I shouldn't care about this as much as I do

This recently made me feel like the Grinch (animated not Jim Carrey version) after he finds out the Christmas is just a little bit more than presents and feasts.

Please read this article.

Now read this follow-up article.

One thing that keeps me up at night is wondering whether or not certain celebrities are nice people. And proof like that just warms my ice cold heart.

Now if anyone would like to gather some intel on some other stars for me, I'd really appreciate it. Like Tina Fey. God knows I love that woman, but sometimes I confuse her with Liz Lemon. They aren't the same person, Chris. It's my daily mantra. Some people wake up in the morning, look in the mirror and say "I'm worth it." I say "Tina Fey and Liz Lemon are separate entities. If you see Liz Lemon Tina Fey on the street, do NOT go up to her, hug her, and tell her about the time you found an Oreo in your bed, mid-coitus." On that same note: Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. I hope that they are as good of friends in real life as they seem in movies/TV/fake life. Someone once told me that Stacy London and Clinton Kelly of What Not to Wear fame really are biffles to the max power in real life. While that is adorable, I see their friendship being more of a "Hey let's sit here at this restaurant and judge people's outfits as they walk by." Whereas Tina/Amy would be performing impromptu comedy routines across our great nation.

Another more minor celebrity whom I hope is a nice person is Pat Kiernan. You might be familiar with his work if: a) you live in New York City, b) you are familiar with the now defunct TV show "World Series of Pop Culture", or c) you happened to catch his one week stint as celebrity expert on "Who Wants to be a Millionaire." I've recently taken to watching the news in the morning, and Pat Kiernan, who anchors NY1 in the mornings, really makes my day. For example, at the end of last week, he made some off-hand remark about how sick he was of the Michael Jackson coverage, and I wanted to reach through my TV screen and shake his hand for saying what all of us were thinking.

I used to have this delusion about wanting to meet Tyra Banks, because she was so over the top. But I think she'd probably be that way in any situation. Although to tell you the truth, I went to an interview she was having at the NYTimes a while back, and she was alot more personable than I expected. But I think it was an act. Once, my sister and I had an in-depth discussion about whether or not Justin Timberlake was a good person or not. I think he isn't, which is a shame, because he can seem really genuine. Then again, he's loaded, handsome, and talented, so what does he need to be nice for?

Living in NYC, you sometimes get to see celebrities in their semi-natural habitat. Or former reality TV show contestants. I'm going to share with you the most horrific experience of my entire life in the city: the time I ran into Chris March from Project Runway.

Walking to the subway from my friend's place in Union Square, at about 14th street and 5th avenue, I recognized Chris waiting on the corner. And I have no idea what I was thinking, but I said "Chris" out loud. As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I IMMEDIATELY regretted it, but he turned around and I started blathering on about God knows what. I certainly don't because I repressed that shit so hardcore. I think it was something along the lines of "You did a great job yada yada yada You should have won blah blah blah You're so fun" until I realized what was happening. Then I believe I said "Oh god, This is embarrassing. More so for me than for you. Wow, I'm sorry I even started this conversation." To which he laughed. But the whole time this exchange was going on, he was not nearly as friendly as he seemed on TV. Which is probably owing to the fact that it was like 8 PM, and having fans come up and talk to you is awkward as shit. Let's just say that more than one lesson was learned that night, and I will never approach a celebrity of any size without for sure knowing that they are a nice person.

Sidebar: In case you haven't noticed, or don't follow us on Twitter (twitter.com/2birds1blog and twitter.com/misterlizlemon), Meg has been absent from the blog these past three days because she's been at a business meeting. She says that she misses you all immensely, but will be back tomorrow with a DOOZY of a story. Trust me, I got the live version yesterday over dinner. You do not want to miss this story. And, as always, thanks for reading!

Ludacris's "Fantasy" is full of it

Porn is ruining lives.

