From the archives: The 2b1b 4th of July Drinking Game

July 2nd, 2009

Ah, Fourth of July weekend: drunk and full of patriotism. Show me someone who doesn't love Fourth of July weekend and I will show you a terrorist.

Early stages of Bronchitis be damned, I will be going to Philadelphia this weekend to visit Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie and Tulane Chris. And we are going to party—American style! We're going to run up the Philadelphia Museum of Art steps and Eddie is going to play the Rocky theme on the kazoo! And we're going to streak through empty UPenn dorm halls! And we're going to finger the Liberty Bell's crack because that's quite possibly the funniest thing I can think of! All things American. All things involving alcohol. All things I can't wait for.

Guess what else we'll be doing! We'll be playing this week's drinking game—The Fourth of July Drinking Game!


(That image doesn't really have anything to do with the Fourth of July per se, but I think I love it more than I love any living human being. So there it shall stay.)

Rules:
Drink When:
- Somebody refers to the Fourth of July as "America's Birthday" or wishes America a happy birthday
- For every piece of shamelessly star-spangled clothing you see (drink twice if it's from Old Navy)
- For every hot dog you eat
- For every sparkler you light
- 9/11 is mentioned
- Uncle Rod has a 'Nam flashback at the fireworks show
- The Bill Pullman rally speech from Independence Day is quoted
- "Now that Obama is in office, I can finally say I'm proud to be an American" (or some variation of)
- Fireworks? Is that too easy? No. No, it's not.
- MINI FLAGSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

OK, now I'm going to tell a story about mini flags. That was a rough transition. I'm not going to lie, I've been drinking all night and just took a lot of cough medicine. I'm not really at the height of my game right now. Where was I? MINI FLAGS. Yes. So at school the day after 9/11, we were all gathered into the theater/multi-purpose room to watch a televised National Five Minutes of Silence. During the broadcast, they showed people at different locations across the country observing the five minutes of silence. At one point, they slowly panned in on this guy who had a mini flag shoved in the back of his shirt, resting on his left shoulder. The guy was all deep in thought, clearly having a meaningful moment, but then quickly jerked his head to the left and blatantly poked himself in the eye with the mini flag. It was one of those stupid things that's funny, but not that funny. But then I realized my friend Ali sitting next to me saw it and was trying not to laugh, which made it that much more funnier to me. So then I was trying not to laugh, which was making Ali have to laugh, which was making me have to laugh, and it was a big fucking mess. Because we knew that we could not laugh because sweet god, it was the National 9/11 Five Minutes of Silence. Which of course made it even harder not to laugh. And honestly, five minutes is a really fucking long time when you're bruising internal organs you're trying so hard not to laugh. We couldn't do it, you guys. We laughed. We laughed during the National 9/11 Five Minutes of Silence. It was so embarrassing. But we weren't laughing at 9/11, we were laughing at the A-fuck who poked himself in the eye with his mini flag on National TV. It was so shameful. Anyway, to this day when I see mini American flags, that's all I can think about.

OK, well I'm a horrible person and now you all know. I hope you guys have a great weekend though! Thank you so much for reading, telling your friends, facebooking, Twittering and all that jazz. Next week we'll have another Meghan McCain rant, the answer to what happened when my boss took me on a mysterious joyride and other such shenanigans, so check back Monday! Kthnxbye!

4 quick things:

1.) Teresa and I are going to see Conan tonight at DAR, finally fulfilling the plans we made oh-so-many years ago. Unfortunately there aren't any words in the English language to express what I feel, so I'm forced to rely on this photograph to express my current emotional state:

2.) I was out with Becca and her fiance, Geoff, last night and at one point Geoff excused himself to go to the bathroom, returned, reached into his pocket and fished out an (unused) urinal cake and hand full of tea lights that he'd stolen for me.

Honesty alert: the urinal cake was on the table next to my bed all night and I woke up this morning to my apartment filled with the delicious scent of bubble gum. And it was delightful. That's right. I'm using a urinal cake as an air freshener. Do with that what you will.

3.) Becca informed me last night that we'll be in Dublin for the Bloomsday Bike Messenger Rally. And now I'm going to tell you exactly what I told her in complete seriousness: There's a 98% chance that I'm going to get pregnant next week. And more importantly, if I don't get pregnant or contract syphilis in the 10 days we'll be in Ireland, I will consider it a personal failure. There it is. The truth. Judge not lest ye be judged.

4. ) Becca also informed me that while we're staying in Kenmare, we'll be taking a day trip to bike the "tip of Dingle." I mean, really? Saying, "I almost peed my pants when she told me that" is such a gross understatement that it's comical. Because the common denominator between me, Alex and Geoff is our juvenile frat boy sense of humor. Alex and I frequently play a game called "I'll _____ your _____." And the way you play is you look around the room, fill in the blanks in a suggestive tone and laugh at yourself for an inappropriate length of time. (i.e.: I'll Baja your Fresh.) Likewise, at my mom's birthday BBQ over the weekend, my aunt picked up a hot dog with a pair of tongs and Geoff said, "Wow Andie, you're really tonging that wiener." ...I honest-to-god laughed-out-loud thinking about it again this morning. Days later. And we're all going to be riding the tip of Dingle? Seriously? It's just such an unbelievable gimme that I'm almost curious what the catch is. After Becca informed us of this, Geoff and I locked eyes across the table and rapid-fired shot the following back and forth:

- How big is the tip of Dingle?

- How wide is the tip of Dingle?

- How long will we be riding the tip of Dingle?

- Is the tip of Dingle going to be a rough or smooth ride?

