FAQ re: Jäger Ball

So Jäger Ball, huh?
I know, right?!

When is that again?

This Saturday night!


Town Tavern.

Oh, you mean Town, the popular homosexual dance club?

No. Although that's a fine establishment. But I mean Town Tavern in Adams Morgan. 2323 18th Street.

Oh that place is the tits. What time is this happening?


Oh, so I can roll up at 10:45 and be fashionably late?

Ooof. Yeah. No. You should really come on time so you can take full advantage of the super-fun drink specials that will be going on between those hours. And so I don't have a heart attack at 8 when I think nobody's coming.

Yeah...but there's nothing cool about being prompt.

Normally I'd 100% agree with that statement, but what if just for Saturday night we pretend that being prompt is the coolest thing since hula hoops and crystal pepsi?

Fair enough.

Ok, thanks.

Tell me more about these drink specials you speak of.

$3 domestic bottles! $3 mixed rails! $8 domestic pitchers!

Oh shit, that's legit.

I know right? I had myself at the p-word.


Ah, no...pitchers.

Speaking of pu

Please just call it the p-word.

Speaking of "the p-word," me and my friends will only come to Jäger Ball if we have a shot at gettin' some. Do you have hot, single friends we can hit on?

Oh my god, yes.

Single guys and single gals?


And gay guys?

Totes! And single ladies who love single ladies! Whatever you're shopping for
I got it. I'm like the Costco of sexual experiences.

Do you regularly whore out your friends to complete strangers on the Internet?

More than you'd think.

That's exciting!

Oh totally. I predict at least two pregnancies as a result of Jäger Ball. Shotgun Godmother.

Here's the thing: I have a work function earlier that night that I should really make an appearance at, so I'll try to stop by, but I'm not making any promises.

Wow...and I thought we were getting along so well. Look, I don't need your attitude. We've all got work functions to go to. We all have to make appearances at various things that night. But you do what you have to do to get yourself to J
äger Ball. My parents have to go out to dinner with work associatas earlier that night. Do you know what they're doing? Bringing their work associates to Jäger Ball. That's how a professional does it. Take note, son.

Oh shit! Will Evie be there?

No, she's under 21.

Oh so you have to be 21?
I mean, it's a bar.

But my 19-year-old sister is an avid reader of your blog and was looking forward to hanging. That's sort of fucked up.
Well then, your sister should get herself one hell of a fake ID or meet me at the park with a 40 afterwards and we'll hang.

How will I know who you are?

I'll be in an elegant, yet discreet half-mask carrying a single red rose, looking coy in the corner. HAHA. Just kidding. I'm the mediocre-looking pale chick with black hair and huge hooters handing out LIMITED EDITION 2birds1blog J
äger Ball stickers. Can't miss me.

How will I know who other 2b1b characters are?

Um, mingle? Slash 2birds people will be wearing name tags.

Wait, let me get this straight. Not only are you whoring your friends out, you're also putting name tags on them?

Yeah...I don't know why they're friends with me either.

So will Co-Blogger Chris be there?
Yep! And Tulane Chris, Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie, Becca, Alex, Helena, Andrew, Anna, Jill, Talia, Laura, etc. etc. etc!

Look Meg, I'm going to level with you.

What's up?

I live in DC. I read your blog. I want to go to Jäger Ball because it sounds like the most fun any human being will have in the history of having fun, but I think the idea of going to a blog meet-up is a little lame. I just don't want to be That Guy.

I get that. And I'd probably feel the same way if I were in your shoes. However, I'd like to think my friends and I are cool people and we just want to hang. What if you think of this less as a "blog meet-up" and more like a party your friend is throwing?

Yeah, but that's the other thing
I don't actually know you. I feel like a giant creep-show rolling up and being like, "Uh hi, I read your blog. Let's rage."
Why? It was my idea. I want to meet you and say thanks for taking time out of your day to read my blog! If you're creepy then I'm creepy. And I'll admit I'm a lot of things, but creepy isn't one of them.

You sure?
Positive. Seriously. Not creepy.

So should I just like, go up and talk to you?

I mean, that would certainly help me out. You know I'm a little bit Aspie's. Although hopefully by then I'll have a fair bit of
Jäger in me and should be uncharacteristically outgoing.

Ok, another thing I have to be completely honest with you about...

Hit me.

When I read your blog, I have this image in my mind of what you're like. I'm afraid meeting you is going to ruin that image and my 2birds1blog experience will never be the same.

Yeah. I mean, the odds are fairly good that I'm not going to be 100% exactly like what you're imagining, so I guess to a certain extent, yeah, that's totes going to happen. I don't think it has to be a big deal though. Maybe just readjust your mental image slightly? It'll be ok. I'll just shove some free shit in your face and you'll be happy as a clam.

So you're outing your real identity for a night, huh?
. Yes.

Aren't you afraid this is going to lead to you losing your job?

Yes. Yes, I am.

Well...are you taking any preventative measures so you don't?

No. No, I'm not.

Wow. You're really banking on
Jäger eventually sponsoring you, aren't you?

I don't know if that's the best ide

Shhh...Don't talk about it.

So, I'm still not 100% convinced I should come.


Besides drink specials, what can you offer me?

Um, did I mention the free LIMITED EDITION 2birds1blog
Jäger Ball stickers that we'll be handing out?!

Yeah. You did. Besides those.
Um, amazing games of beer pong and flip cup? A team of J
ägerettes just rarin' to load you up with free shit? And depending if I can get a mic and/or bullhorn, we might play a round of 2birds1blog trvia for your chance to win really, really cool shit!

Please just go with it.

Ok. I'm convinced. I'm in.

One more thing...


I went to high school with you and while I know you well enough to be your facebook friend, I haven't said word-one to you since graduation. Would it be weird if I showed up?

Oh my god, no. Seriously. I can only think of two people from high school I wouldn't be completely psyched to see
Dana P. and Jessica P. of The Grudge fame. So unless you're either one of them (and I'm assuming you're not since you read my blog) I'd love to see you!

Um, I am Dana P. and/or Jessica P.


Don't you think it's a little pathetic that you haven't let go of something that happened in middle/high school?

Not really.

And is it really necessary to write about it on your little blog here?

You had your chance to make it right. You just chose not to. Unique decision. Now suffer.

LOLZ. Just kidding. I'm neither Dana P. or Jessica P.

GOOD. Because I was about to e-shank you.

So, I officially can't come to J
äger Ball, but my friends and I are having a satellite party.
That's awesome! Make sure to take pictures and send them to me!

Cool. How do I get at you?


Do you actually check that?

I mean, I sit here staring at the computer with absolutely nothing to do all day, what else am I supposed to do?

Is that why you follow people back on Twitter at such an embarrassingly fast rate?

Ok, well this was fun.


Remind me again why you're doing this whole J
äger Ball nonsense?
Because we need a sponsor to keep the blog going and growing. We have some pretty cool ideas about where to take this place in the future, but we can't really make that happen without some help. That's where J
äger comes in. They've got the money and we've got the livers. I say we make an even trade. We just have to show them that we're a force to be reckoned with. Give them the old "Suzy Soro Treatment," if you will. Plus, we just love you guys and want to party with you! Is that so wrong?

Nope. See you Saturday!



Drinking Game Friday (sort of) has got CHARISMA!

