This used to be my playground.

EMOTIONS, YOU GUYS. Emotions. I got a lot of them. Which is a completely new and foreign concept to me. Normally I'm so hopped up on anti-depressants and mood stabilizers you could break up with me on the JumboTron at Madison Square Garden and I'd be like "Meh, that's fair" and go back my crossword puzzle without batting an eye, but this week everything is making me emotional. For so many reasons:

1.) Oh, you know, I got the fear of Christ put in me when I thought I was getting fired. My bosses never had that TALK with me yesterday, by the way. It was so anti-climactic. They were in meetings all day and every time they'd come out, I'd tense up and prepare for the Dynasty-style cat fight that never came. (And this has nothing to do with anything, but remember last August when I said I wanted to bring back Dynasty inspired nude pumps? Well according to Piperlime they're the hottest thing since sliced J-Woww. And WTF? This is like the time in 10th grade when I wore a long, powder blue sweater coat to the homecoming football game and everyone shamelessly made fun of me because it "looked like I was wearing a bath robe" and then six months later you couldn't swing a dead cat without hittin' a bitch wearing one. Looking back, they might have been making fun of me because it was powder blue, but still! If stick pins and narwhals blow up, Imma be rull pissed. But in the mean time, sexy can I?:

August's mission: accomplished. Crystal Carrington would be proud. Those puppies are just neutral and bland enough to match any flashy pattered shirt dress appropriate for lunch at the St. Dennis club.)

Anyways, what was I talking about before that obnoxiously cocky little fashion rant? Oh, yes my obnoxiously dramatic little emotions. (God you want to have sex with me.) So I'm not fired, but this entire ordeal has sent me into this huge tailspin about the direction of my life and what I should be doing with it right now. Which I completely don't appreciate. I feel like last summer (when I wasn't busy predicting Spring '10 shoe trends) I was having the same freak out but managed to cool my jets for a while. Now after this week, I'm feeling all Antwerpy again and I don't know what the fuck I'm doing and I just want to run away, learn Dutch and not have to make a decision ever again ever. But not in that order. Logistically speaking, it would probably make more sense to learn Dutch first. Unless it's hard. Which I hear it is. In which case I plan on getting by with my big boobs and American Canadian sass.

2.) The Jersey Shore ended last night. And it was the WORST. EPISODE. EVER. I honestly don't even know if it's worth recapping. It felt like one of those Golden Girls midnight clip shows where the girls pour into the kitchen one by one (—"Sophia! You can't sleep either?"—), break out the cheesecake and reminisce about all of the shitty men they've dated. Except last night's episode was 90% less interesting and 100% more redundant. I expected more from you, Jersey Shore, I really did. I'm not mad at you, I'm just dissapointed. Now go to your room without dinner or a recap and think about what you did. (Lolz. Just kidding. I'll half ass a recap later.)

3.) I am slightly weirded out by my own emotions regarding tonight being Conan O'Brien's last Tonight Show. I'm just taking the situation entirely too hard for someone not related to Conan or one of his staff. I don't really know what else to say besides I just really love him. He's a bit of a hero of mine and I've been watching his show since the (somewhat turbulent) beginning of Late Night. Teresa and I used to have sleepovers every Friday night and get hopped up on Pepsi and pixie sticks so we could stay up until 12:30 and watch. Because even at the somewhat innapropriate age of eight years old, we still knew that man was the tits. I have also spent many a restless and anxious night in middle and high school falling asleep to Late Night and I took extreme comfort knowing that Conan, my little self-deprecating electric blanket, was always there to comfort me. In 2003, the Late Night tickets we requested finally arrived and Teresa and I were fully prepared to skip the first day of our senior year of high school to drive to New York and see a taping. We even had the bright idea of making t-shirts that said "Bonin' 4 Conan" to wear in the audience. Unfortunately, not only were our tickets for the first day of school, they also overlapped with some Republican convention that had recieved numerous bomb threats, and in a very post 9/11 New York, this hadn't become old hat yet. In the end we (and by we, I mean our parents) decided that two 17 year-old girls probably shouldn't drive into New York City alone with t-shirts ensinuating we hooked our way there when terrorists and Republicans are running around wild. Looking back, I just have this to say: pussies. We should have gone. T-shirts and all. Because now we'll never get the chance again and it fucking breaks my heart. Seriously, everytime I think about tonight being the last show my throat closes and my eyes well up with tears; a fact so disturbingly embarassing, I'm not quite sure what to do about it. My plan for tonight is this: meet Helena and Alex at Little Miss Whiskey's after work -> drink to the point of being good and emotionally drunk, but not sloppy. "Wedding Toast Drunk," if you will. -> Go to Andrew's apartment with eye makeup remover and a box of tissues -> Watch the show and cry. And cry and cry. Overall, pretty par for the course for a Friday night in the world of Meghan McBlogger.

