3.31.2009

Tasteless Tuesday

Allow me to share this gem of a story I discovered yesterday while paroozing Gawker:
"Vince Shlomi best known as television's ShamWow! guy, was arrested in Miami last month [f]or beating up a prostitute.

According to the police report:
  • Shlomi meets Sasha Harris in a Miami club. They go back to his hotel.
  • She propositions him for "straight sex." He pays her a thousand bucks in cash.
  • He kisses her.
  • She "bit his tongue and would not let go."
  • He punches her in her face repeatedly until she lets go.
  • He runs down to the hotel lobby.
  • They both get arrested."
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BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE!

It also turns out that Shlomi is a renegade Scientologist! He joined the church in 1982 to create contacts for his film The Underground Comedy Movie, a direct-to-DVD comedy movie featuring Slash and Joey Buttafuoco. However, the Church of Scientology brought Shlomi up on criminal charges in fake-me-out Scientology court and kicked him out. A cult, asked him to leave. Impressive or what?!

When I read this article, I ran outside with my scarf and mittens and checked for snow 'cuz I thought Christmas had come early. While clearly this is a completey horrendous and sad situation, I can't help but think it's also a gift from God directly to me. And I took that gift. I untied the bow, tore away the wrapping paper and slowly opened the box. And what was inside? A deluxe set of comical ShamWow! jokes to be made at the expense of this situation.

Best. Christmas. Ever.

Yayyyy! Leave your own ShamWow/prostitute joke as a comment because this entire situation gives me a giggle. As I am a horrible human being.

Sham. Wow. - Gawker

And the hooker was German, so you know she's good. - Myself

Rumor has it the hooker can hold up to twenty times as much semen as other prostitutes. - Chris

Remember Vince, the ShamWow can dry everything but the tears of a life gone horribly, horribly wrong.
- My Dad

Beware ShamWow imitators. And kissing prostitutes that charge $1,000 for straight sex on the mouth.

He should have just told her we can't do this all day. It's from his commercial, you know like call right now 'cause we can't do this all day. Then she would have let go of his tongue. I had to work too hard, this isn't funny any more. Damnit. - My Mom

[...that last one is only funny to me because I think it's cute when my mom de-rails a joke via gchat.
]

3.30.2009

Does A&E have an Interventionist for this?

I’d like to take this opportunity to talk to you all about a very serious epidemic that is sweeping our nation. One of every four 20-somethings succumb to this illness every weekend. Everyone look to your left. Now look to your right. There’s no one there, right? Then you’ve probably already fallen victim to this crippling disorder.

Imagine this scenario: It’s Friday night and you’re out with your friends having a great time. This past week has been absolute murder, so you’re ready to unwind. Your best friend Erin orders a round of tequila shots, and who are you to turn down a free shot? One shot leads to two, two shots lead to seven, and before you know it, you’re performing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” karaoke (only later to realize there was no karaoke at that bar).

Now on your Fantastic Voyage to a hangover, you may have wandered away from your friends and lost your left shoe (and maybe a bit of your pride) but the one thing you managed to hang on to is your trusty cell phone. Good thing too, because when your blackout starts to wear off around 4 AM, you’re coherent enough to call a friend to tell them you are near a mailbox and a man with a beard, and can they please pick you up?

The downside to carting your phone around with you is drunk texting. As if your hangover wasn’t bad enough, you realize that you texted God’s entire green earth last night in varying states of coherence. I’m not saying all drunk texting is bad, but all drunk texting is definitely not good.

Let me break it down for you (but I promise to lay off the rap for a while).

Level 1 – Green – Low

This stage usually occurs in the beginning of the night, after one or two pregame drinks. These text messages are indistinguishable from sober text messages. They are mainly administrative texts to figure out where everyone is and where you’re meeting and who’s going to be there and OMG that place sucks, let’s go somewhere else. (This is assuming all of your friends aren’t already with you. I love texting as much as the next guy, but if you’re having an in person conversation via text, you may have a problem.)

Level 2 – Blue – Guarded

A few more drinks, and you’re feeling great. And you want everyone you know to feel great too. There is a lot of love going on at this level. You start texting your friends that you aren’t with. Sure, they might currently be 400 miles from where you are, but still, if they come out with you tonight it would be so fun! You are having an awesome time and want to drink awesome shooters and listen to awesome music and sit around and soak up each other’s awesomeness. Your friends on the opposite coast probably won’t be joining you for a beer, but they’re glad you thought of them. This is the stage where drunk texting is fun and yields positive results.

Level 3 – Yellow – Elevated

The night is taking off and those shots have just started to hit you. Now you’re texting everyone in your phone: the friends you’re with, the friends you’re not with, your cousin, that guy you met last week at Starbucks, any and all former relationships, somehow you even have the number of your high school English teacher. These texts are specific to the recipient. Your former roommate who you hated gets a passive aggressive text message about how great your current living situation is; your ex-boyfriend gets a sappy text regarding how much you miss them, etc. Whatever thought swims through the booze in your head when you see their name in your contact list is what you send. This is where the texting gets dicey, because you stop being polite and start getting real.

Level 4 – Orange – High

Once it hits your lips, it’s just so good. But since you’ve been channeling Frank the Tank, you’ve let your fingers do some unsupervised walking. Any text conversations you were having in Level 3 have been amplified. What started out as a harmless flirtatious text to that guy/girl you always flirt with has turned ugly; you keep sending romantic things (“i think ur pretty n stuff” or “cum here n make out with me”) to no response. One of the texts from your friend from high school struck the wrong note with you and now you’re furious at them for being such a douchebag. Your saving grace is that a lot of these text messages are grossly misspelled. Unfortunately the sentiments come through loud and clear. These text messages are never pleasant to read the next day.

Level 5 – Red – Severe

Prior to or immediately following a blackout, you reach level five. Ironically, while this is the highest level of drunk texting, it poses one of the lowest threats to your pride the following morning. This is because as much as you want to tell someone off, it looks like you’ve been typing with your elbows. The letter X appears in practically every word. Good thing Crackerjack doesn’t give away secret drunk text decoder rings, or your drunken/horny/angry/depressed true intentions would be revealed. The only thing being revealed by these text messages is your elevated blood alcohol content.