As is becoming a Drinking Game Friday tradition around here, I'd like to start out today's post by apologizing to our Twitter followers for the obnoxious spam messages you may have received from me last night. My account was hacked. Again. I, as a human being, have a cold and my Twitter account has a virus. EVERYTHING IS FALLING APART! What kills me the most is that "I" sent a spam-tastic DM to our most important contact at Jäger and now she has the spam virus. So, great. I'm sure we'll totally get that Jäger deal now that I gave their PR director Twitter scabies. Super. I don't even know how this keeps happening. I don't click on any shady links and my password isn't "password123" (...anymore.) Shouldn't they be targeting more lucrative people like Kim Kardashian or something? UGH, I'm so pissed. If Suzy Soro is behind this—im'ma fly to Hollywood and cut a bitch personally. In conclusion: I apologize to our Twitter followers and if you don't follow us on Twitter, you should because I'll give you all sorts of fancy online diseases!

Speaking of downers: Co-Blogger Chris and I will be taking the rest of the week off to go back home and stuff our faces with turkey, play with our respective parent's cats and do some general lolling about in the spirit of our Native American brothers. I'll be making a casserole for Thanksgiving dinner this year and given what an obvious shit show that will be, I've decided to live Tweet the entire process. (@2birds1blog! Sure I'll give you Twitter AIDS, but I'll also give you a few LOLZ in the process!)

I am so unbelievably excited about this week's drinking game! It's taken Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie and I years to perfect it. You see, back in the day when Eddie and I we were both awkward (well, more awkward than usual) freshman at AU, what bonded us as insta-biffles was our mutual love of crappy pop-culture. One of the biggest "OHMYGAWD, ME TOOO!!!!1" moments in our friendship came when we discovered that we both have the same favorite Thanksgiving movie
Son-in-Law. Son-in-Law is the ideal major motion picture: it has action, comedy, romance, Pauly Shore, Tiffany-Amber Thiessan (post Saved by the Bell; pre dropping of the Amber) and ROLLERBLADES, ROLLERBLADES, ROLLERBLADES! This past Saturday night, Eddie and I sat down with our laptops, signed onto g-chat, poured ourselves a mighty drink and from 140 miles apart, tested this week's drinking game. (God bless technology.) (And yes I did say Saturday night. She was going out after and I was nursing my cold. DON'T JUDGE US!) It is a privilege and an honor to present you with (the very potent) Meg & Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie's Ultimate Son-in-Law Drinking Game!

You can drink whatever you want for the majority of the movie (we both went with Bacardi and Coke Zero) but there's a specific part of the movie where you're really going to need to utilize a delicious and refreshing Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler. So, have that on deck.

Drink When:
- The "EEEE-EEEEEEE, EEEEE-eeeee!" music plays
- Walter says, "DAMNIT ZACK!"
- Walter says, "Oh shit."
- Walter calls Crawl by the wrong name (i.e. Crotch or Crap)
- Crawl says "Beck-kuhhhh"
- Anyone says "buuuuuu-dddddddy"
- Anyone says "charisma"
- Anyone says "mingling"
- Anyone besides Pauly Shore talks in that bro-kennnn syll-a-bleeee style of talk-iiiiiing that became so synonymous with the nine-tiessssss
- There's a totally meta reference to another Pauly Shore movie
- Rebecca's butterfly tattoo is shown or referenced
- ANYONE ROLLERBLADES (drink twice if Rollerblading solves an everyday problem like filling troughs with animal feed)
- Animals are widdled or a widdled animal is shown (this rule gets you surprisingly fucked up)
- Boobs are referred to as "cones"
- God knows what is referred to as "nugs"
- You can easily see one of Rebecca's outfits being in any given Urban Outfitters right now
- You see naked butt
- There is an uncomfortably open dialogue between Crawl/Rebecca/Walter/Connie about Walter & Connie's sex life (i.e.: "I'm not going to lie to you Mrs. Warner; you're giving me a total semi right now" or "Becca, check out the wood I created for your dad!" or when Becca tells her mom that she could hear them have sex last night and everyone is like HAHAHA, yeah.)
- "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" plays
- The following exchange goes down:
Walter: DAMNIT! What's that kid's name?!

And just for me and Eddie, chug your Bartles & Jaymes when:
Crawl: [sees Walter Sr. widdling on the porch] Oh, my God, it's Bartles or Jaymes. Dude, which one are you?! [I don't know why we thought this scene was so hilarious at the time, but it's became this huge inside joke in our friendship. One of my favorite HAHA—college! pictures is of Eddie in a giant purple sweater deep-throating an empty Bartles & Jaymes bottle at
her Wet Hot American Summer themed 21st birthday party. It encapsulates the entire college experience into one concise photograph. Ah, Memories!]

And now I leave you with today's Everything You Ever Wanted to Know... question and answer. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday! Unless you're not in the States...in which case, have a great rest of the week at work! Ha ha...awkward. We love you guys and don't forget about Jäger Ball NEXT SATURDAY NIGHT! AH, HOLY SHIT! We'll see you Monday! Buh-bye!

Dr. Reuben's Question and Answer of the Day:

If a girl is pregnant, wouldn't she be better off without one of these abortionists?

Sometimes it doesn't make any difference. A self-induced abortion can be just as dangerous. The traditional do-it-yourself method hasn't changed in the past ten thousand years. The primitive tribes in Africa use the same technique as the most up-to-date swinger in Greenwich Village. Only the instrument is different. The disconsolate African housewife uses her abortion stick. It may be an intricately carved family heirloom or just a sharpened branch she pulled from a tree. It doesn't matter because she only needs it for a moment.
She squats in front of her hut, pushes aside her bark-cloth skirt, and slides the stick into her vagina. She then guides it more or less carefully through the cervix and into the uterine cavity. Then she pushes it around vigorously, pulls it out and hopes for the best.
Eight thousand miles away her light-skinned sister is sprawled on her queen-sized bed. She brushes aside her expensive nylon underwear, spreads her carefully shaved and powdered legs and with the aid of her cherished magnifying mirror guides her abortion stick toward its final goal. Only she uses a coat hanger.



Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries

- First and foremost, I would like to thank my new best friend—2b1b reader Mindy from California—for sending me two of the most majestic items to ever enter my life: a pair of Dr. Dre stickers from "Dre Day Party" (an event I didn't even know happens outside of the song "Fuck Wit Dre Day," in which Dre tells Eazy-E to eat a "big fat dick." And then he died. Awkward...) The first one says, "We started gangsta shit. Is this the muthafuckin' thanks I get?" and the other is, "You're mad atcha boyfriend ain'tcha?" I mean. Jesus Christ, Minds. How am I supposed to ever repay you for a gift of this magnitude?! Can I carry your child for you? Because I'll do it. Just say the words and this Jäger-soaked womb is allllll yours! Mindy was anxious to see where I'd end up sticking the stickers. Uh, "stick" them? I'm not permanently adhering these bad boys anywhere unless it's directly to my body via ink, biffles. In the mean time, in a protective frame on my wall will do:

Thanks Mindy!

- Speaking of Dre, one of my favorite lines from "Xxplosive" has never been so seasonally appropriate: "Gobble the dick."

