If my door gets egged this weekend, something tells me it won't be related to Halloween...

Uhhhhh, guys. Something a little bit horrifying slash mostly hilarious slash no, really it was more horrifying just happened. But before I tell you, let's first get the old T.G.I. Hagman out of the way:

As of 5:01am on October 29, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! Sign, sealed, delivered; he's yours.

OK, so it's currently 2:04 in the morning and about a half an hour ago Dan and I scuttled over to Baja Fresh for a midnight taco run (lies. I got a Diet Coke because I'm still full from my lunchtime fish taco/Percocet make out session and Dan got a burrito.) (Don't judge us and our lifestyle.) and on our way back into the apartment, I checked my mail. Mixed in amongst the usual past-due notices and depressing bank statements was this sketchy-ass envelope:

Dan and I got in the elevator with a middle-aged gentleman who lives in my building and I looked at the envelope and said, "Uhh...who do I know at the Center for Arab and Islamic Studies at Villanova University?"

"Ooo! Maybe someone's trying to kill you!" Dan said, with genuine interest and excitement.

"Well that is serial killer handwriting if I've ever seen it." Dan snatched the envelope out of my hand and I asked him to open it. Mostly because if there was anthrax it in—roses are red, fire is hot, I'm holding my breathe and you, sir, are not. Dan opened the envelope and took out a folded piece of lined notebook paper.

"Oh Jesus God. Dan, it's a single piece of notebook paper in handwritten pen. Someone is going to kill me. Dan, someone is absolutely going to kill me."

As the elevator stopped on my floor, Dan unfolded the paper, squinted at what it said and read aloud:

"Evie...Yang's...na na na na na na shrimp fried rice?"

[As it turns out, that's just a little racially charged, Evie-based inside joke/caricature from Tulane Chris. I always forget that he goes to Villanova and has a penchant for sending me comical mail every now and then, that skamp.]

Now, what I failed to mention up until now is that the middle-aged gentleman in the elevator with us was an Asian gentleman. Which means that Dan pulled out a sketch of my parent's Tonkinese cat wearing a paddy hat, squinting and saying "dericious!" over a plate of shrimp while he deadpanned, "Evie Yang's na na na na na na shrimp fried rice" about six inches away from an Asian man. The second after "—rice?" flew out of his mouth, he realized what had just happened, made a "guhhhh" noise and sprinted out of the elevator before collapsing in front of my door in a little puddle of embarrassment.

So basically what this means is that I have now officially offended all two Asians in my apartment building. Every last one of them now thinks that I'm racist. Or have extremely racist friends. I hassle them in the lobby for my food and get amateur Klan art in the mail from Arab/Islamic scholars in Pennsylvania. But if you need to borrow a cup of sugar as racially pure as fresh morning snow, Lord knows I'm here for you.

Sigh. Moving on. So Halloween weekend, huh? Right on. As I mentioned yesterday, Tulane Chris will be visiting this weekend. We're going to do a 2b1b investigation, write a post together, drink a lot, emote, go to Target, emote some more. I'm pretty excited. The culmination of this weekend, however, will be waking up at an obscenely early hour on Sunday morning to cheer Becca and Geoff on as they tackle the Marine Corps Marathon, or their "long distance jog" as I like to call it because belittling my sister's running career is a Facebook interest of mine. It comes from a place of pure jealousy, of course. She sets goals for herself and has the discipline to train for months to accomplish a physical feat, whereas I opened up my umbrella the other day a sugar packet fell out. (That's not a joke, by the way. That happened. I assume I threw a sugar packet in my bag when I got coffee and it got wedged in my umbrella somehow, but still. She did the Army 10K last weekend for funsies and it's literally raining Type II Diabetes on me.)

I realize I could just take up running too, but, you know, effort. I'd prefer to put all of that energy into good old fashioned projecting! I want to make a sign to cheer Becca on, but I can't decide which motivational slogan to go with:

- JOG SLIGHTLY FASTER!

- THAT DOESN'T LOOK THAT HARD.

- I DID THE ELLIPTICAL FOR 30 MINUTES THIS MORNING!

- NOBODY WOULD JUDGE YOU IF YOU PEED YOURSELF!

- IF YOUR NIPS AREN'T BLEEDING, YOU'RE NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH!

- COLLEGE GIRLS WITH POOR BODY IMAGE DO THIS EVERY DAY!

- REMEMBER WHEN YOU GOT EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA IN ARIZONA? HA HA, ME TOO.

I guess I could always just make seven signs? Either way, I'm pumped. If you'll be in town for the rallies this weekend, I hope you enjoy yourself! And if not, I hope you have a great Halloween weekend wherever you are! To kick the weekend off right, here's a quick little recap of last week's "Jersey Shore" finale I owe you from when I was out sick. It's late, but meh. Something tells me we'll all live.

"Jersey Shore", Season 2: THE FINALE!

