Although I don't respect, understand or even tolerate my sister's questionable zeal for moustaches, I do appreciate her dedication to proving a point. She's thought of two new hot contemporary moustached men:
1.) Jude Law as Watson in the new Sherlock Holmes movie:
and
2.) Ned Flanders
...I hate to admit it, but she's starting to make an uncomfortable amount of sense. And I don't like it. This is my blog. Around here the ratio of hot moustached men to molestery moustached men should always swing towards molestery. It's time I level the playing field. So, Rebecca, I'll see your Jude Law and raise you a Rollie Fingers: Yes, that's right. The Oakland A's Rollie Fingers. A name that sounds like exactly what he'll do inside of you. He's inspired me to name my future son "Statutory Fingerbang" because what's life without challenges?
Oh and hey Bec, remember all those Sweet Valley High books we had growing up? Specifically, remember #5, All Night Long? I sure do. Because I remember having to lock it in the bathroom at night for fear the cover model would come alive and ask me to play a game with my mouth that I can never tell my parents about: I think that majestic golden tan and tidy little moustache speak worlds for themselves.
Score: Becca: 2 Meg: 2
If you look in your court, Ms. McBlogger, I believe you will see there's a ball in it.
So Chris and I decided that although not siblings, it's high-time we do a Sibling Rivalrypoint/counterpoint post. Figuring out what topic to argue wasn't too hard as there are two things Chris and I will never see eye-to-eye on:
1.) Bee Movie. I loved it and thought it was heart-warming; he hated it and thought it was stupid. Does this have something to do with the fact that I have a soul and Chris does not? Probably. Is this topic interesting enough to blog about? Probably not.
2.) Tourism. More specifically, tourists and taking part in touristy activities. I'm very pro; Chris is very con. It's a sore subject in our friendship. I'd be lying if I said I've never thrown a temper tantrum in the middle of the National Mall because Chris wouldn't stop texting and acting above my monument tour. Jackass.
So it is with my fanny pack strapped tight and a map at the ready that I present to you the 2birds1blog Point/Counterpoint Battle on Tourism!
PRO: MEG God I love tourist shit. Give me a guided tour or give me death. If there is a tourist trap within 10-paces; I'm there. Posing for a picture. And buying a t-shirt. And squishing a souvenir penny (yes I do very seriously have a souvenir squished penny collection—WHAT OF IT?!)
Double decker tour buses? Been there. Group photo in a giant wooden clog in Amsterdam? Done that. I have more photographs of myself giving the shocker in front of national landmarks than I do with my own parents. Why? Because it's stupid fun. And sometimes in life, we need to stop worrying what other people think about us and have some stupid fun.
That's the beauty of being a tourist—people already judge and think less of you, so you might as well throw your inhibitions to the wind and have some fun with it. It's liberating! You're never going to see these people again, so put on that sombrero, give two thumbs up and take a picture with the mariachi band! Sure, the natives think you look like a total jackass, but fuck them. In my opinion there's nothing worse than surly natives. Oh, I'm so terribly sorry that I'm interested in learning more about your city and it's history and culture! How terribly rude of me! And excuse the hell out of me for stimulating your economy with my hard-earned dollars! Gosh, I'm tacky! ...Please. Get on top.
It's important to recognize that tourists come in two distinctly different varieties: Responsible Tourists and Obnoxious Tourists. Obnoxious Tourists give us Responsible Tourists a bad rap. They're loud, poorly dressed, perpetually confused, inconsiderate and just plain ignorant. And I hate 'em just like you do. Do I have oddly specific fantasies about ripping the hearts out tourists who don't move to the center of the aisle when boarding a metro? Of course I do! But these people should not represent tourists as a whole, nor should they cock-block you from taking part in fun touristy activities yourself. Why let one bad apple spoil the whole barrel? It's like assuming that every German person is a Nazi and refusing to go to Germany because it's a Nazi country. Yeah, Nazis suck, but how completely unfair is it to assume that every person in Germany is a Nazi? Come on Bube, it's not 1942 anymore. Let yourself enjoy some schnitzel.
