THE AND!

So, I'm spending the night at my parent's house tonight because I have to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to drive me and my mom to Falls Church (ugh, Virginia) tomorrow morning (today, for you) for round two of wedding dress shopping with Becca. Don't get me wrong—I'm totally excited and honored to help her pick out a dress, it's just that this newfangled "morning" everyone speaks so highly of makes me uncomfortable. Plus to make matters worse, I downed a venti latte and a few mugs of tea after dinner, so now instead of getting a good night's sleep like I should be doing, I'm tweaking around the house like a crack addict, harassing Evie to be my BFF4LYFE. But the good news is she's totally agreed! If agreed = bit the shit out of my hand and scuttled under a couch like a surly crab. Damn that saucy minx. She is good.

I decided the best thing to do would be to go into the living room and browse the McBlogger family library to find a good book to tucker me out. Instead, I found something far more interesting:

What you're looking at here is the cover of a book I wrote when I was 8-years-old called The Chicken Boy, "published" by the Olney Elementary Press in 1993. This book, sadly, is the only Meghan McBlogger work published to date. WHO SAID I COULDN'T GET A BOOK DEAL?! This book is a shocking look into my own 8-year-old psyche and I'm not entirely sure I like what I see. Sit down and let me tell you the tale. The tale, of a Chicken Boy.

[Notice I dedicated this work to my cat Sibley, R.I.P. Why? Because I love her. Any other questions, smart ass? Thought not. (AND WHAT?!)]

Once in California there was a 18 year old boy named Chicken Legs.

[I like that I made him of age. I also like that he lives in California. You know I picked it because in my 8-year-old mind that was a "cool state." Remember that part of the song Fifty Nifty United States that goes, "North, south, east, west in our calm objective opinion (insert your state here) is the best!"? I distinctly remember we'd always be all badass in Music class and sing California instead of Maryland because Maryland has crabs and California has Arnold Schwarzenegger. I don't know why I'm telling you any of this. Moving on.]

He was a nerd.

He wanted a girlfriend.

[To this day that's how I imagine adult relationships. Just walkin' around all day with Balloons that say "LOVE". And I want it. Bad. Gush!]

He tried bumping into them.

But all they say is sorry.

So...he decided to pump some iron.

He worked out for weeks.

[Four, to be exact. Also, how come I keep drawing absurdly oversized nipples on this kid? And who develops protruding veins in their cheeks? What fetish did I have going on there?]

And when he bumped into girls they said more than sorry.

[Whores...]

He worked for weeks and he could pick up a table.

[This is also still my litmus test for strength—can you, or can you not pick up a moderately sized coffee table? If so, inquire within: meg@2birds1blog.com Bonus points for oversized nipples and a veiny face. Me-ow.]

He was in many heavy weight competitions.

And he won first place.

[I see I hadn't mastered the art of illustrating the illusion of overlapping yet...]

Then it came the night of the prom and he had lots of dates.

[BIG. BOOTY. HO.]

SERIOUSLY MEG?! THE AND??? God damnit! I made AN mistake and none of my teachers corrected me. How tragic. "The And".........Jesus Christ. I was a cute little Meglet but not the sharpest coffee table on the showroom floor.

So, basically speaking, The Chicken Boy is a story about a guy with low self-esteem who overcompensates by working out and becoming a Juice Head, thereby giving him easy access to all the fat-assed whores he can handle, right?

This begs the question...Does anybody else find it extremely disturbing that I was essentially recapping episodes of Jersey Shore at 8-years-old? A good 17 years before the show even aired? I genuinely don't know whether to be impressed or concerned. For the sake of my own sanity, I choose impressed.

THE AND!

(PS: In my bio under "What I want to be when I grow up," I wrote "model." HAH! Model...semi-anonymous blogger...they're sort of synonymous, right? RIGHT?! Actually, don't answer that.)

Karma, stereotypes and egg whites.

