Tulane Chris' Four Loko Roast!

So… I have a confession to make. Remember several months ago, when Meg and I did our infamous Bum Wine tasting and talked a lot of tall shit about Four Loko, the formerly caffeinated, sugar-and-booze tallboy the kids are so into these days? Well… I may or may not (but definitely HAVE) had a change of heart. I kept taking little sips of other people’s Four Lokos (Fours Loko? Fours Lokos?) so that I could “make sure it was as bad as I remembered.” And what do you know? Just like the D.A.R.E. officer said, sips turned into gulps, and one what-the-hell purchase of the new Green Apple xXx flavor turned into a three-a-week habit. I use them as meal-replacement shakes, like in a crash diet. The results are interesting.

Anyway, you know how you can use soda as the base for a marinade on a roast? The sugar gives the meat that sweet flavor a lot of people like, and the phosphoric acid tenderizes it. So if you can cook meat in soda and in wine, why not in their unholy foster child? So, for 2Birds1Blog’s first, and likely last,

RECIPE CORNER

may I present: Porc au quatre loko.

You will need:

A pork roast

A can of Four Loko (I used the Lemon-Lime flavor because the old recipe books I got the soda-marinade idea from recommend Sprite for pork)

A crock pot or other slow cooker (You can do it in the oven but I didn’t want to fuss with “exact temperatures” and so forth)

Some spices n’ shit. I chose from my spice cabinet by smelling the spice, smelling the Four Loko, smelling the spice again, and putting in the spices that didn’t especially clash.

I used paprika, garlic powder, mustard, a little cayenne, curry powder, coarse ground black pepper, and a hearty dose of Tony Chachere’s Cajun Seasoning – the extra spicy kind, which is my default seasoning. I like to throw in a lot of spices, but you could get by with garlic, pepper, and salt. I also threw in some MSG, which you may remember us investigating a while ago. I’m already playing fast and loose with my health and God’s creation, so I might as well go all in.

A pat of butter, more or less for luck

A small glass

Instructions:

Place the roast in the crock pot. This first step is crucial. Pour yourself a small glass of Four Loko to drink as you cook, then pour the rest in around the roast.

Add the spices and stir it all up, coating the roast. If you like it peppery, add the pepper last so the grains are more likely to stick to the roast. Let it sit in the fridge overnight; ideally make the marinade in the early evening then flop the roast over before bed. In the morning, flop the roast again and turn the crock pot on low. Let it cook for several hours: it will get tough, then fall-apart tender.

Results:

The most alarming part of all this, so far, is that the Four Loko’s notoriously vivid color leached into the fat on the roast, dyeing the meat a distressing green. This mostly passed after a few hours of roasting. The resulting roast is actually pretty good. It kept some of the sweetness, but most of the Four Loko flavor boiled away, although there is a not completely pleasant aftertaste. It is very tender. I should have used much more pepper and some more Tony’s, but overall it’s not a bad dinner. I may try a darker flavor on a beef roast later, and will keep you posted.

Little shitting, snotting angels

A few blocks from the new apartment, there’s a restaurant I’ve wanted to try for some time now. It’s a combination diner and bar – which deserves to be on the male fantasy top ten alongside things like “nymphomaniac who owns a liquor store” and “Lamborghini with a gun turret.” (Who has an erection? Show of hands?)

Giant Camel was in town last week, so we stopped in for dinner the other night. It was magical. Decade-neutral décor, so we could have been in any time in the last 80 years. One of those ridiculously extensive diner menus – eight single-spaced pages and a specials insert, including such unlikely dishes as veal Milanese and Italian rum cake. Personal, just-for-your-table jukeboxes with an enviable selection of Motown. We got the dinner special – soup, an entrée, a vegetable and dessert, plus bread. I was with someone I love, I was a little drunk, and I was gorging myself to the sound of “Please, Mr. Postman.” You can keep your clouds and harps; heaven for me is the Marvelettes, fried seafood, and a BAC between .03 and .10. It was even my favorite weather outside: overcast with light rain.

“Giant Camel. You know what? Wouldn’t it be great if this diner was a spaceship, and we could…”

“Travel the galaxy, solving mysteries with the help of a talking pug?”

“How did you know I was going to say that?”

“I’ve known you for two years, and every fantasy you’ve ever describe to me ends with either the phrase ‘travel the galaxy, solving mysteries with the help of a talking pug’ or the phrase ‘now that I am king, Adrian Brody will gleefully submit to my advances.”