- I'm so glad we'll be riding the tip of Dingle together.

- I'm going to be so sore from riding the tip of Dingle.

- Thank God we'll just be riding the tip; the rest of it is huge.

- Make sure to bring comfortable pants because I hear the tip of Dingle is an intense ride.

- I hope we stop for lunch so I can say, "Man, I am stuffed from riding the tip of Dingle!

- I hope I fall off my bike so I can say, "I can't stop bleeding from riding the tip of Dingle!"

- If it rains, "I'm still wet from riding the tip of Dingle!"

- Becca: "Maybe there'll be a whale; check out the tip of Dingle's blow hole! Or like, look at the waves slap up on the rocks?" [Geoff and I look at each other and shake our heads] "That's just crass Rebecca...that's just crass."

I AM SO EXCITED FOR IRELAND.

LOLOLZZzo NO POST MONDAY SORR ABOUT THE BAG

Christ on a croissant. Allow me to share with you a text I got from Allison this afternoon while I was at work:

No Post Monday. Your father and I aren't mad. We're disappointed.

Sigh. Now allow me to share with you a gchat conversation two readers from Texas had and sent me:

Kate: it drives me nuts that meg never posts on mondays anymore
and EVERY tuesday is like LOLOLZZzo NO POST MONDAY SORR ABOUT THE BAG
and im like
.... that doesn't make up for it, meg.
that. doesnt. make. up. for. it.
Sent at 3:24 PM on Monday
Sarah: I KNOW
its annoying
its like I NEED THIS
it's not a game at this desk
Kate: hahaha
Sarah: what is she doing mondays if shes unemployed?
Kate: she works retail
and she drinks sunday nights
so she barely has time to put on pants mondays when she wakes up at 10am for her 11am shift
ugh, meg.
i feel like i know you
and yet, i dont.
Sarah: its so creepy yet so necessary
maybe we should send her this convo

And then they did. And I'M SORRY, YOU GUYS! I'm sorry. I can't even tell you how much No Post Mondays stress me out. I kept remembering that I didn't post anything this morning at work today and feeling all guilty and stressed out like I forgot my kid at daycare or something. Which is absurd because this is just a blog. But, you know, it's more to me and I feel guilty.

I don't even have a good excuse for not blogging yesterday. I got home from work Sunday night and like the responsible young blogger I am (or strive to be), I curled up on the couch with a glass of wine, a very much alive and somewhat kickin' Cella and Dr. Reuben's Everything You Always Wanted to Know... with every intention of writing a Q&A post for Monday morning. And then I passed out AN single page in. I woke up five hours later at 2:30 in the morning curled up in a ball on the couch, pantsless, TV still on, spooning my laptop with mascara all over my face. It was pretty much the closest I've come to having sex since I made consensual love to a box of Thin Mints last Thursday.

Despite being half asleep and in the midst of nap afterglow (nafterglow, if you will,) I vowed that I would get something—anything—up on the blog to avoid yet another No Post Monday. So I made a list of everything that's going on in my life at the moment. And the list went as such:

- I had a really satisfying salad for dinner last night.

And that concluded the list. I'm not kidding. I very seriously wrote that sentence, blanked on anything else to write and thought, "Welp! That's the ballgame. This is my life. Aaaaaaaand hells bell's it's depressing. Good night and god speed."

But I refuse to believe that that's the only noteworthy thing in my life right now. That I had a satisfying salad for dinner. (Although it's worth noting that it really was a satisfying salad. So much so that I had again for dinner tonight. And some soup. Because it was a rainy, lazy, cozy soup kind of a day. OH MY FUCKING GOD, DO YOU SEE?! DO YOU SEE WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME?!) No! I'm not letting this happen. I will not talk about depression, or soup, or salad, or soup and salad combo meals, or anything else that will make me sound like a living, breathing Cathy comic. Today I'm going to talk about other things. This, my friends, IS WHAT'S GOING ON.


- UM. Reagan, a 2b1b reader from Houston sent me this tank top the other day:


Oh I'm sorry, Reagan. Did I just go gay for you? Yep. Sure did. So, what are you doing this weekend? ME!? Hehehehe, oh MY! You bring the flannel; I'll bring the power tools.

(Side note: I really want to add a merch store to the blog, specifically because I want to create an official "sorr about the bag" tote bag and proudly sport it around town on a daily basis. If anyone knows anything about how to set up a merch store on a blog, hit a bitch up: meg@2birds1blog.com. Especially because if I get a store up and running, it might solve my next problem...)

- I need $500 and Adderall. Fast. I realize this couldn't sound sketchier if a one-armed Russian drug dealing sailor was involved, but I swear both are for legit purposes. I think I may have solved my laptop problem! Lara's going off to grad school in the fall (THAT'S RIGHT! My design protégé got accepted into Parson's web design masters program, DID YOURS?! Oh. He did? Well. Good for him. He should talk to Lara because she's talented and easy on the eyes. Oh, and he's newly single? Welp. I'm mighty glad we had this conversation.) and needs to get a new computer before she goes. She dropped by the store tonight and informed me that she's going to sell her old (sexy) laptop (which just got a new battery and comes with CS3!) for $500 and I shotgunned that thing so fast my name tag spun. Unfortunately Lara wasn't quite as excited. She kind of awkwardly looked at the ground, shifted her eyes back and forth and asked, "Uhhh...Meg...no offense, but do you have $500?" Well, no, not in the technical sense, but I sure as shit can find a way to get it!