Now, I’ve seen my fair share of pornographic videos (have I written this before? I’m having serious blogja vu right now), but it seriously warps your idea of what good sex should be. What you forget is that porn is all about the visual, more for self-love than making love. Try any position you see in porn, and it’s immediately uncomfortable, because while it looks hot as hell, your leg is not supposed to bend that way, and penises should not make obtuse angles with your torso.

But one of porn’s worst side effect of porn, by far, is the different locales these movies are set in. To illustrate my point, I present to you the 7 Most Overrated Places to Have Sex. (May I say that I am in no way an expert on this matter. Merely my opinion. If you’ve done it in any and every one of these places and it’s been spectacular, then a tip of the hat to you, and I’d love to hear your tales of wonderment. If I’ve omitted an overrated boning location, please let me know.)

7 Most Overrated Places to Have Sex

1. The beach. I think this might be one of the most common sex fantasy locations.
In theory: Get a blanket, settle down on a starry night, and get busy with the sounds of waves crashing as your aphrodisiac. Nothing could be more romantic than that.
In practice: Sand. Everywhere. You soon realize you have more nooks and crannies than an Thomas’ English muffins because every single one of yours has sand in it. And you seriously underestimated how cool the ocean breeze was. Goosebumps are sexy when they happen once or twice, not when they are constant. God forbid the tide come in mid-coitus.

2. The woods. This is a personal favorite of mine. I’ve always thought that getting your freak on in a nice wooded glen would be the ultimate.
In theory: Birds chirp as the leaves’ shadow dance playfully across your lover’s skin.
In practice: Leaning up against a tree hurts. That bark is not a comfortable body pillow. It is scratchy and there are ants crawling all over it. Likewise, you lay down in the grass, and who knows what creatures/insects are going to interrupt the mood. Nothing says sex less than bug bites. Except maybe a rash, sexually transmitted or otherwise. In the woods you are at least 600 times more likely to contract poison ivy. On your taint.

3. The kitchen. This might be one of the first place people go in their own home when they leave the boudoir because it’s so far removed from the bedroom.
In theory: All that counter space can lend itself to some interesting positions, and while you’re in the kitchen, why not grab some whipped cream and strawberries.
In practice: Let me stop you right there. Whipped cream = a sticky mess, even after you’ve licked the majority of it off of someone’s nether regions. But the food aside, there really aren’t a whole lot of places you can maneuver yourself in the kitchen. Leaning over a counter maybe but all that thrusting and you’re bound to concuss yourself on a cabinet. Same goes for sitting on the counter. And let’s face facts, you prepare/eat food in there. Unsanitary.

4. The stairs. This one might be a little less common, but I’ve seen it in a film or two and thought it looked hot.
In theory: You are on different levels, so it’d be easier for certain positions. And maybe you’re up for the challenge.
In practice: First and foremost, stairs are pretty narrow, so trying to find a comfortable way to kneel or sit on them is going to be difficult. Have you ever tripped up the stairs and banged your shin? Hurts donut? Imagine doing that repeatedly over and over again. Not pleasant. Also, god forbid one or both of you lose your balance, because you’re going to break an arm, or at least hurt your pride.

5. Car. I had a friend tonight tell me he’s done this. In traffic, no less. I say “Kudos, but good god what kind of yoga do you know how to do?” Most people just park their jalopy on Lover’s Lane and fog up some windows.
In theory: It’s sort of the quintessential place for teenagers to fool around, so I’m sure everyone’s done it at one point or another. Plus, even non-porn movies romanticize boning in cars. Or in the beds of trucks. Or the backs of vans.
In practice: In short, that’s not what cars are made for. You can’t fully enjoy yourself when you’re getting a face full of door handle. And in my experience as a passenger in cars, most backseats have pretty low head room. Sex is supposed to be mind blowing, not brain bashing. Also, police knocking on your steamed up windows can shrink a boner in 5 seconds flat. Fact! (Fun story: I had a friend who was fooling around with her boyfriend in a parked car when the policeman knocked on the window and shined a light on her topless…the policeman being her friend’s father.)