- And speaking of Thanksgiving and rap music! I have an embarrassing story for you. You know how I feel about Dre? Well, that's how my sister feels about Ludacris. The very first time I ever heard Ludacris' "MoneyMaker," the line "Just be thankful that Pharrell gave you something to bump to" got my gears a-turnin'. I decided that at Thanksgiving dinner that year, when we're all going around the table saying what we're thankful for, I was going to say that I was "thankful that Pharrell gave me something to bump to!" and it would be the funniest thing anyone had ever heard in their entire lives and my sister would have a new-found respect for me and I'd be the hero of Thanksgiving from thereon after. Now, I hatched this plan in July of 2006 which means that by the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I had been sitting on it for an embarrassing four months. But finally, four months passed, Thanksgiving was upon us and I was anxiously seated at the dinner table ready to grace my family with the Greatest Joke Ever Told. Unfortunately, I didn't factor in that my family actually doesn't have a tradition where we go around the table saying what we're thankful for. But you bet your ass that was about to change. "Hey! I got an idea!" I said. "Let's go around the table and say what we're thankful for!!!!1" I was met with a few raised eyebrows. My family isn't really the touchy-feely kind. We spend most of Thanksgiving drinking beer, watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 and napping. (God I love Thanksgiving.) But this year I insisted that we go around the table, open our little hearts and say what we're thankful for. I was so excited. My turn couldn't come fast enough. Mom: "Well I'm thankful for having such a wonderful fam—" YEAH, YEAH, YEAH, NEXT! Aunt: "I guess I'm thankful for having people in my life who—" OK GREAT, WONDERFUL, BECCA GO! "Uhhh...I'm thankful for—" GREAT, TOUCHING, LOVED IT. MY TURN!!!! My heart was racing and I could barely contain my own excitement. I took a breath and composed myself: "Well everyone. This year—I am thankful that Pharrell gave me something to bump to!"...................Nothing. Nobody spoke. "O...k...," my dad said, "I guess it's my turn now. I'm thankfu—" "NO, NO, NO!" I interrupted, "Maybe you didn't hear me. I said, I'm thankful that Pharrell gave me something to bump to!" ..................Crickets and blank stares. "Like...like in the 'MoneyMaker' song? Ludacris, Becca? Ludacris?" I searched my sister's face, just waiting for her to light up at any moment and finally get my incredibly well crafted joke. "Yeah...I got it," she instead said, "It's just trying a little too hard. Gotta ask, how long were you sitting on that one for, buddy?" ".....................................Four months." "Nice. Dad, you're next."

And now this is what I'm reminded of every Thanksgiving. Personal failure. Sounds about right.

- I have a question re: the creepy cat in Lady Gaga's Bad Romance video:

How did they get it's little fangs to be gold? Are they kitty caps? I don't know why this is so perplexing to me, but it honestly keeps me up at night. And I'm completely aware of how pathetic that last statement is. A google search of "Lady GaGa Bad Romance video cat" yields nothing helpful. Co-Blogger Chris thinks it's a CGI effect, but I'm not sure I'm buying that. I don't know why I'm so fixated on this. Either way, if they are gold kitty caps, guess what Evie's getting this year for Chrismukkah?????

- As I mentioned yesterday, I went to Bed, Bath & Beyond this weekend. As I stood in line waiting to check out, I realized, and I shit you not, that the large African American woman in front of me had her handbag on one arm, a bag full of recently purchased Popeye's fried chicken on the other and was purchasing one single item: a personal massager. It took everything in my power to not go up to her and say, "Lady, I will give you $50 and a crock-pot to trade nights with me."

- Andrew, of The Great Juno Debate fame, was recently making a Makeout Playlist and accidentally almost put Shakira's "Underneath Your Clothes" on it. The thought of casually making out with someone and slowly realizing that you're listening to "Underneath Your Clothes" is probably my favorite mental image ever. Thus, I challenged Andrew to make an entire playlist of Ironic Makeout songs
songs that are slightly too emotional to be played during a casual hook up. Songs that blur that fine line between background noise and a blatant narration of what's going on. I give you:

Andrew's Ironic Makeout Playlist
"All By Myself " - Celine Dion
"All My Life" - K-Ci & JoJo
"Always Be My Baby" - Mariah Carey
Brokeback Mountain Theme
"Don't Let Go" - En Vogue
"Foolish Games" - Jewel
"I Will Always Love You" - Whitney Houston
"I'll Make Love to You" - Boys to Men
"Invisible" - Clay Aiken
"God Must Have Spent a Little More Time on You" - 98 Degrees 'N Sync
"Possession" - Sarah McLachlan
"Torn" - Natalie Imbruglia
"Underneath Your Clothes" - Shakira

- And now for Dr. Reuben's Question & Answer of the Day! By the way, I was having dinner with Laura last night and I brought my copy of Everything You've Ever Wanted to Know... with me to prove to her that a.) it's real and b.) it's just as ridiculous as yesterday's post made it out to be. I don't think she "didn't believe me," per se, but I do think she thought I was perhaps embellishing a bit. I tossed the book across the table and dared her to open to any given page and not be shocked. An hour after we departed ways, I received this email testimonial from her:

Dear 2b1b readers,
I, Laura A. Megfan, do hereby assure you that "Dr." Reuben's book is in fact real. I have seen it with my own two eyes, held it with my own two hands, and read aloud from it with my own lips (which is the reason I can no longer look the wait staff at James Hobin's in the eyes). Let me assure you that it is all Meg says it is and more (read: highly offensive to women, homosexuals, and children of all ages and genders). Having flipped through it I cannot tell you how excited I am to get Meg's take on this book on a regular basis. And now I leave you with three words: Gene. Audrey. Clamp.

Happy reading!

And now, Dr. Reuben's Question & Answer of the Day:

Are there different kinds of frigidity?
Yes. Depending on what the woman is trying to say, she (unconsciously) chooses various forms of expressing herself. For example, if in spite of her conscious desire for intercourse, she wants nothing to do with the penis, Vaginissmus may be the result. In this symptom, the lips of the mouth may say "yes," but the lips of the vagina are shouting "NO!"
[...] It happened one night with Gene
he will never forget it.
"I once read about it in a book but I thought it was a lot of baloney. I can tell you from my own experience, it's something awful. I was out one night with this girl, her name was Audrey
I'll never forget that. We had a good time and a few drinks and then went over to her place. She had this apartment with a couple of friends. She was a little nervous like she didn't do it all the time, but we got along all right. After we were in bed, I started to put it in her but she said, 'It hurts.' Well, a lot of them are like thatyou know, they want you to think it's the first time and all that. It was kind of tight, but she said to go ahead and try it anyhow. I wish I'd just gotten up and gone home." Gene took a nervous drag on his cigarette.
"I pushed it on in but right away I knew there was something wrong
it just didn't feel right. Then it happened. She screamed, and her whole business clamped right down on me. I felt like I was caught in a bear trap! I tried to pull out but that was my next mistake. Her, her, you know, grabbed me even tighter and it hurt like hell. All the time she was screamingit must've hurt her too. Then the people in the next apartment started knocking on the door and I yelled at her to keep quiet. That was a bad move. When they heard me yelling they thought something funny was going on and they called the cops. Man, I wanted to get away but I couldn't move the way she was hanging on to me. Well, to make it short, the cops broke down the door and found us on the bed like that. They must've seen this deal before because they started laughing. THEN her two girl friends came in. Wow! By then I would have left my organ behind if I could've gotten away! But the cops just covered us up, kicked everyone else out, and left us alone. In about ten minutes, she quieted down and I got loose. We never saw each other again and now if a girl just doesn't seem right, I tell her, 'Why don't you save it for marriage, honey? We'll both feel better that way'."