Once you can learn to recognize the stages of drunk texting, you can help to prevent Level 5 from being reached. If you do happen to ascend to higher levels of drunk texting, I highly recommend deleting all your outgoing texts the next morning, as now that you’re Dr. Jekyll once more, you don’t want to know what Mr. Hyde got up to last night. If you, or anyone you know, is prone to this debilitating illness, please share this with them. After all, friends don’t let friends drink and text.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I plan to have a Level 5 weekend, so you can all expect a text message from yours truly.

3.27.2009

It's Drinking Game Friday, bitch.

Drinking Game Friday. It's about god-damn time. I think the highlight of this work week came at the hands of my co-worker Mike (I emphasize co-worker, although in his mind he's my boss as he treats me like his personal assistant/rottweiler). You know how sometimes you feel so insignificant in your office that you joke around that they don't even know you're name? Well Mike literally does not know my name. I've worked here for three months. I see and interact with him every single day. Fuck me.

Mike forgot my name in the middle of giving me an offensive and patronizing lecture about graphic design which concluded with, "but why am I telling you all of this? You took graphic art classes!" First of all, I did not take graphic art classes, I took graphic design classes. Calling a graphic designer a graphic artist is like if I called you a professional pillow-fluffer even though your card says Interior Designer, asshole. Second of all, I didn't just take a few night classes at the local Y for shits and giggs. I have a BA in graphic design. I took more classes than "a few." There's a slight difference.

And then he forgot my name. And it wasn't in like a, "oops! I'm having a senior moment and called you Maggie! L0LZ!!!1" kind of way, but in a 100% who-the-fuck-are-you-again? kind of way. After watching him struggle for about 20 seconds I informed him that my name is Meghan. You know, the girl who sends you 50 emails a day responding to your various inane questions ranging from "where can I buy a blank canvas tote bag" to "what will get this meat sauce out of my shirt?" The girl who you recently asked to make duplicates of your house keys because your nephew is coming to stay for the weekend. The girl who's considerate enough to keep the refrigerator stocked with Mountain Dew because you're apparently a 12 year-old boy with ADD and that's all you'll drink. My name is Meghan. And you're crushing my soul.

The one thing that got me through this week was going to see BrItNeY SpeArs in concert Tuesday night. You can talk all the shit you want, but I will never feel ashamed about my love for Brit Brit. She's not Chopin, I get it, but sometimes I just want to hear a stupid, repetitive song that makes me want to get up and shake my ass on the dance floor. And it takes a lot for me to get up off my ass, nevertheless shake it. Sometimes I think if this building were burning down I would seriously be like, "meh...it's chilly in here anyway and I'm in the middle of a really crucial game of Snood. I'll stay put, thanks." So, hats off to you, Ms. Spears.

In honor of her performance, this week we'll be playing the Crossroads Drinking Game! Crossroads has to be one of the most underrated comedies of all time. Once you've accepted the fact that you'll be laughing at Crossroads, not with it, then and only then can you appreciate it's genius. How could it not be amazing with it's grab bag, shit show of an ensemble cast? A movie starring Britney Spears, Dan Aykroyd, Kim Cattrell and the chick from BoomKat sounds like the set-up to a dirty joke I'm dying to hear the punchline to. And did I mention there's a scene where Britney reads the lyrics to her song "I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman" as if it were poetry, all slow and meaningful like? That scene alone deserves an Oscar, Grammy, Pulitzer Prize, Tri-County Pie Eating Contest trophy and whatever other honors you've got lying around.

So without further ado, I give you the Crossroads Drinking Game!
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Rules!
Shoot up your meth when:
- Any of the girls' serious issues are addressed (i.e. pregnant, no momma, used to be a fattie)
- The gang makes a stop
- Anyone makes a phone call
- Lucy's notebook is shown or written in
- There's an argument
- Ben plays his gee-tar
- Anyone sings in a car
- Anyone sings karaoke
- Kim Catrell shows up looking like Khaki Kari on a suburban safari, because that shit is L0LZ:
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- Mimi loses her baby ["They said I lost my baby. Lost it. Like it was my keys or something." No? Just me? Fair enough.]
- Britney triumphantly records her hit poem, "I'm not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman"

As always, thank you so much for reading (and emailing, and following me on twitter and joining the facebook page) and we'll see you back here Monday morning!

3.26.2009

Embarassment of the day. And it's only 9 o'clock.

Every morning as I commute to work, I listen to the same thing on my ipod: the incendiary Dr. Dre album, The Chronic 2001. I love this album. Eight years I've been listening to it, and for eight years I've been a better person because of it. Asking me to pick my favorite track would be like asking your Nanna to pick her favorite grandchild; she loves them equally and how dare you offend her with such a ridiculous question! (But if you held a gun to my head, I'd pick The Next Episode. Don't tell Xxplosive, he gets so jealous.)

Dre is my nutritious breakfast. He is my coffee. He gets my morning started right. If I'm going to wake up and attack the day, I'd prefer to do it with swagger in my step and a glock in my hand. Some people have affirmations; I have Dre. When Dre tells a few bitches and motherfuckers to akrite, it reminds me not to take any guff from co-workers or clients. I am an intelligent, independent and capable young woman, damnit!
I roll wit my shit off safety - for [n-words] that been hatin' me lately and the bitches that wanna break me. So don't ask me to update the marketing binders without saying please, motherfucker!

Sometimes blasting Dre on my ipod can get slightly uncomfortable when I'm on the metro. I tend to listen to my music at the maximum volume level (I know, I know, I'm ruining my hearing, thank you,) so if it's particularly quiet in our car, I'll pause the song and resume it when I get off at my stop. This morning, there were some embarrassing complications, however.

This morning's metro ride was especially packed. Only a thin layer of denim separated a strange Asian guy's manhood from my ass, which is a situation I wasn't thrilled to be in. I was also essentially in a slow-dance position with the older gentleman in front of me, our eyes desperately looking anywhere but forward and into eachother's because this entire situation was already far too meaningful and romantic for 8:30 in the morning.

