Just got back from a long four days working in Philly for The Man and THIS is what I come home to?! God: You more of a bitch than a bitch.
My Sitting Shiva playlist:
R.I.P. Nate Dogg. Melodious dream maker. Hook master. West Coast legend. Sigh.
Showing posts with label RIP. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RIP. Show all posts
3.16.2011
9.18.2009
Drinking Game Friday had the time of it's life
Man, it genuinely feels good to not be hungover on Drinking Game Friday. That's a nice change of pace. Anyway, before we get to today's drinking game, I'd like to share with you two things that have nothing to do with anything. One being I just checked my blog e-mail, to discover this:
And my god, it is far too early in the morning for my spam filter to fail. I generally don't like to be confronted with the phrase "lick a chick out" until noon. If ever.
Next, I had the most coked-out dream ever last night. But it was one of those really realistic dreams you have right before you wake up, so as you get ready throughout the rest of the morning it's still fresh and weird and you remember all of the weird details...if that makes any sense? Anyway, I dreamt that I was at Eastern Market shopping for a Halloween costume when I saw two blinged-out characters in tuxedos walk by me carrying boxes of cupcakes. They looked somewhat familiar so I stared at them for a few seconds until I realized, "...Is that Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg??" Obviously, I flipped out and followed them for a few blocks and as it turns out, Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg were at Eastern Market getting cupcakes for Dre's daughter's wedding. I freaked out all, "BLO-MY GOD, I'm at Dr. Dre's daughter's wedding!" and tried to stealthily sneak around the venue to find Dre, but instead managed to stumbled into a private Eminem concert. Now, I don't generally like Eminem, nor do I find him sexy in the least, but at the time I was rull, rull into it. I was dancing my face off, a-makin' eyes at him and he totally ended up pulling me on stage during the last number and we started making out. Hardcore. And I'm not going to lie, it was kind of hot. Which again is confusing because I really, really don't like Eminmen. ANYWAY, after the show, Em lead me backstage to his dressing room and was like, "Yo, what the fuck you wearing?" And I looked down and I was wearing a comically over sized black cable-knit sweater and Eminem was like, "Damn girl, those sleeves too long," and took out a pair of pinking shears and cut the sleeves off. He tossed my sleeves to the ground and I was like, "OH MY GAWD I FEEL SO SEXY AND LIBERATED" and we started making out again. That's when things get a little hazy, but the next thing I remember is everyone telling me that I was just a groupie and he was just using me and I freaked out and started screaming, "EMINEM LIKES ME FOR ME! NOBODY UNDERSTANDS US!" I went to his next private show and truthfully I was really nervous he wasn't going to remember me and my friends would turn out to be right, BUT, not only did remember me, he pulled me on stage again and took me backstage after the show. Except once we got to his dressing room, he pulled me in for a kiss and said, and I quote, "You smell like a fucking Cosi." To which I said, "No! It's just because I ate a bag of salt and vinegar chips!"
And then I woke up. Fifteen minutes late. And all cracked-out of my gourd.
Ok, well that was special. Hope you enjoyed that little tour of my subconscious. Now onto today's drinking game. And on a day like today, did you really think DGF would be dedicated to anybody else?
Oh Pay-Sway...RIP, my tiny dancer.
The Dirty Dancing Drinking Game
(Before I get 900 emails reaming me out for not picking Point Break, I would like to state for the record that I fucking hate that movie for the following reasons: 1.) Lauren Petty. Period. 2.) Keanu Reeve's invisible acting skills 3.) HE THROWS HIS BADGE INTO THE OCEAN AT THE END!!! The fuck?! I get that he lets Pay-Sway catch The Great Wave because they were bros and Keanu apparently has the heart of a surfer, but really?? Was it really necessary to chuck your badge into the ocean too?? Garey Busey was viciously gunned down trying to catch Pay-Sway! And not only does Keanu not avenge said death (which, by the way, is what I thought all FBI partners do for each other, asshole) he goes and shits on everything he learned from Busey in the process by dramatically throwing his badge into the ocean! So Busey died for nothing. Because in the end, Pay-Sway gets to catch his Great Wave and Keanu decides, fuck it, I think I'll quit my job and work at the fish taco stand for the rest of my life. And it's bullshit. But, you know, still, RIP Swayze.)
Rules:
Drink When:
- A voice comes over a loudspeaker
- Watermelons
- Neal patronizes Baby
- You can't stop looking at Jerry Orbach's eyes and thinking that some random schmo in New York City is currently walking around with them
- Someone receives a monetary tip
- Anyone says the word "lesson"
- Anyone says the word "summer"
- Someone counts off
- Baby and Johnny practice the lift
- Anyone lip syncs
- Baby says "daddy"
- Anyone goes a-slummin'
- She's like the wind
- 15 years later you finally understand that Penny got a back-alley abortion, not the flu
- Baby sneaks off to Johnny's cabin
- Lisa talks about doing it with Robbie
- Somebody puts Baby in a corner
- Somebody takes Baby out of said corner
Sadness...welp! Have a terrific weekend! You know, I bet if you told five friends about 2birds1blog, Patrick Swayze could rest a little easier in heavan. And shouldn't we all do our part to make sure Pay-Sway's eternal soul can rest a little easier? You know, after all the joy he's given us over the years...don't be selfish guys. Tell five friends. K, love you, mean it!
And my god, it is far too early in the morning for my spam filter to fail. I generally don't like to be confronted with the phrase "lick a chick out" until noon. If ever.
