I'd like to start off this post by offering a heartfelt apology to everyone who follows me on Twitter. Again. Apparently this is the new theme of the blog. Apologizing to my Twitter followers. Which is quite possibly the worst advertisement for following me on Twitter ever AND/OR the best, because who doesn't love a good heartfelt apology?? (@2birds2blog!) Either way, somebody recently hacked into my Twitter account and is sending DMs to everyone about how I made a babillion dollars online with GoogleAds. Which is completely irritating on a multiple levels. First and foremost, it's irritating for you, and when you're irritated, I'm irritated. (And when Boss #1 is unprepared, I'm unprepared.) Secondly, that DM couldn't be further from the truth if it tried. Because I have made exactly ZERO point ZERO dollars using GoogleAds. In fact, I've made exactly ZERO point ZERO dollars on the Internet period, which has always been a point of pride for me. You see, I have a lot of integrity when it comes to my boner jokes and Meghan McCain rants. I won't whore my ad space out to just anybody via GoogleAds, a-thank-you-very-much. It has to be someone who makes sense for the blog and relates to both me and you. Because I respect you so much. ...........Just kidding. It's a lot more Jewish than that. I just want direct sponsorship so I can cut out the middleman and not have to split my profits with Google. (Although I do respect you sons-of-bitches and don't ever forget it.)
That's right, I'm not above selling out. You know why? Because my dinner last night was a pack of gummy vampire fangs and a box of wasabi cashews I found in the nook between my microwave and the wall. That's why. Because I don't have health insurance and I've needed my wisdom teeth out since 2002. That's why. Because a major part of my laptop is being held together with duct tape and broken dreams. That's why. I'm not selling out to afford hookers and a coke binge, I kind of just want to pay some bills and eat a meal that doesn't come from the novelty candy food group. I feel like if I can make that happen, it would just be the healthy decision.
But who to sell out to...? Well, I have a new life goal/scheme/dream that I've been holding out on talking about for some time and it directly relates to who I want to sell out to. It didn't quite make sense to talk about before, but I feel like this is the perfect time to introduce my new life plan. So here we go: I, Meghan C. McBlogger, want my life to be sponsored by Jägermeister.
That's right. Jägermeister. Why Jägermeister? That's such an overwhelming question, I don't even know where to start. I love Jägermeister quite possibly more than I'll ever love another human being and I am in no way scared of how strong a statement that is. Here is a list of 10 solid reasons why Jägermeister should sponsor my life:
1.) Jägermeister is the only shot I'll take. True story. I've destroyed myself on every other liquor known to man and have 'Nam-like flashbacks if I throw back anything other than Jäger. Vodka? God no. Tequila? That relationship ended at the hands of Co-Blogger Chris and Señor Cuervo. Whiskey? That story involves high school, a basement and a desperate need to look cool. Gin? Repeat last story but replace the basement with a deck. It's got to be Jäger or I'm out.
2.) I can rip shots of Jäger 'til the cows come home. The reason I can still take shots of Jäger isn't because I've never gotten sick off it (because merciful Christ, I have) it's because my body will never, ever tire of being filled with cold, delicious Jägemeister. It's like an abusive boyfriend—I will always come back to it no matter how hard it fucks me up. Let me tell you a little story: one night while backpacking through Germany, I discovered that our hostel had a bar and that that bar served 50-cent Jäger shots. Although we had literally just come back from drinking our own weight in beer at the Hofbräuhaus, I unstrapped my money belt, slammed it on the bar and said, "That much in Jäger, bitte." Later that night I made the comical decision to write in my travel log. I wish it was here so I could take a picture of it, because it was just squiggles and chicken-scratch. I believe the only words you can make out are, "fuck," "gay" and "never drinking again." Normally after a night of that kind of punishment, I could never go back to whatever it was I was drinking. But not Jäger. Now I rip a shot of Jäger and think, "Mmm...Germany."
3.) Best. Logo. Ever. And I'm a graphic designer. I know these things. It's my professional opinion that Jägermeister has the best logo ever and I would be honored to have it adorn my body. Which brings us to #4:
4.) I live to promote Jäger. How many times have I proposed Jäger shots while out? Every time. What am I blogging about right now? Jäger. What was I not three days ago for Halloween? The Jäger Deer. (See headpiece below:) And these are all things I do for free! Imagine what I'd be capable of if Jäger was paying me to promote them. In fact, I swear to all that is good and holy, if Jägermeister agrees to sponsor my life, I will get a tattoo of the Jägermeister logo on my right ass-cheek with "SPONSORED BY" above and "SERVE COLD - KEEP ON ICE" below. And I will videotape the process and post it on this blog. I am deathly serious. My ass gets more play than you'd think. That's some valuable advertising right there.