For some ungodly reason, the metro conductor decided to slow the train down to a slow and painful crawl after we left Dupont. Without the normal screeching and hissing sounds of the metro truckin' down the red line, it became painfully quiet in the car. Nobody was talking. You could hear a pin drop. It was clearly time to pause Dre. I quickly clicked pause on the clicky-controller-thing on my headphones, but pause it did not. The controller had mysteriously broken. I tried again. No dice. I reached into my pocket and took out my iphone to pause it manually. It had frozen. Specifically, it had frozen midway through the song "Ho's A Housewife," which it was becoming apparent the entire car could clearly hear, judging from the looks I was getting. Because my left hand was doing double-duty holding my giant bag and steadying myself so as to avoid making this a conjugal visit with the Asian guy behind me, I could only remedy the Dre situation with one hand (which was proving to be a difficult task.) I had two options: rip the headphone cord out and hope the song will pause rather than blast through my iphone, or just let it ride and accept my fate as That Girl. I chose the latter.

So as the train crawled at a rate of .5mph, I essentially DJ-ed one of the most offensive Dre songs in existence for the entire car. After each offensive lyric, more people started to stare in my direction and I had to look back and shrug like "welp, the man has a point!" Feel my pain:

At the ho-tel, mo-tel, or the Holiday Inn (say what nigga?)
I said if that bitch keep fuckin up (beotch) then we'll fuck her friends

[-shrugs- = fair enough, right?]

I said I dip, dive, what can I say?
Niggaz need to stop fuckin with O.J.

[-nodds head- = when the man's right, the man's right.]

Some niggaz bang blood, some niggaz bang crip
And bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks
I had to dream of hoes, I had to scream at hoes
I seen my hoes in all kinds of clothes
Lil' Almond Joy, I truly enjoy
if you blew my balls, right through my drawers

[-raises eyebrows- = blowing balls through the drawers, frankly that's impressive.]

Come back to the mansion, chill at the spot
From the way she was blowin, I know she does it a lot

[-shrug- = who hasn't blown a lot in their day, right? Can I get an amen?? Lady in the sweater vest, I'm lookin' at you!]

I have a eight-and-a-half, nine-and-three-quarters
The hoe started callin when I started boss ballin
Gimme some head, gimme some ass (uh-huh)
Gimme some cash, pass it to Daz
Pass it to Snoop, or pass it to Nate
See hoes eat dick like eggs and steak

[-eyes widen- = God I could go for some Steak 'n Egg right now. I haven't eaten there since senior year of college.]

It was about when we hit the chorus that the train finally lurched into Metro Center and I ran off the train in embarrassment.

Sucks to be me. All day. Every day.

3.25.2009

Why wanting a subscription to GQ doesn't make me a lesbian.

I love my mom. A lot. One thing I don't love about my mom, however, is that I'm 99.9% sure she thinks I'm gay. I know this because she has explicitly told me she thinks I'm gay on numerous occasions. This is upsetting to me because I am very much not a lesbian. Not like there's anything wrong with lesbianism. Hell, the original second bird on this blog was a big 'ole lezzie! I'm hip! I'm cool with it! I'm just not a lesbian myself.

The primary reason my mom thinks I'm gay is because I have a lot of gay friends. Now, believe it or not, this isn't the result of me going to local charter meetings of the "I'M A RAGING HOMO AND YOU ARE TOO! Club" (IARHAYATC, for short). It's because I went to an extremely gay-friendly college, where you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a few 'mos in the face. And I befriended those 'mos and consider myself lucky to have them. To me, having gay friends is the weakest possible argument for thinking someone's gay. I've got some black friends mom, does that make me any less painfully white? No. To my great, great dismay, it does not.

The second most ridiculous reason my mom thinks I'm gay is because I have visible tattoos. When I told my mom that I got tattoos #2 and #3 on my wrists, she nonchalantly told me that I had made a poor decision because from now on people will assume certain things about me. "Like what?" I asked her. Her answer? "That you're a prison dyke." I swear to all that is good and holy in this world, that was her answer. That people are going to assume that I am a prison dyke. Because I have two wrist tattoos. I suppose I could understand this if my tattoos said "INMATE" and "I HEART PUSSY"
, but they're just of a harp and a crown. To this day, it is completely beyond me why my tattoos insinuate not only that I've been incarcerated, but also that I'm the gayest kid on the block. And yet according to my mom, I should keep this in mind when meeting people for the first time, every time, for the rest of my life. I think if she had her way, one wrist would say "CLEAN RECORD" and the other "COCK-MASTER", respectively.

Her third reason for thinking I'm gay is
slightly more legitimate, but still ridiculous. You see, for being such a bitter and spiteful bitch, I love to cuddle. But cuddling is a platonic act. Apparently my mom doesn't understand that two people can come into physical contact with each other without having sex (the brazen hussy!) So, when she came home one night to find me and Anna on the couch watching Troy and having a cuddle-fest, she acted like she had walked in on us in the middle of making hardcore lesbian porn. Grecian-themed, hardcore lesbian porn. Later at dinner, my mom interrupted the stony silence with the following conversation:Mom: "So...that Anna was all over you like a cheap suit. Anything you'd like to tell me?"Me: "WHAT?! We were just cuddling! I'm not gay, mom! And even if I were, I don't think I could get a girl as hot as Anna."Dad: "That's not true sweetie, I think you could definitely get a girl as hot as Anna."Me: "Awww Dad! That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me!....WAIT, but you know I'm not gay, right?? RIGHT?!"

No amount of "we were just cuddling!" could reverse the damage done. This misunderstanding planted a seed of hate in my mother's heart for Anna that has only
recently removed itself. If I had friends over to our house, it wasn't uncommon for my mom to say hello to everyone but Anna. One winter break, I had a bunch of people over to the house for a pot-luck dinner and my mom said, and I quote, "It's just so good to see all of you girls! EVEN YOU ANNA!"