Next, I had the most coked-out dream ever last night. But it was one of those really realistic dreams you have right before you wake up, so as you get ready throughout the rest of the morning it's still fresh and weird and you remember all of the weird details...if that makes any sense? Anyway, I dreamt that I was at Eastern Market shopping for a Halloween costume when I saw two blinged-out characters in tuxedos walk by me carrying boxes of cupcakes. They looked somewhat familiar so I stared at them for a few seconds until I realized, "...Is that Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg??" Obviously, I flipped out and followed them for a few blocks and as it turns out, Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg were at Eastern Market getting cupcakes for Dre's daughter's wedding. I freaked out all, "BLO-MY GOD, I'm at Dr. Dre's daughter's wedding!" and tried to stealthily sneak around the venue to find Dre, but instead managed to stumbled into a private Eminem concert. Now, I don't generally like Eminem, nor do I find him sexy in the least, but at the time I was rull, rull into it. I was dancing my face off, a-makin' eyes at him and he totally ended up pulling me on stage during the last number and we started making out. Hardcore. And I'm not going to lie, it was kind of hot. Which again is confusing because I really, really don't like Eminmen. ANYWAY, after the show, Em lead me backstage to his dressing room and was like, "Yo, what the fuck you wearing?" And I looked down and I was wearing a comically over sized black cable-knit sweater and Eminem was like, "Damn girl, those sleeves too long," and took out a pair of pinking shears and cut the sleeves off. He tossed my sleeves to the ground and I was like, "OH MY GAWD I FEEL SO SEXY AND LIBERATED" and we started making out again. That's when things get a little hazy, but the next thing I remember is everyone telling me that I was just a groupie and he was just using me and I freaked out and started screaming, "EMINEM LIKES ME FOR ME! NOBODY UNDERSTANDS US!" I went to his next private show and truthfully I was really nervous he wasn't going to remember me and my friends would turn out to be right, BUT, not only did remember me, he pulled me on stage again and took me backstage after the show. Except once we got to his dressing room, he pulled me in for a kiss and said, and I quote, "You smell like a fucking Cosi." To which I said, "No! It's just because I ate a bag of salt and vinegar chips!"
And then I woke up. Fifteen minutes late. And all cracked-out of my gourd.
Ok, well that was special. Hope you enjoyed that little tour of my subconscious. Now onto today's drinking game. And on a day like today, did you really think DGF would be dedicated to anybody else?
Oh Pay-Sway...RIP, my tiny dancer.
The Dirty Dancing Drinking Game
(Before I get 900 emails reaming me out for not picking Point Break, I would like to state for the record that I fucking hate that movie for the following reasons: 1.) Lauren Petty. Period. 2.) Keanu Reeve's invisible acting skills 3.) HE THROWS HIS BADGE INTO THE OCEAN AT THE END!!! The fuck?! I get that he lets Pay-Sway catch The Great Wave because they were bros and Keanu apparently has the heart of a surfer, but really?? Was it really necessary to chuck your badge into the ocean too?? Garey Busey was viciously gunned down trying to catch Pay-Sway! And not only does Keanu not avenge said death (which, by the way, is what I thought all FBI partners do for each other, asshole) he goes and shits on everything he learned from Busey in the process by dramatically throwing his badge into the ocean! So Busey died for nothing. Because in the end, Pay-Sway gets to catch his Great Wave and Keanu decides, fuck it, I think I'll quit my job and work at the fish taco stand for the rest of my life. And it's bullshit. But, you know, still, RIP Swayze.)
Rules:
Drink When:
- A voice comes over a loudspeaker
- Watermelons
- Neal patronizes Baby
- You can't stop looking at Jerry Orbach's eyes and thinking that some random schmo in New York City is currently walking around with them
- Someone receives a monetary tip
- Anyone says the word "lesson"
- Anyone says the word "summer"
- Someone counts off
- Baby and Johnny practice the lift
- Anyone lip syncs
- Baby says "daddy"
- Anyone goes a-slummin'
- She's like the wind
- 15 years later you finally understand that Penny got a back-alley abortion, not the flu
- Baby sneaks off to Johnny's cabin
- Lisa talks about doing it with Robbie
- Somebody puts Baby in a corner
- Somebody takes Baby out of said corner
Sadness...welp! Have a terrific weekend! You know, I bet if you told five friends about 2birds1blog, Patrick Swayze could rest a little easier in heavan. And shouldn't we all do our part to make sure Pay-Sway's eternal soul can rest a little easier? You know, after all the joy he's given us over the years...don't be selfish guys. Tell five friends. K, love you, mean it!
8.25.2009
Recrap Wednesdays: Zebras and Man Boobs and Arbitrary Decisions! Oh my!
That's how this episode opens. A close-up of waffles being drenched in butter and syrup. Lest we forget these hogs are fatties who like to eat. Thank you Fox. Thank you for that gentle reminder. I just...I just don't know if I can do it anymore. And I mean the universal IT. I'm just not feelin' it this morning. Ted Kennedy's dead, Hello Cupcake ran out of free cupcakes and closed right before we got there last night, I have still yet to figure out how to change the light bulb behind the bar's back splash, my new haircut isn't conducive to the god-awful heat and humidity...some days it's like, what's the point, you know? And then I look into Krazyface Kristian's eyes and I see a beacon of hope. Because as long as we can laugh, we can go on to face another day, right? Right. And considering in this episode K.Face Krissy compares her body dancing the salsa to "two pigs fighting under a blanket," perhaps I can even go on for another week.
Our episode opens with waffles, of course, but then moves on to the arbitrary handing out of the first date. Honestly, everything about this show is so random. There's no reason or rhyme to who gets to go on which date or who gets more face time with Luke or anything. I mean, is a good old-fashioned hot dog eating contest too much to ask for? Anyway, the Gods that be decide Mandy and Kristian will be going on the first date with Luke to learn how to salsa dance. Obviously Kristian shits her pants with excitement because she's clinically insane and has a little Luke Conley Real Doll that she lugs around the house having tea parties and practice make out sessions with. Not really. Well who knows, I wouldn't put it past her.
Mandy irritates me for two reasons: 1.) She has Huckleberry Hound eyes:
and 2.) She's blatantly not overweight! If there were a convention for completely normal body types, she would be a keynote speaker. I just don't get how she's classified as "overweight." Unless "overweight" you mean "needs a supportive bra." Then I get it.
Each girl gets a mini salsa dancing lesson and then some alone time with Luke. Luke chooses to get his alone time with Kristian out of the way first and I get it. It's like ripping a band-aid off. However, this decision sends Mandy into a tailspin of emotion. Because remember, fat people have emotions. And a penchant for waffles. Waffles and emotions. And no date to prom. Proving once and for all that he's a giant creepy weirdo, Luke makes out with Kristian during their alone time—RIGHT AS MANDY ROUNDS THE CORNER! She totally sees the whole thing, runs to the bathroom and cries her face off.
