Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries...

- First things first: I am so sorry about Monday's Ghost Post. My bad, you guys. My bad. Except it totally wasn't—it was the Bolt Bus' bad. I took an early Bolt Bus back to DC Monday morning after spending a lovely weekend in New York. (Yes, I had to go to New York the weekend Chris finally moved to DC. Then Chris sold his watch to buy me a hair comb but I sold all of my hair to buy him a watch chain. Gift of the Magi is so hot right now.) Although the ride back wasn't nearly as gut-wrenchingly hungover as the bus ride there on Friday morning, it was still pretty rough.

Because I hate No Post Mondays just as much as you, the first thing I did when I sat down in my bus seat was crack open my laptop and get to work on a mediocre post. And write a mediocre post, I did! Seriously! I wrote, edited and formatted an entire blog post! It was about how it was a "Road Post" which made me think of road head and how road head fascinates me because I never thought people actually did it until one summer when I totally saw a couple doing it while I was driving home from work and I freaked out and asked everyone I knew if they'd ever done it was mind-boggled to discover that not only had most of the people I'd asked done it, but they all had comical stories about it; thus giving me the million dollar idea to write a compilation of road head stories called Head on the Road (PATENT PENDING! IDEA & TITLE COPYRIGHT OLNEY ELEMENTARY PRESS & 2BIRDS1BLOG PRODUCTIONS!). So, yes. That was the post. Like I said, it was mediocre at best, but it was a post nonetheless.

Towards the end of writing it, I had definitely felt better. I wasn't lying—the second I sat down in my seat, I took out my laptop and started writing. Which means I completely neglected to take off the 5,000 layers I put on while waiting for the bus in the freezing rain. So there I was, typing away in the tropical 85-degree weather of the bus wearing a wife beater, sweatshirt, cardigan, pea coat, scarf, fingerless gloves and small Inuit man hugging my torso under my pea coat but over my sweatshirt (aka first and a half base) for good measure. I was sweating like a bitch but couldn't take any layers off because I was precariously balancing a cup of coffee on my laptop, my laptop on my lap and my right foot was keeping my shitty laptop charger from sliding out of the outlet and leaving me three minutes of battery life. (Oh, I'm sorry Ava Cutrone. Some of our mommy's won't buy us much needed Apple products despite the fact that we're unemployed writers and not sixth graders who sit around pining for breasts all day. GAWD I HATE YOU AND YOUR MACBOOK PRO AND YOUR ENTIRE LIFE!!!!!!1)

In addition to not feeling well from the extreme heat and the vicious cold I had been fighting off all weekend, I was also beginning to get seriously nauseous from typing on the bus. I get motion sick watching Deadliest Catch, I don't know why I thought writing on the bus would be a good idea, but there I was; clacking away. I just love you like that—it's my cross to bear. Sigh...

Thankfully, my stomach was comforted by the fact that all I had to do was hit "post" and I could put everything away, peel off a few hundred layers and curl up for a much needed nap. So I hit post. Nothing happened. Hmm. I allegedly had a strong Bolt Bus wireless signal so it should have went through. I hit post again. It loaded. It loaded. It loaded. And then loaded some more. I sweat. And sweat. And coughed. And then sweat some more. I hit the refresh button. My cursor turned into the dreaded spinning beach ball of doom. Then, to make matters worse, my phone rang. I forgot to put it on silent so the entire bus got to listen to my ringtone (Alex screaming "BATTLE ROYALE!" in a pompous British accent over and over again...I regret nothing) for a while I searched all 5,000 layers for my phone while simultaneously trying not to spill my coffee/knock my laptop over/let my charger slide out. When I finally got to my phone, I didn't recognize the area code calling, so thinking it was someone calling about a freelance writing gig, I answered it. (HA HA, so young and full of hope. I am adorable.) Turns out it was just a loan collector calling about a late student loan payment. Which, according to my calculations, is the exact opposite of someone calling with a freelance writing gig. I let the debt collector get as far as, "Hi Ms. McBlogger this is Heather calling from Key Bank about your studen—" before I blatantly hung up and checked the progress with the blog. This was as far as it had progressed:

My body temperature rose another 10 degrees. I decided to take a few deep breaths, calm down and wait a few minutes for the wireless signal to get stronger. Once it did, I hit the back button on my browser to go back to the post I had written.

