The Funniest Picture I Have Ever Seen In My Entire Life

I know. It's a pretty big build up. But guess what? I'll deliver. OH, I will deliver.

The Funniest Picture I Have Ever Seen In My Entire Life comes to us from Teresa. (SIDENOTE: Speaking of Teresa, let's briefly discuss last Thursday night. Last Thursday night was a show. An X-rated sideshow from a lost lagoon. I don't even know what that means, but that's where it was fucking from. I've been pretty upset recently for reasons that nobody gives a shit about so let's move on, and Teresa and I went out to dinner at Star and Shamrock Thursday night at about 9:30ish to talk it out. There, I had a hot corned beef sandwich and one meager Guinness because we both agreed we were going to "take it easy". After dinner, however, we went to Jimmy Valentine's and things took a sharp left turn. We were the only people at the bar from around 10:30–1am, and we spent most of that time shooting the shit with the bartender and not taking it easy. Well, Teresa took it easy. I did not. Actually, that's bullshit, because I really didn't drink that much. I had a DC Brau when we first got there, but then I made the questionable decision to down three Mr. Lethals. And I. Said. God. Damn. A Mr. Lethal is like an alcoholic root beer float made with crushed ice, syrup and 100-proof root beer flavored vodka. Needless to say, I got drunk. But like drunk, drunk. Like first-weekend-at-college-lose-your-virginity-in-a-frat-house-bathtub-style drunk. I think I talked to the bartender a lot about my newfound love for the Insane Clown Posse, which seems counterproductive because I'm pretty sure I was also trying to hit on him. I'm also fairly sure I at some point slurred "we're like a psychopathic family", which kind of makes me want to take sixteen showers and change my name. And the text messages I sent, you guys...CHRIST. I think when my blood alcohol level hits a certain point, my phone should just automatically shut off. Like, I should have to blow into a little tube attached to it before it lets me text message anybody. Guys, friends, a parent, my priest, my rabbi, a trusted family friend or community leader—anyone. Because the text messages I sent Thursday night were basically like a one-woman performance of The Aristocrats, except it all lead up to the punchline: "Dude, you should totally come over tonight."

Anyway, besides getting blackout drunk on root beer vodka and hurling my genitals at the world, Thursday night was memorable because at around 1am, this older, yuppie-looking guy came in and made things incredibly weird and uncomfortable. And I'm not trying to be That Girl who's all, "Oh my gawd, why are guys constantly hitting on us?! GA-ross!", but he really was creepy. Like quite possibly has a collection of mannequin hands, creepy. And he was hitting on us. And he was also wearing a wedding ring. Sir, what are you doing at a bar in the middle of the hood at 1 o'clock on a Friday morning chatting up two young ladies, one of whom is clearly a Zima away from being legally dead, when you you have a wife waiting for you at home? Riddle me that. Either way, he wouldn't leave us alone, so Teresa, who had clearly had enough, put the most glorious stop to it. She said, in full Van Der Beek southern accent: "I DON'T WANT. YOUR. LIFE."

I mean, people just don't reference Varsity Blues in everyday conversation as much as they should. Later, when I asked Teresa where the hell that beautiful VB quote came from, she deadpanned: "I don't know Meg. It's been a weird week. Steve Jobs is dead. It's 2011. Anything's possible." ..................I'm sorry, but that is the greatest explanation for anything in the history of everything. Teresa has been my best friend since third grade and I'm not mad about it. She's like the Kramer to my Seinfeld. If Kramer had some tig ol' bitties and kind of looked like Zooey Deschanel.)

OK, sorry for that tangent. Back to The Funniest Picture I Have Ever Seen In My Entire Life. So, let me give you some back-story. Teresa’s boyfriend, Dave, is a rep for a major record label, so the two of them are always at some cool show hanging out with some cool band and just generally being two of the coolest people you’ve ever met. I obviously stopped looking at their Facebook photos a long time ago because I’m a hateful, spiteful, jealous person and it really wouldn’t help anything. So, I was talking to Dave the other day at the bar before Teresa got there, asking him how work was etc. etc. and he was like, “Oh, Teresa and I met My Chemical Romance the other day. Have you seen my Facebook photos? We got a picture with them and I look laughably Photoshopped in.” While obviously a funny concept, I never followed through and looked up the picture on Facebook. Then Teresa brought it up again on Thursday night and was like, “No…really. Look it up right now.” AND THAT’S WHEN MY LIFE. CHANGED. FOREVER. Take a gander:

That is the funniest fucking shit I have ever seen in my life for the following reasons:

1.) Dave really does look Photoshopped in. But like to the nth degree. Alex has this picture with Obama that he looks Photoshopped into, but it’s really only because he’s leaning in from an awkward angle. This shit is on a whole other level. Look at Dave. The scale is wrong, the color is wrong, the lighting is wrong, he's all slap-dash down there in the corner, he's got this look on his face that says, “HEY! LOOK AT THESE GUYS!!1!” and makes it feel like he’s trying slightly too hard…which is all uncontrollably funny because he was actually there. I want to start a Tom Sellek/Waterfall/Sandwich blog where everyday I Photoshop Dave into a picture with another band.