Now, I can understand seeing that and being like "what puh fuck?!" but I don't understand her decision to run away and cry. Because she wastes her entire alone time with Luke having him coddle her and be like, "You're special, you're beautiful, make outs mean nothing, blickity blah blah blah" instead of utilizing that time to actually make out with him herself. I mean come on! What is this amateur hour?! I hate to bring everything back to Rock of Love, and yet I don't hate to at all because that show was genius. Many, many a time, a girl would round the corner to find Bret and a Token Ho making out and instead of being a Needy Nellie about it, she would handle it like a pro. Which make senses because that girl probably was a professional, but still! If Lacey from Rock of Love taught me anything it's that when you see your man making out with another girl on a group date, you walk over confidentaly, say something like, "Oooh, looks like we're having fun over here, mind if I cut in?" which he won't, because what's better than making out with one girl? Two girls. So the girl he was making out will get up (not before saying something catty, probably involving the phrase "sloppy seconds,") walk way and that's your cue to sit down and pick up where she left off. The beauty of this is that you're make out session will be fresh in his mind whereas hers is but a distant memory. BAM! That's how you whore yourself out on national television! Always ask yourself: WWROLD?
The next day Malissa is arbitrarily picked for an alone date. They go on a helicopter ride to a vineyard and go wine tasting. The date pretty much follows the same boring and creepy arc established in every other episode:
couple sits somewhere beautiful -> marvel at how beautiful the scenery is -> Oh PS you look beautiful too -> but I'm fat! -> but you're still beautiful! -> make out -> uncorking wine/champagne bottle ejaculation joke.
Luke's date with Malissa does have the added bonus of a botched tandem bicycle ride, however. They go on the queerest bicycle ride ever. As they ride through the vineyard, they pass a herd of zebras. Honest to god zebras.
The fuck? I've been to Napa Valley and I did not see one zebra the entire time. And things even more mystical and coked out when they BREAK THE BIKE. Their overweight bodies break the tandem bicycle. Personally, I don't believe it. I think the producers tampered with it beforehand because yes, Luke and Malissa aren't exactly the Olsen Twins, but they are in no way offensively overweight enough to break a Huffy in half. I refuse to believe it.
When Malissa comes back from the date, she tells the rest of the girls in the house that she thinks she's in love with Luke. And bring out the waffles and Aunt Jemima because this causes a HAIL STORM of emotion. Kristian goes crazy because (she's crazy and) she's been in love with Luke since her first casting video. Kirstian in her confessional pops a vein in her eye as she shouts, "WELL HOW DO YOU KNOW YOU LOVE HIM? WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU LOVE HIM?" Umm, I don't know psychopath. Probably the same reason you're in love with him after only a handful of group dates: because it's a competition and winning things is super fun. Then Heather starts crying because (fat people have emotions and) she's not in love with Luke yet and feels behind. "What's wrong with me?" she sobs, "Why am I not feeling this?" To which Laura and I both shouted at the television in perfect synchronization: "BECAUSE YOU'RE NORMAL!!!!!!" Which is why it's better to watch this show with a friend or a spotter.
The next day, Luke takes Anna, Heather and The Tranny on a group date to the beach. It's awkward...Luke complains later in his confessional that he's sick of the girls relying on him to direct the conversation all of the time. Yeah. Us too. Because Luke decides to direct the conversation towards man boobs and suntan lotion. Really makes a girl miss the awkward silence. During Luke's one-on-one time with Heather, she tells him that she's starting to get jealous of the other girls and this does not make Luke happy. Luke thought Heather would have more confidence in their connection and this insecurity is a real turn-off. Which is kind of odd considering Luke has a raging insecurity fetish. I thought he'd be coming in his pants during this conversation, but no. Luke Conley: you surprise me.
The next night at the pre-elimination mixer, Mandy utilizes this time to have a heart-to-heart with Luke about how she used to have an eating disorder. Wamp, wamp...Things continue down Awkward Avenue when Kristian tells Luke that she's in love with him. In three different languages. And then in English. Just so there's no lingering confusion. Luke says he's "touched." Now, ideally when you tell someone that you love them, you want to hear it back. Luke saying that he was touched was very kind of him, but sort of a red flag to Kristian that homeboy is not so much in love with her back. Instead of picking up on that flag, Kristian floats back to the other girls, cries and gushes about how in love she is and how he tooooootalllllyyyyy loves her too. This causes The Tranny to reach into her boxers, grab her balls by the scruff and find Luke to tell him that she's "not comfortable developing feelings for the man that Kristian loves, so maybe she shouldn't be in the picture." OOOO! TRANNY TIME! Luke tells Tranny not to pay attention to anything the other girls are saying in the house (read: "WOAH WOAH WOAH, Kristian said what now?! I love her like I love a sturdy dining room table or ample closet space!") and follow her heart. Well played Tranny...well played indeed.
At elimination, Luke chooses Anna first, which is bizarre and shocking because she's gotten the least face and also has Huckleberry Hound eyes. Again, arbitrary decisions 2009. In the end it comes down to Kristian, Heather or The Tranny. This is the same point when Teresa and Dave showed up at my place to find me and Laura clutching each other on the couch screaming "IT'S GOT TO BE HEATHER!!!" over and over again at the TV. BUT! HE PICKS THE TRANNY and sends home Krazyface Kristian and Homegirl Heather! OIJF293F09J2FOIFfijwoei! Arbitrary, horrible decisions that make no sense. After sending the girls off, Luke runs after Kristian because "she needs a little more explanation and a little more time with me." I wish he hadn't done that, because then we get to see her break down in Luke's arms and it feels border-line inappropriate to watch. She does that cry where you can't catch your breath and your.words.are.all.short.and.choppy.like.this and snot's uncontrollably flying out of your nose...we weren't meant to see that. Poor little bird. I almost feel badly for exclusively referring to her as Krazyface Kristian. Almost...
Cry Count: 9...... +50 for Kristian's breakdown. So, 59.
Next week: The four remaining ladies go on their last one-on-one date with Luke and SURPRISE! Their families are there!
