Winner winner, chicken dinner

I had a very precise and scientific way of picking the winner of yesterday's Jäger giveaway. While out a-boozin' with Becky last night, I asked her to pick a number between 1 and 188. She chose 10.

Meg: Really, 10? Why 10?
Becky: 'Eh. It's the number of beers I plan on drinking tonight.
Meg: .....Well played.

So congratulations to 10th commenter........Amanda!

You are the winner of the coveted Jäger cooler SLASH shot dispenser. Shoot me an email (meg@2birds1blog.com), I'll forward it to the Jäger deer and he'll scamper through the woods, find a cooler and drag it over to your place. And to answer your question, no, you may not borrow my parents. Those supportive bitches are mine. ALL MINE! Well, and Becca's, I suppose. Technically. They're ours. ALL OURS!

Thanks so much to everyone else who voted and left a comment! Continue to have a wonderful weekend! K. Love you. Mean it. Bye.


The Morning After. (& a Giveaway!)

Woooooooooo...I am hungover. Thank you to Alex, Scott, Carla, Jenna, Dan, Andrew of The Great Juno Debate Fame, Andrew not of The Jundo Debate Fame, Teresa, Laura and Lara who took me out and last night and stuffed me with various fried foods and alcohol until I couldn't see straight. You are all lambs. Lambs I would grill, shove in a pita, douse in tahini and eat up. What? I don't know. I might still be drunk. I want Amsterdam Fallafel. I also appreciate that when the check came and I reached for my wallet, everyone did the old oh put that away! as if it were my birthday and not because I had just gotten fired for a reason I think we all saw coming down the pike. Oh, you guys...

And speaking of losing my job! To answer the most frequently asked question from yesterday's post, I have absolutely no idea how ex-Boss #1 and ex-Boss #2 found the blog. None. The curiosity will drive us all to drink. (Too late.) I thought about asking when I saw that Boss #2 had an entire Encyclopedia's worth of printed blog posts tucked under her wing, but decided that might be too ballsy. Even for me. Mostly I just wanted to ask her to take the damn thing to Kinkos, bind it, slap some cover stock on it and bada-bing-bada-boom—book deal. AND THNXXXXX!

So, here we are. The day after THE DAY. I woke up at 8 this morning to write a post, felt like someone wearing brass knuckles was repeatedly punching me in the forehead and immediately went back to sleep. Now I'm lounging around my bed wearing nautical themed booty shorts watching a very poignant gun-control episode of 7th Heaven. It's not bad, you guys. It's not bad at all. I gotta say. Give me booty shorts and A. Simps or you give me death.

Now I hate to ask you guys a favor when you've all been so unbelievably kind and supportive...but I indeed totes have a favor to ask. Would you do me a solid and go here, scroll down to the third category of "People and Places", click "34 more," write in 2birds1blog for Best Local Blog/Blogger and submit it? That's it! That's all you have to do! You totally don't have to sign up for anything or vote for any other categories (unless you want to, of course.) Maybe get your friends and family to do it too? I'd appreciate it immensely.

In return, I will totally tell you something embarrassing. (Yes, embarrassing stories are my currency at this point. Things are touch-and-go.) So I woke up the other day and was about to hop in the shower when I looked in the mirror and noticed that I have these huge black and blue bruises alllllll over my upper-right thigh slash groinal region. To be frank, it looks like I had some straight up All-American rough-ass sex. (Not to be confused with rough COMMA, ass sex.) It looks like someone banged me out six ways to the weekend. Which would be exciting except I haven't had sex since the Nagano Olympics. (Which would put me in 8th grade, I think? Hm. Too early in the afternoon for statutory jokes?) Truth be told, the sex bruises are from carrying a shit ton of bags home from Trader Joe's and having a giant bottle of Pelligrino repeatedly bang into my crotch with each step I took. So what I'm trying to say is the closest thing I've had to awesome sex in a moth(s) of Sundays was with a Pelligrino bottle in the street. So. There's that.

...Meh, that wasn't that good of a story. Guess it's time to start throwing free shit at you, huh?? To thank you for being so amazingly supportive, we're doing a giveaway with our friends at jägerstore.com! And speaking of jägerstore, if you're only going to visit one alcohol based internet boutique this weekend, why not make it the jägerstore? (And no FCC, Jäger is not paying me to say that...yet.) Just leave a comment on today's post before midnight saying that you voted 2b1b for City Paper's Best of D.C. 2010 and you could win a totally badass Jager Cooler SLASH Shot Dispenser! [Edit: As of 11:45am on Saturday, February 27th, dis shit be closed. You can still vote and leave a comment, you just won't get any free shit out of it. Don't worry, there are more giveaways where this came from!]

And as much as I just love anonymous comments, you're going to have to use some sort of name so I can identify the winner tomorrow morning. Sound good? Awesome.

And speaking of alcohol—T.G.I. Hagman baby! A holiday needed now more than ever.

As of 1:09pm on February 26, 2010, Larry Hagman is............alive! And thank god for that. I don't know how I'd handle it if I got fired and Hagman got Fired with a capital F in the same week. My guess is with a lot of alcohol and cheese fries.

Alright, I think I'm too hungover to think of a drinking game this week. I hate when that happens. Make sure to vote for us and leave a comment before midnight! Thank you all so much again for your support and love! We love you right back and we're not going anywhere. Well, I'm probably going to put on a shirt, attempt to wipe the eye makeup off my face and venture out to get some coffee. But overall, I'm not going anywhere. Have a great weekend and thanks again for being so amazing. Kisses!


And then I got fired.

