A Rant

I know no one likes a whiner. I genuinely apologize that recently my updates have been me complaining, whether it be about the MTA or the Meek. Apologizes aside, I have some ranting to do.

My newest complaint: Humanity.

What in the sweet name of the good Lord is wrong with the people who live in this world? It takes me about an hour door-to-door to get to work in the morning, and in that span, just this morning, two things happened that boggle my mind and make me want to stand in the middle of Time Square with a mega phone and shout, “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!” really, really loudly.

Incident #1
This morning my roommate Blair and I were standing on the platform of the subway waiting for the train. There was a man sitting on a bench clipping his fingernails with clippers. Each click of the clippers echoed throughout the tunnel like thunder, as his disgusting unwanted fingernails fell to the floor of the platform. He did this for well over 10 minutes. Literally. When the train finally arrived, he didn’t even get on the train. He continued sitting on the bench clipping away.

Rant #1
Sir, what the fuck is wrong with you? What kind of talons of fury do you have that it takes over 10 minutes and countless clippings to cut your nails? Are you an eagle trapped in the guise of a man? Can you break animal eggs open with your claws and grasp tree branches with ease? And why the fuck are you clipping your nails in the fucking subway? I’m not really a germa-phob, but I’m sorry that is disgusting. My skin was crawling as each nail particle fell to the floor. Sir do you know what your nails are? They are just dead proteins from your nail beds. I have to give him some credit for caring enough to clip his nails. God knows one of my biggest pet peeves is people who grow their nails out to outrageous lengths, or girls who have freakishly long horse hair and are inevitably named Heather or Misty. Praise for this man aside; do not clip your nails in a public forum. I don’t want to walk through your nail clippings and track them home to my apartment. And seriously, why are you doing this at a subway station? Is this the Elizabeth Arden Red Door Salon and nobody told me? Should I have just saddled up next to him and given myself a bikini wax, letting the used strips also fall to the ground? GET A ROOM.

Incident #2
Once on the subway I decided to make the most of my ride and watch an episode of Reno! 911. By the West 4th Street stop, I had forgotten the clipping incident and my faith in humanity was restored thanks to my favorite show. Then, a random Asian man started to pet my hair like I was his personal longhaired tabby. Two strokes in, I realized someone wasn’t knocking into me, but rather petting me and I turned to the man and gave him a “what the fuck are you doing?!” look, as words weren’t really coming to me at that moment. A kind citizen must have seen that my dumbfounded look wasn’t going to stop this man from petting me and slapped the man’s hand and told him, “you can’t do that here” with a firm shake of his head. I wish I were making this up.

WHAT THE FUCK? COME ONNNNNN…Commuting during rush hour is already a little too cuddly for my comfort. The last thing I want is some random person petting my ponytail. And again, I have to ask: Sir, what the fuck are you thinking?! He didn’t appear to be crazy or homeless, which would help me understand the situation only marginally more. Get a pet, sir. That is all I can say to you. And if you can’t afford a pet, or if your apartment does not allow animals, there are still alternatives to explore, rather than pet strangers in the subway. I knew someone in college who loved the texture of her childhood blanket so much she always kept a piece of it in her pocket to stroke when things got tense. A little weird? Yes. But invasive and bordering on molestation? No. You might think the Good Samaritan who said something to The Stroker would restore some of my faith in humanity, but no! I don’t want to live in a world where people have to remind each other that petting strangers isn’t “what we do here.” And what does that even mean? WHERE besides a petting zoo is that what you do?! What country? You tell me and then I’ll give that man a gold star for community service.

Sigh…there. I feel better now that I’ve gotten that off my chest. I can only imagine what this afternoon holds for me. People giving themselves facials and enemas in my cubicle, no doubt. Sigh again…

Sha la la!


Now the world is ready for you, and the wonders you can do

Daily Chris and I bond with each other over our lack of love life our struggles being relatively normal and yet homosexual. We decided our conversations are too priceless to keep between us; it is time to start sharing.

