Heavens to Donkey! Is it that time of year already? Yes, another year of cray has unfolded, leaving a wake of insane madness as time barrels toward Julia Allison’s expiration date, the magical day when her hips turn into an even bigger pumpkin and her cheek and chin implants fall out, leaving ol’ Flapjacks McCain in a state of confused shock and horror.
Oh, who are we kidding, he’s tots not going to last that long.
So how has Julia Allison grown as a person in 2010? How has she nourished her spiritual being, tightened and toned her fantastic body and put her career trajectory into overdrive?
I’ll tell you how! So grab a couple boxes of Franzia, warm me up some sticky buns (the pastry, you perverts!) and sit here by the crackling fire next to Poppa JP as I tell you a story, a cautionary tale about how just when you think your Kim Kardashian ass has hit rock bottom, only then do you realize that you have so much further to fall.
Now last year, we graded Julia Allison on how well she stuck to her New Year’s resolutions, but, alas, she didn’t publicly make any this time around. I’d like to think I had something to do with that.
If you haven’t left your basement in the last year — and let’s face it, you haven’t — you might recall that the year began with Julia struggling with the decision to quit blogging. She did eventually, but we’ll get to that. But 2010 began with her teasing her exit from the blogosphere, practically begging her Uzbek Facebook followers to beg her to stay.
And she did. 2011 began with Donks dancing on things she shouldn’t stand on with her sister Meghan Asha and other lovely ladies who you will never hear from again at Schlub 51, the hotspot owned by the Fat Melman’s, a magical place where you can get a veggie burger and roofied at the same address!
Yes, the sisterhood was strong in the new year, so strong, in fact, that I invite you to play a little story time game called “How Many Of These Characters Still Have An Active Role In This Psychotic Narrative?”
Meanwhile, the spotlight was put on another little blog. You see, Gawker’s Richard Lawson, who I like to call “Koala Dick,” because he looks like a koala and is a huge fucking dick, decided to write a glowing profile of about RBNS.
You see, Richard Lawson seemed to have a problem with our recapping our little online reality show that is Julia Allison’s life, despite the fact that none of us would even know who Julia Allison was if it wasn’t for Gawker’s relentless promotion of her, and despite the fact that Lawson gets paid to write overly wordy and pretentious recaps of shitty reality television shows. Apparently, we are not allowed to have opinions about things because we aren’t paid to blog. Gawker interviewed Donks about our blog but failed to ask us for a quote, so we felt the need to explain ourselves. Once Gawker commenters criticized Lawson for not interviewing the RBNS contributors, he posted a cover-his-ass interview with Jacy. And thus began a weird bit of hypocrisy where a website that made its name for being mean and snarky turned its nose up on a blog that is mean and snarky.
Fortunately, that little bit of time in the spotlight was quickly overshadowed by Julia’s love life, because she said “it.” You might recall one Prom King, the pussy whipped son of an ambulance chaser who took Julia Allison on wildly extravagant dates that made Donkey’s romper wiener rock hard.
Yes, she confessed her love for Prom King, not because she actually loved him, but because he was the richest and most convenient one of the three guys she was juggling at the time. (Remember Hipster Lawyer and the mysterious San Francisco fuck buddy?) Oh, Prom King was a storybook romance, indeed, full of mutual respect and admiration for each other — a whirlwind romance for the ages, that is, until it imploded weeks later.
But before Prom King ran away screaming into the night, he whisked Julia and Jordan (remember her?) and Meghan to St. Barths, because it is totally normal to make your boyfriend pay for a Caribbean vacation for you and your “sisters.”
The St. Barths trip turned into quite a controversy. First, Jordan and Meghan implied that it was Julia’s Christmas gift to her fellow NonSociety bloggers, but it was later revealed that Wallet Thing footed the bill. Then some RBNS commenters got miffed because of the girls’ gallivanting in the Caribbean and not acknowledging the devastating earthquake in Haiti. I mean, people died, and all these girls did was post pictures of their feet.
The St. Barths trip spelled the end of the love fest for Jordan for many of you. I stuck around for a bit, but trust me, it did not last.
Meanwhile, despite ignoring the Haiti disaster while vacationing with her girls, Julia Allison was enough of an expert to talk about the earthquake on MSNBC, the only cable news network this year that would allow her on air, and only on Sundays when no one was watching because they were hungover, asleep or worshiping Jesus.
It was on MSNBC that Julia Allison confessed her love for hiking skirts up her crotch. But we already knew that, didn’t we?
When not appearing on MSNBC and braying endlessly about it, Julia spent her time threatening physical violence to New York Post reporters. (She hadn’t discovered the ashram yet, so it was not hypocritical at all.)