Dave with Aerosmith:

Dave with REO Speedwagon:

Dave with the Spice Girls:

Dave with the Glenn Miller Orchestra:

Dave with Dave:

...I genuinely think it could be a hit.

2.) Apparently it was really hot on the night this was taken and Teresa had been running around all day. After talking to the band for a while, they offered to take a picture with her and Dave. “Here," they told her, "Get the middle and put your arms around us!” It was at this point Teresa became acutely aware of the pit stains on her dress and didn’t want to lift up her arms and risk showing them in the picture. Understandable, right? Not so much understandable was what she did instead: raise her arms as high as they'd go without showing her pit stains and grab the members of My Chemical Romance at that point. Which in this case happened to be square on their asses. So, when given the choice of perhaps having some slight pit stains show in a picture or sexually harass two members of the band My Chemical Romance, Teresa went with the latter. A bold choice. A bold choice for a bold woman.

3.) I don’t know why, but it’s so much funnier to me that this is My Chemical Romance. And that’s not to hate on them—Lord knows there’s nothing I love in this world more than the video for Helena. I used to do that dance at parties in college. (Which answers a lot of questions I have about why I wasn't more popular in college.) My one issue with My Chemical Romance is that because my initials are also MCR, every time they trend on Twitter, there’s like this nano second where my heart drops into my asshole and I’m like, “Holy shit, I’m trending on Twitter!” And then I realize they just announced a tour or something, and all I did was illegally download a few episodes of Selling New York and make a sandwich, so it makes sense that they’re trending and I’m not. Anyway, my point being, had this been any other band in the world, it would have made the picture marginally less funny. But because it’s MCR? Gold.

So, really this picture is funny to me for three reasons. But they’re three solid ones! Either way, I can’t stop staring at it. It’s replaced shirtless Jeremy Piven as my desktop picture. 

I don't know if Teresa and Dave ever want to get married, but if they do, I will design their invitations for them, for free, as long as it can prominently feature this picture. Wanna see my Christmas card for this year?

BOOM. 

Hanukkah cards?

Kwanzaa cards?

I'm set for the holidays. Or any holiday that involves recognizable typography and a hat, really.

I don't know if this is one of those things that's only funny to me, but I feel like we're all richer for me having shared it. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is: you're welcome.

Closing a can of worms...

Alright, Miss Helena. You wanted the 2b1b communities' opinion? WELP! You certainly got it, didn't you, blue eyes?! As of 2:30am on April 15th, the total worm tally is as follows: 118 votes for Team Meg and 30 votes for Team "Hookworm Helena," as they're calling you now. Mr. Rogers, Ira Glass and "sorr about the bag" each got a few votes as well, but I'm not counting them for our purposes. God bless all three though.

Out of all 30 meager votes for Helena, none surprised me more than Alex's. I actually woke up Tuesday morning (it was obviously Tuesday afternoon, I don't why I'm putting on airs here) to the sound of the voicemail alert on my phone and saw that Alex had called twice and left a voicemail asking to call him back immediately. Everytime Alex calls from work and asks me to call him back in a rushed voice, I have a small heart attack and think someone we know has died. I think it's because I know that Alex is legitimately busy all day at a demanding job, so it makes me nervous to see that he's taking time out of it to call me when he can just as easily text, email or gchat. So I always call back expecting to hear that Andrew's been hit by a bus or something equally traumatizing and instead he just wants to know what the lyrics mean in the High School Musical song "Get Your Head in the Game" when Zac Effron says, "Don't be afraid to shoot the outside J." True story...

And I'll never learn my lesson. My heart was seriously pounding as I called him back Tuesday morning afternoon and he casually picked up the phone all, "Hi! What's up?"

"UH, YOU'VE BEEN ASKING ME TO CALL YOU BACK ALL MORNING! WHAT'S GOING ON?!

"Oh! Yeah! I just thought I should let you know—you're wrong," Alex said.

"Wrong about what?"

"The hookworm thing. You're wrong." he said, in an obnoxiously matter-of-fact tone.

"I'm not wrong."

"No, you really are. Helena's right. If I could end all of this by swallowing a few worms, I'd do it in a heart beat."

"WHAT? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, 'ALL OF THIS'?! WE'RE NOT TALKING ABOUT GENOCIDE IN DARFUR, ALEX, WE'RE TALKING ABOUT ALLERGIES!"

"Yeah. Well. You're still wrong and I thought I should let you know. Ooo, someone just walked in, gotta go!" Click.