For someone who life routinely shits upon (I couldn't even pick a post to link as a reference there. Just go back to any given blog post ever and I'm sure you'll be caught up to speed.) I had a few lucky breaks last night. It started when I decided to do my laundry. Finally. Because it was either that or wear my white linen high school graduation dress to work today (...and Lord knows I'm not above that.) I would like the world to know that although I don't like doing laundry, I am an extremely responsible communal laundry room user. I set alarms and come back at the proper time, I always clean my lint trap and I don't drip detergent everywhere. Yesterday I bought a cozy throw blanket at Bed, Bath and Beyond and although all I wanted to do was crack that baby open and take her for a test drive, I decided to heed Bobby's (terrifying) warning and wash it before having a snuggle. (Lest I snuggle up to Indian garment worker jizz.) (Terrifying.) Being a large, cozy throw blanket, it didn't completely dry after the first go-around. Thus, I added an additional 15 minutes to the dryer, went back to my apartment and came down to retrieve it approximately 17 minutes later. Imagine my horror when I saw my brand new blanket sitting ON THE DIRTY LAUNDRY ROOM FLOOR. That's right, some asshat had removed my blanket from the dryer and crudely tossed it to the ground before putting their laundry into my dryer. "But Meg," I hear you say, "you were two minutes late to retrieve your laundry. Serves you right," Right? WRONG. There were blatantly other dryers available! This A-fuck just decided that he/she wanted my dryer and tossed my freshly cleaned, Indian-jizz-free blanket to the ground! I was livid. To even the score, I opened A-fuck's dryer to stop their time and threw in some lint for good measure. Immature? Yes. Deserved? YES.

Feeling satisfied, I went back up to my apartment and sat down to watch some Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team 4 on CMT but was completely distracted by how guilty I felt. Three minutes later, I couldn't stand it anymore and went back downstairs, picked out A-fuck's lint, closed the door and restarted the dryer. (Ugh. I'm a disgustingly good person. It's my cross to bear.) And then the most glorious thing happened: I found a ten-dollar bill under the dryer! Do you know how many $5 footlongs that will buy??? Two. So I snatched it up.

Just when I thought my night couldn't get any better, I noticed someone had abandoned a box of old books by the elevator. I browsed through them to see if there was anything good but they were mostly just old romance novels and a shit ton of dictionaries. But then, this little number caught my eye:

And don't mind if I do and don't mind if I do.

I went upstairs, curled up on the couch and opened to this question: "How about those Oriental cures—like powdered rhinoceros horn?" And I thanked god for what I had just received. I read on. And Ho. Ly. Shit. This book is the best thing to ever happen to me. Nothing will ever top it. Nothing will ever be this good or funny again. Ever. I might as well just kill myself because it's all downhill from here. I can honestly say that I spent the better part of last night curled up in a small ball, rocking back and forth, hysterically laughing to the point of tears while struggling to read passages to Co-Blogger Chris over the phone. My stomach muscles are killing me today.

I don't even really know what to say about this book. I think I just have to share it with you. I'm sure I could bust out some Gender Studies 101 bullshit about how society and sex norms have changed and T.G.I.Kinsey and all that jazz, but I think I'm going to chalk it up to this: misinformation—LOLZ!
Before I present you with my favorite questions and answers, please keep the following in mind:
1.) This is a real book
2.) It was a #1 Bestseller
3.) It was written by this guy:

4.) That man is a noted California psychiatrist
5.) Which means he has a medical degree
6.) It was written in 1969
7.) Again; medical doctor

We'll start with the section on Male Homosexuality because it's my favorite. Sorry lesbians, there isn't a section on Female Homosexuality. Apparently nobody has any questions about you. You scissor and listen to Sarah MCLachlan. Case closed.