6. In front of a fireplace. Another romanticized location, as seen in many Skinemax flicks.
In theory: Firelight. Bearskin rug. Passionate sex. Maybe some candles. How many romance novels are centered around exactly this?
In practice: This might be a personal negative for me, but does anyone else think this would be the sweatiest, least sexy thing ever. Everything about that says hot to me, literally and not figuratively. I’m not going to be in the moment when I’m thinking about how much sweat is pouring from my forehead.

7. Pool/Jacuzzi. Like Will Ferrel and Rachel Dratch at the Welshley Arms “although the waters above appear calm, below the surface there is a frenzy of activity.”

In theory: Hot. Nothing is better than relaxing, enjoying spiced meats, and getting some.
In practice: Three words. Urinary Tract Infection.

What if God was one of us?

Talking on the phone is one of my least favorite activities. I blame whomever invented text messages, because I can get my thoughts out much more succinctly and with less small talk. (Although if you’re familiar with my work, you know what else happens with me and text messages.) Just call me Gwen Stefani because I screen my phone calls on the regular. Occasionally, this habit translates to my work, and I will let a call or two go to voicemail if I’m particularly swamped (or if I can’t get the answer to 42-down in my crossword).

This happened the other day at work. Instead of answering a call, I continued diligently working. The voicemail got bumped from my mind until the following day. Having listened to it, I’m pretty sure I’m going to be the next Joan of Arc.
I’m not a religious person at all. But you tell me that hearing the first 30 seconds of this song on your voicemail wouldn’t make you think God is trying to talk to you.


Because that’s exactly what this voicemail was. No talking. No laughing. No explanation. Just 30 seconds of church music. The only reason I know what song it was is because I used Shazam on my iPhone to figure it out (Thank you, Apple!). But prior to rationally thinking about this, I freaked out a little, assuming that I’m being targeted by some fundamentalist religious sect attempting to convert me or something and this voicemail is their version of a brick through my window.

I would have immediately guessed my friend Allison is behind this, but no one has my work number, and having one of the most popular names in the history of the world makes googling me pretty much impossible.
After thinking about it a bit more, I’m 97% convinced this is my calling from the Big Man himself. Don’t lots of priests claim to have received a sign calling them to the service? And everyone knows Joan of Arc supposedly heard a voice from God urging her to aid France. Mind you, this is all before the age of technology, so that’s why Joan heard a disembodied voice and not a phonecall from the Lord. And if they can, then why can’t I? It’s not that far-fetched, especially when compared to peope who see Jesus in burritos or sidewalk stains or what have you. If Jesus is going to appear to someone in an X-ray or a food product, why can’t he also just pick up the phone?

I’m glad this call went to voicemail though, because had I received a call from God, and he was asking me to join some sort of cause. How can you say “Ehh I’d rather play Sudoku” to God? Responding to a relevation is pretty taxing, I feel. I mean look how it turned out for Joan of Arc. Sure, she’s a saint, but she was also burnt to death. That seems like a lot to ask. I don't have the energy to rally people. Public speaking? Eh. Though maybe I would get to carry a sword, which is kind of bad ass. And I'd definitely get famous for this, for being batshit crazy, if nothing else. So that's a plus. But considering how long it took me to get out of bed this morning, I just don't think I'm suited to the task at hand. Sorry, God, but I'm going to be screening your phone calls from here on out.

Drinking Game Friday thinks it just killed it's boyfriend.

Lady Gaga fascinates me. I don’t think anybody else’s ascent to fame can be described as meteoric more so than hers. She came from almost nowhere (according to Wikipedia, she was big in the NYC club scene before hitting it big mainstream) to become one of the most recognizable faces in music of the present day. Ok, maybe people recognize her hair a bit more than her face.



