State of the Meg — April, 2010

Well, well, well...if it isn't April Fool's Day. Look at you, old "friend." Standing there in your pretty new party dress, fancy little bow in your hair, shiny new pennies in your penny loafers...Another year older? ANOTHER YEAR MORE IRRITATING, I SAY.

In case you new readers haven't picked up on it, April Fool's Day—or Day of Shattered Dreams & Burning Regrets, as I call it—is an especially hard day for me. Besides being a truly obnoxious "holiday" in and of itself, April Fool's Day is also the anniversary of the day I let my one shot at love with Michael Showalter slip between my fingers like sand through an hourglass. I'm not going to get into what happened because if I start I won't stop, so kindly educate yourself on my heartbreak here. This year marks the two year anniversary of Operation M! F.I.L.M.'s failure and much like the anniversary of the death of a loved one; it never gets any easier. I'm sorry. I'm getting a little choked up. I promised myself I wouldn't cry.........

OK, I'm over. (No, no I'm not. Nor will I ever been, but there's only so much blog space I can dedicate to pining over a lost opportunity to say "Um. Hey." to Michael Showalter before I start feeling slightly too Misery for my liking. So for the greater good, I'm going to move on.) (I'm just saying that I'm a Jewess with huge knockers and it's his loss. That's all.) (OK, seriously, moving on.) (I mean, I bought the entire first fucking season of Michael & Michael Have Issues on iTunes, what more do you want from me?!) (Meg, you're making an ass out of yourself again. What did we learn last April Fool's Day? Just move on.) (And I will, I just have one more thing to say.) (Frankly, I don't trust you.) (Please?) (Sigh...fine. Make it quick.) (Why? We both know you don't have anything to write about today.) (I think I fleshed something out last night while I was doing laundry, thank you very much.) (Oh this should be good. Pitching more books about road head today, are we?) (Do you want to get your last little piece out or not, asshole?) (Yes, sorry. OK. I just want to say that I'm a young, attractive, comedy writer with a heart of gold and breasts as big as my personality and I think I would be a wonderfully fun and supportive girlfriend. So there. That's all I have to say..........And if all else fails, I have a block and a sledgehammer and I will HOBBLE YOUR ASS BACK TO THE STONE AGE!) (..Sigh. God damn I hate you.) (Sorry.)

In other news, Co-Blogger Chris and I finally got together for dinner last night to celebrate him finally moving to the area. Unfortunately for the both of us, he was distracted the entire time by how anxious the first week at work has been and I was distracted the entire time by how sick I felt and the result was a kind of match.com first date vibe wafting throughout the evening. I think I know more about Chris than any other person on the planet and we've both been looking forward to this for months, but the phrase "Soooo...what else can I tell you about my life?" was uttered more than a few times throughout the meal.

As we waited for our check, I asked Chris a question that I'm sure all of my friends are sick of hearing at this point: "What should I write about on the blog tomorrow?" "Well," he answered, "what's been going on in your life recently?" I thought we had established during all of the awkward silences in our dinner that nothing's been going on in my life recently, but for the sake of a blog post, I sat there with Chris and made a list of noteworthy things that have been going on my life recently. A State of the Meg, if you will. I share that State of the Meg with you now:

State of the Meg — April, 2010

- I turn 25 in a few weeks. I guess that's kind of legit. I can legally rent a car, which is...cool.

- I head back to the work force this weekend. I'll be going back to the retail job I worked in college to get some money while I work on my writing (HA HA, lofty goals. I'm adorable!) I'm not saying where though because I don't want certain bosses who might hold certain grudges against me and a certain blog I write (META!) calling certain managers and telling them what a certain asshole I am. I just googled "2birds1blog" plus the name of said mystery establishment and it yielded two posts, so it's out there. Happy hunting. And please don't be the asshole who figures it out and posts it in the comment section thinking you're helping people because really you're just helping certain bosses. If my vagueness is really that irritating, just shoot me an email and I'll let you know.