So, what am I good at? Drinking, making charmingly awkward conversation and occasionally baking things. Thus, for a nominal fee, I will come to your apartment with a bottle of wine and bake you something. Perhaps a poon cake. It's kind of my specialty. What's the nominal fee? In the words of the church, "give what you can." And then a few bucks more because things are touch and go. Come on! It's like a bake sale that comes to you! It's a lazy man's wet dream! Invite some friends over! We'll make it a night! (PS: those friends should also give what they can. God bless.)

Oh, and the Adderall is just because I have ADD and need it, but can't afford to go see a psychiatrist anymore. Poverty is mighty inconveniencing. I'm rationing out my remaining anit-depressants like meat in wartime.

Now, I don't know how "legal" this is, but I have a request. Is the request to mail me any spare Adderall you may have lying around your house? No. No, it's not. But it's also not not to mail me any spare Adderall you may have lying around your house, if you catch my drift. And if say a spare painkiller found it's way in there too? Well, I certainly wouldn't be mad. THAAAANX!

- Becca recently asked me to start thinking about what kind of bridesmaid dress I would want to wear in her wedding. She's pretty sure she wants her bridal party to be in gray, but since I'm the Maid of Honor, mine gets to be a little bit different. When she told me this, I obviously heard, "you can wear whatever you want," and immediately knew the perfect dress—the dress that Alexis Carrington/Colby/Dexter/Rowan wears to Steven and Sammy Jo's engagement party in the season 2 episode appropriately titled, "The Party."

when Becca was over the other week, I decided it was a good time to inform her that I had found the perfect Maid of Honor dress for her wedding. "Awesome! Let's see it!" she said. So I juiced up the old DVD player, popped in "The Party" and paused it on the following still:


She seemed to not think it was an option. Although, to be fair, I failed to mention that the mink stole and gold seashell clutch are optional. That might make a difference.

Flash forward to yesterday when Ex Co-Blogger Eddie sent me a link to a dress that she said I should buy because a.) it looks like Dynasty threw up all over it and b.) it would make my boobs look good:


Oh, I'M sorry. Is that not just a modest version of my dream Dynasty dress?! IT'S PERFECT! I mean, gray is sophisticated and elegant and all, but gold lamé? Gold lamé is like surviving a heinous car crash, plunging into a vat of ice-cold water or getting kicked in the groin—it reminds you that you're alive. If there's any fabric more appropriate for a wedding, I'd like to know what it is. Soooo...fingers crossed she goes for that.

- What does it say about me that I legitimately almost peed my pants laughing the first time I saw this video?

And keep in mind that a large part of the near urination factor was due to the kid's blood-curdling screams. Not to mention the fact that right it can get any funnier, a rogue donkey scampers across the shot. I mean, this is pretty much what dreams are made of. I've very seriously had this video open in it's own tab for like, four days straight now and I can't imagine living in a world where I close it. Hell should be nice...

- I was having dinner with my parents last weekend and we somehow started talking about Project Runway. During this conversation, my dad informed me that it is his ultimate dream for me to go on Project Runway and make it to the final 3. Not because I want, or have ever wanted to be a fashion designer, mind you, but because that means my dad would get to meet and subsequently hug Tim Gunn during the home visit episode. "I don't know," my dad explained, "A hug from Tim Gunn seems like it would be so cathartic. Like everything would be OK. He just seems like such a nice guy!"

...From now on, whenever people get weirded out by the fact that I have tattoos dedicated to my parents, this is the moment I'm going to refer them to. I just feel like it might clear things up a bit.

- In case you didn't know, I'm on the Twitter. Fellow Twitter user and 2b1b reader @toastedzen tweeted me the following this past Friday night:

toastedzen @2birds1blog I would give just about anything to hang out with you. Hell, to DATE you. I am in love!

"Well that's awfully nice of you, sir," I thought to myself, before tweeting "done and DONE!" back for good measure.

The next morning, he tweeted this:

toastedzen @2birds1blog FYI I have no idea how much sake I had put back before I wrote that. Just in case, you know if it doesn't work out between us.

To which I joked, "what?? so we're NOT dating?!" And this is what I got back:

toastedzen @2birds1blog its not you, its me. really. umm... I just think we should be free to see other people. but we can still be friends.

OK, let me just get this straight: I'm getting dumped by fake boyfriends, these days? Before even meeting me? Is this really how far I've fallen? I'm not mad, mind you. I'm just asking. Clarifying, really. Because when you discover my lifeless body hanging from a shower rod, I don't want there to be any confusion as to what happened. I don't want any lingering theories out there that perhaps old Meg McBlogger David Carradine-ed herself. It was intentional. So we're all on the same page here? Good. Moving on.

- AH! WEIRD! So after writing that last thought, I went to the bathroom to wash my face and on my way back, grabbed the most recent issue of Cosmopolitan Becky has and brought it back to bed. I opened to the horoscope section and read mine:

Aries
The forecast: As Uranus makes its agitating debut in your sign, you're bound to unleash your grumpiness on all the wrong people. Sign up for a bad-mood-busting kickboxing class, pronto.

Work mode: Cashing in. Moneymaking Mercury settles past-due payments, and you'll enjoy a post-tax windfall.

Love life: A three-way planetary lineup could send hot prospects to singles. Meanwhile, the coupled-up Ram will finally start showing off her man at company events.

Power Day: 27th

First and foremost: HAHAHAHAHAHA! Uranus.

Secondly: HAHAHAHAHAHA! Three-way.