- So the Twitter rumors (that I started...) are true—Russell the Homophobic Co-Worker quit. After Friday he'll no longer be Russell the Homophobic Co-Worker, he'll just be Russell the Homophobic. Which sounds kind of regal and noble like Richard the Lionheart. Except times ignorant. His quitting was so anti-climactic and not dramatic at all, unfortunately. I didn't see him for two straight weeks (gay magic) and then he randomly sauntered in Monday morning, didn't say hi (as per usual), was on the phone for an hour and then came out and said to me, "Well Meghan, you're going to be the first to know!" At this point all I could think was, "GAY. HE'S GAY. GAYER THAN A CHRISTMAS TREE. I CALLED IT. HE'S COMING OUT TO ME RIGHT NOW. WE'RE GOING TO TOWN TONIGHT. LORD LOVE A STRONG GAY BLACK MAN." But he continued, "Friday will be my last day working here." Dinger. I played the ohhh Russell that's so sad what will you be doing?? game hoping the answer was a leather daddy named "Hoss," but that wasn't the case. Get this! He's leaving to become a deacon in his church. That was the big decision he couldn't talk to me about. That's his birthday present to himself. I mean, I guess I should have seen this coming. After working here for a year and two months, here's what I've ascertained about RTHCW:

Russell's Likes
- Jesus
- Making a show out of praying before meals
- Telling me he's fasting before proceeding to eat a giant chicken caesar salad
- Calling me "Boss Lady"
- Not closing doors
- Sucking air through his teeth

Russell's Dislikes
- Fags
- Meghan McBlogger
- Cream cheese
- Lady Gaga (I assume)
- Closing doors
- Silent workplaces

So, yeah. Russell's not gay; he's just really into Jesus. And good for him! I guess. I'm really having some intense mixed emotions about this entire situation. On one hand, I'm psyched I won't have to work with him anymore, but on the other, he's one more grossly homophobic person working in the Church. Not to mention the amazing blog fodder he provided me with on a daily basis! I'm definitely going to miss that.
Sigh. Lock up your alter boys! Russell the Homophobic—coming to a church near you.


And then, ironically, Boss #1 and Boss #2 walked in and fired me. BOOM. I'm so Stephanie Vorhees right now. All things considered, it wasn't that bad. They walked in, gave me my Dear John letter, told me to leave my keys and get out. The only remotely sassy thing said was when Boss #1 said, "Boss #1 is not happy," and I said "I'm not surprised," back.

I'm not sure how I should be feeling right now. Mostly I don't feel bad at all, which in turn is making me feel bad. Finding out that your seemingly innocuous receptionist is actually the Trojan Horse of snark that is Meghan McBlogger must suck and I want to say I feel for them, but I just don't. If you hadn't been horrible, I wouldn't have talked shit about you.* And I'm putting an asterisk next to you because I never named them or the company by name. I'm sure they're still going to sue the pants off me because this is America and that's what we do. Oh and good luck trying to get all five paper clips I'm worth. Shit, I'll give 'em to you for free as a special thanks for all the blog material.

After I got fired, I called Alex and told him what happened. He immediately burst into a fit of laughter and said, "Look. I know I'm not you and I'm not in your place right now, but I can't help but think it was completely worth it."

You're damn right it was! I knew what I was getting myself into; I knew they'd catch on sooner or later. You can't be the Everyman of 20-somethings everywhere and not expect your very real bosses to figure it out. I took back the mid-morning
and it felt damn good.

In the meantime, I'm not going anywhere. Why would I? Can you imagine the lawsuit posts??

Judge: Boss #1, you are being charged of 'bleeding like a stuck pig.' What say you?
Meg McBlogger: OBJECTION!!!!!!1
Boss #1's tampon: Sustained.

So I'll be here, Monday-Friday, blogging as always. And I just want to say thank you so much for the incredible amount of support coming in. Keep the tweets coming! Maybe we can make #2birds1blog a trending topic and someone will finally realize what a cash cow the 2b1b army is and we can keep the blog going indefinitely?! (And publish more posts a day?? And do a weekly podcast called "2birds1podcast"?? I have ideas?? WHHHHHHAAAA??) Lemons, I'd like you to meet lemonade.

I'd also just like to specifically take this time to break the fourth wall and thank my parents. My parents are mind-bogglingly proud of this blog and the community built around it and have nothing but faith in me. Not every parent would respond to getting a call from their daughter saying she just got fired because her bosses found her shit talkin' blog by saying, "Meh, we knew it was coming. They're assholes. Dad will talk to his lawyer. But I gotta go the Giant now, love you honey." And yet, that's exactly what happened. So thank you, mom and dad, for always believing in me and my ridiculous blog primarily dedicated to boner jokes and Larry Hagman. That is what I call amazing parents.


The Winter Olympics are Ruining My Life

I don't know if you know this about me, but I'm a huge Olympics fan. I don't mean the wear-red-white-and-blue-facepaint-for-two-weeks-chanting-USA-insulting-other-nations fan (me? not insulting minorities? who knew, right?). I just mean the watch-each-and-every-broadcasted-minute-of-Olympics-coverage-and-have-strong-feelings-towards-Bob-Costas type of fan. Which is strange, because I'm not exactly what you would call an avid sports fan. If there's a game on a television in my periphery, chances are I'll watch it, but I would never schedule time to sit down and watch a football game. With the Olympics, however, all bets are off and you can find me in front of a TV watching any number of NBC and its affiliates. I'd like to say this has something to do with the world unity the Olympics represents or something equally cheesy and Coke commercial-esque, but I don't think that's it. The Olympics is just so impressive to me because it's each nation's best athletes competing against each other to be named the world's best at whatever sport they specialize in. And I have a secret infatuation with watching people's hopes and dreams come true. At least, this is what I imagine happens whenever someone wins a medal.

But I'm going to be honest, I was a straight up hater of the Winter Games for a long time. The Summer Games ended back in '08 and I immediately was thinking about 2012, because who gives a rat's ass about the Winter Olympics? Why? Because let's face facts, the Summer Olympics just oozes sex appeal. Sure all Olympians have to be in top physical form to compete, but in the Summer Olympics I, the spectator, can judge that with my own two eyes. There's nothing overtly sexual about watching women's volleyball or men's gymnastics or Greco-Roman wrestling (lies, Greco-Roman wrestling is a Cinemax subscription away from softcore gay porn), but when Misty May and Kerri Walsh bumped, set, and spiked their way to gold....Can someone out there honestly tell me they weren't even slightly turned on? Google image Jonathan Horton (gymnast) and tell me he's not adorable slash could probably punch a hole through a steel door.

Now think about the Winter Olympics. What comes to mind? Probably curling, because everytime I've brought up this argument to anyone they say "The Winter Olympics is so boring. I mean, curling? Really?" But after you think of curling, there's probably a whole lot of lycra in your mental images right now. And not sexy Lycra. Weather-proofing Lycra. I'm told Bode Miller is a decent looking fellow, but how would I know that when he's wearing head-to-toe insulation? Besides, would you even care? I know that with all that snow on the ground, the first thing that comes to mind is shrinkage. Not sexy.