But even on sad, sad days like this, there's always something to be grateful for. And today, I'm grateful for our last Jersey Shore recap. But, of course, mostly...I'm grateful it's T.G.I. Hagman.


As of 1:38pm on January 22, Larry Hagman is...alive! Thank god for small favors.

And now, our final Jersey Shore recap— Episode 9: That's How The Shore Goes. (Sticking to last week's resolution, Laura and Andrew joined me as my spotters this week and I felt 100% better having them there. Also, per my notes, Andrew looked "amazing" last night and I need to apologize to Laura for physically assaulting her when I got overly emotional at the thought of Snooki and The Situation falling in love. We seriously had to put a pillow on her thigh because I couldn't stop slapping it when I got emotional. Completely normal things that happen in a friendship.)

So! As we recall from last week, Ronnie got arrested for punching some schmo in the face with his mighty crab claw and scuttling away and back into the sea. (How many hits does it take to the get to the center of a Guido Pop? JUST ONE HIT BRO, JUST ONE HIT!) Unfortunately for Ronnie, he can't get bailed out of jail until 6:30 the next morning, which means he has to spend a brutal three hours in Ocean County jail, which I imagine to be something like Beach Blanket Bingo except gayer. Which is neither here nor there. The next morning the Sammi begrudgingly hauls her ass out of bed and goes to pick up Ronnie from the clink. They have an emotional reunion because, you know, this is the first time she's had to sleep alone without Ronnie by her side since getting there. 27 days ago. And Haiti thought they had it rough...Overall I'm impressed with Ronnie's post-jail look. His faux-hawk is still perfectly in place, he looks well-rested and doesn't even need to take a shower. Whereas I come home from sitting on my ass watching Hulu at work all day and look like I've just pulled a truck eight miles with my teeth in the hot sun. So, well played Ronald. Well played.

It being Labor Day weekend, the gang wants to go out with a big bang. Which is a great idea, except they all stink like AIDS and nobody will touch 'em with a 10-foot pole. Sucks. I'd say the only interesting part of this episode was when Snooki has a very B. Spears-esque emotional breakdown after being blown off by Cowboy O'Hoolihan and her ex-boyfriend, whom she's still in love with, in the same day. The ex-boyfriend thing was rough, I'm not going to lie. She sees him on a balcony, blows him a kiss and he flat-out looks down and says, "No." Snookers can not catch a break. At a certain point, you just gotta assume that god must just really hate that girl. (Am I right or am I right??) Snooki then does what I think we'd all do in that situation and freak-dances by herself on the boardwalk, attracting the likes of old men, skeptical grandmas, hobos and drifters. It was like Intervention: The Dance Remix and I was in no way mad. Shockingly, when this doesn't make her feel any better, she goes home to cry on the roof like some kind of emo blogger, where The Situation gives her a nice little pep talk.

That night the boys go to the boardwalk to play arcade games, which I mention only because Andrew, feeling inspired, decided that his new pick up line from now on is going to be "Wanna play with my skee balls?" and I feel like that's worth mentioning. After that, the boys go home and decide to stay in for the night and cheer up old Snooks. (A gesture that is so touching I punch Laura in the face and stab her in the kidney. At this point I also drunkenly shouted, "I LOVE YOU GUYS!" to which Andrew asked, "Are you talking to us or the TV show?" and I genuinely didn't know the answer.)

The gang then reminisces about the past "summer" (read: past 27 days) for the next 30 minutes and it's boring as fuck all because they each just repeat the same thing over and over again in 90 different ways. It was the most bizarre thing. Thank god The Situation and Snooki make out in the hot tub for a few minutes and break up the RemFest. Which can be summarized as:

- I can't believe this is our last night.
- It was a crazy summer.
- I don't regret anything.
- I didn't expect to fall in love at the Jersey Shore.
- I hope we stay friends.
- We are like a family.
- I can't believe we made it.
- We did it.
- We made it through it.
- We did it without not not making it through it.
- Man, I got so much pussy.
- Remember when part of the plot was we had to work at the boardwalk?
- No.
- Me neither.
- I like summer.
- We should do this next year.
- Ok, see you then. And at promo work. And paid appearances. And in the real world.
- Ok, bye.
- Bye.