But come on! As much of a giant pile of horse shit that Cosmo is, that's a pretty creepy horoscope, right?? I'm grumpy and taking it out on the wrong people (you, via No Post Mondays) but my money problems will soon be solved (thanks to my new poon cake chef on-the-go business!) Thanks Cosmo! I never thought I'd say this, but you made me feel better about life. And don't worry, I won't forget to play with his balls.

I love you, Beth Cooper. But I hate you, Paul Simon.

I am super-duper sorry about the No Post Monday yesterday. I worked the longest and most draining shift ever Sunday and overslept Monday morning as a result. I woke up 45 minutes before I had to be at work again and had to choose between writing a blog post or being on time and wearing pants. I made my choice. Was it the right one? Only time will tell. Although I'm tempted to think it wasn't as I went with the option that involved pants, but either way, I'm sorr about the bag.

I'm not going to lie, guys, I'm kind of psyched to be part of the workforce again. I'm sure this will prove to be a temporary feeling, but I really feel less like a dirt bag and waste of space now that I'm working. Normally at the end of the day I'm like, "Welp! Today I watched two back-to-back episodes of Who's The Boss, stared out the window, did some light Wikipedia work and wrote a blog post about hookworms—you're welcome, society." Now I just feel productive and tired. Yeah, I work retail which isn't exactly what I always wanted to be when I grew up, but I like the people I work with, I'm back in a creative environment and I don't feel the need to pack a cyanide pill in my lunchbox every morning anymore—what more could a girl ask for? (Side note: I love em dashes. If I weren't married to Talia on Facebook, Em Dash and I would be in a relationship slightly more serious than anyone should ever be in with something the width of a capital M. That being said, reader @a_trout replied to something I said on Twitter the other day with the following:

@2birds1blog I applaud the usage of an em dash in that tweet, even if they are ugly as sin.

...Dude. You have no idea how much that tweet fucked up my game. Because now every time I use an em dash, I get all paranoid that I'm using the "ugly as sin" dash and offending all of my readers. Ultimately I don't really give a shit, bless your hearts, but I resent having to take that extra millisecond out of my day to internally debate whether they're ugly or not. It throws my game off completely and stresses me out. I don't know much about you, @a_trout, but I do know the following:

1.) You're from Rochester, NY
2.) You evidently enjoy triple-decker sandwiches
3.) You just broke up a very happy home with me and the em dash.

I hope you're happy with yourself, sir.)

Although I actually like my job for once, it's still not a perfect situation. I promised myself I wouldn't really get into the specifics because I actually like my manager and co-workers and don't want to get fired (NEW EMOTIONS!), but I will admit that there's one person at work who I can't fucking stand. He ruins every single shift I work and frankly, I don't care if he knows it. I'm naming names. His name is Paul—Paul Simon.

The same eight Paul Simon songs. Over and over again. All day long.

I hate you, Paul Simon. I hate you and I hate your "music" and it feels so unbelievably liberating to say it here and now. I hate your whiny voice; I hate your hair cut; I hate your beady little eyes; I hate your glasses; I hate that you let Chevy Chase boss you around in the "You Can Call Me Al" video, I hate Edie Brickell and I really hate the song "What I Am", so it only makes sense that you married her; I hate that people judge me and assume I have horrible taste in music when I tell them how much I hate you; I DESPISE the song "Scarborough Fair" (side note: this really doesn't have anything to do with Paul Simon, but during the first few weeks of college freshman year, I was in Ashleigh's room hanging out and getting to know her, etc. when "Scarborough Fair" came on her iTunes. I freaked out and was like, "Oh my god, I hate this song. It's so unbelievably depressing and there's kind of a story behind it for me and just—gah, can you turn it off and never play it around me again?" She turned it off, no questions asked, and later told me she assumed it was a dead relative's favorite song or something and every time I hear it it reminds me of them.

I was hanging out in her room with a few people a month or so later and it came on her iTunes again. Without me even asking, she apologized and turned it off right away. Someone else in the room asked why it's such a painful song for me, so I told them the story behind it—it's the song that plays in the 2000 Jason Biggs/Mena Suvari movie Loser when Jason Biggs is sitting in Washington Square Park all depressed because he doesn't have any friends. Every time I saw that scene (it was on HBO for a while; don't judge me.) I'd be like, "ahhh! He goes to NYU and doesn't have any friends! That's going to be me!" and get ultra depressed. After hearing that, Ashleigh was like, "...SERIOUSLY? THAT'S THE REASON YOU CAN'T LISTEN TO THAT SONG?!" Honestly, that was probably a pretty good introduction to the kind of illogical reasoning you have to deal with on a daily basis when you're friends with me. But she stuck with, so it can't be that annoying, right?...RIGHT?!

In short: I hate Paul Simon. And I should mention this hatred isn't a result of hearing his music on repeat all day at work. We play the same Michael Bublé CD over and over again and guess what? I physically can't get enough of it. That man can croon. It's just Paul Simon's music that makes me want to claw my own ears off mid-transaction.

I should also clarify that I hated Paul Simon way before I ever got this job. His Graceland album was a staple in the McBlogger family car growing up and after years of being forced to listen to it anytime we went anywhere, it mysteriously vanished. It was this big to-do because my parents thought Becca lost it, but she maintained that it must have fallen out of the CD player when the car was getting serviced at the dealership and we never got a new one because nobody would step up to the plate and take the blame. Little did they know that I took that CD, broke it into 5,000 little pieces and buried it in an unmarked grave down by the river. And when I was done, I pissed on that grave, flicked my cigarette onto the freshly disturbed soil and laughed and laughed. Just kidding. I didn't do any of that. I think it fell out at the dealership, but! I was fuckin' psyched when it's reign of terror was over.