8.07.2009
Drinking Game Friday remembers John Hughes
OH MY FUCKING GOD. I FUCKING HATE THE INTERNET AND I HATE MY COMPUTER AND I HATE BOSS #2 AND THERE'S A PINCHED NERVE IN MY NECK THAT I JUST EXACERBATED WITH ALL OF THE CRAWLING AROUND ON MY HANDS AND KNEES I JUST DID TO REPEATEDLY PLUG AND UNPLUG MY COMPUTER 5,000 TIMES TO TRY TO FIX THIS WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT 1991 DELL COMPUTER THAT I'VE BEEN GRACED WITH AND TECH PEOPLE ARE THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE SECOND ONLY TO BOSS #2 AND HERE'S YOUR GOD DAMN DRINKING GAME. FINALLY. SIX FUCKING HOURS LATER. AND YES I DID FORGET TO TAKE MY MEDS THIS MORNING, AS I HAVE FOR THE PAST THREE DAYS AND YES RAGE IS A SIDE EFFECT OF WITHDRAWAL, AND YES THIS DOES EXPLAIN WHY I'M OVERREACTING AND TYPING IN CAPS BUT WHATEVS. OK? GOOD. LET'S MOVE ON. HERE. DRINK.
---------------
Last night was a roller coaster of emotion, you guys. It started when Ronald, of has a clubbed foot fame, came into my office right before I left work and invited me to see the one-man play he wrote, directed, produced and stars in next month. I said YES and please. I didn't ask too many questions about it, but I'm praying to god it's a semi-autobiographical musical...
Riding that high, I went to the gym where I was immediately hit by a low: my gym crush wasn't there. I have a gym crush by the way. Tee hee ha ha hee hee hooo...He's a giant dreamy dream boat that I just want to sail away on. His name is Kyle. (In my mind. Clearly, I've never talked to him, nor do I have plans to ever talk to him. Because that would just be crazy.) Kyle is a veterinarian for sick and lonely pugs, owns his own row house on Capitol Hill and moonlights as a cage fighter. He's the best. He also has the best ass and calves you will ever see. I know this because I frequently stare at them. And by stare, I mean unabashedly gawk. Kyle has turned me into the person I hate: a starer. Because the only thing that gets me through my time at the gym is staring at Kyle's tight little ass bobbin' up and down on the treadmill. And I mean that in the most creepy way possible. I just shamelessly, shamelessly stare. Which is embarrassing because we're both facing the same mirrored wall and sometimes I'll look up from his ass and into his eyes and realize they're staring right back. With a look of concern. But if he doesn't want me to stare at him, maybe he shouldn't always pick the treadmill in front of my bike. Plus he wouldn't dress like that if he didn't want it...
After the gym, I moped all the way back to my apartment where my mood was immediately turned around. For in my mailbox was the most glorious treasure awaiting from a reader in John McCain's office—an autographed JMcC photo and bumper sticker:
God yes. Who has two thumbs, cleared a wall and is going frame shopping this weekend? This girl. After prancing around my apartment for a few minutes, I hopped on the couch in high spirits and turned on the So You Think You Can Dance finale just in time to see my boy Evan get kicked off. Buzz kill. And that's when I looked down to see a blinking gchat message from Becky that said the unthinkable:
What is there to say about the genius of John Hughes that hasn't already been said? I mean, he's the man who wrote perhaps one of the greatest cut downs in cinematic history:
No sir, you are les incompetent. Les incompetent, at staying alive. (Sorry. That was uncalled for. I don't deal with grief very well. Or any other emotions for that matter.)
It's with sadness in my heart and gentle rub of Molly Ringwald's shoulder that I present to you The John Hughes Movie Drinking Game.
Rules:
Drink For:
- Every evil teacher/principal authority figure (i.e. Principal Ed Rooney in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Richard Vernon in Breakfast Club etc.)
- Every character played by a brat packer
- Every stolen car (see: Ferris Bueller, Sixteen Candles etc.)
- Andrew Dice Clay cameo (see: Pretty in Pink)
- Unapologetically racist character names that would only fly in the '80's (i.e. Long Duck Dong)
- Every song that plays by The Smiths, Modern English, Billy Idol, Temple City Kazoo Orchestra or Simple Minds
- Any school dance scene (chug if it's a prom)
- [Sidenote: did you know that John Hughes wrote Maid in Manhattan? No? Well, drink.]
- Anyone kisses
- Panties are shown
- The term "richie" is used, or a poor kid is mean to a rich kid
- Conversely, a rich kid is mean to a poor kid
- Every reference to a "woobie"
- Personalized license plate shown
- Pair of boobs shown
- Gym class scene
- Reference to Chicago or a Chicago sports team
- Heart-to-heart between Molly Ringwald's character and her dad
- "Hey Howard, there's your Chinaman."
R.I.P. John Hughes...R.I.P.
---------------
Last night was a roller coaster of emotion, you guys. It started when Ronald, of has a clubbed foot fame, came into my office right before I left work and invited me to see the one-man play he wrote, directed, produced and stars in next month. I said YES and please. I didn't ask too many questions about it, but I'm praying to god it's a semi-autobiographical musical...
Riding that high, I went to the gym where I was immediately hit by a low: my gym crush wasn't there. I have a gym crush by the way. Tee hee ha ha hee hee hooo...He's a giant dreamy dream boat that I just want to sail away on. His name is Kyle. (In my mind. Clearly, I've never talked to him, nor do I have plans to ever talk to him. Because that would just be crazy.) Kyle is a veterinarian for sick and lonely pugs, owns his own row house on Capitol Hill and moonlights as a cage fighter. He's the best. He also has the best ass and calves you will ever see. I know this because I frequently stare at them. And by stare, I mean unabashedly gawk. Kyle has turned me into the person I hate: a starer. Because the only thing that gets me through my time at the gym is staring at Kyle's tight little ass bobbin' up and down on the treadmill. And I mean that in the most creepy way possible. I just shamelessly, shamelessly stare. Which is embarrassing because we're both facing the same mirrored wall and sometimes I'll look up from his ass and into his eyes and realize they're staring right back. With a look of concern. But if he doesn't want me to stare at him, maybe he shouldn't always pick the treadmill in front of my bike. Plus he wouldn't dress like that if he didn't want it...
After the gym, I moped all the way back to my apartment where my mood was immediately turned around. For in my mailbox was the most glorious treasure awaiting from a reader in John McCain's office—an autographed JMcC photo and bumper sticker:
God yes. Who has two thumbs, cleared a wall and is going frame shopping this weekend? This girl. After prancing around my apartment for a few minutes, I hopped on the couch in high spirits and turned on the So You Think You Can Dance finale just in time to see my boy Evan get kicked off. Buzz kill. And that's when I looked down to see a blinking gchat message from Becky that said the unthinkable:
Becky: dude john hughes diedI was shocked. Shocked and hurt and destroyed. I looked to my John McCain photo propped against the wall for comfort, just in time to see it FALL OVER. And it fell HARD. Sigh...
me: SHUT YOUR FUCKING FACE
HE DID NOT
STOP LYING
Becky: he did!! i'm like totally freaking out
59
heart attack
What is there to say about the genius of John Hughes that hasn't already been said? I mean, he's the man who wrote perhaps one of the greatest cut downs in cinematic history:
"You're what the french call les incompetent."
