The Past Month in Photos, by Tulane Chris

Editor's Note: Chris wrote this blog post at 7 o'clock in the morning yesterday while I coded the finished (!!!!1!) manuscript. About an hour later, he emailed it to me and asked what I thought.

Chris: So, what do you think of the post? I'm especially proud of the last one. I matched all the fonts to the pictures and picked out colors that really 'em pop. I felt like I was getting a small glimpse into the Meghan C. Rowland experience.

Meg: Yeah...Chris, If I'm being completely honest, I don't understand about 99% of the jokes in these pictures. At all.

[Long, uncomfortably silent pause in which I didn't know if Chris was getting ready to hit me, tell me to go fuck myself, or gently curl up in my breasts and weep.]

Chris: Yeah. Neither do I. I think the moral of the story is I'm incredibly cracked out and I want to be Hota Katob when I grow up. OK, BYE!

Then he stood up, calmly collected his things, walked out, got on a train and went back to Philadelphia and we haven't talked since. I don't know if he still wants me to go ahead with this, but it prominently features the Groovie Ghoulies and Jeremy Piven, so...full steam ahead!

Everything explained.

Q: Chris, did you enjoy writing the last book?

A: No.

Q: Did you find it stressful?

A: Yes.

Q: Did this project ruin your looks, such as they were, and rob you of what sanity you had left?

A: Kinda.

Q: If you were to express your feelings by downloading ten images from the internet and captioning them in Microsoft paint, what would that look like?

A: Oh, like this, more or less:

Q: I find that in poor taste.

A:

Q: Should we all follow Hoda Kotb of daytime TV fame on Twitter?

A: She doesn’t really put a lot of effort into it but it’s cool to see she’s a real person.

Q: Any last words?

A: ROLL TIDE.

This weekend was a lot of things. Easy was not one of them.

How'd the writing go? Allow me to answer that question with a conversation:

Sunday afternoon, 6pm, my parent's basement...

M: I'M TRYING TO WORK CHRIS, SO YOU NEED TO WORK WITH ME. STOP MAKING FUN OF EVERY SINGLE THING I SAY AND JUST WORK WITH ME. Jesus. Did you take your Ritalin today?

TC: UH, NO. Asshole. Did you take your feelings pill today?

M: No.

TC: Oh.

M: .......

TC: Well. That might explain a few things.

M: [Shift eyes around the room uncomfortably]

C: So. Should we do that, ass around while they kick in, and try writing again later?

M: PLINKO.



But all fighting (and that's via verbal assault, Twitter, and gchat status update, mind you) aside, we've come out the other end of our writing lock-in alive and—dare I say it—stronger. Or with a deeper appreciation for marginally discounted rotisserie chicken and Maya Angelou jokes at the very least. I need to get some sleep before I take Chris to the bus station so he can scamper back to his corner of the mid-Atlantic, but I'll try to get you a Jersey Shore update later. In the mean time, allow me to share with you the most magical thing I've seen in 25 years on this planet. This is a picture my sister took of an ad she saw in SkyMall magazine for a cat toilet training system called, the "Litter Kwitter". They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but this one only needs six. Specifically: "The fuck are you looking at?"



I'm sure it's the four days of Hormell cheese, Mountain Dew, and old-fashioned hard work talking, but oh my fucking God—it NEVER gets old.

UPDATES! UPDATES! UPDATES!

1.) NO BIG DEAL:

That's just my dad wailing away on my bass, which now officially resides in my apartment. I was bringing it into my buiilding tonight when the little Ethiopian woman at the front desk stopped me and was like, "Ohhh Meghan, your sister just got married, right? You're next!" and I was like, "Oh, well I've got some time; I'm five years younger than she is." And then I, in all seriousness, proceeded to pat my guitar and say, "Still gotta sow those wild oats!" And you know what? Douchebag. Because yes, I'm sowing my wild oats. If "sowing my wild oats" means keeping a bass guitar that I don't know how to play on my couch to watch HGTV with me and feed a blog joke. Sometimes I think I honestly might be allergic to being myself. It would explain the constant health problems.

2.) Although, this is promising:

I really appreciate that Jonathan has decided to embrace "Tandoori Boyfriend". Mostly because I had no plans to stop using it. You guys should come over for dinner next week. Tulane Chris is coming tomorrow night until ? for a write-a-thon at my parent's house, but after that? This information might be more appropriate in an email, but I'm laΩzy. <--- Holy shit. Where did that omega come from? I'm not going to lie, I've been up working all night and just started writing this at 5 o'clock in the morning. I can feel my T-cells. And they feel like cotton candy.

