WHAT THE FUCKITY FUCK FUCK?!?!?!?!

I would like to preface this post by stating that I, for all intents and purposes, am an intelligent young woman. I spent 12 years in one of the country's best public school systems. I went to a great college. I graduated with honors. I watch Jeopardy at the gym with the captions on. I'm in a book club. Clearly, I'm a highly enlightened individual.

That being said, I learned something yesterday that blew my fucking mind.

Narwhals. Really. Exist.


WHAT THE FUCK?!!?!??!!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! I can't even put into words how completely disturbed and shaken up I am by this revelation. Do you understand that I've spent my entire adult life thinking that narwhals are mythical creatures on par with unicorns, fairies, centaurs and cherubs? My entire fucking life. But guess what? They're as real as you and me! They are real creatures of the sea. They're fucking mammals for Christ's sake! They've been classified—that is how real they are! Do you know what blows my mind? I could be swimming in the Arctic Ocean and feasibly, out of nowhere, I could get impaled by the horn of a narwhal. And when news of my death reaches home, the baffling part won't be that a narwhal killed me, it will be why was I in the Arctic Ocean in the first place?" That's the troubling part. WHAT THE FUCK?! You know that scene in A Beautiful Mind when Russell Crow is standing before his intricate wall of magazine clippings and it suddenly dawns on him that there's no connection between the articles because he made the entire thing up and he's totally Schizophrenic? That is what I feel like right now. I've been google image searching narwhals for the past three hours now and the only thing standing between me and a panic attack is this comical illustration of Barack Obama riding one:


Allow me put you in my shoes for a moment. Let's talk about Dragons. Dragons are not real. Furthermore, it is widely accepted among all of Planet Earth that they're not real. Correct? Correct. Now, imagine that one day a friend casually drops into conversation that Dragons are real! But not only are they real, their population is thriving by the thousands in the Arctic and everybody knows this but you. It's common knowledge. You're the dumb-fuck for thinking they're mythological creatures. You're the weirdo. You're the one people look at with a concerned look in their eyes. You call your parents in shock and they just sigh heavily because this is one more thing that you've managed to let escape you. THAT'S ME! I'M THE DRAGON DUMB-FUCK!

This all started last Saturday night when it somehow came up in pre-Jäger Ball conversation with the Tulane Chris and Co-Blogger Chris that Narwhals "exist." Frankly, I 100% didn't believe them. My friends, bless their hearts, are assholes who think it's hilarious to misinform me about things so I look like an idiot when I repeat it later. Kind of like the time at the Cheesecake Factory when Helena—fully knowing I was on the Atkins Diet—told me that everybody knows whipped cream doesn't have carbs! so I face-raped like three plates full while she watched and silently laughed. Or the time Helena told me a "pundit" was a medieval council of elders who decide the fate of heretics and those who speak ill of the King. Or the time Helena told me it was a totally awesome idea to buy and wear a John Deere baby-tee. In retrospect, Helena is an asshole, but either way I totally thought the Chris's were fucking with me. I was randomly musing about this yesterday, giving myself a pat on the back for being so clever and out-smarting the Chris's when I made the horrible decision to google "Narwhal" for funsies. (And let's not lie, because management is here all week and I'm desperate to look like I'm actually doing something.) I clicked on Images. And there they were: NARWHALS. HONEST-TO-GOD NARWHALS. And thousands of educational websites about narwhals! And videos! And books! And a Twitter account! (@common_narwhal!)

Facts I learned about narwhals that blow my mind:
- They are real
- They can not talk
- Their horn is actually an incisor tooth
- They are predators
- SOME MALES HAVE DUAL TUSKS:
http://static.howstuffworks.com/gif/narwhal-hunt.jpg
- There is only a single recorded case of a female narwhal with dual tusks
- They eat shrimp
- They can dive 4,500 feet under the sea and stay there for 25 minutes!
- Male narwhals rub one another's tusks together in an activity called "tusking," which makes me want to vomit
- Their tusks were sold in medieval times as unicorn horns and were worth up to twice their weight in gold
- Nobody knows the function of their tusks; they serve no evolutionary purpose!

BAHHHH WTF?!?!?! But you know what concerns me most? That I managed to get through 16 years of school without learning that narwhals are real animals. That in and of itself is baffling. I mean, I took college level biology and evolution. (Although the lowest grade I got in my entire college career was in evolution. In my defense, I took it with Alex and Helena and we spent the entire class making up comical mini-quizzes for each other about the random personal facts our professor would inject into his lectures and instead of studying, got drunk and free-styled about trilobites...so I guess that didn't help.) And! Apparently there's an entire chapter in Moby Dick on narwhals! I read that in AP Lit! And by I read that, I mean I read selected portions of the Cliffs Notes before giving up and asking my dad to write my paper for me because he loves that book and I'm a stupid, spoiled sack of shit. God damnit! I'm always looking for the easy way out.

I also feel a certain sense of betrayal that nobody bothered to tell me the truth about narwhals. I seriously sat at my computer yesterday slowly scrolling through my gchat contacts thinking, "All of you know that narwhals are real animals and not a single one of you told me...you are all TRAITORS!!!!1" Then I sent an email to my dad about my revelation and asked him why he never bothered to tell me. All I got in return was this incredibly snarky and condescending and email:

We were just talking about Narwhals at dinner last night (again!!!). We were going to get you one for Christmas but we were worried about the horn (in reality a big tooth - paging Dr. Aroyo) getting caught in your clothes when you hugged it. Which you would do all the time because they are soooo huggable. We'll get you a My-Little Narwhal instead.

You never see anything about Narwhals on TV so you just don’t think about them. What a shame.

Next we’ll have to talk about the Jackalope, the mystical half Jack Rabbit and half antelope that roams free around the great American Southwest. Or Vampire Squid! Or flying snakes! Or Voles and Lemmings! Or Tasmanian Devils! And don’t get me started about the Amazonian insects the enter your skin through cuts and lay eggs there and then the larvae starts moving around so you can see your skin ripple. Or an Amazonian fish that swims up your “you know what.” So many great but little known animals that we just don’t talk about over dinner and a drink. Remember when you once thought of badgers like that?

Love,
DAD

God damnit. I did used to think of badgers like that. I also thought that wolverines were just lady wolves for an embarrassing amount of time. But none of my animal enlightenments have disturbed me quite as much as this whole narwhal brouhaha. Why am I so clueless about animals? I've been to the zoo like 900 times. And the Natural History museum. And, you know, 16 years of fucking school. This is just so incredibly unsettling. I called my mom yesterday and told her I felt like I was going to have a panic attack and she barked at me to "get over it." "Why are you being so mean?!" I asked her. "[sigh] Meghan, there are plenty of things in life to get anxious about," she explained, "NARWHALS are not one of them."

