If my door gets egged this weekend, something tells me it won't be related to Halloween...

Uhhhhh, guys. Something a little bit horrifying slash mostly hilarious slash no, really it was more horrifying just happened. But before I tell you, let's first get the old T.G.I. Hagman out of the way:

As of 5:01am on October 29, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! Sign, sealed, delivered; he's yours.

OK, so it's currently 2:04 in the morning and about a half an hour ago Dan and I scuttled over to Baja Fresh for a midnight taco run (lies. I got a Diet Coke because I'm still full from my lunchtime fish taco/Percocet make out session and Dan got a burrito.) (Don't judge us and our lifestyle.) and on our way back into the apartment, I checked my mail. Mixed in amongst the usual past-due notices and depressing bank statements was this sketchy-ass envelope:

Dan and I got in the elevator with a middle-aged gentleman who lives in my building and I looked at the envelope and said, "Uhh...who do I know at the Center for Arab and Islamic Studies at Villanova University?"

"Ooo! Maybe someone's trying to kill you!" Dan said, with genuine interest and excitement.

"Well that is serial killer handwriting if I've ever seen it." Dan snatched the envelope out of my hand and I asked him to open it. Mostly because if there was anthrax it in—roses are red, fire is hot, I'm holding my breathe and you, sir, are not. Dan opened the envelope and took out a folded piece of lined notebook paper.

"Oh Jesus God. Dan, it's a single piece of notebook paper in handwritten pen. Someone is going to kill me. Dan, someone is absolutely going to kill me."

As the elevator stopped on my floor, Dan unfolded the paper, squinted at what it said and read aloud:

"Evie...Yang's...na na na na na na shrimp fried rice?"

[As it turns out, that's just a little racially charged, Evie-based inside joke/caricature from Tulane Chris. I always forget that he goes to Villanova and has a penchant for sending me comical mail every now and then, that skamp.]

Now, what I failed to mention up until now is that the middle-aged gentleman in the elevator with us was an Asian gentleman. Which means that Dan pulled out a sketch of my parent's Tonkinese cat wearing a paddy hat, squinting and saying "dericious!" over a plate of shrimp while he deadpanned, "Evie Yang's na na na na na na shrimp fried rice" about six inches away from an Asian man. The second after "—rice?" flew out of his mouth, he realized what had just happened, made a "guhhhh" noise and sprinted out of the elevator before collapsing in front of my door in a little puddle of embarrassment.

So basically what this means is that I have now officially offended all two Asians in my apartment building. Every last one of them now thinks that I'm racist. Or have extremely racist friends. I hassle them in the lobby for my food and get amateur Klan art in the mail from Arab/Islamic scholars in Pennsylvania. But if you need to borrow a cup of sugar as racially pure as fresh morning snow, Lord knows I'm here for you.

Sigh. Moving on. So Halloween weekend, huh? Right on. As I mentioned yesterday, Tulane Chris will be visiting this weekend. We're going to do a 2b1b investigation, write a post together, drink a lot, emote, go to Target, emote some more. I'm pretty excited. The culmination of this weekend, however, will be waking up at an obscenely early hour on Sunday morning to cheer Becca and Geoff on as they tackle the Marine Corps Marathon, or their "long distance jog" as I like to call it because belittling my sister's running career is a Facebook interest of mine. It comes from a place of pure jealousy, of course. She sets goals for herself and has the discipline to train for months to accomplish a physical feat, whereas I opened up my umbrella the other day a sugar packet fell out. (That's not a joke, by the way. That happened. I assume I threw a sugar packet in my bag when I got coffee and it got wedged in my umbrella somehow, but still. She did the Army 10K last weekend for funsies and it's literally raining Type II Diabetes on me.)

I realize I could just take up running too, but, you know, effort. I'd prefer to put all of that energy into good old fashioned projecting! I want to make a sign to cheer Becca on, but I can't decide which motivational slogan to go with:

- JOG SLIGHTLY FASTER!

- THAT DOESN'T LOOK THAT HARD.

- I DID THE ELLIPTICAL FOR 30 MINUTES THIS MORNING!

- NOBODY WOULD JUDGE YOU IF YOU PEED YOURSELF!

- IF YOUR NIPS AREN'T BLEEDING, YOU'RE NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH!

- COLLEGE GIRLS WITH POOR BODY IMAGE DO THIS EVERY DAY!

- REMEMBER WHEN YOU GOT EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA IN ARIZONA? HA HA, ME TOO.

