmates
Since "razzysux" (AKA Tej Bindra or her roommate/cellmate) is now claiming to have my social security number and implying that I have an identity theft headache coming my way unless I take the posts about Tej down, I get to file a report today with the FBI! They have a very convenient online form for doing this.
Just to reiterate that I'm not going to let criminal threats force me into submission, I figured I'd share some of KatieScarlett's artwork with you. She went to art school after Smith, and you can see here that she knows what she's doing when it comes to Photoshop. Her brilliant work is a window into the future. Sadly, I doubt that Tej's cell at the federal penitentiary will have a balcony like her current crib at Smith:
[Image removed at the request of the copyright holder, and too fucking bad, because that image was FUNNY. Don't think I've caved to any poorly conceived extortion attempts, though...I'm just not one to fuck with copyright law and I can't afford to license the shit.]
KatieScarlett rewlz and is so kewl, LOL!
Just to reiterate that I'm not going to let criminal threats force me into submission, I figured I'd share some of KatieScarlett's artwork with you. She went to art school after Smith, and you can see here that she knows what she's doing when it comes to Photoshop. Her brilliant work is a window into the future. Sadly, I doubt that Tej's cell at the federal penitentiary will have a balcony like her current crib at Smith:
[Image removed at the request of the copyright holder, and too fucking bad, because that image was FUNNY. Don't think I've caved to any poorly conceived extortion attempts, though...I'm just not one to fuck with copyright law and I can't afford to license the shit.]
KatieScarlett rewlz and is so kewl, LOL!
Labels: crime and punishment, defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, KatieScarlett, Razzy Haters
Monday, December 04, 2006
I lied
That last post wasn't my last words on this bullshit. Since everyone seems so interested in this drama, I'll keep you all apprised. I just spent my morning talking about the possibility of undergoing an especially heinous sexually-based offense with the dedicated detectives of the elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit who investigate these vicious felonies. Well, okay, they weren't SVU, just the regular detectives who happened to be at my local NYPD precinct, but they were dedicated. They also made me feel a lot better.
When I walked into the precinct, I tried to explain the whole situation to the uniformed officer who took my initial statement. She didn't really get where this all started and she kept asking me if I had a copy of the e-mail. I wasn't sure which of the numerous e-mails she was referring to: the e-mails Tej sent me, the e-mails I sent her, the e-mails that I've been getting from "razzysux" who posted the Craigslist ads, or the roughly 100 e-mails I got from dudes hoping to spank me. Finally, exasperated, she said that I couldn't file a police report without a copy of the e-mail.
"What e-mail?!" I said, bursting into tears (believe it or not, I am actually capable of getting so upset that I cry). "I have like 100 e-mails about this, and I don't care about the e-mails or about Craigslist! I don't file police reports because I get mean or suggestive e-mail! I don't even file police reports because there are unauthorized naked pictures of me on the internet! I'm here because the person who put this stuff online TRICKED ONE OF THESE MEN INTO GOING TO MY APARTMENT PRESUMABLY TO HAVE SEX WITH ME! I DON'T THINK THAT I SHOULD HAVE TO LIVE IN FEAR THAT SOMEONE WHO DIDN'T LIKE WHAT I SAID ON THE INTERNET IS TRYING TO SET ME UP TO GET RAPED!" At this point I had worked myself into a complete frenzy and was really upset that the cops didn't even seem to think this was a problem. The officer noted this, looked very worried, and said, "I think you need to speak with the detectives about this."
I was promptly ushered into the detectives' room, which totally looked just like it does on "Law and Order" except way brighter and more cheerful. The detectives were exactly like I expected them to be: they had these awesome New Yawk accents and made lots of Detective Lenny Briscoe-esque wisecracks, such as the one where my situation was compared with what "in the old days" could be accomplished by writing a girl's number in a bathroom stall and saying to call for a good time. I told them the whole story, and showed them my website, a few exemplary e-mails, the Craigslist post screen capture I took and posted, etc. The detective summarized: "so you basically just write about anything and everything under the sun, and try to be funny about fuckin' with people?" I explained the whole story to this detective, who assured me that the Craigslist stuff was aggravated harassment. However, being that the lead suspect (AKA TEJ BINDRA Smith College '07) lives in Massachusetts, it's hard to investigate without getting the Computer Crimes division of the NYPD involved. The Computer Crimes division will only get involved if they can prove that someone actually came to my door, and did so at the behest of someone unlawfully representing me, or if they appear to be threatening me. However, what the detectives can do is monitor the situation, and, if someone does come to my door, "get rough with 'em like people say we do." If that occurs, and the person at my door rolls on the person who is obviously not me that sent them there and happens to mention that they were given my address via e-mail, then something REALLY awesome happens: we get to call the FBI!
They told me that the NYPD will keep me safe in the city, but that conspiring to commit/orchestrate felony assault against someone over the internet is a federal crime. Since the FBI is VERY GOOD about tracking down where e-mails came from and things like that, it shouldn't be too hard to locate and ascertain the true identity of "razzysux" (ie: Tej Bindra, Wesley House, Smith College, Northampton, Assachusetts). That person would then be arrested and charged, and tried in FEDERAL COURT! That will, of course, be after she gets kicked out of Smith for abusing her access to alumnae personal contact information or Lexis-Nexis at Neilson Library to orchestrate sexual attacks on a woman who made a few jokes on a website that is admittedly 100% useless bullshit.
Therefore, I would advise whoever is doing this to step back and stop bothering me, because the only life you will be ruining will be your own. There is now a record of this, and all you have to do is something else to blow this up into a couple of federal agents showing up at your door to arrest you. Leave me the fuck alone.
When I walked into the precinct, I tried to explain the whole situation to the uniformed officer who took my initial statement. She didn't really get where this all started and she kept asking me if I had a copy of the e-mail. I wasn't sure which of the numerous e-mails she was referring to: the e-mails Tej sent me, the e-mails I sent her, the e-mails that I've been getting from "razzysux" who posted the Craigslist ads, or the roughly 100 e-mails I got from dudes hoping to spank me. Finally, exasperated, she said that I couldn't file a police report without a copy of the e-mail.
"What e-mail?!" I said, bursting into tears (believe it or not, I am actually capable of getting so upset that I cry). "I have like 100 e-mails about this, and I don't care about the e-mails or about Craigslist! I don't file police reports because I get mean or suggestive e-mail! I don't even file police reports because there are unauthorized naked pictures of me on the internet! I'm here because the person who put this stuff online TRICKED ONE OF THESE MEN INTO GOING TO MY APARTMENT PRESUMABLY TO HAVE SEX WITH ME! I DON'T THINK THAT I SHOULD HAVE TO LIVE IN FEAR THAT SOMEONE WHO DIDN'T LIKE WHAT I SAID ON THE INTERNET IS TRYING TO SET ME UP TO GET RAPED!" At this point I had worked myself into a complete frenzy and was really upset that the cops didn't even seem to think this was a problem. The officer noted this, looked very worried, and said, "I think you need to speak with the detectives about this."
I was promptly ushered into the detectives' room, which totally looked just like it does on "Law and Order" except way brighter and more cheerful. The detectives were exactly like I expected them to be: they had these awesome New Yawk accents and made lots of Detective Lenny Briscoe-esque wisecracks, such as the one where my situation was compared with what "in the old days" could be accomplished by writing a girl's number in a bathroom stall and saying to call for a good time. I told them the whole story, and showed them my website, a few exemplary e-mails, the Craigslist post screen capture I took and posted, etc. The detective summarized: "so you basically just write about anything and everything under the sun, and try to be funny about fuckin' with people?" I explained the whole story to this detective, who assured me that the Craigslist stuff was aggravated harassment. However, being that the lead suspect (AKA TEJ BINDRA Smith College '07) lives in Massachusetts, it's hard to investigate without getting the Computer Crimes division of the NYPD involved. The Computer Crimes division will only get involved if they can prove that someone actually came to my door, and did so at the behest of someone unlawfully representing me, or if they appear to be threatening me. However, what the detectives can do is monitor the situation, and, if someone does come to my door, "get rough with 'em like people say we do." If that occurs, and the person at my door rolls on the person who is obviously not me that sent them there and happens to mention that they were given my address via e-mail, then something REALLY awesome happens: we get to call the FBI!
They told me that the NYPD will keep me safe in the city, but that conspiring to commit/orchestrate felony assault against someone over the internet is a federal crime. Since the FBI is VERY GOOD about tracking down where e-mails came from and things like that, it shouldn't be too hard to locate and ascertain the true identity of "razzysux" (ie: Tej Bindra, Wesley House, Smith College, Northampton, Assachusetts). That person would then be arrested and charged, and tried in FEDERAL COURT! That will, of course, be after she gets kicked out of Smith for abusing her access to alumnae personal contact information or Lexis-Nexis at Neilson Library to orchestrate sexual attacks on a woman who made a few jokes on a website that is admittedly 100% useless bullshit.
Therefore, I would advise whoever is doing this to step back and stop bothering me, because the only life you will be ruining will be your own. There is now a record of this, and all you have to do is something else to blow this up into a couple of federal agents showing up at your door to arrest you. Leave me the fuck alone.
Labels: crime and punishment, defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, Law and Order, Razzy Haters
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Thanks for the favor
I am amazed. Since whoever is putting me up on casual encounters placed another ad using my suggested "spank me with a ping-pong paddle and violate my anal tract" tagline, my voicemail is now full and I have about 800 e-mails to go through. Since many of these dudes sent pictures, I have an UNLIMITED assortment of possible Razzy's Rejects to choose from. Cool, or in what Dateline's "To Catch a Predator" leads me to believe is the preferred spelling employed by these internet perverts, kewl. I now can rest easy knowing that it will take me until roughly Christmas '09 to put all these creeps up on my site and make fun of them.
I suppose it's not really their fault that they wound up contacting me, but you know what? Big deal. Don't send pictures of your fucking uncut cock to strangers on the internet, especially if you're a creepy man posing in your "treasure room" full of Barbies and other toy-type shit used for luring underage kids into your den of molestation. Seriously, did you look at yourself in the mirror, dude? I mean, I'm not Gisele or anything, but come ON. I know I'm disproportionately WAY too hot to fuck this lazy-eyed ass clown:
So way to go, Dumb Motherfuckin' Ass Bitch or Tej or whoever went this route to seek retribution against me for writing useless bullshit on the internet. You just set up these not-really-very-innocent dudes up for RAZZY.org infamy when they thought they were just going to get laid. And while I'm sure your intent was to bother me or keep me awake with incessant incoming calls or whatever, I simply turned my phone off and got a good night's sleep. Now I'm going to spend the entire day watching football with Js and Ps and NeisMan, and since the bar we go to is in a basement, I don't get a cell signal there! Thus, it's business as usual here in Razzyville and you've done me a favor by sending so much Reject fodder my way. So thanks!
I suppose it's not really their fault that they wound up contacting me, but you know what? Big deal. Don't send pictures of your fucking uncut cock to strangers on the internet, especially if you're a creepy man posing in your "treasure room" full of Barbies and other toy-type shit used for luring underage kids into your den of molestation. Seriously, did you look at yourself in the mirror, dude? I mean, I'm not Gisele or anything, but come ON. I know I'm disproportionately WAY too hot to fuck this lazy-eyed ass clown:
So way to go, Dumb Motherfuckin' Ass Bitch or Tej or whoever went this route to seek retribution against me for writing useless bullshit on the internet. You just set up these not-really-very-innocent dudes up for RAZZY.org infamy when they thought they were just going to get laid. And while I'm sure your intent was to bother me or keep me awake with incessant incoming calls or whatever, I simply turned my phone off and got a good night's sleep. Now I'm going to spend the entire day watching football with Js and Ps and NeisMan, and since the bar we go to is in a basement, I don't get a cell signal there! Thus, it's business as usual here in Razzyville and you've done me a favor by sending so much Reject fodder my way. So thanks!
Labels: defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, internet domination, perversion, Razzy Haters, weiners
The best you can do is Craigslist casual encounters? Please.
So I just got home from a day which I thought was going to culminate in me having a speaker phone shouting match with a very angry woman who said that she's been waiting a long time for someone more competent at internet stalking than herself to post my personal information in a blog comment so she could call me up and tell me that I'm a dumb motherfuckin' ass bitch repeatedly. Oh, and I'm a racist, too. After that main point, she then unwisely tried to engage me in a loud-talking and interrupting competition, which anyone who knows me can tell you that I WOULD WIN. There are few people that can match me in volume and conversational aggression, and when you throw my eloquence in the mix, I'm pretty much like former Saints and Colts coach Jim Mora, Sr. in an argument. You had best just step the fuck back and shut the fuck up, because I will say meaner things than you can louder than you can, particularly when I'm fired up from a day of Bev Niner season one and pounding light beers with my bitches J-Sexy, JerseyGirl, and Rack. Anyway, the angry incompetent stalker tired me with her limited argument (apart from her reiteration of me being a "dumb motherfuckin' ass bitch", the only other cogent point of hers I understood was that I look like "a lab rat"), and my buddy Rack was ready for bed, so I hung up on her and retired to the uptown D train for my trip home.