“You make me sound like a dangerously unbalanced man-child warped by sexual perversion and ‘Murder, She Wrote.’”

“…I love you?”

“You may love me, but when I’m king you and Adrian will OBEY me.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Only one sour note marred my evening. It was the same sour note, over and over again. About twelve feet from us sat a family with a little baby who was screaming. He seemed content and was looking around the room with bright, interested eyes… but he was screaming, with the same “a-a-a-a-a-aaaaaaaaaa a-a-a-a-a-aaaaaaaaa” pattern as a garden sprinkler.

You all know that I’m six cats and a case of the menopause away from being a fussy old maid, so you won’t be surprised that I absolutely hate loud noises. I hate a lot of things, so it’s saying a lot that loud noises are in the top five. I inherited this from my mother, an agoraphobic pacifist and devout Christian who nevertheless once turned to me in a restaurant and said, “If that woman shouting behind us doesn’t be quiet, I’m going to slap her motherfucking face off.”

(“Do you ever write about your family?” “Oh, only my mother’s threats of violence and the imaginary affair between my father and my co-writer, who is 35 years his junior.”)

So, eventually the family took the child away, leaving me in peace with the reflection: My God, I don’t like children. I’ve spent the last several years saying unspeakable things on a regular basis (for example, “retarded,”) but somehow nothing really takes the wind out of people’s sails faster.

What I say: “I don’t like children.”

What People Behave as Though I Said: “I don’t like children, but I feel compelled to have at least five to ensure the future of the Glorious White Race. If they’re too expensive, I’ll just beat them until the state takes them away. Do you have a cigarette?”

I don’t hate children on a Herod scale and I like my baby cousins, but my paternal feelings are limited to dogs. Here’s why:

As discussed, children make loud noises. I would rather be in physical pain than hear a child fuss or cry. I can’t handle loud and/or sudden noises, period, paragraph.

I am a worrier. A man who has night terrors, who pays his bills weeks before they are due, who while cooking bends over repeatedly to make sure the flame hasn’t gone out and allowed the room to fill with gas, a man who every time he leaves a friend or relative thinks “well, they’ll probably die before long,” is too worried to have children. Sharp sticks, child molesters, SIDS, asbestos, juvenile arthritis, devil-worshipping rock and roll bands, Hare Krishna recruiters, bullies, girls who develop early, chemical weapons – all these can warp, kill, or maim a child before 10 o’clock in the morning. I’d be dead of a stroke before it was three.

I am a loner. If I had a child, I wouldn’t be able to be alone for years. Spending an entire day in my bathrobe watching “Murder, She Wrote” while eating grocery store crab dip and writing for the blog? GONE.

Oh my God, the fluids. I barely bother to clean up my own secretions. I don’t think I can wipe for two, to be perfectly honest.

I have the attention span of a retarded developmentally disabled fruit fly. While writing this post I have:

- Gotten up to make bread

- Gotten a beer

- Put the beer back because I have to work tomorrow

- Decided to have the beer anyway and gone back for it

- Made bread

- Made corn

- Written “made bread” twice because I forgot I already said it

- Read a chapter of a murder mystery

- Set my alarm

- Watched an episode of “King of the Hill”

- Peed

Is this a man with the wherewithal to raise a child until it was eighteen years old? Eighteen hours old?

I drink too much. Mix up your Tom Collins thermos with the child’s apple juice Thermos even once and it’s an “incident.”

I have weird opinions. “Class, who can tell us who our state’s governor is? Yes, Grace?”

“An inbred, glass-jawed shitsplat who should be making license plates in a Moldovan prison camp with a dozen live scorpions nailed to each testicle.”

“Class, who can tell us what the United Nations does? Yes, Grace?”

“Daily makes God regret allowing Noah to build an ark.”

I’m weird in general. My son would be the only six-year-old boy dressed as Lizzie Borden. Not for Halloween, just, you know. Out for the day.

I swear a lot for someone as polite as I am. The kids wouldn’t know which was which. “Would you be so kind as to give me a lollipop, you fucking prick?”

Let’s face it, I have a hard enough time interacting with adults. I call it putting the “Er…” back in “Asperger’s.” (Yeah, I went there.) This is how weak my understanding of human interactions is (tampon cannon, Dad): once, after a late night, I woke up in a friend’s guest room. There was a naked man in the room who, when he saw I was awake, got into bed with me. My first thought was, I swear to you, “Oh, I guess he’s cold.” I didn’t understand his intentions until they were… beyond apparent. (“He sure is friendly!”)