No sir, you are les incompetent. Les incompetent, at staying alive. (Sorry. That was uncalled for. I don't deal with grief very well. Or any other emotions for that matter.)
It's with sadness in my heart and gentle rub of Molly Ringwald's shoulder that I present to you The John Hughes Movie Drinking Game.
Rules:
Drink For:
- Every evil teacher/principal authority figure (i.e. Principal Ed Rooney in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Richard Vernon in Breakfast Club etc.)
- Every character played by a brat packer
- Every stolen car (see: Ferris Bueller, Sixteen Candles etc.)
- Andrew Dice Clay cameo (see: Pretty in Pink)
- Unapologetically racist character names that would only fly in the '80's (i.e. Long Duck Dong)
- Every song that plays by The Smiths, Modern English, Billy Idol, Temple City Kazoo Orchestra or Simple Minds
- Any school dance scene (chug if it's a prom)
- [Sidenote: did you know that John Hughes wrote Maid in Manhattan? No? Well, drink.]
- Anyone kisses
- Panties are shown
- The term "richie" is used, or a poor kid is mean to a rich kid
- Conversely, a rich kid is mean to a poor kid
- Every reference to a "woobie"
- Personalized license plate shown
- Pair of boobs shown
- Gym class scene
- Reference to Chicago or a Chicago sports team
- Heart-to-heart between Molly Ringwald's character and her dad
- "Hey Howard, there's your Chinaman."
R.I.P. John Hughes...R.I.P.
7.28.2009
R.I.P. AIM, I knew ye well
I believe, that we, as a generation, and I’m talking specifically about my age group and cohorts, got ourselves born at just the right time for the internet. So way to go us for pushing our way out of our mom’s vah-jay-jays. Young enough to have grown up with it, not too old to be confused by any new additions to it. (What is this Twitter of which you speak?)
But this post isn’t about us, it’s about the loss of one of the internet’s treasures. Specifically that of our teenage years. I’m not talking about Oregon Trail because while I do consider that a cornerstone in my childhood, you can still play that here. You’re welcome in advance. When I ate brunch with Meg this past weekend (after she washed the cheese off her face), we were talking and somehow AIM came up. If you’re new, and don’t know what AIM stands for, maybe just walk away now, because I’m not defining it.
Anyway, we were shocked that neither of us had been on AIM in decades. For something that was such a staple in our formative years, it disappeared for our lives faster than the money in my bank account. The Buggles got it right when they said “Video killed the radio star” and, if I may borrow their idea, Gchat killed AIM. You know why that little yellow man was always running? Because behind him was Gchat’s red M with a chainsaw. You thought that M stood for mail, but you’d be wrong. It stands for murder. But you know what? I’m ok with that.
One thing that I love about Gchat is that it’s not only socially acceptable, but expected, that you will choose your given name as your screen name. On AIM, how many hours did you agonize to come up with the perfect screen name? I’m not going to tell you what I came up with, because it was probably the lamest screen name on the planet. Think of what your screen name was. Make it ten times lamer. That was mine. I had a severe problem (and probably a neurological condition) with numbers in a screen name, so I had to make sure my name was original enough to not have AOL suggest something like “soccerboy12” or “iluvkitties07”.
Then once you get your screen name, you now spend further hours customizing with a unique font/color combination. To me, AIM will always be synonymous with Comic Sans font. And the most garish colors you could possibly pick. Bright green background with bright blue font? Perfect. Neon yellow background and red font? Amazing. That’s how you tell the world that you just love the Goonies or the Backstreet Boys. Or Smurfs. You know, whatever you’re into. While simultaneously giving them a migraine.
How many people did you know tHaT tYpEd LiKe ThIs~*~? (I personally went through a long phase of ending every sentence with multiple periods.....Yes, it was as annoying as you think it was.) Because alternating upper and lowercase makes you stand out. Actually, just those few words were the most annoying words I’ve ever typed. I guess 13-yr-old girls have plenty of patience. Or just very strong left pinky fingers. This was especially prevalent in their AIM profiles. (~*~i LoVe AvRiL lAvIgNe!!~*~) AIM profiles were like the proto-Facebook. You had your basic info, your interests, and probably a quote. And every guy’s interest was some sort of sport. And every girl’s interest involved “hanging with my girlies”. Unless you were going through your Goth phase, then your unisex interest was worshiping the Devil.
What AIM can do that Gchat and most other instant messaging forums can’t do is allow you to meet strangers in a chat room, which really is a shame. Because there’s no better way to make friends than by answering life’s eternal question: a/s/l? I tried asking this question in a group chat on the G and got crickets in response. Because you can only group chat with people you know. All the mystery is gone. You can’t pretend to be a 24/m/FL (weird…24 seemed so old in AIM’s heyday) which was all the fun of AIM chat rooms. You could be anyone. Or meet anyone. Which is probably why “To Catch a Predator” exists.
But meeting strangers online was all the fun of the internet back in the day…until you met them in the mall by Auntie Ann’s Pretzels and they turned out to be a total creepshow. That’s why most relationships online should have stayed online. Anyone out there have an internet bfry/gfry? I remember my older sister had a heavy online relationship with some kid from Burkittsville, MD, but it never came to anything except him sending some pictures of himself playing soccer to her and then telling her the Blair Witch Project was real.
I was curious as to whether anyone uses AIM anymore. So I turned to the best people I could ask: my little brother and little sister. They know what AIM is, but they say they haven’t used it. Being 14 and 16, respectively, and therefore at the prime age to be pretending to be 23 and from KS, but alas no such luck. With Gchat and Facebook chat and everything else, AIM appears to be going the way of the dodo. Bummer, they don’t know the simple joys of the interweb that we grew up with. Like accidentally sending a cybersex IM to your friend instead of some rando you met in the Teens chat room. True story: Talking to my friend Amanda back in the day, she out of the blue IMs me with “Now you fuck me in the butt while she licks your balls”. Nothing livens up an AIM convo like an accidental three-way. It’s the little things.