My phone died on the way to the train while I was telling Morrissey'sHair about this crazy bitch calling me, as well as mentioning that I was walking by Jacob the Jeweler's store on 57th (in the diamond district, where my idol Lil' Kim flosses her Rolex rich shit). Since despite my asshole tendencies I'm impeccably courteous about saying "hello" and "goodbye" in phone conversations, I plugged in my phone as soon as I arrived home and took the d-o-double g's out for a neighborhood constitutional and a piss, and told Morrissey'sHair's voicemail goodbye. Immediately after hanging up, I heard my rather dated T.I. "What You Know" ringtone bragging about having keys by the three and when he chirps, shawty best chirp back, and the number was "restricted." I figured it was Dumb Motherfuckin' Ass Bitch, and answered it.
"Hello," I said in my frostiest, most bitchy tone.
"...Angie?" said a soft, creepy male voice, the sort of voice I associate with the guys on "To Catch a Predator" who tell the childlike-sounding actors entrapping them all about their intent to bring over a sixer of Bacardi O and how it won't hurt when they molest them.
"Angie's not available. This is Razzy you're talking to now, asshole. Is this about my website?" I demanded aggressively (in my real life, I'm equally unabashed, but fully embracing my internet alter-ego makes me totally tyrannical, ruthless, and ready to do some rape-the-women-and-kill-their-babies-in-front-of-them Mongol horde-style battle with morons that have nothing better to do than call me and yell at me for writing useless bullshit on my website. Angie has the tendency to be nice sometimes, so Razzy is the personality that handles all the dirty work).
"Website? Oh, yes," said Creepy Voice Guy.
"Well, spit it out. What's your problem with it? Are you going to call me a racist because I like R. Kelly? Does your fucking sister go to Smith, or what?"
There was a long pause.
"WELL?! I don't have all night!" I prompted, irritated. I was thinking, "Christ, if your sorry ass is going to tell me in the simplest language what an asshole/racist/ugly bitch I am, get on with it! I don't have the patience to put up with your fucking tortoise-esque pace. I have to get some sleep so I can get up early and watch football all day tomorrow."
"Um...Smith? Aren't you...weren't you...looking for some action?"
It was my turn to deliver a long pause. I'm always looking for some action, but not this variety. At first, I was like, great...not only people that totally hate me and wish female genital mutilation on me and advised me to carry mace in the interest of watching my dumb motherfuckin' ass bitch back (though I don't need that when I have an extremely loyal 110-lb. German Shepherd-Rottweiler named after the emperors of Rome, the lack of a criminal record necessary to easily get a semi-automatic handgun, and not a qualm in the world about getting one should I feel the need) have my phone number, but now weird creeps who want to fuck me do too. I've gotten a few e-mails from people who are like "your rejects page is funny LOLZ;p how about i cum over there and stroke ur sweet pussy call me pleeeeez!" When I get these, I just chuckle, think a couple "Are you fucking serious?" thoughts, and then try to get these guys to send me pictures of their weiners. To their credit, they're not usually THAT stupid. Initially I thought this phone call was either one of these guys jumping at the opportunity that some dumb Smith bitch posted all my personal contact info on the comment page, or some random dude that I gave my phone number to in one of many recent nights of drunken carousing. I decided that I would get to the bottom of this.
"So you're not calling to yell at me. You're actually trying to get laid, is that right?" I asked.
"Um...Craigslist said you were looking for some action. Your pictures are hot."
I see. This wasn't about directly about RAZZY.org. Since my (totally awesome) website has never been confused with Craigslist, I immediately deduced the reason for this call. Calling me a racist on my comment pages, posting my personal details, and making some pointless threats about telling on me to my not-giving-a-flying-fuck-about-my-blog PI has failed to make the haters feel satisfied that they've revenged whatever I did to offend them (pick one; my offenses are myriad). Therefore, they're playing dirty, and to prove that they spend most of what life they have hating me, they're putting my phone number and work e-mail in the "casual encounters" section of Craigslist.
"Look, dude, I have enemies, and I thought you were one of them. I was prepared to destroy you, but now I see that we've moved to more covert means of warfare than an outright guns-blazing showdown. Someone who is not me put that query on Craigslist," I explained to the creepy-sounding guy on the phone, who was presumably baffled by getting a MUCH different response than he anticipated for by being the unfortunate dude who called me first. He was totally silent in response to this. "So move on to the next casual encounter. I'm totally not going to fuck you."
"I'm so sor-" he began, but I hung up and cut him off, and immediately went to Craigslist. I had more pressing issues than listening to his apology.
I was expecting something much dirtier, like "Spank me with a ping-pong paddle while you violate my anal tract" or "Shit on me and make me your whore." Instead, I was disappointed to see that whoever thought of this stinging way to get back at me just left this lame posting:
Yeah, I'm really upset that you put me in my Halloween costume up there. I only posted that twice on my blog. I was hoping it would remain secret. And it's really embarrassing that you dug up that full-frontal picture of me from that old Kate and Camilla shoot I did months ago. Why didn't you just stick them all up there? Like this one:
Or this one, where I look especially pasty, a point that seems to be a favorite among my detractors. Also, I'm kind of fat!
I suppose that whoever did this would think that I'd be EXTREMELY upset that this was posted on Craigslist, but that whoever didn't factor in one important thing. I have NO SHAME, and my only concern is that you couldn't come up with anything more creative than "I like it NASTY", which is actually pretty accurate. And really, if anything this was helpful. I'm probably going to get all kinds of hilarious intended-to-be-enticing dick pictures in my e-mail inbox. Also, since whoever posted this probably thinks I'm ugly/have chicken legs/am otherwise physically revolting, I can now counter these arguments with the fact so far I've sent literally FIFTY calls from numbers I didn't recognize to voicemail and deleted roughly 15 "Il fuk u proper grl" text messages, and thus there's a lot of Craigslist perverts who would dispute your variations on the "your a ugly pale racist asshole" theme of badly spelled and totally boring comebacks.
If you want me to shut the fuck up about whatever I said that pissed you off, then STOP ENCOURAGING ME TO SAY MORE by doing shit like this. I will stop talking about you if I forget about you, and since I am blonde and totally self-absorbed, that will be immediately unless you continue to remind me that you exist, are stupid, and are determined to wage some petty war with me. It's like the war on drugs or terror, you assholes. You won't lose, but you sure as hell aren't going to win, either, so give it up and stop wasting everybody's time.
My phone died on the way to the train while I was telling Morrissey'sHair about this crazy bitch calling me, as well as mentioning that I was walking by Jacob the Jeweler's store on 57th (in the diamond district, where my idol Lil' Kim flosses her Rolex rich shit). Since despite my asshole tendencies I'm impeccably courteous about saying "hello" and "goodbye" in phone conversations, I plugged in my phone as soon as I arrived home and took the d-o-double g's out for a neighborhood constitutional and a piss, and told Morrissey'sHair's voicemail goodbye. Immediately after hanging up, I heard my rather dated T.I. "What You Know" ringtone bragging about having keys by the three and when he chirps, shawty best chirp back, and the number was "restricted." I figured it was Dumb Motherfuckin' Ass Bitch, and answered it.
"Hello," I said in my frostiest, most bitchy tone.
"...Angie?" said a soft, creepy male voice, the sort of voice I associate with the guys on "To Catch a Predator" who tell the childlike-sounding actors entrapping them all about their intent to bring over a sixer of Bacardi O and how it won't hurt when they molest them.
"Angie's not available. This is Razzy you're talking to now, asshole. Is this about my website?" I demanded aggressively (in my real life, I'm equally unabashed, but fully embracing my internet alter-ego makes me totally tyrannical, ruthless, and ready to do some rape-the-women-and-kill-their-babies-in-front-of-them Mongol horde-style battle with morons that have nothing better to do than call me and yell at me for writing useless bullshit on my website. Angie has the tendency to be nice sometimes, so Razzy is the personality that handles all the dirty work).
"Website? Oh, yes," said Creepy Voice Guy.
"Well, spit it out. What's your problem with it? Are you going to call me a racist because I like R. Kelly? Does your fucking sister go to Smith, or what?"
There was a long pause.
"WELL?! I don't have all night!" I prompted, irritated. I was thinking, "Christ, if your sorry ass is going to tell me in the simplest language what an asshole/racist/ugly bitch I am, get on with it! I don't have the patience to put up with your fucking tortoise-esque pace. I have to get some sleep so I can get up early and watch football all day tomorrow."
"Um...Smith? Aren't you...weren't you...looking for some action?"
It was my turn to deliver a long pause. I'm always looking for some action, but not this variety. At first, I was like, great...not only people that totally hate me and wish female genital mutilation on me and advised me to carry mace in the interest of watching my dumb motherfuckin' ass bitch back (though I don't need that when I have an extremely loyal 110-lb. German Shepherd-Rottweiler named after the emperors of Rome, the lack of a criminal record necessary to easily get a semi-automatic handgun, and not a qualm in the world about getting one should I feel the need) have my phone number, but now weird creeps who want to fuck me do too. I've gotten a few e-mails from people who are like "your rejects page is funny LOLZ;p how about i cum over there and stroke ur sweet pussy call me pleeeeez!" When I get these, I just chuckle, think a couple "Are you fucking serious?" thoughts, and then try to get these guys to send me pictures of their weiners. To their credit, they're not usually THAT stupid. Initially I thought this phone call was either one of these guys jumping at the opportunity that some dumb Smith bitch posted all my personal contact info on the comment page, or some random dude that I gave my phone number to in one of many recent nights of drunken carousing. I decided that I would get to the bottom of this.
"So you're not calling to yell at me. You're actually trying to get laid, is that right?" I asked.
"Um...Craigslist said you were looking for some action. Your pictures are hot."
I see. This wasn't about directly about RAZZY.org. Since my (totally awesome) website has never been confused with Craigslist, I immediately deduced the reason for this call. Calling me a racist on my comment pages, posting my personal details, and making some pointless threats about telling on me to my not-giving-a-flying-fuck-about-my-blog PI has failed to make the haters feel satisfied that they've revenged whatever I did to offend them (pick one; my offenses are myriad). Therefore, they're playing dirty, and to prove that they spend most of what life they have hating me, they're putting my phone number and work e-mail in the "casual encounters" section of Craigslist.
"Look, dude, I have enemies, and I thought you were one of them. I was prepared to destroy you, but now I see that we've moved to more covert means of warfare than an outright guns-blazing showdown. Someone who is not me put that query on Craigslist," I explained to the creepy-sounding guy on the phone, who was presumably baffled by getting a MUCH different response than he anticipated for by being the unfortunate dude who called me first. He was totally silent in response to this. "So move on to the next casual encounter. I'm totally not going to fuck you."
"I'm so sor-" he began, but I hung up and cut him off, and immediately went to Craigslist. I had more pressing issues than listening to his apology.
I was expecting something much dirtier, like "Spank me with a ping-pong paddle while you violate my anal tract" or "Shit on me and make me your whore." Instead, I was disappointed to see that whoever thought of this stinging way to get back at me just left this lame posting:
Yeah, I'm really upset that you put me in my Halloween costume up there. I only posted that twice on my blog. I was hoping it would remain secret. And it's really embarrassing that you dug up that full-frontal picture of me from that old Kate and Camilla shoot I did months ago. Why didn't you just stick them all up there? Like this one:
Or this one, where I look especially pasty, a point that seems to be a favorite among my detractors. Also, I'm kind of fat!
I suppose that whoever did this would think that I'd be EXTREMELY upset that this was posted on Craigslist, but that whoever didn't factor in one important thing. I have NO SHAME, and my only concern is that you couldn't come up with anything more creative than "I like it NASTY", which is actually pretty accurate. And really, if anything this was helpful. I'm probably going to get all kinds of hilarious intended-to-be-enticing dick pictures in my e-mail inbox. Also, since whoever posted this probably thinks I'm ugly/have chicken legs/am otherwise physically revolting, I can now counter these arguments with the fact so far I've sent literally FIFTY calls from numbers I didn't recognize to voicemail and deleted roughly 15 "Il fuk u proper grl" text messages, and thus there's a lot of Craigslist perverts who would dispute your variations on the "your a ugly pale racist asshole" theme of badly spelled and totally boring comebacks.
If you want me to shut the fuck up about whatever I said that pissed you off, then STOP ENCOURAGING ME TO SAY MORE by doing shit like this. I will stop talking about you if I forget about you, and since I am blonde and totally self-absorbed, that will be immediately unless you continue to remind me that you exist, are stupid, and are determined to wage some petty war with me. It's like the war on drugs or terror, you assholes. You won't lose, but you sure as hell aren't going to win, either, so give it up and stop wasting everybody's time.
Labels: defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, nudity, perversion, Razzy Haters, weiners
Friday, December 01, 2006
I ain't skerred
Yes, I know that "scared" was spelled phonetically in the style of modern rap music, but don't take that to mean that I am at all worried about the voicemail I got tonight, or that I'm a Grand Wizard in the Klan's Sugar Hill chapter.