The secret, especially selfish reason I don’t want to have children is this. If I had children, they’d know they were going to inherit and not necessarily coddle me in my own age. If I dangle an inheritance over my baby cousins and make them compete to see who gives me to most comfortable living in my declining years… and then give it all to the NRA, I’ll totally get the last laugh!

Drinking Game Friday Needs a Drink. Or Five.

Last spring, I went to visit a friend in San Francisco, and we took a day to go tour the wine country. We stayed with a friend-of-a-friend, who dropped us in town around noon and picked us up after she was done with work. “Hey, guys, did you get in a couple of wineries?” “Buh, tuh. EIGHT.” We then asked for a ride to the store to get beer. When we sobered up, we realized that we’d made her uncomfortable. She thought we had Gone Too Far, and that we were on the verge of Having A Problem. Bah. We’re just from the South. Drinking is like sex and ice-skating. Done well, you have an awe-inspiring result; done poorly, you’re sore and an object of scorn. So in the spirit of Ladies and gentlemen, Self-Referential Entertainment Presents: The Problem Drinking Drinking Game! Drink when/if: - You’ve made a conversion chart that shows, for each hour of the day, a world city in which it is already five o’clock. - If someone has ever confronted you about drinking in the day, and you’ve mumbled something about daylight savings time. - Your trash bags clank as you put them by the curb. - You’ve started tailgating for sports with a very limited local following, such as jai alai or women’s darts. - “I’m not drinking. This is just beer.” - At your house, every dessert has brandy poured over it. They are never lit. - “You call this a Seven and Seven? This is an eleven and three at best.” - You get drunk to make everyday tasks easier. I once paid my bills drunk, and when I got the canceled check back I found that on the memo line of my check to the gas company, I had written, “for Grace and Beauty.” - You’ve ever gotten drunk while sick with the reasoning “alcohol kills germs.” - Wine savers mystify you, because who doesn’t finish their wine? - You have a bottle in the trunk of your car “for emergencies” that is significantly more accessible than the spare tire. - “We could divide this into actual Jell-O shots, or we could just refrigerate the whole bowl and eat it with a spoon.” - “Pshh. He’s 21 in dog years.” - “No, it’s more efficient to put the Kool-Aid mix directly in the vodka. Then you can just stir it up.” - You beef up softer drinks, like mimosas, with a shot of vodka. (Ex Co-Blogger Eddie does this and it’s delicious and effective.) - Mosquitos bite you, take a few uncertain steps, and fall to the ground. - “I find that if I swallow the mouthwash I lay down a good base buzz for the morning." - This happens: Meg returns Monday! Have a great weekend everyone!

Hmm.

From Sunday's washingtonpost.com:



...What does it say about me that my immediate reaction after reading this headline was: "MEXICO IS SMUGGLING GOLDSCHLÄGER?!"

Drinking Game Friday (sort of) has got CHARISMA!

As is becoming a Drinking Game Friday tradition around here, I'd like to start out today's post by apologizing to our Twitter followers for the obnoxious spam messages you may have received from me last night. My account was hacked. Again. I, as a human being, have a cold and my Twitter account has a virus. EVERYTHING IS FALLING APART! What kills me the most is that "I" sent a spam-tastic DM to our most important contact at Jäger and now she has the spam virus. So, great. I'm sure we'll totally get that Jäger deal now that I gave their PR director Twitter scabies. Super. I don't even know how this keeps happening. I don't click on any shady links and my password isn't "password123" (...anymore.) Shouldn't they be targeting more lucrative people like Kim Kardashian or something? UGH, I'm so pissed. If Suzy Soro is behind this—im'ma fly to Hollywood and cut a bitch personally. In conclusion: I apologize to our Twitter followers and if you don't follow us on Twitter, you should because I'll give you all sorts of fancy online diseases!

Speaking of downers: Co-Blogger Chris and I will be taking the rest of the week off to go back home and stuff our faces with turkey, play with our respective parent's cats and do some general lolling about in the spirit of our Native American brothers. I'll be making a casserole for Thanksgiving dinner this year and given what an obvious shit show that will be, I've decided to live Tweet the entire process. (@2birds1blog! Sure I'll give you Twitter AIDS, but I'll also give you a few LOLZ in the process!)