What is male homosexuality?
Male homosexuality is a condition in which men have a driving emotional and sexual interest in other men. Because of the anatomical and physiological limitations involved, there are some formidable obstacles to overcome. Most homosexuals look upon this as a challenge and approach it with ingenuity and boundless energy. In the process they often transform themselves into part-time women. They don women's clothes, wear makeup, adopt feminine mannerisms, and occasionally even try to rearrange their bodies along feminine lines.

Couldn't homosexuals just be born that way?
A lot of homosexuals would like to think so. They prefer to consider their problem the equivalent of a club foot or birthmark; just something to struggle through life with. [I swear to God this is real. I only wish I was this funny.]

Can homosexuals change?
If a homosexual who wants to renounce homosexuality finds a psychiatrist who knows how to cure homosexuality, he has every chance of becoming a happy, well-adjusted, heterosexual. [SHOTGUN CO-BLOGGER CHRIS!!!!1]

What do homosexuals really do with each other?
An almost unbelievable variety of ingenious things. The usual homosexual experience is mutual masturbation. It is fast, easy, and requires a minimum amount of equipment. The chaps simply undress, get into bed, and manipulate each other's penises to the point of orgasm. Three to five minutes should be enough for the entire operation.

Don't homosexuals do other things too?
Certainly. [...] According to the homosexual, it goes something like this:
"Whenever I feel like sex, I drive down to the bowling alley. I walk into the men's room, find an empty cubicle, go in, take down my pants, and sit on the toilet. Then I wait. It never takes very long.
"Pretty soon another guy sits down in the next cubicle. I watch his feet. If he's a gay guy, he'll slide his foot over and kind of nudge mine. That means he's 'cruising.' If I'm interested, I nudge back. Then we get started.
"I always use a piece of toilet paper to write some kind of note—usually I just say 'Do you suck?' Sometimes if I have plenty of time I add something else like, 'How big?' I throw the paper on the floor, he picks it up, comes over into my cubicle, and sucks my penis. That's how it ends—sometimes I suck his penis but usually I just go home." No feeling, no sentiment, no nothing.

Are all homosexual contacts as impersonal as that?
No. Most are much more impersonal. The majority of gay guys, when they cruise, dispense with the courtship. They don't even have time for footsie or love notes on toilet paper. [TIME OUT! Best emo band name ever: Love Notes on Toilet Paper. Ok, TIME IN!] A homosexual walks into the men's washroom and spots another homosexual. One drops to his knees, the other unzips his pants, and a few moments later, it's all over. No names, no faces, no emotions. A masturbation machine would do it better.

Surely there must be more to homosexuality?
There are dozens of variations but they all have this in common: the primary interest is the penis, not the person. [...] They generally go by aliases. Harry, Dick, Peter, are the most favored.

Isn't homosexuality kind of dangerous?
Homosexuals thrive on danger.

"S and M"? What does that mean?
Technically, sadist and masochist. Literally, trouble. Those who combine homosexuality with sadistic and masochistic aberrations are among the cruelest people who walk this earth. In ancient times they found employment as professional torturers and executioners. More recently they filled the ranks of Hilter's Gestapo and SS.

What about masculine homosexuals?
Homosexuals have a tendency to overdo this sort of thing. There never was a man more manly than a butch. Butches lean heavily toward masculine trappings such as leather motorcycle jackets, tight pants of coarse material, super-masculine shirts, heavy boots, and other exaggerations of men's wear.

Don't a lot of heterosexual men dress the same way today?
Yes and no. [...] It is the exaggeration that gives them away. Two men may wear what superficially appears to be the same shirt; the homosexual's is just a little tighter, a little brighter, just a little more.
Recently, the gay guys have been leaning toward costumes. A good example is engineer's pants. White denim trousers with vertical blue stripes have long been worm by locomotive engineers and fireman and hardly anyone else. Homosexuals decided that this line of work was very butch and appropriated the uniform—tight striped pants with a bright red bandanna around the neck. [...] Peel off the top layer of a butch and there is a queen underneath. Their underwear is truly amazing. Some take pleasure in men's shorts so tight they can barely meet the needs of nature. Others choose briefs so brief they barely exist. Most butch underthings are little better than skimpy athletic supporters. The ultimate IS an athletic supporter—two straps and a sack attached to the tails of a super-tight shirt. It works fine—the shirt is always tucked-in, the genitalia held tightly. The only problem is that the poor follow can't bend over!

