2 Birds Investigates: Bum Wine!

First things first: T.G.I. Hagman!

As of 4:48am, Larry Hagman is...alive!

Now, I have a question for you: Why? Why is it physically impossible for me and Chris to do an investigation that goes smoothly? Like, from start to finish; everything just goes right. We have a plan, we execute the plan, and then it's over. Period. No shenanigans. No embarrassing physical pain. Just a successful investigation. But no, apparently this isn't an option, as evidenced (yet again) this past weekend when Chris and I investigated "bum wine."

First and foremost, I had no god given idea what bum wine was:

Tulane Chris: "It's malt grape wine that's popular among homeless because it's so potent and cheap."

Meg: "Oh. So like a 40?"

TC: "No, that's a 40."

M: "So like that malt beer that comes in the big cans?"

TC: "No, that's malt beer."

Meg: "Wait...so it's wine?"

TC: "Why don't you on hop the Wikipedia, Princess."

So then I spent an embarrassing amount of time researching bum wine (big ups to bumwine.com!), which reminds me of the time Ex Co-Blogger Chris tried to get me to do poppers and we got into a huge fight because I did a project in 10th grade on Sudden Sniffing Death Syndrome and that's how people die, and he said he was pre-med in college so I should just believe him that poppers are harmless and I was like, "UH, BULLCORN," so we spent 20 minutes fighting over the poppers Wikipedia entry until we realized we were fucking losers and watched Hocus Pocus instead. True story.

Once I actually grasped the concept of bum wine, we set out to find some. This task proved significantly harder than we originally anticipated. Considering I couldn't find a liquor store in my neighborhood that sold Andre last New Year's Eve, I assumed trying to find bum wine around these parts would be fruitless, so we headed east towards someplace slightly more..."spicy"—Columbia Heights.

Ah, that's more like it.

Well, actually, first we went to Target where I impulse bought a floor lamp because it was on sale and I've been living off candlelight and Hat ever since my old one died, oh, almost two years ago. As exciting as this purchase was (and continues to be!), buying it before we found bum wine turned out to be a horrible, horrible decision on my part. Why? Because we had to go to seven liquor stores before we found one that carried bum wine and that lamp was fucking heavy. I can imagine we were quite a sight: two nerdy white kids hoofin' it up and down 14th street, one hauling a giant lamp on her back, panting ever-so-slightly and muttering a unique array of swears under her breath, going into any and every liquor store all, "Y'ALL GOT MAD DOG? YES? NO? NO? CHRIST!"

At one point we just flat-out gave up and decided to buy scratch-offs in hopes that one of us would win the jackpot and doing the investigation would be a non-issue. Gold Fever, baby!

Shockingly, that plan didn't quite pan out, so it was back to bum wine hunting. Thankfully we found a liquor store that carried bum wine shortly thereafter, so we loaded it into my giant lamp bag, flicked a 10 under the partition, put our monocles on and spun our canes all the way back to my neighborhood to trash our livers in the name of a good investigation, which we proudly present to you now.

2 Birds Investigates: Bum Wine

[Chris asked me to insert an animated gif here because he's quote, "trying to get into animated gifs these days." "O...K. Did you have a particular gif in mind?" "Meh. Dancing banana, I guess."

...Christ.]

How to host a bum wine party:

Step 1: Google "how to host a wine party". Apparently the three key things to notice are color, bouquet (what we bums call smell) and taste. You'll have to wait for the next morning to rate the intensity of the hangover.

Step 2: Take out two fresh glasses and a salad plate of nine peanut M&M's to "cleanse the palette" between "wines".

Step 3: Designate a legal heir.

Step 4: Decide the tasting order of your wines. Generally you want to go from light to dark with a rosé in the middle. However, if all of your wines are the same industrial pink, order them so that you'll be a little drunk by the time you get to the ones you really dread.

Step 5: Remember to set out an extra glass to pour the wine you inevitably can't finish into. Chris and I didn't know the technical term for this, so we just lovingly referred to it as "The Bukkaki Cup".