I guess I could always just make seven signs? Either way, I'm pumped. If you'll be in town for the rallies this weekend, I hope you enjoy yourself! And if not, I hope you have a great Halloween weekend wherever you are! To kick the weekend off right, here's a quick little recap of last week's "Jersey Shore" finale I owe you from when I was out sick. It's late, but meh. Something tells me we'll all live.

"Jersey Shore", Season 2: THE FINALE!

Yes, it's the finale. It's time for our Zelko soaked heros and heroines to return to the tri-state area from whence they came. But not before they go on a wacky road trip to the Everglades to see, quote Pauly D, "crocodiles and alligators, or whatever you call them." You shockingly had it right the first time, sir. Although Snooki refers to them as "crock-o-dillios" which immediately makes me hope I'll be reincarnated into a rapping crocodile so I can dub myself the "Crock-o-Dillio" and release an album called, "What the Crock-o-Dillio??" But, yes. They go to see the gators. None eat them; world weeps. Afterwards they go to a little country cafe where they eat fried frog legs. Ronnie is deeply disturbed, J-WOWW is nauseated. On the car ride home, The Situation gets car sick and pukes frog legs up. Wakka, wakka.

I'm sure you're all wondering what ever will happen to Pauly D and Vinny and their little Miami wifies, right? Well, nothing. They take 'em out to dinner (Vinny's gal is 45 minutes late. Or on Meg time, if you will,) make out with them in the street, tell them to K.I.T. and call it a night. Sorry, both dates were incredibly uneventful. I wish I had more for you. Although I will say that Pauly D's lady has got a pair of hooters on her. So. They'll always have that.

Ronni and Sammi go out for one last Miami dinner and—shock!—they get in a fight. Here:

Good enough.

On their last night out, the gang heads to BED where two girls (both of whom I would describe as "atrocious about the face") are all over Vinny and offer to have a threeway with him. And by "offer to have a threeway with him," I mean scream, "Are we fucking tonight, baby??" and "You're gonna have the threesome of your life!" to him over the thumping Enrique Iglesias music. But alas, he can't stop thinking about Ramona and turns them down. Which is when The Situation swoops in, takes them to the John and makes them forget all about Stepfathers 1-3. Bless his heart.

On their last night in the house, the gang has one last family dinner and then retires to the living room to hand out superlatives. It starts out all innocent and light-hearted like "Most Likely to Get Skin Cancer" hahaha LOLZ all of us! but takes a serious turn when The Situation says Vinny should get "Most Likely to be a Follower." Then guess what happens? Correct: escalate, escalate, escalate → full-blown fight. This was one of the most confusing fight sequences yet, so let me break it down for you:

The Situation rags a little too hard on Vinny for being a "fake" "follower", so J-WOWW puts an end to it by telling The Situation that he's the fake one and storms out of the room → While she's gone, The Situation says she's the fakest one in the house → Abiding by "Girl Code", Snooki tells J-WOWW that The Situation said she was fake and that Pauly D nodded his head in agreement → J-WOWW confronts The Situation and says, "If I'm fake, then Pauly D is fake because he talks shit about you behind your back," → The Situation confronts Pauly D → Pauly D goes into a roid rage and pops a blood vessel or two → He confronts J-WOWW → J-WOWW says she told The Situation that because she heard that he agreed with The Situation that she was fake → He asks her who told her that → Snooki makes an "eep!" noise, implicating herself → Pauly D yells at Snooki for a while → Snooki gets mad at J-WOWW for making her look like an asshole → Snooki cries → Everyone's like J/K!!! We're such a family: we hate each other but we love each other and I'm going to miss you guys so much even though we have a shit ton of promotional stuff coming up and Season 3 around the corner, omg we're such a family.

FIN!

And yes, it was just as anti-climactic for me as it was for you. Welp! Have a great weekend guys and we'll see you next week! Buy-bye.

Welcome back, Tulane Chris!

OOF. “SORR” about my absence, kids. It’s good to be back. Below follows a post I wrote before leaving but didn’t get a chance to send Meg before I left. (Spell-check informs me that “Meg” is a misspelling of “me.”) (Ed. Note: That's because I'll always be a part of you, Chris. Always.) (Ed. Note: Wait, I fucked that up. Technically, according to your spell-check, you'll always be a part of me. And if you managed to knock me up from Texas—I'm not even mad. That's just good work. SLASH, can you imagine the frighteningly pale, anti-social, half-ginger, quarter Jewish, alcoholic Aspie's baby we'd create? I just spent five minutes trying to write a joke about how he'd be born with a wedgie, but the punch line was always that his underwear snags on my vaginal wall and now I want to die. So, please, proceed with your blog post.)