Why do homosexuals do that?
[His] desire to display his genitals. They are his stock in trade and he wishes to show them to best advantage. What a good up-lift bra is to a prostitute, a good pair of undershorts is to a homosexual. [Yes he did just insinuate that push-up bras are only worn by prostitutes.]

Aren't homosexuals afraid of being arrested?
Maybe they should be, but they aren't. Lack of fear of the consequences is one of the puzzling characteristics of homosexual behavior. [...] Homosexuals have a compulsion to flaunt their sex in public. A public washroom is frequently their stage. Bus stations, parks, bowling alleys, are haunted by gay guys. [I would kill to see the episode of Scooby Doo where they solve a mystery at a haunted gay bowling alley...]

But all homosexuals aren't like that, are they?
Unfortunately, they are just like that.

What about all the homosexuals who live together happily for years?
What about them? They are mighty rare birds among the homosexual flock.

How do male homosexuals get along with female homosexuals?
About the only thing they have in common is their contempt for straight arrows, the term they use for heterosexuals. Any relationship that exists between them is based on grudging mutual tolerance.

All homosexuals don't find their partners on the street, do they?
For the average homosexual there are not too many other alternatives. Church meetings, singles groups, blind dates, family introductions, are exclusively heterosexual territory. Not even the ultimate in commercialized sex, computerized dating, has found a way to cash in on homosexuals. [Ah, Grindr. My how things have changed.]

Homosexuals have their own language?
The list reads like a menu. Here are a few:

Fish: Woman
Fishwife: a male homosexual's real wife
Seafood: a homosexual sailor
Chicken: young homosexual
Meat: penis
Buns: buttocks

Other homosexual expressions come right from the vocabulary of the heterosexual prostitute with whom gay guys have a lot in common. [Jesus fucking Christ...]

Do: suck a penis
Nelly: effeminate homosexual
Auntie: an aging homosexual
Fag Hag: a woman who is attracted to male homosexuals
Wrinkle-Room: gay bar frequented by aging homosexuals.

This is just a sample—the list goes on and on.

Why do so many homosexual expressions refer to food?
Food seems to have a mysterious fascination for homosexuals. Many of the world's greatest chefs have been homosexuals. Some of the country's best restaraunts are run by homosexuals. Some of the fattest people in the world are homosexuals. [I swear to all that is good and holy, I have never laughed so hard in my entire life as when I read that last statement. Like, thought-I-might-die-struggling-for-air-laughing. "Some of the fattest people in the world are homosexuals." A medical doctor. I have nothing left.] [...] Since Nature did not anticipate homosexuality, the male has not been equipped with glands to secrete a sexual lubricant. Thus the first problem that two gay guys have to solve before making love is lubrication. Many homosexuals favor cooking grease. Salad oil and margarine are commonly used. Among gourmets, butter and olive oil are preferred. But it doesn't stop there.
Most homosexuals find their man-to-man sex unfulfilling so they masturbate a lot. Much of their masturbation centers around the anus. The question, of course, is what to use for a penis. The answer is often found in the pantry. Carrots and cucumbers are pressed into service. [...] Egg white is also considered a good lubricant. Sometimes the whole egg in the shell finds itself where it doesn't belong. Sausages, especially the milder varieties, are popular.
The homosexual who prefers to use his penis must find an anus. Many look in the refrigerator. The most common maturbatory object for this purpose is a melon. Canteloupes are usual, but where it is available, papaya is popular.