WHAT IN THE FUCKITY FUCK FUCK?!?! I have so many questions that were in no way answered by Dr. Reuben on this one:
1.) "[T]he lips of the mouth may say "yes," but the lips of the vagina are shouting "NO!" If that is not the most graphic and disturbing rape mantra I have ever heard in my entire life, then I don't know what is.
2.) Gene. Gene, Gene, Gene...If I put my dick in someone and they say it hurts, I think my next instinct would be to take my dick out and not be like, "MEH! She's probably just trying to trick me into thinking she's a virgin. YOU KNOW HOW THEY DO! Better cram it in a little further!" But again, that's just me.
3.) Let's talk about The Clamping. I get her having a tight situation. I can even understand the whole clamping down nonsense. But who in the holy hell has a vagina that is capable of clamping down so hard it can physically detain a person inside of them?! And even assuming she does have this alleged wonder pussy that can hold a grown man in place, wouldn't her muscles get tired after five minutes and loosen? I mean, drunk bitches be peeing themselves all the time! I don't care how young you are, at a certain point, those muscles get tired and give up. Trust me.
4.) "All the time she was screaming-
it must've hurt her too." Well no fucking shit! She told you that it hurt earlier and you were all #VIRGINFAIL!
5.) Where were Audrey's roommates when this was going on?! How come they only surface when the cops show up? If my tight-pussed roommate brought a strange guy home and I heard her screaming and him yelling at her to be quiet, I would bust through that door and knock him upside the head with a frying pan so fast his moustache would spin.
6.) Speaking of moustaches, is anyone else picturing Gene as Scott Daniels from the cover of Sweet Valley High's All Night Long?
7.) Ok, let me get this straight: The cops get a call from the neighbors that there's a girl screaming and a man yelling at her to keep quiet, right? So they bust down the door to her bedroom and find old Gene pounding away on Adurey. Why is their immediate reaction to assume "HAHA LOLZ! LOOKS LIKE WE'VE GOT ANOTHER CASE OF VAGINISSMUS ON OUR HANDS, BOYS!" and not that Audrey is getting raped?! I mean, what ass-backwards town do you live in that this happens that often that you can diagnose the problem from the doorway?!
8.) I also love that the cops don't offer to call the paramedics or help in any way, shape or form. They just kick Audrey's roommate's out all, "Move along! Nothing to see here! Just a man caught in the beartrap that is Vaginissmus!" and assume everything will work itself out. Like a good bowel movement.
9.) "In about ten minutes, she quieted down and I got loose." Gene. Do you realize it sounds like you're talking about a horse right now?
10.) "[I]f a girl just doesn't seem right, I tell her, 'Why don't you save it for marriage, honey? We'll both feel better that way'." Gene, what's going on that you're turning girls down left and right for being too tight?! You know that tight = a good thing, right? What sort of loosemeat sandwich are you used to ordering around here?

I think I know what I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving...thank you, Dr. Reuben.


Karma, stereotypes and egg whites.

For someone who life routinely shits upon (I couldn't even pick a post to link as a reference there. Just go back to any given blog post ever and I'm sure you'll be caught up to speed.) I had a few lucky breaks last night. It started when I decided to do my laundry. Finally. Because it was either that or wear my white linen high school graduation dress to work today (...and Lord knows I'm not above that.) I would like the world to know that although I don't like doing laundry, I am an extremely responsible communal laundry room user. I set alarms and come back at the proper time, I always clean my lint trap and I don't drip detergent everywhere. Yesterday I bought a cozy throw blanket at Bed, Bath and Beyond and although all I wanted to do was crack that baby open and take her for a test drive, I decided to heed Bobby's (terrifying) warning and wash it before having a snuggle. (Lest I snuggle up to Indian garment worker jizz.) (Terrifying.) Being a large, cozy throw blanket, it didn't completely dry after the first go-around. Thus, I added an additional 15 minutes to the dryer, went back to my apartment and came down to retrieve it approximately 17 minutes later. Imagine my horror when I saw my brand new blanket sitting ON THE DIRTY LAUNDRY ROOM FLOOR. That's right, some asshat had removed my blanket from the dryer and crudely tossed it to the ground before putting their laundry into my dryer. "But Meg," I hear you say, "you were two minutes late to retrieve your laundry. Serves you right," Right? WRONG. There were blatantly other dryers available! This A-fuck just decided that he/she wanted my dryer and tossed my freshly cleaned, Indian-jizz-free blanket to the ground! I was livid. To even the score, I opened A-fuck's dryer to stop their time and threw in some lint for good measure. Immature? Yes. Deserved? YES.

Feeling satisfied, I went back up to my apartment and sat down to watch some Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team 4 on CMT but was completely distracted by how guilty I felt. Three minutes later, I couldn't stand it anymore and went back downstairs, picked out A-fuck's lint, closed the door and restarted the dryer. (Ugh. I'm a disgustingly good person. It's my cross to bear.) And then the most glorious thing happened: I found a ten-dollar bill under the dryer! Do you know how many $5 footlongs that will buy??? Two. So I snatched it up.

Just when I thought my night couldn't get any better, I noticed someone had abandoned a box of old books by the elevator. I browsed through them to see if there was anything good but they were mostly just old romance novels and a shit ton of dictionaries. But then, this little number caught my eye:

And don't mind if I do and don't mind if I do.

I went upstairs, curled up on the couch and opened to this question: "How about those Oriental cures—like powdered rhinoceros horn?" And I thanked god for what I had just received. I read on. And Ho. Ly. Shit. This book is the best thing to ever happen to me. Nothing will ever top it. Nothing will ever be this good or funny again. Ever. I might as well just kill myself because it's all downhill from here. I can honestly say that I spent the better part of last night curled up in a small ball, rocking back and forth, hysterically laughing to the point of tears while struggling to read passages to Co-Blogger Chris over the phone. My stomach muscles are killing me today.

I don't even really know what to say about this book. I think I just have to share it with you.
I'm sure I could bust out some Gender Studies 101 bullshit about how society and sex norms have changed and T.G.I.Kinsey and all that jazz, but I think I'm going to chalk it up to this: misinformationLOLZ!
Before I present you with my favorite questions and answers, please keep the following in mind:
1.) This is a real book
2.) It was a #1 Bestseller
3.) It was written by this guy:

4.) That man is a noted California psychiatrist
5.) Which means he has a medical degree
6.) It was written in 1969
7.) Again; medical doctor

We'll start with the section on Male Homosexuality because it's my favorite. Sorry lesbians, there isn't a section on Female Homosexuality. Apparently nobody has any questions about you. You scissor and listen to Sarah MCLachlan. Case closed.

What is male homosexuality?
Male homosexuality is a condition in which men have a driving emotional and sexual interest in other men. Because of the anatomical and physiological limitations involved, there are some formidable obstacles to overcome. Most homosexuals look upon this as a challenge and approach it with ingenuity and boundless energy. In the process they often transform themselves into part-time women. They don women's clothes, wear makeup, adopt feminine mannerisms, and occasionally even try to rearrange their bodies along feminine lines.

Couldn't homosexuals just be born that way?
A lot of homosexuals would like to think so. They prefer to consider their problem the equivalent of a club foot or birthmark; just something to struggle through life with. [I swear to God this is real. I only wish I was this funny.]