The other night during a phone chat I was reflected on my boycott of the term boyfriend or girlfriend by saying: “Calling someone your boyfriend or girlfriend is so banal.” In the same starlight pillow talk conversation Chris confessed his dislike of many straight people, he said, “I like to call them straighty it is funny because it is so close to whity

This is the first installment of what I hope to become a semi-regular feature. We are here, queer, and look just like you!

Eddie Sometimes you are a homo and it’s not just when you put your dick in a guy
Chris: I feel like that's when I shine, though.
Eddie: Btw we are the best gays ever can we reflect on that, like legit award winning gays…us and Ellen!
Chris: Wonder Gays.

I will find any excuse to use MS paint, it is a problem, I am on step one, HI MY INTERNET NAME IS EDDIE AND I AM A MS PAINT ADDICT.

Here is my MS Paint artist rendering of Chris and I as “Wonder Gays.” CLICK IT, it is better when it is bigger (wow that is sexual.)

Turning the world one straight at a time.

I wish I could quit you,


...and Greg

Confession; I just started watching LOST. I used to mock people who were obsessed with this show. I decided—after viewing one episode—that the survivors were not on an island they were in purgatory. This all made sense in my little Irish Catholic head, and it made me feel awesome PURGATORY WAS AN ISLAND PARADISE. I was a TV champ and figured out the entire secret of a show I did not even watch. Now I realize I was very naive.
About two weeks ago I hit a boring wall. All my DVD’s had been viewed over 10 times, Netflix could only keep me busy 2 days a week, and the writers strike messed up TV. After poking around the Internet I found out every episode of Lost was streaming on ABC.com. Against my better judgment I decided to give it a click, and like that my weekend was booked. Because I wait a few hours between viewing episodes the suspense is killed and the show is not as powerful.

Good TV never fully answers our questions, and great TV will make us questions our existence. Some questions posed by TV will plague me for eternity. I will always wonder who won J.R. or the Devil? Are we all just living inside an autistic boy’s snow globe with Mr. Feeny? Is Ugg still at Camp Anawanna?

Like most viewers of Lost I have tons of questions. No, I am not wondering about the polar bears… I figure that will be answered at some point. I have only practical questions that distract me from really getting into the show.

1) If I was on the island who would I be?
I am lazy, I would not climb trees or go exploring. I would hang out in my little tent taking in the ocean. If I was on Lost you would never see me unless there was a meeting, I would be a pointless background character. Yet, I would be friends with Charlie. He is super cute and reminds me of someone I used to live with and is my type of boy. On the other hand my friendship with Charlie would make me a key player, it does not add up.

Eddie + Charlie= BFF (?)

2) Speaking of Charlie…does heroin ever go bad?!? I mean jungle heroin stuck in the Virgin Mary statues for years would go bad from excessive heat...right?! Do junkies care if drugs go bad?! Does heroin really look like sand?!? If you can only get the heroin out by smashing the statue how did Mr. Eko and his gang get the drugs in?!?Are these statues really Virgin Mary piggy banks?!? So many questions about the drugs...

3) Apparently everyone on the island has skin that naturally generates sunscreen. It really is amazing that no one on the island is burned by the suns harsh rays.. To top it off few people on the island are still pasty! If you put me on an island near the equator for even 3 hours without SPF 45 applications every 10 min I would look like this:

I hated having classes outside in college because in that hour I would burn, and I was in Washington DC. For me the most unbelievable thing on the island is not the monsters, it is not the random buildings, I will never understand the lack of sunburns.

Everyone who has watched Lost for years the is laughing at me, and I don't care. I am really watching because I am scared that this show says something about our post 9-11 society and if I do not watch I am missing out on cultural subtext about our current era.

In conclusion Oscar Wilde was a homo, and now I am just one of millions of viewing Americans of this random as show of sexy people trapped on a creepy island, Thanks ABC!

