- First and foremost, I would like to thank my new best friend—2b1b reader Mindy from California—for sending me two of the most majestic items to ever enter my life: a pair of Dr. Dre stickers from "Dre Day Party" (an event I didn't even know happens outside of the song "Fuck Wit Dre Day," in which Dre tells Eazy-E to eat a "big fat dick." And then he died. Awkward...) The first one says, "We started gangsta shit. Is this the muthafuckin' thanks I get?" and the other is, "You're mad atcha boyfriend ain'tcha?" I mean. Jesus Christ, Minds. How am I supposed to ever repay you for a gift of this magnitude?! Can I carry your child for you? Because I'll do it. Just say the words and this Jäger-soaked womb is allllll yours! Mindy was anxious to see where I'd end up sticking the stickers. Uh, "stick" them? I'm not permanently adhering these bad boys anywhere unless it's directly to my body via ink, biffles. In the mean time, in a protective frame on my wall will do: Thanks Mindy!
- Speaking of Dre, one of my favorite lines from "Xxplosive"has never been so seasonally appropriate: "Gobble the dick."
- And speaking of Thanksgiving and rap music! I have an embarrassing story for you. You know how I feel about Dre? Well, that's how my sister feels about Ludacris. The very first time I ever heard Ludacris' "MoneyMaker," the line "Just be thankful that Pharrell gave you something to bump to" got my gears a-turnin'. I decided that at Thanksgiving dinner that year, when we're all going around the table saying what we're thankful for, I was going to say that I was "thankful that Pharrell gave me something to bump to!" and it would be the funniest thing anyone had ever heard in their entire lives and my sister would have a new-found respect for me and I'd be the hero of Thanksgiving from thereon after. Now, I hatched this plan in July of 2006 which means that by the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I had been sitting on it for an embarrassing four months. But finally, four months passed, Thanksgiving was upon us and I was anxiously seated at the dinner table ready to grace my family with the Greatest Joke Ever Told. Unfortunately, I didn't factor in that my family actually doesn't have a tradition where we go around the table saying what we're thankful for. But you bet your ass that was about to change. "Hey! I got an idea!" I said. "Let's go around the table and say what we're thankful for!!!!1" I was met with a few raised eyebrows. My family isn't really the touchy-feely kind. We spend most of Thanksgiving drinking beer, watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 and napping. (God I love Thanksgiving.) But this year I insisted that we go around the table, open our little hearts and say what we're thankful for. I was so excited. My turn couldn't come fast enough. Mom: "Well I'm thankful for having such a wonderful fam—" YEAH, YEAH, YEAH, NEXT! Aunt: "I guess I'm thankful for having people in my life who—" OK GREAT, WONDERFUL, BECCA GO!"Uhhh...I'm thankful for—" GREAT, TOUCHING, LOVED IT. MY TURN!!!! My heart was racing and I could barely contain my own excitement. I took a breath and composed myself: "Well everyone. This year—I am thankful that Pharrell gave me something to bump to!"...................Nothing. Nobody spoke. "O...k...," my dad said, "I guess it's my turn now. I'm thankfu—" "NO, NO, NO!" I interrupted, "Maybe you didn't hear me. I said, I'm thankful that Pharrell gave me something to bump to!" ..................Crickets and blank stares. "Like...like in the 'MoneyMaker' song? Ludacris, Becca? Ludacris?" I searched my sister's face, just waiting for her to light up at any moment and finally get my incredibly well crafted joke. "Yeah...I got it," she instead said, "It's just trying a little too hard. Gotta ask, how long were you sitting on that one for, buddy?" ".....................................Four months." "Nice. Dad, you're next."
And now this is what I'm reminded of every Thanksgiving. Personal failure. Sounds about right.
- I have a question re: the creepy cat in Lady Gaga's Bad Romance video: How did they get it's little fangs to be gold? Are they kitty caps? I don't know why this is so perplexing to me, but it honestly keeps me up at night. And I'm completely aware of how pathetic that last statement is. A google search of "Lady GaGa Bad Romance video cat" yields nothing helpful. Co-Blogger Chris thinks it's a CGI effect, but I'm not sure I'm buying that. I don't know why I'm so fixated on this. Either way, if they are gold kitty caps, guess what Evie's getting this year for Chrismukkah?????