Overall, I don’t know that I’m mourning the loss of AIM. I get along just fine with Gchat. And since it’s tethered to my email, I’m only Gchatting while at work. Good thing too, because otherwise, I would be all up in AIM chatrooms pretending to be a 35 year old investment banker from Missouri.
But this post isn’t about us, it’s about the loss of one of the internet’s treasures. Specifically that of our teenage years. I’m not talking about Oregon Trail because while I do consider that a cornerstone in my childhood, you can still play that here. You’re welcome in advance. When I ate brunch with Meg this past weekend (after she washed the cheese off her face), we were talking and somehow AIM came up. If you’re new, and don’t know what AIM stands for, maybe just walk away now, because I’m not defining it.
Anyway, we were shocked that neither of us had been on AIM in decades. For something that was such a staple in our formative years, it disappeared for our lives faster than the money in my bank account. The Buggles got it right when they said “Video killed the radio star” and, if I may borrow their idea, Gchat killed AIM. You know why that little yellow man was always running? Because behind him was Gchat’s red M with a chainsaw. You thought that M stood for mail, but you’d be wrong. It stands for murder. But you know what? I’m ok with that.
One thing that I love about Gchat is that it’s not only socially acceptable, but expected, that you will choose your given name as your screen name. On AIM, how many hours did you agonize to come up with the perfect screen name? I’m not going to tell you what I came up with, because it was probably the lamest screen name on the planet. Think of what your screen name was. Make it ten times lamer. That was mine. I had a severe problem (and probably a neurological condition) with numbers in a screen name, so I had to make sure my name was original enough to not have AOL suggest something like “soccerboy12” or “iluvkitties07”.
Then once you get your screen name, you now spend further hours customizing with a unique font/color combination. To me, AIM will always be synonymous with Comic Sans font. And the most garish colors you could possibly pick. Bright green background with bright blue font? Perfect. Neon yellow background and red font? Amazing. That’s how you tell the world that you just love the Goonies or the Backstreet Boys. Or Smurfs. You know, whatever you’re into. While simultaneously giving them a migraine.
How many people did you know tHaT tYpEd LiKe ThIs~*~? (I personally went through a long phase of ending every sentence with multiple periods.....Yes, it was as annoying as you think it was.) Because alternating upper and lowercase makes you stand out. Actually, just those few words were the most annoying words I’ve ever typed. I guess 13-yr-old girls have plenty of patience. Or just very strong left pinky fingers. This was especially prevalent in their AIM profiles. (~*~i LoVe AvRiL lAvIgNe!!~*~) AIM profiles were like the proto-Facebook. You had your basic info, your interests, and probably a quote. And every guy’s interest was some sort of sport. And every girl’s interest involved “hanging with my girlies”. Unless you were going through your Goth phase, then your unisex interest was worshiping the Devil.
What AIM can do that Gchat and most other instant messaging forums can’t do is allow you to meet strangers in a chat room, which really is a shame. Because there’s no better way to make friends than by answering life’s eternal question: a/s/l? I tried asking this question in a group chat on the G and got crickets in response. Because you can only group chat with people you know. All the mystery is gone. You can’t pretend to be a 24/m/FL (weird…24 seemed so old in AIM’s heyday) which was all the fun of AIM chat rooms. You could be anyone. Or meet anyone. Which is probably why “To Catch a Predator” exists.
But meeting strangers online was all the fun of the internet back in the day…until you met them in the mall by Auntie Ann’s Pretzels and they turned out to be a total creepshow. That’s why most relationships online should have stayed online. Anyone out there have an internet bfry/gfry? I remember my older sister had a heavy online relationship with some kid from Burkittsville, MD, but it never came to anything except him sending some pictures of himself playing soccer to her and then telling her the Blair Witch Project was real.
I was curious as to whether anyone uses AIM anymore. So I turned to the best people I could ask: my little brother and little sister. They know what AIM is, but they say they haven’t used it. Being 14 and 16, respectively, and therefore at the prime age to be pretending to be 23 and from KS, but alas no such luck. With Gchat and Facebook chat and everything else, AIM appears to be going the way of the dodo. Bummer, they don’t know the simple joys of the interweb that we grew up with. Like accidentally sending a cybersex IM to your friend instead of some rando you met in the Teens chat room. True story: Talking to my friend Amanda back in the day, she out of the blue IMs me with “Now you fuck me in the butt while she licks your balls”. Nothing livens up an AIM convo like an accidental three-way. It’s the little things.
Overall, I don’t know that I’m mourning the loss of AIM. I get along just fine with Gchat. And since it’s tethered to my email, I’m only Gchatting while at work. Good thing too, because otherwise, I would be all up in AIM chatrooms pretending to be a 35 year old investment banker from Missouri.
3.20.2009
I'm alive! And just in time for Drinking Game Friday!
Happy Drinking Game Friday! Sorry for the lack of posting on my part this week you guys, my tonsils and I got into another white-trash domestic dispute. The cops were called, I used my shoe as a weapon and had to be restrained. It was a mess. In the end, however, we decided to stay together because sometimes love hurts.
This new bout of the Consumption started Monday when I noticed that my tonsils were hurting slightly more than they usually do when I get sick. I thought nothing of it and moved on with my life. Wednesday morning I got into the office bright and early (cough-fifteen minutes late-cough,) and sat down to write a hilarious and well-written blog post. All of a sudden, I realized that I was producing more saliva than usual and my mouth tasted oddly tangy. But I shrugged it off and moved on. A few minutes later I thought to myself, "Man, my mouth is full of effing spit...and I can feel spit going down the back of my throat at a rapid rate...L0LZ the body is a kooky thing!" And then I coughed into my hand and...well, how do I say this delicately? Oh right! I can't! Blood went gushing everywhere. Everywhere, you guys. Everywhere. It was like that scene in Julie Taymor's Titus when Lavinia's uncle finds her and is all "Why you got twigs for arms?" and she tries to answer and blood dramatically pours out of her mouth (please see below, 50 seconds into the video:)
Except I don't have tree branches for arms. And my tongue hasn't been cut out; my tonsils swelled so much they were bleeding. And Jonathan Ryhs-Meyers didn't rape me. And if he had, it wouldn't be rape, because you can't rape the willing. But besides all of those things, it was exactly like that scene. To the tee.