Some small penis-sounding dude (Tej's brother? or high school ex? or Smith F2M tranny?) just left me a message on my phone implying that he was going to call my boss, or PI as we call it here inhell grad school. This person smugly wondered what my PI would say when he gets wind of my "extracurricular activities," and heavily implied that he was going to, for lack of a better term, tattle on me for being mean on the internet.
Let me first say that this is not the first time RazzyBlog is under fire with the administrative officials in my department. Earlier this June, I wrote about this dude who refused to provide me with head as a result of my own poor planning (ie: not purchasing condoms while I was drunk at 4 a.m. and buying cigarettes at some random West Village deli, but why is the condom purchase my job when I wasn't even sure I had closed the deal?) I wrote about this fucktard and didn't even mention his name, but he flipped out, threatened me with physical harm, and when that didn't compel me to remove the story of my sexual escapades with him, he sent my PI an e-mail. I promptly responded by asking my PI for a meeting.
In said meeting, I first explained what the whole hullabaloo was about: that this dude refused to go down on me. I was completely frank with him and didn't leave anything out, and he was very understanding. He told me that one of the reasons he chose an academic career was the fringe benefit of free speech. He told me that even if I wrote this asshole's full name, mentioned what lab he was in, and mocked his geek-journal bibliography (not that mine is so awesome), I still had the right to free speech, and it in no way affects what I do in the lab. I don't think he likes my blog, but he is an extremely smart man who doesn't give a rat's ass if people on the internet don't like me for any reason. So you can go on with your bad self, call him, and tell him all about his student Razzy's extracurricular activities. I've already told him that I blogged about and embarrassed a psychotic asshole in my own department, on the grounds that he wouldn't eat my pussy. I don't think he's going to care.
Some small penis-sounding dude (Tej's brother? or high school ex? or Smith F2M tranny?) just left me a message on my phone implying that he was going to call my boss, or PI as we call it here in
Let me first say that this is not the first time RazzyBlog is under fire with the administrative officials in my department. Earlier this June, I wrote about this dude who refused to provide me with head as a result of my own poor planning (ie: not purchasing condoms while I was drunk at 4 a.m. and buying cigarettes at some random West Village deli, but why is the condom purchase my job when I wasn't even sure I had closed the deal?) I wrote about this fucktard and didn't even mention his name, but he flipped out, threatened me with physical harm, and when that didn't compel me to remove the story of my sexual escapades with him, he sent my PI an e-mail. I promptly responded by asking my PI for a meeting.
In said meeting, I first explained what the whole hullabaloo was about: that this dude refused to go down on me. I was completely frank with him and didn't leave anything out, and he was very understanding. He told me that one of the reasons he chose an academic career was the fringe benefit of free speech. He told me that even if I wrote this asshole's full name, mentioned what lab he was in, and mocked his geek-journal bibliography (not that mine is so awesome), I still had the right to free speech, and it in no way affects what I do in the lab. I don't think he likes my blog, but he is an extremely smart man who doesn't give a rat's ass if people on the internet don't like me for any reason. So you can go on with your bad self, call him, and tell him all about his student Razzy's extracurricular activities. I've already told him that I blogged about and embarrassed a psychotic asshole in my own department, on the grounds that he wouldn't eat my pussy. I don't think he's going to care.
Labels: defiance, Dumb Smith bitches, Razzy Haters, threats
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Razzy: Pissing off officious Smith bitches since 1996
Last year, I wrote a post called "Fuck You, Smith Alumnae Fund" that actually started off being about Caesar's veterinary drama and ended up being a rant about the Smith Alumnae Quarterly cluttering up my mailbox with shameless attempts to solicit donations poorly disguised as boring feature pieces about various aspects of college life. I highlighted the profile of these two bitches Tej and Katie, who had a suite at Haven-Wesley with a balcony (!!!), and made fun of them.
Well, it seems that one of their friends got tired of staging rallies to free Mumia, shut down the World Bank, end the practice of female circumcision, or whatever the hell Smith girls are getting righteously outraged about these days, decided to surf the net seeking useless bullshit, and found this post. Said friend then forwarded it to Tej, who sent me some angry correspondence filled with weak insults and vague warnings of possible retribution. Seemingly Tej did not dig through my June 2006 archives to find out what I do to people who demand that I censor anything on my website because they don't like it. Remember Paula James? She was this single mother whose teenaged son found my blog in his unsupervised internet wanderings on MySpace, disapproved of the content, and then accused me of "harming children", started an online petition, and claimed to have retained counsel to sue me into oblivion for obscenity and slander. If Tej had read any of that, she would have probably thought twice about e-mailing me, because she would know that when I get e-mail like this, I immediately post it on my blog and have fun at the author's expense. Observe, bitch:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Tejratan Bindra (tbindra@email.smith.edu)
Subject: Fucked Up
A friend of mine sent me the link to your hateful and dreadful blog. You have no right to say the shit that you did about us especially since your a has-been from the Smith College campus. You need to grow up and not bitch people out without knowing them at all, and I can't believe that I'm writing this email to a 28 YEAR OLD! If you knew anything about us, which you clearly don't, we hated doing this more than you hated reading about it. We were coerced into doing this and it's not like we were able to have any control over the article or the pictures. You need to seriously take some zoloft and get over yourself. Oh and just for your information, that's not Second Sex I'm reading there...oh, and it's pretty retarded of you to think that we just hang out like that, rather than obviously thinking that it's a staged photo shoot.
WOW. GET A LIFE AND REMOVE OUR NAMES FROM YOUR DUMBASS BLOG...clearly you don't want anything to do with me and I'd rather have less to do with you.
Assfuck.
Yes, Tej, this is an excellent way to get someone like me to acquiesce to your demands: think up some lame insults, tell me to get a life, and call my blog hateful. Wait, not just hateful, but hateful AND dreadful. It was bad enough that the Smith Alumnae Association "coerced" them (with a deft combination of Inquisition-era torture tactics and false promises of getting them sweet jobs using the oh-so-powerful alumnae network, no doubt) to do a fluff feature piece on them for the Quarterly, but now I've gone and made fun of them too! That is simply not acceptable. Therefore, Tej took it upon herself to not only demonstrate to me that she is one of the legions unable to properly distinguish the possessive "your" from the contraction "you're" ("your a has-been from the Smith College campus"), but comes up with some stinging invective, like "you need to seriously take some zoloft." Ouch! I can only retort that I do not need zoloft to combat depression when I get plenty of happiness and amusement from making fun of idiots like Tej. The thing is, I do actually have the right to say (or more accurately, write) the shit I did. There is this document, which, despite being quite old, is still relevant, and it is called "The Bill of Rights." Item number one on that document, or the First Amendment to the United States Constitution as it's known, says that I do, in fact, have the right to say any type of shit. So Tej can kiss my gorgeous round ass.
Apparently this e-mail alone was not enough for Tej to get this off her chest. Before I even saw her first e-mail, she decided to send another one that was slightly more polite. By "polite," I mean in between continuing to exhort me to get a life and making some sly jabs about my age "destroying my soul," she uses "please" and "thank you." That's the kind of well-mannered, decent Smith lady who has earned her pearls and penny loafers. Nancy Reagan and Barbara Bush are glowing with pride somewhere about the quality of woman that their alma mater can produce.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Tejratan Bindra (tbindra@email.smith.edu)
Subject: By the way...
I can't get over this, so I need to continue to bitch you out. First of all, way to misspell one of our names when it's right in front of your fucking face. Also, is life so miserable that you have the time to not only write this bullshit, but attach pictures and all that shit. You need to get a life! I know being 28 maybe destroying your soul, but really it's the prime of your life, why are you wasting away on 3 or 4 blogs?! Seriously though, please remove us from your blog...if you don't, I won't stop harassing you...I have a temper, I'm not going to lie.
Thank you.
Uh oh, Tej can't get over this and she's not going to stop harassing me. Since Tej is obviously so upset about this and plans on pursuing this beef indefinitely, it seems I'm not the only one who needs to get a life. I smell some baseless threats about litigation for slander coming my way! The only thing I'm slightly ashamed of is that I apparently spelled one of their names wrong, which is embarrassing because I take fact-checking VERY seriously here at RAZZY.org, except by "fact-checking" I actually mean drinking scotch, fucking swarthy rogues, and watching "Beverly Hills, 90210." Somehow I managed to overcome my extreme tredipation regarding what might happen if Tej really loses her legendary temper, and wrote her back:
To: Tejratan Bindra (tbindra@email.smith.edu)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: Re: By the way...
You won't stop harassing me? Oh no!!! I might have to read more lame e-mail from you that I think implies I'm old and makes vague threats about how I should be concerned about your temper! That would be truly a fate worse than death. I mean, you might do something REALLY crazy like have a candlelight vigil or a panel discussion about it with your friends! I bet you could get the Noteables or some other shiteous acapella group to perform and you could all march around the Quad demanding justice. Of course, it would be totally useless, but back in my Smith days, it sure seemed to make lots of self-righteous bitches feel better about themselves.
I'm not removing a goddamned thing from my blog. I had totally forgotten about this
entry since it was almost a year old, and what I wrote about you was mainly to make two points:
1. Most Smith girls are fucking idiots, which you have just underscored with these e-mails in which you call me an assfuck and tell me to get a life, then expect me to actually accomodate your request and remove your and your partner in boobmashing's names from my blog. It's those kind of negotiating skills that will take you far once you graduate and go work for the Human Rights Campaign or whatever the hell you're going to do.
2. The Alumnae Quarterly is a terrible publication that writes lame stories such as the feature piece about your fortunes in the housing lottery, which does not inspire me to give a goddamn thing to Smith College except some bad press on my website.
Maybe they didn't cover this in whatever gender politics classes you've taken, but there's this thing called freedom of fucking speech, which entitles me to say whatever the hell I fucking please on my blog or anywhere else. In fact, it also entitles me to post your e-mails, which I am certain that I will do. Sex, beer, and football are the only things that I enjoy more than fucking with stupid Smith girls. However, I will make sure I spell your name right in the new entry.
Eat me, you dumb cunt.
Razzy
I can't wait until Tej drafts her online petition! Good times.
Well, it seems that one of their friends got tired of staging rallies to free Mumia, shut down the World Bank, end the practice of female circumcision, or whatever the hell Smith girls are getting righteously outraged about these days, decided to surf the net seeking useless bullshit, and found this post. Said friend then forwarded it to Tej, who sent me some angry correspondence filled with weak insults and vague warnings of possible retribution. Seemingly Tej did not dig through my June 2006 archives to find out what I do to people who demand that I censor anything on my website because they don't like it. Remember Paula James? She was this single mother whose teenaged son found my blog in his unsupervised internet wanderings on MySpace, disapproved of the content, and then accused me of "harming children", started an online petition, and claimed to have retained counsel to sue me into oblivion for obscenity and slander. If Tej had read any of that, she would have probably thought twice about e-mailing me, because she would know that when I get e-mail like this, I immediately post it on my blog and have fun at the author's expense. Observe, bitch:
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Tejratan Bindra (tbindra@email.smith.edu)
Subject: Fucked Up
A friend of mine sent me the link to your hateful and dreadful blog. You have no right to say the shit that you did about us especially since your a has-been from the Smith College campus. You need to grow up and not bitch people out without knowing them at all, and I can't believe that I'm writing this email to a 28 YEAR OLD! If you knew anything about us, which you clearly don't, we hated doing this more than you hated reading about it. We were coerced into doing this and it's not like we were able to have any control over the article or the pictures. You need to seriously take some zoloft and get over yourself. Oh and just for your information, that's not Second Sex I'm reading there...oh, and it's pretty retarded of you to think that we just hang out like that, rather than obviously thinking that it's a staged photo shoot.
WOW. GET A LIFE AND REMOVE OUR NAMES FROM YOUR DUMBASS BLOG...clearly you don't want anything to do with me and I'd rather have less to do with you.
Assfuck.
Yes, Tej, this is an excellent way to get someone like me to acquiesce to your demands: think up some lame insults, tell me to get a life, and call my blog hateful. Wait, not just hateful, but hateful AND dreadful. It was bad enough that the Smith Alumnae Association "coerced" them (with a deft combination of Inquisition-era torture tactics and false promises of getting them sweet jobs using the oh-so-powerful alumnae network, no doubt) to do a fluff feature piece on them for the Quarterly, but now I've gone and made fun of them too! That is simply not acceptable. Therefore, Tej took it upon herself to not only demonstrate to me that she is one of the legions unable to properly distinguish the possessive "your" from the contraction "you're" ("your a has-been from the Smith College campus"), but comes up with some stinging invective, like "you need to seriously take some zoloft." Ouch! I can only retort that I do not need zoloft to combat depression when I get plenty of happiness and amusement from making fun of idiots like Tej. The thing is, I do actually have the right to say (or more accurately, write) the shit I did. There is this document, which, despite being quite old, is still relevant, and it is called "The Bill of Rights." Item number one on that document, or the First Amendment to the United States Constitution as it's known, says that I do, in fact, have the right to say any type of shit. So Tej can kiss my gorgeous round ass.
