Shit, Maybe I Should Have Gone To College

When I was 18, while the rest of my friends were flocking off to various universities to enlarge their brains, I opted to move to London, live in a squat, do a lot of drugs, and just generally disappoint my parents. Now, four years later, I have a job (kind of), I no longer get bloody noses, and I don’t regret my decision not to go to university. However, there is the odd occasion when I feel like maybe I missed out on something that could have been a valuable life experience (particularly when I’m watching Legally Blonde). Here are some of the reasons why sometimes I kind-of sort-of feel like there might be a teeny tiny part of me that wishes I went to college.

1. I don’t know anything.

This is becoming more and more apparent as I get older and the people around me seem to possess all this knowledge that I just don’t—like who invented gravity, how to crack top-secret codes, or where Saudi Arabia is. It’s not that I’m unintelligent. It’s just that I don’t know as much as educated people do. But when it comes down to it, are these trivial bits of information really vital to my survival in the hunter-gatherer sense of the word? No. So then why can’t I play Trivial Pursuit without some college-face making me feel like a philistine? WhatEVER! Name me one college grad that knows how to pick a padlock using only a tube of mascara and a thong.

2. The opportunity to unashamedly have profound amounts of sloppy drunken sex with people you just met.

Realistically, you can do this without attending university. But still, it would be fun to get to do it in a college environment where it’s totally normal to have sex with a chicken wing in your mouth. Plus I can only assume that all those STD’s floating around make you feel like you’re living on the edge, laughing in the face of danger.

3. I never had a dorm room where I could smoke pot, hang obnoxious posters of Salvador Dali paintings, and listen to my roommate have sex.

The idea of student housing always sounded like so much fun to me. Maybe it’s like they say and you always want what you don’t have, but I’ve always been seriously bummed out that I never got to share a room with a total stranger and have mind-expanding debates about whether MGMT or Vampire Weekend is more deep.

4. I will never be a doctor.

My mother says as long as you’ve got determination and Jesus in your heart you can do anything you put your mind to, but I have a feeling she might be wrong about this one.

Do It For Jesus

There’s nothing that gets me in the Christmas spirit more than a good ‘ol holiday photo shoot. It’s a Christmas tradition in the Sciortino household to get your photo taken in front of the tree, and every year it just gets creepier and creepier.

“Do it for Jesus!” shouted my mother from behind her digital camera. “Now smile! This is about being thankful, not looking like a floozy.” Being extremely religious, my mother makes ever effort to continuously remind us of the true meaning of Christmas, rather than the “consumerist free for all” most of the world treat it as. She does this by refusing to refer to December 25th as anything but ‘Jesus’ birthday party, and using the Lord’s name as ammo every time she wants my brother or I to do something. Like clean the house, massage her feet, or dress up in ridiculous outfits and pose for photos so embarrassing only my grandparents could appreciate them. This year she bought us both festive, black velour sweat suits, which she later forced us to wear while smiling eerily in front of the decked-out tree, listening to Clay Aiken sing covers of All I Want For Christmas Is You. Wait, is this really my life?

But hey, maybe she’s right. When it comes down to it, what says Happy Birthday Jesus more than a big jolly smile and matching his-and-hers velour sweat suits? Hope you’re having a great day up there, big guy.


Here is another picture of Blaine wearing a particularly festy sweater. Believe it or not, I have sex with this.

If you're really bored, here are some pics from last year’s photo shoot. It was especially fierce.

I Hate Hand Jobs

Now, I’m assuming I’m going to get a lot of people disagreeing with me on this one. But can I ask, will everyone who really, really loves giving hand-jobs please raise your hand? Okay, now put them down because you’re lying.

Just a reminder, we’re talking about giving hand jobs here. Receiving them is fine. It’s the reciprocating part that I’m not fond of. My personal hate for them has been magnified recently by the fact that my boyfriend thinks they are the number one best thing in the universe. And to be honest, I’m getting sick of being woken up in the mornings by a drooling, sweat-soaked monster croaking, “Rise and shine, baby. Wanna jerk me off?” Are you fucking kidding me? What happened to whispering sweet nothings? So, in response to this and all of the other horrific hand job episodes I have experienced in my life thus far, I have created a list of the top three reasons why I will never give a hand job again.

1. Realistically, he just wants you to give him head.

No matter how good you are with your hands, you know all he’s really thinking is: when is this bitch going to stop messing around and just put it in her mouth already? You know it’s true because without fail, somewhere in the midst of jerking him off he will inevitably grab your head and slowly start easing it down toward his groin. He’ll be very sly and delicate about it, as if he’s trying to trick your tiny female brain into thinking that maybe he isn’t really doing it at all, but that the real reason your head is slowly making its way down toward his love-pump is that deep down in your subconscious, you really, really do want to suck him off.

2. They make your hand smell.

Have you ever smelt your hands after giving a hand job? Holy genitalia! The stench is blinding. It’s like a mix of seafood and decaying wood. And then to top if off there’s always that sticky build-up of saliva that gets caught between the webs of your fingers. This is from all the times you had to spit on your hand for lubrication over the past twenty minutes. (The worst is when you run out of spit and have to lick your hand with your dried-up, swollen tongue but still no moisture comes out so you just have to keep tugging on his dried-up, brittle dick like a helpless dick-slave. Gross.

3. They’re so junior high.

How old are we again? Maybe hand jobs were acceptable when we were, like, 16 and the idea of poking at each other’s crotches for half an hour still seemed exciting. But surely by now we can think of something slightly more creative to do. Like fisting for example… or dressing up like traffic wardens and sticking parking tickets up each other’s assholes. Or something even cooler that no one has even invented yet.