3.)

Your competition is Laura on empty paint cans and hubcpaps, like some Stomp shit. Let the battle royale begin.

4.) Thank you so much for everyone's input on the THIS conundrum. I knew I could count on you. Although between the comments and emails, it was a lot of theory to digest. I made some venn diagrams. Did a lot of soul searching. Here's the thing though: as much sense as a lot of your arguments made, we're all just making educated guesses from a liberal perspective. I want to hear what someone who would actually buy the sticker thinks, because whoever wrote it had them in mind. And that's why I spent a large portion of yesterday combing through Southern pride and white power forums until I finally found Yahoo answers forum member stkamur.



stkamur is a proud owner of this bumper sticker and explained its meaning in a forum about how the "socialist progressives" are driving a wedge between the country and there's going to be a second Civil War, or something equally terrifying.

Point is, if black tribal leaders hadn't sold black slaves and they never arrived here in America, then we wouldn't today have Al Sharpton, the black panthers, (old & new), Whoppi Goldberg, hip-hop "music ?", and crack-head, "who da baby daddy?" welfare mentality that has infected the sensibilities of a nation.

Blacks have had fifty years to move on and get a piece of the American dream but the majority are satisfied to live off the welfare crumbs from the liberal democrats. Racism will NEVER end as long as the likes of Jesse Jackson and others are given a free microphone to piss and moan about circumstances prior to 1964.

So, like I said, "I'd a-picked my own cotton". 

(Now it's me: +12, you boobs: -12).

I have so many emotions:

1.) There's a distinct possibility that this was ghostwritten by Tulane Chris, because my God does that man hate Whoopi Goldberg.

2.) I just all-around appreciate that Whoopi Goldberg is one of the reasons why he would have picked his own cotton. Like if given the chance, he'd go back in time and sprint through the fields screaming, "GET RID OF THEM!!! GET RID OF THEM ALL!!! ONE DAY ONE IS GOING TO RISE UP, BRIEFLY MARRY TED DANSON, WEAR LOOSE-FITTING COTTON TUNICS, TINY SUNGLASSES, AND DOMINATE THE CENTER SQUARE!!!"

3.) The first time I read this, I read the last line as, "Now it's me: +12, boobs: -12", and thought he was a gay, racist, redneck, Conservative extremest. Which would have been scary because if that's not proof that the world is going to end in 2012, I don't know what is.

Absurdity aside, stkamur's explanation pretty much echoes the theory that most of you thought was correct: Anonymous 9:21's.



Yeah. It clicks, but I still feel unsatisfied. It's like this time that my friend Megan was like, "Hey Meg, Osama bin Hidin'!" and I was like, ".........What?" and she had to repeat the joke like 65 times and walk me through it step-by-step until we realized that I got the joke the whole time, it just wasn't funny. I was giving the joke more credit than it deserved; I was searching for a second level that never existed. That's how I feel now. I don't really know how to describe it and I don't think my life will ever be the same and mostly I just wish someone were here to hold me.

It's also worth nothing that almost every single website that comes up when you google, "If I had known this, I would have picked my own cotton," is about how nobody gets it. Which is absurd because apparently it's a popular catchphrase that's been around for a long time! It's just so irresponsible. Don't mass produce something if it doesn't make any fucking sense. If I was on the highway behind a car with that bumper sticker, you would have to scrape my bloody remains off the Jersey wall because I would have been too hypnotized by its ambiguity to concentrate on the road. It's infuriating. Slash makes me think that we should make my favorite nonsensical Kevin Yang catchphrase, "Well wouldn't it be obvious if I'm in here and you're playing Beyoncé?", into a bumper sticker, sell it in the South, and make a babillion dollars.

Anyways, I'll eventually learn to let this go, but in the mean time, thanks again for everyone's input and Anonymous 9:21, shoot me an email and I'll send you a yummy!



Anonymous 9:21's friend hates black people. Pass it on.

Ooo baby do you know what that's worth? Here's the Season Finale of Kell on Earth

Season Finale y’all! It seems like just yesterday we were marveling at how dumb Vorhees is; at how wacky Andrew M.’s clothing choices are; at how badly Skinner needs under eye concealer. And look how much we’ve grown since then!