There was a lull in business on Sunday and I decided to take that time to make a comprehensive list of everything I would rather listen to than Paul Simon. I leave you now with that list.

Things I Would Rather Listen to Than Paul Simon:

- Pan flute music

- A baby cry

- Car breaks screech

- A lonely fog horn

- A pregnant woman in labor

- Jill Zarin and Bethenny Frenkel work out their differences

- A slain dragon take it's last, dying breath

- Russell The Homophobic Co-Worker suck air through his teeth

- The waiter at T.G.I. Friday's tell me today's specials. Again.

- A disco whistle

- A college a capella group sing Journey's Don't Stop Believin'. But not like the best a capella group on campus, the group that when you don't get into the best group you're roommate comforts you by saying, "Aww, it's OK! You could always try out for ________ !" That group singing Journey's Don't Stop Believin'.

- My neighbor having slappy sex

- Someone trying to convince me that global warming is a myth, as evidenced by The Snowpocalypse

- A good pussy story

- Amateur slam poetry

- Two hours of Bob Saget stand-up comedy

- My mom lecture me about how my blog makes me look like an alcoholic

- My dad ask me if I'm still going to the gym

- My dad ask me if I'm still going to the gym right after my mom lectures me about how my blog makes me look like an alcoholic

- My dad ask me if I'm still going to the gym right after my mom lectures me about how my blog makes me look like an alcoholic during my birthday dinner

- An Evening with Kevin Smith

- A passive-aggressive sigh

- Vern "Mini-Me" Troyer talk about Heath Ledger's death on Access Hollywood

- Someone practice their cockney accent for a local production of Oliver!

- Evie scrow

- Someone talk about how their college really emphasized community service

- Any given Nickelback song

- Someone talk about how good it feels to go to the gym early in the morning before work

- The pros and cons of NuvaRing

- A vacuum cleaner going over broken glass

- A single mother talking about how it's just so hard

- The benefits of veganism

- John Mayer performing a never-ending mic check

- The soft whimpers of a grown man crying himself to sleep

- Ke$ha's "Tik-Tok". (I know, strong words.)

- Angry mid-90's Riot Grrrl music

- Dane Cook discuss the craft of acting

- The meanest anonymous comments ever left on the blog read aloud by Fran Drescher

FIN!

(8 minutes in. Get tissues.)

Ooo baby do you know what that's worth? Here's the Season Finale of Kell on Earth

Season Finale y’all! It seems like just yesterday we were marveling at how dumb Vorhees is; at how wacky Andrew M.’s clothing choices are; at how badly Skinner needs under eye concealer. And look how much we’ve grown since then!

To be perfectly honest, having been sans television for the past three weeks and therefore away from the recapping, I felt like I was so out of touch with what was going on at People’s Revolution. I came back expecting to have infinite fodder for jokes, but seriously you guys without the easy targets of Vorhees and Andrew S., shit gets complicated. Especially when I’m trying to be funny before the sun is up. I’m lucky I manage to put a large majority of my clothes on correctly in the morning. One of these days, I should probably start drinking coffee. What am I even talking about right now? Tangents, tangents, tangents.

Back to the subject at hand. Kell on Earth season finale. So with the recession in full swing, Kelly’s all worried about business and junk like that. We’ve seen our fair share of her clients try to dick her out of some money, and we all know that homey don’t play that. So what’s a fashion publicist to do? Well according to Kelly, they need to stop dealing with cool, hipster, broke ass clients and start taking on big names. Like Lifesavers? I know when I think haute couture, Lifesavers is probably about number 3 after Swiffer Wet Jet and Kix Cereal. So I support this decision of hers. BLANYWAY, lucky for Kelly DKNY calls a bitch up and is like “Hey want to help us make a movie?” And Kelly asks, “Will there be any tasteful nude scenes?” to which DKNY responds, “Yes, of course. But those are for our own private use. The video we distribute is about a sweater.” At this point Kelly said the name of the sweater (“The Cozy” for those of you who weren’t listening) seventy bajillion times like a good publicist should. So things are looking up!

Meanwhile, KCut’s bday is coming up and Skinner and Andrew want to throw her a surprise party. Trouble is, Madam Cutrone is a wily son of a bitch and she’s not one to be easily surprised. But they are like the Little Engine that Could and they chug along with thoughts of “I think I can.” So it’s Covert Op Bday Surprise for Private Andrew and Lieutenant Skinner (what? It’s so early. Please bear with.) So anytime Kelly pops out of the office for one reason or another, Andrew convinces Skinner (clubs her on the head and drags her by the hair) to duck out and help him do some planning.

The best part is when they go to get Kelly a cake, but of course wacky hijinx occur, because they decide they want to eat more cake, so they tell the restaurant they are tasting cakes for their wedding. So on the way to the bakery, they realize that a) Andrew is wearing the skirt (OF COURSE he is) and b) Skinner needs an engagement ring. At which point, Andrew proceeds to get down on one knee on a Soho street corner and fauxpose to Skinner. They chuckle and are merry. It reminds me of the time Meg and I were on the National Mall and I fauxposed and then an entire family reunion asked us if we just got engaged and they cheered for us. And we walked away in shame for lying. But hell, that family reunion has a story to tell thanks to us, amirite?!