Take this guy for example: I saw this guy wandering around MoMA last year and thought he would make a great That's a lot of Look segment. But when I sat down to write it, I couldn't really fault him. So what he's wearing hiking boots and ankle socks at a museum and there are more cocktails on his shirt than in my stomach on any given Saturday night? He's not bothering anyone! He's just trying to absorb some culture and check out some art! That's something I can jive with! Plus, his ass looks kind of cute in those frayed little cargo shorts. Shame on me for being so snarky and elitist! I hope he had a fabulous day.
Good people make good tourists and bad people make bad tourists. You can't blame tourism as a whole for the assholes you run into on a daily basis. Because they're not tourists—they're just assholes on vacation.
CON: CHRIS Living first in Boston and now in New York, I'm accustomed to tourists being all up in my bidness on a day to day basis. But just because I'm accustomed to it, doesn't mean I'm ok with it. Let's get one thing straight: I hate tourists. If you visit me in the city, I will gladly take you to a bar and get crunked or we can go for a walk in the park. But I'll be damned if I take you on a double decker bus to see the sights.
Not like I haven't done my share of touristy things. I manned up and went to Ellis Island a few weekends ago. (Stood in line for an hour just to get tickets while hordes of Asian children played tag around my legs. Was in the foreground of literally hundreds of pictures of the NYC skyline, as I had primo real estate for picture taking. Got muscled out of my standing position by some foreigners oversized backpack. You see where I'm coming from..) It's not that I don't like tourism, because generally some of the tourist sights are pretty cool. If I didn't have to suffer through being crammed on a ferry with a billion people yammering in not-English, snapping pictures of literally everything that stood still long enough I probably would have enjoyed Ellis Island alot more. What I don't like are the tourists.
People say New Yorkers are unfriendly. I'd venture that tourists are equally as unfriendly, unless they need something, like directions. If they are armed with their oversized map of the NYC subway system, they could give two shits less about how much of your personal space they are occupying with their fanny pack, because they are on a schedule and they can't be late to ride horses in the park because that would cut into the amount of time they have to take pictures with the living statues before seeing Shrek the Musical on Broadway. God forbid you miss lunch at the diner Seinfeld ate at.
Why do you think there are places that are called "tourist traps"? Because tourists are ignorant. If you put a statue in a heavily trafficked area anywhere in the world, tourists are going to take pictures of it. It could be of Britney Spears giving birth on a bearskin rug, and sure enough, someone if going to put their kids on its back to snap a photo. And why do you always have to take pictures across a crowded sidewalk?! It's not my fault if I don't see you taking a picture, because I'm too busy trying to avoid the Fleece Vests, and I just assumed that sidewalks were for walking.
The last time Meg was in the city, we went to Coney Island, which is also heavily touristed. And while waiting in line at the Cyclone, the girl in front of me asks me "You from America?" Um...yes, I replied. And she's all like "What part?" I took a look at myself: flip flops, black shorts, polo shirt, sunglasses. Pretty standard hot weather attire. Is it wrong that I was offended she assumed I'm a tourist? Here's my question to 75% of the tourists I see out and about: If you wouldn't wear socks with sandals, a fisherman's hat, sunglasses with a neon strap so they don't get lost, two fanny packs, and a giant camera carrying case around the town where you live, why would you wear that shit when you are visiting somewhere else? Unless that's your signature look. But if it is your signature look, it is a look that says "Please mug me." Another tourist phenomenon: wearing matching clothes. Why?! WHY! The other day, I was the incredible pleasure (read: misfortune) of walking through Times Square. I had a train to catch at Penn in 15 minutes, so I'm bobbing and weaving like Evander Holyfield (is that an entirely outdated sports reference? You know I don't know these things) until I come across a family of four, all large an in charge with asses that rappers would swoon over. All. wearing. pink. polos. And moving at the speed of molasses, which is probably the last thing that crammed in their gullet before heading to NYC.