IT. HADN'T. AUTOSAVED. A. SINGLE. WORD. OF. IT.

And that's when the wireless signal went out all together.

I swear to Christ, it took everything in my power not to stand up, grab my computer by the screen, walk back to that tin can filled with Windex and broken dreams they call the "toilet" and bash that mother fucker on the seat over and over and over again into tiny little pieces before flushing it all over I-95. Instead, I opted to let out a defeated little "GEH" noise from deep within before angrily slamming my computer shut, shoving it in my bag and taking off every god damn layer I was wearing until I got down to the sweat soaked wife beater and looked like I was competing in a one-woman wet t-shirt contest. But truth be told, I just could not have physically cared less at that point. I was livid and hot and felt like shit and COULD NOT BELIEVE IT WASN'T AUTOSAVING THAT ENTIRE MOTHERFUCKING TIME. GEEHHHHHH!!!!1

So, that's what happened with Monday's post. The only thing that survived Bolt Bus' half-ass wi-fi connection was that cocktease of a timestamp and this gif image I uploaded to wish all of god's chosen people a happy first evening of Passover.


Which still stands. Happy Passover!

- I get emails from readers all the time asking me for advice. I find this laughable because if there's anything you should have learned about me from reading this blog, it's that I do not have my shit together. I'm not entirely sure why anyone would ever want advice from me about anything not involving what to wear to a Dynasty-themed costume party or how many naps are in a dollar, yet, people do. I get asked everything from blogging advice to "I'm in 7th grade and my BFF is mad at me, what should I do?" to "What should I have for lunch?" and everything in between. (The answers, by the way, are: your middle school friends are like wide-legged jeans: once you reach high school you won't want them anymore and you'll be embarrassed you ever had 'em, so don't worry about it; and a $5 footlong from Subway. Obviously.)

Everyone needs a random schmo to turn to for non-biased advice. As someone who's been in therapy since 6th grade, I get that. Christ do I get that. And I'm honored anyone would ever want me to be that random schmo, but I'm just not sure how much I trust myself to help anyone out. I mean, I'm unemployed and currently watching Buffy pantsless at 2:09 in the morning. Am I really the person you want life advice from?

I wrote a blog post earlier this month about how I suck at PR and as a result, I got a bunch of emails from kind PR professionals in the area looking to help me out. As completely touched as I am by each and everyone of them, I decided to put my blog marketing efforts on hold for a while while I tried to figure out what to do about a job. However, one young PR professional didn't take no for an answer; she had all of her (many) friends repeatedly email me and tell me me what a fuckin' idiot I was if I didn't take advantage of what an amazing publicist their friend was. 20 emails later, I thought, "Welp, this is annoying ::strokes imaginary beard:: ...and I like it. This girl's got moxie!" and agreed to go out for a drink to discuss marketing strategies.

As I've discussed before, it's kind of hard for me to open up to people. I'm a little guarded and rarely discuss major problems in my life with even the closest people to me. Phone conversations with my mom routinely end in "Now, is this one of those times when you say everything's OK but then go be secretly depressed somewhere, or is everything really OK?" That being said, what was supposed to be a quick drink with Amy the Publicist about marketing strategies turned into me pouring my little heart and soul out to her for a solid 4 hours straight about everything. The blog, my writing, New York, DC, friends, dudes, family—everything. She was incredibly easy to talk to and had amazing insight and advice about everything I brought up.

"You give really good advice!" I told Amy.

"Yeah, that's kind of my deal," she told me. "People always come to me for advice. Truth be told, I've always kind of wasted to be a relationship advice columnist. Do you know who Dan Savage is?" UH YES. I was two steps ahead of her. The wheels were turning. (Albeit slowly. I had had a few.) Amy is my long-lost advice Twin! The yin to my yang. The rational to my irrational. The experienced to my "Ooo! Yikes. Good question..." So I proposed she write an advice column for 2b1b and she was, thankfully, all about it.