I, madam, beg to differ. I leave you now with this education NatGeo video on narwhals that in my mind is just as disturbing as watching a snuff film. Enjoy:

Embarrassing. Emphasis on the ASS.

First and foremost, I know Co-Blogger Chris already thanked everyone yesterday for coming out Saturday night, but I just wanted to say it again: thank you so much to everyone who came out to Jäger Ball! The turnout was completely overwhelming (in the best way ever, of course) and we had so much fun meeting you all. Chris and I woke up in bed Sunday morning looking like black-and-white photo negatives of each other: I was oddly still in my outfit from the night before and Chris was oddly not wearing anything at all. We let out a mutual hungover grumble, gave each other a once over and agreed—It was definitely that kind of a night.

I have to say, Jäger Ball was especially meaningful to me because it was one night in my life where I just felt 100%...good. I'm used to life turning me sideways, stuffing a sock in my mouth and making me it's bitch, so a night where I got nothing but positive feedback (minus the guy who told me I was "a 7 or 8," which initially was exciting because huzzah! I made it over the mid-point! but then I heard people were telling Co-Blogger Chris he could be a Ralph Lauren model and my 7 or 8 seemed somewhat less impressive...) was a new and unique experience. I walked to work yesterday morning with an extra bounce in my step—the bounce of a winner.

And then I got to work. Where I was immediately knocked down a peg or two where I belong. And ohhhhh was it humbling...

First, let me give you some back-story. Last week Boss #1 got it in her pretty little head that something was wrong with me. I have no idea why. Absolutely nothing was wrong with me. I mean, I don't exactly love being here but I don't think I was being any more surly than usual. Boss #1, however, wouldn't give up. Something was wrong with me and she was going to figure out what it was. It drives her absolutely crazy that she can't break through my tough, enigmatic outer shell. And by "tough, enigmatic outer shell," I mean I don't volunteer graphic information about my menstrual cycle, sex life or bowel movements on a daily basis and this makes me "stand-offish."

She began her probe:

Boss #1: What's going on with you this week, girl?!
Me: Uh, nothing. Why?
B1: You seem depressed.
Me: Oh, no, I'm fine! Sorry!
B1: Don't apologize, just tell me what's going on.
Me: Nothing's going on, I promise. I guess I'm just tired today or something.
B1: It's not just today; it's been for a while now.
Me: Well I genuinely appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. [*ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!*] I feel like this is where a normal person would have accepted that nothing's wrong and backed off. I appreciated her concern and if something were really wrong, I probably would have told her at this point. But there was nothing to tell. And I feel like I adequately expressed that. Case closed. Move on. [*TIME IN!*]
B1: Did you get in a fight with Russell [the Homophobic Co-Worker] again?
Me: No...we're fine, I guess. Honestly I haven't even seen him in a month of Sundays.
B1: How's your family?
Me: They're great! Everything's fine, really.
B1: ...You're not interviewing, are you?
Me: I'm not interviewing, I swear! You know I love this job. [*ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!*] It's true that I'm not interviewing, but it is incredibly untrue that I love this job. Mostly I'm not interviewing right now because I couldn't pass a drug test to save my life and my god do I hate cranberry juice. [*TIME IN!*]
B1: Are you seeing someone?
Me: Uh...no?
B1: Why not? [*ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!*] This is the single most irritating question on the face of the planet that one human being could ask another. Because I don't know why I'm not seeing someone, asshole. Because I hate sex. And my vagina has fangs. Strong, ample fangs that I sharpen nightly and widdle things out of wood with. And I refuse to get them removed because it's unethical and I fear PETA's wrath. That's why I'm not seeing anyone. Christ. [*TIME IN!*]
Me: Uhhh...I really don't know. I'm just not.
B1: OK...well...if you ever need to talk, I'm here.
Me: Well, I appreciate that.

And I did. Although I found her line of questioning irritating, I knew her heart was in the right place and I appreciated her concern. I decided I would attempt to be 5% more perky around the office and figured that would be the end of that. Now, flash forward to yesterday afternoon. There I was, sitting at my desk with a furrowed brow, deep in "concentration" as I filled in a blank spreadsheet with the number "69" over and over again when Boss #1 slithered over...

B1: Hey girl! How you feeling this week?
Me: Great! Great weekend. How are you?
B1: I'm fine, thanks. So after our talk last week I got you something off the Internet that I really think is going to make you feel better! [*ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!*] How cute is she?! I mean, she must really appreciate me to want to get me a little present to try to cheer me up! Coming off the love-fest that was Jäger Ball, I felt on top of the world at that moment. Just really appreciated. Plus, I was straight-up giddy thinking about what my little pressie might be. An early Christmas gift? Jewelry? The handbag she knew I'd been coveting? The bar stool she promised me a few weeks ago? Tehehe... [*TIME IN!*]
Me: Awwww...Boss #1! You didn't have to do that! I told you I'm fine!
B1: Well it's just a little something that I think you'll really benefit from. Here! [She reached into her bag, pulled out the gift and set it before me:]


It was a bottle of Natra Pure All-Natural Colon Cure. My boss got me a fucking bottle of laxatives she bought off the Internet. (Now with Green Tea!) And I'm not just saying this for affect, but at that moment, I 100% thought that I was going to burst into tears. Because apparently the vibe I give off to people on a daily basis is that I'm depressed and constipated. DEPRESSED. AND CONSTIPATED. People look at me and think, "Hm. You know what that girl needs? A good cleanse of her colon! That'll perk her right up!"

Me: You got me........a colon cleanser.
B1: I SWEAR BY THIS STUFF! It's got like, corn husk it in or something and you take two a day with a glass of water and I'll tell you what—you'll be a new woman by morning!
Me: You got me........................................a colon cleanser.
B1: You're welcome, girl!

And that was that. That's all it took to knock me down from my post Jäger Ball high and humble the ever-living shit out of me [pun intended!] And you know what the most embarrassing part is? I'm probably going to try it tonight. Because why not? I got it. It's not like I can sell it on ebay and take the money. Who would buy shady Internet laxatives? OH WAIT...Plus I'm just genuinely curious if I will indeed feel like a new woman in the morning. So I'm going to come home, pop on some jammies, turn on NatGeo and shit my brains out.