Can homosexuals change?
If a homosexual who wants to renounce homosexuality finds a psychiatrist who knows how to cure homosexuality, he has every chance of becoming a happy, well-adjusted, heterosexual. [SHOTGUN CO-BLOGGER CHRIS!!!!1]

What do homosexuals really do with each other?
An almost unbelievable variety of ingenious things. The usual homosexual experience is mutual masturbation. It is fast, easy, and requires a minimum amount of equipment. The chaps simply undress, get into bed, and manipulate each other's penises to the point of orgasm. Three to five minutes should be enough for the entire operation.

Don't homosexuals do other things too?
Certainly. [...] According to the homosexual, it goes something like this:
"Whenever I feel like sex, I drive down to the bowling alley. I walk into the men's room, find an empty cubicle, go in, take down my pants, and sit on the toilet. Then I wait. It never takes very long.
"Pretty soon another guy sits down in the next cubicle. I watch his feet. If he's a gay guy, he'll slide his foot over and kind of nudge mine. That means he's 'cruising.' If I'm interested, I nudge back. Then we get started.
"I always use a piece of toilet paper to write some kind of note—usually I just say 'Do you suck?' Sometimes if I have plenty of time I add something else like, 'How big?' I throw the paper on the floor, he picks it up, comes over into my cubicle, and sucks my penis. That's how it ends—sometimes I suck his penis but usually I just go home." No feeling, no sentiment, no nothing.

Are all homosexual contacts as impersonal as that?
No. Most are much more impersonal. The majority of gay guys, when they cruise, dispense with the courtship. They don't even have time for footsie or love notes on toilet paper. [TIME OUT! Best emo band name ever: Love Notes on Toilet Paper. Ok, TIME IN!] A homosexual walks into the men's washroom and spots another homosexual. One drops to his knees, the other unzips his pants, and a few moments later, it's all over. No names, no faces, no emotions. A masturbation machine would do it better.

Surely there must be more to homosexuality?
There are dozens of variations but they all have this in common: the primary interest is the penis, not the person. [...] They generally go by aliases. Harry, Dick, Peter, are the most favored.

Isn't homosexuality kind of dangerous?
Homosexuals thrive on danger.

"S and M"? What does that mean?
Technically, sadist and masochist. Literally, trouble. Those who combine homosexuality with sadistic and masochistic aberrations are among the cruelest people who walk this earth. In ancient times they found employment as professional torturers and executioners. More recently they filled the ranks of Hilter's Gestapo and SS.

What about masculine homosexuals?
Homosexuals have a tendency to overdo this sort of thing. There never was a man more manly than a butch. Butches lean heavily toward masculine trappings such as leather motorcycle jackets, tight pants of coarse material, super-masculine shirts, heavy boots, and other exaggerations of men's wear.

Don't a lot of heterosexual men dress the same way today?
Yes and no. [...] It is the exaggeration that gives them away. Two men may wear what superficially appears to be the same shirt; the homosexual's is just a little tighter, a little brighter, just a little more.
Recently, the gay guys have been leaning toward costumes. A good example is engineer's pants. White denim trousers with vertical blue stripes have long been worm by locomotive engineers and fireman and hardly anyone else. Homosexuals decided that this line of work was very butch and appropriated the uniform—tight striped pants with a bright red bandanna around the neck. [...] Peel off the top layer of a butch and there is a queen underneath. Their underwear is truly amazing. Some take pleasure in men's shorts so tight they can barely meet the needs of nature. Others choose briefs so brief they barely exist. Most butch underthings are little better than skimpy athletic supporters. The ultimate IS an athletic supporter—two straps and a sack attached to the tails of a super-tight shirt. It works fine—the shirt is always tucked-in, the genitalia held tightly. The only problem is that the poor follow can't bend over!

Why do homosexuals do that?
[His] desire to display his genitals. They are his stock in trade and he wishes to show them to best advantage. What a good up-lift bra is to a prostitute, a good pair of undershorts is to a homosexual. [Yes he did just insinuate that push-up bras are only worn by prostitutes.]

Aren't homosexuals afraid of being arrested?
Maybe they should be, but they aren't. Lack of fear of the consequences is one of the puzzling characteristics of homosexual behavior. [...] Homosexuals have a compulsion to flaunt their sex in public. A public washroom is frequently their stage. Bus stations, parks, bowling alleys, are haunted by gay guys. [I would kill to see the episode of Scooby Doo where they solve a mystery at a haunted gay bowling alley...]

But all homosexuals aren't like that, are they?
Unfortunately, they are just like that.

What about all the homosexuals who live together happily for years?
What about them? They are mighty rare birds among the homosexual flock.

How do male homosexuals get along with female homosexuals?
About the only thing they have in common is their contempt for straight arrows, the term they use for heterosexuals. Any relationship that exists between them is based on grudging mutual tolerance.

All homosexuals don't find their partners on the street, do they?
For the average homosexual there are not too many other alternatives. Church meetings, singles groups, blind dates, family introductions, are exclusively heterosexual territory. Not even the ultimate in commercialized sex, computerized dating, has found a way to cash in on homosexuals. [Ah, Grindr. My how things have changed.]

Homosexuals have their own language?
The list reads like a menu. Here are a few:
Fish: Woman
Fishwife: a male homosexual's real wife
Seafood: a homosexual sailor
Chicken: young homosexual
Meat: penis
Buns: buttocks
Other homosexual expressions come right from the vocabulary of the heterosexual prostitute with whom gay guys have a lot in common. [Jesus fucking Christ...]
Do: suck a penis
Nelly: effeminate homosexual
Auntie: an aging homosexual
Fag Hag: a woman who is attracted to male homosexuals
Wrinkle-Room: gay bar frequented by aging homosexuals.
This is just a sample—the list goes on and on.

Why do so many homosexual expressions refer to food?
Food seems to have a mysterious fascination for homosexuals. Many of the world's greatest chefs have been homosexuals. Some of the country's best restaraunts are run by homosexuals. Some of the fattest people in the world are homosexuals. [I swear to all that is good and holy, I have never laughed so hard in my entire life as when I read that last statement. Like, thought-I-might-die-struggling-for-air-laughing. "Some of the fattest people in the world are homosexuals." A medical doctor. I have nothing left.] [...] Since Nature did not anticipate homosexuality, the male has not been equipped with glands to secrete a sexual lubricant. Thus the first problem that two gay guys have to solve before making love is lubrication. Many homosexuals favor cooking grease. Salad oil and margarine are commonly used. Among gourmets, butter and olive oil are preferred. But it doesn't stop there.
Most homosexuals find their man-to-man sex unfulfilling so they masturbate a lot. Much of their masturbation centers around the anus. The question, of course, is what to use for a penis. The answer is often found in the pantry. Carrots and cucumbers are pressed into service. [...] Egg white is also considered a good lubricant. Sometimes the whole egg in the shell finds itself where it doesn't belong. Sausages, especially the milder varieties, are popular.
The homosexual who prefers to use his penis must find an anus. Many look in the refrigerator. The most common maturbatory object for this purpose is a melon. Canteloupes are usual, but where it is available, papaya is popular.