5.) Ohmygod, Jäger-chaps:
6.) I've got big hooters. And what looks better in tight Jägermeister apparel than a giant set of grade A+ hooters? Nothing. That's what. And if Jäger sponsors my life, I will wear Jägermeister apparel to all of my public appearances. And by public appearances, I obviously mean out and about in my daily life. And I go places! I'm around! Whereas Jägerettes stop wearing their Jäger garb after leaving the bar, I'll continue wearing it into my daily life. And how sweet a deal is that?? For example, the sweatbands I currently wear to the gym and hot yoga are of the Nike persuasion—what if they were Jäger sweatbands? See. One step above Jägerette, one step below psychopath.
7.) I'm an ex-bartender. I am more than familiar with mixing a good Jäger cocktail. A Dr. Jäger? 1.5 oz Dr. Pepper, 1.5 oz Jäger shake over ice and serve in a cocktail glass. Storm Trooper? Half-part Jäger to half-part peppermint schnapps served in a highball glass. Ideal temperature to serve Jägermeister? 4-degrees Fahrenheit. I could do this all day.
8.) I don't entirely suck. I just feel like that has to be worth something.
9.) Joy Behar has her own TV show and Obama is president. It's a new fucking day.
10.) Because like Jägermeister, I'm a fucking badass. You show me a girl dealing with her Quarterlife Crisis in a more badass way than anonymously blogging, excessively drinking and crying herself to sleep 4 out of 7 nights a week and I will show you a whore and a liar. You know who else Jägermeister sponsors? Metallica, Pantera, Slayer, Slipknot and Mötley Crüe. And what comes to mind when you think of bands like those? That's right: Meg McBlogger.
I was on the phone with my mom last night discussing my current financial woes and I honestly pitched this idea to her as a solution. "Now Meghan," she asked in her adorable Mom way of being ever-so-careful not to offend me and the fuck-up lifestyle I've consciously chosen, "Do you think this is a realistic option, or a not-so-realistic option?" Why wouldn't this be a realistic option? "Well, what's Jägermeister going to get out of it?" UM, HI. Not only the opportunity to be the official sponsor of 2birds1blog (and the ad space that comes with that,) but also the opportunity to be the official sponsor of Meg McBlogger, the person (and the hooter space that comes with that). I've got the "The Google Analytics." I know how many of you there are out there. And you could all be drinking Jäger right now! With me! At a bar! Enjoying free Jäger track jackets!!!1 WE ALL WIN!
So how stoked are guys on Jäger right now!?!!?!?! [........................meg@2birds1blog.com. WIIIIIIIIIIIIINK!]
Random Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh-Out Into Full Entries: - I've recently switched from liquid body wash to bar soap. And sometimes I drop the soap. And .2% of me is nervous that when I bend over to pick it up, a prison style ass raping will follow. I've started to curtsy down to retrieve it.
- As anyone who knows me knows, I am not a morning person. Or an early afternoon person, let's be honest. I'm generally belligerent and unpleasant, and I feel sorry for anyone who has to be around me between the hours of 5am and noon. Anticipating a new job starting soon (DEARGODPLEASE!) I've started to get up early in an effort to ween myself off of the vampire hours I usually keep. When I'm getting ready in the morning, I watch "NBC News" and then "The Today Show." I hate both equally, but I need some sort of background noise or else I'll fall back asleep mid-eye-lining thereby jabbing my eye with eyeliner and then tragically see only "slate brown" for the rest of my life. I believe, however, that the companies who advertise their products in the ungodly early working-gal/guy hours know that the demographic of people watching are half-asleep and cracked out. How else could the following commercial be explained? It was a commercial for an arthritis medication. As we all know, sufferers of arthritis generally have chronic pain in their hands and wrist joints. We've all seen the commercial of the sad man who is not capable of holding his tennis racket, or the housewife who can't garden anymore. This commercial however said, and I quote, "Having arthritis can make it difficult and even painful to experience [takes awkward pause] life's more [another awkward pause] simple pleasures." If that is not a blatant reference to jerking off, then I don't know what is. All the while an older couple is swimming around a pool. Okay, I don't consider synchronized swimming one of "life's simple pleasures," but I absolutely consider gettin' off to be one. I salute you sufferers of arthritis and recommend you consult your doctor about Celebrex.
- The other day I was driving behind a car that had a bumper sticker that boggled my mind. It simply said "I drive...like I ski." I stared at this stupid bumper sticker for 10 minutes all the way down Rockville Pike trying to figure out the punchline. It's all I can think about now, it consumes me. I drive like I ski: fast? I drive like I ski: swerving? I drive like I ski: in snow? I drive like I ski: in tight spandex and a helmet carrying poles? I honestly hope it's the latter.