Yep. Here I am. Right back where I belong.

Drinking Game Friday takes a big old Recrap

If I were to make a list of my top 5 guiltiest guilty pleasures, it would go as such:

5.) Tori and Dean's Home Sweet Hollywood
4.) The Olsen Twins as an entity
3.) Any and every Mo'Nique special
2.) Russian-pop-lesbian duo t.A.T.u.'s "Not Gonna Get Us"
1.) Guidos

Knowing this, you can imagine how excited I was when I found out about MTV's newest reality show, Jersey Shore. Basically Jersey Shore is like a season of The Real World but exclusively with Guidos. It's the true story. Of eight strangers. Picked to live in a shore house. To find out what happens. When the Valtrex runs out. And there's not a black person for miles. It's The Real World: Guidos. And oh muh gawd I'm excited! Thus, Drinking Game Friday will be taking a brief hiatus while Recrap Fridays: Jersey Shore takes over. Don't worry! DGF will be back! But I mean, come on, I've recapped shows about vapid whores, Bros, emotional fatties and monkey babies—did you expect me to not recap a show about Guidos?

I'm going to admit something right here and right now, fully aware that some of you might lose respect for me. I, Meghan C. McBlogger, totally have a thing for Guidos (except I can't do extreme spiky-haired Guidos. I'm horny, not blind.) I can't explain it. It goes against everything I stand for, yet, get me in a room with a juiced-up Italian guy with a rosary and a Hollywood tan and you'd better have a fainting couch cuz I've got the vapors! I've only dated one Guido in my lifetime. And by dated, I mean we hooked up, went on three dates and he dropped me like third period French. But my god were those three dates glorious. His name was Dave, he hailed from Long Island and had a tribal sun tattoo on his back that upon discovering I literally pointed and laughed-out-loud at. (Looking back, this may or may not have contributed to the whole dropping-me-like-third-period-French thing.) Even the story of how we met is just so perfectly...cheap. I was at The Reef late one Saturday night Senior year, desperately trying not to pass out against/crash through a fish tank, when Dave the Guido approached and instigated a game of Thumb War. Yes, that's correct. Thumb War. I lost (perhaps because my hand-eye coordination was that of a newborn baby at the time) and he happily claimed his prize—a hardcore All-American make out session!!1 Did I know his name? No. Did that bother me? No. Was the smell of his Dep hair gel driving me wild? Yes. A few days later we went on our first date to Lauriol Plaza. We pretty much had absolutely nothing in common except we both liked making out, quoting 80's movies and drinking. And apparently that will only bond two people together for so long. But I'll never forget you Dave The Guido. You or our hardcore, pasta-fueled hook-ups that I can now only re-live vicariously through my new favorite show—Jersey Shore.

Jersey Shore: Episode 1

The show opens by introducing us to it's eight feisty characters, the first being Pauly D. Pauly D. has obscenely spiky hair, a tanning bed in his apartment and is a DJ who wants people to "come in their pants when they hear his music." Well sir, as Rhianna said, please don't stop the music. Next up we have Nicole a.k.a. "Snookie". Snookie is my absolute favorite character. She looks like if Elvira and Tila Tequila had a bastard love-child and the mother bathed in Zelko throughout the duration of the pregnancy. Nobody in the house can remember Snookie's nickname so she's consistently referred to as "Snickers," which is never not the funniest thing I've ever heard. Next up is Mike. Mike gave himself the nickname "The Situation." So you know he's gotta be cool. Then we have Sammy "Sweetheart." Sammy Sweetheart is a sweet little Guidette with a don't-fuck-with-me attitude looking to break some hearts. She is also the source of one of my favorite quotes from the episode: "If you're not a Guido you can get the fuck out of my face." There's poetry in directness. Then there's Vinny. Vinny's mom still cuts his food for him and he makes a point of telling viewers that although he went to college, he "still loves to fist pump." Who says a Guido can't be a Renaissance Man? Next up we have Jenni a.k.a. "J-Woww." First and foremost, I love imagining the conversation between Jenni and the MTV graphics people where she clarifies that there are two W's in the fabricated name of "J-Woww." It keeps me warm at night. J-Woww likes to rip guy's heads off after sex (shout-out to Scott the Praying Mantis!), sounds like she just ate a pack of Newport lights for dinner and if I had a dick, I wouldn't put it within 15-feet of her. And then we have Ronnie. Tehehehee...Ronnie's kind of a dreamboat that I'd love to sail away on. I mean, whatever. He likes cheap cologne, protein shakes and fist pumping in the ocean. Gross. He's lame....tehehe. Ronnie's life philosophy: "Beers, pussy and the the beach. All you need to know." I couldn't have said it better myself, sir. Last but not least we have Angelina a.k.a. "Jolie." Angelina has a boyfriend who she's going to "try" not to cheat on and openly refers to herself as the Kim Kardashian of Staten Island. Because that's a challenge.

After we're introduced to the cast mates, they slowly filter into their cheetah-print and Italian flag-laden shore house where they'll be spending the rest of their summer. Pauly D. and The Situation instantly click. Ronnie, quote, "just wants to get creepy and weird" (seriously. I'm in love.) J-Woww introduces herself as J-Woww and everyone has the common sense to know that that's about as cool as a pair of tapered khakis. Angelina packed her stuff in trash bags which the rest of the cast thinks is weird but I can't hate on because that's how I moved out of my dorm Sophomore year. Really most of the entertainment lies in watching Snookie try to successfully drive herself to the house. After almost committing vehicular manslaughter a few times, she tries to make a 3-point-turn in the middle of an intersection and her car dies. OH SNOOKIE! After everyone arrives at the house we meet Danny. Danny looks like comedian Jesse Joyce to the point where I find it distracting and will be the Guidos boss for the summer. Yep, that's right. They have to work. Specifically at Danny's t-shirt shop, The Shore Store, in teams of two. Danny tries to explain that their living in the shore house is contingent on how well they work at the store, but the gang basically kicks him out so they can get the party started.

And get the party started they do! The first night in the house can only be described in one word: Snooktastic. Snookie gets shit faced. Quote Ronnie, "That girl went from stupid to incoherent." Yes, Snookie had herself a good old time. She rips a bunch of shots, gets in the hot tub in her leopard print bra and thong, tries to have sex with the entirety of the cast (gender not being an issue this many shots deep) and eventually passes out in a hammock mid slur. This would be pretty standard for first-night shenanigans, except that it's like 4 o'clock in the afternoon and everyone else in the house is stone cold sober. And let me tell you, being the one sloppy drunk amongst a sea of sober people is a mighty recipe for lasting embarrassment. Snookie wakes up a few hours later to find the rest of the house gone and spends all night stumbling around trying to work the complicated mechanics of the ironic duck phone. (If you only watch one scene, I'd go with that one.)