- I'm sick, which kind of blows. I can't tell if it's allergies or a cold/flu, but it's something fierce. According to my mom it's allergies, but Becca and I have a little inside joke that our mom thinks everything is allergies. I could be like, "Mom, I've got my period" and she'd be like, "PSHHH, you're not menstruating; it's just allergies." I think Alex and I are going to check out the Cherry Blossom Festival Friday, so if that kills me, my mom was right; it's allergies. Damn you DC. You are beautiful, yet painful when in bloom.

- In the meantime, I'm all about Mucinex. Upon hearing this, Chris expressed some concern tonight that I have an "odd obsession" with Mucinex and I "talk about it too much," but I'm sorry—that shit works. Having the immune system of Tiny Tim, I've always just accepted that always being stuffed up but never able to blow my nose will always be a part of life. AND THEN, I MET MUCINEX. Absolutely nothing breaks that shit up like Mucinex. Nothing. It boggles the mind. I didn't even know what Mucinex was until my sister got sick last year and her fiance was like, "Duh, Mucinex. Ever heard of it?" And frankly, the McBlogger family never had. So thank you, sir. You enrich my sister's life and my nasal passages. I welcome you to the family.

I might really talk about Mucinex slightly too much to be healthy though. I can't talk confidentially about my writing skills or this blog to save my life, but I would happily travel door-to-door selling Mucinex if I could. Full time. The following was very seriously my ghcat icon for a significant period of time:

I'm not saying I have a problem; I'm saying I have a solution. (And for the record, Mucinex isn't paying me to say any of this. And even if they did, I wouldn't accept it because the relief their product provides me with is payment enough.) (HAHAHAHAHAHA! Lies. I'm so fucking broke.)

- I'm nervous because I can't take take a deep breath without wheezing and going into a painful coughing fit. I just really hope whatever I have isn't pneumonia or anything because I obviously still don't have health insurance and I think I wasted my one parent-paid trip to the hospital on when I had diarrhea. God damnit, I hate my life...

- I've been watching a lot of Living Single recently. HA HA, Maxine.

I find her witty banter with Kyle to be sexually charged and hee-larious.

Living Single is another odd thing I've begun bringing up a lot in lieu of office talk. I was at my friend Jenna's dinner party a few weeks ago and she was talking about how there had been a few break-ins in her neighborhood recently. I jumped into the conversation with:

"Oh! I was watching Living Single today and somebody broke into the girl's apartment."

::Silent stares around the table::

"Yeah...Queen Latifah got her nunchucks out and scared him off."

::More silent stares. I think Laura added a slow head nod to help me out.::

"...That's really all I'm bringing to the table these days, guys."

::Conversation moves on::

- Did you know that pigs can't swim and if they try, they'll slit their own throats with their hooves? I swear to god, that's actually something I told Chris re: what's new in your life? A fun fact about pigs. That's what's new with me.

- I'm super excited about our new advice column, Queer Abby! So I hope you guys have questions! Email QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com. W00t.

- Remember my story last week about American Dan? Well it turns out a 2b1b reader went to high school with him and emailed me his full name yesterday along with the fun fact that he just joined Facebook. I'm going to go out on a limb and make a bold statement—I am just as attracted to him as I was when I was 18, if not more. Yeah. I said it. And I am 100% standing by it. He's also still living in Ocean City and very much single. So there's that. Just facts. Just simple facts I'm throwing out into the universe and hoping come back to me in the form of flame tattoos...

- I have a note in my phone reminding myself to use the following phrases more:

• Feh
• Hambeast
• Hepatitis jokes in general
  

And again, this isn't me slipping into another edition of Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out..., I literally referenced this to Chris as something that's "new with me".

Overall State of the Meg: STRONG! Unlike a pig in water. BOOM! FULL CIRCLE!