One of the first times I visited Meg in D.C., we did the tourist thing jetting around the National Mall, seeing the museums and monuments and what have you, which I was heavily not into. And in a fit of rage, Meg took my shoulders and told me to man up and let her take pictures of me in front of the Capitol building. I did, begrudgingly, but our yelling match, from afar, looked like a heart-to-heart, and a large Indian family reunion now thinks Meg and I are engaged. That's what tourism is people. False perceptions. Now I've got to go pick a tuxedo for the wedding.
Growing up, Becca and I didn't have a perfect relationship. This may have had something to do with our awkward five-year age difference; I was young and annoying, she would never let me hang. Oh the dramaz! Once we both reached the point where age ain't nothin' but a number, (read: we could go to bars together,) we finally became actual good friends and not just siblings.These days there's not much we still seriously fight about (coughsnuggie cough,) but there remains one constant source of tension in our relationship: ordering the same thing when we go out to eat at a restaurant. Becca can't stand it. I can't stand that she can't stand it. Today we duke it out once and for all. Round one, FIGHT!
Ordering the Same Thing at Restaurants MEG: PRO [Editor's note: Upon receiving Becca's argument tonight, I realized that we essentially wrote the same introduction. My first thought was to change mine, but then I realized that would defeat the entire point of this fight. I'm sorry, I just can't let her win. Sorry for the redundancy. WAIT, EXCEPT I'M NOT! DAMNIT!] Gather 'round children, let me tell you a tale! A few years ago, the McBlogger family was out to dinner with some family friends at Pastis in NYC. There were six options on the dinner menu, meaning the six members of the dinner party could each order a unique dish without any duplicate orders. Because I'm not the most adventurous food patron, I shotgunned the ravioli as soon as I saw it. Of course that's what Becca wanted. When it came time to order she had two options: order what she really wanted (the ravioli) or order the dish that nobody wanted to avoid a duplicate order. She chose the latter. Half an hour later, my yummy ravioli arrived just as the waiter put a pot before Becca containing the dish nobody else had ordered; a straight-up fish head stew. I'm talkin' a pot full of fish broth with beady-eyed fish heads staring back and the occasional piece of broccoli floating around. She barely ate any of it, but hey, at least she didn't order the same thing as somebody else!
I just don't get it. That's pretty much my main argument, I realize it's not that strong.
When I go to a restaurant, I'm paying someone to make me what I want to eat. I don't really care if the guy across from me is ordering the same thing. Wouldn't that make things easier for the Chef? The only reason I can think of that Becca gets so worked up about this issue is that as a food professional, she can appreciate the art of a well planned menu and wants the table to appreciate it as well. I say nuts to that. I don't go to the Olive Garden for the ambiance and experience, I go for the never-ending bowl of pasta. Sorry about it.
I just can't believe how legitimately pissed off she gets at me when we order the same thing. Chris (of recaps MTV'sThe City fame) also dislikes double ordering when out to eat. However, he accepts personal responsibility in this situation and is the one to change his order at the last moment. After a year of living with him (which means a year of watching him change his order from a light salad to a chicken pot pie at the last moment to avoid any overlapping orders,) I'm fine with it. I don't care. He doesn't expect me to change my order. Yes I think he's a total weirdo for having this problem in the first place, but hey, who doesn't have a few quirks? I'm just so offended that Becca expects other people to order and pay for something that they don't even want just to avoid the supposed faux-pas of ordering the same dish as someone else at your table.If Becca's argument is that a table needs to expand their taste horizons by ordering different dishes, I have the following to say: 1.) I don't recall you offering me a bite of your meal and 2.) don't force me to broaden my horizons, ho! I came for the steak! Let me get the mother-effin' steak! This isn't the opera. Stop forcing me to be cultural and shit! GAWD! BECCA: CON I once ate fish head stew at a very fancy french restaurant in Manhattan. It wasn't like I wanted fish head stew, I'm sure any number of other things on the menu would have been awesome, things not made out of heads for example. But out of principle I wasted a meal at Pastis on fish head stew. I did so for a simple reason - someone else was already ordering what I really wanted. And I just cannot abide by double ordering.
I'm not sure where this aversion sprung from but I can tell that it's a strong aversion, like that of a Mormon to per-marital sex and Red Bull. And like the Mormons I can't really explain why its wrong, I just know in my heart that it is.