Step 6: Take half a Xanax, go to your safe space, and begin.

WINE 1: Arbor Mist Peach Chardonnay

For the reckless Mormon divorcée in you!

Color: I appreciate that in our notes, my observation was, "It looks like carbonated urnine," whereas Chris' was, "Like the bright clear yellow of a jaundiced man's eyes." You know it's a good writing partnership when one partner's writing fixates on body fluids and the other's sounds like a haiku.

Bouquet: Like if a peach had little Chardonnay barfs down the front of its blouse.

Taste: Image you're a baby bird and mama bird comes to regurgitate breakfast for you, but instead she regurgitates a sorority initiation party and a bag of CVS Peach-Os and then pecks you to death.

WINE 2: Manishevitz Cream White Concord

The Eleventh Plague

Color: It looks like urine. We're not even trying to be funny; it just genuinley looks like human urine. Like you could take it to the doctor, hand it to a nurse and the test would show: You are comprised of 100% Diabetes, but this is definetley urine.

Bouquet: Ooof. Sniffing this got me in a way. It smells exactly like a Bath & Body Works body splash I wore in middle school. It was the crucial third leg of the Meg McBlogger middle school fashion triangle:

Taste: 6,000 years of unbroken tradition, but their wine still tastes like simple syrup and Old Spice.

WINE 3: Mad Dog Banana Red

"Take me down to the Pradise City where the bananas are red and the girls are throwing up into the gutter"

Color:

Red is nature's way of saying, "DANGER!"

Smell: Meg: "This smells like nail polish remover and banana Laffy Taffy."

Chris: "Frankly, that may be what it is."

Taste: My favorite conversation of the evening occrued directly after tasting this:

Chris: "DO YOU KNOW THAT NURSERY RHME, 'QUEEN QUEEN CAROLINE, WASHED HER HAIR IN TURPENTINE?!?!'"

Meg: "No..."

Chris: [100% defeated] "Oh. Well. Nevermind."

This, in my opinion, was the worst out of them all. It just tasted like straight-up chemicals. Like a ration of Soviet People's Holiday Drink that got left behind in a Ukranian missle silo. So much so, we successfully used it clean Thai food drippings off my coffee table and grime off my bathroom sink:

It left a streak-free shine—presumably on our stomachs as well.

WINE 4: Wild Irish Rose Red

Chris told you Ireland was the Third World

Color: It was the closest out of them all to being a real food color. It was less DANGER! and more PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION!

Bouquet: Sweet like a first kiss—assuming your first kiss was with a truck stop hooker low on cash, but high on dreams and Newport Lights.

Taste: At first it just tastes incredibly sweet and you're like, "Well this isn't that bad." And then it tastes exactly like a licking a shag carpet.

WINE 5: Four Loko Watermelon

Banned at the University of Rhode Island!

[Note: Chris and I had no idea what we were getting oursrelves into with this one. We were at our 780th liquor store of the evening and needed one more wine or wine product to round out the tasting. In desperation, we went to the cooler to get a canned beverage and chose Four Loko simply because it was at eye level. The next morning, we got an email from a reader asking us if we'd heard of this new Four Loko craze and since then it seems to have exploded onto the National stage like a pink, caffeinated Christine O'Donnell. We really appreciate being 24 hours ahead of this trend because we were the kids growing up who were 24 months late on things like pogs, Airwalks and Mayim Bialik.

Here's what we were getting into:

]

Color: I was originally offended when Chris said this, but the best way to describe it really is as, "Hello Kitty's pussy."

Bouquet: It smells like if Jolly Ranchers had night sweats.

Taste: Chris and I were like the opening credits to Patty Duke when tasting this one: they walk alike; they talk alike; at times they even recoil alike—what a crazy pair! The taste wasn't that bad, but then all of a sudden there's a sleeper taste; like a fizzy, sour burn in the back of your throat that hit us at exactly the same time. You will never know how beatiful that moment was. It was like:

WINE 6: The Bukkuke Cup

"I'm not drunk! I'll prove it—I'll drink from the Bukkake Cup!"