I wish I could quit you,



Revenge is a dish best served drunk

There may indeed be a certain level of anonymity to this blog, but one thing I will say outright (because I’m pretty sure I let it slip before,) is that Eddie and I went to the American University in Washington, D.C. Eddie and I are a lot alike in that we are both highly intelligent girls who, due to extreme laziness and a penchant for the party, did well in high school, but probably could have done a lot better if we actually tried. When it came time to apply to college, Eddie’s cousin went to AU and sold her on it, so she applied and got in early decision. I, however, didn’t just put all of my eggs in one basket when it came to applying to my #1 choice school early decision, I put the whole damn farm in and a squeezed in a few milk-maids for good measure. After I mailed off my application packet to Dream School University, I laid back and roasted marshmallows over the other college applications burning in my fireplace (surely I would not need them) and lazily laid back, Dream School University pennant in hand just a-waiting’ for the acceptance letter to roll in. As fate would have it, my dumbfuck guidance counselor sent Dream School University the wrong SAT scores and I did not get in. I’ll spare you the emo story of me curled up on the kitchen floor hysterically crying, meekly screaming to no one in particular “what the fuck am I going to do now?” So what the fuck was I to do now? I had a little over two weeks to pick a school and apply. Enter the fabulous learning institution that is American University! Chartered by an act of Congress in 1893 and located at the top of Embassy Row in Washington, D.C. this school is known for it’s top-notch political and communications programs, and for such well respected alums as Goldie Hawn (who lost her virginity on the floor Eddie and I met and lived on Freshman year,) Starr Jones and Judge Judy! Yes, I became an AU Eagle.


It was at AU I discovered my love and talent in graphic design. I worked very hard in college; dedicated to becoming the best damn print designer this world has ever seen. Senior year, “sleep” and “food” were just things I’d heard about in dem fancy picture shows and I spent all of my time in the design lab working my ass off. When I graduated with honors in May, I felt a sense of pride and wonderment. I was bright-eyed, bushy tailed and ready to conquer the world. However, my tail quickly flattened, and my eyes went from bright to red and rabies-esque when I found out that due to the slow and water-bound manatees that must comprise the AU administration (as human beings can not fuck up as often as they did in my four years of dealing with the administration), 3 credits from a design internship I completed in the Spring of 2005 were “misplaced.” I was informed I would have to be make these credits up next semester and I would not be receiving my diploma. Again, I will skip the emolicious story of me crying (now on the bathroom floor!) thinking of all of that hard work done for nothing. A four month long battle with the bureaucracy of AU raged as I fought for my much-deserved credits I completed a billion years ago. Finally in September, the mighty manatees of the AU administration put down their aqua-swords and gave me my diploma. Victory!

Or so I thought…the other weekend my parent’s received a letter from the Dean of the College of the Arts and Sciences congratulating Patsy McBlogger on her nomination to be the student speaker for the Class of 2008! That’s pretty amazing actually. It’s quite an honor. Something really to be proud of. Indeed! One problem though, YOU FUCKING MANATEES ARE LIVING ON A DIET OF INEFFICIENCY PILLS! I GRADUATED IN 2007! So not only does AU still think I’m a student for some ungodly reason, but they want me to make a speech? Did they not notice that I was not taking classes for an entire year? Why would you nominate someone who was inactive their entire “Senior” year to make a speech?

But if it’s a speech they want, then a speech they shall get. My deviant plan to get back at the administration for four years of miscommunication and fuck-ups-aplenty is to submit some heart felt speech about my time at AU and then deliver something a little different. So what to write for my heart felt speech? Thinking back to my graduation that happened a year ago, I believe our student speaker was from some goat herding country and was the first person in her family to graduate college. Hmm…I’m from an upper-middle class family from the burbs of D.C. Everyone in my family went to prestigious colleges and many went on to grad schools and doctorate programs. Damnit! Can I play the race card? My mom’s cousin’s cousin married an Egyptian man which must somehow make me black, right? GOT IT! I’m the black sheep in my Egyptian family where we value education, as education is the strongest building block of life, much like the building blocks that comprise the Great Pyramids, of which our country is so proud! I always felt second rate to the impressive achievements my family members made in the world of academia, but AU gave me the freedom to discover myself as an artist, where I flourished and enriched the community. I create beauty and order in the world around me, much as my ancient ancestors did in Africa. I am black, I am an artist, and most importantly, I am an American University Eagle. Yep. That concept will work.