- You know what's awkward and always sneaks up on me? When you're in an elevator with someone and they say a polite parting line to you when they get off. For example, the other night I was in an elevator with a guy and when he got off at his floor he turned around and said, "Have a great night." I'm never prepared for this. It's just so polite. I mean, we weren't talking and I don't know you. But that's really nice. So then my inner monologue starts dissecting this act of kindness: "Oh shit, is he talking to me? Of course he's talking to me, I'm the only person in the elevator. Wow, what a nice and awkward thing to do. Is he trying to get in my pants? Would I let him? Is he Lebanese or just really tan? Either way that's hot right? FUCK! SAY SOMETHING BACK!" And then I manage to make out a soft "Your too. I mean you. Night. Ha." just as the doors have closed. This happens to me more than you would expect. And I'm sufficiently awkward about it each time.
- I found out that Long Island Ice Teas have 780 calories, and now I'm having an identity crisis.
- I was driving home from College Park the other night, and I ended up in Alexandria. How the shit did that happen? I was going from one point in Maryland to another. I hate Virginia because no matter where you drive around the tri-state area, you will inevitably end up lost in Virginia. I get up in the morning, walk to the bathroom and suddenly I'm on the Wilson Memorial Bridge lost as fuck. It should be studied.
- Free Willy 3 is currently on the HBO Family channel. What? There was a sequel? How many times can you free that fuckin' whale?
- When I was bored at work, I frequently played on-line Family Feud. I forgot why I stopped and recently started playing again. Now I remember how regoddamndiculously...ridiculous that game is. I don't know who these so-called 100 people they "surveyed" are, but they must be a group of glue sniffers. For example, the following question came up during the "fast money" round: "Name something people own, making them feel safe at night." I put "alarm system" and then thought, "you idiot, the #1 answer is probably a gun or something." The #1 answer was A PET. Yes, because if rapists and murderers break into my home, I know my cat is going to wake up, throw herself in front of me and use her non-opposable thumbs to clutch a gun and scare them away. Also, the system of the game is just flawed. Another "fast money" round question was, "name something bank robbers say to the bank teller." My answer was "give me money"...because that seems pretty reasonable. I received, however, no points for that answer. The #1 answer, worth 56 points however, was, "give me the money." I hate you.
- I have a dentist appointment Wednesday that I'm dreading. I hate the dentist because they always make me feel like I never brush my teeth and like I'm the dirt of the universe. I, in fact, brush twice daily, floss and use Scope mouthwash to chase away germs. I tell them that though and they're all, "WELL THEN WHERE DID THIS PLAQUE COME FROM??? YOU'RE OBVIOUSLY NOT DOING SOMETHING RIGHT" and suddenly I'm convinced I haven't brushed my teeth in two years and I eat out of garbage cans. Now I'm confessing, "IT'S TRUE...I EAT DIRT!" Then I go home and I'm like wait...what just happened? Fucking dentists. My dentist also consistently thinks that I am five years younger than I am. I would bet good Mall Madness money that he'll ask me Wednesday if I'm nervous for freshman orientation. - Car flirting. I'm not going to lie to you, I enjoy me some car flirting. I become a brazen hussy in the safety of my Sebring, a-makin'-eyes at the hot menfolk. And yet, my flirting efforts usually yield awkward results, as in real life. Monday I experienced an extreme case of car flirting. I was was stopped at a light on Wisconsin and I glanced at the car next to mine and saw a man who seriously could have been William H. Macy's twin in a sweet Audi. Noticing how weird it was that he looked like a clone of William H. Macy, I stared at him, realized how badly I was staring and looked away quickly. Then I looked back and he was staring at me and smiling. So I smiled back, and looked back towards the road. Then I looked back at him and smiled again. He did the same; this went on for a while. It got a little hardcore; at one point I seductively blew a bubble with my gum while looking at him. He laughed. I might be pregnant. I noticed that he had his turn signal on and was going to be turning onto Western, while I was staying on Wisconsin. I was a little disappointed, I was going to miss Mr. Macy. As his turning lane's light turned green, he looked back at me, smiled and did the salute motion (BALLSY, RIGHT?!). I girlishly giggled, looked down and then "sexily" whipped my head back up (I had the sexy wind-blown hair effect going courtesy of my air conditioning) while blowing another bubble giving him a wink. However, I guess I looked down too long and/or Mr. Macy sped off too fast because when I whipped my head back up doing my gum blowing/wink thing, I was met with the cold stare of an older Chinese man with a giant cross dangling from his mirror looking at me like I was a giant whore. My bad sir.
As I mentioned earlier this week, I have bad luck. But like total life bad luck. I was born under a bad sign. You guys…I think I’m cursed. But like, I seriously think I’m cursed. Or my energy is out of whack and my karma needs cleansing or some shit. I was informed while watching an episode of “House” tonight with my mom that shortly after she got pregnant with me, she developed Pre-eclampsia, which means she was about to develop Eclampsia which basically means your pregnancy fills you to the brim with toxins and kills you. I HAVE BEEN A TOXIC PRESENCE SINCE MY CONCEPTION! That didn’t happen with her pregnancy with Becca! I suck so badly.