The next morning Snookie doesn't remember a thing ("Story of my life!" she laments) and ends up being late to orientation at the Shore Store because she's busy puking her face off in the bathroom. She starts to get a weird vibe from the rest of the house and manages to deduce that mayyyyybe she did something embarrassing last night. She offers the house a heart-felt apology at dinner and all seems to be right with the world. For now.

The next night, the boys decide to go fishing. No, not that fishing, bless your heart! "Fishing" is when the boys stand on the roof and whistle at girls until a few "semi-decent looking" ones stop, come up, get in the hot tub and give 'em some dome. The rest of the girls in the house are mortified by this. And by mortified, I mean jealous. They park themselves in lawn chairs ten feet away from the hot tub and do that thing girls do where they're like "OH MY GAWD, WHAT PROSTITUTES!" but on the inside really wish it was them taking off their Victoria Secret red cotton thongs in a hot tub. Angelina asks, "how do you meet a guy and take your bra and underwear off?!" Alcohol and low self-esteem, my friend. Trust me.

And then drama ensues: The Situation has a crush on Sammi Sweetheart and feels awkward canoodling with Token Hoz in front of her but she's like woah, we're not married psycho, go do what you want; Angelina, Sammi and J-Woww get in a fight with the Token Hoz because they're, you know, Token Hoz; Snookie gets upset that nobody's paying attention to her so she locks herself in her room to play with the ends of her hair; Angela and the guys get in a fight re: The Situation "cheating on" Sammi Sweetheart with Token Hoz; Ronnie walks around wearing only a fedora and no shirt and I have a moment; Snookie overhears the girls talking shit about Token Hoz, assumes they're talking about her and decides she's sick of the duck phone being her only friend so duck phone and her are bouncing. BUT WILL SHE?!

Jersey Shore: Episode 2

Um, Yeah. There was a second HOUR LONG episode last night. WTF MTV? Do you know what a challenge it was just to stay awake for the 10-11 episode?! I have work in the morning! I have a Jäger Ball to save energy for! I can't stay up until midnight watching reality television about Guidos on a school night! And yet, I did. Because god forbid I let the blog get behind on recaps. And as a result, I couldn't get out of bed this morning and was a half an hour late to work. Perhaps I need to re-evaluate my priorities...Anyway, I took half-assed notes because I was nodding off in my old person rocking chair, so here's all you need to know about the second episode:

*The Situation made Sammy Sweetheart a plate of eggs so you know he's in love --> *They work their first day at the Shore Store. LOL selling t-shirts is hard! --> *Snookie has a heart-to-heart with Sammy Sweetheart and decides to stay --> *The boys go to the gym, eat protein bars and talk about who they want to "pound out" --> *The Situation refers to himself in the third person a lot and sells a shit ton of hot pants --> *They all go out --> *Pauly D. and J-Woww make out --> *Snookie brings some guy home and is all bummed out that he won't make out with her until he projectile vomits everywhere. True story. --> *Angelina cheats on her boyfriend but "doesn't remember it" in the morning --> *Vinny gets pink eye from freak dancing with an old, fat chick for laughs at a club called Karma which is so ironic the world explodes --> *They go out again --> *The Situation and Sammy Sweetheart hookup but then she turns around and hooks up with my boy Ronnie --> *The Situation is heart broken so we decide to hook up with each other to make them jealous--> *The episode concludes with a hilarious montage of The Situation watching the sunrise all sad-like with sad, sad background music and black and white scenes of him and Sammy Sweetheart spliced in, which is hilarious because didn't you people meet two days ago? FIN.

Welp, with that said, hope you all have a fantastic weekend! Can't wait to meet you guys at Jäger Ball TOMORROW NIGHT! If you can't make it, don't forget there are local Jäger Balls going on in Boston, Atlanta, Birmingham, Dallas, LA, The Republic of Macedonia and Timor-Leste! Have fun and take a shot of Jäger for me! See you guys Monday!

I was Accidentally Racist #235234

Ok. So. Don't judge me. But...I was accidentally racist again (or again. Slash again. And again.) last night. BUT! Before we get to those highly embarrassing details, there's another local Jäger Ball I need to tell you about!:

Boston!


Kate and Jenna organized this one and you can hit them up on Twitter if you have any questions or email Kate at katemotter@gmail.com! Despite today's post, people of all races, creeds, religions and ethnicities are welcomed, I promise. ALSO, REGARDING JÄGER BALL DC: Just to clarify—drink specials end at 11, not the party. That goes way past 11. It's not a school night bitches; let's get crazy with it! Co-Blogger Chris and I plan on sleeping on a pile of melted ice in the alley of the bar. So there's that. Now, let's get to some good old-fashioned hardcore American racism, huh?!

Yesterday Boss #2 and I hosted a late lunch meeting to show off our new line of furniture (read: Boss #2 gave the presentation, I hung up coats and played Snood in the bathroom.) After our group left, it was my job to go in with a damp rag and clean the surface of everything because a.) we can't have any fingerprints on anything, ever and b.) I'm the office's bitch and that's the kind of stuff I do. As I stood there a-scrubbin', I marveled at the ungodly number of ridiculous fingerprints on everything. "God. There are fingerprints everywhere," I said to Boss #2, "Where did these people come from? A fried chicken conference?" Sigh.............

.............The group we had just hosted was the Congressional Black Caucus.

But! Before you call the ACLU on me or show up at my office with pitchforks and torches, here me out. The following was my thought process:

[Man. There are lots of fingerprints everywhere. This is irritating. You should complain about this.]
"God. There are fingerprints everywhere."

[Hmm...On second thought, you probably shouldn't have done that. Complaining about your job to your boss is never a good idea. You should crack a joke to lighten the mood to show how easy-going and charismatic you are. Because easy-going and charismatic people get raises all the time.]
Where did these people come from? A...

[OK, now think. What gives you greasy fingers? Oh, I know!]
fried chicken—

[Now we need a location. What would have a comically ridiculous amount of fried chicken?]
Conference?