I will say, however, that over the course of the past 12 days, I have 100% changed my mind. The Winter Olympics are pretty durned great. After the miserable Opening Ceremony two Fridays ago (really? Irish-step dancing fiddlers? Really Canada? Sarah McLaughlin? This is what you're bringing to the table?) I was ready to throw in the towel and pat myself on the back for properly hating the Winter Games from the get go. But what turned it around for me? Believe it or not, it was curling.

I cannot tell you how much curling I've watched the past couple days. It's almost embarrassing. But the funny thing is that when I say "Oh god, I've been watching SO MUCH curling," the person I'm addressing has inevitably said "OMG ME TOO!" In a very scientific poll I just conducted, 4 out of 5 people polled have said they've become a "fan" of curling. I use the term fan loosely because it's hard to become a fan of something you're going to watch for a week and then not again for 4 years.

You are probably all expecting me to say, "And you know what else I love....ICE DANCING! ~*~Johnny Weir~*~" because I'm nothing but a walking stereotype. But quite frankly, after the Nancy Kerrigan/Tonya Harding debacle of '94, I just haven't been able to appreciate ice dancing/figure skating as much. It lacks an element of danger. Not like the skeleton. I cannot watch the skeleton because the thought of shooting down a tube of ice at 90 mph headfirst makes me want to throw up, binge eat out of nervousness, then throw up again. I was having a conversation with someone re: the difference between luge and bobsled, and then someone brought up skeleton saying "I like that one where they go headfirst." I proceeded to ridicule this person because I was convinced that was far too dangerous to be a sport. Looks like I'm the idiot (Anonymous commenter, I guess you have a point).

In short, these Winter Games have changed my mind drastically. However, I'm still 100% in the Summer Games camp. Do I have a countdown to the 2012 games? Maybe. Is it the first thing I think of when I wake up in the morning? Perhaps. Is it because I have a vivid fantasy involved me, Ryan Lochte, some Greco-Roman wrestlers and a bottle of Crisco? .....ANYWAY, I'm excited to see the Closing Ceremony this Sunday, because the Olympics has been sucking up so much of my life these past two weeks. Not to mention the fact that I've had some serious Liz Lemon withdrawal. In the meantime, there's still five more days of competition...four of which involve curling. You know where I'll be.



DOUBLE EDIT: Well, now it's popular opinion that that wasn't Time at but someone fucking with me. I know I should be pissed and/or embarrassed, but mostly I'm just exciting because the last time an A-fuck got sassy with me in a competitive blogging environment, it propelled me to victory—cough, Suzy Soro, cough—so I say bring it on. The 2b1b army scares the shit out of me and it now has my blessing to tweet it's face off. On a side note, I got an elaborate voicemail from Alex tonight pretending to be "Time magazine" calling to see if I wanted to drop my towel, pop open a bottle of paragraph and hop into a bath with it. He then proceeded to make a series of orgasm noises riddled with the word "paragraph" for an impressive amount of time...WIN.

Uh, so Time left us this comment on today's other post:

I like paragraphs. You don't. Please stop your people Tweeting me about your blog and invest in some paragraphs. That is all.

I'm so confused. Today has been like a bad acid trip. Moral of the story is they're pissed and we have to go the paragraph store and invest in paragraphs. So stop tweeting them? I don't know. I'm gonna go drive to Vegas in The Red Shark now. Thank you for supporting us though!


Hi lovelies. If you have
Twitter, please tweet @2birds1blog to @TIME so we can make their list of top 25 online blogs! Hmmm...I've written that sentence 9,000 times and it still feels confusing. Your tweet should look like this:

YourTwitterName @2birds1blog @TIME

ELOQUENT. I am. Fuck.

If you don't have Twitter, you should totally take the .8 seconds to create an account, tweet that shit and pretend like it never happened.

Just cut and copy the "@2birds1blog @TIME" part, put it in your type-y box in Twitter and hit post. DONE! Ask your friends!

We would seriously appreciate it so much!

Love you guys,


Recrap Tuesday: London Calling

Our Kelly, Who art in Soho, Caftan be Thy name; Thy Cutrondom come, Thy guest list will be done, or an Intern shall be sent to Heaven. That's right, this week I have the almighty privilege of recapping Kell on Earth for you, as Co-Blogger Chris was feeling a bit under the weather last night. Am I mad about it? No! Christ Cutrone no! I'm honored. Because as I've alluded to many a-time on this blog but never explicitly discussed, I love Kelly Cutrone. But you know what I don't love? The look people give me when I tell them that. True, I don't usually stop at "I love Kelly Cutrone." I awkwardly continue, "No but like, I really love Kelly Cutrone. Like, questionably. I want her to be my Wolf Mother," a sentence which if you haven't read her book somewhat sounds like I'm into gay incestuous bestiality. And to clarify, I'm not! I just don't think people understand what a win for planet earth Kelly Cutrone is. And (apparently) it is my mission to tell them. YOU'RE WELCOME. First of all, let me just state for the record that I don't love Kelly Cutrone just because she's an over-the-top bitch. Being outlandishly bitchy doesn't give you a free pass to sit at my lunch table; I don't find it amusing or charming. Omarosa? Olivia Palmero? Sarah Palin? No thank you. Bitches? Yes. Inspiring? No. But Kelly Cutrone is bitchy and inspiring. In fact, it is her bitchiness that's so inspiring in the first place! Because Kelly Cutrone isn't just a bitch for the sake of being a bitch; she's a bitch because she's a fucking badass businesswoman who don't take shit from no one and that is something I can be down with. Not taking shit from people on a daily basis is a hard thing to do, especially if you're female. Not to get all awkwardly serious on a comedy blog, but I think we're programmed to want to be "nice girls" and, unfortunately, in the quest to be labeled a "nice girl" we let people walk all over and take advantage of us. But I say eff that ess! Because I'd rather be called a black haired looser than take shit from anyone. That being said, having the balls to stick up for yourself can sometimes be easier said than done. That's why you need people reminding you not to take shit from anyone. My family's motto is "Don't fuck with a [insert real last name here.]" If I'm ever complaining to my sister or parents about getting dicked over by someone, they just look me in the eyes and say, "Meghan. What is our family motto?" NEVER FUCK WITH A MCBLOGGER! Suddenly I feel empowered to tell a bitch to akrite. And That's why I respect Kelly Cutrone. She just wants the women of our generation to never settle for anything they don't want and to work hard to become a bad mother—shut your mouth! But I'm just talking about Cutrone? Well I can dig it. And frankly, I think the rest of the world should dig it too. Yet I look like the asshole when I say she's my hero. Christ Cutrone. Are the Shaft jokes helping? Probably not. True. All I'm trying to say is I love me some Cutrone and not just because she works in fashion and oh muh gaw she's such a bitch and L0Lz she doesn't wear makeupz!!!!1 Although she is pretty L0Lz. And what I wouldn't give to not have to wear makeup...