It was like my entire world caved in upon itself. Something that I was so sure of was being refuted by both Helena and Alex. Two of the people I respect most in this crazy, mixed up world. I felt alone and I felt confused. I sat there in my bed hugging my knees and gently rocking back and forth as the morning sunlight early evening twilight streamed through the windows.

Then I went out to dinner with Becca and her fiance—both of whom are extreme allergy sufferers and can't even look at Evie without their throats closing up (a curse I can't even begin to fathom)—who both adamantly agreed that I'm right and Alex and Helena are crazy wrong. I felt considerably better, but still slightly shook up.

Thus, I was extremely comforted by the results of Tuesday's tally and am glad that the greater 2b1b community agrees that I'm right and Helena can suck the proverbial it. Lord love her.

I would, however, like to address the following comment:

- From Amanda,


Fair enough, Amanda. Fair enough. Here you are—my amended rebuttal:

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.


Check and mate, dear reader. Check and mate.

Also, a few friends and readers on the comment board brought up that if hookworms make you lose weight in addition to getting rid of allergies, then they'd totally consider doing it. Some were even a little surprised I hadn't thought of that. UM, SERIOUSLY? OK, look, I'm not trying to front—let's not pretend like I haven't contemplated swallowing a Livestrong bracelet or two in my life to give myself a DIY gastric lap-band surgery. I'd like to drop a few pounds before my sister's wedding and Lord knows I love the easy way out. That being said, I WOULD NEVER SWALLOW WORMS! I'm curvy, not k-k-crazy, thank you. Christ.

Finally, one of Alex's main arguments when we talked later on gchat was that the hookworms are so small you can't feel them, so who cares? Well, sir, I'd like to direct you to the following video Dave sent me today. (AND WHEN YOU WATCH THIS AND INEVITABLY FEEL THE NEED TO PLUCK YOUR EYEBALLS OUT OF YOUR HEAD AND RUN 'EM THROUGH THE DISHWASHER SEVERAL TIMES, DON'T COME CRYING TO ME. IT'S ALLLLLL DAVE'S FAULT. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.)


I don't give a shit if I can't feel it; just knowing that's going on inside me is enough to make me want to slice open my stomach with a moderately sharp object and remove my intestines completely. And I know everyone's going to say, "Oh but Meg, you're so simple and country! You naturally have all sorts of parasites and worms living inside of you right now!" And that is fine and dandy. God put those worms there and there they shall stay and I'll never think about them again. But having to go throughout life knowing that I elected to put extra worms in my stomach brings way more attention to their existence than I ever needed and I can totally foresee it consuming my thoughts until I live a Howard Hughes-like existence where I never leave the house, have creepily long finger nails and fear "The Bacteria."

So you guys can handle it? Good on ya. I'm not strong enough. I'm sorry, it's my cross to bear—I don't want hookworms. I'm a weirdo, I know.

Sigh.

Well, this feels like a rather aggressive note to end the blog on. Sorry Helena. Sorry Alex. I'll raise you a video clip and one Q&A with Doctor Reuben to cleanse the pallet, how's that?

First, kudos to Ex-Co Blogger Eddie for finding an entire page of Clone High themed thongs on Cafe Press! She also found a band from Canada called "Captain Lavender" on MySpace. Captain Lavender: a band name based on a Clone High reference so obscure, I'd have sex with each and every member. Twice.

I can't decide which thong I want the most. I'm pretty sure it's the ...WESLEY one. I don't even know what I'd do if I was hooking up with someone and discovered they were wearing Clone High underwear. Probably eff them all the way to town hall and promise to be the Joan of Arc to their Abe Lincoln 'til death do us part. I guess. And if I owned said Clone High themed underwear? Well, I'd probably just sit at home and masturbate all day. So there's that.


And just for shits and gigs, here's a super quick Doc Reuben Q&A I came across today:

But how long should a penis be?
According to the story, someone once asked Abraham Lincoln how long a man's legs should be. After a moment of contemplation, Mr. Lincoln replied, "I would say, just about long enough to reach from his body to the ground." From a realistic point of view, the normal size for a penis is long enough to reach from a man's body into the vagina. As long as the sperm can be delivered without spilling, reproduction is facilitated. Since penile size is a hereditary characteristic, transmitted genetically, any man whose penis is too short to reach the vagina will have difficultly reproducing; truly a short-penised race would have died out half a million years ago.

--------------

I am in no way kidding when I say that the first time I read this, I, for the hottest of hot seconds, completely thought this is where it was going:

How long should a penis be?
According to the story, someone once asked Abraham Lincoln how long a man's legs should be. After a moment of contemplation, Mr. Lincoln replied, "I would say, just about long enough to fuck a woman." And the same principle applies to the penis.

Abe Lincoln was this close to replacing Franklin Peirce as my favorite U.S. President. This close.