Color: The Devil is a woman. And she's raggin'.

Bouquet: If you take a deep breath and look in the mirror, you'll see how you're going to die.

Taste: You know what it tasted like? Exactly what it was.

WINE 7: Garnier Full Control Hairspray: All Day Flexible Hold, and a paper bag

7,500 brain damaged teenagers can't be wrong

Color: Misty.

Bouquet: You can really smell the Fruit Micro-Waxes!

Taste: Headache. Dizzy. Really made us wonder how latchkey kids do it.

Thud.

Have a great weekend, guys! Lerve!

Hey, who loves you, baby?

Jesus Christ, what the hell happened to you this week?

Ugh, I don't want to talk about it.

Let me guess—something incredibly minor happened and you completely went off the deep end because you're about as stable as a fat man on a Knex roller coaster?

Ugh, I don't want to talk about it.

Well, on another note, how would you describe your trip tonight—in the rain—to get a delicious Subway sub for dinner?

Uh, FRUITLESS.

Why?

Because the Obamas felt the need to be "one of the people" and go to Pizza Paradiso for dinner, so they shut down that entire block, including, but not limited to my delicious neighborhood Subway.

Which makes President Obama...?

A Socialist and an executive Sandwich Cockblock.

What did you eat for dinner instead?

Ugh, I don't want to talk about it.

What do you want to talk about, Meg?

Camping! Because I'm going camping this weekend! Which is exciting, because I love camping! I hate telling people that I love camping though because every time I do, no matter who I'm telling or how well they know me, their response is always, "What?? You like camping??" Yes, I like camping. And then they make this little, "hmpf!" face, that so clearly communities, "but you're so lazy and high maintenance!" OK. Yes. I'll admit that I'm not the most "active" or "outdoorsy" person in the word, but I feel like if you know me, you should be able to piece together that I would like camping. Because when you really think about it, camping encompasses all of my favorite things:

1.) Sleeping bags. Dedicated readers will remember that the most comfortable situation I can possibly think of is a sleeping bag on a hammock, or a slammock if you will. (PATENT PENDING!) I jump at any and every opportunity to sleep in a sleeping bag, camping included. (PS: Becca I need to borrow your sleeping bag this weekend in addition to your tent. Wink!)

2.) GHOST STORIES!!!!!!!!1 I'm totally bringing my Book of Southern Ghost Stories and am absolutely getting drunk and reading aloud in a southern accent very much inspired by Blanche Devereaux.

3.) Outdoor drinking. Which places pretty damn high on my List of Top-10 Favorite Drinking Situations.

Meg's List of Top-10 Favorite Drinking Situations:

1.) Hot tub drinking (day or night)

2.) Airport drinking

3.) Outdoor drinking (non aquatic)

4.) Pool drinking (night)

5.) Pool drinking (day)

6.) Day drinking—Federal holiday

7.) Day drinking—sporting event

8.) Day drinking—afternoon screwdrivers & confetti cake with Alex (perhaps the best tradition known to man?)

9.) Via bucket

10.) Ren Fest drinking

I don't think I have a problem; I think I have 10 solutions.

4.) Pokin' at a fire with a stick. Because much like kickin' rocks in a parking lot, it's rull country, and rull fun.

5.) S'mores

6.) The cheap trill of pouring gasoline on a fire

7.) Cold weather

8.) Semi-platonic snuggling

9.) The word "spicket"

10.) Being too scared to fall asleep because Prom Date Billy convinced me to watch Wrong Turn in December 2002 and despite being a god awful movie, life hasn't been the same since

11.) I feel like everyone is forgetting that I stuck with Girl Scouts through cadet level. As long as I'm not running a relay race or playing a competitive sport or some shit, I'm OK with nature, thank you.

So, yes, I love camping. And it offends me people when assume otherwise. Like, oh I don't know, my sister and her fiance who went camping pretty much every single weekend last fall and never invited me. Every Monday, we'd have the same conversation:

Meg: What you do this weekend.

Becca: Oh, a bunch of us went camping in Virginia.