I guess it didn't really help when my mom was browsing through my photos from backpacking through Europe and found a picture of me and Anna kissing on the beach. I can see where that looks slightly gay and romantic. I guess. I really have no excuses for that except that it was just a peck! Show me a person who wouldn't give their
BFF a peck while boozin' it up on an Italian beach and I'll show you a lair.

Sometimes I catch myself thinking about how sad it makes me that if I
were gay, my mom wouldn't accept my partner. I've dated some real asshole dudes in my day and I feel like my mom would take one of them over a chick any day of the week. How messed up is that?...And then I have to stop and remind myself that this is a non-issue because I am straight, and I need to stop mourning my hypothetical homosexuality. And when you have to remind yourself that you're straight, you know you've lost.

This leads to my current conundrum. My birthday is coming up, and I really want to ask for a subscription to
GQ, as it has become one of my favorite magazines. I was first introduced to GQ when I lived with Chris and he had a subscription. He'd leave them in the bathroom after he was done reading and I'd sneak in and gank 'em. His subscription to GQ is without a doubt what I miss most about living with Chris. Well, besides his friendship and advice and love and stuff..............................................................(but mostly the subscription).

First,
GQ is designed by Fred Woodward, one of my all-time favorite graphic designers. His work at Rolling Stone is what inspired me to go into magazine design in the first place and I think he's a genius. Second, the articles are genuinely more interesting than those in any woman's magazine out there. Take Cosmopolitan, for example. I fucking hate Cosmopolitan with every fiber of my being. I have a theory about Cosmo that I call "The Ball Theory." The Ball Theory states that every article in Cosmo is inevitably about the same thing: remembering to give your man's balls attention. Every single article, every single sex tipplay with his balls. I get that it's important sister, but move on! 50 GREAT SEX TIPS! 1-49? Play with his balls. THE NEWEST SEX MOVE THAT'LL DRIVE HIM WILD! Play with his balls. THE SECRET SPOT THAT'LL REVIVE YOUR SEX LIFE! Starts with a B and rhymes with "schmalls." I get it! Balls! Now move the fuck on.

On the other hand, the articles in GQ are all incredibly interesting, well-written and for the most part gender-neutral. They have provocative interviews, a fabulous cocktail-of-the-month feature, the best food and wine articles since Martha, and humor articles that beat the hell out of Cosmo's shitty "Embarrassing Stories" section. (All of which are just variations of "OOOPS I FORGOT TO PLAY WITH MY MAN'S BALLS!" anyway.) Not to mention it's full of hundreds of glossy photos of sexy, handsome, well-dressed men! I'm sorry mom! I'm sorry I want to look at 140 pages of hot men! That's so queer of me! Meanwhile my W magazine has more exposed tits than spring break on the Jersey Shore, but she doesn't mind paying for that subscription, now does she?!

I just can't see anyway that I can ask for a subscription without having another "something you wanna tell me?" talk. And I don't know if I can take another one. If I snap and start to wear flannel and march in the Gay Pride Parade, it's just not my fault. Therefore, I think GQ should hire me to be a staff writer so I can get free copies and preserve my heterosexuality. It just seems like the logical thing to do. Right?

Sigh...I'll be in my office listening to the Indigo Girls and cutting off the sleeves to my t-shirts if anyone needs me.

3.24.2009

The City is over, but I refuse to let Chris out of the cage.

I know what you’re thinking.

“Another bird? Isn’t this like second bird #3? I don’t know if I can handle getting attached again?” I’d be skeptical too. But come on. You can trust me. You guys know me. Haven’t I been there every Monday for the past few weeks? I would never steer you wrong, faithful readers. I look forward to the opportunity to let you wade in the shallow end of the swimming pool of my brain.

Now, allow me to re-introduce myself. My name is Hov. Wait, no, that’s wrong. I forgot where I was for a second. However, I would like to take a page out of Jay-Z’s book (and also Sarah Palin by way of Amy Poehler). First, please watch the following. If you haven’t seen it before, welcome to life outside of that rock you’ve been living under.

My name’s Chris McBloggy and you all know me

Recapper extrordinaire of Whitney Port’s City

Now I’m here to write, about more than Whitney

Can I get a “what what” if you readers feel me.

Don’t got much experience, but I got style

My grasp of pop culture extends for miles

But sometimes it’s creepy, like when I watch Disney

And my dream bout the day Miley finally meets me.

How I’m doin so far? (Kinda blow!)

Who knew rapping was so hard? (Coolio)

Few more verses to go, (Let’s go)

Sorry if this becomes a shitshow. (Total show)

Call me Bird Number Two

Cuz tonight I start writing

About all kinds of things

Like celebrity sightings

Meg and I on this blogging site

A match made in heaven, it just feels so right.

In Manhattan,

My days fill, baby fill up

With stories I can share

To thrill, baby, thrill ya.

I’ll try to make you laugh

When I fulfill my half

Of writing posts

All the readers in the house put your hands up,

All the readers in the house put your hands up,

All the bloggers in the house put your hands up,

All the bloggers in the house put your hands up!

When I say "2birds" you say "1Blog!"

2Birds!

1Blog!

2birds!

1Blog!

I’m writing this rap but it ain’t going nowhere! (Ooooooo!!)

We are two birds, making sure you heard

Bout the awkward, 20-something in us all

(in love you’re gonna fall)

With our motherhumpin’ wit 5 days of the week!

Now I’m done

Now I’m done cuz this is tiring

And I’m whiter than snow.

My name is Chris

And this is the word

Everybody party

With the new second bird.

La la la la la la la laaaaaaa

Yo I'm Chris and I'm out!

3.23.2009

Good morning. Let's talk about Fucking Machines.

A few weeks ago I twittered (tweeted? twatted?) a link to a local news story about a DIY sex machine gone horribly, horribly wrong. A couple in Southern Maryland got all MacGyver with a dildo and a saber saw, which sounds normal enough, except the teeth of the saber saw cut through the dildo and sawed homegirl's ladypiece to ribbons. (By the way, Southern Maryland: behave yourself. It seems like every time you're in the news it's for something heinous and frightening like popping your kids in the freezer for a few years or sawing your genitals in half. You make it difficult for me to win Maryland vs. Virginia arguments. Behave.)