Our season ends with The Situation standing on the roof, wistfully looking out across the boardwalk as he dramatically raises his arms in the air like a prize fighter and proclaims, "I DID IT!"

...Did what, asshole? You just got paid to party at the beach for a few weeks; you didn't survive 'Nam. Maybe be a little less dramatic next time, [scoff] am I right? Aaaaaaaaand with that, I'm going to go watch Late Night clips on youtube and cry hysterically into an Italian flag because good television as we know it is over and thus life is not worth living. I leave you with one of my favorite Late Night sketches of all time. It's been a pleasure to recap the J.S. for you, thanks for dealing with my drama this week, have a great weekend and we'll see you back here on the blog Monday morning. Buh-bye.

TALOL & Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entires

Spotted: The most bona fide Kate Gosselin haircut I've ever seen not actually on Kate Gosselin's head
Where: Metro Center
It Made me Feel: Terrified





Of all the "celebrity" fads to catch on, why did it have to be the quasi-dykey and incredibly unflattering haircut of a butch reality TV mom? Who saw that coming? I mean, Khloe Kardashian has big boobs and a fat ass, why couldn't that catch on?

- I went to hot yoga Tuesday night. And despite my burning hatred of physically moving my body, being hot and sweating—I loved it! I know, I was just as shocked as you! I never thought I'd say this, but I'd take hot yoga over a trip to the gym any day of the week, and here's why:
1.) Oh my god I looked adorable. No fucking way I was going to be caught dead looking like Homely Helen again.
2.) Sweating like a fat hog isn't embarrassing at hot yoga—it's something I'm actually doing right.
3.) Oh hey scantily clad, smokin' hot young guy with dirty blonde hair. Thanks for wearing tight shorts that prominently display your downward-facing dog.
4.) I'm 100% aware of how emo this is going to sound, but I think I liked hot yoga for the same reason I like getting tattoos—it's the zen of Pain. Bear with me. When you get a tattoo, it fucking hurts. That's a given. But the thing is, there's nothing you can do about it. You just have to lay there, clear your mind and find a way to deal. There's no other way around it. When something hurts that bad, you're not thinking about how shitty your job is, or how you still haven't figured out how to change the light bulb behind the back splash of the bar, or how the hell are you going to pay this month's student loan bill—your mind is completely clear and focused. And for someone like me, that's a nice little change of pace. Because I'm a worrier and it's hard to get me to clear my mind. Normal mediation doesn't work for me. If you put me on a massage table, rub me down with eucalyptus oil and put me in a room with pan flute music playing for an hour, I will have a panic attack. That is entirely way too much time to sit there and think. However, if you jab me repeatedly with a needle or lock me in a 105-degree room for an hour and a half—enlightenment.

- I was in the shower the other morning when I realized, if you change the context of The Little Mermaid song "Part of Your World" to be about a wheelchair bound person instead of a mermaid, it's sort of a giant Fuck You from Disney to the handicapable:

I wanna be where the people are
I wanna see, wanna see them dancin'
Walking around on those - what do you call 'em?
Feet!

[Spinnin' your wheels,] you don't get too far
Legs are required for jumping, dancing
Strolling along down a - what's that word again?
Street

Up where they walk, up where they run
Up where they stay all day in the sun
Wanderin' free - wish I could be
Part of that world

When I re-visited this idea later that afternoon, I realized the thoughts I have first thing in the morning are shockingly similar to the thoughts I have when I'm high as a kite.

- Helena and I ended up making it to Meghan McCain's speech at AU last night. (As Helena pointed out, this was our first KPU event. Two years after graduating.) Final summation: Meghan McCain is a silly goose. And by silly goose, I of course mean inarticulate cunt-bag, but silly goose sounds more civilized.

My ultimate goal of the night was to somehow get Meghan McCain to sign an extra birth control prescription of mine:

My plan was to then put said prescription on my refrigerator to remind myself that there are some pregnancies the world would have been better off without. So take your birth control.

Unfortunately, you had to be on some list to meet her afterwards (?) and upon asking "who do I have to blow to be on that list?" Helena pointed to an unfortunate, lanky boy wearing mom jeans and we promptly decided to bounce. Despite this Fail on my part, Meghan McCain was adequately punked. By a kid in a wheelchair. (Not a mermaid.) And oh my just and gentle Lord was it awkward...