Well, my years of wickedness and spite have come back to plague me, as they do every year. My college is hosting some Special Olympics events, one of which is a rally to “Remove the R-Word.” I will probably be burned in effigy, if not actually at the stake. (Although in five years, when people decide that “developmentally disabled” is hurtful, they’ll come for you, so live it up while you can.)

I’m bad at holidays. I always intend to do something, but then I don’t pay enough attention and they sneak up on me, and I wind up having to put birthday candles in a Wendy’s burger. I’m going to do Halloween right this year, though. I’m deciding on a costume now so I have a whole month to change my mind twice and then put it together. I believe Meg is going as Evie, which involves putting on a pair of cat ears and then sitting at home eating tuna and being a bitch. (Evie is recycling last year’s slutty nurse.) Here’s what I’m considering so far:

Quicksilver:

If physical limitations and public decency prevent you from dressing as your favorite comic book character, go as her twin brother. The silver hair and lightning-bolt shirt are probably doable with spray dye and fabric paint, although I’m not sure how I feel about the tights. Also, Quicksilver’s superpower is moving quickly, and I have the metabolism/energy level of a sloth. With chronic fatigue syndrome. And jetlag. Who’s getting over the flu. PS, I love that Wikipedia specifies that the Scarlet Witch is fictional. Really? Superpowers aside,

What people will say: “If you run so much, Speedy, why do you still have a beer gut?”

Bobby Budnick from Nickelodeon’s Salute Your Shorts:

I’ve got the coloring down, and I could get a bandanna and a beat-up guitar for about six bucks. Do you think anyone would get it, or would I have to have cards printed that read “You remember, ‘Salute Your Shorts?’ The Nickelodeon show about a summer camp run by the poor man’s Ernest P. Vorrell? It came on before ‘Hey, Dude?’”

Wow, looking for pictures of this actor has been… illuminating. Here he is sexying it up:

What People Would Say: “Are you, like… a young Willie Nelson?”

Amy Winehouse’s Guardian Angel: I thought of this just now and I’m sitting here giggling my ears off. The standard angel garb, but smeared with ash and stained with red wine, a halo askew on my bouffant? A tattoo that says “Katy Perry Eats Shit” across one wing? (Yeah, I know it was Lily Allen she had the feud with, but I hate Katy Perry more.) A heroin-craving Pete Doherty angel at my feet, weeping, twitching, and vomiting?

What People Will Say: “2008 called. They want their ironic pop-culture-reference costume back.”

A Baseball Fury from The Warriors:

Remember how wonderful the movie The Warriors is? A relic from a more naïve America, where eight men wearing jeans and leather vests with no shirts made viewers think of anything other than bad gay porn? It features Lynne (Motherfucking) Thigpen, later to become “The Chief” in “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego,” as the relentlessly ominous deejay. What other actress can create a memorable role with eight lines and only a third of her face? Anyway, the Baseball Furies are one of the first gangs Da Wahriuhs encounter during the movie. They have face paint and little baseball uniforms that say “Furies” across the back!

What People Will Say: “I didn’t know Peter Criss coached Little League.”

Meg McBlogger:

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I know Meg wears other things – I’ve seen her do it – but my mental image of her will always be sunglasses, wedges, stretch pants, a long cardigan, and an ironic tank top. It suits her perfectly, sort of Tiffani-Amber Thiessen with an edge.

What People Will Say: “That’s the worst Tiffani-Amber Thiessen costume I’ve ever seen. Is this some kind of shitty blog thing? Is Meg going as Mario Lopez?”

Kevin Yang:

I obviously love this idea most of all. I think I could pull this off with Vans, long cut-offs, an “Orlando Sound Machine” T-shirt and a little creatively applied eyeliner. I could carry a box of cupcakes and try to make out with a black guy, although that’s less “Halloween” than “Thursday” around here.

What People Will Say: “Good Lord, Chris, Vans? Are you going as high school? Couldn’t find any Doc Martens?”

So that’s what I’m thinking so far. I may save the Kevin Yang costume for the next reader gathering so more people will get it, and also so that if (GOD WILLING) the actual, factual Kevin Yang puts in an appearance we can do a double act called Yang As I Wanna Be. As a parting shot, here are my thoughts on two movies I watched this weekend:

Worst of Netflix Mini-Reviews

Martin: It’s a good thing George Romero started making zombie movies, because he can’t direct the living worth a damn. The only thing that moves in this 1974 snoozefest is the plaid wallpaper.