5 Reasons to join Twitter

My friend Helena is one of those innately hip people that I strive to be more like on a daily basis. She knows about obscure bands and has really good taste in movies and books. I met Helena my freshman year of college when we lived on the all-girls floor of Hughes Hall together (affectionately dubbed "The Virgin Vault"). I was scared shitless of her. I was all, "oh god, her hair is naturally blond! And she grew up in New York City! And she looks super disinterested!" When original ex-co-blogger Eddie and I planned a ~gIrLs MoViE/bOnDinG nIgHt!~ for our floor the first week of school, Helena skipped it and went to a show at the Black Cat. The next day in cinema class when our professor called her "Hell-len-uh" (as in of Troy) instead of "Hell-lay-nuh" (how you actually pronounce her name,) I was all, "BAHAHAHA! THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR SKIPPING MY GIRLY MOVIE NIGHT, BITCH!!!1"

Then one day Helena stopped by my room to drop off a mix CD that she had made for my roommate. I had just won a vintage salmon-colored blazer on ebay (that to this day I've never worn, but feel slightly better knowing is in my closet,) that I was perhaps a bit too excited about. Helena knocked on my door and asked for my roommate. Excited from my recent victory, I responded with, "SHE'S NOT HERE, BUT I NOTICE THAT YOU'RE WEARING A HANDSOME STRIPPED BLAZER I JUST WON A SALMON-COLORED BLAZER ON EBAY GET INSIDE AND LOOK AT IT CUZ YOU'RE MY NEW BFF BITCH!!!!!" And thank god, she did.

My point here is that Helena is hip and interesting. Over the years she's introduced me to a lot of cool stuff and I totally appreciate it. Her views and opinions on everything and anything also just plain fascinate me. Thus, my new life's goal is to get Helena on Twitter.

However, translating this real world friendship into a Twitter friendship has proven to be a difficult task. Obviously, Helena is too cool for Twitter. Officially, she won't join because "it confuses her." I call bullshit. If you can spread cream cheese on a bagel, you are officially smart enough to operate Twitter. But sorry toots, I'm not giving up. You of all people should know that once I get my little heart set on something dumb and pointless, I don't give up. Thus, I present to you with my 5 reasons to join Twitter:

5.) You can stalk celebrities in a totally socially acceptable and non-threatening way! Seriously, it's awesome! For example, I feel like Kim Kardashian and I are best friends. When she fell asleep in Mexico and got a vicious sunburn in the shape of her sunglasses, I was like "OH KIM GIRL! YOU SO CRAZY!" Oh, what was that? You didn't know Kim Kardashian fell asleep in Mexico with her sunglasses on? Welp, maybe you would if you followed her on Twitter. Do you know what Lauren Conrad had for dinner last night? Lord knows I do. She sent me a picture of the chopped ingredients. Because we're best friends. Via Twitter.

4.) Instant Tech Support! One time I could not for the life of me figure how to set something up for my boss in Outlook and was five minutes away from bursting into tears. I twittered about how Outlook was slowly trying to kill me and within five minutes I had a private message from someone with step-by-step instructions on how to fix my problem. It. Was. Awesome. Had I called my actual tech support guy, I would have wasted half my day listening to him struggle to breathe while craming Cheetos down his gullet and patronizing me for not knowing Outlook like the back of my light saber. I'll never forget you @hdesign.

3.) It's the best procrastination tool ever! Do you know what I do all day at work? I watch old episodes of Dynasty online and twitter screenshots of my favorite ridiculous 80's outfitts and 'staches. That's all I do. If I were just watching Dynasty, I'd probably feel pretty sad about my lot in life. But because Twitter enables me to share with others, I feel like I'm doing something productive with my day. (Or at least that's what I keep telling myself.

2.) Resolves deep seated emotional crises! You know how I'm convinced that if Michael Showalter and I were to talk once, he would instantly fall in love with me? And I missed my opportunity and I've been beating myself up ever since? Well it turns out I was wrong! I followed Michael Showalter on Twitter and sent him that entry and all I got back were crickets! Not even a courtesy follow-back for his #1 fan! And you know what? That's fine. Because now I can sleep at night knowing that if Michael Showalter and I were to talk, he would not fall in love with me. Rather, he would probably shove me and my vat of gumbo into oncoming traffic and have Michael Ian Black kick me while I'm down. And frankly, that is good to know.