After McGiggles' (oddly short) speech, she held a Q&A session. One of the Q&A participants was a gentleman in a wheelchair who slowly and dramatically wheeled his way down the aisle towards the microphone to address Meghan. I fully expected him to be like, "Bah! I was shot in the legs in Afghanistan! Thanks for supporting our troops and mozel tov to your brothers!" but that's not quite how things played out. Which I should have known when he chose to open his question with, "Sorry I missed some of your speech, I came in late because I was buying liquor." At first I thought this was just a LOLzy OH COLLEGE! joke, but it became increasingly clear he may indeed have been adequately liquored up. For he went on to:
1.) Openly compare her father to Hitler
2.) Insinuate that her dad's about to croak at any given moment—not once, but twice
and 3.) Came damn closes to tears while discussing his twice-divorced lesbian mother

...And holy shit. First of all: you fuck with John McCain and you fuck with me. I don't care who his daughter is. So back off, Roller Derby. Second of all, I mean, I hate Meghan McCain as much as the next person, but for realzies? Isn't yelling random and offensive shit in a public forum a little passé at this point? All I know is I have never wanted to crawl out of my own skin more in my entire life and I had "Monster in a Wheelchair" stuck in my head for the rest of the night. So thanks a lot, asshole.

Thoughts I couldn't flesh out into full entries:

- From an article entitled "Asteroid Program Lagging" in this morning's Post Express:

"NASA is charged with spotting most of the asteroids that pose a threat to Earth but does not have the money to complete the job, a U.S. government report says.

That's because even though Congress assigned the space agency that mission four years ago, it never gave NASA the money to build the necessary telescopes, according to the report released Wednesday by the National Academy of Sciences.

Specifically, the mission calls for NASA, by 2020, to locate 90 percent of the potentiality deadly rocks hurtling through space.[...]NASA estimates that there are about 20,000 asteroids and comets in our solar system that are potential threats. They are larger than 460 feet in diameter―slightly smaller than the New Orleans' Superdome."

Hi. I currently have 45 dollars in my bank account. NASA: you are more than welcome to 35 of it. I just need 6 bucks to get a salad this afternoon and 4 bucks to get my "Yay! You made it through the week!" Friday morning latte, and the rest is all yours. Because I've seen Deep Impact. If I were lobbying for NASA funds, I would simply walk into Congress, sit down my laptop, ask people to gather 'round and show the following scene:

Then I would shut my laptop, do an "AND WHAT?!" chest-bump to the crowd and walk out.

- One of my life dreams is to be a tattoo artist. Tattoos and tattoo culture are probably the most fascinating thing in the entire world to me. I know I only have three tattoos, but If it were up to me, I'd have a half-sleeve by now. But it's not up to me. Because I fear my mother's wrath. Diane is one of God's chosen people, so automatically she's not too keen on the idea of tattoos. Plus I think my parents still associate tattoos with criminals, sailors, prostitutes and prison dykes. When I was living in New York, my (completely magical, wonderful, amazing, miss him everyday) therapist, Bart, was really into the idea of me pursuing this dream, so I started sketching more and more and even put together a drawing portfolio so I could get an apprenticeship. When I moved home last year, the dream will still very much alive. I started researching tattoo apprenticeships in DC and found a woman-run studio in Southeast that was hiring apprentices. Now, you could not ask for two more supportive parents than mine. They support all of my wacky dreams and kooky antics and somehow remain proud at the end of the day. Not all parents would be cool with their daughter calling them up all "Yo! I'm quittin' my job and shacking up with you two to write a comedy blog, sooooo you need to come help me move out. KSEEYOUSOONBYEEE!" But they thought that sounded like a great idea. So kudos to them! However, they do not like the idea of me becoming a tattoo artist. I wouldn't even say they don't like it. I would say they don't even tolerate it. They've made it very clear that if I were to seriously pursue this, they would cut me off. I've always kind of resented them a bit for this. I mean, it's not like I want to be a stripper or a hit man. And my parents are both artists! And I'm an artist! And they've always supported that! I'm just switching my medium up. I feel like they should get that. But they don't, so I get all emo and angsty and writhe around in my bed listening to DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince's Parent's Just Don't Understand, screaming at the wall about how no one gets me and my life is a lie. But then I read this in the Express this morning (man, relevant morning for the Express, huh?):

Police: Tattoo Artist Shot Husband to Death in SE [tattoo shop]
The co-owner of a Southeast tattoo parlor has been charged with fatally shooting her husband in the head and back. Kristin Kozak, 36, known in the tattoo world as Liquidity Jones, was charged with second-degree murder in the death of a 56-year-old Michael Burnett. Police say Kozak told officers that Burnett was not armed or trying to attack her when she shot him.