Part of it stems from the fact that at a restaurant, choices are abundant. And, in the face of that abundance, it's simply immoral to order three servings of chopped chicken salad (oh my god I am getting that too!) or whatever. Come on, there HAS to be something else that sounded interesting. Get it - maybe it sounded interesting to me too and we can share, thus turning this debacle into a world of culinary opportunity.
Its also kind of embarrassing for us all to order the same thing, you know? Its kinda "Hi Mr. Waiter we'll take three waters and three blue cheeseburgers and we have this much money (envision wads of sweaty bills placed on table)." I mean, show a little finesse, a little sophistication. You're not a 7 year-old who is in his chicken finger stage! Be a big boy and order for yourself.
This point of view of mine does understandably irritate my fellow diners. If they dare make the mistake of announcing the desire to order what I have already claimed (whether out loud or otherwise) as mine, they're met with total teenage irritation, "but I wanted that!"-style. I scoff at their suggestion that we both can get it. No, no we cannot.
I have a little game I like to play that settles these ordering-induced arguments - its called Rock, Paper, Butter Knife and boy is it a doozy! It's like the more traditional Rock, Paper, Scissors but on the shout of "shoot" the object is to actually stab your opponent with your butter knife. The winner (stabber) can order whatever that want, the loser (stabee) doesn't have to worry about ordering because the ER doctor has a heaping helping of tetanus shot waiting for them. Yay!
I've eaten some weird shit in my day and some of that is because I simply refuse to double order. Sometimes I've won this game of culinary roulette - and sometimes I've wasted my one trip to a fancy restaurant on fish head stew. But hey - now I know that, when you order it, I can gladly get something else.
Becca and I got into an oddly heated argument at Thanksgiving dinner over the merit of the Slanket (or Snuggie). If you are unfamiliar with the Slanket please watch the following video to educate yourself immediately.
And now I present to you the 2birds1blog point-counter-point on the Slanket.
BECCA: PRO SLANKET I am not usually a cold person. I am not petite, I don’t wear long underwear on a regular basis, I do not always have cold hands. However, I have been turned into a cold person by the BF. The BF is a hot person – a shorts-in-the-middle-of-winter person. As such, he keeps his house freezing. In the summer the AC is cranked to 50 degrees and there is a fan in every room. In the winter, all available windows are wide open, the window units are on full blast, and the fans hum away, oblivious to the fact that they should be stuffed in a closet to enjoy a well-deserved break. So when I stay at the BF’s house I am reduced to shivering silently while wearing some oversized sweatshirt, huddled under a tiny blanket that can cover my shoulders OR my feet, but not both. Plus my hands are trapped underneath – how can I enjoy a beer on the couch if I have to keep a blanket covering me up to my nose lest I freeze to death where I sit? I can’t.
So imagine my total surprise when the commercial for the Snuggie came on! Are you there God? It’s me, Becca – and you’ve answered all my prayers! This thing looks AWESOME! Can you imagine how warm and, well, snuggie it is!?! As the commercial listed all the pitfalls of blankets – mostly that they slip and fall and that you can’t use your hands – I nodded in agreement. They commercial didn’t mention drinking while freezing cold as another impossible task to accomplish whilst huddling under a blanket but I know they were thinking it. The commercial went to say that with a Snuggie I CAN use my hands! And unlike that pesky satin throw blanket we all have at home it WON’T slip and fall! Plus I am free to work the remote, use my laptop, or read in total comfort. TOTAL COMFORT! How often is that promised to you? And for $19.95 no less!?