BLOKAY, I'm off my soap box now. What happened? What did I write? I blacked out. Let's get to the recrapping, shall we?

So New York Fashion Week is over but don't take that Xanax bottle away yet! London Fashion Week is just about to begin. The gals unwind from Fashion Week by going to People's Revolution local hangout, Sanctuary T, for drinks and end up not talking to each other and checking their email all night. Seriously you guys, Robyn has 1,421 emails. Kelly has like, 700-something. I currently have five. Four are from Twitter and one is from Shop PBS...so there's that.

Before Kelly, Robyn and Emily can zoom off to London for Fashion Week, they have to get through a Greg Alterman/Alternative Apparel press event in what I can only assume was the Hampton's. They kept nondescriptly saying the event was "out of town," but never mentioned what town it was in. This, frankly, was a welcomed change from Real Housewives of New York City where they nonchalantly toss the word "Hampton's" around like Rip Taylor at a confetti convention. The event was basically an outdoor dinner party/schmooze fest. Kelly had her traditional Native American Mingling Headdress on and the party was well attended and an overall success. You know, if you ignore the fact that Intern Elida and Stephanie Vorhees got Sorority-Crush-Party-style-drunk and Elida's friends snuck in, stole booze from the venue and landed themselves (and the event) on Page Six. HAHAHA ohhhhh day drinking in the hot summer sun. You make us do crazy things. Like buy yourself devil horns at Ren Fest, in my case. What? I digress. Kelly and the gang are pretty peeved about the entire situation. I mean, is it too much to ask your employees to "hold your liquor, keep your dress on and get through?" Kelly asks. No, Ms. Cutrone. I think not. (Says the girl who was once so busy the day of a work event she didn't eat anything and got so wasted off two glasses of wine she told Boss #1 the story of how she lost her virginity...God damnit.)

Things don't get much better once back in the office. Stephanie Vorhees still doesn't know her ass from a hole in the ground, the assistants are too busy looking like they've take a shower that week to be productive, nobody knows how to delegate tasks and the printer breaks again. This, however, serve as good bonding time for Andrew M. and Andrew S. who although from different spectrums of the Homo Rainbow are joined in their mutual hatred for these "boxes of plastic that we rely on." MODERN TECHNOLOGY IS SO NOT AVANTE-GARDE, YOU GUYS. Unlike the Eddie Bauer leather belt wrapped around Andrew M.'s neck for a large portion of the episode. Oh and we also learn that Andrew S. has Britney Spears tattoos. Specifically, he has "stronger than yesterday" on one forearm and "now there's nothing but my way," on the other. Which I totally get because I have "If You Have to Cry" on one boob and "Go Outside" on the other.

Unfortunately things get so tense in the office that Robyn and Emily decide it's time to fire Elida for being a dirty, drunken whore. (In so many words.) Kell is kind of bummed about it though because her daughter Ava is "friends" with Elida, which I think means they giggle and eat Swedish fish together. I can do that! I like Swedish fish. And little kids. (HAHAHAHHA...I couldn't even write that with a straight face.) Rob-Rob and Em Dash call Elida up to the showroom and let her know that she's a boozer, a user and a loser, and losers don't work at People's Revolution so TTYN. It was incredibly awkward and only got more awkward when Elida had to go down to the shared workspace to get her shit while everyone just kind of stared at her like "........sucks." I'd feel sorry for her if she didn't look and sound like That Bitch You Went to Jew Camp With. This whole mishigoss puts the fear of god into Stephanie Vorhees that soon she'll be the sad sack of Frederic Fekkai hair product and bold statement jewelry walking out the door, so she decides to beat Robyn and Emily to the punch and essentially fires herself. "Look. I know I'm going to get fired anyway, so I'm going to make a list of everything that needs to get done," she tells Emily. Emily and Robyn high-five, Skinner does a happy dance and Andrew S. slinks around the office singing I'm a Slave 4 U with an honest-to-god boa constrictor wrapped around his young, tan, nubile body. (God. What if?)

The Holy Trinity leaves the next day for London and Andrew M. and Skinner are left to run the show at home
two men down. A task they handle with all the grace and poise of a fat kid ice skating for the first time. Skinner deals with the stress by shoving an entire bakery in her mouth, Andrew M. tightens his neck-belt a few more notches and Andrew S. cries and cries and cries the bronzer right off his face. But like, literally. It causes Skinner to crack her shit up and it's kind of adorable and solidifies the fact that she's my new best friend. Oh you didn't hear, Skinner? Yeah. Wake up bitch, you're my new best friend. Let's go shopping for under-eye concealer and bitch about our jobs. I'm having so much fun already.

The kids decide that there's just too much work to be done and not enough people to do it, so Andrew M. interviews a series of shiny young things to be the new assistant. In the end he goes with a pretty black girl girl with blunt-cut bangs named Virginia, a choice I also would have made, so I can't really blame him when 20 minutes after giving her the job they find her Twitter page a-covered in juicy Bravo secrets. THAT BITCH! Skinner immediately calls her back and lets her know thanks, but no thanks. #Fired #Sucks2Bu #KBAI

On the other side of the pond, Kelly, Robyn and Emily meet up with Kelly's ex-lover and Ava's father, the incredibly Italian and sextatious Ilario Calvo. Me-ow, sister. Aces 10! Kelly and crew are in charge of handling the American press for the House of Holland show at Guildhall Cathedral. It's at this point I immediately forget Stephanie Skinner and Ilario ever existed because I am all about Henry Holland. Because, WOW. "He's like Jimmy Stuart meets Dennis the Menace in a bow tie," Kelly explains. As I said to Helena, "I WANT TO STARE AT HIM FOREVER." And as she said back, "The problem with hugging him is it would mean not looking at him!" Official Fantasy Celebrity Hot Tub Party: Kelly Cutrone, Henry Holland, Mo Rocca, Bob Villa and me. BAM!