Dead-End Drive-In: What an odd choice to make a dystopian movie set in Australia, which is already a desert full of poisonous animals and televised cricket.

Why Chris will never see "The Fourth Kind"

Halloween is finally over. Not to say I didn't have fun on Halloween, because I had a blasty-blast. But it's the Halloween planning that I cannot handle. What am I going to be? Where am I going to go? Halloween is like New Years', in that both holidays have a shitty planning to fun ratio. This year, my much-heralded costume idea (MIA from the Grammy's) fell through, so I scrambled for a costume last minute, thereby giving myself a lifetime's supply of ulcers. In the end, I settled on "the walk of shame", which involved me not wearing pants, which Meg can attest to my extreme discomfort as I never leave the house without head to toe coverage. I will say, however, if you ever want to get attention on the streets of New York City, don't wear pants. You'd think with people like the Naked Cowboy gallivanting around, Manhattanites would be desensitized, especially on Halloween. But you'd be wrong.

Getting back to my point, Halloween is finally over. So can someone please explain to me why my apartment is still haunted?

When Meg and I lived together in Brooklyn many moons ago, we had a haunted apartment. Pots would fall off otherwise sturdy shelves. Things would move of their own accord. Before Halloween, I carved a pumpkin and put it on my windowsill, only to have it smashed inside my room the next day. We went to great lengths to exterminate the presence in our apartment, including burning sage on a regular basis. I don't think it worked, in fact, we probably just made whatever it was in there hate the smell of sage. But I figured once we moved out of that place, I would be done with it.

If you follow me on Twitter, or if you read any of my posts back in June, you'd know I moved into my own place a few months ago. And things had been going swimmingly until this past September. One random, lame Friday night, I decided to hit the hay around 9:30. I had not imbibed any alcohol, had refrained from my usual nightly peyote. I just wanted to get some sleep. So I turn out the light, and get ready to go to bed. All of a sudden, I get real cold, so I turn over to grab my comforter, and standing right next to my bed is a ghost. So I'm freaking my shit out because holy crap, I'm staring at a ghost. Whereas the ghost is mouthing "It's ok," like she's not dead and I'm having a heart attack for no reason. 30 seconds later, she disappears. Naturally, my first instinct (after turning on the light and changing my sheets) is to call everyone I've ever known and to tell them what just happened. The only way I can describe the ghost is: a girl in her late twenties with long brown hair in white nightshirt (a la Emily Binx in Hocus Pocus). I'm not one to say I believe in ghosts, but it's hard to maintain that belief when one is staring you in the face. However, in retrospect, the ghost looked kind of like Sophia Bush, and this was right around the time Sorority Row was coming out. So I chalked this up to a really intense trailer, turned on the TV (of course, I slept with the TV on that night), and went back to bed.

A few weeks go by, and nothing further happens. After reassuring myself that I'm not crazy and that I probably just drank some expired milk, I logic away the possibility of there being a ghost in my apartment. Then, right before I leave for Mexico, she strikes back. I'm in my bed, and about to fall asleep, and then I feel something tugging at my comforter. Turn over, and there's Sophia Bush's ghost waving at me. Waving. Like we're old friends. And then she's gone. And now I've soiled my bed again.

I'm sure you're skeptical. Hell, I'm still skeptical. Because both times this has happened, I've been by myself and about to go to bed. Maybe I just nodded off both times and had a vivid dream (and my subconscious loves Sophia Bush).

But last night, my bf was staying at my place. We went to bed around midnight or so. Let me preface this by saying that I keep a sound machine (so I can lull myself to sleep with the soothing sounds of ocean or rain or loons. It even has a "heartbeat" function, in case you want to simulate being inside the womb) on the windowsill next to my bed. Anyway, I woke up around 4 in the morning, because I hear a bird in my apartment. "That's not normal," I think to myself and slowly come to realize there's not actually a parrot in my apartment, but that my sound machine is on. I definitely did not turn it on myself, and it's too high for me to have rolled and turned it on inadvertently. I wake up the bf, genuinely spooked, and ask if he turned it on, which he didn't. Oh shit, it's Sophia again.