Meanwhile, Meghan Asha PISSED ME OFF! You see, homegirl took time off from planning the 2010 Puerto Rican Day parade to redecorate her entire apartment via shills. This set off a firestorm of foot stomping from the Reblogging NonSociety contributors who believed they deserved free shit, too. (Editors Note: Yes, we deserve free shit.)
By then it had become abundantly clear that NonSociety was nothing more than a vehicle for three unemployed bitches to acquire things that they wanted for free.
Ah, yes, Birthcray 2010, an epic narcissistic display that chased off blonds and killed boners on two coasts and the Rocky Mountains. You’d think she wouldn’t top licking Randi’s cake, but, my lord, did she ever!
When she wasn’t spending her evening’s wearing GILF outfits or bitching out Vanity Fair for not having enough brown people or giving herself a valid medical reason for staying up all night checking her “Julia Allison” Google Alert or studying for her GMAT and bitching that math is HARD for girls, Julia was frantically planning her bi-coastal birthday bash and concocting ways to get Snooki and The Situation to show up.
Of course, her birthday party wasn’t all about her. (That’s a lie. It’s tots was.) It was simply a fundraiser to help all those wimmins with tumors in their tatas, that and an opportunity to publicly debut the love of her life and man she was to marry, Prom King.
It was big news! She found a man that wanted to stick his dick in this:
News of Julia officially having a boyfriend and the countdown to the guaranteed birthday crazy overshadowed the debut of one Bitch, Please, who nobody cared about for several months, because it was February, Julia Allison’s BIRTHDAY MONTH! Anyway, Katrina joined NonSociety and Julia went to Fashion Week, where she embarrassed herself completely. Multiple times.
Moving on. . .
Julia Allison, hell bent on making Prom King propose during the barfday bash, basically moved in with him and enjoyed a lovely Valentine’s date where she hung out in deserted restaurants, was shocked by the nudity in HAIR, and showed the world that fresh-faced, just-fucked-in-the-morning look.
It was a lovely romantic evening, so romantic that Julia Allison, who vowed not to blog about her relationships, blogged about how she was not in love with Prom King. (You’ll want to remember this for later.)
The fact is, I’ve never been in a “perfect” relationship. But I have been in love, several times. It is wonderful and confusing and thrilling and overwhelming. But I am not in love with him. I don’t think he is in love with me. (emphasis mine) We care about one another very much, and I hope that will happen eventually … but how can one predict the heart?
Of course, how could Prom King be in love with Julia Allison. Nobody loves munchkins.
Even though Julia didn’t love Prom King, she certainly didn’t have a problem spending his money. It was all for the birthcray extravaganza, an ultra-exclusive fête to which only the lucky few were invited. Hanging out with Julia Allison is like being in the presence of God, after all.
Finally, after over two months of build-up, the epic event was upon us. And, Christ on a cross, did it live up to its promise!
For one thing, we got our first undoctored look at Prom King.
We learned that Julia apparently works at NBC and left Jordan and Lasagna wandering aimlessly around San Francisco. She also ate an entire brick of carbohydrates and gluten, which will become important later.
She raised basically nothing for Komen, but received the entry free for the Chicago Komen Walk from Dirty Billows. She concluded her insane week-long birthday celebration in Aspen, where tragedy struck.
No, she didn’t fall off the mountain and die. (Mary Rambin could only wish.) Something more horrific happened.
Yes, another year, another blond killed off by the birthcray madness. And I do mean “killed.” Apparently Julia Allison, jealous of the fact that Jordan was engaged after only six weeks while Prom King had still yet to propose, bludgeoned Jordacted with a moon boot and stabbed her with a ski pole and buried her in the snow, her blue, frozen beanpole body only to be discovered until after the spring thaw began. When questioned about Jordan’s whereabouts, Julia made up some totally believable story that Jordan was off looking for new recipes in the spaghetti sauce aisle of Whole Foods, so she could continue providing riveting content to NonSociety. In actuality, Jadorable was dead, murdered by a rabid, jealous donkey who wanted nothing more than to be married, have a Harvard degree and eat cupcakes while staying thin.
The brayge turned to blind rage, and an innocent person was killed.
Actually that’s not what happened, at all, but what really went down was just as entertaining. You see, apparently some people find throwing multiple extravagant birthday parties in multiple timezones off-putting, although I don’t really know why. Also off-putting? Purchasing airplane tickets to Aspen for you and your husband without asking and then demanding that you pay Wallet Thing back if you chose not to go.