This probably has a lot to do with the fact that she is just so goddamned eccentric. How does that happen? Most of the superstars in the music industry transition into psychopaths slowly. It took a few years before Madonna donned her famous cone bra. Rihanna didn’t start showing up to award shows looking like a dominatrix immediately.


Lady Gaga somehow managed to bring the club scene, replete with spandex unitards and diamond face make-up, into the mainstream with little to no transition.

Her latest addition to her portfolio of eccentricity comes in the form of her latest music video: Paparazzi. Hearing the title you’d think the video would be about running from the paparazzi or being famous or something. But you would be mistaken. Because I believe you need to be mild to moderately intoxicated to fully enjoy this 8 minute video epic I present to you the Paparazzi Drinking Game (mini).


The rules are simple. To get inordinately fucked up in 8 minutes or less.

Drink once when:
A newspaper or magazine is shown
Lady Gaga changes outfits
A dead girl is shown
Lady Gaga sports a new hairstyle

Those right there should get you pretty toasted, but for added benefit, take a shot:
For the most offensive “dance” sequence ever (3:47 to 4:27)
When someone murders or attempts to murder someone
If Lady Gaga is wearing an outfit you own/would wear

Just a quick drinking game for this Friday, but if you follow along, you should be well on your way to having a night worthy of Gaga. Where are my keys? I lost my phone.

See you back here on Monday for more antics. And if you can’t wait that long, you can always follow us on Twitter. Have a great weekend!

Don't Ask, Don't Tell. PLEASE, for the love of god, DON'T TELL!

I've been accused on multiple occasions of not communicating with people when somethings wrong with me. If I'm upset, stressed or worried, I tend to get really distant and cold. I've learned that it's not healthy and generally makes people uncomfortable. But I've been working hard to change! When I'm upset, I let people know. I try not to internalize my problems so much and talk them out with people. I'm learning to share.

And good for me! However, there is such a thing as oversharing. Boss #1 is Queen of the Overshare. And it makes me highly, highly uncomfortable.

As I've mentioned, I like Boss #1. She exudes good energy and I've felt comfortable with her since day 1. I think this has something to do with the fact that she looks exactly like my friend Allison, plus 20 years. Every time Boss #1 walks into the office I just want to shriek, slap her on the ass and have a giggle fest. Then I have remind myself that she's my boss, not Allison, so I better keep my hands to myself.

Perhaps in a past life Boss #1 was Allison and I was...myself. Again. Because only that would explain how open Boss #1 is with me. Boss #1 tells me more than I need to know. About everything. And nothing I want to know about. I hate to be that guy who uses Jimmy Fallon's stand-up as an example, but the following track about his college RA pretty much perfectly sums up how I feel about my co-workers:

Chris Rock Was My RA - Jimmy Fallon

The point being: I don't need to know. Please don't tell me the intimate details about your life. Because I just don't need to know, nor do I care. I don't want to sound heartless, but I'm just here to do as little work as possible and still get a paycheck. I have to respect you as a boss; I can't know that you had butt-sex last night. If I wanted a 40-something-year-old best friend to giggle and gossip with, I'd go to mahjong with my mom. Let's just keep things professional.

6 Things I Never Wanted to Know About Boss #1:

- They used to call her "Love 'em and Leave 'em Liza." I don't know who they are. But I think I feel sorry for them.

- As I mentioned a few days ago, I'm in charge of making the (well designed and ADORABLE!) invitations for Boss #1's best friend's daughter's upcoming baby shower.

What I needed to know to make these invitations: boy or girl; when; where; what time; color scheme and RSVP information.

What I didn't need to know to make these invitations: Boss #1's best friend's daughter is 18-years-old and got pregnant, and I quote, "on her sexual maiden voyage."