In reality, I will get drunk and make a slurring and incoherent speech about how manatees actually run our school until I’m escorted off the stage singing “I Believe the Children are our Future.”

I hope you are all free May 11th.

Sha la la!


Hated by wife and country!

Happy Presidents Day! I bet many of you enjoyed a nice day at home while I was at work, lucky ducks.

My love for presidents has been well documented on the internets. But I wanted to take a little bit of your time to honor who I consider to be a hottest president.

Franklin Pierce, your finally coiffed hair gets me every time. Mr. Pierce your combination of angst, far off look and sad smirk makes you loveable; I just want to cuddle the pain out of you. Franklin Pierce you are like that artsy loaner kid in high school everyone has a crush on because he is just SO DIFFERENT. Then you go to college and realize that every high school had that kid and your hot artsy boy is just one in a million.

(Hey mom and dad look who is putting her history BA to use, was it worth every penny?!? My thoughts on American history are now published on a self run blog on the internet, that can totally go on my resume. Give me some time and I will make it sound like a fancy academic employable skill.)

I wish I could quit you,



Well Apparently the MTA is a 2 Bird 1 Blog reader. Ever since my last post, I’ve been seeing the English version of the Man Clinging to the Outside of the Train PSA poster everywhere.


Now normally I would go into a rant about how I don’t want to live in a world where I have to work everyday at this god-awful job with bitchy old women who remember where they hid during the attacks of the French and Indian War, only to have tax dollars stolen from my paycheck to pay for pointless PSAs like this. However, 2B1B reader Lovely Laura has been doing her research and found this little gem: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/17/nyregion/17surfing.html

This New York Times article says that a homeless man died in 2007 when he clung to the side of a subway car and was “shorn from it’s side” when going through a tunnel. Shorn from it’s side. That is poetry. According to this article there was a surge of “Subway Surfing” in the 90’s. At its peak (almost 20 years ago) an estimated 12 people died each year of clinging to the side of subway cars. Well suck me sideways! 12 people. In the 90’s. Please! Take my tax dollars to fix this problem! And while you’re at it, make more PSA posters reminding passengers that breathing will keep you alive and blinking will keep your eyes moist. Siiiighhhh…these posters are crushing my soul.

In other continuing news, as acting President of E.M.O. (the End Meek Offensive,) I’ve been making progress studying The Meek. I’ve learned that The Meek is one of the hardest working animals in the forest. Seriously. The Meek is consistently doing work. Now don’t get me wrong, I have a good work ethic (she says as she updates her blog/gchats/ignores her office email/listens to her ipod while half of the art department is out). I get a lot done in the day and I work a long day, but I have to layer my hard work with some solid assin’ around. So if I layout a particularly hard section of the magazine, I’ll wikipedia Saved By The Bell and make snowflakes out of the pages of my 401K informational catalogue until I’ve mellowed out. Then and only then, I will go back to work. Not the Meek. The Meek takes a continual approach to work, going from one task to the other. In instances when The Meek doesn’t have any work to do, The Meek turns to our magazine’s website to study as much as the creature can about our brand. If the drought continues past 15 minutes, The Meek seeks work from her supervisor. I must find out what super DNA strand The Meek carries that makes her able to work continuously. If I don’t have my assin’ around time, my brain would melt and I would ride the subway home clinging to the exterior (see what I did there?). Maybe the kerchief that The Meek always wears is the secret to her productivity? She got a new one:


Look in The Meek’s eyes. Look at her looking at me with a look of arrogance and disgust. Does the Meek think she’s better than me just because she works diligently in her cubicle, decorated only with 5 different dictionaries and blank walls, whereas I’m frequently seen making snowflakes out of important documents in my cubicle adorned with a giant Gossip Girl poster?