That was my thought process. And there wasn't a hint of irony or malice in there, I promise! The second it flew out of my mouth, I realized exactly what it sounded like and made a noise that can best be described as "offfffffffffffmgahhhh!" So altogether it came out: "God. There are fingerprints everywhere. Where did these people come from? A fried chicken conferenceofffffffffffffmgahhhh!" I turned bright red and said, and I quote myself, "Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean that in a racist way; I meant that in a chicken way!"

I meant that. In. A. "Chicken Way." What's worse is that I don't even think Boss #2 even heard me in the first place. She was like, "Hmm, what did you say? Just use some Windex if it won't come up" and walked away, leaving me to wallow in my own pile of self-mortification. I would have felt so much better had she heard, judged me, listened to my explanation and decided that I'm not racist in the end. It's like when you trip up the stairs and no one's there to see it, so you end up feeling even more stupid somehow. Right?

In conclusion: I am not racist. I enjoy African Americans and Asians and wish only good things for people of those persuasions. Kthnx.

FAQ re: Jäger Ball

So Jäger Ball, huh?
I know, right?!

When is that again?
This Saturday night!

Where?
Town Tavern.

Oh, you mean Town, the popular homosexual dance club?
No. Although that's a fine establishment. But I mean Town Tavern in Adams Morgan. 2323 18th Street.

Oh that place is the tits. What time is this happening?
8-11pm.

Oh, so I can roll up at 10:45 and be fashionably late?
Ooof. Yeah. No. You should really come on time so you can take full advantage of the super-fun drink specials that will be going on between those hours. And so I don't have a heart attack at 8 when I think nobody's coming.

Yeah...but there's nothing cool about being prompt.
Normally I'd 100% agree with that statement, but what if just for Saturday night we pretend that being prompt is the coolest thing since hula hoops and crystal pepsi?

Fair enough.
Ok, thanks.

Tell me more about these drink specials you speak of.
$3 domestic bottles! $3 mixed rails! $8 domestic pitchers!

Oh shit, that's legit.
I know right? I had myself at the p-word.

Pussy?
Ah, no...pitchers.

Speaking of pu—
Please just call it the p-word.

Speaking of "the p-word," me and my friends will only come to Jäger Ball if we have a shot at gettin' some. Do you have hot, single friends we can hit on?
Oh my god, yes.

Single guys and single gals?
Yep!

And gay guys?
Totes! And single ladies who love single ladies! Whatever you're shopping for—I got it. I'm like the Costco of sexual experiences.

Do you regularly whore out your friends to complete strangers on the Internet?
More than you'd think.

That's exciting!
Oh totally. I predict at least two pregnancies as a result of Jäger Ball. Shotgun Godmother.

Here's the thing: I have a work function earlier that night that I should really make an appearance at, so I'll try to stop by, but I'm not making any promises.
Wow...and I thought we were getting along so well. Look, I don't need your attitude. We've all got work functions to go to. We all have to make appearances at various things that night. But you do what you have to do to get yourself to Jäger Ball. My parents have to go out to dinner with work associatas earlier that night. Do you know what they're doing? Bringing their work associates to Jäger Ball. That's how a professional does it. Take note, son.

Oh shit! Will Evie be there?
No, she's under 21.

Oh so you have to be 21?
I mean, it's a bar.

But my 19-year-old sister is an avid reader of your blog and was looking forward to hanging. That's sort of fucked up.
Well then, your sister should get herself one hell of a fake ID or meet me at the park with a 40 afterwards and we'll hang.

How will I know who you are?
I'll be in an elegant, yet discreet half-mask carrying a single red rose, looking coy in the corner. HAHA. Just kidding. I'm the mediocre-looking pale chick with black hair and huge hooters handing out LIMITED EDITION 2birds1blog Jäger Ball stickers. Can't miss me.

How will I know who other 2b1b characters are?
Um, mingle? Slash 2birds people will be wearing name tags.

Wait, let me get this straight. Not only are you whoring your friends out, you're also putting name tags on them?
Yeah...I don't know why they're friends with me either.

So will Co-Blogger Chris be there?
Yep! And Tulane Chris, Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie, Becca, Alex, Helena, Andrew, Anna, Jill, Talia, Laura, etc. etc. etc!

Look Meg, I'm going to level with you.
What's up?

I live in DC. I read your blog. I want to go to Jäger Ball because it sounds like the most fun any human being will have in the history of having fun, but I think the idea of going to a blog meet-up is a little lame. I just don't want to be That Guy.
I get that. And I'd probably feel the same way if I were in your shoes. However, I'd like to think my friends and I are cool people and we just want to hang. What if you think of this less as a "blog meet-up" and more like a party your friend is throwing?

Yeah, but that's the other thing—I don't actually know you. I feel like a giant creep-show rolling up and being like, "Uh hi, I read your blog. Let's rage."
Why? It was my idea. I want to meet you and say thanks for taking time out of your day to read my blog! If you're creepy then I'm creepy. And I'll admit I'm a lot of things, but creepy isn't one of them.

You sure?
Positive. Seriously. Not creepy.

So should I just like, go up and talk to you?
I mean, that would certainly help me out. You know I'm a little bit Aspie's. Although hopefully by then I'll have a fair bit of Jäger in me and should be uncharacteristically outgoing.

Ok, another thing I have to be completely honest with you about...
Hit me.

When I read your blog, I have this image in my mind of what you're like. I'm afraid meeting you is going to ruin that image and my 2birds1blog experience will never be the same.
Yeah. I mean, the odds are fairly good that I'm not going to be 100% exactly like what you're imagining, so I guess to a certain extent, yeah, that's totes going to happen. I don't think it has to be a big deal though. Maybe just readjust your mental image slightly? It'll be ok. I'll just shove some free shit in your face and you'll be happy as a clam.

So you're outing your real identity for a night, huh?
Ugh. Yes.

Aren't you afraid this is going to lead to you losing your job?
Yes. Yes, I am.

Well...are you taking any preventative measures so you don't?
No. No, I'm not.

Wow. You're really banking on Jäger eventually sponsoring you, aren't you?
Yes.

I don't know if that's the best ide—
Shhh...Don't talk about it.

So, I'm still not 100% convinced I should come.
Jesus...

Besides drink specials, what can you offer me?
Um, did I mention the free LIMITED EDITION 2birds1blog Jäger Ball stickers that we'll be handing out?!

Yeah. You did. Besides those.
Um, amazing games of beer pong and flip cup? A team of Jägerettes just rarin' to load you up with free shit? And depending if I can get a mic and/or bullhorn, we might play a round of 2birds1blog trvia for your chance to win really, really cool shit!

Bullhorn...?
Please just go with it.