- As I mentioned yesterday, I went to Bed, Bath & Beyond this weekend. As I stood in line waiting to check out, I realized, and I shit you not, that the large African American woman in front of me had her handbag on one arm, a bag full of recently purchased Popeye's fried chicken on the other and was purchasing one single item: a personal massager. It took everything in my power to not go up to her and say, "Lady, I will give you $50 and a crock-pot to trade nights with me."
- Andrew, of The Great Juno Debate fame, was recently making a Makeout Playlist and accidentally almost put Shakira's "Underneath Your Clothes" on it. The thought of casually making out with someone and slowly realizing that you're listening to "Underneath Your Clothes" is probably my favorite mental image ever. Thus, I challenged Andrew to make an entire playlist of Ironic Makeout songs—songs that are slightly too emotional to be played during a casual hook up. Songs that blur that fine line between background noise and a blatant narration of what's going on. I give you:
Andrew's Ironic Makeout Playlist "All By Myself " - Celine Dion "All My Life" - K-Ci & JoJo "Always Be My Baby" - Mariah Carey Brokeback Mountain Theme "Don't Let Go" - En Vogue "Foolish Games" - Jewel "I Will Always Love You" - Whitney Houston "I'll Make Love to You" - Boys to Men "Invisible" - Clay Aiken "God Must Have Spent a Little More Time on You" - 98 Degrees 'N Sync "Possession" - Sarah McLachlan "Torn" - Natalie Imbruglia "Underneath Your Clothes" - Shakira
- And now for Dr. Reuben's Question & Answer of the Day! By the way, I was having dinner with Laura last night and I brought my copy of Everything You've Ever Wanted to Know... with me to prove to her that a.) it's real and b.) it's just as ridiculous as yesterday's post made it out to be. I don't think she "didn't believe me," per se, but I do think she thought I was perhaps embellishing a bit. I tossed the book across the table and dared her to open to any given page and not be shocked. An hour after we departed ways, I received this email testimonial from her:
Dear 2b1b readers,
I, Laura A. Megfan, do hereby assure you that "Dr." Reuben's book is in fact real. I have seen it with my own two eyes, held it with my own two hands, and read aloud from it with my own lips (which is the reason I can no longer look the wait staff at James Hobin's in the eyes). Let me assure you that it is all Meg says it is and more (read: highly offensive to women, homosexuals, and children of all ages and genders). Having flipped through it I cannot tell you how excited I am to get Meg's take on this book on a regular basis. And now I leave you with three words: Gene. Audrey. Clamp.
Happy reading!
And now, Dr. Reuben's Question & Answer of the Day:
Are there different kinds of frigidity? Yes. Depending on what the woman is trying to say, she (unconsciously) chooses various forms of expressing herself. For example, if in spite of her conscious desire for intercourse, she wants nothing to do with the penis, Vaginissmus may be the result. In this symptom, the lips of the mouth may say "yes," but the lips of the vagina are shouting "NO!" [...] It happened one night with Gene—he will never forget it. "I once read about it in a book but I thought it was a lot of baloney. I can tell you from my own experience, it's something awful. I was out one night with this girl, her name was Audrey—I'll never forget that. We had a good time and a few drinks and then went over to her place. She had this apartment with a couple of friends. She was a little nervous like she didn't do it all the time, but we got along all right. After we were in bed, I started to put it in her but she said, 'It hurts.' Well, a lot of them are like that—you know, they want you to think it's the first time and all that. It was kind of tight, but she said to go ahead and try it anyhow. I wish I'd just gotten up and gone home." Gene took a nervous drag on his cigarette. "I pushed it on in but right away I knew there was something wrong—it just didn't feel right. Then it happened. She screamed, and her whole business clamped right down on me. I felt like I was caught in a bear trap! I tried to pull out but that was my next mistake. Her, her, you know, grabbed me even tighter and it hurt like hell. All the time she was screaming—it must've hurt her too. Then the people in the next apartment started knocking on the door and I yelled at her to keep quiet. That was a bad move. When they heard me yelling they thought something funny was going on and they called the cops. Man, I wanted to get away but I couldn't move the way she was hanging on to me. Well, to make it short, the cops broke down the door and found us on the bed like that. They must've seen this deal before because they started laughing. THEN her two girl friends came in. Wow! By then I would have left my organ behind if I could've gotten away! But the cops just covered us up, kicked everyone else out, and left us alone. In about ten minutes, she quieted down and I got loose. We never saw each other again and now if a girl just doesn't seem right, I tell her, 'Why don't you save it for marriage, honey? We'll both feel better that way'."