I do have a theory on how I got cursed: my mom maintains that she’s part witch and indeed comes from a family of people who practiced Kabbalah (a mystic form of Judaism. And they did it before Madonna made it hot and trendy, thank you very much.) I also know that my mom’s Aunt Florence (Aunt Flo…HAH!) greatly disliked my mother (a second-born daughter) and favored her older sister. ERGO, I believe that as a fuck-you to my mom, she put a curse on her second-born daughter. That would be this guy. Thanks a lot Great Aunt Flo! (Great Aunt Flo…HAH!)
But look here Florence, you old bat, no one puts a curse on me and gets away with it! I have jobs to get, apartments to dwell in and success to achieve! So come hell or high water, I will remove this curse and cleanse my karma and remove my energy block or whatever the fuck I have to do to make this curse akrite whether you like it or not!
How to Remove a Curse: So naturally I started by googling “I think I’m cursed.” The first hit was a Yahoo answers page: "Best Answer - Chosen by Voters God says, commit all your ways to Him, and He will give you the desires of your heart.
The direction of my life changed immensely when I turned to Jesus Christ. And it's not about luck; it's about God blessing me because He gives good things to His children."
LOLZ! No but seriously. Most suggestions for “I think I’m cursed” involve a lot of praying and attitude changing. Look, that may be all fine and dandy for the average Cursed-One, but I have a deadline looming. I don’t have a ton of time to pray to my Lord Tim Gunn to give me the strength to get over this effin’ curse.
Other unhelpful suggestions include: “Start thinking positive, we have much more influence over things in our lives than most people think we do.” Please see my past two blog posts.
“Another possibility is that you're just ‘in a funk’ psychologically and so a good licensed psychologist might be able to help.” I have a good licensed psychologist. He looks like if Vern Troyer weren’t a little person. The only thing he’s helped me do is imagine what Vern Troyer would look like if he weren’t a little person.
I need something stronger. I want to skip right to the hard stuff. I want a voodoo priestess to throw chicken blood on me and then I want to trip on Peyote with my Indian spirit guide and see the answers to life’s questions in the eye of a crawfish or something equally off-putting.
My resources are limited, however. A google search for “Spirit guide, Washington DC” only netted results for how to reserve The Sprit of DC for a night. If I want a relaxing cocktail cruise down the Potomac, I’m covered, but that’s not quite where my priorities lie at the moment.
After much on-line research, here are my final curse-removal options:
1.) Consult Psychic Katherine of Divine Psychic Solutions. Psychic Katherine can blanace my Chakra and metaphysically heal me over email. Or AIM. 2.) Ask the Temple of Yehwe. So, the Temple of Yehwe is a Haitian Vodou church founded in Washington DC in 1996. Their website has a handy “Ask the Temple” section where I could fill out a form asking them politely if they can remove my curse. The chances of me getting doused with chicken blood are probably not as high as the chances that they’ll think I’m joking and toss me out on my white ass, but I think it’s worth a shot. 3.) I also might have a shot of getting the chicken blood treatment if I go to the Psychic Studio of DC. Is it a little too close to Trinidad for my comfort? Yes. Do I have a sense of adventure and not a lot of time to work with? Yes & yes! 4.) Go to Mrs. Natalie of Georgetown. I’m torn about this option. Any psychic who can keep a boutique space open in Georgetown automatically impresses me simply on a fiscal level. But then again, any psychic who has a Yahoo email account and a “mention this for 1/2 off” ad loses some street cred in my eyes. 5.) A Reiki healing with Reiki Master David P. Wright at Blue Lotus Treasures. From what I gather from Wikipedia, Reiki is where someone moves their hands over you through which a warm tingly sensation is produced leading to healing and clarity. And let me tell you, it has been far too long since a man has used his hands to give me a warm tingly sensation (ZING!…I’m so sorry, it grossed me out too).
Inspired by Rachel’s wedding blog advice snafu yesterday, I realized that I have seriously underestimated the power of asking complete strangers what to do with my life. So here’s the deal, you tell me which way I should get my curse removed and I’ll do it, document it with my camera, post the pictures and write an entry about it. Here are your options again: 1.) Psychic email/AIM conversation with Psychic Katherine 2.) Ask the Vodou temple 3.) Go to the Psychic Studio in Trinidad (the dangerous hood in DC, not the Island, for you out-of-towners) 4.) Get a ritzy Georgetown psychic reading 5.) Get felt up by a Reiki Master
Post your vote under “comments” and I promise you I’ll go through with whatever option wins the majority of the vote. No pressure to leave a witty comment or feel weird if I don’t know you, it’s cool to just post a number anonymously.
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