- A few weeks ago Boss #1 opened up an old can of coffee she found in the back room and loudly exclaimed, "OH MUH LORD! This coffee smells like pencil shavings and cooter!" Pencil shavings. And cooter. If I ever open my own law firm, and I don't know why I would, I would want it to be called Pencil Shavings & Cooter & Partners.

- Boss #1 has a friend named Donna. I'd put Donna at about 45. She's single and attractive in the way that you can tell she was probably once pretty, but now looks kinda rode hard and put away wet. Donna makes me sad because she's all HEYheyHEY promiscuous single lady here! Different man every night of the week! Can't keep this tiger in a cage RAWRRR! But you know she goes home at night and cries over a bottle of Nice 'n Easy Gray Coverage. Basically she's what I fear I'll be in 20 years if I don't meet someone. So I like having her around. She reminds me to keep my eyes on the prize.

Anyway, Boss #1 walked into work one day looking at her Blackberry, walked over to me and without a "hello," "good morning," or "how are you?" shoved her Blackberry in my face and said, "MEGHAN! Check out the dick on Donna's new black guy!" I looked at the Blackberry in front of me and there in fact was an emailed photograph of a well-built, young, black man, completely nude, holding a towel with the subject "Post coital ;)"

Now, I am the least prudey person you will ever meet, but suddenly I was clutching my pearls all "WELL, I'VE NEVER!" I stammered and searched for something to say for 30 seconds before I finally got out "It's. Nice."

- Boss #1 came in Monday morning to pick something up and I noticed that she had a nice tan. "Wow, you look great. Someone got some color!" I said, completely unaware of the can of worms I was about to open. Boss #1's response: "Oh muh lord. We started partying EARLY this weekend, Meghan. I'll tell you what, we had people over Friday at 3 o'clock in the afternoon and we must have finished off six bottles of wine before 5 and then smoked some grass that belongs to my friend Bill's son and WOOOOOO! They make that stuff way stronger than they did in my day, I'll tell you what! Wait, what did I come in here to get? I put a list somewhere and I forgot what I did with it. Man. I think I killed too many brain cells this weekend. Do you smoke grass?"

Now again, I'm not a prude. Sex and drugs? Sure. Good fun. However I was so overcome with emotions of "OH GOD WE SHOULD NOT BE TALKING ABOUT THIS," that the only thing I could do was awkwardly ramble "Um...ah...haha...wha—...I..." until she found what she came in to get and ran out. Then I said the rosary, called my mother and took a shower.

- The Road Head Story. The crème de la crème of things I never wanted to know. OK. Breathe. So! One day my boss' husband, Buck (real name,) came into the office with Boss #1 to drop off some heavy boxes. "Your husband is so cute!" I said to Boss #1 after he left. Why I said that is a mystery to me. I mean, yes he was cute, but I knew better than that. I knew it would take things to a dark, dark place where I didn't want to go. "Mmm. Yes he is," Boss #1 said. "Poor guy, I've been so sick with this stupid cough I haven't been able to have sex with him in weeks! I felt so bad I decided give him road head on the way here. The ride was so bumpy I barely had to do any work!" And then she hung her head and pantomimed giving a blow job.

I wish I could have seen the look on my own face when this happened. Because I in no way tried to hide the horror and disgust I felt coursing through my veins. My eyes were as wide as dinner plates. My jaw dropped to the ground. Time stood still. Worlds collided.

So I'm super glad that I'm learning to be a more open and communicative person, but if pantomiming blow jobs and flashing dick pictures around the office is the measure of good health, I'm going back to being an aloof ice-queen. And I'm in no way sorry about it.