WHAT IN THE FUCKITY FUCK FUCK?!?! I have so many questions that were in no way answered by Dr. Reuben on this one: 1.) "[T]he lips of the mouth may say "yes," but the lips of the vagina are shouting "NO!" If that is not the most graphic and disturbing rape mantra I have ever heard in my entire life, then I don't know what is. 2.) Gene. Gene, Gene, Gene...If I put my dick in someone and they say it hurts, I think my next instinct would be to take my dick out and not be like, "MEH! She's probably just trying to trick me into thinking she's a virgin. YOU KNOW HOW THEY DO! Better cram it in a little further!" But again, that's just me. 3.) Let's talk about The Clamping. I get her having a tight situation. I can even understand the whole clamping down nonsense. But who in the holy hell has a vagina that is capable of clamping down so hard it can physically detain a person inside of them?! And even assuming she does have this alleged wonder pussy that can hold a grown man in place, wouldn't her muscles get tired after five minutes and loosen? I mean, drunk bitches be peeing themselves all the time! I don't care how young you are, at a certain point, those muscles get tired and give up. Trust me. 4.)"All the time she was screaming-—it must've hurt her too." Well no fucking shit! She told you that it hurt earlier and you were all #VIRGINFAIL! 5.) Where were Audrey's roommates when this was going on?! How come they only surface when the cops show up? If my tight-pussed roommate brought a strange guy home and I heard her screaming and him yelling at her to be quiet, I would bust through that door and knock him upside the head with a frying pan so fast his moustache would spin. 6.) Speaking of moustaches, is anyone else picturing Gene as Scott Daniels from the cover of Sweet Valley High's All Night Long? 7.) Ok, let me get this straight: The cops get a call from the neighbors that there's a girl screaming and a man yelling at her to keep quiet, right? So they bust down the door to her bedroom and find old Gene pounding away on Adurey. Why is their immediate reaction to assume "HAHA LOLZ! LOOKS LIKE WE'VE GOT ANOTHER CASE OF VAGINISSMUS ON OUR HANDS, BOYS!" and not that Audrey is getting raped?! I mean, what ass-backwards town do you live in that this happens that often that you can diagnose the problem from the doorway?! 8.) I also love that the cops don't offer to call the paramedics or help in any way, shape or form. They just kick Audrey's roommate's out all, "Move along! Nothing to see here! Just a man caught in the beartrap that is Vaginissmus!" and assume everything will work itself out. Like a good bowel movement. 9.)"In about ten minutes, she quieted down and I got loose." Gene. Do you realize it sounds like you're talking about a horse right now? 10.)"[I]f a girl just doesn't seem right, I tell her, 'Why don't you save it for marriage, honey? We'll both feel better that way'." Gene, what's going on that you're turning girls down left and right for being too tight?! You know that tight = a good thing, right? What sort of loosemeat sandwich are you used to ordering around here?
I think I know what I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving...thank you, Dr. Reuben.
- I can't just assume that everyone else is as over-observant as I am. I learned this the hard way in college. I would see the same kid every time I was in the dining hall without fail for 3 months straight. Maybe I noticed him because he looked like a bizarro-world version of our friend Alex, but nonetheless, he was always there. And then one day, we ended up at the same party and with a few Busch Lights to back me up, I said something like "ZOMG! You're the kid I always see! Do you know who I am?" To which I received, crickets, tumbleweeds, and a raised "Who is this crazy person?" eyebrow.
