The past two weeks have been a triumph of the human spirit; a tour de force of arms, legs, mouths, and hands; a journey of the mind.
Sure, cool girls drink beer. They drink it to feel drunk, they drink it because they like the taste (ooh, hoppy, one might say), they drink it because it’s a Thursday at 4 p.m., and what are they gonna do, not crack open a cold one and watch the hockey event?!
The only thing cool girls love more than the big game is housing an order of two dozen buffalo wings and then talking about how cold she is because she’s so tiny.
The cool girl is able to look runway-ready exactly one instant out of rolling out of bed. She maintains a dewy glow, even in the dead of winter, and all she needs (or all she’ll tell you she needs) is a “dab of chapstick.” The cool girl is somehow free of blemish, scar, hyperpigmentation, dryness, or oil slick—in…
“I really like to fuck,” said Team Wings’s Julianne Escobedo Shepherd.
“I really wanna taste the barrel,” said Team Beer’s Hazel Cills during Thursday’s Cool Girl Olympics challenge. “I really wanna taste the wood and how long it’s been sitting in that wood.”
“Oh wait, bobsleigh, bobSLEIGH!!!” cried Team Football’s Ellie Shechet as the timer ran out, solidifying a solid, but not winning, performance in Wednesday’s competition.
Dun dun dun dunnnn dun dun dun dun dun dunnnnn! Welcome to the second biannual (that means every two years) Jezebel Olympics, but first-ever Jezebel Winter Olympics: Cool Girl Edition, presented not by NBC, but by us, Jezebel.
When I lit the Jezebel Olympic torch (turned on my stove) on Monday, August 8, and paraded it around the Olympic stadium (cooked an egg on top of it), I never could have known how eventful the next two weeks would be, and what a hollow mood this awards ceremony (me screaming into my freezer) would have.
“Firework,” wrote Team Gawker’s Ashley Feinberg in Slack, the office group chat program, after being reminded about an Olympic challenge she had forgotten to participate in.
“I’m never agreeing to do this again,” said Gawker Media Art Director Jim Cooke after spending a grueling half-hour painstakingly judging the most recent Olympic event.
As an internet writer (that’s how I start every sentence), I know that accidentally enraging or titillating a rabid group of Zayn Malik or Ariana Grande fans is surprisingly easy to do—just write something vaguely, maybe unintentionally rude about their patron saint. Monday’s competition was about activating a group…
Thus far, Jezebel’s Olympians have proven their competence in Bravo housewife naming, social engagement, and throwing balls into trashcans. On Friday, their interoffice manners, and recognition of good content, were on the line.
It’s rare to find a blogger who has both intellectual and physical prowess (at least in ball sports), and Thursday’s competition made it clear that ours have a blind spot when it comes to aim.
The past few competitions have been individual events that forced our participants to rely largely on their memory and ability to stay calm under pressure. Wednesday’s competition required our teams to get more creative and collaborative.
The only reason this blog post isn’t called Let’s Remember Some Wives is because Samer Kalaf threatened legal action.
“I’m sorry for wanting to be thorough,” said Team Gawker’s Brendan O’Connor, before failing to place in Monday afternoon’s competition.
Have you ever watched the Olympics or any sports event and thought, “I could never do any of this. When will there be a competition for someone like me?” Now there is.