In all seriousness, I freaked the fuck out because a.) ew blood! and b.) I couldn't breathe because I was choking on all of the blood I was swallowing. I was totally like, welp, this is it. This is how the story of Meghan McBlogger comes to it's bloody end. Alone in my office. At the hand of my tonsils...sounds about right.
Shaking like a little leaf, I got into a cab and asked for it to take me to Georgetown Hospital's ER. Now maybe it's just me, but if someone gets in your cab and asks you to go to the ER, maaayyybeee they're not in the condition to shoot the shit with you. Just maybe. Apparently my driver didn't get that memo. A few minutes into our ride, he glanced back and casually said, "So. How's your day going?" UMM, sir, I'm holding half a roll of Bounty paper towels covered in blood to my mouth with tears coming down my face, how do you think my day is going? But that would have taken too much energy to get out, so I went with a muffled, "I've been better." "So, I see you're wearing a green dress. Didn't anyone tell you St. Patrick's Day was yesterday? Get a calendar, HAHA!" REALLY, SIR?! REALLY??? YOU'RE GOING TO SHTICK WITH ME NOW?! I'm surprised his response to where I wanted to go wasn't, "No. I don't go to the hospital. Not today. .....HAHA! GOTCHA LOLZ!!!!" I swear to the effing good Lord world, just stop shticking with me when I'm on my lunch break or drowning in my own blood in the back of a cab. CHRIST.
I was equally irritated that I had to give a urine sample when I was admitted to the ER. Giving a urine sample has to be the most degrading human experience on the entire planet. First of all, my throat is bleeding, why you need a urine sample is beyond me. And stop asking me if there's a chance I could be pregnant. I'm not pregnant and there's no chance I could be. But if I am pregnant, it's God's, so maybe a priest is in order, not a urine sample. Second, I never have to pee when a doctor needs a urine sample. Which means I have to look another adult in the eye and, like a child, say "I don't have to go pee." I hate it. I have flashbacks to family road trips and my dad telling me to go now because we're not stopping later. After I chugged a few glasses of delicious lukewarm hospital tap water, I had to book it from my bed to the bathroom down the hall—pee cup in hand, wearing my hospital gown and the 6-inch black stilettos I wore to work. And if that isn't the ultimate walk of shame, then I don't know what is.
But we're not done yet! Actually having to pee is just half the battle! The other half is actually peeing into the thimble of a cup they give you. I swear to God, the performance anxiety I feel when giving a urine sample is ridiculous. It just wasn't going to happen. I don't know how men pee in urinals with other guys standing around, because the added pressure of a cup being there was too much for me to handle. I tried everything. I had the water faucet trickling a little bit, I tried splashing the water around, envisioning streams and babbling brooks, I even tried holding one hand under cold water and the other under the hot air blower like I was pranking myself at a slumber party. Nothing. And of course I couldn't stop thinking about the nurses waiting for me, wondering where my "specimen" was, which made everything worse. Finally, after praying, nay, pleading with God to please, please, please let me pee, it was a-go. And by "a-go," I mean it was time for the ultimate test of depth perception and aim that is a female trying to pee into a cup. Which I then had to walk to the nurse's station in my slutty hospital patient Halloween costume. Kill me.
However, the most beautiful thing happened. At one point during my stay, the general bathroom was occupied, so the nurse walked me back to use the staff bathroom. Figuring that it was probably not a one-person stall, I opened the door without knocking. As it turns out, it was a one-person stall, and indeed, one person was already in there. Specifically, my probably gay and definitely hot doctor. Apparently in med school they don't teach you how to lock a bathroom door, so I completely walked in on him mid-piss. I swear to God, we had this micro-second of a moment where we locked eyes and both acknowledged the extreme humanization of what had just occurred. The curtain had been pulled back; the mystery was gone. No longer was this man the almighty doctor who I had bowed down to and peed in cups for, he was just another person taking a leak. Dick in hand. I don't have a dick, but if I did, you can bet it would be in my hand. I'm just like you buddy, and you're just like me. Suddenly I felt a lot less embarassed about peeing in the cup. Man, the Universe has beautiful ways to even itself out.
In the end, it was decided I need to get my tonsils out, but for seriouses this time. Alas, my insurance doesn't cover surgical procedures, so I told them just fix me to the point where I can stay alive until I get hired at my job full time, get full health-care coverage and then I swear I'll totally get my tonsils out, 4realz! A few shots of steroids and penicillin and a nice stay in a relaxing hospital bed under observation later, I was good to go.
Score!
Tonsils: 0
Meg: 2
So yea, I'm fine. I couldn't go dyin' on you baby, I love you too much. OH! And speaking of dying (poor transition,) the real tragedy this week was Natasha Richardson! WTF?! This is just another reminder that human beings were not meant to slide down mountains on two rickety pieces of wood. How many more beautiful and talented celebrities do we need to lose until we all realize this (RIP Sonny Bono)?? In remembrance of the lovely Natasha Richardson aka Elizabeth James, the coolest mom EVER, I give you the Parent Trap Drinking Game. <3
Rules!
Drink When:
- A secret handshake is exchanged
- A twin plays a prank
- Someone says the name of a Native American tribe
- A twin cries
- A twin is reunited with a parent
- Hallie (but really Annie) says "dad"
- The vineyard is mentioned
- Martin says "mam"
- Cuppy makes an appearance
- Hallie (but really Annie) lies to Meredith
- Someone is suspicious of the twins
- Marriage is referenced in any way
- And finally when in light of recent events, you inevitably cry your face off during the following scene:
OH GOD IT GETS ME...sniff, sniff. Thanks for reading everyone and I'll see you bright and early Monday morning!