M: WHAT?? I love camping! Why didn't you invite me?!

B: What? You like camping?

M: Yes!

B: Oh! I didn't know that. That's really surprising. You just don't really seem like...the camping type.

M: Well, I am!

B: OK, we'll invite you next time.

One week later...

M: What'd you do this weekend?

B: Oh, Geoff and I went camping with a bunch of his friends from college in Maryland. It was beautiful.

M: OH, COME ON!!!

Wash, rinse, repeat. And then the one time I did get an invite, it was to like, a sensual couples weekend at a house in Deep Creek Lake. Which I obviously turned down because I had this sad, sad mental image of my sister and her couple friends sitting down to a nice home-cooked meal and me dressed in scrappy overalls, a-rappin' outside on the window all, "Y'ALL GOT ANY LEFTOVER FISH? I SURE WOULDN'T HATE IT IF YOU DUN TOSS SOME MY WAY, I WOULDS'N, I WOULDS'N! I GOT THE HUNGER LIKE SOMETHING FIERCE!" I don't really know why I'm Huckleberry Finn in this little scenario, but I am. I think that's just how I imagine the exaggerated version of my single self: barefoot, one strap of my worn overalls carelessly undone and tossed behind me, suckin' on a piece of straw, just lazily nappin' on the Mississip, escaping Pap, freein' slaves. It's a life.

My entire point being, I'm incredibly excited to ring in the best month of the year, during the best season of the year, doing one of my favorite things—camping. I feel like it's exactly what I need to recharge my batteries and get my head right. Right? Right. Good friends, fresh air, crickets, hoot owls, ghost stories, wetting my sleeping bag, drinking too much and puking on an ant hill...getting back to my core. Let's kick this weekend off on a good note, shall we?

As of 3:24am on October 1, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! And Greg Giraldo, while I'm incredibly sad about your recent passing, GOD FORBID Mr. Hagman fall into your Rule of Three pledge class, sir. GOD. FOR. BID.

But I can't think about that possibility now. Not when there's "Jersey Shore" to recap!

Before I get to this week's recap, I should mention that the amount of reality show geeking-out that happened last weekend in Miami was downright embarrassing. We drove past the "Jersey Shore" gelato stand en route to our hotel and upon seeing it, Rachel and I screamed and physically clung to each other for emotional and physical support. Pretty much the same thing happened when we saw DASH, Miami Ink, Skinny Girl margarita mix (which was surprisingly good) (although when we bought it, the woman at the liquor store who rang us up passionately shouted, "BETHENNY FRANKEL IS A FUCKING CUNT", which was both shocking and unexpected), and BED. I always roll my eyes when people get their picture taken outside of Georgetown Cupcake, but after last weekend...I guess I get it. And god damn do I hate myself for it.

Blanyhow, this week's "Jersey Shore" was interesting because I found myself relating to the cast members waaaay more than I'd like to. I guess that's when you know your life has really gone to seed; when you look at America's foremost Guidos and think, "I KNOW, RIGHT??"

When we un-freeze last week's closing freeze frame, Angelina follows through with what she started and punches The Situation square in the mouth. Truthfully, I forget why. Nope, wait, it had something to do with a sanitary napkin, didn't it? (Side note: I genuinely can't tell if "sanitary napkin" is my favorite or least favorite phrase ever...? I've got some soul-searching to do.) I realize I could simply just go to my own blog and read about it, but it's oddly hot in my apartment and there are only so many hours I can spend on 2birds1blog.com re-reading my writing in front of a mirror and pleasuring myself, you know? Right. So yes, Angelina punches The Situation in the face and he isn't too "thrilled" about it. They kind of go back and forth like they do all season. He calls her fat. She calls him old (and I'm sorry, but she's not wrong...). He calls her a whore. She calls him ugly. And throughout all of that bickering, you can't help but think they're actually into each other. It's very Guys and Dolls of them. Which is interesting because every time I see Angelina, I get "Horse Right Here" stuck in my head, but up until now I never knew why. Can do. Can do. This jerk off says the horse can do. (And by the way, I am in no way above devoting all of my time from here on out to writing a Guido cover of Guys and Dolls called, Grundles and Grenades, and don't you dare think otherwise.)