- Who decided it was a good idea to use sirens in the background of songs? One minute you're driving down the highway casually listening to some jams, then next minute Beyonce's "Ring the Alarm" comes on, but you instinctively turn down the radio and prairie dog it trying to figure out where the siren is coming from.
- If I ever go invisible on Gchat, it's supposed to make me more productive. People won't message me, therefore I won't be chatting, therefore I will do more work. Why, then, do I always end up messaging even more people? Who am I trying to fool?
- When you're in kindergarten and your teacher asks you want you want to be when you grow up, I would be willing to bet good money no one ever pictured themselves as a doctor in their 50s, about to retire. Or a seasoned police officer, who had been hurt on the job and will have a steady pension in a few years. Or a washed-up ballerina who can no longer dance, but teaches ballet at the local church on weeknights. Or John Glenn. Everyone's future career selves is probably somewhere in their mid- to late-20's and fiercely hot.
- What bothers me most about Lady Gaga isn't her ridiculous costumes or her inflated sense of self-worth or her terrible acting skills. It's that her desire to be famous is so transparent. Nearly half of the songs on her album are about fame, being famous, getting famous, wanting to be famous. Is that all it takes these days? Just the will of a champion and the ability to menstruate from your chest? To her credit, at least Lady Gaga can keep you entertained. Whether she's wearing a giant metal gyroscope or a dress made out of bubbles, you can't help but pay attention because it's fascinating.
- There are lots of times during the course of a normal week where I want to compliment a total stranger. I think an unsolicited compliment can brighten up anyone's day. I haven't actually gone through with it yet, because knowing myself I'll fuck it up and end up with a restraining order. But seriously, if I were to stop some random girl on the street and say "You look beautiful," would I get a face full of mace?
- One thing I should have never done was to tell my family my intended plans for my life. Especially the fact that I plan to go to medical school one day. After being out of college for 2 years, the ability to self-motivate myself to actually get around to applications is fading fast. Unfortunately, my entire extended family is aware of my ultimate goal to become a doctor. This never sucked more than when my great-aunt told me at the last family get-together "I hope I live long enough to see you become a doctor." Talk about pressure. Is it wrong that part of me is hoping dementia sets in soon and she forgets who I am, let alone my intended goals?
- Meg and I were discussing how we got the same spam email with the subject "How to lick a chick out." I then told her how I get nothing but spam emails in my blog email account, including the recent email from a "nun" in a "mission" in "Spain." This spam email was entirely in Spanish but the gist of it was that if I provide this woman with my bank account, she will gladly fork over money that was left to her by a former orphan, but that she cannot accept because she took a vow of poverty. Which makes you wonder, if spam emails like this still exist, does that mean that there are people out there who still fall for them? If so, where is this collective rock these people have been living under that they do not understand that the internet is chock full o' scam artists?
I've been having some serious iphone drama lately and it's made me aware of three things: 1.) I hate myself for being so painfully white that I have "iphone drama" 2.) I might be an alcoholic and 3.) I might have arthritis
I got the original iphone December 2007 for Chrismukkah and fell in love with it. I specify it was the original iphone less to be a Smug Pug and more to emphasize it had the older, boxy design. Which was a magical design. Magical and wonderful and I miss it. When I first saw it on that snowy Chrismukkah morning, it was love at first sight. We started slow—dinner, movies, late-night phone conversations, intimate heart-to-hearts, custom ringtones...but eventually like all of my relationships, things got abusive. (What?) (I don't know.) More specifically, I got absuve. I treated that thing like a Frisbee. It had more dents than Rhianna's face after a road trip with Chris Brown. (RELEVANT.) But the thing is—Original iphone never gave up on me. It faithfully served me for almost two years without so much as a single dropped call. Then one day this past June—tragedy. I was at the gym, chuggin' away on the elliptical, listening to some Ashlee SimpsonC+C Music FactoryHall and Oates' Man Eater Jay-Z, when my hand accidentally whapped the headphone cord and sent Original iphone flying off the magazine rack and plummeting to the ground. Embarassed, I got off the machine, picked it up and made sure it was ok (it was...such a trooper), got back on and started working out again. I swear to god, not three strides later, I whapped it off yet again. Except this time it didn't plummet straight to the ground. No. It literally ricocheted off the sides of the elliptical, hitting every piece of machinery in it's way going down to ensure it was finally good and dead.