Jordan was feeling a little bit of white guilt for enjoying St. Barths after Wyclef Jean got super sad because all those Haitians died, so she was a bit reluctant to go on another extravagant trip with Julia Allison. (It was all your fault, cat ladies.) But after expressing her hesitancy, Julia threatened to cut a bitch demanding a refund of the hundreds of dollars Prom King spent on their behalf without asking. So Jordan decided to go, dragging along Kendrick for a ski trip that was only supposed to be about how awesome Julia Allison was.
Why didn’t they just pay Prom King the money? Well, Jordan and Kendrick were broke. Apparently, egoblogging isn’t the sort of career that pays you a living wage, especially when you join a sinking ship without a contract despite being the most productive blogger NonSociety had. So after months of showing her readers that when you throw edible things in a pot and warm them up they make meals, Jordan quit that bitch as politely as she possibly could.
Going forward, I will be blogging at Ramshackleglam.com (Ramshackleglam.tumblr.com will also work for those of you who wish to follow me on Tumblr; the transition to WordPress will happen over the next month or so).
I have loved my time at NonSociety, and have especially loved getting to know you all, but for both personal and professional reasons I feel that it is time to redirect my energies elsewhere. I continue to be close with Julia, Meghan, and Megan, and wish them all the best in their pursuits.
In the coming months I will be attending classes in design and the culinary arts, pursuing job opportunities in related fields…and sharing my journey on my site on a daily basis. I hope to see you there!
All my love,
And so the meltdown began.
Julia handled the sudden departure of her sister of all of eight months with grace and poise, and by “grace and poise” I mean spreading rumors to RBNS mods that Jordan bilked Meghan Asha out of thousands of dollars. Never mind that Jordan apparently never saw a cent from NonSociety the whole six or so months she was blogging for them.
Hilarity ensued. Both Meghan and Julia were all, like, “Look at the birdie!” before they were forced to acknowledge to giant bloated donkey in the room (the one that was not Julia Allison).
Fortunately, Julia had the loving arms of Prom King to fall into, and she wasn’t about to let go, no matter how hard he tried to escape. It’s a shame Prom King lost his boner in Aspen. It’s cold up there.
Yes, after losing a friend, and as her blogging “business” sputtered, Julia tried her damndest to make this whole Prom King thing stick to her clam dungeon, despite the fact that, just weeks before, she confessed that she wasn’t actually in love with him.
I don’t know about you, but whenever I say I’m not in love with my significant other, the first thing I do is blog relentlessly about how I just cannot wait to marry him. And while I publicly professed wanting to marry a man I wasn’t in love with, I would also simultaneously begin email harassing and subtly blogging about the other guy I was not in love with that I dumped four years ago. It got so insane, that everyone in Julia’s life including the RBNS mods had to send some subtle messages of their own.
Julia was so desperate to trick a man into standing at the altar while she clomped down the aisle that she resorted to hanging around the elementary school playground, rubbing her nipples through her too tight cardigan. Needless to say, Justin Beiber had to triple his security budget and Chris Hansen was put on alert.
Prom King was in danger, and I had to look out for my homeboy and tell him to pick his balls off the floor.
And what do you know? He did! I mean, wouldn’t you?
Up at 3am on a Sat night watching wedding videos so I can hire a videographer for my brother’s marriage. The couples all look like KIDS! about 13 hours ago via web
And yes, I’ve cried at EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. of them. Stupid “Oh-God-I’m-TWENTY-NINE-Will-I-Ever-Get-Married?!”-PMS-freak-out hormones. about 13 hours ago via web
Guy Friend: Most men would marry you. If not all. Me: You should be a therapist for patients who don’t wish to confront reality. about 12 hours ago via web
It turns out that Jordan wasn’t the only person Julia pissed off in Aspen. You see, we posted these tiny, little unsubstantiated rumors. They all turned out to be true, and they told the frightening story of a madwoman unraveling.
Apparently, publicly disclosing that Prom King dumped Julia Allison hard, plus revealing that she was desperate for cash and selling swag that she was supposed to give away in a contest, hit a nerve, so much so that Julia Allison UP AND QUIT THE INTERNET!
Of course, for Julia Allison, quitting the internet means writing the longest blog post she had written in years.
Goodbye for Now
Although I don’t know you and you don’t – let’s face it – really know me, we’ve been through a lot. I started blogging in 2006, and began this lifecast in 2007. I chugged away, dutifully recording these bits of my existence, photographing and captioning and – especially in the first years – reflecting quite alot, ruminating on life, love, and happiness. Sometimes I shared deeply personal stories with you, other times – lately – not much at all. Sometimes I offered you advice. Sometimes I just postedawesome photos of my pet dog. I did these strange, sometimes hilarious, sometimes awful things called lipdubs. [Editors note: This was added seemingly today. It wasn’t there last night.]I filmed over 100 episodes of a little show called TMIweekly. I got a tattoo. I fell in love, got heartbroken, fell in lust, got heartbroken, dated and loved, dated and liked, dated, dated, and finally fell in love again. At this point my heart is so battle weary and scarred I can’t even tell if it’s broken or intact, but I’m leaning towards broken. I talked about my faith – which I came into (relatively) late in the game, but which has changed me inexorably as I navigated my way through the byzantine maze of my late twenties.