Necessity is the Mother of Invention, but Survivor is the Mother of the Snuggie

On my lunch break this morning, I came home, sat in front of my television for an hour of brain cell genocide when I had to make an important decision. Do I watch Bring It On: All or Nothing or Who Wants to be a Millionaire? It’s a common complaint, but out of 300+ channels, these are the only things that even remotely piqued my interest. Lucky for you all, I went for Bring It On, and while it’s nowhere near as good as the original, it is one amazingly bad flick. Lucky for me I tuned in just in time to watch Hayden Planetarium krumping:


And then I had a revelation. Everything bad is secretly good. This explains an infinite number of things: why Meg and I routinely quote lines from Center Stage (Meg is far better at this game than I am), why the Snuggie has its own Wikipedia entry, and why Kristinia DeBarge was able to release that trash heap of a song.

So this makes for quite a conundrum. Meg and I have been brainstorming about a good product to invent to fiscally supplement our current meager incomes. And while we routinely scoff at the likes of the Go Girl and the Kush and the Comfort Wipe, we may need to divert our attentions from the cure for cancer to an Automatic Ass-Hair Braider. I was going to characterize the biochemical processes of motivation, to make a wonder pill of will power, but I should probably look into making something that’ll make your farts smell like fresh linen instead.

When did this happen? When did we stop inventing televisions and clock radios and focus instead on vibrator/razor combinations? Is everything that is worthwhile already invented? Last time I checked my compendium of science fiction movies, we still are in need of flying cars, teleportation, and time travel. So if we can get on that instead, I’d really appreciate it. But I have a theory as to the cause of all this obsession with making the trivial aspects of our everyday lives easier.

Survivor.

Hear me out. Survivor was one of the first reality TV game shows, which was the first time your average Joe Schmoe got their first taste of fame and maybe a little bit of fortune. Once Survivor got big, a new batch of TV shows came out for other types of people. You have your Bachelor/Bachelorette/Who Wants To Get Syphillis types of shows, for the lonely people out there who are moderately attractive. American Idol/So You Think You Can Dance/Whore Out Your Talent for Fame shows for people with an actual talent who are moderately attractive. Deal or No Deal/Wipeout/Shows Where Moderately Attractive or At Least Generally Likeable Who Have No Discernible Talent Compete for Money and Fame. Notice anything similar between all these shows? There’s no room for ugly people on reality TV shows (unless that show is The Swan and you are receiving plastic surgery to be not so ugly anymore).

So now everyone who is moderately attractive (or wants to be more moderately attractive via The Biggest Loser or Dance Your Ass Off) is getting famous and making a little money. What about everyone else; those with, shall we say, a face made for radio? How can they get a piece of the pie?

Well, the majority of them are watching their more attractive neighbors and friends eat bugs with Joe Rogan for money, or race around the globe for money, or remember the lyrics to songs with Wayne Brady for money. But a minority of the rest of them can somehow get financial backing to produce the first genius idea they have while on the can. They aren’t going to get famous (Does anyone know who invented the Snuggie? Didn’t think so.) but they can make a few bucks.

And the cultural landscape is primed for a few moronic ideas. Of course people are going to need something to help them wipe their fat asses, because they are too busy watching other fat asses lose weight on television. And while they’re watching TV, they get cold, but don’t want to take their arms out from their blanket to change the channel because Hole in the Wall just doesn’t translate from Japanese television, so naturally they need a Snuggie.

In conclusion, if Mark Burnett had never produced Survivor, then Germany would never have produced the ShamWow and that guy would never have punched that hooker, and Billy Mays might still be alive (R.I.P.).

So I’m not sure what this post says about me, since I was able to reference all of these trashy reality TV shows. Either I’m slovenly and physically repulsive, or I’m slated to invent the next Peekaru. Probably a little of both? In the meantime, I’ll be working on that motivation pill. Once I work up to it.

Oh and BTW:

I hereby award Tulane Chris 50 points for streaking through UPenn's Hill House on the Fourth of July. Here he is streaking through "The Fish Bowl" under Benjamin Franklin's watchful gaze:




Only a patriotic top hat separating your eyes and his manhood:


I call this one Hats Off to America! (Sorry it's so shaky. My hand was understandably fluttering):


And finally, The Thinker:



Well played, sir.