So now, we need you. Got a question you want my badass lesbian publicist to answer? Ask "QUEER ABBY", 2b1b's new weekly advice column! She'll tell it to you like it is and then I'll throw in some of my ridiculousness for good measure. Maybe we'll even get Co-Blogger Chris in the mix?? Your gender, sexuality and all that junk doesn't matter. This is an equal-opportunity advice column. Ask her which frat you should join. As her about your weird polyamorous girlfriend's boyfriend. Just ask. Shoot an email to QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com. If we publish your question, we'll use your first name and last initial, so if you're not hip with that, make sure to let us know you'd like to be anonymous. I'M EXCITED. Amy is gold and my advice somehow always includes "tell them to go fuck themselves." It should be good.

QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com

- I was filling out my Census form the other week, because I think we both know I'm the living, breathing embodiment of a perfect American, and I got hung up on question #8:

I know picture is a little blurry, so to clarify, the question is Is Person 1 of Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish origin?
Yes, Mexican, Mexican Am., Chicano
Yes, Puerto Rican
Yes, Cuban
Yes, another Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish origin...

I very sincerely had to read the last option like 50 times because I kept reading it in the entirely wrong inflection in my head. I kept reading, "Yes, another Hispanic, Latino or Spanish origin," as if it were like, "Yes, just another god damn Hispanic, Latino or Spanish person" and not like, "Yes, [I am of] another [meaning of a different variety of] Hispanic, Latino or Spanish origin."

I was seriously about to call my mom and be like, "Uhhh...did you see question #8 on the Census? The government's getting kind of ballsy about the Latino community, huh?" until I read it more carefully. HA HA, oh ADD. You sneak up on me in the most interesting places.

- Speaking of racism, you know what sucks? I have a tendency to like the most offensive flags possible. No, seriously, I really do. It all started back in 1988 when I was just a wee little Meglet and Cry Baby was one of my favorite movies. (Looking back? Highly inappropriate.) (Also, my favorite song? Lou Reed's Take a Walk on the Wild Side. Also highly inappropriate. I remember on my first day of kindergarten, my dad sang it to me but changed the words to, "And all the BIG GIRLS IN KINDERGARTEN GO—" and I gleefully did the doo-doo-doo's. You can imagine how traumatized I was when I actually listened to the words years later and realized the special song my dad and I share contains the lyrics, "she never lost her head, even when she was giving head." God damn hippie parents...) Anyway, in the scene where they go to Turkey Point, there are Confederate flags everywhere and I distinctly remember being like, "OO0OO0O! I LIKE THOSE FLAGS." Ever since then, I've had a soft-spot for Confederate flags. I like them a lot. PURELY AESTHETICALLY SPEAKING, of course. It's kind of unfortunate that they're associated with KKK rallies, cousin-fuckin' and Deliverance.


You know what's even more upsetting? I have secretly always wanted a Confederate Flag bikini.



There it is. The embarrassing, redneck truth. It's bad; I know. I'm always secretly hoping someone will throw a theme party where it'll be appropriate to wear one so I'll finally have an excuse to get one. It would also be perfect to wear lounging around my apartment, overdosing on Tylenol PM. Unfortunately I don't think my friends are ironic enough to throw a "FAVORITE SYMBOLS OF HATE POOL PARTY!!!!!!" ...Or are they?

I brought up my unfortunate love of Confederate Flags at a dinner party a while back and it led to a discussion about which country has the best flag. My vote? Saudi Arabia, HANDS DOWN. If there is anything more simplistically beautiful or badass than the Saudi Arabian flag; I would love to know what it is.

The green, the white, the sword, the beautiful Arabic script...Aces ten.

I have a little mini American flag stuck on the lamp on my drafting table in my apartment. It's right across from my bed so I stare at it a lot when I'm trying to go to sleep. One night I decided I should get another mini-flag to stick on the lamp going in the other direction to balance it out, but which flag? I immediately thought of the Confederate Flag, but what with the signed Ron Paul photo Anna got me and the McCain bumper sticker and signed photo on the fridge, things are getting slightly too Limbaugh in here for my liking.