That maze continues, but I will no longer be documenting it. At least for now. . . .
And it went on and on and on. . .
For one thing, Julia came into the comments as “jerkface” and revealed Prom King’s real name, Justin Weitz. Oh, then she released private videos of her prom date with Prom King and, because she is completely and undeniably sane, as proven by dozens of mental health professionals, she ACCUSED RBNS OF HACKING INTO HER VIMEO ACCOUNT!!!! But that was just the beginning, because THE RBNS MODS WERE SHITHEADS AND LAWYERS WERE INEVITABLE!!!!! HEEEHAWWWWWW!!!! HEEEEEEHAWWWWWW!!!!
And then it got worse. . .
Someone let the donkey out of her pen, and she stormed the basement, thrashing about, all four legs akimbo, Cheetos tossed in the air as a confused commentariat flailed about shocked by the sheer horror of the BRAYGE!
Yes, I’m talking about ChatGate2010, which was a huge fiasco on all counts. Donks threw a hoof-stomping pity party and invited everyone in chat.
And it was lovely, wasn’t it? Julia played the victim card and let everyone know how sad she was and lied and lied and lied and lied and lied. People asked her about things, she gave non-committal answers. Some people were cordial, like myself and PartyPants, others weren’t having it, like most of our commenters and Jacy.
So what did we learn?
- She really doesn’t like being called “donkey.”
- The Jordan catastrophe was just as bad as had been inferred. They no longer speak.
- Julia and Mary are no longer friends.
- NonSociety is officially a non-business. It is just used as a platform for them to pursue their own projects.
- She was currently looking for a therapist.
- She had to start blogging the following Monday because of contractual obligations.
It was never revealed what those “contractual obligations” were, and, yes, she did go to a therapist, but that endeavor was immediately abandoned as she spent the rest of 2010 as a pack mule criss-crossing the country.
Yes, we learned things, but not without casualty. The very idea of Donks taking a huge dump in our playground infuriated most RBNS readers and reignited Gawker’s ire, which is the only blog on the entire internet that is actually allowed to blog things and have opinions, so said Julia Allison’s former intern. You people were pissed, and I felt the need to explain myself. (Editors Note: I officially rescind anything I said in that post. Nowadays, I just think she’s a cunt.) Most of you were understanding and reaffirmed your undying love for me, the most awesome person in the world.
PartyPants, on the other hand, well, you people said mean things about her and she got PISSED and picked up her boxes of Franzia, threw a huge hissyfit and stomped out of the basement. The entire mess was known as the Great Flounce: The Bitchfit and Sudden Exit of PartyPants.
So ChatGate 2010 claimed a victim, and PartyPants was kind of mourned. (I don’t really know, because I was just confused as to why she was so god damn pissed off at me.)
ChatGate 2010 and Julia Allison’s much talked about exit from the internet turned out to be a scam, however. The psychotic breakdown was merely an excuse for the New York Post to post a lame ass article by Julia Allison on how she is the world’s biggest victim. Holocaust survivors everywhere simultaneously told her to fuck off, and Julia Allison was immediately demoted from 3/4’s to only 1/4 Jewish.
Despite the fact that Julia Allison never really left the internet to begin with, her return the following week was met with great fanfare. The next chapter in her blerging career marked the beginning with a months-long obsession (I am tots not kidding, at all) over Prom King, the ex-boyfriend with whom she was never actually in love to begin with. Her return to the internet also marked the beginning of her mutation from Carrie Bradshaw into one Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love and another incredibly selfish twat who just needs to get over herself.
I don’t know whether we’ll get back together or not, but I do know that I have made a promise to myself that I will NEVER make these mistakes with another man again.
Here’s what I’ve done in the intervening time:
- Re-read every single text he ever sent me. Cry.
- Re-read every single email he ever sent me. Cry. Forward some to him. Realize that’s really pathetic. Regret it. Cry more.
- Call him about seven times in the first three days, crying. Realize that’s really, REALLY pathetic. Regret it. Cry more.
- Replay every single scene in our relationship where I screwed up, and reenact those scenes with a different reaction on my part – and new outcomes. Like Sliding Doors except no Gwyneth Paltrow. Then cry.