Whatever Meek. You and your birthing hips can get in line to kiss my ass. Right behind the MTA’s PSA department.

Sha la la!


Abie Baby

I have a soft spot in my heart for Abe Lincoln. I would let the large beast of a man emancipate me any day. In addition to his historical importance and -sexy stove pipe hat- I associate Abe Lincoln with the brilliant but canceled TV show Clone High. If you are one of 15 people who are as obsessed with this drawn gem I love you. If you have no clue what I am talking about please leave…just kidding, I Love the Chris^4 who read this blog.

Today is Mr. Lincoln’s 199th birthday. I hope he is in heaven drinking with the big J while showing off tiny 16th president.

As you all know by now I love games (aside from Dungons and Dragons. We here at 2birds1blog do not support Dungeons and Dragons.) One of my best friends from high school created a game called “Things to do with Abe Lincoln.” The game is simple; what would you do with Abe Lincoln if he were alive today?

Over the years some awesome ideas have been suggested.

  • Take Abe to the real Underground Railroad i.e. the subway. Try and convince Abe everyone in this underground world is fleeing slavery.
  • Take Abe to an historical figure impersonator convention.
  • Get Abe drunk and take him to a gay bar, introduce Abe to his people. (I am of the camp that thinks guessing historical figures sexuality is random and pointless. Does it really make a difference if he liked cock… no it does not. On the other hand Abe’s possibly homosexy nature would explain his fugly wife. If you have seen the first lady exhibit at American History Smithsonian you know the Mary Todd was a brick house.)
  • Take Abe to Fords Theater and watch the PTSD begin!
  • Show Mr. Lincoln a penny and a five dollar bill, watch him freak out over his reproduced image. If you want to be cruel show him Benjamin Franklin’s billz. B. Frank was never president yet he trumps old Abe.
  • Introduce Abe to a few members of the Grand Old Party, see what he thinks of the current party of Lincoln.

  • Take Abe to the Lincoln Memorial; and make him recite his famous address.

In honor of the big guys birthday the question remains; what would you do with Abe?
I wish I could quit you,


US News and World Report’s

We here at 2birds1blog support higher education. If you like to torture yourself and are a tad crazy, you have spent some time filling out graduate school applications. Or, as I would like to call them, "putting off life with useless education" applications. I and my BFF over at Kosher Eucharist have been living this horror for the past few months. Early on we both realized this processes begged to be turned into a game because we are drunks because we are awesome.

If you are like us, join us and drown your sorrows of waiting for the answer by once again reviewing your sent in application/the whole application process and play the


Take one sip…

For every grade lower than a "B" on your transcript.

Every time you have to write your social security number.

For every line you have to sign.

Every time you obsessively check your mail for a response, reference, or transcript.

Every time you lustfully look at the school or programs website.

Every time you wistfully read the course catalogue.

Take Two Sips…

For every person you ask to proofread.

Every time the personal essay/statement uses the word "experience".

When you check the USPS delivery-certifier thing to make SURE it got there.

When you check the schools website to make SURE they got everything.


One sip the first time you remind a reference, two sips the second time, three the third time...

Take a shot…

When the school of your choice finally receives all your references.

When you make an absurd backup plan,
“If I don't get in, I'll move to Valencia and open a surf shop.”

After every interview.

*This game is deadly if played retrospectively. If you fail to get into the program of your choice because of poor life choices (i.e. drinking and filling out grad school applications) 2birds1blog and Kosher Eucharist are free from blame. However, if drinking helps you to loosen up and get into the program of your choice we take full credit for awesomeness (if your program is impressive.)

I wish I could quit you,


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