Isn't that Unusual?
Actually "kitchen masturbation" is harmless compared to some other forms of rectal recreation. When homosexuals drink, things really happen. Nearly every intern in the emergency room of a large city hospital has seen this:
It is two a.m. Sunday. A young man stands forlornly at the emergency room door. He is about twenty-six years old, short, thin, with long bleached-blonde hair. He is drunk but sobering up fast. Sweat clings to his powder blue silk shirt. [It took me about 15 tries to get that out when I was on the phone with Chris. I got to powder bl—and died.] The patient walks with a strange, bent-over, crab-like gait. [...] Pants off, on his hands and knees, chest on the table, anus in the air. The intern inserts the anuscope, flicks on the light, and there it is: a whiskey glass. He breathes a sigh of relief. Whiskey glasses are easy, relatively speaking. He snaps on a special rubber-cushioned clamp, squirts in some lubricant, the gay guy gives a little gasp, and it's out.
The doctor says, "I always worry when I see these guys come in. They all have this funny walk and I know they didn't sit on a tack. I just pray it's a shot glass—they're a cinch. It usually happens like this: Two fags are having a big time on Saturday night, you know, drinking and whopping it up. The queen rolls over and waits for his boy friend to give him the works; only he slides in the first thing he has in his hand instead, usually the whiskey glass. [...] It's the off-beat stuff that gets me. Like this time this old fairy hobbled in. I flipped him over, slipped in the scope, started to snap on the light, and almost flipped—his whole damn rectum was as bright as day! Someone had slipped the poor moron a flashlight—he was the most turned-on faggot in town."

Do all homosexuals do these things?
They like a tight fit. [I swear to god I'm not making this up.]

[Now, moving on from homosexuality. Let's go to some more random, less "fancy" questions:]

That's find if the vagina is too big—what about something for a vagina that's too small?
A vagina that is really too small is very rare indeed. Most often the hymen is to blame. That small bit of tissue that stands guard at the gates of love sometimes does its job too well. Even the most determined mightnight battering by a nervous and sweating bridegroom is occasionally insufficient—it will not yield. The following morning the tearful bride and red-faced groom appear at the doctor's office. In this case the scalpel is mightier than the penis and in a flash of the gleaming knife the portals swing wide. Nature's defect undone by Man! [I don't know what part of that answer hurts my vagina more.]

Does the wife or girl friend have something to do with a man's impotence?
In many cases, she does.

What about masturbation and the blind? [I swear to God.]
Until recently, blind people were shut off from the rest of the world socially as well as visually. One of their few sources of sexual gratification was masturbation. In blind schools masturbation was made more difficult because those who masturbated could not tell if they were being observed. [I. laughed. So. Hard.]

Ok I can't. I can't do anymore. NEW BLOG RULE: Whenever I'm too busy with "real work" to blog, I'm going to transcribe a few ridiculous questions and answers from Dr. Reuben's Everything You Always Wanted to Know...because trust me, there's so much more.

In the mean time, lesson learned: karma is real and you should never trust a gay man alone in your kitchen.


Why the thought of me getting married is laugh-out-loud funny

Let's talk about Helena. As I've mentioned before, Helena is my biffles. My "biffly-biffly^maxpower," if you will. I like Helena a lot. She's super fun and snarky and slightly mean and easy on the eyes—pretty much the embodiment of everything I look for in a friend. But more than that, I just feel like Helena knows what's up in life. And her opinion is extremely important to me. Before making any decision, major or minor, I consult Helena. And what she says goes. I've been practicing this method of decision-making for five years now and it hasn't led me astray once. Actually, that's a blatant lie. One time Helena and I were shopping at Pacific Sunwear (which is highly out-of-character and comical to think about now) and I asked her if I should buy an ironic John Deere Trucker baby-tee. Without missing a beat, she said yes. So I bought it, wore it and immediately regretted it. Later she confessed that she only told me to buy it because she thought it would be "hilarious." But you know what? She was right, yet again. Because it was hilarious. I'm willing to own up when I look like a douchebag, and guess what? I looked like a giant douchebag. So in conclusion: Helena is always right and I'd trust her with my life.

Now let's talk about marriage. Marriage freaks me out. Well, that's a lie. Marriage at this point in my life freaks me out. I've always associated marriage with two groups of people: grown-ups and white trash. Being neither of those things (John Deere Trucker tee aside,) I have absolutely no plans of getting married in the foreseeable future. I mean, I'm only 24; I've got wild oats to sew! I want to dip my wick in anything that moves! (...I apologize.) I want to have a bullshit job with no responsibilities! I want to throw big Jäger parties and come to work hungover! That's pretty much where my priorities lie right now. And I've always thought that that was OK. Sure, pretty much everyone else I know is in a serious relationship and going to grad school or law school and moving on to the next step in their life, but I've always felt confident about where I am. But that changed last week when Helena casually mentioned that she and her boyfriend have discussed marriage. Like in a it's-probably-going-to-happen-sooner-than-later kind of way. After she said that, I could feel my heart drop into my butt and I had a very quiet, but very real Total Life Freak Out.

Don't get me wrong—I love Helena and I love her boyfriend and I love them together! It's just that if Helena gives getting married at this stage of our lives the green light, that makes it officially acceptable. And if it's officially acceptable, that means it's not just for grown-ups and white trash anymore; it's for people like you and me. Because we are those grown-ups. And that scares the shit out of me.

The idea of me getting married is laughable. Like literally laugh-out-loud, Family Matters level funny. I can see myself in a relationship, sure, but marriage? Fuck no. Because getting married is a big fucking deal. You are, in the most literal sense, marrying your life to another person's and saying that not only am I responsible for my life, I am now responsible for yours. Just typing that statement made me want to vomit. Because I can barely take care of my own life. I went on Facebook for the first time in 9 billion years the other day and saw that my best friend from elementary school is now married with a child. And not a baby! Like a walking, talking, thinking, feeling, straight-up little child. That shit is bananas. I wouldn't trust myself with a hot plate, nevertheless a child. But there she is. Adorable and alive and kickin'. Is that where I should be? Should I be retiring my abnormally busty frat boy lifestyle, get a Netflix account and settle down? Normally I would say no, of course not, Meg. You're only 24 and you have the emotional maturity of an ashtray. But now that Helena's gone and given marriage her stamp of approval, I'm starting to think yes, that is where I should be. But I'm really not. What's wrong with me?

Welp, I can actually tell you exactly what's wrong with me. Via this list. The list of Reasons Why the Thought of Me Getting Married is Laugh-Out-Loud Funny:
1.) The following is a photograph of the inside of my refrigerator:

You will see that it contains a lot of beer, a dozen eggs that might be hatching into chickens as we speak and a Ziploc bag of spaghetti my mom gave me in early October. Hope you're hungry, baby.

2.) Gummy fangs. It's not just an on-running blog joke; it's also what's for dinner.

3.) Sometimes I honest-to-god hibernate. Like a bear. If I've had a particularly rough Saturday night, I'll just sleep through Sunday, waking only to eat gummy fangs before going right back to bed until Monday morning. Soooo...there's that.

4.) I will do anything to avoid doing laundry. For example, I realized this morning that I'm out of clean shirts, so I am currently wearing a backwards Patron t-shirt with a cardigan thrown over it. And guess what? I probably won't do laundry again tonight.

5.) I have a very Me vs. My Body mindset that isn't very conducive to a life partnership. The following is a real conversation Co-Blogger Chris and I had this weekend:
Me: Ugh, these migraines won't away. I think I'm going to have to give up and go to a doctor.
Chris: Uhh..."give up," Meg? I don't think that's called "giving up," I think that's called being responsible for your well-being.