$99 dollars later (plus tax) (Jew...), I had a new mid-level iphone. Not the newest, nicest one, but one step up from the original model. And I fucking hate it. Yeah it's got the 3G network and nerdspeak, blah, blah, nerdspeak blah, but frankly, it is really hard to hold. You see, the original iphone had a more rectangular, boxy design whereas the newer iphones have a sleeker, curvier design that's like trying to hold a wet bar of soap. See helpful image below:
Seriously. I feel kind of retarded saying this, but I can't hold my new iphone to save my life. I got it four months ago and it looks like I've had it for four years. The very first weekend I got it, I dropped it on the ground and the SIM card broke. Since then, I can honestly say that I drop it on a daily to tri-daily basis. And it isn't just me being careless like I was with Original iphone! It's just really cumbersome to hold! I put the blame squarely on Steve Jobs, not this girl.
Also, whereas Original iphone could take a beating like a real woman, Nouveau iphone is a total pussy! The SIM card always slips out of place, it freezes, drops calls and echoes. After only four months of use! And let me tell you a little story about Original iphone: one night after I had had..."a few Chardonnays," shall we say, I came home and crawled into bed with a giant bowl of Kashi. Unfortunately for me, I passed out after the second bite and awoke the next morning to discover the bowl on the ground, half-full of milk and completely full of iphone. I fished my phone out, let it air dry on a paper towel, threw some Windex on it and I swear to Jah, it was 100% fine. Even after two years of use and being fully submerged in a bowl of milk overnight, it was good as gold and better. Now that is what I call a cell phone.
I think I've officially decided to dump Nouveau iphone. But! I have an idea for it's replacement—The Jitterbug. GENIUS, RIGHT?!
What's a Jitterbug, you may ask? Um, what isn't a Jitterbug may be a better question:
Basically a Jitterbug is a comically simplified cell phone made for old people and me. But more importantly, it's specifically designed to be easy to hold! This idea started out somewhat as a joke, but I honestly think getting a Jitterbug might be in the top five Best Ideas I've Ever Had. Not only is it easy to hold, it's significantly cheaper a month than the iphone, delivers clear sound and reduces background noise, is available in graphite or white AND comes with with this clever beaded lanyard so I don't have to worry about losing it when I'm out boozing!:
I quote Lady Gaga's Just Dance: "Where are my keys/I lost my phone?" Ummm...check your Jitterbug beaded lanyard. 'Nuff said.
Lady Gaga fascinates me. I don’t think anybody else’s ascent to fame can be described as meteoric more so than hers. She came from almost nowhere (according to Wikipedia, she was big in the NYC club scene before hitting it big mainstream) to become one of the most recognizable faces in music of the present day. Ok, maybe people recognize her hair a bit more than her face. This probably has a lot to do with the fact that she is just so goddamned eccentric. How does that happen? Most of the superstars in the music industry transition into psychopaths slowly. It took a few years before Madonna donned her famous cone bra. Rihanna didn’t start showing up to award shows looking like a dominatrix immediately.
Lady Gaga somehow managed to bring the club scene, replete with spandex unitards and diamond face make-up, into the mainstream with little to no transition.
Her latest addition to her portfolio of eccentricity comes in the form of her latest music video: Paparazzi. Hearing the title you’d think the video would be about running from the paparazzi or being famous or something. But you would be mistaken. Because I believe you need to be mild to moderately intoxicated to fully enjoy this 8 minute video epic I present to you the Paparazzi Drinking Game (mini).
The rules are simple. To get inordinately fucked up in 8 minutes or less.
Drink once when: A newspaper or magazine is shown Lady Gaga changes outfits A dead girl is shown Lady Gaga sports a new hairstyle
Those right there should get you pretty toasted, but for added benefit, take a shot: For the most offensive “dance” sequence ever (3:47 to 4:27) When someone murders or attempts to murder someone If Lady Gaga is wearing an outfit you own/would wear
Just a quick drinking game for this Friday, but if you follow along, you should be well on your way to having a night worthy of Gaga. Where are my keys? I lost my phone.