- Call my mother at least three times a day.
- Attempt to meditate like a Buddist monk. Fail. Stupid monks never broke up with anyone.
- Lose appetite. Not eat much. Then eat chocolate. Then not eat much again. Weigh myself. Secretly think that only benefit to breaking up is break up weight loss. Still would rather be fat and with him.
- Decide never to date again.
- Decide that “never” means at least a month.
- Contemplate buying one-way ticket to ashram in India, all Eat Pray Love style.
- Realize I don’t know of any ashrams in India. Think maybe I should just go to Italy and eat instead.
- Wonder if I’ll ever find anyone who treats me as well again.
- Play with my dog … constantly. Realize dog and mom are only things that cheer me up. Talk to my dog a little. Watch dog yawn: Dog has seen many of these breakup-meltdowns. Dog knows “this too shall pass.”
- Days pass. Things get better. Then they get worse. Then they get better. Then worse. Up. Down. Up. Down. Down. Down. Up. I’ve been here before (too many times), and I know – intellectually – it will get better. That doesn’t always make it feel better right here, right now.
- Actually work out. This is a small miracle inandof itself.
- Go to church. Yes. Church. In Manhattan.
- Talk – multiple times – to every close friend I have. They all check in with me at least every other day. This does help, you know.
- Force myself not to call ex. Succeed. Feel very victorious. Call my mom instead. I have a good mom.
- After a horrible, fitful night of non-sleep, give in and ask my doctor for an Ambien prescription – just to get me through these next two weeks or so. Feel a little embarrassed, but the only thing worse than getting over a break-up is getting over a break-up on no sleep.
Dear, Lord did she get annoying, like a genital herpes of breakout that just wouldn’t go away.
Speaking of genital herpes. . .
NonSociety got raging case of it, with open, puss-filled sores popping up all over the place in the form of new NonSociety contributors.
First, there was the Katz Lady, who taught the uglies how to set their make-up guns to “tranny-whore.” Then there was, Melissa Kondak, was was never interesting enough to really learn what she does anyway. Then the beautiful Laura Hunter, who, despite being an out-of-work actress, has survived the year without being annoying. Then there was former NonSociety intern Emily Rose, who gave up a well-paying job with upward mobility to move across the country with a boyfriend who clearly hated her and blog for Julia Allison. With her came, Katrina’s husband Brant, who is tots not gay at all and is completely qualified to blog despite having limited watercress experience. It was refreshing to see a completely heterosexual man on NonSociety who didn’t have even the slightest semblance of gay face.
Then came Lisa Diane, the main reason why the U.S. should wall up all of its borders. The dumb, conservative hick had the peculiar perspective of being a Canadian who was obsessed with American politics. Then came Jordacted’s replacement, Crystal Engorged Vagina. Finally Artax and the one with the kid.
We attempted to cover all of these people, but they were all insanely boring. Not that it mattered anyway, considering for the most part, none of them blog on NonSociety with any regularity anymore. (And we should know about regularity, considering that, because of NonSociety, we know every time Julia Allison drinks some nut juice and takes a shit.)
No, there were no more dramatic departures from the NonSociety banner. They all kind of just slinked away, including Meghan Asha, long time sister who quietly left as a regular contributor to NonSociety — she has barely blogged since April — to paint with all the colors of the wind.
She got lost in the wilderness, listening to the wolf cry to the blue corn moon and then get really confused about why the moon wasn’t actually made of corn. Actually, no, she just got tired of Julia’s shit and went off to do her own thing. What was that thing?
She went to India for a bit to sell these leather scarves to the Hindi population in India, because to them, dead cows aren’t really that big of the deal.
Speaking of bad ideas, I neglected to tell you about the other NonSociety contributor, the fresh, stencil-faced, glittery unicorn who single-handedly proved to the U.S. Armed forces that the geighs can fight (and shower) side by side with our fellow trips: Thomas James Kelly, better known as My Gurl Teej.
TJ is a queer little one, and by “queer” I don’t mean gay, I mean perplexingly and mind-numbingly tacky — so tacky that America’s Next Top Model‘s J. Alexander sent him a strip-o-gram asking him to tone it the fuck down.
TJ Kelly rammed the “mo” up homosexual’s ass so deep that the entire American gay community marched up to Capitol Hill to tell our nation’s senators that, “You know what? We probably don’t really deserve equal rights.”
Of course, saying things like this got TJ’s puckering asshole in a bunch, so he skipped over here to tell all us bitches to get off his cock. Basically he blew glitter in all of our eyes and fluttered back off to the bathhouse. This blog really bothered him. I felt bad, so I sincerely wished him happy birthday.