When I first read this story, my initial reaction was to blame and mock the couple. I laughed at them. I mused about how stupid one must be to think putting a dildo on a saber saw is a good idea in the first place. I also mused about the kind of gentlewoman who lets her redneck husband, a dildo and a saber saw within 10 paces of her genitals. The point being, I thought these two pieces-of-work were examples of Darwinism at its best. I, however, was wrong.

I would like to publicly apologize to this couple for judging them for being the dumbest people on the planet. Because upon further investigation, they might actually be the most economically responsible people on the planet. And for that, I'm sorry. Allow me to explain.

A blog I read recently wrote a piece about DIY sex machines, as inspired by our SoMar couple. Somebody left a comment linking to a website called "Extreme Restraints." (NOT SAFE FOR WORK! And you know I get my giggles by not giving you NSFW warnings, so let that speak for itself.) Extreme Restraints is a fetish website for those who get all hot and bothered by being restrained and then fucked with "Fucking Machines." I must have missed an episode of Real Sex, because I had no idea this was even a fetish in the first place, but now that I do, it enrages me.

First of all, the phrase "Fucking Machine" is the most crass thing I have ever heard. And I once wrote a post about dicks saturated in anal blood, so there's that.

Now let me be clear, the actual fetish doesn't offend me. Frankly, as long as everyone is of legal age and the act is consensual, then I say go to town and have fun doing it. Who am I to judge? Want to know what gets me hot and bothered? (No? I respect that. But I'm telling you anyway, asshole.) There's a scene in the 2001 PG-13 rated film Keeping the Faith where Edward Norton is stretching Jenna Elfman's leg after a run. He pushes her leg too hard and she winces he pain so he sadistically pushes harder. She complains that it hurts, so he leans in (covered in Norton sweat) and says in a patronizing tone, "You're such a wimp." PRAISE THE LORD AND PASS THE AMMUNITION if that doesn't get me all hot and bothered every single time. The only version of it on youtube is dubbed in Spanish, but it gets the job done in a pinch:

Jesus Christ. Norton. Why did I bring this up in the first place? Oh yes, Fucking Machines. If being restrained and fucked with a machine gets you off, then mozel tov and amen!

The problem I have with the Fucking Machines featured on extremerestraints.com is that they cost upwards of $750. SEVEN-HUNDRED-AND-FIFTY-FUCKING-DOLLARS! Are you kidding me? Maybe it's just the Jew in me talking, but I think a Fucking Machine is the epitome of poor financial planning. If my hypothetical boyfriend came to me and was all "Hey, let's go halvsies on a Fucking Machine!" I think that would be the end of our hypothetical relationship. Because God gave you the ultimate Fucking Machine, Sir, and it lives in your pants and doesn't cost us a dime. Why don't we take the $750 and go on vacation to Miami for a week where you can fuck me for free? Direct flight! Hotel and airfare included!

The website also advertises that you can use these machines for masturbation purposes. Which is just the most offensive thing I have ever heard in my entire life! Because there's a lot of people I would pay $750 to have sex with, and I am not one of them. I'm sorry. I'm a great girl and all, but a night with me is in no way worth $750, and I will be the first one to tell you. If it boils down to me having some alone time with the "eXtreme Plow Fucking Machine" or making a payment on my student loan, I'd choose the student loan before you can say "drilldo fucking attachment" (which retails for $98 and is out of stock, by the way.) It's a recession people, act like you know what that means! Which isn't to say that a Recession isn't a time for pleasure. Just be responsible about it. I, for example, have a vibrator. But it's not a trendy Rabbit vibrator or anything fun like that. It's like a shitty generic-brand vibrator that you'd get at Costco for $5 and comes with a 36-pack of AA batteries and a jumbo box of frozen meatballs for free. And in this day and age, I feel grateful to have it.

Thus, I am incredibly sorry for laughing at the couple who made their own Fucking Machine. They had a dildo. They had a saber saw. They saw an opportunity to pinch a few pennies. Can we really blame them?

3.20.2009

I'm alive! And just in time for Drinking Game Friday!

Happy Drinking Game Friday! Sorry for the lack of posting on my part this week you guys, my tonsils and I got into another white-trash domestic dispute. The cops were called, I used my shoe as a weapon and had to be restrained. It was a mess. In the end, however, we decided to stay together because sometimes love hurts.

This new bout of the Consumption started Monday when I noticed that my tonsils were hurting slightly more than they usually do when I get sick. I thought nothing of it and moved on with my life. Wednesday morning I got into the office bright and early (cough-fifteen minutes late-cough,) and sat down to write a hilarious and well-written blog post. All of a sudden, I realized that I was producing more saliva than usual and my mouth tasted oddly tangy. But I shrugged it off and moved on. A few minutes later I thought to myself, "Man, my mouth is full of effing spit...and I can feel spit going down the back of my throat at a rapid rate...L0LZ the body is a kooky thing!" And then I coughed into my hand and...well, how do I say this delicately? Oh right! I can't! Blood went gushing everywhere. Everywhere, you guys. Everywhere. It was like that scene in Julie Taymor's Titus when Lavinia's uncle finds her and is all "Why you got twigs for arms?" and she tries to answer and blood dramatically pours out of her mouth (please see below, 50 seconds into the video:)


Except I don't have tree branches for arms. And my tongue hasn't been cut out; my tonsils swelled so much they were bleeding. And Jonathan Ryhs-Meyers didn't rape me. And if he had, it wouldn't be rape, because you can't rape the willing. But besides all of those things, it was exactly
like that scene. To the tee.

In all seriousness, I freaked the fuck out because
a.) ew blood! and b.) I couldn't breathe because I was choking on all of the blood I was swallowing. I was totally like, welp, this is it. This is how the story of Meghan McBlogger comes to it's bloody end. Alone in my office. At the hand of my tonsils...sounds about right.