Back to KoE. So Kelly’s being the next Quentin Tarantino for DKNY, filming a new girl power army decked out in multicolored Cozy sweaters marching through the streets of NYC. And wouldn’t you know they are having trouble with their guerrilla film making. Who would have thought that filming on the streets of NYC would be hard to do without also getting men in business suits on their Blackberries wandering into the shot? Clearly Kelly underestimated the “Fuck you” mentality of her own co-city dwellers. So they jet set all over the city to film the girls in several locations (P.S. anyone else notice Fatima from ANTM Cycle 10 was one of the models?). In SoHo, K.Cut brings Ava to see Mommy at work, because it’s important for Ava to know where the money for her MacBook is coming from. Or something like that. Honestly, I tuned out a little bit towards the end. I had been awake since 5:50 yesterday morning, so Quality Time with Ava sort of nodded me off. In the end, though, Kelly finished up a pretty bitchin’ film for DKNY, so maybe this bodes well for the future of PR in tough times. Yes? Yes.

So it’s party time! After much hoopla about who is actually attending the party (Pablo, the showroom manager? Where has he been? Have we seen him before? Why is he even invited? And why is he bringing three guests?), the party is on like Donkey Kong. Andrew takes the good old fashioned subway to the hotel (which is surprising to me, because wouldn’t it be so much easier to just take a cab. Especially if you’re secretly loaded, you crazy bastard.) with Kelly’s birthday/Andrew and Skinner’s wedding cake in tow. Now all we need is Kelly. Cue Robyn trying to wrassle Kelly into going to a “cocktail event for clients” wink wink. But of course, Kelly is having none of it and is in no mood. There should have been comical Benny Hill music playing during this part, because of course Kelly isn’t going to want to go to what’s supposed to be her surprise party. It’s just too easy.

But after hemming and hawing and caftaning, they manage to get Kell to the party and she’s either the world’s best actor and deserves an EGOT right now, or she was legitimately surprised because the tears were a-flowing! So maybe the cake read "Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Mukamal”. Details. Skinner and Andrew managed to do the impossible and surprise K.Cut. What a nice birthday.

Full circle: K.Cut totes cried during her confessional because of the party, but she still manages to plug her book by excusing herself to go outside. The consummate publicist, that Cutrone.

Where's Andrew S with an Ativan when you need one?

Good morning all! Before we get to this week's recap of Kell On Earth, I have a few matters of housekeeping to discuss:

1.) Re: the following text message I received yesterday afternoon from Allison:

Please tell me No Post Mondays are not the new black. You're my Monday life support, Meg!

a.) Bless your heart, Allison! Bless it good.
b.) No, I promise they're not. And sorry about that. I didn't post last Monday because Co-Blogger Chris was in town being all handsome and distracting and I didn't post yesterday because I was having one of my emo episodes where I desperately need to lock myself in my apartment, snort a few lines of Pepto chewables and sleep for an absurd amount of time. But by mid-afternoon things got a whole helluva lot better, so now I'm back! Sorry I got all Morrissey on you. I'm here. My mom thinks I'm queer. Get used to it.

2.) Frankly, I forgot the other item of housekeeping...I saw Shutter Island tonight and things have been kind of touch-and-go since. I'm also currently watching a show called TRANSform Me on mute and I think it's about drag queens giving teenage girls with low self-esteem makeovers? I don't know. I care about it enough to note it's existence, but not enough to reach my hand out and pat around my bed to find the remote to un-mute it. Sorry. I've already been to the gym once today, a-thank you very much. (Lies. I've been laying in my bed feeling sorry for myself and we all know it.)

You may have noticed that I'm kind of just awkwardly typing my inner monologue at this point and not actually writing anything of substance. Well, Chris couldn't recap Kell On Earth tonight (last night, for you) because his TV is packed in a box somewhere en route to the district (HUZZAH!) and I was too busy getting the Ruffalo scared out of me to watch it or the repeat at 11, so now I need to stay up until the next repeat at 2am. And yes, I know there are easier ways to do this, but I don't know when they put the newest episode online and this sister can't afford DVR. I'm unemployed. Don't judge me or my cable package. So now my plan is to type my inner monologue to avoid falling asleep because I know myself and I know that once I'm out, I'm Out. With a capital O. Edward Norton could break in wearing tap shoes, no pants and a gift basket of Kashi Go-Lean and I'd still be out like a light.

So what can I talk about? Umm...I did my laundry today. It was really cathartic. I hadn't done it in a while. I bought a new brand of laundry detergent because it was $2 off at CVS with my bonus card and I'm thoroughly enjoying it's refreshing yet musky scent. Uhhh....I've been ravenously hungry recently and I'm breaking out, so I guess I'm going to get my period soon? That's exciting. I guess. Fertile Myrtle and all that. Ooo! It's 1am. Making progress. Just another hour to go. Real Housewives of New York City is on right now but I refuse to watch it because the rift between Jill and Bethenny affects me and my daily mood way more than anything not involving me or someone close to me should. I don't know why I give reality television this much power.

What else? OH! So my "everyday necklace" is starting to give me a rash, which I find completely irritating on two distinct levels: 1.) I like it and I don't want to take it off and 2.) It was expensive. I totally interpreted it's expensiveness as a sign that it doesn't have any nickel in it, but judging from the disguising and painfully itchy rash developing around my neck, I guess not. Nickel has to be the most inconvenient metal to be allergic to. That shit is everywhere. Like on the inside of every button on every pair of pants in America, for example. True story: I have to put clear nail polish on the back of the buttons in my pants or else I get a really painful rash on my stomach. It's either that or get hypo-allergenic pants, which is a level of nerdom I'm just not ready to explore. Yet. Ok, 1:30, doing well. Let's see, I've already shared that I'm broke, ovulating and allergic to common metals, how else can I convince you not to have sex with me? WOW. There's a bottle of skin astringent laying next to me in bed and for a hot second I thought it was a bottle of water and almost drank it. That would have been interesting to explain to the paramedics...