1.) Twitter got me laid! Yea, that's right. I got some this past weekend in New York as a direct result of Twitter. And if getting laid isn't a reason to give in to a social fad, then I don't know what is. You see, I was followed by and subsequently followed a gent on Twitter who I thought was totally dreamy sex-bomb hot. And one night after happy hour, via Twitter, I told him as much. He was a pretty good sport about my creepily coming onto him and pretty soon tweets became emails, emails became text messages and text messages became sex. Sorry, but once the shackles of 140 characters of less are broken, things move pretty fast.

So in conclusion: Helena, you need to join Twitter. Because that means I'll probably have sex with you. twitter.com/2birds1blog

Thoughts I couldn't flesh out into full entries

- In my office we play the Comcast "ToP 40 HiTz!" music channel throughout the studio all day. But like, all day. Like eight hours straight, five days a week of the same god-awful songs over and over and over and over again. The worst part is I'm not allowed to change the channel. My bosses think that if clients come in to discover that we have ToP 40 HiTz! blasting throughout the studio, we'll seem young and hip and straight-up dope. Personally, I don't think there's anything cool about the air horn remix of Lady Ga-Ga's Just Dance, but that's just me.

There's one song on the ToP 40 HiTz! list that I hear at least four times a day, that specifically makes me want to rip my hair out. It's called Don't Trust Me by a group called 3OH!3. It's actually got a jaunty little beat that I don't hate and wouldn't mind busting a move to on the treadmill. However, the lyrics are 100% absurd. Specifically, I lay awake at night thinking about how frustrating I find the following lyrics:

shoosh girl, shut your lips,
do the helen keller and talk with your hips.

For the record, I loves me a good Helen Keller joke—what's Helen Keller's favorite convenience store? WAAAWAAA—but this is the most half-assed, lazy attempt at a Helen Keller joke I've ever seen. Because it's like, Helen Keller didn't talk with her hips, she talked with her hands. Why do pop stars keep lying to me via song? I mean, if you're going to be provocative enough to make a Helen Keller joke in your song, I just don't understand why you wouldn't want to take the extra minute or two to make sure it makes sense. Because I want to applaud you, 3OH!3. You're two white boys from Denver who rap Helen Keller jokes. I feel like I should support just on principal. But then you had to be all lazy and have it not make sense so I stay up at night thinking about it! It's like a Ph.D. student handing in a stellar dissertation without spell checking it. How am I supposed to respect you and call you "Doctor" now?

- Please read the following Craigslist missed connection entitled, "You gave me an enema - m4w - 42 (Metro)":

You gave me a wonderful therapeutic enema at a wonderful place in Dupont Circle on Thursday afternoon (I prefer not to mention the place by name, but I'm sure you know the name!). I didn't want to ask for your number while I was in such a compromising position, but I've never stopped thinking about you! Perhaps it's common, but you may have been able to tell my attraction to you by the state of my "ding-dong". I took a long cool shower when I got home!

...Is it sad that what I took away from this missed connection is the hope and dream that one day I'll meet a man so into me he'll be able to sustain an erection thinking about me, even while getting an enema?

- Yesterday my friend Ali and I went to Earth Day on the National Mall. I'm not really into environmental issues that much, but I am into openly gawking at hot hipster boys while eating a hot dog. So I was pretty much all over this event.

At one point during the day, a representative from the Netherlands got on stage and talked about how the Dutch are the greenest motherfuckers on the planet and how we could learn a thing or two from them. Which is legit. But, she closed her speech with something to the effect of, "And you should come to the Netherlands and stimulate our economy! I mean, when Katrina happened, the Dutch came to your aide, sooooo you kind of owe us one. KTHNXBYE!!"