...Point taken. I hope my future husband never comes to me sick or I'll treat him like a level of Donkey Kong.

6.) Sometimes I play this game called "How Long?" The object is to see how long you can go without paying your cable bill and having it shut off.

7.) I am never, ever wearing pants.

8.) The second room isn't for a baby. It's for the Jäger cooler and my brand new shot dispenser.

9.) When something goes wrong, my immediate reaction is still to call my mom. And if she's not home, I have a history of leaving long voice mails of me making whiny noises. No words. Just whiny noises. For upwards of three minutes at a time.

10.) I still sleep with a stuffed animal. His name is Jason. Let's not pretend like I haven't discussed his existence before. Let's also not pretend that everyone who comes over and hugs him doesn't immediately understand why he's in my life.

Sigh... Guess I'll be buying "fruits" and "vegetables" if you need me. Thanks a lot, Helena.


Another slap in the face from Chris Brown

It is currently 11 o'clock in the morning. I just got into the office. I was supposed to be here at 9. Was the metro delayed, you ask? No. No, it was not. Am I not feeling well? No worse than usual. Did I have another early morning training session? LOLZ, Christ no. The truth of the mater is that I am two hours late to work because I was having a really intense dream about Chris Brown and I wanted to see how it ended. That's it. Just sheer curiosity. The level of apathy I feel towards my job is starting to genuinely concern me. Because my job is literally to show up on time, open the door, sit here and take it like a bitch. That's the ballgame. It couldn't be easier. And yet apparently, an intense dream about Chris Brown is all that stands between me and being able to do that. I used to say that I worked just hard enough not to get fired, but I don't think that's a completely truthful statement anymore. I think I work just hard enough to not be deemed legally dead.

In my defense, it was a good dream. I dreamt that MTV gave me a show where I take celebrities to their hometowns and we reminisce and giggle and LOL about the way we were. And I know exactly where this part of the dream came from. For some ungodly reason, I randomly remembered yesterday that Ol' Dirty Bastard is dead. Obviously, I began musing to myself about my favorite ODB memories and thought of the time he took MTV back to his old Brooklyn 'hood and tried to cash a welfare check and use food stamps for shits and giggles and it totally worked. Dirt McGirt. God took one angel too many...ANYWAY! So I was filming an episode of my hit MTV show, which I have retrospectively named Misty Water-Colored Meggles, and spent the first half of the show with Lady Gaga at her old Elementary school. The only thing I remember from this part is that I went into the bathroom and there were newspaper clippings all over the walls about how everyone was so proud that the town butcher's daughter is now a big star and people come from miles around to get a cut of Lady Gaga's father's famous meats. I also distinctively remember making a mental note to swing by his shop after my interview to grab a few T-bones for the road. So, there's that. And that is fat.

After I loaded up on Mr. Gaga's fine meats, I headed into the city to hook up with Jay-Z. Interestingly enough, I wasn't actually there to interview Jay. I was there to interview Chris Brown but didn't feel comfortable being alone with him and demanded that MTV send Jay-Z with Chris to chaperone. This is hilarious on multiple levels, specifically because I enjoy the massive dream balls I must have had to refuse an interview with Chris Brown unless Jay-Z physically places his body over mine in the event that Chris Brown gets slap-happy. Either way, both Jay-Z and Chris Brown were obviously so desperate to be on Misty Water-Colored Meggles that they agreed to my terms and away we went in Jay-Z's shiny, red Cadillac to explore Chris Brown's old 'hood.

Flash to me sitting shotgun and Chris Brown in the back seat, tweaking out of his fucking mind. He couldn't stay still. He was bouncing off the walls, talking a mile a minute, shouting, twitching, scratching and demanding that Jay-Z "give him a hit." "I KNOW YOU HAVE IT!!!!" Chris shouted at Jay. "You don't need anymore, man," Jay yelled to the back seat. "Jay-Z, what the fuck is going on??" I asked. Jay leaned over and whispered into my ear, "Nobody knows this, but Chris Brown is a crack addict. Honestly Meg, he can barely function. He's been out of his mind for years. He's a sick, sick man." The gears in my head started turning and it felt like everything was finally falling into place. "OHHHHHH!" I thought to myself. "He's a crack addict! This explains so much! I've seen Intervention! Addiction is a sick disease that makes you do horrible things! It was the crack that beat up Rihanna, not Chris Brown!" I grabbed Jay-Z by the scruff and pulled him in, "Jay, you don't understand. If the world knows that Chris Brown is a crack addict, they'll totally understand and forgive him for what he did to Rihanna. THE WORLD HAS TO KNOW, JAY! THEY HAVE TO KNOW!!!"

And that's when I realized my alarm clock was going off. It was 7:45. My alarm had been set for 6:30. This means that I had been sleeping through my alarm (which sounds like robots raping you in the ears, by the way) for well over an hour. Instead of being like, "Oh shit! I should have been in the shower 15 minutes ago, better get up," I turned off my alarm, rolled over and was like, "NOPE. Gotta see how this ends," and went directly back to sleep. Now, I took AP Psych with the best of 'em. I'm well aware that you can't hop back into a dream once you've woken up. However, if there was ever a time to try—it was now. Chris Brown's public image was on the line and Jay-Z and I were this close to clearing his name. Except instead of going back into my dream and saving him, I just peacefully slept until 9:50, woke up and realized what I had just done. Namely, compromised my job to see if I could save Chris Brown from wife-beater status in my dreams and only in my dreams.

I sat up in bed, took a long, hard look in the mirror, shook my head in disappointment and sent a text to my boss saying that I was at a follow-up dentist appointment and I can't talk because they're replacing a filling and I'm going to be late because they kept me waiting forever but we don't have an appointment until 2 and ohmygosh! I'm just so sorry! Now I have to keep up this dental charade all day and it's like a god damn improv workshop in here because I keep overacting and clutching my invisible filling in "pain" every five minutes (as I drink hot coffee and eat a granola bar) and it's just entirely pathetic. What's even more pathetic is that this isn't even the first time I've consciously ignored real-world responsibilities to stay in a celebrity dream. The following is an actual excerpt from my emo college Live Journal from an entry dated November 27, 2005:

Danielle and I are trying to find a 2-bedroom apartment, but not in The Berks because a 2-bedroom is astronomically expensive here. We're trying to stay in the area though, because as my parents pointed out, "We're worried if you move too far off campus, you'll stop going to class." "What?! I always go to class!" "Meghan, you just told us that you didn't go to your morning class Tuesday because you had a quote, 'really intense dream about Mo Rocca'." ".........Touché."

...At least I'm consistent in the ways I choose to fuck-up my life.

Chris Brown. I'm still rooting for you.


Because if I post this here, I won't actually send it. Maybe...

Dear Boss #1:

I did not create the Internet. I just didn't. That's a fact. I have created a lot of great things in my day including this blog and an impressive bong I made out of a blue Gatorade bottle in high school, but the Internet, I can not take credit for. I'm also a graphic designer born after 1984, which makes me one of the more tech savvy receptionists. Again, I'll give it to you. But all of these factors do not make me the all-knowing Master of Computer Technology. It just means I can Photoshop a really comical picture of Pam Grier's body with Tiffany Amber Thiessen's head in under five minutes. Or a picture of a praying mantis named Scott wearing bifocals writing a screenplay. Or an image of Alex and Maya Angelou floating through space entitled, "SPACE BIFFLES." That's the extent of my computer magic right there. Is it helpful? Not really. Is it hilarious? Yes.