Lets be honest here, the Snuggie (or Slanket) is definitely a bit of a novelty item. That is not to say that it isn’t useful –other novelty items such as Orange Glow, the Magic Shammy, and the Ped-Egg are all useful – but it’s still being marketed via infomercial. When Billy Mays yells at me about something I immediately think less of it. Plus we have to call in and but wait there’s more and … you get my drift. But people, let’s see beyond the cheeseball infomercial crap and look at the product for what it is. Why do we think those “As Seen on TV” stores are so prevalent (Lake Forest Mall, whatup?!)? Because people truly do want these random, funky, ingenious products and if we can buy it in a store the product seems more legitimate. If we don’t have to call to talk to an operator who is standing by we are in control of the sale, and we haven’t been “had” by some company who probably operates out of someone’s den in an Arizona subdivision (you know I’m right) and is selling us pieces of crap. Don’t be such snobs, embrace the operator standing by. Call her, give her your credit card number, thank Dean and Cindy in Arizon for taking the time to create the Snuggie and then share their vision with the world.
The positive points of the Snuggie are simply not arguable. It is made of fleece. Fleece is an undeniably good thing. How many people do you know have spent upwards of $200 on a fleece jacket? Yeah, lots. And they wear them all the time ‘cause they’re so warm and comfy. Now what would you say if I could provide you with a fleece covering to use at home? Yeah, you’re welcome. Fleece is good.
It comes in a variety of fun colors. Variety is good. You can get the burgundy one and look like a Roman priest. Or you can get crafty and sew a big gold “R” on it and make it a Redskins Snuggie (um, did anyone else see Jesus for a second there? Perfection.) Royal Blue? An American Snuggie! Sage green? The Snuggie for the Pottery Barn fan – it’ll really make the room hang together. No boring old primary colors for you, you Snuggie-fan, you. No sir. Put that Snuggie on, belt it, and get the mail! Pick up the kids at school! And never let anyone say you sacrificed looks for comfort.
It has sleeves. Sleeves are good. More specifically, using your arms is good. Most specifically using your thumbs is good, as it is what makes us superior to the other animals (well that and our uncanny ability to write game shows). So by the transitive property of the whathaveyou having a Snuggie makes you superior to other animals. Just sayin’. Seriously though, you know how hard it is to wriggle into a comfy position with a blanket where all your extremities are covered? And once you get there you don’t ever want to move? Well inevitably you’ll need to use your arms to eat something, drink something, get the phone, turn the page of a book or magazine, change the channel. And when that one arm slips out the side of that blanket all the cold air rushes in and you’re screwed. At principal this really is the best part of the Snuggie. They took a blanket and gave it sleeves, thereby allowing you mobility and therefore functionality while still being cozy. I mean – is there a Nobel Prize for that?
There are some Snuggie detractors who will say things like “but it looks like a backwards bathrobe.” My answer to that is twofold: “no”; “so what?” If it truly looked like a backwards bathrobe it would have a tie around it. But so what? Pants look like a skirt that has been connected in the middle. A tube top looks like a skirt pulled up around your torso. The Washington Monument looks like a straw that’s doesn’t have a hole in the middle of it, has a pointy top, is made of stone, and is really really tall. And your point ….?
Perhaps the saddest anti-Snuggie comment is this “just put on a sweater and then get under a normal blanket.” Excuse me, Sir. When little Jimmy wanted a shaved ice treat flavored with syrup did his mom hand him am ice pick and a bag of ice and say “try not to kill yourself”? No – she bought him the Snoopy Sno-Cone machine and was the best mom ever. When Joan had a party and needed to make potato chips, a julienned salad, and taco toppings did she break out her cutting board and knife and get to chopping. No- she bought the Magic Dicer and did it all in minutes! Just because something can be accomplished a farily simply way doesn’t mean the pure novelty of accomplishing it another, totally different way, isn’t valid. In fact, I would argue, that’s what this country is all about.
So if you’re like me and you love being warm and cozy and using your arms (and thumbs) and you can appreciate the entrepreneurial spirit of our fellow Americans stand up. Stand up with me, and walk to your phone, and order a Snuggie. In fact, give someone you love a Snuggie, and a book – because if you act now you’ll get two Snuggies for the price of one PLUS this mini reading light ABSOLUTELY FREE! (while supplies last). Amen.