Ok. I'm convinced. I'm in.
Awesome!

One more thing...
Yes.

I went to high school with you and while I know you well enough to be your facebook friend, I haven't said word-one to you since graduation. Would it be weird if I showed up?
Oh my god, no. Seriously. I can only think of two people from high school I wouldn't be completely psyched to see—Dana P. and Jessica P. of The Grudge fame. So unless you're either one of them (and I'm assuming you're not since you read my blog) I'd love to see you!

Um, I am Dana P. and/or Jessica P.
Oh....................hey.

Don't you think it's a little pathetic that you haven't let go of something that happened in middle/high school?
Not really.

And is it really necessary to write about it on your little blog here?
You had your chance to make it right. You just chose not to. Unique decision. Now suffer.

LOLZ. Just kidding. I'm neither Dana P. or Jessica P.
GOOD. Because I was about to e-shank you.

So, I officially can't come to Jäger Ball, but my friends and I are having a satellite party.
That's awesome! Make sure to take pictures and send them to me!

Cool. How do I get at you?
meg@2birds1blog.com

Do you actually check that?
I mean, I sit here staring at the computer with absolutely nothing to do all day, what else am I supposed to do?

Is that why you follow people back on Twitter at such an embarrassingly fast rate?
.........Yes.

Ok, well this was fun.
Right?!

Remind me again why you're doing this whole Jäger Ball nonsense?
Because we need a sponsor to keep the blog going and growing. We have some pretty cool ideas about where to take this place in the future, but we can't really make that happen without some help. That's where Jäger comes in. They've got the money and we've got the livers. I say we make an even trade. We just have to show them that we're a force to be reckoned with. Give them the old "Suzy Soro Treatment," if you will. Plus, we just love you guys and want to party with you! Is that so wrong?

Nope. See you Saturday!
<3

Drinking Game Friday (sort of) has got CHARISMA!

As is becoming a Drinking Game Friday tradition around here, I'd like to start out today's post by apologizing to our Twitter followers for the obnoxious spam messages you may have received from me last night. My account was hacked. Again. I, as a human being, have a cold and my Twitter account has a virus. EVERYTHING IS FALLING APART! What kills me the most is that "I" sent a spam-tastic DM to our most important contact at Jäger and now she has the spam virus. So, great. I'm sure we'll totally get that Jäger deal now that I gave their PR director Twitter scabies. Super. I don't even know how this keeps happening. I don't click on any shady links and my password isn't "password123" (...anymore.) Shouldn't they be targeting more lucrative people like Kim Kardashian or something? UGH, I'm so pissed. If Suzy Soro is behind this—im'ma fly to Hollywood and cut a bitch personally. In conclusion: I apologize to our Twitter followers and if you don't follow us on Twitter, you should because I'll give you all sorts of fancy online diseases!

Speaking of downers: Co-Blogger Chris and I will be taking the rest of the week off to go back home and stuff our faces with turkey, play with our respective parent's cats and do some general lolling about in the spirit of our Native American brothers. I'll be making a casserole for Thanksgiving dinner this year and given what an obvious shit show that will be, I've decided to live Tweet the entire process. (@2birds1blog! Sure I'll give you Twitter AIDS, but I'll also give you a few LOLZ in the process!)

I am so unbelievably excited about this week's drinking game! It's taken Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie and I years to perfect it. You see, back in the day when Eddie and I we were both awkward (well, more awkward than usual) freshman at AU, what bonded us as insta-biffles was our mutual love of crappy pop-culture. One of the biggest "OHMYGAWD, ME TOOO!!!!1" moments in our friendship came when we discovered that we both have the same favorite Thanksgiving movie—Son-in-Law. Son-in-Law is the ideal major motion picture: it has action, comedy, romance, Pauly Shore, Tiffany-Amber Thiessan (post Saved by the Bell; pre dropping of the Amber) and ROLLERBLADES, ROLLERBLADES, ROLLERBLADES! This past Saturday night, Eddie and I sat down with our laptops, signed onto g-chat, poured ourselves a mighty drink and from 140 miles apart, tested this week's drinking game. (God bless technology.) (And yes I did say Saturday night. She was going out after and I was nursing my cold. DON'T JUDGE US!) It is a privilege and an honor to present you with (the very potent) Meg & Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie's Ultimate Son-in-Law Drinking Game!


You can drink whatever you want for the majority of the movie (we both went with Bacardi and Coke Zero) but there's a specific part of the movie where you're really going to need to utilize a delicious and refreshing Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler. So, have that on deck.

Rules
Drink When:
- The "EEEE-EEEEEEE, EEEEE-eeeee!" music plays
- Walter says, "DAMNIT ZACK!"
- Walter says, "Oh shit."
- Walter calls Crawl by the wrong name (i.e. Crotch or Crap)
- Crawl says "Beck-kuhhhh"
- Anyone says "buuuuuu-dddddddy"
- Anyone says "charisma"
- Anyone says "mingling"
- Anyone besides Pauly Shore talks in that bro-kennnn syll-a-bleeee style of talk-iiiiiing that became so synonymous with the nine-tiessssss
- STEVEN TYLER PJ'S! STEVEN TYLER PJ'S!
- There's a totally meta reference to another Pauly Shore movie
- Rebecca's butterfly tattoo is shown or referenced
- ANYONE ROLLERBLADES (drink twice if Rollerblading solves an everyday problem like filling troughs with animal feed)
- Animals are widdled or a widdled animal is shown (this rule gets you surprisingly fucked up)
- Boobs are referred to as "cones"
- God knows what is referred to as "nugs"
- You can easily see one of Rebecca's outfits being in any given Urban Outfitters right now
- You see naked butt
- There is an uncomfortably open dialogue between Crawl/Rebecca/Walter/Connie about Walter & Connie's sex life (i.e.: "I'm not going to lie to you Mrs. Warner; you're giving me a total semi right now" or "Becca, check out the wood I created for your dad!" or when Becca tells her mom that she could hear them have sex last night and everyone is like HAHAHA, yeah.)
- "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" plays
- The following exchange goes down:
Walter: DAMNIT! What's that kid's name?!
Theo: SOMETIMES HE ANSWERS TO ASSHOLE!

And just for me and Eddie, chug your Bartles & Jaymes when:
Crawl: [sees Walter Sr. widdling on the porch] Oh, my God, it's Bartles or Jaymes. Dude, which one are you?! [I don't know why we thought this scene was so hilarious at the time, but it's became this huge inside joke in our friendship. One of my favorite HAHA—college! pictures is of Eddie in a giant purple sweater deep-throating an empty Bartles & Jaymes bottle at her Wet Hot American Summer themed 21st birthday party. It encapsulates the entire college experience into one concise photograph. Ah, Memories!]