DVR BUSTER! Andrew S. has a blind date—his first in six months!—which he prepares for by whitening his teeth, getting a hair cut and going tanning. "People are pale right before they die," Andrew explains, "Healthy people are tan." I can't help but agree with him as I hide my translucently pale skin behind the heavy protection of my coffin door as the television's blinding light rays fill the darkness of my apartment. Hissssssssssss!

Throughout the day, I frequently find myself pondering the same two questions over and over again: 1.) Why am I so awkward? and 2.) Why can't there be just one fashion show where seat crashers don't show up and ruin everything? AM I RIGHT?! Kelly had to lay some serious smack down at the House of Holland show when seat crashers show up and steal some precious American Press real estate. It's empowering. The show itself was Holland-tastic, what with the hot DeGlow lace dresses worn sans bra and black shirts with the words BLUE, GREEN, YELLOW etc. screen-printed in white. Blasting bare nips at the Lord and semantics jokes?! As per my notes: Henry Holland, I want to have all sorts of sex with you.

Back in the office, Andrew M. decides he and Skinner have been working too hard and deserve to head over to Sanctuary T to get a drink with some friends. Skinner, however, is paralyzed with fear that one of the Holy Trinity will call while they're out and she'll miss it and get fired and not be able to pay her rent and all of this will have been for naught and UGHH, Andrew S.! I said I don't want one of your Atavan!!!!1 Andrew M. assures her that if someone calls they'll just say she was at the deli and he had explosive diarrhea and it won't be a big deal. From someone who is actually frequently either at the deli or in the bathroom with explosive diarrhea, I agree, they will be fine. The two scamper off to Sanctuary where they finally have time to unwind and relax. "I was drinking wine, Skinner put on lip glosswe have made leaps and bounds!" says Andrew.

A job well done and cheerio!

And with that, Meghan McBlogger had fallen in love

You know what I appreciate about Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie? She's always had this oddly specific vision in her head of what the perfect guy for me would be like and is always on the look out for him. I just really appreciate that fact. Because if you asked me to describe the man of my dreams, I'd probably mull it over for a solid three minutes before concluding, "Um.............he should have...legs?" which is infinitely less helpful than Eddie's vision. And Eddie's vision really is oddly specific. Every time I tell Eddie about some new dude I've been crushing on, she'll stop me and be like, "No, no, no Meg. I see you more with a guy who wears jeans that are slightly too big for him but in an adorable little boy kind of way who will probably get drunk and sing 'Brown Eyed Girl' to you at your wedding and he'll mess up the LA LA LA LA TEE-DA's but it'll be really endearing and he's the kind of guy who's lazy and never wants to get out of bed and you guys will have matching Gopher Grabbers but it's okay because you still get shit done and you take lots of naps together and you'll have hip funny kids named Henry and Maybelle who go to Montessori school and watch Mystery Science Theater 3000 when they're home from school sick." And shit! That sounds pretty awesome to me. Thus, you can imagine how excited I was a few weeks ago when Eddie feverishly gchatted me to tell me that she had finally found the man of my dreams. She was so excited all of her messages were rapid-fire, one-word-at-a-time thoughts because sentences are too hard to construct when it involves matters of the heart. Allow me to share:

Eddie: meg
i was watching anthony bordain
and his special effects guy MIGHT be your soul mate

me: please shut up and tell me everything

Eddie: this guy is like
in that

he puts on a motion suit for no reason
and makes jokes about eartha kitt
Eddie: and then at some point goes
"we have bloopers too oh no my hand fell off"
and there's this horrid graphic
of like a cartoon hand falling off with blood giving him a stump shows up
he also got in trouble for giving stick figures to show 'evolution" a penis
and the network wouldn't air it
and he goes
"we've seen the tribes
they wear nothing
I figured i was doing historical justice but it made the network brown their shorts"
are made
for this man

you two
would crack each other up
be artsy
you also know he is the type that would be like
we will find a way

i think it must happen
fer reals
i felt magic
when i saw him meg

Now, you could have stopped her at "motion suit" and "jokes about Ertha Kitt" and I would have been sold right then and there. The fact that he licked a battery, made the network "brown their shorts" and apparently wouldn't be embarrassed of my blogging only makes me that much more interested. So I watched the clip. And holy. Crap. He is the man of my dreams. (Skip to 8 minutes in, then watch part 2.)

By the time I had watched both clips (repeatedly) (with wide eyes) (heart a-fluttering) (girlishly giggling) (on a fainting couch) Eddie had already found his name, his Twitter account, his Facebook and 9,000 other creepy fun facts about him. Meet Adam Lupsha!

dude the internet
is lovely
found his twitter
he doesnt really tweet
but his like 5 are gems
he also makes weird funny or die movies with friends
his blog for the show http://no-reservations-crew-blog.travelchannel.com/read/the-grill-of-my-dreams
he grew up in hawaii
your in laws would live in paradise

He was a minority in paradise
me: can we please make a band called "minority in paradise"?
Eddie: he is your soulmate
me: i feel like throughout our entire friendship, you've always know exactly what type of guy i'm going to end up
like you've always had this vision
Eddie: look
the kind of guy you need is you with more motivation
sorry if that was harsh
but you need you
with a better desire to stick it out with the man so you can do things like blog in your pjs
a guy that makes jokes about trust falls
and is a tad nerdy
but in a "it makes him a funny love able guy" way
the type of guy that can hold his own
and this kid? this kid is you.

From your mouth to God's ears, Eddie. From your mouth, to God's ears.

Now, if you've been keeping score at home, so far Mr. Lupsha has the following going for him:
+ Embodiment of Eddie's oddly specific fantasies
+ Scruffy
+ Glasses
+ Motion suit
+ Ertha Kitt jokes
+ Licks battery
+ Abstract salad metaphor
+ Rachel Ray joke
+ Has a Mr. T bobble head doll (True or false: my computer's name is Mr. T?.......True.)
+ Created the Over-Anatomically Correct Caveman

BUT GET THIS! It gets even better. He's a "fan" of three things on Facebook and one of them is a bar in Brooklyn called Bar Reis. BAR REIS WAS OUR CHEERS WHEN CO-BLOGGER CHRIS AND I LIVED IN BROOKLYN! It was our default, "What do you wanna do tonight?" "I dunno, what do you wanna do?" "Meh, I don't know." "........Bar Reis?" "Bar Reis," bar. I mean, is that fate or what?!?!?!!? Lord knows I've still got my white dress from high school graduation. I say we slather that thing up in some Crisco, squeeze me in, zip up, pop on down to city hall and make this thing legal. Right? RIGHT?!?!!