Apparently this e-mail alone was not enough for Tej to get this off her chest. Before I even saw her first e-mail, she decided to send another one that was slightly more polite. By "polite," I mean in between continuing to exhort me to get a life and making some sly jabs about my age "destroying my soul," she uses "please" and "thank you." That's the kind of well-mannered, decent Smith lady who has earned her pearls and penny loafers. Nancy Reagan and Barbara Bush are glowing with pride somewhere about the quality of woman that their alma mater can produce.
To: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
From: Tejratan Bindra (tbindra@email.smith.edu)
Subject: By the way...
I can't get over this, so I need to continue to bitch you out. First of all, way to misspell one of our names when it's right in front of your fucking face. Also, is life so miserable that you have the time to not only write this bullshit, but attach pictures and all that shit. You need to get a life! I know being 28 maybe destroying your soul, but really it's the prime of your life, why are you wasting away on 3 or 4 blogs?! Seriously though, please remove us from your blog...if you don't, I won't stop harassing you...I have a temper, I'm not going to lie.
Thank you.
Uh oh, Tej can't get over this and she's not going to stop harassing me. Since Tej is obviously so upset about this and plans on pursuing this beef indefinitely, it seems I'm not the only one who needs to get a life. I smell some baseless threats about litigation for slander coming my way! The only thing I'm slightly ashamed of is that I apparently spelled one of their names wrong, which is embarrassing because I take fact-checking VERY seriously here at RAZZY.org, except by "fact-checking" I actually mean drinking scotch, fucking swarthy rogues, and watching "Beverly Hills, 90210." Somehow I managed to overcome my extreme tredipation regarding what might happen if Tej really loses her legendary temper, and wrote her back:
To: Tejratan Bindra (tbindra@email.smith.edu)
From: Razzy (razzy@razzy.org)
Subject: Re: By the way...
You won't stop harassing me? Oh no!!! I might have to read more lame e-mail from you that I think implies I'm old and makes vague threats about how I should be concerned about your temper! That would be truly a fate worse than death. I mean, you might do something REALLY crazy like have a candlelight vigil or a panel discussion about it with your friends! I bet you could get the Noteables or some other shiteous acapella group to perform and you could all march around the Quad demanding justice. Of course, it would be totally useless, but back in my Smith days, it sure seemed to make lots of self-righteous bitches feel better about themselves.
I'm not removing a goddamned thing from my blog. I had totally forgotten about this
entry since it was almost a year old, and what I wrote about you was mainly to make two points:
1. Most Smith girls are fucking idiots, which you have just underscored with these e-mails in which you call me an assfuck and tell me to get a life, then expect me to actually accomodate your request and remove your and your partner in boobmashing's names from my blog. It's those kind of negotiating skills that will take you far once you graduate and go work for the Human Rights Campaign or whatever the hell you're going to do.
2. The Alumnae Quarterly is a terrible publication that writes lame stories such as the feature piece about your fortunes in the housing lottery, which does not inspire me to give a goddamn thing to Smith College except some bad press on my website.
Maybe they didn't cover this in whatever gender politics classes you've taken, but there's this thing called freedom of fucking speech, which entitles me to say whatever the hell I fucking please on my blog or anywhere else. In fact, it also entitles me to post your e-mails, which I am certain that I will do. Sex, beer, and football are the only things that I enjoy more than fucking with stupid Smith girls. However, I will make sure I spell your name right in the new entry.
Eat me, you dumb cunt.
Razzy
I can't wait until Tej drafts her online petition! Good times.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, Razzy Haters
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
From the Smith College vault: Tangling with the Dead Gays
People seem to like my stories about Smith, and since very little has gone on with me lately besides work, work, work (and who the hell wants to hear about my mice? NOBODY, myself included), I figured that I would relate one instead of talking about how lame my life is at present. Besides, I was thinking of this because that fat little bastard Chingy! got into a box that had some of my old college photos and letters in it, and cleaning up the destroyed remnants of assorted college treasures (such as the masticated remnants of my old Metallica And Justice For All tape) that he scattered all over the floor inspired a wave of reminiscing. I ended up grabbing my old binder of my newspaper clippings from my Smith days and leafing through it.
My senior year, I wrote a column for The Sophian, our page-turner of a newspaper, called "Angie's Weekly Rant," which was sort of the proto-RazzyBlog, except with less swearing. Since I was the associate editor, I would strongarm the editorial board into letting me write about whatever the fuck I felt like. This meant that every week, I would get half a page in the Op/Ed section to bitch about whatever was pissing me off that week. That meant that sometimes I tackled "real" issues (ie: articles entitled "Family weekend is a crock") and other times I just tore apart people who I didn't like (ie: "Morrow: Worst of the Quad"). Right before Christmas 1999, the Y2K hysteria was in full effect, and I decided to compile a list of reasons why I hoped the world was ending. It was like the Razzy version of Martin Luther's nailing his theses to the cathedral at Wittenburg, but instead of complaining about the selling of indulgences, simony, lay investiture, etc., I took issue with virtually every flavor of stupid cunt at Smith. I had 99 problems, and a bitch could account for every single one of them.
(P.S. I know this didn't scan well but that's what you get when you pay <$100 for a shitty HP printer/copier/scanner)
In this article, "Waiting patiently for the Apocalypse", I basically had a bulleted list of all the things that make me mad or annoy me, such as "annoying introspective female folk/pop singers", "MTV game shows which simulate our judicial system", "Jewel's burgeoning career as a poet and actress," "idiotic discourse on how to shave your pubic hair on the Smith Daily Jolt (Smith-specific internet bulletin/message board)," and "dirty hippies." Like I said, this was the proto-RazzyBlog. Anyway, one of the things I listed was "dead gay performance art," which immediately got me into hot water with the Dead Gays.
Every year there was a party in the Quad, where I lived, called Celebration of Sisterhood. It was started in response to a "homophobic incident" in the early 90s, where some retarded cow started distributing signs that said something along the lines of "Smithies, reclaim your pearls and penny loafers!", insinuating that the increasingly vocal lesbian population on campus had no business being at Smith, and that the college would be better served to hearken back to a time when it was a blueblooded finishing school producing mainly upper crust wives and suicidal poets. I mean, what would Anne Morrow Lindbergh or Nancy Reagan say about all these muff divers running around with their shaved heads, Doc Martens, and pride rings?!?!
Anyway, the lesbians and "allies" (straight people who are down with the gays) fought back by staging the Celebration of Sisterhood, which was a combined candlelight vigil/Quad house sketch comedy and talent show. Mainly it was an excuse to get drunk and feel all warm and fuzzy about getting along with people, as well as an excellent opportunity for the curious to give kissing a girl a try. However, my senior year, a group of pretentious snatches decided that Celebration of Sisterhood was sending the wrong message, and decided to crash it.
All of a sudden, Wilson House was in the middle of a skit about acceptance or whatever, when all these bitches storm the stage wearing black robes and white skeleton-esque face paint. Their costumes looked like a cross between a Carmelite nun and the Halloween costumes that Johnny and his henchman from the Kobra Kai dojo wear in the first part of The Karate Kid, where they beat the living shit out of Daniel-san.
Anyway, these people started swarming through the crowd handing out flyers that said "Resist heteronormativity!" and "Marriage=Death", then performed some type of grim funerary wedding mock ritual thing...I think. I remember not having any idea what the fuck they were doing, while simultaneously my Smith Dumb Bitch detector was going berserk. When they left the stage, I think they were all congratulating themselves at having done something revolutionary and groundbreaking. However, most of the people in the crowd were just puzzled, not having any idea what their point was. Were they against straight people? Or marriage? Or gay people acting straight? Or gay marriage? What were they getting at? Was "heteronormativity" even a real fucking word?? Their propaganda sheets and presentation were unclear and confusing, so people just shrugged and went back to the cute "we're sisters...yay!"-themed skits and then got drunk and fingerbanged their friends, or whatever. I probably went back to my room and took bong hits and then hit a bar with my boyfriend Benzo.
Anyway, a couple days later, the people behind this disruption identified themselves in the school events calendar as the Dead Gays, and scheduled a "panel teach-in" about their message to clarify why in the hell they interrupted Celebration of Sisterhood. Much to their disappointment, nobody showed up except most of the Sophian editorial staff, who apart from being there to report the story, had been having lots of fun at the Dead Gays' expense during editorial board meetings. The girl who was reporting the news story asked the who, what, when, where, how, and most importantly, why questions, and they went off on some incomprehensible tirade about "performance art pieces facilitating a revolution against conformity" that made no sense. Every time the news reporter would ask, "So, was this intended as art, or as a political statement?" she'd get a bullshit answer like "Neither, and both," and then a heaping helping of condescending artfag gibberish.
Then it was my turn. I raised my hand and began with, "I'm Razzy, and I write an opinion column in the Sophian, and I have a few que-"
The Head Dead Gay in charge raised her hand to silence me (thus instantly earning my eternal disdain), then said in her frostiest possible tone, "We know who you are."
Hmmm....I guess the Dead Gays, some of whom lived in Talbot House, didn't like the article I wrote about their Immorality party in which I discussed their "infirm physiques", their "mediocre DJ and unfriendly, extremely paranoid bartenders," and quoted a male partygoer complaining about "too many fat girls in tight clothes, the girl pouring the keg had a happy strip bigger than mine". It's also possible that they were pissed off by one or more of my many other Sophian editorials, most of which had titles like "Veganism fails to stop human suffering" and "Keep depleting that ozone", not to mention my status as the paper's official "Republican" (I was the closest thing to an actual Republican, what with my ideas about small government and lower taxes, and I liked McCain) in the political point-counterpoint section. In any event, the Dead Gays made their dislike for me quite clear.
"Okay," I said, preparing myself for a hostile exchange. "So, what exactly was the point of your little performance?"
"It was a performance art piece," said the Head Dead Gay.
"Yes, I heard that, but what exactly was it about? What did you hope to accomplish with it?" I asked.
Head Dead Gay and her cohorts all looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then started rattling off more nonsensical bullshit about how performance art doesn't have to have a point, as it is just a means of expression. "What were you trying to express?" I asked. It went on like this for several minutes, with them getting becoming more convoluted and patronizing by the second, and me getting progressively more irritated by the bitch's tone.
I should have known better than to expect any kind of straight answer from the Dead Gays. The Head Dead Gay was this artsy BDOC (Big Dyke on Campus) named K8 Hardy. I'm sure her name was originally Katherine or something, but undoubtedly spelling her name in the style of a text message gave her some authentic artist street cred. It's lucky that K8 has continued her career as a pretentious artfag, because there is no shortage of pictures of her dressed like a fucking idiot when you Google "K8 Hardy".
For example, in this photo, she manages to offset her crotchless pants with the face and hair of the walking dead. I'm betting she totally hired one of George A. Romero's effects guys to style this shoot. I can almost hear her thinking, "Come on, K8, channel your inner uppity feminist zombie, channel it!"
There's also this downright disgusting picture of K8's lopsided tits and stank crotch. I honestly can't tell if that's her gash I can see through these underwear or a fresh period stain, but either way, EWWWW! I just lost my appetite. I love me some naked chicks, but I'd say this definitely falls under the rubric of BAD NUDITY. Close your legs, ho, and while you're at it, SHAVE THEM!
If you just swallowed your vomit, then relax, this next picture isn't gross, unless you're disgusted by shameless plagiarism and unnecessary displays of tricep definition. It's just K8 Hardy biting the personal style of Jeffrey Sebelia, equally smug deconstructionist tool and "Project Runway" winner:
And this last one, in which K8 Hardy attends the annual outdoor costume picnic of the American Association of Performance Tardists dressed as a combination of Kermit the Frog, that guy from A Clockwork Orange, and Stands with a Fist from Dances With Wolves, is my favorite. Bitch totally stuffed her codpiece. Wait for it, wait for it...
Anyway, that's the Head Dead Gay. She was such an insufferably obnoxious cunt at the Dead Gays' "panel teach-in" that I immediately added a line in my Sophian column about the end of the world listing "Dead Gay performance art" as a reason why I was eagerly waiting for the Apocalypse.
The Dead Gays were not pleased about this. For one thing, the news article about them was very small and, since they didn't give us a coherent explanation about whatever the hell it was they were trying to accomplish besides getting people's undivided (and totally befuddled) attention, it made it sound as though that were the only point they were trying to make. For another, I think they were pissed that they were included on my pro-Apocalypse list between "the Zappa children" and "aerosol cheese," as it all meant that we DIDN'T TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY.
For the rest of the year, the Dead Gays tried all sorts of passive aggressive shit to get back at us. After Senior Ball, they showed up at the afterparty LL Cool Jew and Wmania were having at their campus apartment and tried to bring in this giant cardboard wave decoration thing they stole from the dance (Senior Ball's theme was "Enchantment Under the Sea"...just like in Back to the Future, I shit you not). They were causing all sorts of trouble by being assholes to all of the guests. I remember getting into it with K8 Hardy and her monstrously fat, mustachioed dyke-along Monica, and being about this close to bathing them in my bottom-shelf gin and tonic. Finally, Wmania had enough, got bossy, and told them to leave. When they refused, she took the big cardboard wave they brought and threw it off the back staircase. When they went after it, she locked them out.