You know what I regret, Boss #1? I regret on that first day of work when you came to me and said, "I'm pressing the 'C' button on my laptop, but the coffee dun't come out!" that I walked over to you, all fat and cocky and held you in my arms like a wilting flower and whispered, "Shhhh...I'm here now." I regret that I showed you where the coffee machine was and explained to you that a laptop is a word processing machine and not another asshole. Because it was then that you looked at me through slick, wet eyes and decided that I was the Empress of all that is Digital and Holy. And from that moment on, you came to me with any problem that was even remotely technological. From missing Word documents to dead vibrator batteries, I'd take a few Common Sense pills, hit auto-recovery, pop in a few double-A's and tell you to, "go get 'em, Tiger."

But guess what? There are some technological problems that I can not solve. Problems that go beyond my knowledge of when in doubt, CTRL-ALT-Delete and/or power cycle the router. Sometimes, I just don't know why the Internet isn't working. "So, call Comcast, Estupida," I can just hear Boss #2 saying. "OK, what's our account number?" "Jo no sey." "But I need it to call Comcast." "Just geev them the number to our telephono." "Which number is on the account?" "Jo no sey." "Ok...what name is on the account?" "STOP GRILLING ME FOR INFORMACIÓN!!! Who are you—Border Control?! Just fix it!" So like the gringa I am, I call Comcast and explain to them that our Internet isn't working and I don't know our account number or the account telephone number or what name the account is even in, but if you don't help me, my boss is going to beat me like a piñata. And Comcast, bless their collective hearts, is always sympathetic but never helpful. They put me on hold for the rest of the day and nothing ever gets solved and I go home and curl up in a ball and gently rock, knowing that in 10 hours I'm going to have to come back and do it all over again. And all of the managers in all of the Comcast, Netgear and Dell help centers in the world ask me the same question—"who is your Network Administrator?" And I explain to them that I'm 99% sure it's me and 100% sure that my soul is slowly creeping out through my asshole.

What I'm trying to say, Boss #1, is that I don't know how to fix the Internet or the wireless printer router. This is the crossroads we're currently standing in. And you don't get it. You can not grasp the concept that I can't fix the Internet. You are convinced that as The Empress of all things Digital and Holy, I keep the Internet up my snizz and can queef it out on demand. But I cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die that is not the case. Because if it were, I'd be charging 50 bucks a queef and not eating gummy fangs for dinner and working for you.

I understand that you're frustrated, because I'm frustrated too. But you know what's not going to help? Throwing your flash drive at me and yelling "MAKE THIS WORK!!!!!" before stomping off like a child. I don't like that as of yesterday, I can honestly say that I've had a grown woman throw a flash drive (or as you call it, a "computer-stick") at my face. You are a grown-ass woman. If you're frustrated with me because I refuse to queef out the Internet for you, don't throw shit at me. Because I'm a fucking human being. And when you've cooled down and realized how grossly inappropriate you were, don't make a joke out of it. Apologize. Because throwing shit at me is not funny. Knock-knock jokes are funny. Old people talking about sex are funny. Family Matters is funny. Having a temper-tantrum and throwing shit at me is not funny. And if you're that frustrated with me for holding the Internet deep within my womb and refusing to grant you access because you haven't paid the toll, try talking to me about it. If you can answer me these riddles three, I swear I shall grant you access to your precious Internet:
1.) What is our Comcast account number?
2.) Can I please have some petty cash to buy a new router?
3.) Are you aware that I'm not an IT person?

That last one is an honest-to-god question that I want answered. Do you know that I'm a receptionist and not an IT person? Because knowing how to use a computer does not make me a computer expert. Being able to do "fancy" things with the computer like opening a new tab without the mouse or dragging files onto your "computer-stick" doesn't mean I'm going to be able to fix every single computer problem that arises. When you bitch and moan that your computer is too bright and I click the "less sun" button to dim it, that doesn't mean I'm Bill Gates—it just means I know my ass from a hole in the ground. I can connect the dots that Mr. Sad Face Sun is probably the guy I should talk to if I want to dim the computer screen. There's a difference between intelligence and common sense. And I'll be the first to tell you, I have neither. I'm just really good at fiddling with shit. And that's what half of using a computer is. Just clicking things and opening and closing shit and messing around until you do whatever it is you're trying to do. And you, Boss #1, are completely capable of doing this, you just prefer when I do it. And you know what? That's fine. Because frankly, I have nothing else to do and if me figuring out how to turn off your daily Outlook reminder makes me look like a genius in your eyes, I'll take it. I take the small wins when I get 'em because I, overall, am a loser.

However, It's the leap from "can you make my screen less bright?" to "can you make the Internet appear out of thin air?" that I have a problem with. Because knowing how to google "insert a signature in Outlook" does not mean I can perform miracles. And I don't appreciate that when I can't perform miracles, you don't believe me and think I'm holding out on you. Trust me, if I can do something to shut you up and get you off my back, I'm gonna do it. My goal is to interact with you as little as possible on a daily basis. I just want to write my little blog and watch The Hulu and eat my chicken wrap and get through the day as quickly as possible until it's time to go home. I don't like when you come to me with your problems. AND YOU DO! ALL THE TIME! You come to me with all of your problems! "Meghan, my phone is too loud!" "Meghan, I don't know how to save something to the desktop!" "Meghan, my daughter doesn't want to go to college!" "Meghan I have a UTI!" "Meghan, I'm not happy with my husband anymore!" GAH!!!! On one hand, I'm flattered that you think I'm competent enough to deal with all of these problems, but on the other—I'm just the fucking receptionist. And you pay me accordingly. Specifically, you pay me like a fucking migrant worker. So if you want me to be your receptionist, IT person, life coach and gynecologist, you need to give me a raise. Oh and some health insurance and vacation time would be dandy too.

In conclusion: I am not an IT person. I didn't get my degree in computer science from Westwood. I don't always know how to fix your computer. And this is not my fault. We need someone we can go to when we have computer problems who is not me. And more importantly, you can not be mad at me about this. To drive the point home, I'm going to leave you with a list of things that I am 100% capable of doing and a list of things that I ma 100% not capable of doing. Study the list. Learn the list. Respect the list. And stay in your own lane or I will drive you off the road.

Things I Can Do:
- File
- Organize
- Answer phones
- Dust
- Take crucial naps
- Snuggle with Evie
- The Electric Slide
- Work a remote
- Make a bangin' salad
- Design a tri-fold pamphlet
- Make a mediocre cup of coffee
- Take a message
- Shake your hand firmly

Things I Can Not Do:
- Fix a broken wireless router
- Reconfigure the printer router
- Hack into our neighbor's wireless
- Read your mind
- Make new light bulbs appear out of nowhere
- Make a special Comcast Seal channel because you're really in the mood to hear "Kiss From a Rose"
- Spackle the walls
- Prescribe you Amoxicillin
- Fix a broken dishwasher
- Convince your daughter to go to college
- Upholster a chair
- Duplicate a set of keys with the two hands God gave me
- Power your laptop with bodily fluids and willpower

With a false sense of respect and affection,
Meghan C. McBlogger
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