So then I thought, oh! The Saudi Arabian flag! It's so pretty! But Dan informed me at the dinner party that the pretty Arabic script says the Islamic declaration of faith and I already have a brass sign in my apartment that says "welcome" in Arabic. What's the problem with that, you ask? Um, hi. I got tattoos and my mom decided it meant I'm a "prison dyke." What do you think she'll assume if I have a Saudi Arabian flag and an Arabic welcome sign? That Jew likes to overreact, bless her heart. I'd like to stay off the no-fly list, thanks just the same.

So then—I swear to god—I decided I should get a mini Gadsden flag. I've been a fan of the Gadsden flag ever since I did a project on it in the 4th grade Revolutionary War unit. I thought it was incredibly cool that Maryland was part of the sectioned "Join, or Die!" rattlesnake. Because I was kind of lame and didn't have friends, clearly. But still! A Gadsden flag! It's yellow and black, has a woodblock image of a snake on it and says "Don't fuck with me." In so many words. And it's a throwback to our ye olde forefathers and the Revolutionary War! How could I offend anyone there, right?

Wrong. Rewind to two weeks ago.




WELL, THANKS A LOT YOU FUCKING TEA PARTY WEIRDOS. Thanks a lot. You took the god damn Gadsden flag from me. HAPPY NOW?! I can't find a god damn flag that isn't associated with Extremists, Klansmen, Islam or fucking Tea Party weirdos. Frankly, I'm kind of fine with being an extreme Islamic Klansmen, but a member of the Tea Party?! Feh. No thank you.

Back to square one. What about Fiji? It's got a lion and bananas; that's kind of badass, right?

Although given my track record, the International Society of Skull Fuckers will announce that they've adopted it as their new flag tomorrow. Callin' it right now.

While You Were Sleeping

Sharing the bed with someone (I'll have you know I initially misspelled that and said "Sharting the bed" which is a horse of an entirely different color) is not always easy. Hell, sharing a room with someone isn't always easy. How many of us got to college freshman year expecting your first year of sharing a room to be a breeze after exchanging exciting emails with Joe Schmoe from Idaho, only to realize Joe Schmoe is the textbook definition of slovenly. My first college roommate was completely non-offensive as a person, but living with him is what I imagine living with a three-toed sloth to be like. It was always hard for me to tell if he was home or not, because his side of the room was just one giant pile. Of things. Some of which may have been living. And sometimes I'd think he wasn't home, and just as I'm getting ready to fall asleep, he'd slowly rise out of the pile, like a trash heap Messiah and scare the ever-living shit out of me. It didn't help that he always kept the shade in our room shut, even on a nice day. I still have horrible flashbacks to one day in the spring, when I got back to the room, the window was shut and the sun had been beating on the closed shade, baking the already questionable contents of his side of the room. One word: pungent. There was not enough Febreze in the world for that day. It was like someone had baked a casserole using sweaty gym socks and pickle juice.

Everyone has their college roommate horror stories. One of my best friends in college was in a forced triple freshman year. One of her two roommates would steal the others' food while they were gone. But here's the kicker: homegirl was bulimic. BULIMIC. She would eat their food their parents sent in a care package, then proceed to vomit it up in the shower later that day. It's not even like she's the best goddamn dancer in the American Ballet Academy. (Who the hell are you? Nobody!) Who steals someone else's food and doesn't even fully enjoy it?! That's just cruel. Considering the sloth was the worst of my roommate troubles in college (except when I was hooking up with my roommate and shit got real awkward. Oh, hormones!), I think I lucked out. My only wish was that I had a roommate in college that talked in their sleep. My friend Em, apparently talked in her sleep, as recounted by her roommate Allison. My favorite story was one time Allie was up late doing some homework, and all of a sudden, Emily shot straight up in bed and said "Yea, I'll have another shot!" I die. Each and every time I hear that story.