The offensive minstrelsy paid off, however, because armed only with a GED and Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, TJ accomplished something that Julia Allison has been trying to accomplish for years.
He landed a reality show: The A-List: New York, God’s punishment for the gays’ love of Xanadu. There is not much to say about this horrible, horrible reality show other than that it was vapid, offensive, boring, and it featured a lot of TJ. I attempted to recap this show, but it was absolute torture.
Julia Allison was tots supportive, having never actually seen an episode of this shitshow. Of course, I don’t blame her for not watching.
Of course, this blog didn’t come out of the closet. It was still very much about punching donkeys.
After the epic meltdown that was ChatGate, Julia spent the following weeks wallowing about the fact that Prom King put his wallet away while trying to revive her dead and buried career.
She was promoted from filming segments for the back of taxicabs to filming segments for the back of airplane seats. She filmed even more pilots that were guaranteed to never be picked up and tried desperately to prove that, man or no man, she was seriously in demand. In fact, she was so in demand that the Learning Annex asked her to give dumbasses advice on how to become a completely and total sham and failure. Yes, she is such a career woman, even though the one thing she did in years that had the most promise (and that’s really a stretch) crashed and burned.
She also went to events and wore horrible, horrible outfits that were so very super-saggers mermaid chic.
But despite her desperately trying to look busy by faking this thing some of us call a “career”, she spent most of post-ChatGate being incredibly introspective and contemplating how to nourish her spirit because she saw the cover of a best-selling book that one time.
For one thing, she apologized to all her readers for being a complete and total twat, and she promised to open up comments on her blog soon. (SPOILER ALERT! She never did. And she’s still a twat) She also planned to sublet her apartment and go live at an ashram for several weeks, a la Eat, Pray, Love, because she didn’t have one original idea whatsoever.
It got so annoying, I had to go all Madonna on her ass.
But while Julia Allison was trying to reform herself into some spiritual, sane human being who promised not to date, she was secretly harassing an ex-boyfriend from three years ago, one who, may I remind you, like Prom King, she also was not in love with. She seriously would not stop blogging about him. He begged her to stop and called her a creepy stalker of the Glenn Close variety. And because she was fascinated with snagging a man, any man, including one that had a fiance, she became Cunty McCunterson, Mayor of Cuntington Farms, Cuntuckey, U.S.A., Planet CUNT.
You see, Julia Allison (so nice!) emailed the fiance of said ex-boyfriend and casually let her know that there was slight overlap in fuckage. It was so fantastically psychotic that it deserves to be read in full.
Julia Allison at 8:10pm
Hello [REDACTED],Since [REDACTED]‘s email doesn’t seem to be working, won’t you please forward this along to him?
This will be the last time I contact you – or him.
Good luck in the future.
Wow … the first time I’ve heard from you in 2.5 years and this is how you choose to address me? You sound disproportionately angry.[REDACTED], I haven’t called or texted you in two years. I don’t even have your phone number! And I haven’t emailed you in over a YEAR! I facebooked messaged you in December – once, to ask you to give me closure, and once to wish you luck in your engagement. I haven’t physically seen you since June of 2007. Even by the most liberal definition of stalking, you would have a difficult time proving that case.I also replied to your fiancee’s facebook message by telling her that I would take down any mention of you if she wanted – but she never replied.I think I’ve been pretty reasonable. I’ve always said nice things about you and I’ve always told the truth – we loved each other, we were very serious, and I made a lot of mistakes. I don’t think anything about my behavior is horrible. These are my memories, too. Perhaps you’re embarrassed because you overlapped [REDACTED] and me? Because we were still sleeping together and you were still telling me you loved me up well through the summer of 2007, when you were dating her? I assumed that she knew that, but perhaps she didn’t.I’m sorry you’re upset, but you could have dealt with this in a much more reasonable manner.I’m actually exceptionally grateful that you finally responded – at least I can move on now!! I wish we could have been friends, but I have my answer. Thank you for that.Good luck in your future marriage to [REDACTED]!Take care of yourself,JuliaPS. So does this mean I’m not invited to the wedding?
Lest we forget, THESE WERE HER MEMORIES TOO!!!!!!
Bear in mind that this was sent right around the time Julia spent time at an ashram, a place with absolutely no internet, getting all peaceful and shit for several weeks (actually a little over two weeks), an experience so powerful and life-changing that she is still processing it. And before you say anything, no, it wasn’t a fat camp.
The experience was so powerful and transformed her so immensely that she cut her trip short to tag along with Dadsers to the Princeton reunion in hopes of landing a husband!
I don’t think I have to tell you that, no, she did not succeed in landing a husband. And no, she doesn’t look good in orange.