The night before we graduated, I threw a party on the Jordan second floor and those bitches showed up to drink the keg beer I bought with my "Award for excellence in research in microbiology and immunology" prize money. Since we had to move out soon, my shit was all over my room in the packing process. Those skanks brazenly walked into my room and started competing in feats of strength involving lifting my deer head. My deer head is one of my most prized possessions (it's still on my wall to this day), even if it is only a 6-point buck, so I'd be damned if it was going to get a cracked antler or something at the hands of a Dead Gay. I tossed them out with the help of the rest of the party (I think that one of the townies there may have given them an impromptu beer shower), and pretty much forgot about them.
However, when I attended my two-year reunion (Smith has reunions all the time to milk the alumnae for the sake of our endowment), LL Cool Jew brought us to some campus party in the very apartment where KatieScarlett and Miss Corbutt used to live. I quickly realized whose party it was...Monica, K8 Hardy's obese sidekick. She was still fat, still ugly, and still hadn't waxed off her pube 'stache. Fortunately, Benzo's stepbrother and his male friends from Vassar were with us, and they were fucking with so many Smith girls that ultimately Public Safety kicked us all out. On our way out, Wmania and I managed to swipe some typed up "sexual manifesto" off their apartment corkboard, which we read aloud outside to our hysterical drunken delight. Given that it was three pages of bad metaphors about lady unicorns in caves, it was apparent that this bitch had never had sex beyond the few times when she likely had too much peach schnapps and engaged in some reckless boobmashing with some equally repellant demi-Dead Gay.
According to Google, K8 Hardy lives in New York, so it's always possible that I could run into her. In fact, being that I associate with some artfags myself (although KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser are actually good at what they do and are not so pretentious as to try to claim that pictures of some old pervert whacking off is anything but a jerker, and Miss Corbutt doesn't really frequent the artfag circuit), it's always possible that our paths could cross at some sort of art function. If and when I see K8, I'm going to hope that narcissistic slut has come across this by Googling herself, so that we can throw down just like back in the 'Hamp. It's ALWAYS good times fucking with stupid Smith bitches. Always.
My senior year, I wrote a column for The Sophian, our page-turner of a newspaper, called "Angie's Weekly Rant," which was sort of the proto-RazzyBlog, except with less swearing. Since I was the associate editor, I would strongarm the editorial board into letting me write about whatever the fuck I felt like. This meant that every week, I would get half a page in the Op/Ed section to bitch about whatever was pissing me off that week. That meant that sometimes I tackled "real" issues (ie: articles entitled "Family weekend is a crock") and other times I just tore apart people who I didn't like (ie: "Morrow: Worst of the Quad"). Right before Christmas 1999, the Y2K hysteria was in full effect, and I decided to compile a list of reasons why I hoped the world was ending. It was like the Razzy version of Martin Luther's nailing his theses to the cathedral at Wittenburg, but instead of complaining about the selling of indulgences, simony, lay investiture, etc., I took issue with virtually every flavor of stupid cunt at Smith. I had 99 problems, and a bitch could account for every single one of them.
(P.S. I know this didn't scan well but that's what you get when you pay <$100 for a shitty HP printer/copier/scanner)
In this article, "Waiting patiently for the Apocalypse", I basically had a bulleted list of all the things that make me mad or annoy me, such as "annoying introspective female folk/pop singers", "MTV game shows which simulate our judicial system", "Jewel's burgeoning career as a poet and actress," "idiotic discourse on how to shave your pubic hair on the Smith Daily Jolt (Smith-specific internet bulletin/message board)," and "dirty hippies." Like I said, this was the proto-RazzyBlog. Anyway, one of the things I listed was "dead gay performance art," which immediately got me into hot water with the Dead Gays.
Every year there was a party in the Quad, where I lived, called Celebration of Sisterhood. It was started in response to a "homophobic incident" in the early 90s, where some retarded cow started distributing signs that said something along the lines of "Smithies, reclaim your pearls and penny loafers!", insinuating that the increasingly vocal lesbian population on campus had no business being at Smith, and that the college would be better served to hearken back to a time when it was a blueblooded finishing school producing mainly upper crust wives and suicidal poets. I mean, what would Anne Morrow Lindbergh or Nancy Reagan say about all these muff divers running around with their shaved heads, Doc Martens, and pride rings?!?!
Anyway, the lesbians and "allies" (straight people who are down with the gays) fought back by staging the Celebration of Sisterhood, which was a combined candlelight vigil/Quad house sketch comedy and talent show. Mainly it was an excuse to get drunk and feel all warm and fuzzy about getting along with people, as well as an excellent opportunity for the curious to give kissing a girl a try. However, my senior year, a group of pretentious snatches decided that Celebration of Sisterhood was sending the wrong message, and decided to crash it.
All of a sudden, Wilson House was in the middle of a skit about acceptance or whatever, when all these bitches storm the stage wearing black robes and white skeleton-esque face paint. Their costumes looked like a cross between a Carmelite nun and the Halloween costumes that Johnny and his henchman from the Kobra Kai dojo wear in the first part of The Karate Kid, where they beat the living shit out of Daniel-san.
Anyway, these people started swarming through the crowd handing out flyers that said "Resist heteronormativity!" and "Marriage=Death", then performed some type of grim funerary wedding mock ritual thing...I think. I remember not having any idea what the fuck they were doing, while simultaneously my Smith Dumb Bitch detector was going berserk. When they left the stage, I think they were all congratulating themselves at having done something revolutionary and groundbreaking. However, most of the people in the crowd were just puzzled, not having any idea what their point was. Were they against straight people? Or marriage? Or gay people acting straight? Or gay marriage? What were they getting at? Was "heteronormativity" even a real fucking word?? Their propaganda sheets and presentation were unclear and confusing, so people just shrugged and went back to the cute "we're sisters...yay!"-themed skits and then got drunk and fingerbanged their friends, or whatever. I probably went back to my room and took bong hits and then hit a bar with my boyfriend Benzo.
Anyway, a couple days later, the people behind this disruption identified themselves in the school events calendar as the Dead Gays, and scheduled a "panel teach-in" about their message to clarify why in the hell they interrupted Celebration of Sisterhood. Much to their disappointment, nobody showed up except most of the Sophian editorial staff, who apart from being there to report the story, had been having lots of fun at the Dead Gays' expense during editorial board meetings. The girl who was reporting the news story asked the who, what, when, where, how, and most importantly, why questions, and they went off on some incomprehensible tirade about "performance art pieces facilitating a revolution against conformity" that made no sense. Every time the news reporter would ask, "So, was this intended as art, or as a political statement?" she'd get a bullshit answer like "Neither, and both," and then a heaping helping of condescending artfag gibberish.
Then it was my turn. I raised my hand and began with, "I'm Razzy, and I write an opinion column in the Sophian, and I have a few que-"
The Head Dead Gay in charge raised her hand to silence me (thus instantly earning my eternal disdain), then said in her frostiest possible tone, "We know who you are."
Hmmm....I guess the Dead Gays, some of whom lived in Talbot House, didn't like the article I wrote about their Immorality party in which I discussed their "infirm physiques", their "mediocre DJ and unfriendly, extremely paranoid bartenders," and quoted a male partygoer complaining about "too many fat girls in tight clothes, the girl pouring the keg had a happy strip bigger than mine". It's also possible that they were pissed off by one or more of my many other Sophian editorials, most of which had titles like "Veganism fails to stop human suffering" and "Keep depleting that ozone", not to mention my status as the paper's official "Republican" (I was the closest thing to an actual Republican, what with my ideas about small government and lower taxes, and I liked McCain) in the political point-counterpoint section. In any event, the Dead Gays made their dislike for me quite clear.
"Okay," I said, preparing myself for a hostile exchange. "So, what exactly was the point of your little performance?"
"It was a performance art piece," said the Head Dead Gay.
"Yes, I heard that, but what exactly was it about? What did you hope to accomplish with it?" I asked.
Head Dead Gay and her cohorts all looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then started rattling off more nonsensical bullshit about how performance art doesn't have to have a point, as it is just a means of expression. "What were you trying to express?" I asked. It went on like this for several minutes, with them getting becoming more convoluted and patronizing by the second, and me getting progressively more irritated by the bitch's tone.
I should have known better than to expect any kind of straight answer from the Dead Gays. The Head Dead Gay was this artsy BDOC (Big Dyke on Campus) named K8 Hardy. I'm sure her name was originally Katherine or something, but undoubtedly spelling her name in the style of a text message gave her some authentic artist street cred. It's lucky that K8 has continued her career as a pretentious artfag, because there is no shortage of pictures of her dressed like a fucking idiot when you Google "K8 Hardy".
For example, in this photo, she manages to offset her crotchless pants with the face and hair of the walking dead. I'm betting she totally hired one of George A. Romero's effects guys to style this shoot. I can almost hear her thinking, "Come on, K8, channel your inner uppity feminist zombie, channel it!"
There's also this downright disgusting picture of K8's lopsided tits and stank crotch. I honestly can't tell if that's her gash I can see through these underwear or a fresh period stain, but either way, EWWWW! I just lost my appetite. I love me some naked chicks, but I'd say this definitely falls under the rubric of BAD NUDITY. Close your legs, ho, and while you're at it, SHAVE THEM!
If you just swallowed your vomit, then relax, this next picture isn't gross, unless you're disgusted by shameless plagiarism and unnecessary displays of tricep definition. It's just K8 Hardy biting the personal style of Jeffrey Sebelia, equally smug deconstructionist tool and "Project Runway" winner:
And this last one, in which K8 Hardy attends the annual outdoor costume picnic of the American Association of Performance Tardists dressed as a combination of Kermit the Frog, that guy from A Clockwork Orange, and Stands with a Fist from Dances With Wolves, is my favorite. Bitch totally stuffed her codpiece. Wait for it, wait for it...
Anyway, that's the Head Dead Gay. She was such an insufferably obnoxious cunt at the Dead Gays' "panel teach-in" that I immediately added a line in my Sophian column about the end of the world listing "Dead Gay performance art" as a reason why I was eagerly waiting for the Apocalypse.
The Dead Gays were not pleased about this. For one thing, the news article about them was very small and, since they didn't give us a coherent explanation about whatever the hell it was they were trying to accomplish besides getting people's undivided (and totally befuddled) attention, it made it sound as though that were the only point they were trying to make. For another, I think they were pissed that they were included on my pro-Apocalypse list between "the Zappa children" and "aerosol cheese," as it all meant that we DIDN'T TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY.
For the rest of the year, the Dead Gays tried all sorts of passive aggressive shit to get back at us. After Senior Ball, they showed up at the afterparty LL Cool Jew and Wmania were having at their campus apartment and tried to bring in this giant cardboard wave decoration thing they stole from the dance (Senior Ball's theme was "Enchantment Under the Sea"...just like in Back to the Future, I shit you not). They were causing all sorts of trouble by being assholes to all of the guests. I remember getting into it with K8 Hardy and her monstrously fat, mustachioed dyke-along Monica, and being about this close to bathing them in my bottom-shelf gin and tonic. Finally, Wmania had enough, got bossy, and told them to leave. When they refused, she took the big cardboard wave they brought and threw it off the back staircase. When they went after it, she locked them out.
The night before we graduated, I threw a party on the Jordan second floor and those bitches showed up to drink the keg beer I bought with my "Award for excellence in research in microbiology and immunology" prize money. Since we had to move out soon, my shit was all over my room in the packing process. Those skanks brazenly walked into my room and started competing in feats of strength involving lifting my deer head. My deer head is one of my most prized possessions (it's still on my wall to this day), even if it is only a 6-point buck, so I'd be damned if it was going to get a cracked antler or something at the hands of a Dead Gay. I tossed them out with the help of the rest of the party (I think that one of the townies there may have given them an impromptu beer shower), and pretty much forgot about them.
However, when I attended my two-year reunion (Smith has reunions all the time to milk the alumnae for the sake of our endowment), LL Cool Jew brought us to some campus party in the very apartment where KatieScarlett and Miss Corbutt used to live. I quickly realized whose party it was...Monica, K8 Hardy's obese sidekick. She was still fat, still ugly, and still hadn't waxed off her pube 'stache. Fortunately, Benzo's stepbrother and his male friends from Vassar were with us, and they were fucking with so many Smith girls that ultimately Public Safety kicked us all out. On our way out, Wmania and I managed to swipe some typed up "sexual manifesto" off their apartment corkboard, which we read aloud outside to our hysterical drunken delight. Given that it was three pages of bad metaphors about lady unicorns in caves, it was apparent that this bitch had never had sex beyond the few times when she likely had too much peach schnapps and engaged in some reckless boobmashing with some equally repellant demi-Dead Gay.
According to Google, K8 Hardy lives in New York, so it's always possible that I could run into her. In fact, being that I associate with some artfags myself (although KatieScarlett and BloodyTosser are actually good at what they do and are not so pretentious as to try to claim that pictures of some old pervert whacking off is anything but a jerker, and Miss Corbutt doesn't really frequent the artfag circuit), it's always possible that our paths could cross at some sort of art function. If and when I see K8, I'm going to hope that narcissistic slut has come across this by Googling herself, so that we can throw down just like back in the 'Hamp. It's ALWAYS good times fucking with stupid Smith bitches. Always.