Blanyway, I've digressed. So getting back to my point, sharing a bed with someone is not easy. This is what makes hooking up with people so tricky, because you never know what you're getting if they spend the night. The worst is someone who is a total bed hog. For some ungodly reason, the guy/girl you have over is posing for the Vitruvian Man in the middle of the bed at three in the morning. You have to find a way to occupy the space between the edge of the bed and their ankle. I've heard that the way you feel most comfortable is the way you slept in the womb. These people's mothers' wombs must have been cavernous. When does it become acceptable to punch them in the face and tell them to get out? Because whenever I get woken up in the middle of the night, for some reason, I am extremely hostile. So keep that in mind if you ever interrupt my slumber: I will murder you. This is also probably the same person who steals all the covers. Repeatedly. No matter how many times you yank the blanket back, ten minutes later you'll wake up freezing while they are in their homespun woolen cocoon.

I prefer this to the overcuddler. My first bf was like this, and it got real irritating, especially in the summer. He would need to be constantly right next to me. And each time I moved over, he would move over more. I woke up numerous times teetering on the edge of the bed. While great for my core and balance, not so great for being well-rested. There's nothing worse than being all clammy AND pressed up against someone. Whether I'm in bed, on the subway, etc. I need my personal space. It's hot, I'm sweating enough already, please do not touch me.

Restless sleepers might be the hardest people to sleep next to. No, people with night terrors are the hardest people to sleep next to. But restless sleepers are a close second. You have to sleep all defensive, because you never know when a stray arm or leg is going to come your way. They are off in dreamland, running through field of sunflowers, while you're wide awake listening to them rustle around all night. It's like sleeping next to a dog.

My current bf and I share the bed nicely. Except for the fact that he snores like a foghorn. It doesn't help that he routinely falls asleep within five minutes of hitting the pillow. And he snores as soon as he's semi-unconscious. It sounds like someone playing a tuba filled with macaroni and cheese most nights. I'm willing to put up with it because he also talks in his sleep. It's everything that I've ever wanted in a roommate/bed buddy. I cannot tell you the kind of joy this brings into my life on a nightly basis. My only regret is that we're not still in college, and I'm not usually awake until 4 o'clock in the morning to listen to the wacked out things he's thinking about. But like I said, he falls asleep faster than a Rusty the narcoleptic dachshund.

So there have been some gems recently. The best part is that he will respond to you when you talk to him, but has no memory of what you talked about in the morning. I've started keeping a notepad by the bed for anytime I'm awake and he's rambling. Because it's just too good to forget, and I have a god awful memory.

My favorite was the first one that I wrote down. He goes: "Hey buddy, are you there?" and at this point he grabbed my arm and put it on his chest and says: "Can you make my skins shine like new?" In his mind, my rubbing his chest is the equivalent of Homer sticking his head in the bowling ball waxer. The next time he spoke to me, we had a 30 second conversation. He woke me up by saying "I can't take this." To which I obviously asked, "What can't you take?" because I thought he was wide awake. "Everyone jumping at me asking me for money." At this point, I rolled over to grab the notepad to write this down. He must have interpreted that to mean I was mad because he goes "Noooooooooo, not you. Everyone is trying to sell me cat food." But the best one to date happened a few weeks ago. From a dead sleep, he goes "P-p-p-p-PAP SMEAR!! PAP SMEAR!" Clearly this cracks me up, and he says, "Pap smear! What's a pap smear? Do women get those?"

Like I said, this is all I've ever wanted. I couldn't be happier. The only thing worse is knowing that he spoke in his sleep, but I was too tired/lazy to write it down and don't remember what was said. That's how I feel this morning. It's like a veritable gold mine of comedy that I'm not digging through, simply because I'm "tired" and I want "sleep". Only one more reason I need to move to DC and be funemployed for a little bit. So I can stay up late and listen to the wacky nighttime musings of the boy. Guaranteed to keep me occupied for at least a day.

Oh. I didn't kill myself last night.