I am so unbelievably excited about this week's drinking game! It's taken Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie and I years to perfect it. You see, back in the day when Eddie and I we were both awkward (well, more awkward than usual) freshman at AU, what bonded us as insta-biffles was our mutual love of crappy pop-culture. One of the biggest "OHMYGAWD, ME TOOO!!!!1" moments in our friendship came when we discovered that we both have the same favorite Thanksgiving movie—Son-in-Law. Son-in-Law is the ideal major motion picture: it has action, comedy, romance, Pauly Shore, Tiffany-Amber Thiessan (post Saved by the Bell; pre dropping of the Amber) and ROLLERBLADES, ROLLERBLADES, ROLLERBLADES! This past Saturday night, Eddie and I sat down with our laptops, signed onto g-chat, poured ourselves a mighty drink and from 140 miles apart, tested this week's drinking game. (God bless technology.) (And yes I did say Saturday night. She was going out after and I was nursing my cold. DON'T JUDGE US!) It is a privilege and an honor to present you with (the very potent) Meg & Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie's Ultimate Son-in-Law Drinking Game!


You can drink whatever you want for the majority of the movie (we both went with Bacardi and Coke Zero) but there's a specific part of the movie where you're really going to need to utilize a delicious and refreshing Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler. So, have that on deck.

Rules
Drink When:
- The "EEEE-EEEEEEE, EEEEE-eeeee!" music plays
- Walter says, "DAMNIT ZACK!"
- Walter says, "Oh shit."
- Walter calls Crawl by the wrong name (i.e. Crotch or Crap)
- Crawl says "Beck-kuhhhh"
- Anyone says "buuuuuu-dddddddy"
- Anyone says "charisma"
- Anyone says "mingling"
- Anyone besides Pauly Shore talks in that bro-kennnn syll-a-bleeee style of talk-iiiiiing that became so synonymous with the nine-tiessssss
- STEVEN TYLER PJ'S! STEVEN TYLER PJ'S!
- There's a totally meta reference to another Pauly Shore movie
- Rebecca's butterfly tattoo is shown or referenced
- ANYONE ROLLERBLADES (drink twice if Rollerblading solves an everyday problem like filling troughs with animal feed)
- Animals are widdled or a widdled animal is shown (this rule gets you surprisingly fucked up)
- Boobs are referred to as "cones"
- God knows what is referred to as "nugs"
- You can easily see one of Rebecca's outfits being in any given Urban Outfitters right now
- You see naked butt
- There is an uncomfortably open dialogue between Crawl/Rebecca/Walter/Connie about Walter & Connie's sex life (i.e.: "I'm not going to lie to you Mrs. Warner; you're giving me a total semi right now" or "Becca, check out the wood I created for your dad!" or when Becca tells her mom that she could hear them have sex last night and everyone is like HAHAHA, yeah.)
- "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" plays
- The following exchange goes down:
Walter: DAMNIT! What's that kid's name?!
Theo: SOMETIMES HE ANSWERS TO ASSHOLE!

And just for me and Eddie, chug your Bartles & Jaymes when:
Crawl: [sees Walter Sr. widdling on the porch] Oh, my God, it's Bartles or Jaymes. Dude, which one are you?! [I don't know why we thought this scene was so hilarious at the time, but it's became this huge inside joke in our friendship. One of my favorite HAHA—college! pictures is of Eddie in a giant purple sweater deep-throating an empty Bartles & Jaymes bottle at her Wet Hot American Summer themed 21st birthday party. It encapsulates the entire college experience into one concise photograph. Ah, Memories!]

And now I leave you with today's Everything You Ever Wanted to Know... question and answer. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday! Unless you're not in the States...in which case, have a great rest of the week at work! Ha ha...awkward. We love you guys and don't forget about Jäger Ball NEXT SATURDAY NIGHT! AH, HOLY SHIT! We'll see you Monday! Buh-bye!