I've also come to the conclusion that Sophia Bush means no harm. She's just lonely being all dead and shit. Because the two times I've seen her, she's a) tried to calm me down and b) waved at me. And last night, she just wanted me to have a good night's sleep. Still, having a supernatural experience is not calming, and I'm on edge when it's time to go to bed anticipating seeing her again. I don't watch One Tree Hill specifically so that I don't have to see Sophia Bush and be reminded of my ghost. I don't want to run away from my apartment screaming, but I also don't want to not do that. I'm still not saying I believe in any of this ghost crap, because I could just have an overactive imagination and random, flailing limbs. But I'm legitimately freaked out. So for any of you that like to play the stock market, I would look into buying stocks in sage and holy water, because I'm about to stockpile that shit.

Now if I can just find an old priest and young priest....

Drinking Game Friday: Halloween Edition!

Happy Drinking Game Friday and HAPPY HALLOWEEN BITCHEZZZZ! I'd love to stay and chit-chat about how my wily black-ass got out of The Business Trip or how terribly sorry I am for the Live-Tweet cocktease, but I'm still officially on my unofficial impromptu blog vacation. So don't mind me! I'm just sneaking in to give you this drinking game. Pretend like I'm not even here! In fact, this isn't even me writing this. This is being written by Schmeg. Schmeg McFlogger. She wears a size 32A bra, doesn't drink and loves a good brisk morning jog. And has an overall positive attitude towards life. And would never let Jack Daniel's sponsor her pants...Shwelp! Straighten your bunny ears, research the best bar crawl in town and put on your game face— it’s time for the Halloween Night Drinking Game!


Rules:
Drink When You:
- See a Balloon Boy, Michael Jackson, Kate Gosselin, Octo-Mom or Lady Gaga costume
- See a political costume
- Have to explain your costume
- Have to ask someone to explain their costume
- Regret not wearing a jacket out because it would cover up the sexy even though it’s 40 degrees out
- Inevitably make-out with someone
- Initiate conversation aimed towards making out with someone with a slurred “IIuffyourcoshtumeeee!!!” (70% of the time, it works every time)
- See a group-themed costume
- See a “sexy______” costume
- eat candy
- puke
- See a sex offender sign in someone’s yard (actually drink thrice—one for you, one for him and one for the kid) (Too soon?) (Never.)

Hope you all have a fantastic Halloween weekend! We'll see you back here next week when I'll actually write and attempt be funny again. HAHAHAHAHALOLZ! What a novel idea. Make sure to take a shot of Jäger for me tomorrow and enjoy the debauchery! Laterz. <3

Drinking Game Friday: The Halloween Edition

Happy Drinking Game Friday & Happy Halloween!

God damnit I love this holiday. Any holiday that combines mass quantities of alcohol, spooky decorations, slutty costuming and mini Kit-Kats is automatically my favorite. I’ll be celebrating this year atop Becca’s apartment for her rooftop ripper. I’m drunk just thinking about it. I’m not divulging my costume yet because there’s still time for you costume vultures to knock it off. I will say that it’s a two-man job (Talia’s my partner-in-crime) and I bought the costume components at CVS tonight: spray tan in a bottle, hairspray, fake eyelashes, liquid eyeliner and cigarettes. No I'm not Britney Spears. Give me a little more credit in the creativity department! I don't fuck around when it comes to Halloween! Of course when I was standing in line holding my white trash paraphernalia, someone I hated with a fiery, fiery passion in high school walked up and initiated conversation. You try facing your high school nemesis unemployed, living at home and holding two aerosol beauty products and a pack of Parliaments.)

At least I can drown my I-Still-Live-at-Home-Sorrows tonight with this week’s drinking game. Straighten your bunny ears, research the best bar crawl and put on your game face, it’s time for the Halloween Night Drinking Game!


Drink when you:
- See a Sarah Palin and/or Miss Alaska and/or First Dude costume
- See an Obama or McCain costume (or conversely Michelle or Cindy)
- Fuck it, when you see a political costume in general
- Have to explain your costume
- Have to ask someone what their costume is
- Regret not wearing a jacket out because it would cover up the sexy even though it’s 40 degrees out
- Inevitably make-out with someone
- Initiate conversation aimed towards making out with someone with a slurred “Iuffyourcoshtumeeee!!!” (70% of the time, it works every time)
- See a group-themed costume
- See a “sexy______” costume
- puke
- See a Maryland sex offender sign in someone’s yard (actually drink thrice—one for you, one for him and one for the kid) (too soon?)

Enjoy tonight’s debauchery and we’ll see you Monday morning!