For realsies, lady? Are you really throwing Katrina back in our faces? The Netherlands is like that friend who drove you to the hospital when you got appendicitis and now that he needs a ride to Chipotle is all, "well I mean, I did drive you to the hospital that one time..."

- Also speaking at the event was This Old House's Steve Thomas.

And holy crap was I excited. You see, Steve Thomas' co-host on This Old House is the #3 person on my List of People I Just Want to Hug—Mr. Bob Villa. I figured hugging Steve Thomas is probably the closest I'm ever going to get to hugging Bob Villa, so I'll take it and be happy.

BUT I FUCKED IT UP! I MISSED MY OPPORTUNITY! AGAIN! GAHHH!!!11 I lost my nerve and it was like the Michael Showalter experience all over again! I looked up and saw a denim-clad man walking towards me me and just as I was about to make a Canadian Tuxedo joke to Ali, I realized who it was—Steve Thomas! "OMGALIIT'SSTEVETHOMAS!!!!!!!!!!!" I yelled at Ali. "Say hi!" I froze. "Say hi!" I continue to freeze, but this time also managed to make a series of inaudible high-pitched gurgles. "MEG, say hi!!!!"

BUT I DIDN'T! I physically couldn't. I don't know what's wrong with me. I mean, no offense to either of them, but seeing Michael Showalter and Steve Thomas isn't exactly like seeing Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. And yet I was that level of shaking like a leaf, paralyzed with fear, starstruck. I'd probably be cool as a cucumber if I ever were to meet Angie and Brad. I'd strike up a conversation and charm the pants off 'em. Yet give me an obscure comedian and a home renovator and I'm passing out like a 13-year-old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert.

Wet Hot Drinking Game Friday

I want to share my morning with you. Because I want there to be a written account of what happened that caused me to die of shock and awe. I don't want there to be any ambiguity or leftover conspiracy theories about what happened. This is it. Case closed.

This morning started like any other. My alarm went off at six and I rolled around in my bed, audibly whimpering and feeling sorry for myself until about 7:50. Although I whimpered 15 minutes longer than I normally do, I was still out the door at 8:45, on-time and feeling good. I was having an unusually good hair day and today's outfit was cuter than I had expected, so I was in high spirits as I strode through my apartment lobby, ready to face the world.

That is until I stepped outside and realized I had forgotten my umbrella. I have what I lovingly refer to as "Frizzy Jew Hair," which I flat iron every morning. If even one single drop of moisture comes within a 30-foot radius of my hair, it poofs like a poodle on acid. So I had a decision to make: run back up and get my umbrella and risk being late to work, or sacrifice looking like Art Garfunkel for the rest of the day and go sans umbrella. Shockingly, I went the less shallow route and decided to be on time.

As I walked to the metro and felt my painstakingly straightened and styled hair begin to frizz and curl, my good mood plummeted. Plummeted into negative numbers. My hair dictates my mood, so I was pretty much ready to punch the nearest homeless person in the homeless face.

When I got to the metro platform, things went from bad to worse. Three No Passenger trains whizzed through the station without stopping before, 20 minutes later, a train finally stopped. Of course because not one single person in this god-fearing town understands the importance of the "MOVE TO THE CENTER OF THE CAR WHEN BOARDING THE TRAIN" warning, I had to wait for another less crowded train to arrive.

Five minutes later, one finally did. And come hell or high water, I was getting on it. Ass out and elbows flying, I fought my way through the herd of mediocre-looking people to ensure my spot in the car. I had just barely made it on when the person behind me shoved me forward and into the arms of a woman wearing a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt. I turned around to confront my attacker, and what I saw made my blood pressure skyrocket.

There were three, count 'em!, three people with mother fucking rolling briefcases standing in the doorway behind me and one person holding his unicycle. WHAT. IN THE. FUCKITY. FUCK? That's what I had been shoved forward and forced into a homely lesbian experience for?! So you can fit your nerdy rolling briefcase and a UNICYCLE onto the train?! I don't recall buying tickets to the circus, but I certainly would like my money back, thank you.