Dr. Reuben's Question and Answer of the Day:

If a girl is pregnant, wouldn't she be better off without one of these abortionists?
Sometimes it doesn't make any difference. A self-induced abortion can be just as dangerous. The traditional do-it-yourself method hasn't changed in the past ten thousand years. The primitive tribes in Africa use the same technique as the most up-to-date swinger in Greenwich Village. Only the instrument is different. The disconsolate African housewife uses her abortion stick. It may be an intricately carved family heirloom or just a sharpened branch she pulled from a tree. It doesn't matter because she only needs it for a moment.
She squats in front of her hut, pushes aside her bark-cloth skirt, and slides the stick into her vagina. She then guides it more or less carefully through the cervix and into the uterine cavity. Then she pushes it around vigorously, pulls it out and hopes for the best.
Eight thousand miles away her light-skinned sister is sprawled on her queen-sized bed. She brushes aside her expensive nylon underwear, spreads her carefully shaved and powdered legs and with the aid of her cherished magnifying mirror guides her abortion stick toward its final goal. Only she uses a coat hanger.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries

- Asher Roth's existence is so unbelievably funny to me.

...........................Yep. That's it. There's the punchline. I can't really expound on it much more, suffice to say that to me, Asher Roth is like someone getting hit in the groin: universally laugh-out-loud funny, every time. Or, in SAT terms:
Asher Roth: Meg
as
Han's Moleman's Man Getting Hit by Football: Homer:

I've done some soul-searching to figure out what it is about Asher Roth that I find so comical, but I can't figure it out. It's not like I think his "rhymes" are that clever or he's so charming and hilarious in his interviews. I honestly think it's just because he loves college. [Please know that I just cracked my own shit up writing that last sentence. And it's not even funny. It's just simple a fact. Asher Roth loves college. Man gets hit in groin. Lolz^infinity.] After everyone left the Halloween party last weekend, Teresa and I literally sat around my apartment for a good 45-minutes, just drunkenly eating pizza and taking turns saying "Asher Roth loves college" back and forth and cracking up. We're like the Bevis and Butthead of Asher Roth jokes. And again, I use the term "joke" very loosely. And oh my god, and have you ever seen Asher Roth's myspace page?! It's like the Taj Mahal of Yo-Boy. Picking my favorite part would be like picking my favorite star in the heavens. But, I can give you my top-3:
3.) The background picture is a sepia photograph of Asher Roth using his laptop on the John
2.) His PR person's email address is dana@biz3.net
and 1.)
And if you only do one productive thing with your day—call that number. Mr. Roth definitely opens by reminding all of you who got way too high on 420 to "cop" his new album and absolutely closes with the phrase "peace and love yo." You also have the option of forwarding the Asher Roth hot line information to a friend with your personal message. And after a few Kirkland Signature brand Amber Lights last night, that's exactly what I did. Although, when I tried to enter Teresa's number (thanks to my Costco induced buzz) I consistently hit one number off for all 10 digits. So someone with a 351 area code will be getting an interesting message from the Asher Roth hot line this morning with a preamble by Meg McBlogger featuring some uncomfortably out-of-context cancer jokes. And you're welcome.

- I want to do a cover of Asher Roth's "I Love College" and call it "College was Mediocre."

"That paper I wrote last night was awfully wordy, wish I'd had more time to edit
Hit up Subway, watched some Lifetime, skipped my book discussion cuz I ain't read it
Made a terrarium in Bio that was sick, free ice cream in the dining hall so I take a lick
Pass out at a reasonable hour, wake up in time to take a shower
Man, college was mediocre."

- I had dinner with my parents a few nights ago and my mom (being the wonderful human being that she is) slipped me 40-bucks across the table before we left. After thanking her profusely, she looked at me uncomfortably and said, "Just...please buy something healthy with it. Maybe a fruit or a vegetable? It's like when you give money to a homeless person and you know they're just going to end up buying alcohol with it. It's so disheartening." Frankly, I'm not even mad. Because that was a truly humorous and appropriate comparison, and good for her for making it.

- And speaking of getting fucked up, I opened my door last night and found this waiting for me outside:

I am one-part sketched out and three-parts extremely interested.