Yes. That is indeed the tattoo shop I was thinking of apprenticing at. Hmm. Mom and dad―point taken.

Score:
Meg: 0
Parents: 1

- Allison and I want to start a Christian folk-rock band and call it "Thunder Cunt." I can objectively say this is the sixth best idea I've ever had.

- I just had an epiphany. Every time I watch More to Love, I can't help notice that there aren't any minorities on the show. I mean, Kristian is a little ambiguously tan and The Tranny is Israeli, but I don't know if that would fly past the Reverend Jackson. A tan chick and an Israeli tranny = weakest Rainbow Coalition ever. Anyway, in doing More to Love research yesterday, I stumbled upon a bunch of M2L reject audition interviews. They were sad and priceless and LOLz-worthy and I was going to post them today so we could all point and laugh, but then I saw this one:

And that's when I realized, there aren't any black women on the show because black women are too confident. Being heavier in other cultures isn't a huge deal (pun intended,) so they don't have the broken spirit of the over-weight white woman. And this show is all about exploiting that broken spirit for entertainment purposes. How fucked up is that? Imagine how different the show would be if there was a sassy black chick in the mix. Luke would be all, "I know Prom was a very special event that most of us missed out on―" and this chick would interrupt all "BITCH PLEASE! Not only was I there sweeping the floor with it, I was the entertainment:"

Really though. I think Fox should have to legally change the name of More to Love to Homely, Unfortunate White Women in a Dating Situation.

Item J-062509: Drinking Game Friday

As many of you may recall, last summer I peaced out of New York and moved back in with my dear old mom and dad for a good six months. Those six months were dark days. On day 1 I got mono and spent two solid months in the fetal position praying for death to embrace me in his cold, sharp claws. After that I started the Great Job Hunt of '08. Again, I prayed everyday for death to embrace me in his cold, sharp claws. Basically when I wasn't praying for death to embrace me in his cold, sharp claws, I was hangin' with my parents, and they definitely made the entire post-NYC-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life-it's-a-recession-maybe-I-shouldn't-have-pissed-all-over-my-job-and-moved-home-to-be-an-unpaid-comedy-blogger-please-someone-hold-me phase of my life much, much more bearable. If not enjoyable!

Everyday I had the same little routine: wake up (cough—at noon—cough); check my email for the many "Dear Ms. McBlogger: Thank you so much for your interest in working for ______! Unfortunately at this time, you can suck our balls through our drawls. We will keep your resume on file for the future. Sincerely, ______" emails waiting for me; writhe around my bed listening to INXS's "Never Tear Us Apart" for a while; finally make my way downstairs; grab the cat, a box of Kashi and my laptop; plop myself down on the couch next to my mom and watch QVC/job hunt for the rest of the afternoon.

I got in some great quality time with my mom during this period of my life. (I also got some great Diamonique jewelry and Joan Rivers makeup, but that is neither here nor there.) My mom always jokes that she watches so much QVC she could make a QVC drinking game, so I thought, pfff—why not? Because who doesn't love The Q? It's hypnotic! Everyone is so perky and everything is so shiny! It's a zen experience. You can watch it for hours on end and completely zone out and forget all your worries and cares. It's a terrific way to forget that you aren't even qualified to work as a janitor at a gallery and that maybe that art history minor was a flagrant waste of time and ha ha...ha...

So without further ado, I give you My Mom's QVC Drinking Game!


Rules:
Drink Once When Someone Says:
- "By the way"(given the right host, this alone can keep you blasted for 1-3 hours)
- "Pop of color"
- "Best of the best"
- "It has a good hand"
- Any time the host or caller says "thank you" while trying to end a phone call
- "You're my favorite host"
- A host says to a caller "thank you sooo much, that means sooo much to me"
- "you're on the air with ______, welcome in to QVC"

Drink Twice When:
- Today's special value is announced
- Something is available on easy pay
- A piece of jewlery is measured with the wooden ruler
- The host says she bought the item for herself or a family member
- The host tests the durability of a bracelet by violently banging her wrist on the table

Chug When:
- Joan Rivers or Tori Spelling make a special guest appearance

I'll add more if i can think of any, feel free to donate some of your own. I humbly submit these for your approval.

Love you, Empty Nester. (That's my blog name, dude.) [Editor's Note: GET IT, YOU GUYS?! GET IT? Empty Nester?! Because it's 2birds1blog?! Isn't she the best!?!????!]

