|HERE COME THE SNAKES: THE MEANEST THING GIRLS HAVE DONE.|
|Aileen Gallagher Crystal Kelly Mills Cathy Hannan Jo Anne Heen||
It's pretty amazing how well intentioned, truthful, humble, and nice most of The Black Table ladies are. We put out our monthly cattle call asking our lassies to write a little ditty about the meanest thing they've ever done. Many declined because, well, they haven't really done anything that horrible to other people. And those that did submit ultimately ended up apologizing for their very minor indiscretions against humanity -- or, in one case, a pet parrot -- in the middle of the story, completely undermining the concept. It's okay, though. This month's topic reaffirmed our faith that all girls, for the most part, are filled with sugar, spice, everything nice and are the kinder, more rationale, more emotionally grounded sex.
Well, except for these bitches.
A girl I'll call Joann lived down the hall from me my first year of college. She was overweight, loved Mandy Patinkin and was never without her fanny pack, which was stuffed full of pens and pencils wrapped tight in several rubber bands..
To make matters worse, Joann had a tendency to walk around in circles when nervous, which was often. The "study lounge" at the end of the hall went mostly unused, but Joann claimed it as hers. Often the setting sun would stream through the windows, illuminating the frizzy hair and giant glasses that highlighted Joann's profile.
Joann so freaked out her roommate on the first weekend of school that the girl promptly transferred. An acquaintance of mine moved in and spent as little time there as possible. Joann's side of the room was barren, save for reams of paper scattered everywhere. An RA had to come in and tell her to clean it up.
In short, Joann was a walking target.
Enter the Internet. When I went to college in 1996, I had my own computer and a high-speed connection for the first time. The Internet was full of fresh and interesting ways to fuck with people.
I found a program that cloaked email addresses. I could send an email, anonymously. What a terrible power. I chose to aim it at Joann.
I asked her why she was such a freak, citing the evidence above. I mocked the fanny pack and her propensity to circle furniture at breakneck speed. I said some unkind things about Mandy Patinkin.
I saw Joann later that day, lost in her own world and doing NASCAR laps in the study lounge. I'd managed to ratchet her crazy up quite a few notches.
To this day, I have no idea what was wrong with Joann. Word around the dorm was that she was exceptionally bright and had a possible hormone imbalance. She eventually transferred to a small liberal arts school on the west coast, perhaps a place more accommodating to those who accessorized poorly and adored middle-aged actor/crooners.
Aileen Gallagher is a Black Table managing editor. She has developed a little crush on Mandy Patinkin herself and has the world's largest fanny pack collection. But she still doesn't run circles around furniture.
I was visiting my parents for Christmas, in the small horrible Texas town where they retired. We went to a American Legion Christmas dance, which was a big freakin' deal for the locals. They were all dressed up in their finest X-mas glitter sweaters and cowboy boots. My only consolation was the free booze. Quickly, I became a mean drunk. There was this little girl dancing -- and I mean young girl, maybe 7 or 8. For absolutely no reason, I made her the target of all my hatred for the rednecks around me doing the electric slide. Her name was Ashley. I went to the bathroom (indoors -- how swanky!) and shortly after heard a woman say, "Ashley, hurry up go and remember to wash yer hands..."
The little tart entered the stall next to mine. I leaned over and whispered "Ashley?"
"Uh-huh" she answered.
"I'm going to sneak into your room tonight and kill you."
Silence from the next stall. She fled. I casually walked out of the bathroom. She was hysterically crying into mama's leg. Someone thought to go check out the bathroom but I already had my coat on and was corralling my parents out to the car. I boozily laughed to myself all the way home.
Cathy Hannan is one of the proprietors of www.lostandfrowned.com , freelance writer, and part-time nanny.
Marla was totally in love with Andrew, a guy from her hometown. She and I lived next door to each other in the dorms, and every day I would go over and hear the Andrew update: whether he had called her, if he knew that she was in love with him, whether maybe, just maybe, they'd ever be anything more than buddies.
When Andrew made plans to visit her, she was beside herself. She spent three months' worth of student loan money on a can-we-be-more-than-friends outfit. "I'm going to tell him how I really feel." she confided.