Yea. I'm alive. Sorry about that. I received a few concerned direct messages this afternoon regarding something I tweeted last night. It was My So-Called Life quote. Specifically, "There's something about Sunday night that just makes you want to kill yourself." - Angela Chase. I can see how that, added with the fact that I didn't write a post today, go to work or explain any of this, could be interpreted as slightly suicidal. It was an appropriate enough quote though, considering I'm in the midst of a personal MSCL marathon and it was Sunday night and I was totally depressed. But not depressed in like a I'm-going-to-kill-myself-and-post-it-on-Twitter kind of way. More in like a I-can't-fall-asleep-so-I'm-going-to-tweet-this-delightfully-appropriate-My So-Called-Life-quote kind of way. Although if I were going to kill myself, I would totally want to go out on a MSCL quote. That seems sort of perfectly emotional and ironic.

But yea, I'm fine. I'm sitting in a Starbucks actually. Just kickin' it. Enjoying the air conditioning and a hot latte. Watching a man who looks suspiciously like Murray from Flight of the Conchords drink a frappachino. Trying not to stare too hard at this smokin' hot guy who just walked in and interpret the fact that my ipod shuffle just landed on The Pixies "Here Comes Your Man" as a sign that he's my one special someone. I've pretty much never been better.

Last night was fucking rough though. Boss #2 comes back from vacation today and I couldn't stop thinking about how hard that's going to suck. Because she's so obviously going to spend her first day back passive-aggressively blaming me for everything that went wrong while she was away. And these will be things that I had abso-fucking-lutely nothing to do with. And this is all just too much time spent courtesy-smiling and fighting the urge to be snarky, all the while wishing she'd leave faster so I can get back to my MSCL marathon because the next episode is when Rayanne betrays Angela and has sex with Jordan Catalano. ANDOHMYGIGGLES!

Mostly as I layed in bed last night night, I couldn't stop thinking about the burned-out light bulb behind the backsplash of the wetbar. I have no idea how to change it, nor do I know who to contact about getting it changed. I only noticed it Friday afternoon as I was getting ready to leave, but was all Oh Swells! TGIF! about it and figured I'd get to it sometime this week. I should have emailed someone about it then and there. Because now Boss #2 is going to find it and ask me if I noticed it was out. And I'm going to have to be all, "Oh! I didn't see that! Hah..." and feel completely fucking stupid while she stands there staring at it for 20 minutes shaking her head slowly wondering what exactly it is that I do all day long. Damnit. I should have fucking emailed someone. I hate myself.

And this kept me up until 4:30ish. Tossing and turning. But not killing myself. Sorry about that.

One time Senior year, my roommate Danielle very seriously thought I had killed myself. Again, I can see how it looked that way. I had been in the design lab all weekend struggling with a project and just generally hating life when I finally came home to take a nap. The problem with trying to keep your body up for long periods of time by pumping it with adrenaline, coffee, glue fumes and god knows what else you can get your hands on, is that when you finally do have time to sleep, you can't. It's a sick, sick joke. But, I came home, went into my room, turned off the lights, lit one of my Jesus candles, turned on my "Super Duper Relaxing" playlist, put a pillow over my head to block out the light coming in from the blinds and finally dozed off.

A little later, Danielle (who knew I was going through "a time,") came in and discovered this scene: me laying on my bed with a pillow over my head, arms stretched lifelessly out to the side, in a pitch-black room with only a creepy and ominous Jesus candle lit and The Smith's "Sing Me to Sleep" coming from my computer. And Lord knows I'm not the most stable table on the showroom floor, so I can see how this might have been slightly upsetting. I woke up to her standing directly above me, eyes as big as dinner plates:

Danielle: ...........Hey.
Me: ...Hey.
Danielle: ......................How are you?
Me: Pretty good thanks...you?
Danielle: ...............................Fine.
Me: So...what's up?
Danielle: Um. It sort of completely looks like you tried to kill yourself.
Me: [Surveys current state of affairs] Point taken.

Co-Blogger Chris came home one night when we lived together to a similar scene. It was a Friday night and I decided to be lame and stay in. I got Thai food, baked a cake and watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (my go-to cry movie). I don't care how Aspie's this is going to sound, but that night was fucking awesome. Chris came home later and found me in the dark, curled up on the couch, hysterically crying. If I recall correctly, he turned on a light, stared at me for a few seconds and deadpanned, "Uh...Do I need to call a Suicide Hotline or something?" That boy is a saint.

