Life

Conversations About Face Wash

— By Bailey Genine |

I had a conversation with my roommate. 
 
Me: Hey man, are you like, by any chance, peeing in my face wash?
Him: What was that?
M: Oh nothing, nevermind.
H: Did you ask if I was peeing in your face wash?
M: Yeah, I mean, it’s orange naturally, but lately it’s been really watery and yellowish.
H: Ha! That’s great, yeah I totally have been, it took you like a month to notice.
M: Oh, neat. Yeah I’ve been meaning to start peeing in yours.
H: Really? No way, that’s not cool, don’t do that.
M: Well, how about I’ll just start peeing in mine and you can just go and pee in yours, it’s like the same thing.
H: Yeah, but if you don’t pee in yours then I’m ruining my own face wash!
M: Yes that’s kind of the point, anyway, I hate you.
 
 
Okay, this conversation has never happened, but it’s been going through my mind all day, you know, ever since I found my watery, yellow face wash.
 
(Crossing my fingers it just filled with water.)
 
(No, yeah, man, I totally understand you’re busy later and can’t hang out. Maybe next wee— Oh you’re busy next week too? How about I call you someti— You don’t want me to call you? Is this because I use pee face wash? Yeah? Oh. Okay that’s cool. See you around, I guess.)

ALL POINTS BULLETIN! It's Raining East Coast-Like Visuals All Over Justin Herman Plaza's Face

— By Kate Horton |

Annual Valentine’s Day Flash Mob Pillow Fight is in full effect! More photos to come!*

*Depends on the 3G service, really, and the quality of the cell phone pics taken by my contacts (drunk friends) who are knee-deep in hell down there right now. But yeah, when it comes to Drunk Group Activities, I am your Go To Girl for pics…maybe, soon, possibly, no promises, ok?  YAY PILLOW FIGHTS!

*UPDATE*

The shitty cell phone photos have begun to roll in, slooooowly.  Hey, at least they’re not shitty bathroom graffiti photos, amirite?  Hello?? 

 

 

 

Saibong, although she doesn't mention a reward, I am sure Julia will kick down a high-five

— By Brizz |

For a second, I thought about blocking out her number, but then how will Saibong call her? Also, she posted this on the corner of 14th and Valencia, and I think more people walk by there then read anything I post. Part of me is worried that this is just a cruel prank by Saibong, who, not being content with spending Julia’s money and running up her credit cards,  left a fake number in order to get Julia’s hopes up, only to crush them back down. Restore my faith in humanity, Saibong.

DRUNKBLOGGIN': The Make-Out Room

— By Kevin Montgomery (@kevinmonty) |

Every generation has a story.  Our grandparents remember where they were when Pearl Harbor was attacked.  Then our parents remember when Kennedy got capped.  Now we all remember where we were when we first heard MSTRKRFT (I was at some sketch party in West Oakland having an OKAY time when Easy Love came on and I hit the dining room floor with a PBR in one hand and good times in the other and danced like I had just quit my job).

But generational stories are bullshit.  For one, they are always surrounded by some trauma that leads to a generally uninteresting story and ‘bad vibes.’  Secondly, Kennedy only allegedly popped off in Marilyn Monroe, which means he could be an infinitely less interesting human being (Happy birthday Mr. could-not-fucking-execute).

Neighborhood stories are truly where it is at.  The first time I went to Dolores Park?  I was some broke-ass motherfucker that was sleeping under a dining room table of some people I didn’t know on Hampshire and some generally mild-mannered vegan kid suggested that we blow nine-bucks on Papalote and ride our bikes and newly-purchased burritos to the park with a $2 “out-the-door” High Life four-tay in our packs.  Magic + the banality of life all rolled into one.

The Make-Out Room is no different.  With a name like “The Make-Out Room,” chaos is begged to crash the party before you even step in the door.  While I generally disapprove of selling sex or using the allusion of such activities to lure otherwise virginal hipster lamebags through your front door, I’ve always felt this bar has come through in a pinch.  My first time involves awkwardly moving my body to surfer-rock and drinking too much whiskey, but you don’t want to hear about that.

(pics by visivo)

 

Ann Coulter: now with more adam's apple!

— By Laura B |

When you google “adam’s apple” (don’t ask), three of the six images that come back are Ann Coulter. TEE FUCKING HEE.

Also, judging by the most popular google searches, most people don’t care what this crazy bitch has to say, they just want to see her tits/possible wang. My biggest question is: who the fuck wants to see this skank naked? Oh right, my grandpa. CARRY ON!

Drinks Are On Fresno

— By Kate Horton |

Big ups to Fresno, California! As if being the birthplace of the original Popozao, Kevin Federline, wasn’t enough, you can now add the illustrious title of “Drunkest City In America” to your list of stunning achievements!

San Francisco, on the other hand? You placed a pathetic 86th. This is me twirling my cocktail, exhaling slowly, and shaking my head at you with disgust.

If we just apply ourselves people, I know we can do better next year! Fresno should never be allowed to be number one at anything except for producing popstar marrying backup dancers, soul-sucking mediocrity, and meth heads. Oh and probably crops or some bullshit like that. 

 

these three are crazy wasted.

 

(Full list of shitfaced and not so shitfaced cities here)

 

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