Labels: Dumb Smith bitches, feminazism, Razzification, retard rage, Smith College Vault, stank vaginas
Thursday, October 05, 2006
From the Smith College vault: Razzy gets busted for possession
The other night LL Cool Jew was in town, so JerseyGirl, FalloniousMonk, and myself met her on the Upper West Side for drinks. Since she couldn't meet up with us until later in the evening on account of it being Yom Kippur and having a date with many relatives and a platter of smoked fishes for fast-breaking on the Upper East Side, JerseyGirl and I elected to prefunk at her apartment.
I hadn't seen JerseyGirl in ages before I ran into her randomly at a yoga studio a couple of years ago. Even though we went to Smith together and were buddies from the school newspaper, she was two years behind me and lived in a different house, so we hadn't really kept in touch. However, once she had suffered through a punishing Bikram's class with me, I invited her back to LL Cool Jew and my crib for cheap Chinese food, canned beer, dog admiring, and conversation. We've been hanging out ever since, because she's funny as shit. She works at a certain freedom-loving cable news channel as a producer for a certain famous mustachioed journalist(think angry skinheads hurling chairs), and her stories about life at work, as well as about the New Jersey town she originates from, are priceless.
However, because we've only recently become more frequent hangout buddies, JerseyGirl was unfamiliar with many of the particulars of the hijinks I regularly involved myself in during my college years. Somehow we got to reminiscing about life in the Quad (Jordan House obviously being the best to live in, but I conceded to her that Scales wasn't too bad either), and got to talking about how I scored pot while I was matriculating. There had been a guy who I'll call the Byrdman working in the kitchen of my house who probably every girl smoking pot at Smith had bought from at one time or another, until he got arrested and hauled out of my house. I was rattling off the Byrdman anecdotal tales, and JerseyGirl was loving it to the point where she said, "You should start a blog that's just about Smith. Your stories are hilarious."
I thought about this for a minute. Indeed, I could start a blog that is comprised about just stories about Smith and have ample material at my disposal for fun-poking. However, I can barely keep up with this blog, or my Fantasy Football blog which is turning into a neglected shitshow. Therefore, I decided that when I think of some really good Smith College story I'll just relate it here, and maybe some of my friends from Smith will actually start reading it regularly (yes, I mean you, LL Cool Jew, Wmania, FalloniousMonk, JerseyGirl, Miss Corbutt, and anyone else whose name isn't KatieScarlett). So without further ado, here is the story of my bust for possession by the Smith College "Police" and the subseqent trial before a tribunal of judgmental transgendered bitches:
At Smith we had these party weekends creatively called Winter Weekend and Spring Weekend. Almost all the houses at Smith would host parties, even the lame ones like Talbot and Lamont House, and horny knuckle-dragging men from all over the northeast, from West Point to Dartmouth to the University of fucking Maine, would show up for some action with some desperate Smith girls.
A lot of people are under the misconception that Smith is a "lesbian" school because somewhere in the neighborhood of 30% of the students identify as openly gay. However, I would say that a good 20% of those are LUGs (lesbian until graduation) on the "four-year plan" driven to boobmash by a combination of curiosity and desperation, which makes Smith only 10% gay, just like the rest of the world. Apart from the real dykes and the LUGs, the other 70% is comprised of straight girls with no social skills who want nothing more than to meet a nice guy and GET LAID. Therefore, Winter and Spring weekends represented an excellent opportunity for guys to show up, get laid with minimal effort, and possibly carry out some type of important rite of passage for fraternity pledges. I remember one time this guy in a diaper hauled me into a bathroom, stuck a magic marker in my hand, and informed me that he needed X number of signatures to qualify as a Phi Beta Suckalottacocka or whatever, and would I sign my name and all my friends' names on his back. I whirled him around, then wrote, "I HAVE A MINISCULE PENIS AND CAN'T MAINTAIN AN ERECTION. TELL YOUR FRIENDS NOT TO FUCK ME UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES." Later, once he apparently found out what I'd written, my network of girls informed me that he was looking to have words about how "wrong" it was that I'd written that instead of a list of plagiarized girls' signatures. I guess the self-righteous complaint aspect of the prototypical Smith girl was catching. He never found me, because I was probably already in my room smoking pot with half the party by then.
The Quad, where I lived and where most of these shenanigans went down, generally hosted the best parties. We would have like 6 or 7 kegs. At most state and/or large co-ed schools that's a Tuesday night, but by Smith standards, these were like Spring Break in Mazatlan. However, on Winter or Spring weekend, the turnout was usually so big that these kegs were gone within two or three hours, leaving people angry and beverage-deprived. At that time, I'd corral my group of revelers, and we'd cruise up to my room for unearthing private liquor stashes and the rolling of many joints. Usually my entire floor would do this, so there was always a decent after party at the Jordan second floor. One night during my junior year Winter Weekend, I proceeded to do just this with a large group of girls and their assorted hangers-on, my boyfriend, and some of his townie friends. Shortly after we'd smoked our first joint, there was a loud, authoritative pounding on my door.
"Public Safety! Open up!"
I was a little worried, but not terribly, because Smith doesn't like to compile stats about drug busts, and therefore, they'll generally let it slide to keep promotional material such as the "Crime on Campus" statistic brochure appealing to parents and wealthy alumnae. I hid my bag somewhere, threw the roach out my window, and opened up.
FOUR Public Safety guys marched in and started acting like we were running a sweat shop or something in there. "Where is your marijuana?" demanded the alpha Public Safety guy, a short man with glasses and impeccably gelled hair.
"Marijuana? We were smoking cigarettes," I said, waving my lit Parliament light around to show him so.
"I distinctly smell marijuana. If you don't produce the marijuana, I will search your room."
Since Smith technically owned my room, I had absolutely NO right to privacy at any time. One time Public Safety was investigating something else and accidentally came into my room right while I was fucking my boyfriend. I didn't answer the door, because I didn't want to deal with them, so the officer just let himself right in. I managed to get a bathrobe on just as the door opened, but still there was one hell of an awkward moment as the officer stated that he had the wrong room, and sorry. I knew that they wouldn't hesitate to tear all my personal belongings apart, and if they did, they would find at least two bongs, several assorted pipes, a stack of Zig Zag rolling papers, a large container of seeds left over from my failed attempts at horticulture, and definitely at least a quarter ounce of weed. I didn't want that to happen, so I grabbed the book I had rolled the joint on. "Here is my marijuana," I said. "As you can see, there's hardly anything."
The Public Safety officer looked suspiciously at me, then at the book. There were indeed a few scraps of weed on the book. Acting like some sort of CSI, he made a show about brushing the scraps into a plastic baggie as "evidence." As an afterthought, he also confiscated two candles, because candles are a fire hazard and thus against the rules. Fortunately, this placated him and he didn't search my room. "We're going to have to write you up," he told me. "Expect to be contacted by the director of Public Safety and the Dean of Students about possible disciplinary action."
I knew one of the Public Safety officers there, because he always hung out at the newspaper office. The year prior, when I posed nude for the April Fool's edition of The Sophian, he told me that I had "balls down to here" and requested an autographed copy, which he supposedly hung in his work locker. I asked him if there wasn't anything he could do.
"Sorry," he said. "Normally there would be, but your RC called us specifically to report you. There's a record. My hands are tied."
They left, and I was reeling. I had been ratted out to the fuzz, and I was getting all Tony Soprano about doing horrible, murderous things to the snitch. However, I could do very little, because she was my RC. "RC" stands for "resident coordinator," and they are like RAs at any other school. The RC position was new, and was especially for first-year alumnae who couldn't bear the thought of life somewhere besides Smith. In return for their services and their supposed maturity, they received free board, a suite with a private bathroom, and a "generous" stipend of $11,000. In other words, Smith had created a job tailor-made for losers who couldn't move on with their lives post-graduation. My RC that year fit this description perfectly.
She was this fat bitch named Crystal Daugherty, and yes, that is her real name. She was a women's studies major who drove a VW Fox with fucking daisy stickers all over it, and was the type who thought she knew EVERYTHING. I had already made enemies with her at the LBTA panel discussion in our house when I went as the "ally" (hetero breeder) and wore a shirt that said "It's okay to be straight" on it. I further pissed her off that night at the party by getting mouthy with her when she wasn't letting people in (particularly those of the Y chromosome persuasion) because they weren't on the guest list. I said, "Put them on my guest list, then. Parties are for everyone." She gave me this exasperated, maternal sigh and told the doorwomen to ignore me. Furiously, I marched outside with a piece of paper, took down everyone's names, came in, and gave the sheet to Crystal. "Here is my revised guest list, Crystal, and if you so much as reject one of my friends on it, I'll file a complaint against you with the office of student affairs. If someone is on a guest list, they must be admitted. It's in the fucking handbook under the rules about social functions." Crystal glared at me, knowing there was nothing she could do, and not wanting to mar her perfect disciplinary record with the school with legitimate complaints for which there were witnesses. However, I should have known not to think an obese, socially retarded womyn like her wouldn't immediately seek vengeance that would both stick it to me good and restore her sense of indisputable self-importance. For Crystal, revenge was a dish best served by Public Safety.
I promptly received a letter the next week informing me that I was to report to the judicial board for an inquiry concerning the charges of "possession of a class D substance and candles." I tried to have some words with Crystal about it, but she blew me off with some bullshit about how the particulars of her job were non-negotiable. Even worse, at our Sophian editorial board meeting that week, the rest of the staff thought my inclusion in the "Police Blotter" section of the paper was riotously funny. I was irate, so I decided to get some payback the best way I knew how: I wrote an editorial. The piece was a scathing indictment of the RC program and how it was infringing on our quality of life by ruining the few remotely decent parties that ever happen at Smith. Since Crystal had pissed off plenty of other people the night I got busted by throwing people out of the party because she felt like it, trying to send my neighbors to their rooms, and screaming "GO HOME! THIS IS OUR HOUSE! WE DON'T WANT YOU HERE!" to the entire party the second the kegs were kicked, I had plenty of ammunition to make an example out of her without dragging my legal troubles into it. I argued that the RC program was a failure because no self-respecting Smith girl will be cowed by the authority of someone who acts like an incompetent 12-year-old babysitter, and then likened Crystal and her fat underling (the house "Diversity Coordinator") to Hitler and Mussolini. Crystal was feminazi to the core, so I felt the comparison was valid. Crystal, however, did NOT appreciate it.
Finally, Crystal decided that she wanted to talk, so that we could "understand each other." I trudged down to her suite and sat on her couch. One quick look at the decor told me that we were going to get nowhere in terms of finding common ground. Apart from her Smith diploma prominently displayed on the mantle of her decorative fireplace, the rest of the place was done up in trite-ass feminist icon framed prints (Rosie the Riveter, 70s-era Steinem, etc.) and an ENTIRE WALL devoted to magazine cutouts of Agent Scully from "The X-Files." There was even one Entertainment Weekly cover of Agents Mulder and Scully in bed together, and she'd cut David Duchovny out of the picture. I guess she had a thing for redheads in pleated pants, and she wasn't going to let any inconvenient penis stand in the way of her obsessively lusting after the same.
Anyway, we sat down and she explained to me in a motherly, extraordinarily condescending tone that her job isn't personal, but as RC she has to take drastic action if she suspects drug use. I listened, seething more with every minute of her bullshit story. I most certainly was not the only person smoking pot on the second floor that night, yet somehow the cops only went to my door. Furthermore, she'd been turning a blind eye to underage drinking all night. I know because I had only recently turned 20, and all night long I was arguing with her while clutching a beer.
"Cut the crap, Crystal," I told her. "We all know that it's common practice for RCs to generally overlook things, especially on Winter Weekend. You only called Public Safety on me because you don't like me."
"Why wouldn't I like you?"
"Because I told you that you were full of shit to your face. Maybe I should have gone behind your back in classic Smith non-confrontational tradition."
"That's not what you did! You were trying to let in unsafe, STRANGE MEN! I was just looking out for my house."
"Your house, Crystal? I've lived here for three years. You moved in this year because the school paid you to."
This conversation went like this for about an hour, with both of us becoming increasingly hostile and standoffish. Eventually, we parted with me lying that I wasn't planning on smoking pot anymore anyway, given my date with the judicial board, so I'd appreciate it if she would not immediately dial 2407 and call Public Safety on me whenever she was feeling shemasculated without first investigating herself. Also I believe that I encouraged her to get a real job.
Anyway, I returned to my room only to field a call from Saratoga120, an English professor I'd had my first year. This woman was a total character: she'd been at Smith for twenty years, she was a hard-core Catholic who smoked these foot-long cigarettes (the Saratoga 120s for which she is named) that she carried around in an embroidered cigarette purse, and made scathing comments about people in her class whose writing she thought was "amateurish" or "patently talentless." Fortunately, she liked my writing, and decided to make me a pet project of hers. She was always giving me her two cents on my Sophian articles, constantly pestering me to drop science and become an English major (I told her there was no way unless I'd somehow get out of the Milton-Chaucer-Beowulf requirement), and inviting me to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes with her. So Saratoga120 called me up and launched into a lecture about how stupid I was to be smoking pot. Clearly the word about my bust had made it through the faculty grapevine to her, and she wasn't going to bite her tongue. "I smoked pot twenty years ago at a faculty party!" she raged. "And I threw up on my way home. And dope makes you stupid. You don't want to be stupid, do you?"