I think the most amazing part of the entire Situation vs. Ang scene is that the random guy Angelina picked up at the beach earlier in the day is just kind of chilling against a wall, watching it all play out. Because how much would you love to be that guy? Just watching a live action "Jersey Shore" episode? Finally Pauly D is like, "who the fuck is this kid? You need to go now." Angelina asks for his number before he leaves and he's all, "yyyyeahh, it's 555-three four two nine monkey fart fart..." and walks out. That kid lived the dream for 10 minutes. And good for him.

In a very uncharacteristic move, J-WOWW (who I'm sorry, but is it just me or did she look like she just stepped out of the shower for 99.9% of this episode? Was her hair wet or not? I'd really love an answer.) tells Ang that she hit The Situation last year and she knows he can be irritating, but she shouldn't leave the house over it. Because that's an issue, by the way. Angelina can't decide if she should go home or not. And I know it seems stupid because there's only two weeks left in the house, but I get it. I broke my lease in New York with two weeks left. I've been there. Sometimes if you're in a really shitty situation, two weeks can seem like an eternity. What? I don't know. I'm relating to Angelina. I'm scared. I just threw a tampon out the window. Things are touch and go. Hold me.

You know what else is touch and go? The amount of absurd signing that happens in this episode. The boys in the house just...sing. In goofy voices. About t-shirts and wake up calls. They make up little theme songs for everything. And again, I'd like to find this irritating, but I just get it. When I was traveling abroad, I got into this routine where every single afternoon around 3ish, I'd unintentionally say something really asinine. Just some dumb shit that made everyone feel uncomfortable and really had nothing to do with anything and afterward I'd have to be like, "I'm sorry, I have no idea why I just said that. I hope we can move on as a people." But after a while, instead of apologizing, I'd sing this little theme song I created instead. I'd say my dumb shit for the day, there would be an awkward pause, and then I'd insert (to the tune of the "Can't Get Enough of Those Sugar Crisps" jingle) (or conversely, "Guess I Forgot to Put the Fog Lights In") "ASININE COMMENT OF THE AFTERRRRRNOOOOOON!" which caught on like gangbusters. Sometimes I'd switch it up and it would be my "ASININE COMMENT OF THE EARLY EVENINNNNNGGG!" I don't mean to speak for an entire group (especially when it's about me being irritating,) but I think we all looked forward to my Asinine Comment of the Afternoon, mostly because it was fun to sing that jingle. It was like tea time. Except less filling and a lot more irritating.

Before the gang heads to the clerb that night, Samantha, of failed to have John-sex with The Situation, got lost, and left her number taped to the front door fame, comes over to the house to pre-game and The Situation is outright like, "you're sleeping over tonight and I'm going to bang you, so let's pick out your PJ's now, K? K." And then they do. And she does. And she's a moaner. And she stays to eat an egg sandwich with the guys in the morning. I mean, say what you will about The Situation, but I respect the hell out of that. I was literally just talking about how I wish it were socially acceptable to text a guy and be like, "look, are we going to hook up tonight or not? Because I need to know how far up my leg to shave and if we're not going to hook up at all, I'd like to utilize that shaving time to take a nap or watch the end of this "Made" episode instead, because now I'm emotionally invested and want to see how this kid's dance battle goes. Kthnx." So hats off to The Situation. You, sir, are an innovator.

After The Situation puts his latest conquest in a cab and sends her home, he heads back to his room where, much to his chagrin, he discovers that Angelina and her platonic boyfriend, Jose, have spent the night in his bed without asking. And ooof, he is pissed. And rightfully so, frankly. One night Angelina's punching him in the face and the next she's shacking up in his bed without asking? Uncool. And all The Situation wants from Ang is an apology. Too bad it'll be a cold day in hell before old Cuntylocks apologizes. Why? Because she doesn't care, you guys. She thinks everyone in the house is fake and she doesn't care what they think of her and yeah, maybe she left a rogue sandwich rotting in their car and yeah, she laid a few eggs all over the communal bathroom, but whatever, OK? She doesn't care. She's living her life and you can just forget about an apology. And then she cries and cries and cries because she's the victim. HA HA, things that make sense. Or not at all, depending on how sane you are.