To be perfectly honest, having been sans television for the past three weeks and therefore away from the recapping, I felt like I was so out of touch with what was going on at People’s Revolution. I came back expecting to have infinite fodder for jokes, but seriously you guys without the easy targets of Vorhees and Andrew S., shit gets complicated. Especially when I’m trying to be funny before the sun is up. I’m lucky I manage to put a large majority of my clothes on correctly in the morning. One of these days, I should probably start drinking coffee. What am I even talking about right now? Tangents, tangents, tangents.

Back to the subject at hand. Kell on Earth season finale. So with the recession in full swing, Kelly’s all worried about business and junk like that. We’ve seen our fair share of her clients try to dick her out of some money, and we all know that homey don’t play that. So what’s a fashion publicist to do? Well according to Kelly, they need to stop dealing with cool, hipster, broke ass clients and start taking on big names. Like Lifesavers? I know when I think haute couture, Lifesavers is probably about number 3 after Swiffer Wet Jet and Kix Cereal. So I support this decision of hers. BLANYWAY, lucky for Kelly DKNY calls a bitch up and is like “Hey want to help us make a movie?” And Kelly asks, “Will there be any tasteful nude scenes?” to which DKNY responds, “Yes, of course. But those are for our own private use. The video we distribute is about a sweater.” At this point Kelly said the name of the sweater (“The Cozy” for those of you who weren’t listening) seventy bajillion times like a good publicist should. So things are looking up!

Meanwhile, KCut’s bday is coming up and Skinner and Andrew want to throw her a surprise party. Trouble is, Madam Cutrone is a wily son of a bitch and she’s not one to be easily surprised. But they are like the Little Engine that Could and they chug along with thoughts of “I think I can.” So it’s Covert Op Bday Surprise for Private Andrew and Lieutenant Skinner (what? It’s so early. Please bear with.) So anytime Kelly pops out of the office for one reason or another, Andrew convinces Skinner (clubs her on the head and drags her by the hair) to duck out and help him do some planning.

The best part is when they go to get Kelly a cake, but of course wacky hijinx occur, because they decide they want to eat more cake, so they tell the restaurant they are tasting cakes for their wedding. So on the way to the bakery, they realize that a) Andrew is wearing the skirt (OF COURSE he is) and b) Skinner needs an engagement ring. At which point, Andrew proceeds to get down on one knee on a Soho street corner and fauxpose to Skinner. They chuckle and are merry. It reminds me of the time Meg and I were on the National Mall and I fauxposed and then an entire family reunion asked us if we just got engaged and they cheered for us. And we walked away in shame for lying. But hell, that family reunion has a story to tell thanks to us, amirite?!

Back to KoE. So Kelly’s being the next Quentin Tarantino for DKNY, filming a new girl power army decked out in multicolored Cozy sweaters marching through the streets of NYC. And wouldn’t you know they are having trouble with their guerrilla film making. Who would have thought that filming on the streets of NYC would be hard to do without also getting men in business suits on their Blackberries wandering into the shot? Clearly Kelly underestimated the “Fuck you” mentality of her own co-city dwellers. So they jet set all over the city to film the girls in several locations (P.S. anyone else notice Fatima from ANTM Cycle 10 was one of the models?). In SoHo, K.Cut brings Ava to see Mommy at work, because it’s important for Ava to know where the money for her MacBook is coming from. Or something like that. Honestly, I tuned out a little bit towards the end. I had been awake since 5:50 yesterday morning, so Quality Time with Ava sort of nodded me off. In the end, though, Kelly finished up a pretty bitchin’ film for DKNY, so maybe this bodes well for the future of PR in tough times. Yes? Yes.

So it’s party time! After much hoopla about who is actually attending the party (Pablo, the showroom manager? Where has he been? Have we seen him before? Why is he even invited? And why is he bringing three guests?), the party is on like Donkey Kong. Andrew takes the good old fashioned subway to the hotel (which is surprising to me, because wouldn’t it be so much easier to just take a cab. Especially if you’re secretly loaded, you crazy bastard.) with Kelly’s birthday/Andrew and Skinner’s wedding cake in tow. Now all we need is Kelly. Cue Robyn trying to wrassle Kelly into going to a “cocktail event for clients” wink wink. But of course, Kelly is having none of it and is in no mood. There should have been comical Benny Hill music playing during this part, because of course Kelly isn’t going to want to go to what’s supposed to be her surprise party. It’s just too easy.