Shaking like a little leaf, I got into a cab and asked for it to take me to Georgetown Hospital's ER. Now maybe it's just me, but if someone gets in your cab and asks you to go to the ER,
maaayyybeee they're not in the condition to shoot the shit with you. Just maybe. Apparently my driver didn't get that memo. A few minutes into our ride, he glanced back and casually said, "So. How's your day going?" UMM, sir, I'm holding half a roll of Bounty paper towels covered in blood to my mouth with tears coming down my face, how do you think my day is going? But that would have taken too much energy to get out, so I went with a muffled, "I've been better." "So, I see you're wearing a green dress. Didn't anyone tell you St. Patrick's Day was yesterday? Get a calendar, HAHA!" REALLY, SIR?! REALLY??? YOU'RE GOING TO SHTICK WITH ME NOW?! I'm surprised his response to where I wanted to go wasn't, "No. I don't go to the hospital. Not today. .....HAHA! GOTCHA LOLZ!!!!" I swear to the effing good Lord world, just stop shticking with me when I'm on my lunch break or drowning in my own blood in the back of a cab. CHRIST.

I was equally irritated that I had to give a urine sample when I was admitted to the ER. Giving a urine sample has to be the most degrading human experience on the entire planet. First of all, my throat is bleeding, why you need a urine sample is beyond me. And stop asking me if there's a chance I could be pregnant. I'm not pregnant and there's no chance I could be. But if I
am pregnant, it's God's, so maybe a priest is in order, not a urine sample. Second, I never have to pee when a doctor needs a urine sample. Which means I have to look another adult in the eye and, like a child, say "I don't have to go pee." I hate it. I have flashbacks to family road trips and my dad telling me to go now because we're not stopping later. After I chugged a few glasses of delicious lukewarm hospital tap water, I had to book it from my bed to the bathroom down the hallpee cup in hand, wearing my hospital gown and the 6-inch black stilettos I wore to work. And if that isn't the ultimate walk of shame, then I don't know what is.

But we're not done yet! Actually having to pee is just half the battle! The other half is actually peeing into the thimble of a cup they give you. I swear to God, the performance anxiety I feel when giving a urine sample is ridiculous. It just wasn't going to happen. I don't know how men pee in urinals with other guys standing around, because the added pressure of a cup being there was too much for me to handle. I tried everything. I had the water faucet trickling a little bit, I tried splashing the water around, envisioning streams and babbling brooks, I even tried holding one hand under cold water and the other under the hot air blower like I was pranking myself at a slumber party. Nothing. And of course I couldn't stop thinking about the nurses waiting for me, wondering where my "specimen" was, which made everything worse. Finally, after praying, nay, pleading with God to please, please, please let me pee, it was a-go. And by "a-go," I mean it was time for the ultimate test of depth perception and aim that is a female trying to pee into a cup. Which I then had to walk to the nurse's station in my slutty hospital patient Halloween costume. Kill me.

However, the most beautiful thing happened. At one point during my stay, the general bathroom was occupied, so the nurse walked me back to use the staff bathroom. Figuring that it was probably not a one-person stall, I opened the door without knocking. As it turns out, it was a one-person stall, and indeed, one person was already in there. Specifically, my probably gay and definitely hot doctor. Apparently in med school they don't teach you how to lock a bathroom door, so I completely walked in on him mid-piss. I swear to God, we had this micro-second of a moment where we locked eyes and both acknowledged the extreme humanization of what had just occurred. The curtain had been pulled back; the mystery was gone. No longer was this man the almighty doctor who I had bowed down to and peed in cups for, he was just another person taking a leak. Dick in hand. I don't have a dick, but if I did, you can bet it would be in my hand. I'm just like you buddy, and you're just like me. Suddenly I felt a lot less embarassed about peeing in the cup. Man, the Universe has beautiful ways to even itself out.

In the end, it was decided I need to get my tonsils out, but for seriouses this time. Alas, my insurance doesn't cover surgical procedures, so I told them just fix me to the point where I can stay alive until I get hired at my job full time, get full health-care coverage and then I swear I'll totally get my tonsils out, 4realz! A few shots of steroids and penicillin and a nice stay in a relaxing hospital bed under observation later, I was good to go.
Score!
Tonsils: 0
Meg: 2

So yea, I'm fine. I couldn't go dyin' on you baby, I love you too much. OH! And speaking of dying (poor transition,) the real tragedy this week was Natasha Richardson! WTF?! This is just another reminder that human beings were not meant to slide down mountains on two rickety pieces of wood. How many more beautiful and talented celebrities do we need to lose until we all realize this (RIP Sonny Bono)?? In remembrance of the lovely Natasha Richardson aka Elizabeth James, the coolest mom EVER, I give you the Parent Trap Drinking Game. <3Photobucket
Rules!
Drink When:
- A secret handshake is exchanged
- A twin plays a prank
- Someone says the name of a Native American tribe
- A twin cries
- A twin is reunited with a parent
- Hallie (but really Annie) says "dad"
- The vineyard is mentioned
- Martin says "mam"
- Cuppy makes an appearance
- Hallie (but really Annie) lies to Meredith
- Someone is suspicious of the twins
- Marriage is referenced in any way
- And finally when in light of recent events, you inevitably cry your face off during the following scene:


OH GOD IT GETS ME...sniff, sniff. Thanks for reading everyone and I'll see you bright and early Monday morning!

3.17.2009

Recrap Tuesdays: Season Finale!

The City
As Recapped by Chris

Welp I never thought this time would come, but it’s finally here. The season finale of The City. And how fitting that the last thing I see from this season is the production company name: Done and Done. Which is exactly how I feel about this show. While I have thoroughly enjoyed writing these recaps for you fine people, I’m sure you will agree when I say sometimes more happened on The Shitty than what happened on the actual show. I will say, however, that I thoroughly enjoyed this season finale.

So Meg had asked since it’s the season finale, will I be switching things up, and I figure, Hell, might as well go big or go home. And I sure as shit don’t want to go home yet. So after the season finale of The Shitty, I’m going to make a few predictions for next season, which I may or may not recap. Let’s get to it shall we?