God. I just wish it were socially acceptable to send someone an email saying: "Hi. You don't know me and I don't know you but my best friend from college saw you on No Reservations, shamelessly stalked you down on the internet and all evidence points to you being my soul mate. And by evidence I mean you licked a battery and seem to have a sense of humor. (My standards are uniquely low, yet completely unattainable at the same time.) I'm going to go ahead and ask you to just trust me when I say I'm a moderately attractive 24 year-old writer and graphic designer from Washington, DC who is available to marry you whenevs whenevs. The sooner the better. KBAI!!!!"

But that's not acceptable...or is it?

God damnit, I'm creepy.


A sobering Drinking Game Friday

Today I've got some good news and I've got bad news. Which would you like first? Bad news? Bad news first so we can end the week on a high note? Mmm hmm. Yep. I like the way you think. Let's do it.

Bad news: I'm pregnant.

Bahahahaha. Just kidding slash I
wish. Maternity leave sounds awesome right about now.

The bad news is that I legally died of embarrassment last night. Yep. I'm dead. Dead as disco. And I will spend the rest of eternity haunting this blog and Co-Blogger Chris in a
Ghost Dad style plot line. (PS: I like how I just chose not to haunt Chris in an erotic Ghost kind of way, but rather in a kooky, Bill Cosby-at-the-door-with-pudding kind of way. And you're welcome, Chris.)

Remember that whole my-ex-hook-up-was-my-nurse-when-I-had-explosive-infectious-diarrhea-in-the-hospital thing that was so traumatizing it gave me emotional hepatitis? You know, that old chestnut? No? Well get yourself acquainted here. Are we all on the same page now? We all up-to-date on bowel movements? "Good." So Ex-Hook-Up Nurse sent me a message on Facebook yesterday afternoon basically being like, "MEGGLES! Sort of a random way to see you a few weeks ago. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. It's illegal. Blah blah blah. It was good to see you. We should hang out soon. Yada yada yada." First of all:
fuck. That message made me relive the entire experience all over again and guhhhhhhhhhhh...it burned. After I finished reading, I literally just writhed around my office chair, scratching my face and audibly moaning for a solid three minutes straight. It was horrible. Because writing about that experience here on the blog was my way to exorcise the embarrassment, let go and move on. And I had successfully done so!...Until that message, that is. I decided the best way to move on (again) would be to pick myself up, put the pants I had just writhed out of back on, embrace the embarrassment and laugh it off. Because that's what I do best, right?

So, I wrote back:

"Ugh, of course when I see you again after all this time I'm in the hospital for fucking explosive diarrhea and look like shit warmed over. Jesus Christ....I was 16 distinct different kinds of embarrassed. But! Yes, I agree we should be friends again. Any time you want to hang when I've actually showered and aren't in the hospital dying, that would be cool. - M"

"Kudos to me!" I thought as I pat myself on the back for confronting the situation head on. Now we could both have a good laugh about it and move on with our lives. All was well in the world.

...Until a few hours later when I got this message back:

"Actually I had no idea what you were there for. I didnt look."

.................GOD DAMNIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHY?! WHY DID I HAVE TO "EMBRACE THE EMBARRASSMENT"?! AND WHY DIDN'T THAT SON-OF-A-BITCH LOOK AT MY CHART?! I would have! But then again, I'm a piece of shit. Ugh. So I unnecessarily told him that I had infectious diarrhea. I guess that's what I get for underestimating people. So fuck me. But not really because I was hospitalized with
diarrhea and who wants to fuck that girl? Not me. And I am her.

But! I have good news. The good news is that today is Friday, which means it's time for the most magical part of any week—T.G.I. Hagman!

As of 12:09pm on January 19, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! AND GOOD! Good. More Hagman for me and you!

Now normally this is where I'd give you your Friday drinking game, but in honor of Alex and I recently starting our month off from drinking, there will be no drinking game this week. Yep, that's right. An entire month with no alcohol...And I have no idea what we're thinking either. Well, I do actually. Both of our doctors explicitly told us we need to cut back on drinking and Becky and Andrew are always taking a detox month here and there and they seem to have their shit together. Plus Becca and her fiance did it in January! I mean, I feel like it might be good to give the old liver a break once in a while...right? Especially since Alex and I wake up 3/7 mornings like this:

God I'm going to miss that homeless woman...

So, I guess your drinking game this weekend is to just slam a few extra back for me and Alex. Pour one out for your fallen homies, if you will. Thanks. We appreciate it. And we appreciate you reading the blog! But if you
really want to see us appreciative, you should totally follow us on Twitter, join our Facebook page and forward us to a friend or two! Man that would be nice. I mean, I don't get anything out of it, but you would. KARMA. Sexy, sexy karma. Welp! I'm gonna go join a prayer circle or something equally sobering. Have yourself a fantastic weekend and we'll see you right back here Monday morning. (Awkward sober) kisses!


Dr. Reuben's Q&A of the Day

You know what they say: If you need a shoe fixed; go to the cobbler. If you need ass-backward answers to your sexual questions; go to Dr. Reuben.

Why do children begin to masturbate so early?

Because their mothers teach them to. Frequently it develops like this:

Marie is in the pediatrician's office. She is worried. Her four-year-old boy, Jimmie, plays with himself. This is how she tells it:

"But doctor, it's the most embarrassing thing in the world. I just can't stand it any longer!"

"What seems to be the trouble with Jimmie?"

"The trouble? Why he does this horrid thing to himself all the time! He takes his...his...his male, you know, and plays with it, right in front of me!"

"How long has he been doing this?"

"For about a year now but it's getting worse! Last week he did it in front of my mother!"

"Perhaps he has some irritation of the penis—that's common in young children."

"Why, I can't imagine how that could happen. I scrub his...his organ very carefully at least twice a day."

"How long have you been doing that?"

"Oh, about a year."

Just in case Jimmie didn't figure it out for himself, his mother showed him that gentle rubbing of his penis feels good. He got the message and started to produce these good feelings himself. But he finds it hard to understand the rest. If he plays with his own penis, his mother gets furious; if she does it, it's okay. Besides there must be something really great about the whole business if mother won't let him do it. The other things she forbids, like candy and staying up late, are a lot of fun, too.