Um. Um. Um, what else? My face itches. Fucking allergies. I have to pee but I don't want to get up. I should probably stop typing and/or delete all of this later. GOD DAMNIT, I just reached for the astringent again. 'Ehhhh...I'm going to check Twitter. See what's happening in the world. Ok, according to Snooki, season 2 of Jersey Shore is going to be "crazy." Good to know. OMG! Someone retweeted something from Henry Holland!!!11o2i3rjo2i3jr. I didn't know Henry Holland was on Twitter?! I once tweeted that he's like, "a walking boner for my eyes." Had I known he was on Twitter I totally would have @-ed him and we'd obviously be in love and wearing matching neon mesh outfits in the English countryside right now! I think the reason I'm so into Henry Holland is because he kind of looks like Michael Showalter, except times gay:



Just a little theory I've been working on. 1:56am. AWESOME. That photo research really wasted time quite nicely. Cutrone AHOY!

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This week we got a good look at the inner workings of Andrew M, and let me tell you something: Andrew M fascinates me like nobody has ever fascinated me before. (Well, except Al Corley, maybe.) Andrew M apparently comes from a lot of money and only has a job because there are 24 hours in a day and you can only spend so many of them polishing your solid gold shitter. This, for some reason, is shocking to me. I mean, I'm not trying to say that he's always seemed "down-to-earth" to me, as the boy repeatedly wears outfits that look like if ADIDAS track pants made love to Elvira's dungeon, but of all of Kelly's lackeys, I'd probably want to be trapped in a box for 29 hours with him the most. Skinner comes in a close second. Kelly's navy caftan third.

Andrew M lives in an apartment attached to his parent's place on 57th street and playa be ballin'. He has a gilded baroque Versace chair in his bedroom. I have a Jäger machine. His employers found it endearing when he ordered over $500 worth of printer paper because he didn't want to deal with the stresses of ordering office supplies again. I was shit-canned and threatened with legal action for writing a blog. He has a job just for funsies. I spent the better part of today emailing various craigslist adult gigs to Alex and asking if they're good ideas or not. What I'm trying to say is: jealous.

Personally, I relate more to old Andrew S. Poor, poor Andrew S. Robyn hates Andrew S' guts with a burning passion and he just can't figure out why. I'm apt to blame the lisp. Or the absurd tan. Or the Britney Spears lyrical tattoos. Or the fact that he's a pill popper who always looks like he's wearing a jar of high-gloss lip balm. Or because he can't quite seem to ever do his job correctly. My guess is as good as yours. The only thing we know for sure is that Robyn is a raging Cuntosaurus Rex whenever Andrew S is in a 4-food radius of her and I kind of feel badly for him.

BUT YOU KNOW WHO I DON'T FEEL BADLY FOR? Ava. I don't want to say I "hate" the daughter of my idol, because that seems so callous and uncalled for. Let's just say that I don't find it "adorable" when she clickity clacks away on the computer my grown-ass has been saving months for while she badmouths Wal-Mart and the fact that her grandmother shops there. Oh, I'M sorry, Ava Cutrone. We can't all have golden MacBooks thrown at us for graduating new-age hippie Kindergarten. Some of us have to work jobs to afford computers and then get fired from those jobs and are forced to dip into our laptop funds to survive, so it only makes sense to take advantage of every day rollback prices. Gawd. (Ok. I swear I'm done picking on 8-year-olds. For now...)

Where was I in this recap? Oh yes—

Robyn to Andrew S: "CUNT CUNT CUNT, WAH WAH WAH, HATES YA HATES YA HATES YA."

After a hard day berating Andrew S and his tan of many colors, Robyn, Emily and Kelly decide to take a stroll around the block to blow off some steam and meet interesting, fascinating people. One of these people is Lucien, a skateboarder slash bookmaker with a fancy European accent and a quasi Jheri Curl whom Robyn is all over like under-eye circles on Skinner. And good for her! Kelly thinks Lucien is the perfect guy for a power girl like Robyn because "he's just a cute guy who rolls up with you to events and looks good and just wants to fuckin' have fun." I'm pretty much in the market for that exact same thing myself. Except I'm not a power girl. And the events you'd be rolling up with me to wouldn't so much be "events" as dive bars and my couch. But, you know. Tomato, toe-mat-oh.

The next day Kelly takes Andrew M to a look book shoot for the Xenya line of affordable* dresses. (*Affordable = under $500. RECESSION LOL!) Here's the root problem with Andrew M: he doesn't really know what's up with his job half the time and he doesn't really care that much about figuring it out, but he'll never get in trouble for it because he's so god damn likable. Everybody likes him. Myself included! Even though he's kind of lazy and clueless. It's not fair. For example, he kind of half-asses the Xenya shoot, but every one's too busy being like, "HAHA! LOOK AT HIS ADORABLE GOTHIC STOCKINGS!" to notice or care. Kelly even takes him to meet noted milliner (that's a hat maker for you peasants) Stephen Jones and offers to buy him a one-of-a-kind black Price of Darkness crown...hat...thing because she thinks he's so cute. Do you think she'd do that for Skinner? Uh, hellz no. But you gotta give it to Andrew M; it's kind of genius. If only poor Andrew S would realize that all he has to do is stop listening to Britney Spears and start listening to Saviour Machine and he'd have Robyn in the palm of his hand before you can say Emily The Strange.