I know I've already discussed this in my Rolling Briefcase Manifesto, but seriously, you people are the scum of the earth. How rude and presumptuous do you have to be to think it's A-OK to force people to make room for your unnecessarily large and inconvenient rolling briefcase? NEVERTHELESS A UNICYCLE! What the fuck was that?! He wasn't even being ironic or promoting a circus! That really was his means of getting to work! He was wearing a nice suite and an EPA windbreaker! I mean, I'm all for reducing my carbon footprint and all, but do we really have to throw all dignity out the window and ride unicycles to work like god damn circus acts?!

But it gets even more ridiculous! At Farragut North, an older man wearing a top hat got on the clown car. A large, unnecessary, Daddy Warbucks-style, top hat. What in God's holy name is wrong with you people?!

Oh, but this shit show aint over yet! Sit back down! As our train rolled out of the station, the conductor suddenly slammed on the brakes, causing (and I couldn't even make this up if I tried,) the Monopoly guy to lose his balance, which caused him to fall backwards into Jo-Jo the Circus boy, who lost his grip on the Unicycle, which fell over and smashed into the face of an Asian woman, who started hysterically crying.

I have no words. I'm officially spent.

Thank god moments later we arrived at Metro Center, where I bolted out this three-ring circus and booked it to work. When I finally arrived at the office, my boss gave my frizzy mane a disapproving look before she reamed me out for being so late to work. With boiling blood, I looked her in the eye and mustered a meek-little, "It'll never happen again."

Because really, it better not happen again! I don't want to live in a world where it's a normal occurance to have to commute to work on a crowded train full of briefcase rolling, unicycle riding, top-hat wearing, Asian face-basing, three-ring-circus FREAKS! So don't worry sugar-tits! It'll never fucking happen again!

Sigh...

Given this week's Michael Showalter reference and the ridiculous events that transpired this morning, it seems like there's only one movie Showalter-y and ridiculous enough to be this week's drinking game. Yep, you guessed it. I give you the Wet Hot American Summer Drinking Game!

Rules:
Drink When:
- Writing is shown on the screen to indicate what time of day it is
- The Bee Keeper does a radio broadcast
- Bethesda's own Jewish Day School is referenced
- Katie thinks of someone for Coop to date
- Victor says "fuck"
- The cook clarifies what he just said
- The talent show is referenced
- You hear the sound of a clay pot breaking
- Someone asks for a piece of gum
- Anyone makes out
- Gail talks about her ex-husband
- There's an astrophysics reference
- Andy throws a kid in the woods
- The 12-sided die is rolled
- Shirts are swapped
- The talent show emcee makes a joke about how old he is
- And finally, just chug during the chase scene, simply because it's my favorite:


That's a lie. This is my favorite:


That's a lie too. The entire movie is my favorite.

Thank you as always for reading and we'll see you back here Monday morning!

April Fool's Day and Michael Showalter

April Fool's Day is the absolute worst. Well, that's a lie, New Year's Eve is the absolute worst, but April Fool's Day is certainly up there. I just can't get behind a holiday that celebrates making people look stupid and embarrassed. That's my reality all day everyday, do we really need a holiday celebrating that? In fact, if you could all do me a personal favor and not play a single April Fool's prank on someone today, that would be great. I really appreciate it. And if you already have played a prank on someone this morning, I want you to do the following:
1.) Bring a chair into the nearest bathroom stall.
2.) Stand on said chair.
3.) Lift the rear band of your underwear up and out of your pants.
4.) Place the band over the stall's door hook behind you.
5.) Kick the chair away from you.
6.) Dangle.

Feel that? That's from me to you. And you're welcome.

This April Fool's day marks the one-year anniversary of me turning my back on my destiny, and for that reason, this is a particularly painful AFD for me. So friends and family, please be aware that if you do decide to play a prank on me, I will kick you in the testicles. Regardless if you have them or not.