This is the characteristic pattern of masturbation—discovery (or revelation by mother) of pleasant sexual feelings and the start of masturbation—prohibition (usually by mother)—guilt—continued masturbation with added guilt. The same thing happens, of course, with little girls.


Marie and Jimmie, sittin' in a tree. J-E-R-K-I-N-G. This Q&A makes me makes me ungodly uncomfortable for many reasons. I think mostly because I foresee this being a Narwhal situation where I think something is crazy and mind-boggling only to find out that it's common knowledge. And I don't think I could handle living in a world where I'm the weirdo for figuring out out to masturbate on my own without my mom's help. Don't get me wrong; moms are great. They're the best! They teach us how to do all sorts of useful things like tie our shoelaces, ride our bikes and tweeze our eyebrows. Mine, however, sure as Christ didn't teach me how to get off. And I refuse to believe that I'm the exception to the rule. Thus, I conducted a very scientific poll (scientific = asking Co-Blogger Chris and Alex via gchat) and 100% of people surveyed did not learn not masturbate this way and were shocked and horrified that I even asked.

Christopher: why are you asking? is this a dr. reuben hypothesis?
me: of course it is.
Christopher: OF COURSE it is.

Now, I understand that when you bathe someone, you're naturally going to have to have some interaction with the genitals, but how much time are you spending down there, Marie, that your son has moved on from playing with his rubber duckie to having a sexual awakening? Perhaps too much time.

For me, what it all boils down to is this:

"Why, I can't imagine how that could happen. I scrub his...his organ very carefully at least twice a day."

Is it just me or is that a lot of dick scurbbing? Like, I'm all for hygiene and all, but isn't meticulously scrubbing your son's Johnson morning, noon and night a little overkill? And why are you scrubbing his penis at all? Like, of all the verbs to use, scrubbing is just horrifying.

Things I Routinely Scrub:
- Pots
- Pans
- Sinks
- My bathtub (if company is coming over...) (And apparently Helena ≠ company)
- Stains out of sweaters

Things I Do Not Routinely Scrub:

And I feel like that shouldn't make me the weirdo! OR SHOULD IT?! Oh my god, I feel like I'm high on glue. If I get even one email today berating me for not taking a Brillo pad to my how-ya-doin', I am going to renounce society, move to an Indian reservation in Arizona and assume the name Dances With Carringtons.

And speaking of being mind-boggled by quote, "common knowledge," check out this series Q&A's!

What kind of [douche] is best?
[...]Actually they are all about the same; their primary effect depends on washing the sperm out of the vagina. The liquid of choice, with one exception, is just plain water. Cheap, sanitary, harmless, it is as effective as any of the others.

What's the one exception?
Coca-Cola. Long a favorite soft drink, it is, coincidentally, the best douche available. A coke contains carbonic acid which kills the sperm and sugar which explodes the sperm cells. The carbonation forces it into the vagina under pressure and helps penetrate every tine crevice of vaginal lining. It is inexpensive (ten cents per application), universally available, and come sin a disposable applicator.

How is it used?
After intercourse, the woman doesn't even have to get out of bed. She merely reaches over to the table, picks up a bottle of warm Coke, uncaps it, places her thumb over the top, shakes vigorously, and inserts the neck of the bottle into the vagina. A bowl under her hips to catch the overflow helps. Instantly she has an effervescent douche. The six-ounce bottle is just the right size for one application.


WHAT IN THE FUCKITY FUCK FUCK?!?1 Coke is the best douche available?! OIFJWOIEJF23R! I just feel...drunk on unbelievableness right now. I have the spins. I could pass out at any moment. If you held a gun to my head and said, "Meg, either shove this coke bottle up your snizz and explode 20oz of warm coke into every crevice of your uterine lining or get shot in the head," I would recommend you tape a trash bag to the wall behind me because you are going to have to pull that trigger, sir. Honestly. Who does this? Who? I mean, I already feel like enough of a cum dumpster when I have to get up to go to the bathroo
m right after having sex anyway, I can't imagine being like, "Welp baby, that was great. Now would you mind passing me the large porcelain bowl and lukewarm coke on the nightstand next to you? I'm just going to quickly shake this up and douche out the exploded sperm cells. I'll try not to get any on you. But don't worry, we can totally cuddle after that."

I just...I can't. My name is Dances With Carringtons and from here on out I am celibate and asexual. Good day.


Ruminations on why I'm a shitty person

I've had a rough start to old oh-10. What with, oh, you know, the infectious diarrhea, vicious head cold and endless work drama crushing my soul on a daily basis. And that's just scratching the surface! That's just the stuff I talk about on the blog! (Notice I chose not to put "infectious diarrhea" on the un-bloggable list. Unique decisions. Unique decisions all around.) Recently I was thinking about karma and how good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people. This gots me a-thinkin'...am I a bad person? So I sat myself down and really thought about who I am, what I stand for and what kind of character I have. And here's what I decided: I am a shitty person.

I mean, I don't think I'm evil or anything. I've never killed anyone and I gave a buck to the homeless guy outside CVS the other day, but I think I just sort of, for lack of a better word, suck a little bit. And here's why.

Reasons Why I'm a Shitty Person

- I find it genuinely disappointing when an addict on Intervention says they'll go to treatment after listening to just one person's letter.
Those people have to be the biggest quitters in the entire world, am I right?? I mean, put up a fight! How "addicted" can you really be if you're willing to roll over and sob your way to treatment that easily? Your entire family wrote you a letter! Aren't you at least curious to hear what everyone else has to say? I feel like if I had an intervention, the ace in the hole to get me to go to treatment would be my dad. I've never seen that man shed AN single tear in my entire life so if he were to cry and ask me to go anywhere—whether it be to treatment or clown college—I'd do it. That being said, I still think I'd feign disinterest just so I could see what everyone else has to say for themselves, and then agree to go. Just for funsies. Maybe pit people's letters against each other. See which of my friends and family can write a truly compelling letter. I just think it would be interesting. Plus, I hate it when you know someone's grandma is going to have like a really fucking heart breaking letter but the slutty cousin or something goes first and is all, "HEATHER. -Sniff, sniff- You never want to go to the gym with me any more because you're always tired!" and the meth head is like "OH MY GOD! I'LL GO! I'M SO SORRY!!!!!!1" Because you know grandma's letter was going to be so much better than that and now we'll never know what it said. Interventions like that ruin my entire week. God, addiction really is a selfish disease...