And now I leave you with today's Everything You Ever Wanted to Know... question and answer. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday! Unless you're not in the States...in which case, have a great rest of the week at work! Ha ha...awkward. We love you guys and don't forget about Jäger Ball NEXT SATURDAY NIGHT! AH, HOLY SHIT! We'll see you Monday! Buh-bye!

Dr. Reuben's Question and Answer of the Day:

If a girl is pregnant, wouldn't she be better off without one of these abortionists?
Sometimes it doesn't make any difference. A self-induced abortion can be just as dangerous. The traditional do-it-yourself method hasn't changed in the past ten thousand years. The primitive tribes in Africa use the same technique as the most up-to-date swinger in Greenwich Village. Only the instrument is different. The disconsolate African housewife uses her abortion stick. It may be an intricately carved family heirloom or just a sharpened branch she pulled from a tree. It doesn't matter because she only needs it for a moment.
She squats in front of her hut, pushes aside her bark-cloth skirt, and slides the stick into her vagina. She then guides it more or less carefully through the cervix and into the uterine cavity. Then she pushes it around vigorously, pulls it out and hopes for the best.
Eight thousand miles away her light-skinned sister is sprawled on her queen-sized bed. She brushes aside her expensive nylon underwear, spreads her carefully shaved and powdered legs and with the aid of her cherished magnifying mirror guides her abortion stick toward its final goal. Only she uses a coat hanger.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Why the thought of me getting married is laugh-out-loud funny

Let's talk about Helena. As I've mentioned before, Helena is my biffles. My "biffly-biffly^maxpower," if you will. I like Helena a lot. She's super fun and snarky and slightly mean and easy on the eyes—pretty much the embodiment of everything I look for in a friend. But more than that, I just feel like Helena knows what's up in life. And her opinion is extremely important to me. Before making any decision, major or minor, I consult Helena. And what she says goes. I've been practicing this method of decision-making for five years now and it hasn't led me astray once. Actually, that's a blatant lie. One time Helena and I were shopping at Pacific Sunwear (which is highly out-of-character and comical to think about now) and I asked her if I should buy an ironic John Deere Trucker baby-tee. Without missing a beat, she said yes. So I bought it, wore it and immediately regretted it. Later she confessed that she only told me to buy it because she thought it would be "hilarious." But you know what? She was right, yet again. Because it was hilarious. I'm willing to own up when I look like a douchebag, and guess what? I looked like a giant douchebag. So in conclusion: Helena is always right and I'd trust her with my life.

Now let's talk about marriage. Marriage freaks me out. Well, that's a lie. Marriage at this point in my life freaks me out. I've always associated marriage with two groups of people: grown-ups and white trash. Being neither of those things (John Deere Trucker tee aside,) I have absolutely no plans of getting married in the foreseeable future. I mean, I'm only 24; I've got wild oats to sew! I want to dip my wick in anything that moves! (...I apologize.) I want to have a bullshit job with no responsibilities! I want to throw big Jäger parties and come to work hungover! That's pretty much where my priorities lie right now. And I've always thought that that was OK. Sure, pretty much everyone else I know is in a serious relationship and going to grad school or law school and moving on to the next step in their life, but I've always felt confident about where I am. But that changed last week when Helena casually mentioned that she and her boyfriend have discussed marriage. Like in a it's-probably-going-to-happen-sooner-than-later kind of way. After she said that, I could feel my heart drop into my butt and I had a very quiet, but very real Total Life Freak Out.

Don't get me wrong—I love Helena and I love her boyfriend and I love them together! It's just that if Helena gives getting married at this stage of our lives the green light, that makes it officially acceptable. And if it's officially acceptable, that means it's not just for grown-ups and white trash anymore; it's for people like you and me. Because we are those grown-ups. And that scares the shit out of me.

The idea of me getting married is laughable. Like literally laugh-out-loud, Family Matters level funny. I can see myself in a relationship, sure, but marriage? Fuck no. Because getting married is a big fucking deal. You are, in the most literal sense, marrying your life to another person's and saying that not only am I responsible for my life, I am now responsible for yours. Just typing that statement made me want to vomit. Because I can barely take care of my own life. I went on Facebook for the first time in 9 billion years the other day and saw that my best friend from elementary school is now married with a child. And not a baby! Like a walking, talking, thinking, feeling, straight-up little child. That shit is bananas. I wouldn't trust myself with a hot plate, nevertheless a child. But there she is. Adorable and alive and kickin'. Is that where I should be? Should I be retiring my abnormally busty frat boy lifestyle, get a Netflix account and settle down? Normally I would say no, of course not, Meg. You're only 24 and you have the emotional maturity of an ashtray. But now that Helena's gone and given marriage her stamp of approval, I'm starting to think yes, that is where I should be. But I'm really not. What's wrong with me?

Welp, I can actually tell you exactly what's wrong with me. Via this list. The list of Reasons Why the Thought of Me Getting Married is Laugh-Out-Loud Funny:
1.) The following is a photograph of the inside of my refrigerator:

You will see that it contains a lot of beer, a dozen eggs that might be hatching into chickens as we speak and a Ziploc bag of spaghetti my mom gave me in early October. Hope you're hungry, baby.

2.) Gummy fangs. It's not just an on-running blog joke; it's also what's for dinner.

3.) Sometimes I honest-to-god hibernate. Like a bear. If I've had a particularly rough Saturday night, I'll just sleep through Sunday, waking only to eat gummy fangs before going right back to bed until Monday morning. Soooo...there's that.

4.) I will do anything to avoid doing laundry. For example, I realized this morning that I'm out of clean shirts, so I am currently wearing a backwards Patron t-shirt with a cardigan thrown over it. And guess what? I probably won't do laundry again tonight.

5.) I have a very Me vs. My Body mindset that isn't very conducive to a life partnership. The following is a real conversation Co-Blogger Chris and I had this weekend:
Me: Ugh, these migraines won't away. I think I'm going to have to give up and go to a doctor.
Chris: Uhh..."give up," Meg? I don't think that's called "giving up," I think that's called being responsible for your well-being.

...Point taken. I hope my future husband never comes to me sick or I'll treat him like a level of Donkey Kong.

6.) Sometimes I play this game called "How Long?" The object is to see how long you can go without paying your cable bill and having it shut off.