She stopped pulling all-nighters. She stopped playing victim about the fact that people on the internet hate her and proclaimed that there is no privacy on the internet, even though she recently tried to lock down her Facebook. And she stopped desperately hunting for a husband and bitching people out on Twitter when she couldn’t snag one.
Remember the millionaire matchmaker yacht party, where Julia bitched and bitched and bitched? You know, that time when Julia was kind and grateful and appreciative, and it PISSED JANIS SPINDEL OFF? It was incredibly awesome.
Of course, I could see why she wanted a husband so badly. She scheduled Prom King to propose to her in June, right before Brother Britt’s wedding, so she could steal all the attention. Despite her desperate and sad Cathy comic efforts, she would be attending this wedding without a man, she wasn’t acting all psychotic about it.
Her life was falling apart, and it didn’t help that she was officially made homeless.
Yes, she began a fruitless hunt for a new donkey pen, a desperate situation that led to a tirade against parquet floors and creepy stalking of Chuck Bass. It was then that made the OMGHUGE announcement that she was to abandon New York and move to Los Angeles. (ANOTHER SPOILER ALERT! She didn’t.)
The stress of all these life changes got to her, and she made the equally OMGHUGE announcement that she had the squirts.
She didn’t nearly die. She just needed the attention because her little brother got married, forcing her to show up single to her wedding dressed as Grimace’s slutty, drunken menopausal aunt.
If men had ANY IDEA what it took to achieve this morbidly obese Janis Dickenson look they would vomit in the shower, AMIRIGHT?!?!
So Brother Britton was married to the beautiful and ineffably tiny and cute Allie. Meanwhile, Julia was without a job, without a man, without a semblance of a career or educational prospects — her quest for Stanford Business School crashed and burned because she sent her admission essay on pink scented paper — no friends, and no home.
With no place to keep her pink things, and with apparently no money, Julia Allison was forced to have a fire sale. And even with something as simple as unloading her boner-killing wardrobe, she still came off as a raging cunt, not missing an opportunity to stick it to her former BFF and sister Mary Rambin and lying about genuinely helping people with AIDS. Yes, she loved helping people with AIDS, because the gays are people, too. And she appreciates the gays in her life, so it was a good thing she was moving, because she opened up her swag closet and gave My Gurl Teej the best re-purposed birfday gift ever.
Pretending that she regularly gave to a charity, despite not knowing what they actual did, let the world know that she was just like Mother Theresa, that is, if Mother Theresa were a WHORE. And like, Mother Theresa, Julia Allison always followed through with her image-repairing promises, which is why she totally followed through with her oath to participate in the Komen 3-Day Walk for Breast Cancer.
No, no she couldn’t participate in the walk because she was too busy running away from New York to begin the Great Transcontinental Husband Hunt of 2010. Julia Allison, the laughing stock of New York’s media and tech communities, finally abandoned New York, and we celebrated in song.
And while all the men in New York City breathed a sigh of relief, that rest of the male American population was put on high alert, despite the empty promise that Julia Allison might go lez on everyone’s asses. The first man who visited his doctor to ask for advice on how to induce impotence was iDonk, a naive son of a bitch who had absolutely no clue as to where he could get reasonably priced asparagus. iDonk described himself as an “eternal optimist” and “hopeful romantic,” and he gave Julia Allison hope that someone would seriously want to fuck this:
Yeah, that’s not pretty. Fortunately, she met someone who could make her beautiful!
That person was Monika de Myer, the photographer who went by the name of Monika de Myer and owned a photography outfit called Monika de Myer Photography. She was from Poland, and her mother named her Monika de Myer. Trust me, you do not want to piss off Monika de Myer, because Monika de Myer will SHUT YOU DOWN!!!!!!!
Julia Allison needed the pretty pictures that were taken by Monika de Myer, because she needed new headshot because OPRAH WANTED TO PUT HER ON THE TEEVEES!!!!!!
Donks received her biggest opportunity ever: a chance to appear on Oprah’s new reality program called Your OWN Show. The prize: your own show on Oprah’s brand new cable network.
Jules was this close to becoming the next Nate Berkus, the next Rachel Ray or Doctor Phil or Gayle King or Dr. Oz, and she would have made millions and would have been admired by millions of idiotic housebound woman across the country.