Yes, it's the finale. It's time for our Zelko soaked heros and heroines to return to the tri-state area from whence they came. But not before they go on a wacky road trip to the Everglades to see, quote Pauly D, "crocodiles and alligators, or whatever you call them." You shockingly had it right the first time, sir. Although Snooki refers to them as "crock-o-dillios" which immediately makes me hope I'll be reincarnated into a rapping crocodile so I can dub myself the "Crock-o-Dillio" and release an album called, "What the Crock-o-Dillio??" But, yes. They go to see the gators. None eat them; world weeps. Afterwards they go to a little country cafe where they eat fried frog legs. Ronnie is deeply disturbed, J-WOWW is nauseated. On the car ride home, The Situation gets car sick and pukes frog legs up. Wakka, wakka.

I'm sure you're all wondering what ever will happen to Pauly D and Vinny and their little Miami wifies, right? Well, nothing. They take 'em out to dinner (Vinny's gal is 45 minutes late. Or on Meg time, if you will,) make out with them in the street, tell them to K.I.T. and call it a night. Sorry, both dates were incredibly uneventful. I wish I had more for you. Although I will say that Pauly D's lady has got a pair of hooters on her. So. They'll always have that.

Ronni and Sammi go out for one last Miami dinner and—shock!—they get in a fight. Here:

Good enough.

On their last night out, the gang heads to BED where two girls (both of whom I would describe as "atrocious about the face") are all over Vinny and offer to have a threeway with him. And by "offer to have a threeway with him," I mean scream, "Are we fucking tonight, baby??" and "You're gonna have the threesome of your life!" to him over the thumping Enrique Iglesias music. But alas, he can't stop thinking about Ramona and turns them down. Which is when The Situation swoops in, takes them to the John and makes them forget all about Stepfathers 1-3. Bless his heart.

On their last night in the house, the gang has one last family dinner and then retires to the living room to hand out superlatives. It starts out all innocent and light-hearted like "Most Likely to Get Skin Cancer" hahaha LOLZ all of us! but takes a serious turn when The Situation says Vinny should get "Most Likely to be a Follower." Then guess what happens? Correct: escalate, escalate, escalate → full-blown fight. This was one of the most confusing fight sequences yet, so let me break it down for you:

The Situation rags a little too hard on Vinny for being a "fake" "follower", so J-WOWW puts an end to it by telling The Situation that he's the fake one and storms out of the room → While she's gone, The Situation says she's the fakest one in the house → Abiding by "Girl Code", Snooki tells J-WOWW that The Situation said she was fake and that Pauly D nodded his head in agreement → J-WOWW confronts The Situation and says, "If I'm fake, then Pauly D is fake because he talks shit about you behind your back," → The Situation confronts Pauly D → Pauly D goes into a roid rage and pops a blood vessel or two → He confronts J-WOWW → J-WOWW says she told The Situation that because she heard that he agreed with The Situation that she was fake → He asks her who told her that → Snooki makes an "eep!" noise, implicating herself → Pauly D yells at Snooki for a while → Snooki gets mad at J-WOWW for making her look like an asshole → Snooki cries → Everyone's like J/K!!! We're such a family: we hate each other but we love each other and I'm going to miss you guys so much even though we have a shit ton of promotional stuff coming up and Season 3 around the corner, omg we're such a family.

FIN!

And yes, it was just as anti-climactic for me as it was for you. Welp! Have a great weekend guys and we'll see you next week! Buy-bye.

My Feelings

[Hi there. K. Griff giveaway results will be announced as soon as Dan gets to work and sees the email I sent at 5:30 this morning asking him to text me random numbers as soon as he sees this. Although truthfully I'll probably be asleep by that time, soooooo...here's hoping I eventually get the energy to get out of bed, find my phone and take it off vibrate, huh?? FINGERS CROSSED!!!!!1XOXOXOX]

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Just kidding, this one is mostly shit jokes, although I do want to thank the commenters who said they would help me move. I appreciate it and would have taken you up on it, except for the fact that the few times I’ve met readers I’ve tried and hopefully succeeded in making a decent impression, and I didn’t want to ruin my track record by having you see me standing in a dusty room, things strewn everywhere, holding a butter dish to my chest while weeping and murmuring “Ethel! We have to hide this before Ricky gets home. Help me, Ethel. What will Ricky say when he gets home? Oh, Ethel.” I don’t have a lot of dignity, but I do prefer to have my nervous breakdowns in private. I am very grateful, though, and will definitely enlist you to help me move a body should the occasion arise. (Does anyone else have recurring nightmares that there just happens to be a corpse in your house for some vague reason that you have to hide?)

One of the many, many crosses I bear in this life is the increasingly intense mutual admiration between Meg and my father. When I was elevated to Other Bird, I told Dad about the blog and he read some of the archives and sent me an email saying in essence “You’re funny, but Meg is something mystical, almost more than human. Her laugh brings tears of joy to the eyes of old men, and the sound of her voice brings an end to war. Every word that flows from her pen redefines the English language as the tongue of angels, and her beauty and grace fill churches with former atheists.” I was advised to cling to Meg like a bird on a rhinoceros, eating the little fleas of fame that might jump my way. (Which was of course good advice and which I have done.) Meg, for her part:

“Your dad is a calm older man with a good job right, yes?”