I originally wrote this for my friend Prancehall's blog, Hate is a Strong Word

Why All The Hate?

Old School

Everything is so PC these days. You can’t say anything anymore without some righteous smarty-pants hating on you. But my theory is, there is actually more hate coming from the people enforcing these imprisoning rules than from the people doing the talking. What’s the harm in a little un-PC slip from time to time? It’s called being creative with words. So what if my mom wants to refer to the gas station near our house as ‘Osama Bin Ladin’s,’ just because it’s run by Arabs? It’s a joke, ok? That’s what stereotypes are for: to help us laugh at people who are different from us. I vote to stop all the hate.

Just last week I was verbally assaulted by my seven-year-old cousin for using the word ‘brainstorm.’ “It’s thought shower,” she lisped snobbishly. Apparently the term brainstorm has been banned from schools for being offensive to students with epilepsy. That is insane. The snotty little bitch also informed me that the word ‘failure’ has now been changed to ‘deferred success,’ for fear that the term could dampen morale. Are you kidding? We need to put a stop to crazy talk before we spawn a generation of pussies.

Recently I offended a woman by calling her a housewife. She prefers ‘domestic engineer,’ and tried to make me feel stupid for using a term that is “wildly outdated.” I’m sorry, but when you can prove to me the science involved in staying at home and spending your husband’s money, then I will refer to you as a domestic engineer. Until then, isn’t this unfair to people who worked hard to earn that designation?

And who remembers Isis, the transgender contestant from this season of America’s Next Top Model, who insisted on being referred to as “born in the wrong body?” I think that is completely unfair. Do you know how stressful that competition is? Her fellow contestants had enough to worry about, what with learning how to catwalk and constantly being fierce, without having to remember to say “born in the wrong body” every time they wanted to make fun of her. I vote that she be more considerate of other people’s busy schedules.

And why does no one seems to mind that everyone keeps referring to Barack Obama as America’s first black president, even though his mom is white? If we’re all so anal about being politically correct, shouldn’t he technically be referred to as the first zebra president? I just don’t get where the line is.

When it comes down to it, we all have been victims of oppression. Even me. For example, I am constantly being called a Fag Hag. And you know what, it really hurts sometimes. I know it’s wrong, but do I go around spreading spiteful, bad vibes? No. I shrug it off and move on because I am a fighter and I refuse to let other people bring me down.

EFS

???

I have some very sad news. As I sit here typing these words from the comfort of my own home, small-town inhabitants all across America are being infected with a highly dangerous and extremely rare disease known as EFS. And it’s just reached my hometown of Highland, New York. I had heard rumors that EFS had hit Highland, but I wasn’t aware of how serious of an epidemic it was until I got back home last week and was so utterly terrified by what I saw that I was forced to quarantine myself in my house and have yet to emerge since. As a result I've had to spend the last two weeks relaxing on the sofa in my sweat pants watching America’s Next Top Model. It’s been horrible.

EFS, or Expanding Face Syndrome, was first discovered in 1913 by the great French scientist, Pierre Chambouvet. The main symptom is a gradual yet severe expansion of the face until the entire surface of the noggin mutates into a round, puffy ball of blotchy, lard-like skin, causing the facial features to sink in amongst the flesh until they are almost completely obscured. More recently, scientists have discovered that another common side effect of EFS is short bursts of dementia in which the victim feels it necessary to get sloppy drunk, take millions of unflattering pictures of themselves in form-fitting clothes, and then post said pictures on the internet via the popular social networking site, Facebook. In more severe cases, EFS has even caused its victims to spawn unwanted, illegitimate children. It’s just devastating.

I saw many of these pour souls in true form last weekend when I made the mistake of going to a local bar. The entire place was swimming with the infected -a giant orgy of red, swollen faces and second chins. And not only that, these people were completely mad- all grinding and crawling over each other, laughing wildly, downing Jager-bombs and shouting things like “from the window to the wall” and “Superman that hoe!” and other random outbursts of nonsensical ramblings. It was a tragic site.

As of yet, EFS seems to mainly be infecting people in their twenties who still work the same dead-end job they did in high school and continue to live in their parents’ basement, watching reruns of Cribs. However, it is spreading rapidly. The whole situation is very strange and frankly, very saddening. I see these people I grew up with literally expanding in front of my eyes, and there is nothing I can do to save them.

A New Meaning for the term 'Black Friday'

Evil?

Heinous, fat slob Americans scored themselves another point on Friday morning when a giant tribe of crazed bargain-shoppers crushed a security guard to death as they stampeded their way into a Wal-Mart on Long Island, NY. Thirty-four year old Jdimytai Damour was killed when over two-thousand evil bastards, some of whom had been waiting outside Wal-Mart for over seven hours, bombarded their way through the doors in a holiday-shopping rampage, fighting to be the first to get their fat, grubby fingers on the store’s post-Thanksgiving Day sales.

Are you fucking kidding me? This is literally the most soul-rotting story I have ever heard. I swear, I’ve been making a conscious effort lately to try and improve my misanthropic view of humanity, but when shit like this happens, it makes it difficult to believe everyone isn’t just a complete retard ready to brutally murder anyone who gets in the way of their flat screen TV.

If it were up to me these “humans” (and I’m using that term lightly) would be slowly skinned alive and hung from the rafters in Wal-Marts all across America, to remind frenzied consumerist swine everywhere what happens to greedy pigs. This world is bizarre.