- Taking mass quantities of anti-depressants is a great thing, because, you know, I don't want to kill myself on a daily basis and such. However, it can also suck. Specifically because I can't cry. I haven't cried in a solid seven months. And sometimes in life you just need a good, cathartic cry. And I don't mean this in like a "OH LOLZ! My life is so perfect I can't even find something to cry about! POOR ME!" kind of way. Because there's plenty of material to cry about—I just physically can't. Which is unbelievably frustrating. I have actually sat myself down with depressing material for the sole purpose of having a good cry more times than I care to count. Because after hours and hours of Trainspotting and Eternal Sunshine and documentaries on blood diamonds, I can't work out a single damn tear. Last Friday, however, I finally cried. So what could have been so traumatic that it could break the seven month cry-seal? Golden Girls. Season 6, episode 9. "Mrs. George Deveraux," featuring Sonny Bono and Lyle Waggoner. I shit you not, that's what did it. Blanche's late husband returns claiming he faked his own death and right when Blanche decides she's ready to take him back in her life, she wakes up—it was all a dream. George is still dead and Blanche is left clutching an empty pillow, looking around her bedroom, alone and confused. I swear to god, my throat closed, my chest tightened and suddenly there was a wet substance streaming down my face. I was crying. And then I remembered the tragedy that was Sonny Bono's passing and started crying harder. And then I remembered that Bea Arthur is totally dead and cried even harder than that. AND THEN I remembered that Rue McClanahan was recently hospitalized and it was all just fucking over. I turned on Rufus Wainwright's version of "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," took a hot shower and cried my fucking face off. Seratonin Reuptake Inhibitors be damned. So Mr. Deveraux—this Jäger's for you.

- I'd like to leave you all with a friendly public service announcement: if your company has a graphic designer (or a "graphics person" or "graphic artist," as you probably call them), don't make them design stuff for your kid's school. Just don't do it. I know it makes sense because they work for you and you want to look like the #1 Class Mom, but please, don't make them do that. It's so unbelievably offensive. Because we didn't coke ourselves out and stay awake for days on end and memorize the subtle differences between 500 typefaces to design the logo for your son's football phone tree. It's like asking your dentist friend to pick a piece the lettuce out of your teeth after lunch. So please, for me, don't do it. Thank you.

10 Reasons Why Jägermeister Should Sponsor My Life

I'd like to start off this post by offering a heartfelt apology to everyone who follows me on Twitter. Again. Apparently this is the new theme of the blog. Apologizing to my Twitter followers. Which is quite possibly the worst advertisement for following me on Twitter ever AND/OR the best, because who doesn't love a good heartfelt apology?? (@2birds2blog!) Either way, somebody recently hacked into my Twitter account and is sending DMs to everyone about how I made a babillion dollars online with GoogleAds. Which is completely irritating on a multiple levels. First and foremost, it's irritating for you, and when you're irritated, I'm irritated. (And when Boss #1 is unprepared, I'm unprepared.) Secondly, that DM couldn't be further from the truth if it tried. Because I have made exactly ZERO point ZERO dollars using GoogleAds. In fact, I've made exactly ZERO point ZERO dollars on the Internet period, which has always been a point of pride for me. You see, I have a lot of integrity when it comes to my boner jokes and Meghan McCain rants. I won't whore my ad space out to just anybody via GoogleAds, a-thank-you-very-much. It has to be someone who makes sense for the blog and relates to both me and you. Because I respect you so much. ...........Just kidding. It's a lot more Jewish than that. I just want direct sponsorship so I can cut out the middleman and not have to split my profits with Google. (Although I do respect you sons-of-bitches and don't ever forget it.)

That's right, I'm not above selling out. You know why? Because my dinner last night was a pack of gummy vampire fangs and a box of wasabi cashews I found in the nook between my microwave and the wall. That's why. Because I don't have health insurance and I've needed my wisdom teeth out since 2002. That's why. Because a major part of my laptop is being held together with duct tape and broken dreams. That's why. I'm not selling out to afford hookers and a coke binge, I kind of just want to pay some bills and eat a meal that doesn't come from the novelty candy food group. I feel like if I can make that happen, it would just be the healthy decision.

But who to sell out to...? Well, I have a new life goal/scheme/dream that I've been holding out on talking about for some time and it directly relates to who I want to sell out to. It didn't quite make sense to talk about before, but I feel like this is the perfect time to introduce my new life plan. So here we go: I, Meghan C. McBlogger, want my life to be sponsored by Jägermeister.


That's right. Jägermeister. Why Jägermeister? That's such an overwhelming question, I don't even know where to start. I love Jägermeister quite possibly more than I'll ever love another human being and I am in no way scared of how strong a statement that is. Here is a list of 10 solid reasons why Jägermeister should sponsor my life:

1.) Jägermeister is the only shot I'll take. True story. I've destroyed myself on every other liquor known to man and have 'Nam-like flashbacks if I throw back anything other than Jäger. Vodka? God no. Tequila? That relationship ended at the hands of Co-Blogger Chris and Señor Cuervo. Whiskey? That story involves high school, a basement and a desperate need to look cool. Gin? Repeat last story but replace the basement with a deck. It's got to be Jäger or I'm out.