And because, as is evident from everything else in this massively long blog post, Julia possesses profound intellect, she turned the opportunity down. I mean, HOW DARE Oprah for making Julia sign a fairly standard contract in order to appear on a Harpo reality show. The very thought that there were clauses meant to protect Oprah’s interests was just soooooooooooooooo draconian. It was perhaps Julia’s stupidest mistake ever, because the winner of this reality show is going to be so god damn rich and famous . And she tots could have won. All she had to do was take classes to learn how to act like a decent human being. I was just dumbfounded by Julia’s decision to say to Oprah, “Bitch, please, with your legalese!” that I had to put on my dusty publicist hat and give Julia Allison some much needed career advice by highlighting that she has absolutely no career prospects at all. (I have to pat myself on the back. It was pretty epic.)
Oh, well. She may not tap into Oprah’s billions, but at least she has her career filming Fashion Week online-only segments for a local television outlet.
It’s pretty awesome that Fashion Week happens twice a year, because we get things like this:
And these are the sorts of things that make me want to get on my knees and thank Jesus (not like THAT, you sickos!).
By now you, if you are still reading (and if you are, you’re a basement-dwelling loser), you should be pretty impressed with my studies in donkology. Alas, I don’t have the doctorate as a sign of my wasted efforts, although you can consider this treatise my dissertation and defense. I guess, I never actually pursued a degree in narcissistic twat studies because I didn’t actually think you could get one, but guess what? YOU CAN!
Someone named Alice E. Marwick from NYU can now be called “doctor” because she read Gawker, followed Julia Allison’s career and attacked RBNS. Conclusion: We are all misogynists. The whole exercise shamed the American system of higher eduction. And yet, Julia Allison still cannot get into grad school.
Seriously how is this not frightening?
Julia Allison spent much of the fall aimlessly flying between San Francisco, Chicago and New York, criticizing former employers and people who actually have real jobs that they go to everyday, and sending creepy ecards to donkey stuffers that congratulated them on the size of their enormous cocks.
You know who I’m talking about: Greasy! A man who not only fucked a donkey, but also put on a costume!
Because it’s always rinse and repeat with this one, our outing of Taylor Greason (although, we technically didn’t out him) turned on the brayge, and Julia Allison, having absolutely nothing else to do while waiting for the official announcement of her syndicated column (we’re still waiting. . . ) decided to come into the chat room. . . again.
This time, I wasn’t so nice. I pretty much just called her a “cunt” over and over and over again, while she hinted that she had done some sleuthing and discovered my identity. She discovered someone’s identity, too bad it was a person that I had never met in my life, and too bad it was a person who had absolutely no idea who I was. So the crazy, psychotic, creepy harassing emails ended up being misdirected. Good work, donks. You totally fucked it up, and still have no idea who the fuck I am. Of course, because absolutely no one asked, Julia Allison took the time to tell the RBNS mods that Tim Ferriss, blowhard and author of the Four-Hour Work Week, gave her a four-second pussy pump that one time.
No one really cared.
Anyway, her actively annoying us on places that weren’t her blog or Twitter forced me to take a breather and I declared Donk-Free week, and try as she might, she made sure she was extra cuckoo so we would pay attention to her again. And, yet again, lawyers were inevitable.
Pretty much though she was just killing time until Slutoween, which she spent in Las Vegas alone attending personal growth workshops and being confused for a prostitute and harassing the Transportation Security Administration.
But it wasn’t until after Halloween that she got rid of that monstrosity and put on her real costume: conservative WASP-y douchebag who hates the gays (and I mean really hates them). Trust me, that particular costume paid off later.
Despite being “very liberal,” she would eventually snag a McCain, but for the time being, she wanted to have naked cuddle time with her best friend Greasy and professing her love for him by buying a coffee for herself.
But never mind Thanksgiving, anyone who has been around here for a while know it’s really all about Christmas, the time of the year when the angels descended from the heavens to tell the shepherds keeping watch by night that Julia Allison is a FUCKING LOON!
But just when we were sincerely getting bored with her, just when we were questioning this questionable exercise, Julia Allison pulled the ultimate coup. She was cheating on Greasy, poor Greasy, and fucking the son of Senator John McCain.
Yes, ol’ Pancakes up there will be macking out with Julia Allison in the New Year. And just when we thought her world completely crumbled — that she was homeless, friendless, manless, hopeless sad sort of adult — things are starting to look up.
Gear up for 2011, bitches. Because this thing with Maverick McCain will totally not last, and the cray will be a cray we have never seen before. Let’s hope it doesn’t happen around the time she reaches her OMGEXPIRATIONDATE, because I seriously think she will jump off a bridge.
Anyway, that’s 2010. Was it insane enough for you? I’m pretty sure 2011 will be much, much better. From Jacy and JP, and Russian Girl who has been drunk off her gourd and fisting a goat for months, thanks so much for reading and making us laugh with your hilarious insight and observations. We love you, as much as it is possible for us to love (Note: not that much).
We’ll see you in the New Year!