MEG: ANTI-SLANKET I would first like to apologize to Becca for my heated words during our Thanksgiving dinner argument about the Slanket. Maybe I got too heated, maybe I attacked her, maybe I even threw around a few swear words that weren’t too Puritan making things at the dinner table a little tense and uncomfortable—whatever, I’m sorry. It’s just that Becca’s always been like a sister to me (wait…?) and I’ve looked up to her as the pinnacle of cool for literally my entire life. She’s the Fonz to my Richie Cunningham. Therefore it’s very scary to me when she makes crucial missteps in judgment like this and I tend to freak out. Kind of like the time she asked me if Nickelback was cool.
Now, onto the Slanket: this is the dumbest fucking thing on the planet and we as a race and people are worse for having it exist. For every Slanket that is sold, a kitten dies. I want the following people to choke on a piece of steak immediately: 1.) the person who thought, “OH MAN! I’m going to wear a robe backwards and market it as the Slanket! 2.) the friends and loved ones of that person who encouraged said person to move forward with the idea 3.) the manufacturer who agreed to make the Slanket 4.) the factory workers who didn’t turn of the machines the second they realized what they were making and finally 5.) any and everyone who actually purchases this abomination.
I’m going to dissect why I find the Slanket so offensive point-by-point because I get emotional and easily overwhelmed about this subject:
I think it’s stupid. I just feel like that should speak loudly on it’s own. I am the laziest, most easily impressed, gullible, irresponsible dumb-fuck shopper on the planet. I own the following: Mighty Putty, multiple Sham Wows, Therm-O-Seal, Air Climber Stair Stepper and the Shake It Flashlight. Need I remind everyone that I got the Gopher Grabber and used it so much it broke and it felt weird to pick up things with my hands again? The Slanket people are basically marketing to old people and me. And I say no thank you sirs. Even I think this is a horrible fucking waste of money.
It’s just a robe on backwards. AM I THE ONLY PERSON WHO REALIZES THAT? Isn’t that a crucial design flaw?! I don’t understand why ONE person during the Slanket’s entire inception didn’t call Bullshit on that. I essentially already have two Slankets hanging on the back of my bathroom door right now. I’m going to take a fork, turn it upside down, call it as a cuticle pusher with decorative tongs on top and make a billion dollars.
It’s insulting. The Slanket offends me for the same reason why dickeys offend me: why do you think I can’t handle layers? If you’re under a blanket and your top is cold, how hard is it to put on a sweatshirt? If your feet are cold, put on socks. I also can’t believe the Slanket people sell you a backwards robe for $20 and have the gall to tell you it will cut down your heating bills. It’s almost impressive. Almost.
It’s not condusive to snggling. When you snuggle under a blanket, a crucial part of that act is pulling the blanket up and over your body and then snuggling into it. I like the feeling of clutching onto the blanket when I snuggle. You can’t do that with a Slanket. To snuggle in a Slanket you just hug and snuggle yourself. It’s like snuggle masturbation. Which proves that anyone who wears a Slanket is a real jerk-off.
The Fortress of Warmth is a Myth. During the Great Thanksgiving Slanket Fight of ’08, Becca’s big argument was that a Slanket allows you to have your hands free while you’re in the fortress of cozy warmth that being under a blanket creates. That is complete and utter horseshit. The fortress of cozy warmth is created because you’re under the blanket. It’s draped over you and creates a dome of trapped cozy warmth. You can’t wear the fortress of cozy warmth, and that is exactly what the Slanket and Becca ask you to believe. Can you honestly tell me that you feel the same magical sensation of being cozy under a blanket every time you wear a robe? I think not.
Decreases Your Chances of Hooking Up. Do you know how many hook ups I’ve had that started with snuggling under a blanket while watching a movie with someone? 100 billion. That’s how many. Two human beings can’t be under the same blanket and not hook up, it’s just science. Read a book. Imagine you take a special someone home, you turn off the lights, turn on the TV and then both put your respective Slankets on. No hookup is ever going to result from that. The word Slanket itself is like a form of birth control. “One second baby, I’m just gong to put my Slanket on.” You could argue that the whole hands-free thing could have its benefits, but where are your hands going buddy? I’m wearing a chastity belt of the highest quality fleece from head to toe!
You look like a purple Klansman. I think that says it all. My work here is done.
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