Alas, Andrew S never gets the memo and only makes things worse for himself when he wants to take time off right after Fashion Week to go to a wedding back in California. To be fair, Andrew asked for this time off back when he was just a little baby intern and didn't know that things are still really hectic right after Fashion Week, but he stands his ground to Kelly and tells her that even though the office is going to be crazy short-staffed without him, he's still going to LA. And ooof. Tenseleytown/AU. (Oh, wow. Really? A DC metro pun?) (It's 3am. Let's not talk about it.)

DVR Teaser: Children grow quickly and it's funny to watch them walk around in adult-sized shoes. Like dogs. The end.

Who's got platform wedges, an S&M beltlace and feels like throwing a wacky Adam's Family themed dinner party?? Andrew M, of course! But how ever will he find time to plan a dinner party and run Kelly's office? With the help of his assistant/mom, of course. Andrew basically calls his mom (whom he literally refers to as his "assistant") from work and asks her to throw together the dinner party kthnx! and she does. This should annoy me but mostly I'm just sad I didn't get an invite. GOD DAMN HE'S GOOD.

Andrew and Skinner then proceed to get in the world's most pointless fight when Skinner shows up late to his dinner party because she had to stay and finish the work he abandoned to get dressed and "call everyone up to see what they're bringing." OH, ANDREW! You little skamp, you! (Side note: I almost just drank the astringent again. I have officially moved it to my nightstand.)

Blah, blah, blah...Kelly tries to whore Robyn out to a waiter who likes big boobs, yadah, yadah, yadah, Skinner and Andrew S make up....BAM! Monday morning everyone comes into the office and—SHOCK!—Andrew S quit over the weekend and is moving back to California permanently. Poor little thing. Truth be told, I'm actually going to miss Andrew S. That's when Andy Cohen pops out my refrigerator and shouts "SURPRISE! WE'RE ONE STEP AHEAD OF YOU, SWEETHEART!" and there's a really funny black and white remember when... montage of Andrew S. hair spraying his hair, laying in a tanning bed, showing off his B. Spears tattoos, offering Skinner Ativan and cluelessly shaking a printer cartridge. God...if I could be in a Facebook relationship with Bravo TV, it would not be an open one.

Welp! Good night slash have a wonderful day at work!

SUCK IT ENGLAND—It's Drinking Game Friday!

Ah, Fourth of July weekend: drunk and full of patriotism. Show me someone who doesn't love Fourth of July weekend and I will show you a terrorist.

Early stages of Bronchitis be damned, I will be going to Philadelphia this weekend to visit Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie and Tulane Chris. And we are going to party—American style! We're going to run up the Philadelphia Museum of Art steps and Eddie is going to play the Rocky theme on the kazoo! And we're going to streak through empty UPenn dorm halls! And we're going to finger the Liberty Bell's crack because that's quite possibly the funniest thing I can think of! All things American. All things involving alcohol. All things I can't wait for.

Guess what else we'll be doing! We'll be playing this week's drinking game—The Fourth of July Drinking Game!


(That image doesn't really have anything to do with the Fourth of July per se, but I think I love it more than I love any living human being. So there it shall stay.)

Rules:
Drink When:
- Somebody refers to the Fourth of July as "America's Birthday" or wishes America a happy birthday
- For every piece of shamelessly star-spangled clothing you see (drink twice if it's from Old Navy)
- For every hot dog you eat
- For every sparkler you light
- 9/11 is mentioned
- Uncle Rod has a 'Nam flashback at the fireworks show
- The Bill Pullman rally speech from Independence Day is quoted
- "Now that Obama is in office, I can finally say I'm proud to be an American" (or some variation of)
- Fireworks? Is that too easy? No. No, it's not.
- MINI FLAGSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

OK, now I'm going to tell a story about mini flags. That was a rough transition. I'm not going to lie, I've been drinking all night and just took a lot of cough medicine. I'm not really at the height of my game right now. Where was I? MINI FLAGS. Yes. So at school the day after 9/11, we were all gathered into our school's theater/multi-purpose room to watch a televised National Five Minutes of Silence. During the broadcast, they showed people at different locations across the country observing the five minutes of silence. At one point, they slowly panned in on this guy who had a mini flag shoved in the back of his shirt, resting on his left shoulder. The guy was all deep in thought, clearly having a meaningful moment, but then quickly jerked his head to the left and blatantly poked himself in the eye with the mini flag. It was one of those stupid things that's funny, but not that funny. But then I realized my friend Ali sitting next to me saw it and was trying not to laugh, which made it that much more funnier to me. So then I was trying not to laugh, which was making Ali have to laugh, which was making me have to laugh, and it was a big fucking mess. Because we knew that we could not laugh because sweet god, it was the National 9/11 Five Minutes of Silence. Which of course made it even harder not to laugh. And honestly, five minutes is a really fucking long time when you're bruising internal organs you're trying so hard not to laugh. We couldn't do it, you guys. We laughed. We laughed during the National 9/11 Five Minutes of Silence. It was so embarrassing. But we weren't laughing at 9/11, we were laughing at the A-fuck who poked himself in the eye with his mini flag on National TV! It was so shameful. Anyway, to this day when I see mini American flags, that's all I can think about.

OK, well I'm a horrible person and now you all know. I hope you guys have a great weekend though! Thank you so much for reading, telling your friends, facebooking, Twittering and all that jazz. Next week we'll have another Meghan McCain rant, the answer to what happened when my boss took me on a mysterious joyride and other such shenanigans, so check back Monday! Kthnxbye!

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!