But after hemming and hawing and caftaning, they manage to get Kell to the party and she’s either the world’s best actor and deserves an EGOT right now, or she was legitimately surprised because the tears were a-flowing! So maybe the cake read "Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Mukamal”. Details. Skinner and Andrew managed to do the impossible and surprise K.Cut. What a nice birthday.

Full circle: K.Cut totes cried during her confessional because of the party, but she still manages to plug her book by excusing herself to go outside. The consummate publicist, that Cutrone.

I am so tired, I might have got a little crazy

Dear My Brain, please explain to me why you will not let me sleep lately.

Seriously.

If you could give me some sort of sign or indication as to why you feel the need to keep me up at all hours of the night, I'd really appreciate it. Did you really want to see that infomercial for the Showtime Rotisserie again? I know you love to chant "Set it and forget it!" with the studio audience, but I'd really like to sleep. And once we finally are able to fall asleep, you decide that the asscrack of dawn is the perfect time to get up and get out of bed. If you could let me know you're reasoning, that'd be great, because then I could shut it down, and we both could finally get the rest we deserve. As it stands right now, I am too exhausted to lift my leg up over the tub in the mornings to get in the shower, so sometimes I'll just turn the water on and sit in the bathroom until I feel like I've heard enough water running to count as a shower. I have a matching 5-piece luggage set under my eyes right now. It's not pretty. They don't just call it beauty rest for the hell of it. And to be perfectly frank, I need some of that, because I'm starting to look a creature that would live under a bridge and ask you a riddle before you can pass.

What I don't understand is why you woke me up at 9:30 today. You and I both know that we don't have to be at work today. That ship sailed on Friday, when I finally told my job to peace out after 2+ years of getting hated on by nerds. We both know that this week is our only time to sleep in, because for some reason I told my new job I could start this monday. Oh wait. It was probably because I was so damn tired that I couldn't be slick enough to ask for an extra week off. Way to go, us. Way to fucking go. And what's worse is that now we have an actual commute to contend with in the morning. We're talking a fight your way onto a crowded metro at 8 in the morning commute. To get to our "business casual" office by 9 AM sharp. We can't just roll out of bed at 8:55, throw on the first article of clothing our hand touches and casually stroll to the office anymore. So we're going to have to start to get a little bit more sleep. Because if I have to shave every morning now, and I'm exhausted in the morning, I might slip and cut my carotid artery. Those five bladed razors are just four more blades of death when you're bleary eyed and shaving. And think of how pissed you would be if I accidentally killed us. I know I would be mildly upset.

I wish you weren't so resistant to falling asleep. You won't even let me drug you into sleep. While Meg can take 6 Tylenol PM and pass out in her nightie, those Tylenol PM would not have the same effect on me. Even if I was also wearing a revealing nightie and expecting the maintenance man to show up. (Sidebar: everyone knows Meg only claims this was an accident. She 100% intended for a porn plot to play itself out in her apartment.) The last time I tried to put you under using medication, you refused to fall asleep and I spent 4 hours feeling like I'd just chugged a keg. To the point of me being so out of it that I was legitimately scared. Why, brain? Why couldn't you just take the medicated hint and let me sleep? No, instead we were awake and trying to gchat with some people, which consisted of me palming my keyboard for 15 minutes, typing words with an inordinate amount of vowels and punctuation, before finally giving up and admitting defeat. Sure, you shut down our fine motor skills, but my body is still awake and kicking. It's not fair. Come to think of it, every time we've taken medicine that makes you drowsy before bed, you think it's funny to stay up, regardless of the drugs coursing through our veins. Tylenol PM, Nyquil, what have you. Nothing will make you go to sleep when you're supposed to. But the one time I take Sudafed before going to the movies because I was feeling a little congested, you pass out right after the opening credits. I still have no idea what movie it was that we saw. I have a vague recollection of Meryl Streep maybe being in it. She might have had a kinky threeway with Andy Dick and Rin Tin Tin, that's how little I know about the movie. Thanks a lot. That's eight dollars that I'll never get back.

