SHIT'S. ABOUT TO GET. REAL. (& a recap.)

Well Christ, now that you've all thrown some pity money my way, I suppose I'm obligated to write regularly again and let you know what's up with me, right? Well played, reader. Well played indeed.

Well, to simplify the situation greatly, I've had to face some hard realities in the past few weeks and those realities caused all of these emotions and Lord (and a slew of state-certified therapists) knows that I have no god-given idea how to deal with emotions in a healthy way. I didn't want to get into all this shit here because this is a comedy blog after all and if you wanted to hear me bitch and moan about how hard life is, you probably would have just been my friend in middle school. But I didn't have any friends in middle school. So I interpret that as a pretty good indicator that nobody wants to hear me bitch and moan. Plus, it's hard to write something from the heart when you know some schmo is going to shit all over it in the comments section. I'm going to be honest with you right now: that is a mind fuck. Bloggers aren't supposed to acknowledge that part of the job because if you do, you're giving power to the people trying to fuck you and the only way to fight back is to deny that they have power over you in the first place. You know who else has to deal with that kind of mental battle every day? Prison inmates. Prison inmates and bloggers. I would not be surprised if I go into my kitchen tomorrow morning to get a bowl of Kashi Go-Lean and a Latin King jumps out and either shanks me or makes me his life bitch. I think we both know I'm rooting for the latter, but still. I'm just saying it's a bizarre occupational hazard.

So, yes, light-hearted end of the week ass rape jokes aside, I wasn't going to talk about it. But as we've experienced in the last two weeks, when I don't talk about it, I don't talk at all. Which I expected a lot of animosity about, and while I certainly got it, mostly I just got a lot of support. By complete strangers! It's crazy. And flattering and touching and slightly overwhelming because you know, emotions and such and such. But eff the commenters! Eff them in the A. And the B. And up the U with electrical wire. And throw a CD in there to boot. (That's a coke douche, by the way, not a compact disc. Although fuck it—throw that in there too. Everything's in mp3 these days anyway and shit is wide.) I'm going to tell you what's up. Although I will let you know that a large quantity of red wine was recently spilled on my keyboard and the S and control keys are fucked up, so it there might be some pelling errors. <--- I didn't plan that. That was organic. But I'm keeping it to prove a point. And if you have a problem with it, shoot me an email me and I will personally come to your place of residence and felate you, because you need to chill the fuck out. And because I'm aware I give a half-assed BJ, I will also bring a few cans of Coors with me to compensate—Christ knows I got extra from camping and Christ double knows I got the time.

So, I was trying to pinpoint today the source of this whole existential life crisis that I'm currently going through. Was it the change of seasons? My sister's upcoming wedding? The fact that all of my friends seem to be fleeing this city like it's the second outbreak of the bubonic plague? No. Well, maybe. But specifically, it was because I looked at my bank account. And the balance was $12.30. So then I looked in my back-up bank account. And the balance there was -$55.30. So then I looked at my emergency savings account. And the balance there was $14.95. Which puts my finances at a grand total of -$28.05, before bills and cost of living and blah blah pants and sandwiches blah. Final summation: bitch has gotta go back to work.

But the thing is, (and I realize this is going to sound obnoxious at first, but stick with) I have to go back to work-work. Like, I have to get a real person job again. I refuse to go back to retail because not only do you work all the time and not make any money, my last experience left me totally jaded. Because you know what's an ironic moment? When you can't make payments on the loans you took out to get a fancy BA in art, because you're not qualified for a promotion at the arts and crafts store you work at. That moment is a real fucking kick in the pants. And then right after you find out you got passed, one of your best friends comes into the store to say goodbye on her way to move to New York and per chance, The Rolling Stones' "Wild Horses" starts playing on the store soundtrack and suddenly you're looking around for fucking James Van Der Beek because life is feeling a little too "Dawson's Creeky" for your liking, so you deal with it by calling your parents on M street and just yell a bunch of swears, get sick, and never go back. Christ.