The Shitty

[scene: DVF]

Alixe: Blah blah Fashion Week blah blah London blah blah Isn’t my name so weird? Go pull some looks for something or other. Gosh, don’t you feel like all I ever tell you to do is pull looks.

Later.

Olivia: Alixe really does kind of tell us to pull looks all the time. What’s wrong? The producers tell me to ask you why you look sad.

Whit: It’s just Jay and everything going on in my life is really overwhelming. And…

Liv: Whoa there. It was a pity question, and I’m pretty sure it was rhetorical. I don’t care, I never will care, and I think the fact that you fell for it is pretty amateur. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got your job to sabotage.

Whit: ….What pah fuck?

[scene: One Mgmt.]

Erin on GChat but pretending to be working. Enter Adam stage left.

Adam: Psst. Erin.

Erin: Hi Adam, what’s up? How did you get in here? Isn’t there a security guard downstairs? Is it National No One Do Their Job Day today?

Adam: I smiled at him. He let me in. Regardless, do you mind if we go stand in that vacant room, I have something I want to yell, I mean say to you.

Erin: Sure, what’s going on?

Adam: Listen stay the eff out of my life. You don’t know me, you don’t know what I do. I’ve had Allie fooled for all of this time and then all of a sudden you come waltzing into our lives and suddenly she suspects something is up. And who are you to talk about morality, since you are currently sleeping with the entire bartending staff of Brother Jimmy’s.

Erin: Wow. You raise excellent and accurate points. However, for the sake of arguing, I’m going to get defensive and mad at you in return.

Adam: Fine!

Erin. Fine!

[scene: Whit’s apt]

Whit calls LC who is offstage

LC: Hello? I have no idea who is calling me since my usual camera crew has been replaced with guys wearing hats that say The City on them.

Whit: Hey LC, it’s me.

LC: Are you ok? You sound sick?

Whit: No, I’m not sick. Are you ok? You sound like you have a moustache. Things aren’t working out here and I think moving to the city was a mistake. I figured having MTV film and finance my move out here things would be easier.

LC: It’s not a mistake. You signed a contract. You can’t come back here. Oh and also: boys…ergh. Who needs em, right? Oo that’s my call waiting; Doug’s calling. Laterzzzzz.

[scene: Erin’s apt]

Erin: So WTF Allie, Adam yelled at me at work. I mean, he said some valid things, like not to meddle but I’m going to anyway.

Allie: Hmm…good point. You’re right. I should go talk to him.

Erin: That is in no way what I was saying. Hello? He yelled at me.

[scene: DVF show at Fashion Week]

London rep whose name I forget: Hello non-important people I was told to speak to. Say, which one of you pulled the –

Olivia: It was me! I did! Me! I also used to live in London!

Whit: ::under breath:: OMG get over yourself.

Later.

Whit: So..about the Elle cover..

Olivia: Yea, we did a great job working together. You’re really doing mediocre here! You should be proud.

Whit: Whoa, I pulled that look.

Olivia: Right. That’s what I said, you chose the shorts no one could see because the jacket I picked was covering them.

Whit: No, I picked the look. The whole look. And you took credit for it. You’re a bitch.

Olivia: Silly me, I thought I picked the look. No seriously, I’ll go tell someone right now…that it was my idea and I should go to London.

Whit: What was that?

Olivia: Oh nothing. Mr. London Rep!!

Later at the after-party.

Whitney sits forlornly on sofa. Enter DVF from Heaven stage right.

DVF: Aren’t I amazing? And so wise? It’s a good thing MTV pays me well to pretend like I know or care what’s going on in your life? Now talk to me.

Whit: Well, things suck basically.

DVF: Pish posh. None of that. (Ed. note: At this juncture DVF gives Whitney some of the most sound advice I have ever heard out of a human being and I love her even more for that. There is nothing I can say about it except that I am considering getting it tattooed up and down my arm in Olde English.)

[scene: Il Bastardo]

Allie: Yo, you show to my friend’s work. I show up at yours. That’s how I roll. What do you love?

Adam: You. I’ve only ever loved you. You’re my penguin. I want to grow old with you and take you to bingo night and I’ll never ever again do anything to hurt you. Ever. I love you honey.

Allie: Oh. Ok. Done.

Meanwhile back at the DVF party.

Alixe: Olivia, we decided to give you the London position as this show needs some more dramatic tension between you and Whitney. Congrats!

Olivia: Great! Thanks! Let me go rub this in Whitney’s face…I mean let her down gently. Yo Whit, get over here you dumb blonde bitch. I got the job. Sucker. I’m leaving for London. Oh is this a bad time?

Whitney: Yup. Whitney sucker punches Olivia. Jay calls Whitney, she leaves to speak with him.

Jay: I went on tour, and I realized that without your show to promote my band, I haven’t got a snowball’s chance in Hell at doing anything. So…I love you?

Whit: That sucks. I did love you. But then I looked at you in broad daylight and I realized that you’re pretty much a scumbag. And I can do better. Also, the Great DVF appeared to me and made me realize that I have to work on my relationship with myself, so peace.

The End?

All in all, I’m happy with it. Whitney did the right thing I feel, because it would have been supes easy getting sucked back into a relay with Jay just because he said those magic words.

So what is going to happen on next season of The City. Well, if you’ve become as adept as I have at reading the signs (read: you watched the show once and realized how predictable it can be) I think we can pretty much map out the next season

  1. Olivia and Whitney’s beef was not resolved. This means that it will come back to haunt Olivia, causing her to completely fuck up the London job. She’ll then come back to New York bitter, take it out on Whitney at work, get drunk at a dive bar in the Village with Nevan, where they will “accidentally” make out. (Come on, he’s just her first cousin. First you have your cousins, then you have your first cousins…)

  2. Adam used the phrase “never, ever” re: his past actions. Clearly, he and Jay will go out to get Jay drunk enough to forget he let Whitney slip through his greasy hair fingers. Adam will make eyes at a go-go dancer, bring her home, only later to realize that she is a he. Erin has this all on camera, plays the tape for Allie, thereby destroying their relationship.