We're going to need to change this little repartee you and I have going on, because it's getting pretty tired. And I don't mean that in an ironic way. I know that right now you're probably just feeling a lot of emotions about the upcoming move. I think that's normal. If we weren't nervous, I'd be a little bit more concerned. But really, we just have to make sure we catch out train on Saturday and we're good to go. And the only way we're going to do that is by getting some sleep this week. Because if you choose to let me sleep in on the one day we have something to do, it will not be a pretty sight. I will go Fight Club on our ass.

So, in conclusion, please act right and let us sleep a little bit more tomorrow. It's all well and good that we're up now, because it's sunny and we should probably get out and do some New York City related activity while we don't have to work but are still living in the city. Had we slept in today, we would have missed a solid three hours of sunshine, which has been mighty rare these past few weeks. Can't waste any of that. Now that I've finally given you the piece of my mind I've been hanging on to, let's work on cooperating better in the future. Deal? Deal.

Love,
Chris

Tips for assimilating back into society

UGHHHHHHHHHHHH AND AN INCONVENIENCED SIGH. Welp. Here I am. Back in this dump show of an office after seven glorious days of being curled up in my bed with nary a worry or pair of pants in sight for miles. I knew the dream couldn't last forever, but that doesn't mean I'm not bitter about it.

HOWEVER! I have three items of good news:

1.) It's T.G.I. Hagman. And how bad can life really be when it's T.G.I.-fuckin'-Hagman, am I right or am I right??



As of 1:16pm on Friday, February 12, 2010, Larry Hagman is...............alive! God is good all of the time, and all of the time, God is good.

2.) I got the following email the other day from 2b reader Aline:

Hi Meg,
I was reading gawker, and it said something about omegle.com. I'm not usually up for chatting with strangers, but I was bored, and 'tis the snowpocalypse (read: there is nothing better to do), so why not?

Anyway, the first person signed in, said "I'm sad" and left.

The second person, signed in and only said "2birds1blog.com. Read it." and then they left (Convo log below). I think that you should get all of your readers to do that. Hi-Larious. Well that's it. I'm headed out into the snow to go to CVS :( Hope you get to feeling better!

Cheers,
Aline

___

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

Stranger: hi

You: hi!

Stranger: 2birds1blog.com. Read it.

You: Really? I already do-isn't it funny?

Your conversational partner has disconnected.

I. LOVE. IT. Mostly because that stranger wasn't me and it makes me excited when people besides myself pimp out the blog like a small Mexican boy with chicle on the 'nets. So to whoever is going on ohmegle.com to promote the blog, I have a gift for you. And that gift is in my pants and rhymes with "schot schmex."

3.) According to an unconfirmed rumor circulating via Laura, Luke and The Tranny from More to Love BROKE UP!!!!!1 Initially I was heart-broken when I heard this because if two people could ever make it in this crazy, mixed-up world, it was them. BUT! This does open the door for a More to Love 2. And you know I'm crossing my fingers that it's called, More to Love 2: Back for Seconds.

So there. Life is good. And as bitter as I am that I have to be back in this shanty town, I am slightly psyched to not be holed up in my apartment anymore. Cabin Fever was starting to set in big time and things were getting..."unique." But slowly, DC is digging itself out it's snow coffin and getting back to real life (until next week's Snowpocalypse, that is.) I thought instead of giving you a drinking game this week, I'd be helpful and share with all of you cracked-out snowy Washingtonians a few tips I've found helpful for assimilating back into society. Enjoy.

5 Tips For Assimilating Back Into Society After The Snowpocalypse

1.) Listening in on other people's conversions is not appropriate because they are not on TV.
Surprising! I know. Halfway through dinner at James Hoban's the other night, Helena realized she had zoned out and was awkwardly staring at the people sitting next to us and blatantly listening to their conversation. Apparently in a post-Snowpocalypto society, this is not "appropriate," as other people do not exist solely for our own entertainment. Don't worry, I'm having trouble wrapping my head around it too, but together we can get through this.

2.) A two year old box of Zattaran's Dirty Rice, a bag of confectioner's sugar and a Black and Mild does not a meal make.
Nothing makes you think outside of the culinary box like being confined to the contents of your own dusty kitchen for days on end. I never have food in my apartment to begin with, so this past week has been particularly interesting for me. One time Anna unexpectedly crashed at my place for a weekend in college and she compared the experience to living in Communist Russia. While I was working on a paper one night, she started to complain that she was starving. I promised we'd order food as soon as I was done, but hours later when I was still writing and she was still starving, she ventured into my kitchen to see what she could find. Five minutes later, she returned and put the following on my desk: a box of Goldfish crackers, a jar of cloves and AN single Busch Light. "This is literally all you have in your kitchen," she said weakly. With a shaking little hand, she slowly put the jar of cloves on top of the box of Goldfish, cracked open the Busch Light, pointed to it and asked, ".....Cook it for me?" Shortly after, I gave in and we ordered out.