Isn't that Unusual?
Actually "kitchen masturbation" is harmless compared to some other forms of rectal recreation. When homosexuals drink, things really happen. Nearly every intern in the emergency room of a large city hospital has seen this:
It is two a.m. Sunday. A young man stands forlornly at the emergency room door. He is about twenty-six years old, short, thin, with long bleached-blonde hair. He is drunk but sobering up fast. Sweat clings to his powder blue silk shirt. [It took me about 15 tries to get that out when I was on the phone with Chris. I got to powder bl—and died.] The patient walks with a strange, bent-over, crab-like gait. [...] Pants off, on his hands and knees, chest on the table, anus in the air. The intern inserts the anuscope, flicks on the light, and there it is: a whiskey glass. He breathes a sigh of relief. Whiskey glasses are easy, relatively speaking. He snaps on a special rubber-cushioned clamp, squirts in some lubricant, the gay guy gives a little gasp, and it's out.
The doctor says, "I always worry when I see these guys come in. They all have this funny walk and I know they didn't sit on a tack. I just pray it's a shot glass—they're a cinch. It usually happens like this: Two fags are having a big time on Saturday night, you know, drinking and whopping it up. The queen rolls over and waits for his boy friend to give him the works; only he slides in the first thing he has in his hand instead, usually the whiskey glass. [...] It's the off-beat stuff that gets me. Like this time this old fairy hobbled in. I flipped him over, slipped in the scope, started to snap on the light, and almost flipped—his whole damn rectum was as bright as day! Someone had slipped the poor moron a flashlight—he was the most turned-on faggot in town."

Do all homosexuals do these things?
They like a tight fit. [I swear to god I'm not making this up.]

[Now, moving on from homosexuality. Let's go to some more random, less "fancy" questions:]

That's find if the vagina is too big—what about something for a vagina that's too small?
A vagina that is really too small is very rare indeed. Most often the hymen is to blame. That small bit of tissue that stands guard at the gates of love sometimes does its job too well. Even the most determined mightnight battering by a nervous and sweating bridegroom is occasionally insufficient—it will not yield. The following morning the tearful bride and red-faced groom appear at the doctor's office. In this case the scalpel is mightier than the penis and in a flash of the gleaming knife the portals swing wide. Nature's defect undone by Man! [I don't know what part of that answer hurts my vagina more.]

Does the wife or girl friend have something to do with a man's impotence?
In many cases, she does.

What about masturbation and the blind? [I swear to God.]
Until recently, blind people were shut off from the rest of the world socially as well as visually. One of their few sources of sexual gratification was masturbation. In blind schools masturbation was made more difficult because those who masturbated could not tell if they were being observed. [I. laughed. So. Hard.]

Ok I can't. I can't do anymore. NEW BLOG RULE: Whenever I'm too busy with "real work" to blog, I'm going to transcribe a few ridiculous questions and answers from Dr. Reuben's Everything You Always Wanted to Know...because trust me, there's so much more.

In the mean time, lesson learned: karma is real and you should never trust a gay man alone in your kitchen.

Ludacris's "Fantasy" is full of it

Porn is ruining lives.

Now, I’ve seen my fair share of pornographic videos (have I written this before? I’m having serious blogja vu right now), but it seriously warps your idea of what good sex should be. What you forget is that porn is all about the visual, more for self-love than making love. Try any position you see in porn, and it’s immediately uncomfortable, because while it looks hot as hell, your leg is not supposed to bend that way, and penises should not make obtuse angles with your torso.

But one of porn’s worst side effect of porn, by far, is the different locales these movies are set in. To illustrate my point, I present to you the 7 Most Overrated Places to Have Sex. (May I say that I am in no way an expert on this matter. Merely my opinion. If you’ve done it in any and every one of these places and it’s been spectacular, then a tip of the hat to you, and I’d love to hear your tales of wonderment. If I’ve omitted an overrated boning location, please let me know.)