After a few minutes of me meekly conceding to her remarks, she then said, "Well, obviously, you'll need representation at your hearing."
"I already read the handbook. I'm not allowed to bring counsel."
"Read it more closely, Razzy, I know that comprehension is one of your strong suits, so don't bullshit me. You're not allowed to have an attorney. You are, however, allowed to have a faculty member plead your case, and thus I will be going with you. Those people on the judicial board are intellectual lightweights, and I won't have them suspending you."
I was delighted. All of a sudden, Fortuna was spinning my way. When the fateful day came, not only did Saratoga120 show up ready to hand the judicial board their asses, but she brought along one of the college's demi-Deans with her. In fact, he was the demi-Dean responsible for overseeing the judicial board. I tried to hide my pleasure and act respectful and somewhat contrite.
When we walked into the judicial board room, I couldn't have been happier to have a posse of impressive faculty and administrators with me. I was faced with a long table populated by a bunch of uptight girls in Smith College sweatshirts and ugly cardigans smiling at me grimly, as if to say, "We can't wait to lord our power over you, you depraved bitch." I'd like to add that I'd been making fun of these types of bitches for two years in the newspaper, and I'm certain that my reputation for being an asshole preceded me into this room. Much like now, my writing in college made people either love me and laud me as hilarious, or hate me with every ounce of their being. The judicial board types were the latter, excepting one woman, a pornography heiress who had once tried to fuck me underneath the giant Georgia O'Keefe lily poster in her room. However, their smiles of imminent Razzy-suspending pleasure were promptly wiped off their smug, acne-ridden faces when my entourage seated themselves alongside me.
The "woman" at the head of the table, and the Chief Bitch of the Judicial Board, glared furiously. S/he was a transgendered person named Gloria Macri who insisted that people call him/her "Billy", yet another example of F2M trannies choosing stupid fucking boy names. My cause would have been hopeless without Saratoga120 and the Dean, as not only did s/he clearly dislike me on principle, but she was also an Ada (meaning "student of non-traditional age", meaning old). However, once s/he saw my entourage, s/he softened his/her reproachful glare immediately and began kissing ass.
"Oh, Dean! Oh, Professor Saratoga120! So NICE to see you! I'm surprised that you would take the time to appear for an insignificant hearing like this one."
I said, "I don't think it's insignificant," earning a kick under the table from Saratoga120, who had advised me to "keep your big mouth shut unless you are asked a specific question, and then answer only that without elaborating. Otherwise, they'll railroad you."
"Yes, well, shall we begin?" asked Billy/Gloria. "The charges are 'possession of a class D substance and candles.' We have your statement here, Ms. Razzy, in which you admit to using the class D substance as well as possessing the candles despite both being expressly prohibited by the school handbook of rules. What do you have to say on the subject?"
"It's all in my statement," I replied.
"Are you aware that marijuana is an illegal drug?"
"Yes. I exercised bad judgment, and for that I apologize," I responded. That was it for the why-were-you-doing-drugs line of questioning. However, the judicial board really wanted to know about the second part of the charge.
"It's obvious why you were using marijuana, but why were you in possession of the candles?"
"Um...decoration, I guess." I couldn't believe I had to come up with a reason for having candles, but I didn't think the right answer was "a flame source for doing hot knives."
"Decoration? Do you ever light them? The Public Safety report says they had clearly been lit."
"Yes, well, you know, to create mood."
"Mood? Mood for what?"
"Romantic mood for when my boyfriend visits."
"You have a boyfriend?"
"Yes, as it clearly says in my statement. Benzo. He's a townie. He works at Cha Cha Cha."
"The one with the rosy cheeks?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I love him, he's so nice!" exclaimed one of the judicial board justices. Benzo has always been a hit with the Smith girls. Even girls who despised me always adored Benzo.
Anyway, Billy/Gloria's tough interrogation tactics were out the window once her cohorts started gushing about how charming and sweet my boyfriend was when he served them black bean burritos, and s/he informed me that I would be receiving my punishment in campus mail. The Dean in my corner advised them that he "would be following up" to ensure that the punishment fit the crime of a first-time offense.
A week later, I received my punishment: a letter on my "permanent record" and loss of priority in the spring housing lottery. I didn't even get probation! The loss of priority in the spring housing lottery sucked, because even though I wound up in my beloved Jordan House, I got shafted from any decent room on the second floor. I ended up in the Dead Girl's Room, a room where during my sophomore year its resident hung herself from a steam pipe and was there for three days before her body was found. Nobody wanted to live there because of rumors going around that it was haunted. I don't believe in ghosts (nor did I see one while living there), so I gladly took it and my only complaint was that it got really shitty light. No wonder the poor girl who lived there killed herself; it was more dreary than a broom closet at Jane Eyre's boarding school.
Crystal Daugherty was clearly appalled by my failure to be removed from her house, and was a royal bitch to me afterward. "So the judicial board didn't even give you probation?" she inquired once after cornering me in the dining room. "That's right," I said happily. "I guess they thought your charges were pretty bogus." I walked away, before she could splutter out any more bullshit about just doing her job. Later that year she tried to have me busted again, but I didn't get caught (although the fake Smith cops were suspicious and got the Dean of Student Affairs to send me to one drug counseling session, but at least I didn't have to explain myself before the judicial board again). She also implied that she would boot my boyfriend out of the house for violating the "no guests may stay longer than 28 consecutive days" rule, but since he usually spent one night of the week at his place, this accusation was groundless as well. That fat bitch was defeated, and undoubtedly spent many nights praying to her shrine to Agent Scully that her totalitarian rule would regain its credibility and allow for the ejection of hateful cockroaches like me.
The next year, despite having to live in the Dead Girl's Room, the RC situation was dramatically improved. First, she didn't display her Smith diploma, and immediately replaced the wall of Agent Scully with a hot black-and-white poster of young Mickey Rourke (9 1/2 Weeks Mickey Rourke, not post-pugilist cheek implants Mickey Rourke). Second, she immediately explained that she was only RC because she couldn't get a job, and wanted an inexpensive, furnished place in which to study for her LSATs. Most importantly, however, not only was she totally down with smoking pot, but she was dating the Byrdman and he got a job in our kitchen. Even when he got arrested (by the real cops) and fired for possessing drugs at work, she moved him covertly into her suite. So when I had previously had to towel my door, light incense, keep the air freshener handy, exhale bong hits through a toilet paper tube stuffed with fabric softener sheets, etc., now I could just stroll downstairs to the RC suite, buy a bag, and smoke it there. Way to rectify your past transgressions, Smith College. I never wrote a derogatory article about the RC program again.
I hadn't seen JerseyGirl in ages before I ran into her randomly at a yoga studio a couple of years ago. Even though we went to Smith together and were buddies from the school newspaper, she was two years behind me and lived in a different house, so we hadn't really kept in touch. However, once she had suffered through a punishing Bikram's class with me, I invited her back to LL Cool Jew and my crib for cheap Chinese food, canned beer, dog admiring, and conversation. We've been hanging out ever since, because she's funny as shit. She works at a certain freedom-loving cable news channel as a producer for a certain famous mustachioed journalist(think angry skinheads hurling chairs), and her stories about life at work, as well as about the New Jersey town she originates from, are priceless.
However, because we've only recently become more frequent hangout buddies, JerseyGirl was unfamiliar with many of the particulars of the hijinks I regularly involved myself in during my college years. Somehow we got to reminiscing about life in the Quad (Jordan House obviously being the best to live in, but I conceded to her that Scales wasn't too bad either), and got to talking about how I scored pot while I was matriculating. There had been a guy who I'll call the Byrdman working in the kitchen of my house who probably every girl smoking pot at Smith had bought from at one time or another, until he got arrested and hauled out of my house. I was rattling off the Byrdman anecdotal tales, and JerseyGirl was loving it to the point where she said, "You should start a blog that's just about Smith. Your stories are hilarious."
I thought about this for a minute. Indeed, I could start a blog that is comprised about just stories about Smith and have ample material at my disposal for fun-poking. However, I can barely keep up with this blog, or my Fantasy Football blog which is turning into a neglected shitshow. Therefore, I decided that when I think of some really good Smith College story I'll just relate it here, and maybe some of my friends from Smith will actually start reading it regularly (yes, I mean you, LL Cool Jew, Wmania, FalloniousMonk, JerseyGirl, Miss Corbutt, and anyone else whose name isn't KatieScarlett). So without further ado, here is the story of my bust for possession by the Smith College "Police" and the subseqent trial before a tribunal of judgmental transgendered bitches:
At Smith we had these party weekends creatively called Winter Weekend and Spring Weekend. Almost all the houses at Smith would host parties, even the lame ones like Talbot and Lamont House, and horny knuckle-dragging men from all over the northeast, from West Point to Dartmouth to the University of fucking Maine, would show up for some action with some desperate Smith girls.
A lot of people are under the misconception that Smith is a "lesbian" school because somewhere in the neighborhood of 30% of the students identify as openly gay. However, I would say that a good 20% of those are LUGs (lesbian until graduation) on the "four-year plan" driven to boobmash by a combination of curiosity and desperation, which makes Smith only 10% gay, just like the rest of the world. Apart from the real dykes and the LUGs, the other 70% is comprised of straight girls with no social skills who want nothing more than to meet a nice guy and GET LAID. Therefore, Winter and Spring weekends represented an excellent opportunity for guys to show up, get laid with minimal effort, and possibly carry out some type of important rite of passage for fraternity pledges. I remember one time this guy in a diaper hauled me into a bathroom, stuck a magic marker in my hand, and informed me that he needed X number of signatures to qualify as a Phi Beta Suckalottacocka or whatever, and would I sign my name and all my friends' names on his back. I whirled him around, then wrote, "I HAVE A MINISCULE PENIS AND CAN'T MAINTAIN AN ERECTION. TELL YOUR FRIENDS NOT TO FUCK ME UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES." Later, once he apparently found out what I'd written, my network of girls informed me that he was looking to have words about how "wrong" it was that I'd written that instead of a list of plagiarized girls' signatures. I guess the self-righteous complaint aspect of the prototypical Smith girl was catching. He never found me, because I was probably already in my room smoking pot with half the party by then.
The Quad, where I lived and where most of these shenanigans went down, generally hosted the best parties. We would have like 6 or 7 kegs. At most state and/or large co-ed schools that's a Tuesday night, but by Smith standards, these were like Spring Break in Mazatlan. However, on Winter or Spring weekend, the turnout was usually so big that these kegs were gone within two or three hours, leaving people angry and beverage-deprived. At that time, I'd corral my group of revelers, and we'd cruise up to my room for unearthing private liquor stashes and the rolling of many joints. Usually my entire floor would do this, so there was always a decent after party at the Jordan second floor. One night during my junior year Winter Weekend, I proceeded to do just this with a large group of girls and their assorted hangers-on, my boyfriend, and some of his townie friends. Shortly after we'd smoked our first joint, there was a loud, authoritative pounding on my door.
"Public Safety! Open up!"
I was a little worried, but not terribly, because Smith doesn't like to compile stats about drug busts, and therefore, they'll generally let it slide to keep promotional material such as the "Crime on Campus" statistic brochure appealing to parents and wealthy alumnae. I hid my bag somewhere, threw the roach out my window, and opened up.
FOUR Public Safety guys marched in and started acting like we were running a sweat shop or something in there. "Where is your marijuana?" demanded the alpha Public Safety guy, a short man with glasses and impeccably gelled hair.
"Marijuana? We were smoking cigarettes," I said, waving my lit Parliament light around to show him so.
"I distinctly smell marijuana. If you don't produce the marijuana, I will search your room."
Since Smith technically owned my room, I had absolutely NO right to privacy at any time. One time Public Safety was investigating something else and accidentally came into my room right while I was fucking my boyfriend. I didn't answer the door, because I didn't want to deal with them, so the officer just let himself right in. I managed to get a bathrobe on just as the door opened, but still there was one hell of an awkward moment as the officer stated that he had the wrong room, and sorry. I knew that they wouldn't hesitate to tear all my personal belongings apart, and if they did, they would find at least two bongs, several assorted pipes, a stack of Zig Zag rolling papers, a large container of seeds left over from my failed attempts at horticulture, and definitely at least a quarter ounce of weed. I didn't want that to happen, so I grabbed the book I had rolled the joint on. "Here is my marijuana," I said. "As you can see, there's hardly anything."
The Public Safety officer looked suspiciously at me, then at the book. There were indeed a few scraps of weed on the book. Acting like some sort of CSI, he made a show about brushing the scraps into a plastic baggie as "evidence." As an afterthought, he also confiscated two candles, because candles are a fire hazard and thus against the rules. Fortunately, this placated him and he didn't search my room. "We're going to have to write you up," he told me. "Expect to be contacted by the director of Public Safety and the Dean of Students about possible disciplinary action."