So again, I'm fine. Thank you for your concern. I woke up this morning after 45 minutes of sleep and decided to take the day off. I just can't deal with that angry little Mexican when I haven't had my eight-hours. Please don't judge me.

Necessity is the Mother of Invention, but Survivor is the Mother of the Snuggie

On my lunch break this morning, I came home, sat in front of my television for an hour of brain cell genocide when I had to make an important decision. Do I watch Bring It On: All or Nothing or Who Wants to be a Millionaire? It’s a common complaint, but out of 300+ channels, these are the only things that even remotely piqued my interest. Lucky for you all, I went for Bring It On, and while it’s nowhere near as good as the original, it is one amazingly bad flick. Lucky for me I tuned in just in time to watch Hayden Planetarium krumping:


And then I had a revelation. Everything bad is secretly good. This explains an infinite number of things: why Meg and I routinely quote lines from Center Stage (Meg is far better at this game than I am), why the Snuggie has its own Wikipedia entry, and why Kristinia DeBarge was able to release that trash heap of a song.

So this makes for quite a conundrum. Meg and I have been brainstorming about a good product to invent to fiscally supplement our current meager incomes. And while we routinely scoff at the likes of the Go Girl and the Kush and the Comfort Wipe, we may need to divert our attentions from the cure for cancer to an Automatic Ass-Hair Braider. I was going to characterize the biochemical processes of motivation, to make a wonder pill of will power, but I should probably look into making something that’ll make your farts smell like fresh linen instead.

When did this happen? When did we stop inventing televisions and clock radios and focus instead on vibrator/razor combinations? Is everything that is worthwhile already invented? Last time I checked my compendium of science fiction movies, we still are in need of flying cars, teleportation, and time travel. So if we can get on that instead, I’d really appreciate it. But I have a theory as to the cause of all this obsession with making the trivial aspects of our everyday lives easier.

Survivor.

Hear me out. Survivor was one of the first reality TV game shows, which was the first time your average Joe Schmoe got their first taste of fame and maybe a little bit of fortune. Once Survivor got big, a new batch of TV shows came out for other types of people. You have your Bachelor/Bachelorette/Who Wants To Get Syphillis types of shows, for the lonely people out there who are moderately attractive. American Idol/So You Think You Can Dance/Whore Out Your Talent for Fame shows for people with an actual talent who are moderately attractive. Deal or No Deal/Wipeout/Shows Where Moderately Attractive or At Least Generally Likeable Who Have No Discernible Talent Compete for Money and Fame. Notice anything similar between all these shows? There’s no room for ugly people on reality TV shows (unless that show is The Swan and you are receiving plastic surgery to be not so ugly anymore).

So now everyone who is moderately attractive (or wants to be more moderately attractive via The Biggest Loser or Dance Your Ass Off) is getting famous and making a little money. What about everyone else; those with, shall we say, a face made for radio? How can they get a piece of the pie?

Well, the majority of them are watching their more attractive neighbors and friends eat bugs with Joe Rogan for money, or race around the globe for money, or remember the lyrics to songs with Wayne Brady for money. But a minority of the rest of them can somehow get financial backing to produce the first genius idea they have while on the can. They aren’t going to get famous (Does anyone know who invented the Snuggie? Didn’t think so.) but they can make a few bucks.

And the cultural landscape is primed for a few moronic ideas. Of course people are going to need something to help them wipe their fat asses, because they are too busy watching other fat asses lose weight on television. And while they’re watching TV, they get cold, but don’t want to take their arms out from their blanket to change the channel because Hole in the Wall just doesn’t translate from Japanese television, so naturally they need a Snuggie.

In conclusion, if Mark Burnett had never produced Survivor, then Germany would never have produced the ShamWow and that guy would never have punched that hooker, and Billy Mays might still be alive (R.I.P.).

So I’m not sure what this post says about me, since I was able to reference all of these trashy reality TV shows. Either I’m slovenly and physically repulsive, or I’m slated to invent the next Peekaru. Probably a little of both? In the meantime, I’ll be working on that motivation pill. Once I work up to it.