7 Most Overrated Places to Have Sex

1. The beach. I think this might be one of the most common sex fantasy locations.
In theory: Get a blanket, settle down on a starry night, and get busy with the sounds of waves crashing as your aphrodisiac. Nothing could be more romantic than that.
In practice: Sand. Everywhere. You soon realize you have more nooks and crannies than an Thomas’ English muffins because every single one of yours has sand in it. And you seriously underestimated how cool the ocean breeze was. Goosebumps are sexy when they happen once or twice, not when they are constant. God forbid the tide come in mid-coitus.

2. The woods. This is a personal favorite of mine. I’ve always thought that getting your freak on in a nice wooded glen would be the ultimate.
In theory: Birds chirp as the leaves’ shadow dance playfully across your lover’s skin.
In practice: Leaning up against a tree hurts. That bark is not a comfortable body pillow. It is scratchy and there are ants crawling all over it. Likewise, you lay down in the grass, and who knows what creatures/insects are going to interrupt the mood. Nothing says sex less than bug bites. Except maybe a rash, sexually transmitted or otherwise. In the woods you are at least 600 times more likely to contract poison ivy. On your taint.

3. The kitchen. This might be one of the first place people go in their own home when they leave the boudoir because it’s so far removed from the bedroom.
In theory: All that counter space can lend itself to some interesting positions, and while you’re in the kitchen, why not grab some whipped cream and strawberries.
In practice: Let me stop you right there. Whipped cream = a sticky mess, even after you’ve licked the majority of it off of someone’s nether regions. But the food aside, there really aren’t a whole lot of places you can maneuver yourself in the kitchen. Leaning over a counter maybe but all that thrusting and you’re bound to concuss yourself on a cabinet. Same goes for sitting on the counter. And let’s face facts, you prepare/eat food in there. Unsanitary.

4. The stairs. This one might be a little less common, but I’ve seen it in a film or two and thought it looked hot.
In theory: You are on different levels, so it’d be easier for certain positions. And maybe you’re up for the challenge.
In practice: First and foremost, stairs are pretty narrow, so trying to find a comfortable way to kneel or sit on them is going to be difficult. Have you ever tripped up the stairs and banged your shin? Hurts donut? Imagine doing that repeatedly over and over again. Not pleasant. Also, god forbid one or both of you lose your balance, because you’re going to break an arm, or at least hurt your pride.

5. Car. I had a friend tonight tell me he’s done this. In traffic, no less. I say “Kudos, but good god what kind of yoga do you know how to do?” Most people just park their jalopy on Lover’s Lane and fog up some windows.
In theory: It’s sort of the quintessential place for teenagers to fool around, so I’m sure everyone’s done it at one point or another. Plus, even non-porn movies romanticize boning in cars. Or in the beds of trucks. Or the backs of vans.
In practice: In short, that’s not what cars are made for. You can’t fully enjoy yourself when you’re getting a face full of door handle. And in my experience as a passenger in cars, most backseats have pretty low head room. Sex is supposed to be mind blowing, not brain bashing. Also, police knocking on your steamed up windows can shrink a boner in 5 seconds flat. Fact! (Fun story: I had a friend who was fooling around with her boyfriend in a parked car when the policeman knocked on the window and shined a light on her topless…the policeman being her friend’s father.)

6. In front of a fireplace. Another romanticized location, as seen in many Skinemax flicks.
In theory: Firelight. Bearskin rug. Passionate sex. Maybe some candles. How many romance novels are centered around exactly this?
In practice: This might be a personal negative for me, but does anyone else think this would be the sweatiest, least sexy thing ever. Everything about that says hot to me, literally and not figuratively. I’m not going to be in the moment when I’m thinking about how much sweat is pouring from my forehead.

7. Pool/Jacuzzi. Like Will Ferrel and Rachel Dratch at the Welshley Arms “although the waters above appear calm, below the surface there is a frenzy of activity.”

In theory: Hot. Nothing is better than relaxing, enjoying spiced meats, and getting some.
In practice: Three words. Urinary Tract Infection.