2.) I can rip shots of Jäger 'til the cows come home. The reason I can still take shots of Jäger isn't because I've never gotten sick off it (because merciful Christ, I have) it's because my body will never, ever tire of being filled with cold, delicious Jägemeister. It's like an abusive boyfriend—I will always come back to it no matter how hard it fucks me up. Let me tell you a little story: one night while backpacking through Germany, I discovered that our hostel had a bar and that that bar served 50-cent Jäger shots. Although we had literally just come back from drinking our own weight in beer at the Hofbräuhaus, I unstrapped my money belt, slammed it on the bar and said, "That much in Jäger, bitte." Later that night I made the comical decision to write in my travel log. I wish it was here so I could take a picture of it, because it was just squiggles and chicken-scratch. I believe the only words you can make out are, "fuck," "gay" and "never drinking again." Normally after a night of that kind of punishment, I could never go back to whatever it was I was drinking. But not Jäger. Now I rip a shot of Jäger and think, "Mmm...Germany."

3.) Best. Logo. Ever.

And I'm a graphic designer. I know these things. It's my professional opinion that Jägermeister has the best logo ever and I would be honored to have it adorn my body. Which brings us to #4:

4.) I live to promote Jäger. How many times have I proposed Jäger shots while out? Every time. What am I blogging about right now? Jäger. What was I not three days ago for Halloween? The Jäger Deer. (See headpiece below:)

And these are all things I do for free! Imagine what I'd be capable of if Jäger was paying me to promote them. In fact, I swear to all that is good and holy, if Jägermeister agrees to sponsor my life, I will get a tattoo of the Jägermeister logo on my right ass-cheek with "SPONSORED BY" above and "SERVE COLD - KEEP ON ICE" below. And I will videotape the process and post it on this blog. I am deathly serious. My ass gets more play than you'd think. That's some valuable advertising right there.

5.) Ohmygod, Jäger-chaps:


6.) I've got big hooters. And what looks better in tight Jägermeister apparel than a giant set of grade A+ hooters? Nothing. That's what. And if Jäger sponsors my life, I will wear Jägermeister apparel to all of my public appearances. And by public appearances, I obviously mean out and about in my daily life. And I go places! I'm around! Whereas Jägerettes stop wearing their Jäger garb after leaving the bar, I'll continue wearing it into my daily life. And how sweet a deal is that?? For example, the sweatbands I currently wear to the gym and hot yoga are of the Nike persuasion—what if they were Jäger sweatbands? See. One step above Jägerette, one step below psychopath.

7.) I'm an ex-bartender. I am more than familiar with mixing a good Jäger cocktail. A Dr. Jäger? 1.5 oz Dr. Pepper, 1.5 oz Jäger shake over ice and serve in a cocktail glass. Storm Trooper? Half-part Jäger to half-part peppermint schnapps served in a highball glass. Ideal temperature to serve Jägermeister? 4-degrees Fahrenheit. I could do this all day.

8.) I don't entirely suck. I just feel like that has to be worth something.

9.) Joy Behar has her own TV show and Obama is president. It's a new fucking day.

10.) Because like Jägermeister, I'm a fucking badass. You show me a girl dealing with her Quarterlife Crisis in a more badass way than anonymously blogging, excessively drinking and crying herself to sleep 4 out of 7 nights a week and I will show you a whore and a liar. You know who else Jägermeister sponsors? Metallica, Pantera, Slayer, Slipknot and Mötley Crüe. And what comes to mind when you think of bands like those? That's right: Meg McBlogger.

I was on the phone with my mom last night discussing my current financial woes and I honestly pitched this idea to her as a solution. "Now Meghan," she asked in her adorable Mom way of being ever-so-careful not to offend me and the fuck-up lifestyle I've consciously chosen, "Do you think this is a realistic option, or a not-so-realistic option?" Why wouldn't this be a realistic option? "Well, what's Jägermeister going to get out of it?" UM, HI. Not only the opportunity to be the official sponsor of 2birds1blog (and the ad space that comes with that,) but also the opportunity to be the official sponsor of Meg McBlogger, the person (and the hooter space that comes with that). I've got the "The Google Analytics." I know how many of you there are out there. And you could all be drinking Jäger right now! With me! At a bar! Enjoying free Jäger track jackets!!!1 WE ALL WIN!