"I'm going to tell him that I've been in love with him for the last five years." I promised her I'd stop by and lend some moral support.
On Andrew's arrival day, the guy I was seeing sent a mutual friend over to dump me. As if being broken up with by proxy wasn't bad enough, the friend offered a list of reasons this guy didn't want to date me, which began with my tendency to get too drunk in public and ended with my irritating laugh. I immediately got high and walked over to Marla's room.
The minute I walked in, I knew I was going to fuck Andrew. Not because he was all that attractive, but because I desperately wanted something to shore me back up and take away the humiliation of my rejection. I plopped down next to Andrew and hoed all over him. At one point, Marla pulled me aside and pleaded with me not to flirt with Andrew.
"Could you give us a few minutes alone so I can tell him my true feelings?" she begged.
"Yeah, yeah." I replied, and invited Andrew back to my room for a beer and some pain-numbing sex.
The next day I sent Andrew home, and the fact that I was an utter asshole began to hit me. I heard a knock at the door, and found Marla in the hall, eyes swollen from crying. Her voice trembled as she asked me, "Why?"
I could have apologized for screwing the love of her life. Instead, I looked at her with disgust and sighed. "Look, it's not like you were dating or anything." I said. "I don't know why you are so upset about this. I think you owe me an apology for freaking out on me." I kept at her until finally she caved, and said she was sorry for getting so emotional, that she had no right to be mad at me.
Kelly Mills is a freelance writer in California that hates proxy dumps. You're allowed to giggle uncontrollably about that sentence.
I don't date. I have torrid affairs. Even WHEN the second party is single, I am still the other women to his mom, his job, his ex. Blah, blah, blah. I am comfortable with my position and hate me for it, but someone has to do it, why not me.
So this time, my better half was actually involved in a "serious and monogamous" relationship with someone who was not me. Drunk again, we had tumbled into bed and woke up mid afternoon for a second round. His phone rings mid action and he answers it. Well that was his mistake, because I know his girlfriend and when he said "Hi Katie...." I immediately grabbed the phone out of his hand to talk to her. Yes I was in the middle of fucking her boyfriend, but I just wanted to say hi. Is that so wrong? Now I didn't say, "Oh, hey guess what I'm doing..." but the fact that I was chatting about her weekend plans while mid-coitus with her boyfriend has some sort of heinous connotations I am sure.
I didn't even feel bad until my birthday came around and she showed up at my house with a present for me for being such a good friend to Josh.
Crystal Kash is a freelance writer, sexy ass DJ, and down with OPP. Obviously.
Grandpa was constantly complaining about the neighbor's cat, who shit in our flower beds. It drove him wild. Every morning he'd comb the garden, looking for offending feces. He was saving it in a plastic bag; presumably to give back to the cat's owner. Whenever he saw the cat, he threw rocks at it.
Grandpa's car was his pride and joy. He spent hours working on it. Now, I liked to play tennis against the garage wall. Grandpa didn't like that idea. He was afraid a stray ball would dent his car, so he blocked the wall by parking in front of it. He could have parked inside the garage, but he said he liked for people to see his car in the driveway. No amount of begging swayed him to move the car. Obviously, an act of revenge was called for.
The bathroom window opened directly above the spot where Grandpa parked his car. One evening, after taking my after dinner dump, I realized the turd had come out of my body in one long, clean log. Using the plastic gloves under the sink, I lifted that brown beauty out of the bowl, placed it on top of a glossy magazine, and studied it. It was huge; it was perfect. I opened the window and flung the contents of my bowels onto the top of Grandpa's car. There was a satisfying splat as my bomb hit.
In the morning, I heard Grandpa screaming about how "that goddamned cat bastard" had the nerve to shit on his car. "Look at the size of that thing! He must be a goddamned cougar or something," he shouted. "What are they feeding it? There's corn in there!"
My hunk of poo discolored the car's roof. Grandpa started parking inside the garage, but by then, I had lost all interest in tennis.
Jo Anne Heen lives in the village of Zelienople, PA. She has not shit-bombed anything or anyone in 30 years. But don't make her angry.
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