I'm aware that everyone, including me, has to work. I'm aware that I'm not special and I'm not exempt from any of the shittier aspects of life. However, the fact that I have to go back and get a 9-5 again, to me, feels like a failure. The fact that I couldn't make this blog my bread and butter after trying very, very hard to, makes me feel like a failure. I know because I don't have Google Ads it must seem like I'm not trying to monetize or like I don't take my writing seriously, but behind the scenes I hustle. Chris and I both hustle hard. And I personally have come so close, so many times to getting a break, but fall just short every single time. So I keep trying. I tell myself it's the kick in the ass I need to make this my number one priority and work harder. But when I realized a few weeks ago that I was officially out of "post-firing" money with absolutely nothing to show for it, I just felt like a big fat fucking failure.

Intellectually, I can sit myself down and say that going back to a 9-5 will by no means end my dream and it doesn't actually mean I've failed, but for me, right now, it does. And as I told my mom (or more accurately, as I screamed at my mom), I am allowed to take a moment and be upset about it. I'm not quitting. The blog is not dead. I just needed some time to fucking sit down, eat a bowl of Xanax, come to terms with what's up, look for jobs, and cry at everything on TV, including, but not limited to, that god damn Hallmark card commercial with the daughters going through their dad's drawers and finding every card they've ever given him and they're all, "He kept them all...I didn't even know he read them," and then they all start crying and suddenly Dad pokes his head in all, "What you hens cluckin' about? I'm only moving downtown." You know what? THAT COMMERCIAL IS FUCKING FUCKED UP. They totally lead you into thinking Dad is dead and let's not pretend like we haven't all cleaned out a dead loved one's room and you find their old like, "#1 Grandpa!" shit and think you're going to vomit your insides out and your parents are crying and that's ass-backwards and confusing because you're only 12-fucking-years old and what the shit can you say to make any of it better? FUCK HALLMARK FOR CAPITALIZING ON THAT MOMENT. That is some voodoo shit right there and and I am not amused. It's like the "Golden Girls" episode when you think Blanche's husband is alive again and then right at the end you find out it was all a dream. If someone is alive, just say they're alive. If someone is dead, just say they're dead. Hallmark Dad is alive, George Devereaux is dead. How hard was that??

Anyway, I needed a moment to sit in my apartment, scream at the television like a senile old person and just fucking be sad. The weird thing about writing a comedy blog about the unfortunateness of your life is that after a while, you sort of get psyched when shit happens because it means you have new material. But this little life realization totally snuck up on me. All of a sudden it was like, "this is isn't funny. This isn't funny at all. All of my friends are in love and settling down and getting married and having babies and going back to school and moving on, and I'm single, living in the town I've always lived in or near, in my sister's apartment and I write a free comedy blog primarily about my body fluids and bad luck. What the fuck am I doing?" And the answer is: I don't know. I mean, I guess nobody really knows what they're doing, but I don't even have the comfort of getting to pretend like I do. I can't slap a bunch of smiling pictures of myself on Facebook, add a fancy job title at an impressive company and feel validated. Why? Because everyone knows that I got fired six months ago and went to the hospital because I couldn't stop shitting myself. I mean...really.

That being said, I totally understand that it's my choice to share all of this with you. And I am 100% dedicated to making this little horse and pony show (and my writing in general) a success. However, I don't know if that's actually ever going to happen. I don't know if I'll ever monetize, I don't know if I'm ever going to get an agent, I don't know if I'll ever get a book deal, I don't know if turning down that awesome design job a year and a half ago to stay in a shitty receptionist job to dedicate myself to writing this blog was a good idea and if I didn't do this anymore, I really, really don't know what I'd do. And as long as we're being honest; that scares the ever-living shit out of me. Because everyone knows about it. If I fail, everyone is going to know, so part of me is nervous to even try. But that's where your supportive emails and tweets and PayPal donations really helped. It's very powerful to just have random fucking people tell you not to give up. Because of course my family and friends are supportive and have been telling me not to give up, but they're my family and friends. They're pretty much contractually obligated to believe in me. But you're not. And you seem to be into it. So blokay. I won't go anywhere. I even wrote two blog posts today to make sure that we're back on schedule for next week. hey HEY hey.