In the past week, I have consumed every single Goldfish cracker and every random Holiday spice hidden in my kitchen. I ate vintage pizza from 1994. I drank a bottle of Manischewitz wine I found behind a bunch of DVD's, covered in an inch of dust. I don't remember what "vegetables" taste like.

I'm genuinely nervous about the weight I'm going to gain this weekend because I don't know how to handle all of the food options that are now open to me. I hoofed it to Baja Fresh yesterday, patiently waited in line and proceeded to ask them to take the contents of their kitchen, put it in one of those sour cream gun dispensers and inject it directly into my stomach. Just because the option was open to me. And they did. And it was wonderful.

3.) Chugging from a half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan's at 11am while wearing loose fitting clothing is called being homeless.
If this were Snowpocalypse: you'd be drunk by now.

4.) Your life is not a Bravo reality TV show, so stop narrating it to the wall when you're on the john.
Something tells me this might only be applicable to me...so I will move on.

5.) Jokes that were funny when stuck in your house and incredibly cracked out might not translate to the real world.
My prime example of this is Seanvote.

Over the course of Snowpocalypse, I played a lot of Words With Friends (iphone Srabble app. Username: Meg4lYfe. No big deal.) with Helena's boyfriend, Jonathan. At one point, he was absolutely destroying me. Like, embarrassingly so. I needed to pull out a big gun, but the letters were not on my side. Round after round, I played words like "AN," 'HI" and "AT" while thinking, "If only SEANVOTE were a real word, I could turn this fucking game around right here and right now!" Helena then pointed out that that's the benefit of real scrabble: if you're convincing enough, any word can be a real word. Thus, we set out to make Seanvote "happen." We decided Seanvote is a substitute for the word "shit" and can have both positive and negative connotations. For example, "Dude, that band is the fucking seanvote." Or, "Fuck that guy. He's just a worthless pile of seanvote." Or, "Oh man, pull over, I gotta take the biggest seanvote."

Believe it or not, this was incredibly funny to us at the time. So much so that when we met up with Jenna and Laura for drinks last night, we shamelessly continued to substitute it for the word "shit" until it caught on. And I don't know if it was because Jenna and Laura were just as cracked out as we were or if it was because there was alcohol involved, but it totally did:


So, really, I amend this tip to: Jokes that were funny when stuck in your house and cracked out might not translate to the real world. Unless it's the word SEANVOTE. In which case you should totally spread it around like wild fire.

Welp, that's gonna do it for us here this week! WAIT, NEVER MIND. I just checked my email and got this amazing Winter Olympics Drinking Game from 2b reader Veronica, written by her friend Chelsea. And frankly, it's too good not to share. So I bid you adieu and leave you with Chelsea's Winter Olympics Drinking Game! As always, thank you so much for reading and spreading the 2b1b word. Hope you don't have a seanvotty weekend (bahaha...see what I did there?!) and we'll see you back here Monday morning when hopefully I'm less cracked out, have done something more blog-worthy than napped pantsless and have regained my sense of humor. Buh-bye!


Rules:
- Drink when a figure skater is shown
- Drink twice if it's Johnny Weir
- Finish your drink if he's referred to as "controversial"
- Finish your drink whenever someone triumphs over adversity
- Drink when "the native people" perform a traditional dance
- Drink when someone mentions the 1980 USA Olympic Hockey Team
- Drink twice if a member of the 1980 USA Olympic Hockey Team is shown
- Drink when you see a mountie
- Drink when someone says "aboot"
- Drink when someone mentions the Jamaican Bobsled Team
- Finish your drink if the Jamaican Bobsled Team is there
- Finish your drink when the country you are representing enters the arena
- Drink when someone says "curling"
- Drink when someone says "luge"
- Drink when someone is referred to as a "gold medal favorite"
- Drink whenever someone says, "I'm just happy to be here"
- Do a shot if someone is "not expected to place well but just here for the experience,"(see above re: Jamaican Bobsled Team)
- Do a shot when the US Team enters the arena
- Do a shot when the torch is lit