  3. Erin made a friend at work her first day, who has yet to resurface. At the office St. Patrick’s Day party, after one too many sips of sizzyrup (we all know how Erin loves her tequila), when he is completely black out and she realizes he has a pulse and a penis, they will make out furiously for two hours, until he remembers he’s gayer than Ugly Betty’s little brother. Erin is inordinately crushed by this and quits One Management to go back to unofficially styling.

  4. Olivia goes to London. Clearly a new social climbing bitch is needed for Olivia’s absence, so MTV, in a strange fiction/non-fiction crossover casts Blair Waldorf, as many viewers won’t be able to tell the difference.

  5. Jay’s broken heart. Jay’s heart will remain broken for about three minutes post the season finale, until ex-gf Danielle starts to reappear in NYC mysteriously at every bar or club Jay patronizes.

  6. Whitney. Contractually obligated to stay in NYC, Whitney decides to reconnect with male model Alex. They date for a few months, until Whitney realizes that Alex is a total douchebag. She meets with Kelly Cutrone for advice, who delivers on the advice front, but then sets her up with another model. At work, with Olivia out of the picture, Whitney gets more responsibility and Alixe and Emese realize they have ridiculous names they chose the wrong girl for the London job, and compensate by making better use of Whitney’s talents.

3.16.2009

You know what ruffles my feathers?

Those red fleece-vested Children's Miracle Network volunteers who harass you on the street to sponsor a sick kid. God, you people are just the worst. I know that they're just trying to save lives and build hospitals around the world and I recognize that that's noble and beautiful and blah, blah, blah, so keep your emails to yourself. But really, they're the worst. And here's why:

First of all, those be some strategic bitches! I first encountered the Fleece Mafia when I worked in midtown Manhattan and they worked along 42nd street, which I took to get to and from my office. I ended up re-routing my morning commute to avoid their shenanigans, but I've had enough run-ins to know how they work:
1.) They work in pairs and are staggered down the street. That way when you see one and veer towards the other side of the sidewalk to miss them, you run directly into another (see helpful Microsoft Paint document below.)
Photobucket
2.) They're engaging. They don't start off by directly asking for money. They first ask about you. And you love talking about you, don't you? Normally they'll start by innocently asking how you are. And the thing is, they seem to genuinely care about the answer, which I always accidentally appreciate. Seriously, it always gets me. Like I just can't deny someone the privilege of knowing that I'm doing, "okay, thanks." BUT DON'T FALL FOR IT! YOU CAN'T ANSWER! Because then they've got you. You might as well just punch yourself in the heart, give them your wallet and walk away. Because people are sick and if you give them an inch, they'll take a mile. You think you're having an innocent conversation about yourself with an attractive fleece-vested individual and all of a sudden you're sponsoring a kid in Africa for $30 a month
which is only a dollar a day when you really think about it, L0LZ!
3.) They're normally young and attractive. This increases the odds that you'll answer when they ask how you are. I've had my heart broken this way before and it's not pretty. One time I was walking down Madison when I locked eyes with an attractive, slightly punk-looking, regulation hottie. I gave him the old Meg McBlogger sex-smirk, and he responded with a full-blown ear-to-ear smile. "Hey," he said casually. "Hi," I said coyly. "What are you up to?" "Just gettin' coffee." "Well what if instead of buying an overpriced cup of coffee every afternoon, you decided to make a difference in the life of
" GOD DAMNIT! He was wearing the red fleece vest under his leather jacket, that sneaky motherfucker! I pushed him out of the way, picked up the pieces of my heart and got a venti latte at Starbucks, which I threw away without drinking to prove a point.
4.) They've got some BALLS! Whatever strategy you normally use to deflect solicitors in the street won't do a damn thing to deter those fleeced-assholes. Listening to music on your i-pod? They'll shout. Read their lips. Not making eye contact? They'll get up in your personal space and make sure you see them in your peripheral vision. Got a "don't fuck with me," look on your face? Yea. They'll fuck with you. Trust me.

It's not that I don't want to help people. I do. I really do. It's just that I don't have the means. Despite this fabulous lifestyle I lead of wearing Target and stealing toilet paper from work, I don't actually have a lot of disposable income. So I don't appreciate you making me feel like a soulless asshole for not wanting to give $30 a month to a non-profit founded by the Osmond family. I've got bigger fish to fry, thank you. Like my rent. Specifically, like how I couldn't come up with $300 of it last month. So my condolences to Mufasa in the Sudan, but I really don't want to sleep in a refrigerator box tonight. I think I'm going to go keep the $30 a month, if that's okay with you.

Also, don't fucking harass people for money in the morning. I don't know about you, but the morning for me is just a big one-woman battle not to cut a bitch. I got Khakis McGee walking in front of me with her big fat ass waddling to and fro so I can't pass her and a woman walking behind me who keeps ramming her god-damn baby stroller into my ankles. At this point, my #1 priority is to keep myself from playing the ass of the woman in front of me like bongo drums before turning around and shouting, "HEY LADY, KNOW HOW TO MAKE MONGOLIAN BABY? HERE'S A SPOILER: I KILL YOUR CHILD AND EAT IT WITH SOME TERIYAKI SAUCE IN THE END! KEEP KNOCKING INTO ME AND I'LL GIVE YOU A DEMO!"

Given that information, maybe it's not the best idea to get all up in my face and ask, "Got a minute?" because, guess what Gandhi? I don't. So I'm going to look away and keep walking. And after I do, I wouldn't suggest that you laugh it off and say, "Welp, I guess someones in a hurry! I'll catch you later!" ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! Yes asshole! I am in a hurry! It's 8 fucking 45 on a Monday morning! I'm not taking an early morning stroll before I go to a jerk-off club meeting! I'm in a hurry and I have things to do, I'm sorry, trust me, I am! Maybe we can rap about Malaria and what horrible person I am some other time.

My new strategy for dealing with the Fleece Mafia is to simply say "recession" when they approach. I can't suggest it enough. Don't even make it a full sentence like, "Oh, I'm sorry, it's a recession." Just say it quick and forcefully. "Recession." I dare you to argue with that, fleece-fucker.
 
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