So there. That's mostly what's been going on with me. I'm sorry if it inconvenienced you and I'm sorry if my explanation made you feel uncomfortable (as it would me), but I don't know. The minute money is involved, I feel oddly obligated to be honest. Which is weird because I'm Jewish. HI-OHHHHHHHHHH! She's back! And now that we've established I'm not swinging from nerd rope on my shower rod, let's check in on another loose cannon, shall we?

As of 6:18am on October 8, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! And $12 million dollars richer. Which is an interesting turn of events. But apparently he's giving away $10 million of it to charity. Soooooo, Mr. Hagman, I will kindly direct you to my personal PayPal button at your right and bid you a good weekend.

So, this was a boring week in the "Jersey Shore" world, but meh, what else is new? Everyone is psyched that Angelina is gone and to celebrate that fact, the boys go and throw her bed out. This scene enrages me for two reasons: 1.) Upon lifting up her mattress, they discover that the supporting planks are broken and are obviously like, "Heyoo0o0oo, she's such a slut she broke her bed!" I'm sorry but Ikea furniture doesn't hold up for shit and if you'd like to argue that, I have a two broken end tables looking me square in the eye that would love to speak with you; and 2.) The production crew usually gets to take shit from the house for themselves at the end of a reality show and how pissed would you be if you had shotgunned Angelina's bed and then Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino and "DJ Pauly D" decided to physically throw it in a dumpster to further prove that the girl who has left the show, has indeed left the show? How bored and full of forbidden homosexual thoughts are you when that suddenly gets thrown on the agenda?

To further further celebrate the fact that Angelina's gone, the house gets together and cooks a big lobster feast and prays and mumbles about family and Sammi feels weird because now that Angelina's gone, she doesn't have any girlfriends in the house blah blah blah I'm so bored I could puke. But why talk about that when we can talk about how J-WOWW and Snooki attempt to "rescue" a lobster by putting him in a salad bowl of water, feeding him worms and keeping him as a pet? Because again, I'm relating to the "Jersey Shore" a little more than I'd like to. It's time you all know about M'Lady.

M'Lady was a crab. Some say the best crab. One day the summer before freshman year of college, me, Teresa and our friend Franky went crabbing because we're from Maryland and stereotypes are fun and usually based on fact. We were probably out crabbing for like, six hours, and all we caught was one lone crab. Unfortunately, we caught her kind of early on in the day (looking back, if it was a lady crab, why did we keep her? Teresa, email me about this immediately because that seems out of character for us) and therefore become oddly attached to her. We named her M'Lady and we were her #1 fans. When we finally decided to call it a day, we threw M'Lady and like, a lone Pepsi can to clank around together in an igloo cooler lined with part of a folded up Sugarcult poster or something equally ridiculous and as we sped off, it became apparent rather quickly that M'Lady was dying because we forgot to put any fresh water in there. So, I swear to god, Teresa pulled like a hard J-turn off the highway, threw it in reverse, backed into the jetty and we at the last possible second filled M'Lady's cooler with bay water and she lived.

But then we got home (after we did a quick photoshoot with her...) and were faced with the dilemma of, "we have this delicious blue crab on our hands. We befriended her. What the fuck are we supposed to do with her now?" There was only one humane thing we could think of: make a dip out of her. Because every now and then, humane = delicious. But we had bonded with M'Lady so hardcore by that point though that none of us wanted to be the one to actually put M'Lady in her boiling grave of death. In the end Franky did it because he's a boy and boys kill things and girls run into Teresa's dad's den and google artichoke crab dip recipes. Feminism Schmeminism. Then it came time to pick M'Lady apart and again, none of us wanted to do it. So then we had the issue of having a delicious fully-cooked blue crab on our hands and what to do with it. I think I've blocked out how we solved that problem though, because in my mind we went from taking the lid off the pot and discovering one lone crab claw sticking out of the water and straight into the air like the hand at the end of Carrie to happily enjoying a zesty artichoke crab dip. And then when I "used the facility" later that night, I texted Teresa and Franky and told them I had just given M'Lady a "royal burial at sea," which in retrospect is equal parts digusting and hilarious. And then a year later I named my Acura Legend after her to memorialize the M'Lady name forever. Until my sophomore year roommate totaled it and it was like losing her all over again. The moral of the story is: do not befriend crustaceans. Also, don't duct tape a picture of yourself, your male friend and your crab friend to your door the first day of college or everyone will repeatedly come up to you and tell you that your boyfriend is really cute and you'll have to be repeatedly correct them all, "dat dem der ain't mah boyfriend. That's mah crabbin' buddy, Franky, and our delicious catch o' the day, M'Lady!" and everyone think you're a weirdo. And they will be right, but that's not the point.