So how stoked are guys on Jäger right now!?!!?!?! [........................meg@2birds1blog.com. WIIIIIIIIIIIIINK!]

The Whitest White Kid Post of Them All

I've been having some serious iphone drama lately and it's made me aware of three things:
1.) I hate myself for being so painfully white that I have "iphone drama"
2.) I might be an alcoholic
and 3.) I might have arthritis

I got the original iphone December 2007 for Chrismukkah and fell in love with it. I specify it was the original iphone less to be a Smug Pug and more to emphasize it had the older, boxy design. Which was a magical design. Magical and wonderful and I miss it. When I first saw it on that snowy Chrismukkah morning, it was love at first sight. We started slow—dinner, movies, late-night phone conversations, intimate heart-to-hearts, custom ringtones...but eventually like all of my relationships, things got abusive. (What?) (I don't know.) More specifically, I got absuve. I treated that thing like a Frisbee. It had more dents than Rhianna's face after a road trip with Chris Brown. (RELEVANT.) But the thing is—Original iphone never gave up on me. It faithfully served me for almost two years without so much as a single dropped call. Then one day this past June—tragedy. I was at the gym, chuggin' away on the elliptical, listening to some Ashlee Simpson C+C Music Factory Hall and Oates' Man Eater Jay-Z, when my hand accidentally whapped the headphone cord and sent Original iphone flying off the magazine rack and plummeting to the ground. Embarassed, I got off the machine, picked it up and made sure it was ok (it was...such a trooper), got back on and started working out again. I swear to god, not three strides later, I whapped it off yet again. Except this time it didn't plummet straight to the ground. No. It literally ricocheted off the sides of the elliptical, hitting every piece of machinery in it's way going down to ensure it was finally good and dead.

$99 dollars later (plus tax) (Jew...), I had a new mid-level iphone. Not the newest, nicest one, but one step up from the original model. And I fucking hate it. Yeah it's got the 3G network and nerdspeak, blah, blah, nerdspeak blah, but frankly, it is really hard to hold. You see, the original iphone had a more rectangular, boxy design whereas the newer iphones have a sleeker, curvier design that's like trying to hold a wet bar of soap. See helpful image below:


Seriously. I feel kind of retarded saying this, but I can't hold my new iphone to save my life. I got it four months ago and it looks like I've had it for four years. The very first weekend I got it, I dropped it on the ground and the SIM card broke. Since then, I can honestly say that I drop it on a daily to tri-daily basis. And it isn't just me being careless like I was with Original iphone! It's just really cumbersome to hold! I put the blame squarely on Steve Jobs, not this girl.

Also, whereas Original iphone could take a beating like a real woman, Nouveau iphone is a total pussy! The SIM card always slips out of place, it freezes, drops calls and echoes. After only four months of use! And let me tell you a little story about Original iphone: one night after I had had..."a few Chardonnays," shall we say, I came home and crawled into bed with a giant bowl of Kashi. Unfortunately for me, I passed out after the second bite and awoke the next morning to discover the bowl on the ground, half-full of milk and completely full of iphone. I fished my phone out, let it air dry on a paper towel, threw some Windex on it and I swear to Jah, it was 100% fine. Even after two years of use and being fully submerged in a bowl of milk overnight, it was good as gold and better. Now that is what I call a cell phone.

I think I've officially decided to dump Nouveau iphone. But! I have an idea for it's replacement—The Jitterbug. GENIUS, RIGHT?!

What's a Jitterbug, you may ask? Um, what isn't a Jitterbug may be a better question:


Basically a Jitterbug is a comically simplified cell phone made for old people and me. But more importantly, it's specifically designed to be easy to hold! This idea started out somewhat as a joke, but I honestly think getting a Jitterbug might be in the top five Best Ideas I've Ever Had. Not only is it easy to hold, it's significantly cheaper a month than the iphone, delivers clear sound and reduces background noise, is available in graphite or white AND comes with with this clever beaded lanyard so I don't have to worry about losing it when I'm out boozing!:


I quote Lady Gaga's Just Dance: "Where are my keys/I lost my phone?" Ummm...check your Jitterbug beaded lanyard. 'Nuff said.

Best idea ever, or best idea ever ever?