- I would rather be flayed alive than join the Peace Corps.
Please don't get me wrong; I respect the Peace Corps and anybody who is or wants to be a member. That being said, I know myself, I know my limitations and I know that I would not be capable of doing it. And that fact consistently makes me feel like a horrible human being. Do you know how many people I know who have either done Peace Corps or aspire to join? Everyone. Every single person I know. Fun fact: American University breeds the most graduates who go on to do Peace Corps than any other college or university in the United States. Bonus fun fact: I used my gopher grabber, or "pokin' stick" as I called it, so much it broke within two weeks of getting it. I am not Peace Corps material. And it's not just because I'm lazy and materialistic (although I am) it's also because I wouldn't be able to mentally handle that level of isolation for two years. I'm not agoraphobic, per se. I can be in a big, open meadow and be like, "Well this is pleasant," but I need to be close to civilization and people on a daily basis. It's why I like living in densely populated cities and want to for the rest of my life. Even DC is slightly too suburban for my liking. Although I'm not really a fan of people in general, I find it extremely comforting knowing that they're close by. I don't mind being alone, but geographical isolation makes me incredibly anxious. My family went to Hawaii for vacation during my sophomore year of college and that "vacation" was basically a week long panic attack for me. I'm not kidding. I thought Becca was going to kill me. I could not stop myself from constantly thinking about how we were on a tiny island surrounded by miles and miles and miles of open water and nothingness. It was nauseating. To this day, I have nightmares about flying to Hawaii. How fucked up is that? It's a tropical paradise! (So basically note to my future husband: we won't be going to Fiji on our honeymoon; we'll be going to Century 21 on a Saturday. Great. Look forward to a lifetime with this.) A few weeks ago I was catching up with my freshman year roommate, Rachel, who recently got back from doing the Peace Corps in Micronesia. She told me that she could run around her entire island in under eight minutes and she was a 24-hour boat ride away from the main island where the nearest phone was. AZUHWOEIF?! A 24-hour boat ride?! Just the thought of that is enough to make me want to eat a cereal bowl full of Klonopin. I can't imagine actually doing it. For two years! And I know that you're there to help people and there are less remote areas you can volunteer in, but...still. I couldn't handle it. At least I'm honest about my own personal shittiness. That's got to be worth something...right?

- I hate amusement parks.
I hate this about myself. And I hate the look people give me when I tell them about it. It's almost on par with the judgemental death glares I get when I tell people that I don't like Lost. Almost. What kind of an asshole hates a park specifically designed to provide amusement? This asshole. Because there's nothing amusing about amusement parks. And here's why: it's always the hottest day of the year when you go, no matter what month or season it is; they're crowded, uncivilized, full of lines and children and food that makes you nauseous; everything is sticky and covered in a thin layer of jam and don't even get me started about the rides! I hate rides. Mostly because of how motion sick they me. Although what doesn't make me motion sick? I am the most easily motion sick person you will ever meet and it's such a pain in my ass. Everything makes me queasy: cars, the metro, trains, boats, bicycles, trampolines...it sucks. Therefore going to a hot, crowded park full of rickety rides made to hurl you through the air and make you puke is my hell on earth. I just...I can't. The concept is emotionally draining to think about. And when I tell this to people, you'd think I just said that I eat dead babies every Christmas morning. First I get a look of shock, then that shock melts into judgement and finally ends in hate. Then everyone always says the same thing: "Are you kidding?! I love amusement parks." Well. Cool. I love my mom. I love Dynasty. I love brunch. We all love different things. It's not like I'm not physically capable of loving; I just don't love amusement parks. So keep your torches and pitchforks to yourself.

- I have no time for children.
Oh my god; I know. They're magical and tender and our future and we should treat them well and let them lead the way, but I just can't. Little kids legitimately creep me out. They're like real people...but smaller...and irritating...and they ask a lot of questions and talk it whiny voices. I feel like my disdain for little kids is a result of my very limited interaction with them. I'm the youngest in my family and was also one of the youngest in my neighborhood, so there was never any reason to be around little kids growing up. And when I am around kids, for some reason they're always the most annoying children that god has to offer. Case and point: Annie. Annie was this heinous little 8-year-old girl who went to the sports camp that Talia worked at during summers breaks from college. She had stringy hair was just so ungodly unpleasant and rude. Whenever Co-Blogger Chris came for a visit, we'd go visit Talia at work during the day (mostly because we became addicted to the arcade game Time Crisis III and Talia always gave us free tokens and snacks. It was awesome.) Annie was such an asshole to me and Chris. She hated us and was not afraid to let us know. In a letter she later wrote to Talia, she called Chris a "rhinoceros who likes everything he sees" and me a, "black-haired looser who likes something that starts with a C." When she later called me this again, Chris and I exchanged awkward glances as we both thought, "how does she know that word...?" until she cleared up that the thing I like that starts with a C is actually Chris. Yes. I like Chris. I want you to slip me a big, fat Chris late at night. You little perv. BUT! It remains that she called me a "black haired looser." Not a black haired loser, mind you, a black haired looser. First of all, fuck you, you can't even spell. Second, it's called a comb: ever heard of it? Third, what did we ever do to you?! Take your tokens? Well chill the fuck out, there's more where they came from. And finally, what sort of child of the corn writes hate letters at 8-years-old?? And these are all things that I told her to her face until Talia took me aside and explained that she's 8-years-old and I was 21 at the time and perhaps I should calm down a bit before she got fired. Point taken, point taken. But whenever I have to interact with little kids, it's always a little beast like Annie and I just can't. And I know everyone thinks their kid is the cutest and most well behaved child in the entire world, but until you can concretely prove to me that your kid isn't at camp calling strangers slutty rhinoceroses and loosers, I don't want to hear it.

- I think the guy in my office building in a wheelchair is an asshole.
I'm not really going to expound on this much more besides saying that I don't think he's an asshole because he's in a wheelchair, I think he's an asshole who happens to be in a wheelchair. Every time he's rude to me, I call him an asshole in my head and then immediately feel fucking horrible because he's handicapped and I'm walking around all fat and cocky on my own two legs. God damnit.

So there it is. I'm a shitty human being. And the worst part is, despite being more than aware of all of the above, I don't see any of it ever changing. So bring on the infectious diarrhea...
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