You see, I am convinced that actor/comedian/writer Michael Showalter and I are meant to be. If Dr. Dre is my soul mate and John McCain is my guardian angel, than Michael Showalter is my one special someone. Here's why:
- The Baxter (which he wrote, directed and starred in) is a large part of why I moved to Brooklyn (it is also a supremely underrated movie. "Ask her to dance Elliot." Holy shit, I cry every time.) I remember sitting Chris down two summers ago, popping in The Baxter and being like, "LOOK! LOOK AT THIS MAGICAL LAND THEY CALL BROOK-LAND! LET US GO THERE AND FLOURISH!" Of course we should have stabbed each other in the heart instead of going through with it, but how were we supposed to know our landlord would turn out to be a psychotic ex-Marine über patriot? The fact remains that Michael Showlater has touched my life, and I would like to touch him in return.
- I appreciate his sense of humor so deeply. I get it. I get you Michael. I get you, and I applaud you.
- Jean Claude van DAMN THAT MAN IS FINE! There it is. The heart of the matter.
- We both have Jewish mothers and Christian fathers. HALF-BRED JINX!
- This means that technically he's Jewish, so on some level he must be looking for a nice Jewish girl to fall in love with. Welp. What Jewish gal has two thumbs, a heart of gold, a rack as big as the Gaza? This girl.
- He's a writer, I'm (sort of) a writer!
- He's funny, I'm (occasionally) funny!
- He was in a movie about Jew camp, I was waitlisted from Jew Camp!

As you can see, we're clearly made for each other. When I moved to Brooklyn, I put a little something I called "Operation M! F.I.L.M." (Michael! Fall in Love w/ Meg) into full effect. I promised myself, that I would meet Michael Showalter. And I would talk to him. And thus, we would fall in love.

Which brings us to April Fool's Day 2008. It was a Wednesday, which meant that the magazine was going to print and I had to wait around the office all day for last minute photos and articles that needed to be layed out. At approximately 3:30pm, I realized that I hadn't eaten all day and I was starting to feel a little dizzy. I ducked out of the office and ran to get lunch at my usual spot—Café Charlie on East 40th between Fifth and Madison. Now on any other day, I'd get my usual small cup of chicken gumbo, but because I was so blindingly hungry, I broke away from tradition and ordered a large bowl of gumbo to-go. What I was handed what can only describe as a vat of gumbo, that I was one-part embarrassed of and one-part extremely excited to eat.

Moments later, I was standing outside of Café Charlie on East 40th struggling to put the change I had just received into my wallet while balancing my recently purchased gumbo, spoon and bottle of water. Suddenly, an attractive man smoking a cigarette hooked a right from Madison onto 40th and started strolling towards me. "Shit, that guys hot," I innocently thought to myself. "I dig the scruffy facial hair and sunglasses. Wait, that guy looks familiar. Why does he look familiar? Why is he so hot?" And then I realized: It was Michael Showalter. He was standing three feet away from me. It was go-time for Operation M! FILM...And I fucking failed. I didn't say a god-damn word to him. Instead I just stood there like a jackass staring with big squirrely coke-eyes, spoon danging from my mouth, bottle of water shoved between my legs and a comically large tub of gumbo in hand. He walked past me, into an office building and out of my life.

Had I said just one thing to him, I am convinced my life would be completely different right now. I'd be starring in a successful and critically acclaimed husband/wife comedy act touring the nation's hottest clubs instead of being stuck in this hell hole doing data entry and stealing pita chips and toilet paper to sustain my life.

What's worse is that absolutely no one believed me that this happened. Knowing of my love and admiration for the Showalter, they thought it was just another stupid April Fool's joke. In fact, I'm 98% sure that Chris still doesn't believe me, even though a year has passed and I've sworn upside down and sideways that it really happened.

So thanks a lot April Fool's Day jokesters. Thanks for ruining it for the rest of us. I'll be in my office not having sex with Michael Showalter should you need me for anything not-prank related.