But Angelina's not the only one who's got it rough this episode; our girl Snooki is down in the dumps too because she can't find a proper Guido Juice Head to save her life. I mean, is finding a Gorilla Juice Head with her personality and style who isn't a cheater too much to ask for? I say no. Thus, she makes a list of all of the characteristics she's looking for in a guy (which hand-to-god includes, "frolics" and "is a nympho"...so pretty much any given gay man in Miami on mescaline at that particular moment) and takes it out to the clerb with her that night to see who fits the bill. And guess who doesn't match up, but will do in a pinch? Alex, one of Angelina's ex flings, who Snooki harasses into making out with her all night at Tantra. OH SHIT! OH SHIT! OH SHIT!

Angelina isn't at the club to witness this, however, because she's at home packing. Yep, she's officially decided to leave the house FOR REALZ, FOR REALZ. But first she's going to wait until everyone stumbles home drunk so she can say goodbye. Because that's an excellent idea. Unfortunately that touching goodbye is cut short when she sees that Snooki brought home her ex-fling, Alex. Ang berates Alex for hooking up with someone as fake as Snooki, a (slurring, wobbling hot mess of a) Snooki yells at Angelina for always getting with her sloppy seconds, ESCALATE ESCALATE ESCALATE, they get into two rolling, hair-pulling, scratching brawls.

Snooki vs. Angelina is by far my all-time favorite "Jersey Shore" fight ever. For so, so many reasons. I think primarily because Snooki is juuuuuust barely conscious throughout all of it. Which is kind of impressive, when you really think about it. I'm barely in charge of my person enough to change into pajamas at that level of drunk/about to pass out, nevertheless able to hold my own in two back-to-back physical fights. Good for her. Also, I love how everyone in the house just watches and giggles and in no way tries to break it up. It's like they know that neither of them is really a danger to the other, and it's just flat-out entertaining, so why stop it? The Situation even pulls the coffee table out of the way because he quote, "doesn't want anything to happen to it." I think my favorite part of either fight, however, is when Snooki sloshes her way over to the coffee table, picks up an ornamental glass bulb filled with sand and seashells and kind of Kenny Ortega half-speed pulls back like she's about to throw it, and Ronnie calmly walks over, takes it out of her hand and bows out so the fight can continue. I don't know why that part was so fucking funny to me, but it really was. I think mostly because you get the vibe that he wasn't actually afraid it would hurt Angelina, but more-so afraid that his favorite accent piece in the house was about to get destroyed. Like if you could hear his inner monologue as he walks over, it would be, "Ooo! Ooo! Ooo! Not that! Not that! [Takes bulb away] Theeeeere you go. Knock yourself out." I just love this show so much. I know it's over-saturated and kind of played and blah blah blah, but I just love it so, so much. Always have, always will. Sigh.

After the fight, Angelina leaves, the house rejoices and Vinny sets his sights on moving into The Situation and Pauly D's room.

FIN!

Thank you so much for bearing with us this week while we struggled with some personal issues. I'm back for goodsies. Why? Because you'll never get rid of me. Muaha. In the mean time, send good energy to Chris who's back home in Texas dealing with some incredibly hard shit right now. We appreciate your continued love and support and understanding that sometimes it's just hard to be funny. Unless you never think we're funny. In which case, I guess it's always hard for us to be funny. But sometimes it's harder than others. Like right now, for example. Because I'm rambling. OK, have a great weekend, see you Monday (when we announce our new giveaway and publish a universal thank you gift! Is it a scanned picture? From the late 90's? Of someone who's name rhymes with Schmeg SchmickFlogger? Hmm...who knows?), we love you guys a lot. L8R.