Speaking crabs, that girl who stood Vinnie up finally calls him back and wants a second chance. He's all for it. He plans a romantic little picnic for the two of them on the beach, which she shows up for about three hours late. I mention this mainly because I appreciate the "time wasting" shots of Vinnie clipping his claws, sighing heavily, looking in new and exciting drawers for unfound treasure and the like. Finally after waiting a while, two random girls call him up and are like, "Hi. Can we suck your dick?" and Vinnie's like, "I don't know, give me like, five minutes," and they're like, "OK, our fathers didn't love us." So Vinnie waits out the five minutes convinced that his lost lady friend will show up and all will be right in the world. But then she doesn't, so he calls the ho's back and tells them to come over and get on it. BUT THEN HIS ORIGINAL DATE SHOWS UP!!!!111 So he call the ho's and tells them not to come over. And thus concludes Vinny Guadango and the Case of Too Many Vaginas.

Speaking of vaginas in the house, Snooki's BFF from home, Ryder, is in town visiting! According to J-WOWW, the way Snooki and Ryder communicate is "hysterical." And I agree. If we live in a world where "hysterical" is a synonym for "mind-bogglingly irritating."

OK, basically here's all you need to know about this episode: The Situation is a dick. He's way too rough with girls, they can smell the HIV wafting off him like the Axe body spray I'd bet dollars to donut he douses himself in daily, they want nothing to do with him and thus he's become a blue-balled party-pooper. To cope with this, The Situation has tried everything from slamming random chicks up against the wall and tattooing his tongue on their pubes, attempting to make out with Snooki, smacking Snooki in the mouth when she resists and doesn't want to go home, sulking in the corner of the club with his sunglasses on like a god damn pedophile, and attempting to pull a "robbery" by macking on Vinnie's chick while he's in the shitter. He always wants to go home when they're out at the clerbs and even Sammi and Ronnie are like, "seriously? It's 7:30pm" and The Situation is like, "but I want to go nowwwww-wuh." Everyone thinks he's changed, nobody likes him, he still think he's the shit, and now he's on "Dancing With The Stars" with Bristol Palin and Audrina Patridge. I don't know. I have literally lost the ability to tell whether that's a win or lose in today's cultural landscape. I'm apt to think lose, but then again he has five million dollars and I have emotions. Draw?

As always, have a great weekend and thank you for sticking with. xoxo

Hey, who loves you, baby?

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

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

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

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

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

Uh, FRUITLESS.

Why?

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

Which makes President Obama...?

A Socialist and an executive Sandwich Cockblock.

What did you eat for dinner instead?

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

What do you want to talk about, Meg?

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

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

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

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

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

1.) Hot tub drinking (day or night)

2.) Airport drinking

3.) Outdoor drinking (non aquatic)

4.) Pool drinking (night)

5.) Pool drinking (day)

6.) Day drinking—Federal holiday

7.) Day drinking—sporting event

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

9.) Via bucket

10.) Ren Fest drinking

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

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

5.) S'mores

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

7.) Cold weather

8.) Semi-platonic snuggling

9.) The word "spicket"

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

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

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

Meg: What you do this weekend.

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

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

B: What? You like camping?

M: Yes!

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

M: Well, I am!

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

One week later...

M: What'd you do this weekend?

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

M: OH, COME ON!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FIN!

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