This new bout of the Consumption started Monday when I noticed that my tonsils were hurting slightly more than they usually do when I get sick. I thought nothing of it and moved on with my life. Wednesday morning I got into the office bright and early (cough-fifteen minutes late-cough,) and sat down to write a hilarious and well-written blog post. All of a sudden, I realized that I was producing more saliva than usual and my mouth tasted oddly tangy. But I shrugged it off and moved on. A few minutes later I thought to myself, "Man, my mouth is full of effing spit...and I can feel spit going down the back of my throat at a rapid rate...L0LZ the body is a kooky thing!" And then I coughed into my hand and...well, how do I say this delicately? Oh right! I can't! Blood went gushing everywhere. Everywhere, you guys. Everywhere. It was like that scene in Julie Taymor's Titus when Lavinia's uncle finds her and is all "Why you got twigs for arms?" and she tries to answer and blood dramatically pours out of her mouth (please see below, 50 seconds into the video:)
Except I don't have tree branches for arms. And my tongue hasn't been cut out; my tonsils swelled so much they were bleeding. And Jonathan Ryhs-Meyers didn't rape me. And if he had, it wouldn't be rape, because you can't rape the willing. But besides all of those things, it was exactly like that scene. To the tee.
In all seriousness, I freaked the fuck out because a.) ew blood! and b.) I couldn't breathe because I was choking on all of the blood I was swallowing. I was totally like, welp, this is it. This is how the story of Meghan McBlogger comes to it's bloody end. Alone in my office. At the hand of my tonsils...sounds about right.
Shaking like a little leaf, I got into a cab and asked for it to take me to Georgetown Hospital's ER. Now maybe it's just me, but if someone gets in your cab and asks you to go to the ER, maaayyybeee they're not in the condition to shoot the shit with you. Just maybe. Apparently my driver didn't get that memo. A few minutes into our ride, he glanced back and casually said, "So. How's your day going?" UMM, sir, I'm holding half a roll of Bounty paper towels covered in blood to my mouth with tears coming down my face, how do you think my day is going? But that would have taken too much energy to get out, so I went with a muffled, "I've been better." "So, I see you're wearing a green dress. Didn't anyone tell you St. Patrick's Day was yesterday? Get a calendar, HAHA!" REALLY, SIR?! REALLY??? YOU'RE GOING TO SHTICK WITH ME NOW?! I'm surprised his response to where I wanted to go wasn't, "No. I don't go to the hospital. Not today. .....HAHA! GOTCHA LOLZ!!!!" I swear to the effing good Lord world, just stop shticking with me when I'm on my lunch break or drowning in my own blood in the back of a cab. CHRIST.
I was equally irritated that I had to give a urine sample when I was admitted to the ER. Giving a urine sample has to be the most degrading human experience on the entire planet. First of all, my throat is bleeding, why you need a urine sample is beyond me. And stop asking me if there's a chance I could be pregnant. I'm not pregnant and there's no chance I could be. But if I am pregnant, it's God's, so maybe a priest is in order, not a urine sample. Second, I never have to pee when a doctor needs a urine sample. Which means I have to look another adult in the eye and, like a child, say "I don't have to go pee." I hate it. I have flashbacks to family road trips and my dad telling me to go now because we're not stopping later. After I chugged a few glasses of delicious lukewarm hospital tap water, I had to book it from my bed to the bathroom down the hall—pee cup in hand, wearing my hospital gown and the 6-inch black stilettos I wore to work. And if that isn't the ultimate walk of shame, then I don't know what is.
But we're not done yet! Actually having to pee is just half the battle! The other half is actually peeing into the thimble of a cup they give you. I swear to God, the performance anxiety I feel when giving a urine sample is ridiculous. It just wasn't going to happen. I don't know how men pee in urinals with other guys standing around, because the added pressure of a cup being there was too much for me to handle. I tried everything. I had the water faucet trickling a little bit, I tried splashing the water around, envisioning streams and babbling brooks, I even tried holding one hand under cold water and the other under the hot air blower like I was pranking myself at a slumber party. Nothing. And of course I couldn't stop thinking about the nurses waiting for me, wondering where my "specimen" was, which made everything worse. Finally, after praying, nay, pleading with God to please, please, please let me pee, it was a-go. And by "a-go," I mean it was time for the ultimate test of depth perception and aim that is a female trying to pee into a cup. Which I then had to walk to the nurse's station in my slutty hospital patient Halloween costume. Kill me.
However, the most beautiful thing happened. At one point during my stay, the general bathroom was occupied, so the nurse walked me back to use the staff bathroom. Figuring that it was probably not a one-person stall, I opened the door without knocking. As it turns out, it was a one-person stall, and indeed, one person was already in there. Specifically, my probably gay and definitely hot doctor. Apparently in med school they don't teach you how to lock a bathroom door, so I completely walked in on him mid-piss. I swear to God, we had this micro-second of a moment where we locked eyes and both acknowledged the extreme humanization of what had just occurred. The curtain had been pulled back; the mystery was gone. No longer was this man the almighty doctor who I had bowed down to and peed in cups for, he was just another person taking a leak. Dick in hand. I don't have a dick, but if I did, you can bet it would be in my hand. I'm just like you buddy, and you're just like me. Suddenly I felt a lot less embarassed about peeing in the cup. Man, the Universe has beautiful ways to even itself out.
In the end, it was decided I need to get my tonsils out, but for seriouses this time. Alas, my insurance doesn't cover surgical procedures, so I told them just fix me to the point where I can stay alive until I get hired at my job full time, get full health-care coverage and then I swear I'll totally get my tonsils out, 4realz! A few shots of steroids and penicillin and a nice stay in a relaxing hospital bed under observation later, I was good to go.
Score!
Tonsils: 0
Meg: 2
So yea, I'm fine. I couldn't go dyin' on you baby, I love you too much. OH! And speaking of dying (poor transition,) the real tragedy this week was Natasha Richardson! WTF?! This is just another reminder that human beings were not meant to slide down mountains on two rickety pieces of wood. How many more beautiful and talented celebrities do we need to lose until we all realize this (RIP Sonny Bono)?? In remembrance of the lovely Natasha Richardson aka Elizabeth James, the coolest mom EVER, I give you the Parent Trap Drinking Game. <3
Rules!
Drink When:
- A secret handshake is exchanged
- A twin plays a prank
- Someone says the name of a Native American tribe
- A twin cries
- A twin is reunited with a parent
- Hallie (but really Annie) says "dad"
- The vineyard is mentioned
- Martin says "mam"
- Cuppy makes an appearance
- Hallie (but really Annie) lies to Meredith
- Someone is suspicious of the twins
- Marriage is referenced in any way
- And finally when in light of recent events, you inevitably cry your face off during the following scene:
OH GOD IT GETS ME...sniff, sniff. Thanks for reading everyone and I'll see you bright and early Monday morning!
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