7.) I am never, ever wearing pants.

8.) The second room isn't for a baby. It's for the Jäger cooler and my brand new shot dispenser.


9.) When something goes wrong, my immediate reaction is still to call my mom. And if she's not home, I have a history of leaving long voice mails of me making whiny noises. No words. Just whiny noises. For upwards of three minutes at a time.

10.) I still sleep with a stuffed animal. His name is Jason. Let's not pretend like I haven't discussed his existence before. Let's also not pretend that everyone who comes over and hugs him doesn't immediately understand why he's in my life.

Sigh... Guess I'll be buying "fruits" and "vegetables" if you need me. Thanks a lot, Helena.

Drinking Game Friday hopes your babies look like monkeys

Happy Drinking Game Friday gang! Before we getsta boozing, I have a few administrative items I'd like to discuss:

- JÄGER BALL. First of all, are you coming? You are! Awesome. And you're bringing 10 of your closest friends?? Even better! And you've lowered your expectations of what I'm like in real life so there's not an ungodly amount of pressure on me to be as unrealistically attractive and entertaining as I think you think I am?? PERFECT. I like my expectations like I like my cholesterol: low. So, I'm glad that's settled. Secondly, a few people commented on last Friday's post asking if I could recommend a cheap DC hotel or perhaps figure out some kind of group rate for all you out-of-towners. I'm not going to lie, when I first read that I thought, "PSH, fuck if I know how to make that happen," and went immediately back to googling camo pug harnesses. However, it occurred to me a few days later that my sister works for a hotel doing special events. And you guys need a hotel. For this special event. So I sat down with my calculator and worked out that if A + B = C, then maybe I should stop being retarded and ask my sister if she can hook you guys up. So leave a comment or shoot me an email (meg@2birds1blog.com) if you're interested and Becca will see what she can do!

Ahh, Becca McBlogger: coming in handy since 1980.

- I had the most irritating conversation with Boss #2 on Wednesday. I took a break from forced slave labor to check my email and audibly guffawed at something Rachel sent me. Boss #2 strolled over and asked what was up. "Oh, one of my good friends is pregnant and sent me an email saying that she already feels bad for me for when I get pregnant because of my boobs," I explained. "Truthfully I just don't think I have a body made for pregnancy. I've got the narrow hips of a 12-year-old boy and huge circus boobs. This body was not meant to carry a child." "Oh don't worry," Boss #2 said, "When you're pregnant you can actually feel your hips separating to accommodate the baby. Every woman is built for pregnancy, Meghan. Don't worry. God wouldn't do that to you," and then walked away. And I just sort of stood there with my head cocked sideways, awkwardly shifting my eyes around the room for a solid 30 seconds. Because it's always awkward when someone drops a hard G into casual conversation. It just makes things get real holy, real fast. And much like religion has no place in schools, it also has no place is conversations regarding my separating hips, vagina and massive circus boobs.

- I would like it to be known that the crisp, white shirt I put on this morning is now completely drenched in coffee thanks to an email I just received from College Roommate Danielle. I took a big sip of coffee right before I read it and was NOT prepared for the contents. This resulted in a cheesy sitcom style spit-take, the likes of which haven't been seen since Saved by the Bell. Please allow the following excerpt to enrich your afternoon:

"I am in the middle of a seminar looking like I am taking notes, but really I want to die a little inside.

I bought a new bra yesterday, it's awesome and comfortable. I mean, it was, until I realized say about 20 minutes ago what the clips on the top were for. I am currently wearing a breastfeeding bra. How did you find out, you ask? the clip popped open, out popped my boob and i had to figure out how to reach my hand into my shirt, shove my breast back into the bra and clip it in the middle of a very cold classroom."

And that is why we are friends.

- Boss #1 has a UTI from having "dirty sex" on Halloween. You're welcome.

- If Co-Blogger Chris and I were to ever make a two-man comedy troop, we'd call it "Poppers and Ketamine." He'd obviously be Poppers.

- I need to get laundry detergent and face wash after work.

- This blog post is quickly morphing into a list of not-funny things I just happen to be thinking about at the moment, so I'm going to stop and give you your drinking game. This week's drinking game is inspired by how incredibly excited I am that Co-Blogger Chris is coming to stay with me this weekend! I'm going to hold him gently in my arms, rock back and forth, slowly stroke his soft ginger hair and explain to him that not knowing what you want to be when you grow up isn't that bad. Then when he asks, "how so?" I'm going to awkwardly look around the room for a few minutes mumbling irrelevant adages like "a penny saved is a penny earned" and "home is where the heart is" before and cramming a bottle of Jäger in his face to make it all better. Reunited and it feels so good. And speaking of being reunited! Straighten your back brace, pop in a mix tape and grab your giant binder—it's time for The Romy and Michele's High School Reunion Drinking Game!


Rules:
Drink When:
- "Me too!"
- They discuss a diet
- Somebody puts magnets on Michele's back brace
- Someone in the service department hits on Romy
- Anyone says "Tuscon"
- Anyone says "High School"
- There's a flashback
- Heather smokes a cigarette
- Heather says "there's a difference!"
- Heather tells Toby Walters to go fuck herself
- The Cowboy makes an appearance
- Michele goes on a job interview
- They exercise
- Anyone says "post-it"
- Anyone says "A-Group"
- Sandy Frink gets an erection
- Billy Christiansen runs without his shirt (meow)
- Anyone gets hit by a limo
- During the follow exchange, solely because it's my favorite:

Romy: Oh my God! Remember what a big controversy it was for us to have our picture taken together?
Michele: Yeah, because Danny Weller like, lodged that complaint. Because alphabetically he was supposed to be between us.
Romy: So we said: "OK Danny. If you want to be between us, come to Michele's house on Friday night and we'll be waiting."
Michele: And then he showed up, and we were like: "Danny, it was a joke!"
Romy: And then we turned the sprinklers on him!
[both laugh hysterically]
Michele: Oh my God!
[abruptly stops laughing]
Michele: Didn't he die?
Romy: I think so.

- And obviously finish what you're drinking during the following. Because it's so good:

Romy: What the hell is your problem, Christie. Why the hell are you always such a nasty bitch? I mean, okay, so Michele and I did make up some stupid lie! We only did it because we wanted you to treat us like human beings. But you know what I realized? I don't care if you like us, 'cause we don't like you. You're a bad person with an ugly heart, and we don't give a flying fuck what you think!

As always, thank you so much for reading and supporting us. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning! Kisses!