“Yes…”

“Is he married?”

“Not technically, but…”

“Chris, do you think I’m pretty?”

“Yes…”

“Do you think your dad would… I mean, you wouldn’t have to call me ‘Mom.’ You would on the blog, of course, for professional reasons, but not at home or anything. Unless of course there was company. Tell your Dad I have strong Jewish ovaries and could give him sons.”

“He has a son.”

“Right, but…”

At this rate, they’ll be using me to pass notes at study hall within the week. The most maddening thing about this is that, since Meg is not his actual child, our behavior is judged by different standards. For example:

Meg drinks too much beer and falls down in the middle of the road: “She’s so zesty and full of life.”

I drink too much beer and fall down in the middle of the road: “Oh, Chris.”

Meg sits around in her underpants all day eating peanut butter with a finger and watching Shark Week: “She’s doing research for the blog. Sharks are funny. What a trooper!”

I sit around in my underpants all day eating peanut butter with a finger and watching Shark Week: “Oh, Chris.”

Meg gets paid five hundred dollars for a well-written freelance article: “I’m so proud of her.”

I get paid fifty dollars for going to a man’s house I met on craigslist, cleaning his oven wearing only an apron, high heels, and pearls, and then telling him he’s been bad and to wait until his father gets home: “Oh, Chris.”

The worst example of this is laziness. I’ve been in trouble consistently from birth for being lazy. Before birth, actually, since I was three weeks late and only starting trying to get out when I smelled pumpkin pie. All my life it’s been “Chris, do your homework. Chris, get a job. Chris, shift your weight so you don’t get another bedsore,” while Dad actually said “One of the most endearing things about Meg is her extreme laziness.” Oh, my God, can you please love me for who I am like in a TV movie about ice skaters, please?

Now that I’m a grown up who ostensibly pays his own rent, I can be lazy. I have done essentially no unpacking from the move. I’m still sleeping on the floor, surrounded by beer bottles and Wendy’s bags. If I were a constellation, I would be “The Embarrassment.” Invisible to the naked eye, the Hubble Telescope has documented it by recording waves of disgust emanating form a point near Polaris.

So, since I haven’t yet emptied the box labeled “Cookware, pornography, and miscellaneous” so I’ve been eating a lot of Wendy’s. You know how most of the shit jokes around here are about diarrhea? Well, I “expanded my range” and got so constipated I literally feared for my life. All I could imagine was bursting in a shower of Baconator feces and how people would react:

“2 Birds 1 Blog regrets to inform you that Tulane Chris died late Thursday when his colon burst, covering an entire one-bedroom apartment in partially digested beef. He died as he lived.”

Mom: “I told him to get more fiber.”

Dad: “Meg would never die of a meat-shattered bowel.”

Butter Legs: “It seems like only yesterday we were watching the Super Bowl and he couldn’t keep it in.”

Some priest: “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to mourn the passing of a foul-mouthed hedonist who died because he ate so much meat that the very structure of his body gave way under the strain. I’m supposed to offer a few comforting bromides about salvation, but he died of unexpressed meat shits. Let’s not get our hopes up.”

The girl I went to high school with who pooped in her prom dress: “Oh, thank God, now people will stop telling my embarrassing poop story.”

Having absolutely no dignity, I called several people to commiserate. Meg proceeded to taunt me with a new story about her having had diarrhea (“Don’t put that on the blog yet because I have a date tonight with a reader and I want to keep just a shred of discretion. I’m a woman, dammit, not just a source of colonic hilarity.”) The best line of the crisis came, as ever, from Dad:

Me: “I’m so constipated I might die.”

Dad: “Is it just nervousness from using a new toilet?”

…

…

…

…what? I could say a lot about that, but I think the most interesting implication is that, when I have a purely physical symptom, my father just assumes it’s because I’ve gone completely, irrevocably insane. “Backed up? Oh, you must have formed an obsessive attachment to the toilet in your old apartment.” It’s not because I eat too much bacon and exercise as much as a dead sea anemone, it’s because I’m afraid of the toilet. Apparently he’s been expecting me to manifest the family madness for so long that everything I do seems bonkers.

So, of course, I bought some senna and washed it down with milk of magnesia and washed that down with beer. Went to work the next day and learned, among other things, how well sound carries in houses built around 1750. It was absolutely a scene from Ace Ventura: Pet Detective. There are two toilets at work: the one in the hallway the tours go down, and the one right next to the office that doubles as a storeroom. I chose the hallway and could hear, between, uh, other sounds, the entire fucking tour. Which implies that they heard, between bits of the tour, other sounds.

“Did you learn anything interesting?”

“No, it was all drowned out by the sound of some unseen person’s bowels opening like the sky on the Day of Judgment.”

So now all is in balance and things are back to what passes for normal. Thank you for offering to help me move and laughing at my bathroom humor, and I’ll see you later.