Thanks mom! And thank you, reader. Now normally this is where I ask you to tell a friend about the blog, but today, let's switch things up! I'm feeling a little crazy, so tell an enemy about the blog. Yeah, that's right, tell a straight-up jackhole to follow us on Twitter, join our Facebook page and/or shoot us an email (meg@2birds1blog.com; chris@2birds1blog.com). And thanks for that. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning!

Drink everytime Chris says "Umbrella"

I don’t think talking about the weather is a particularly exciting topic of conversation, but holy hades, it has been raining forever. New York City has up and turned itself into Seattle. I’ve practically forgotten what the sun looks like. I think it’s yellow, but I can’t be sure. All this grey weather has turned me into an emo kid. I recently dyed my hair black, cut myself some severe angled bangs, and took self photos in sepia to post to my Myspace account.

But seriously, I think I’m getting seasonal affective disorder. But instead of getting depressed, I just get pissed off at people. Oh who am I kidding, I get pissed off at people no matter what the weather is. But can we briefly discuss something? I understand the purpose of umbrellas; we use them to prevent ourselves from getting sopping wet when Mother Nature is bawling her eyes out because she can't remember who El Nino’s baby daddy is. But if walking outside is the equivalent of diving into a pool, you are going to get wet and a comically oversized umbrella is not going to help your cause. Nothing makes me more crotchety than some douchebag, middle-aged power broker strutting around carrying a giant golf umbrella, taking up half the goddamn sidewalk, leaving a path of pedestrians in his wake clutching their eyes.


Look at that guy. Sure he’s dry—but he’s a total asshole. There’s not need for an umbrella-Hummer equivalent; a normal sized umbrella will suit you just fine, especially when you’re on a crowded sidewalk in a busy city, dickhead. I can probably think of 10 people who are in greater need of a gigantic umbrella than you on your two block walk from the subway to your office.

1.) Considering it’s called a golf umbrella, I think the most obvious choice are the spectators at a golf tournament.

While they are using them individually, it’s not out of place. Everyone is walking in one direction, so no one has to worry about losing an eye on their way to work.

2.) Jon & Kate plus 8. Scratch that, just Jon plus 8, because I sort of hate Kate and that hairdo deserves to get sopping wet.

If you have 8 children and you want to keep them all dry at once, a giant umbrella makes sense. If you are one person, even if you have an 8 inch penis that you want to keep all dry at once, you don’t need a giant umbrella. You need to put on pants, and then you need to call Meg. [Editor's Note: HOLLER!]

3.) If water is lethal to you like The Wicked Witch, you could use a huge umbrella.

This bitch has a reason to tote around a giant umbrella and not look like a jackass. She’s just trying to stay alive. Even the Bee Gees would support that.

4.)
A herd of mogwai would benefit more from a 62 inch umbrella than a disgruntled businessman. In fact, this would benefit everyone, since I’m not trying to get killed by a gremlin on my way to/from work.

5.) I’m not sure it rains in fairytales but if it did, I’d let The Gingerbread Man use this gigantic umbrella.

I'll cut this guy a break, because while he is extremely tiny, he is made out of baked goods. And he’s apt to go the way of the Wicked Witch if caught in a torrential downpour.

6.) Donna Summer might have been able to avoid that whole MacArthur Park fiasco if the man above would lend her his umbrella.

And she’ll never have that recipe again. Agaiiiiiin.

7.) If your job is to transport the Dead Sea Scrolls from one location to another in the pouring rain, then you have a worse job than anyone reading this article.

I can’t imagine they stand up to much of anything. And if your job is to keep those things safe, then by all means, have a continent sized umbrella.

8.) Or if you’re a continent sized person, like Hagrid, and your umbrella is proportional, then it makes sense.

Big guy, big umbrella. Giving Hagrid a regular umbrella, you’d end up with a fat guy in a little coat scenario.

9.) Say you are this kid, just your everyday aspiring bandleader.

And it’s your first parade. And your baton is missing. Do you: have a super sweet 16 (super nerdy) shit fit and punch the tuba player OR do you grab your giant umbrella and John Phillip Sousa the shit out of it?

10.) And last but not least, Mary Poppins.

Sure, she gets by with that regular-sized, albeit magical umbrella, but think of how much further she can soar with a HUGE umbrella. Lift or some other physics property is sure to be at work here.

I think, in the future, people should refer to this list. If you aren’t made of sugary sweets or allergic to water, are not unhumanly in size or a magical nanny, then put the giant golf umbrella away. Their need is greater than yours, and you are just an asshole.