I knew one of the Public Safety officers there, because he always hung out at the newspaper office. The year prior, when I posed nude for the April Fool's edition of The Sophian, he told me that I had "balls down to here" and requested an autographed copy, which he supposedly hung in his work locker. I asked him if there wasn't anything he could do.
"Sorry," he said. "Normally there would be, but your RC called us specifically to report you. There's a record. My hands are tied."
They left, and I was reeling. I had been ratted out to the fuzz, and I was getting all Tony Soprano about doing horrible, murderous things to the snitch. However, I could do very little, because she was my RC. "RC" stands for "resident coordinator," and they are like RAs at any other school. The RC position was new, and was especially for first-year alumnae who couldn't bear the thought of life somewhere besides Smith. In return for their services and their supposed maturity, they received free board, a suite with a private bathroom, and a "generous" stipend of $11,000. In other words, Smith had created a job tailor-made for losers who couldn't move on with their lives post-graduation. My RC that year fit this description perfectly.
She was this fat bitch named Crystal Daugherty, and yes, that is her real name. She was a women's studies major who drove a VW Fox with fucking daisy stickers all over it, and was the type who thought she knew EVERYTHING. I had already made enemies with her at the LBTA panel discussion in our house when I went as the "ally" (hetero breeder) and wore a shirt that said "It's okay to be straight" on it. I further pissed her off that night at the party by getting mouthy with her when she wasn't letting people in (particularly those of the Y chromosome persuasion) because they weren't on the guest list. I said, "Put them on my guest list, then. Parties are for everyone." She gave me this exasperated, maternal sigh and told the doorwomen to ignore me. Furiously, I marched outside with a piece of paper, took down everyone's names, came in, and gave the sheet to Crystal. "Here is my revised guest list, Crystal, and if you so much as reject one of my friends on it, I'll file a complaint against you with the office of student affairs. If someone is on a guest list, they must be admitted. It's in the fucking handbook under the rules about social functions." Crystal glared at me, knowing there was nothing she could do, and not wanting to mar her perfect disciplinary record with the school with legitimate complaints for which there were witnesses. However, I should have known not to think an obese, socially retarded womyn like her wouldn't immediately seek vengeance that would both stick it to me good and restore her sense of indisputable self-importance. For Crystal, revenge was a dish best served by Public Safety.
I promptly received a letter the next week informing me that I was to report to the judicial board for an inquiry concerning the charges of "possession of a class D substance and candles." I tried to have some words with Crystal about it, but she blew me off with some bullshit about how the particulars of her job were non-negotiable. Even worse, at our Sophian editorial board meeting that week, the rest of the staff thought my inclusion in the "Police Blotter" section of the paper was riotously funny. I was irate, so I decided to get some payback the best way I knew how: I wrote an editorial. The piece was a scathing indictment of the RC program and how it was infringing on our quality of life by ruining the few remotely decent parties that ever happen at Smith. Since Crystal had pissed off plenty of other people the night I got busted by throwing people out of the party because she felt like it, trying to send my neighbors to their rooms, and screaming "GO HOME! THIS IS OUR HOUSE! WE DON'T WANT YOU HERE!" to the entire party the second the kegs were kicked, I had plenty of ammunition to make an example out of her without dragging my legal troubles into it. I argued that the RC program was a failure because no self-respecting Smith girl will be cowed by the authority of someone who acts like an incompetent 12-year-old babysitter, and then likened Crystal and her fat underling (the house "Diversity Coordinator") to Hitler and Mussolini. Crystal was feminazi to the core, so I felt the comparison was valid. Crystal, however, did NOT appreciate it.
Finally, Crystal decided that she wanted to talk, so that we could "understand each other." I trudged down to her suite and sat on her couch. One quick look at the decor told me that we were going to get nowhere in terms of finding common ground. Apart from her Smith diploma prominently displayed on the mantle of her decorative fireplace, the rest of the place was done up in trite-ass feminist icon framed prints (Rosie the Riveter, 70s-era Steinem, etc.) and an ENTIRE WALL devoted to magazine cutouts of Agent Scully from "The X-Files." There was even one Entertainment Weekly cover of Agents Mulder and Scully in bed together, and she'd cut David Duchovny out of the picture. I guess she had a thing for redheads in pleated pants, and she wasn't going to let any inconvenient penis stand in the way of her obsessively lusting after the same.
Anyway, we sat down and she explained to me in a motherly, extraordinarily condescending tone that her job isn't personal, but as RC she has to take drastic action if she suspects drug use. I listened, seething more with every minute of her bullshit story. I most certainly was not the only person smoking pot on the second floor that night, yet somehow the cops only went to my door. Furthermore, she'd been turning a blind eye to underage drinking all night. I know because I had only recently turned 20, and all night long I was arguing with her while clutching a beer.
"Cut the crap, Crystal," I told her. "We all know that it's common practice for RCs to generally overlook things, especially on Winter Weekend. You only called Public Safety on me because you don't like me."
"Why wouldn't I like you?"
"Because I told you that you were full of shit to your face. Maybe I should have gone behind your back in classic Smith non-confrontational tradition."
"That's not what you did! You were trying to let in unsafe, STRANGE MEN! I was just looking out for my house."
"Your house, Crystal? I've lived here for three years. You moved in this year because the school paid you to."
This conversation went like this for about an hour, with both of us becoming increasingly hostile and standoffish. Eventually, we parted with me lying that I wasn't planning on smoking pot anymore anyway, given my date with the judicial board, so I'd appreciate it if she would not immediately dial 2407 and call Public Safety on me whenever she was feeling shemasculated without first investigating herself. Also I believe that I encouraged her to get a real job.
Anyway, I returned to my room only to field a call from Saratoga120, an English professor I'd had my first year. This woman was a total character: she'd been at Smith for twenty years, she was a hard-core Catholic who smoked these foot-long cigarettes (the Saratoga 120s for which she is named) that she carried around in an embroidered cigarette purse, and made scathing comments about people in her class whose writing she thought was "amateurish" or "patently talentless." Fortunately, she liked my writing, and decided to make me a pet project of hers. She was always giving me her two cents on my Sophian articles, constantly pestering me to drop science and become an English major (I told her there was no way unless I'd somehow get out of the Milton-Chaucer-Beowulf requirement), and inviting me to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes with her. So Saratoga120 called me up and launched into a lecture about how stupid I was to be smoking pot. Clearly the word about my bust had made it through the faculty grapevine to her, and she wasn't going to bite her tongue. "I smoked pot twenty years ago at a faculty party!" she raged. "And I threw up on my way home. And dope makes you stupid. You don't want to be stupid, do you?"
After a few minutes of me meekly conceding to her remarks, she then said, "Well, obviously, you'll need representation at your hearing."
"I already read the handbook. I'm not allowed to bring counsel."
"Read it more closely, Razzy, I know that comprehension is one of your strong suits, so don't bullshit me. You're not allowed to have an attorney. You are, however, allowed to have a faculty member plead your case, and thus I will be going with you. Those people on the judicial board are intellectual lightweights, and I won't have them suspending you."
I was delighted. All of a sudden, Fortuna was spinning my way. When the fateful day came, not only did Saratoga120 show up ready to hand the judicial board their asses, but she brought along one of the college's demi-Deans with her. In fact, he was the demi-Dean responsible for overseeing the judicial board. I tried to hide my pleasure and act respectful and somewhat contrite.
When we walked into the judicial board room, I couldn't have been happier to have a posse of impressive faculty and administrators with me. I was faced with a long table populated by a bunch of uptight girls in Smith College sweatshirts and ugly cardigans smiling at me grimly, as if to say, "We can't wait to lord our power over you, you depraved bitch." I'd like to add that I'd been making fun of these types of bitches for two years in the newspaper, and I'm certain that my reputation for being an asshole preceded me into this room. Much like now, my writing in college made people either love me and laud me as hilarious, or hate me with every ounce of their being. The judicial board types were the latter, excepting one woman, a pornography heiress who had once tried to fuck me underneath the giant Georgia O'Keefe lily poster in her room. However, their smiles of imminent Razzy-suspending pleasure were promptly wiped off their smug, acne-ridden faces when my entourage seated themselves alongside me.
The "woman" at the head of the table, and the Chief Bitch of the Judicial Board, glared furiously. S/he was a transgendered person named Gloria Macri who insisted that people call him/her "Billy", yet another example of F2M trannies choosing stupid fucking boy names. My cause would have been hopeless without Saratoga120 and the Dean, as not only did s/he clearly dislike me on principle, but she was also an Ada (meaning "student of non-traditional age", meaning old). However, once s/he saw my entourage, s/he softened his/her reproachful glare immediately and began kissing ass.
"Oh, Dean! Oh, Professor Saratoga120! So NICE to see you! I'm surprised that you would take the time to appear for an insignificant hearing like this one."
I said, "I don't think it's insignificant," earning a kick under the table from Saratoga120, who had advised me to "keep your big mouth shut unless you are asked a specific question, and then answer only that without elaborating. Otherwise, they'll railroad you."
"Yes, well, shall we begin?" asked Billy/Gloria. "The charges are 'possession of a class D substance and candles.' We have your statement here, Ms. Razzy, in which you admit to using the class D substance as well as possessing the candles despite both being expressly prohibited by the school handbook of rules. What do you have to say on the subject?"
"It's all in my statement," I replied.
"Are you aware that marijuana is an illegal drug?"
"Yes. I exercised bad judgment, and for that I apologize," I responded. That was it for the why-were-you-doing-drugs line of questioning. However, the judicial board really wanted to know about the second part of the charge.
"It's obvious why you were using marijuana, but why were you in possession of the candles?"
"Um...decoration, I guess." I couldn't believe I had to come up with a reason for having candles, but I didn't think the right answer was "a flame source for doing hot knives."
"Decoration? Do you ever light them? The Public Safety report says they had clearly been lit."
"Yes, well, you know, to create mood."
"Mood? Mood for what?"
"Romantic mood for when my boyfriend visits."
"You have a boyfriend?"
"Yes, as it clearly says in my statement. Benzo. He's a townie. He works at Cha Cha Cha."
"The one with the rosy cheeks?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I love him, he's so nice!" exclaimed one of the judicial board justices. Benzo has always been a hit with the Smith girls. Even girls who despised me always adored Benzo.
Anyway, Billy/Gloria's tough interrogation tactics were out the window once her cohorts started gushing about how charming and sweet my boyfriend was when he served them black bean burritos, and s/he informed me that I would be receiving my punishment in campus mail. The Dean in my corner advised them that he "would be following up" to ensure that the punishment fit the crime of a first-time offense.
A week later, I received my punishment: a letter on my "permanent record" and loss of priority in the spring housing lottery. I didn't even get probation! The loss of priority in the spring housing lottery sucked, because even though I wound up in my beloved Jordan House, I got shafted from any decent room on the second floor. I ended up in the Dead Girl's Room, a room where during my sophomore year its resident hung herself from a steam pipe and was there for three days before her body was found. Nobody wanted to live there because of rumors going around that it was haunted. I don't believe in ghosts (nor did I see one while living there), so I gladly took it and my only complaint was that it got really shitty light. No wonder the poor girl who lived there killed herself; it was more dreary than a broom closet at Jane Eyre's boarding school.
Crystal Daugherty was clearly appalled by my failure to be removed from her house, and was a royal bitch to me afterward. "So the judicial board didn't even give you probation?" she inquired once after cornering me in the dining room. "That's right," I said happily. "I guess they thought your charges were pretty bogus." I walked away, before she could splutter out any more bullshit about just doing her job. Later that year she tried to have me busted again, but I didn't get caught (although the fake Smith cops were suspicious and got the Dean of Student Affairs to send me to one drug counseling session, but at least I didn't have to explain myself before the judicial board again). She also implied that she would boot my boyfriend out of the house for violating the "no guests may stay longer than 28 consecutive days" rule, but since he usually spent one night of the week at his place, this accusation was groundless as well. That fat bitch was defeated, and undoubtedly spent many nights praying to her shrine to Agent Scully that her totalitarian rule would regain its credibility and allow for the ejection of hateful cockroaches like me.
The next year, despite having to live in the Dead Girl's Room, the RC situation was dramatically improved. First, she didn't display her Smith diploma, and immediately replaced the wall of Agent Scully with a hot black-and-white poster of young Mickey Rourke (9 1/2 Weeks Mickey Rourke, not post-pugilist cheek implants Mickey Rourke). Second, she immediately explained that she was only RC because she couldn't get a job, and wanted an inexpensive, furnished place in which to study for her LSATs. Most importantly, however, not only was she totally down with smoking pot, but she was dating the Byrdman and he got a job in our kitchen. Even when he got arrested (by the real cops) and fired for possessing drugs at work, she moved him covertly into her suite. So when I had previously had to towel my door, light incense, keep the air freshener handy, exhale bong hits through a toilet paper tube stuffed with fabric softener sheets, etc., now I could just stroll downstairs to the RC suite, buy a bag, and smoke it there. Way to rectify your past transgressions, Smith College. I never wrote a derogatory article about the RC program again.
Labels: crime and punishment, defiance, drugs, Dumb Smith bitches, JerseyGirl, LL Cool Jew, Smith College Vault
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]