See you back here on Monday for more antics. And if you can’t wait that long, you can always follow us on Twitter. Have a great weekend!
You would think that after 24 years on this planet, one-third of which I have been sipping on sizzyrup, I would have learned my limits.
You would be wrong. You would be very wrong. What I have learned is that the minute I start drinking, my limits turn their phones off and go on an all-expense paid trip to Tahiti. For those of you who follow me on Twitter, I’m sorry that I’m about to repeat myself, but my past weekend can be best summed up by the song “Just Dance”. After having a little bit way, way too much, I lost both my keys and my phone. I woke up on Long Island at 9 AM on a Friday, and called out of work so that I could break into my apartment via the fire escape.
I think that’s a classy birthday celebration. But not something I care to repeat ever. So I’m going to lay out a few lessons that I learned over the weekend, for my own benefit, but also so that you, my innocent readers, can learn from my mistakes.
Lesson #1: Drinking to Get Drunk = How to Lose your Dignity in 10 Drinks (or Less) I should have been alerted to the fact that this night was headed for disaster when my friend asked “What do you want?” and my response was “Something strong.” Dear readers, should you ever be drinking with me and I say I want something strong, please slap whatever beverage I am currently consuming to the floor, regardless of party fouling and point me to the exit. The last time I ordered “something strong” I drank three Long Island iced teas in 2 hours, and hit on my friend’s straight brother. Shamelessly. This is not to say I’m not successful in my mission to get royally fucked up. But I might be the perfect example of being too successful.
Lesson #2: Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Drink Having gone to a school with a pretty good reputation for getting our drink on, I can handle my alcohol. But in a night when the alcohol consumed ranges from grain alcohol to rubbing alcohol, even the most seasoned of drinker’s is likely to black out and wake up tied to a school desk with fuzzy bunny ears on your head. In the night in question, I believe I drank every hard liquor under the sun, including a frozen margarita at some point. No wonder I woke up an hour and a half away from my apartment.
Lesson #3: When the Going Gets Drunken, the Drunken Turn Their Phones Off If you’ve read this blog, you may know that I am quite a fan of drunk texts. I love sending them, I love receiving them. I don’t necessarily enjoy reliving my night through them, but at the time, they are fun times. However, drunk calls are a horse of a different color. Sure, some drunk calls are innocuous enough, like if you’re calling your friend to ask “Where the fuck are you, slut?” But it’s never a good idea to call a friend when your body realizes alcohol is a depressant. I’m going to invent a phone breathalyzer that will determine whether or not you are too drunk to be on the phone. While you’re busy breathily complaining about the state of your shambleshow of a life, your phone will be busy picking up the scent of Jack Daniels on your breath and S. it D., shut it down. Because sexually transmitted crazy mouth is not the only kind of crazy mouth you can contract. (Could Liz Lemon dictate more of my life? I don’t think so.)
Lesson #4: Whatever You Do, Don’t Wear Layers While Drinking This may be a bit obscure for some of you. The reason I say this here is that I had the misfortune of wearing a jacket while I was out the other night. And I put my keys in said jacket. Then my jacket vanished. However, I would be lying if I said I’ve never also lost a shirt because I thought a Coyote Ugly style striptease was a good idea. Had I not worn an undershirt, I probably would have been more reluctant to take that layer off. To all of the female readers, I do not know how you can get smashed and somehow keep track of your bag/clutch/assorted other accouterments. Adding these things to your attire sounds like a recipe for a drunken misfortune to me. (On a related note, this past St. Patrick’s Day, I watched as some drunk girl ran literally right out of her shoes, and then left them behind, running barefoot on the filthiest street in existence. She now has herpes.)
On the whole, I’m a more or less responsible member of society. Every other life lesson I was supposed to learn is in there someone. Say please and thank you. Eat your vegetables. Pay your bills on time. I think it would be in the best interest of society at large if someone were to write a children’s book about responsible drinking. Get us all while we were young. If only Oscar the Grouch spent the better portion of his night drinking at Cooper’s, then wound up in bed with Snuffy, or if Curious George got curious with the Man in the Yellow Hat’s “special drinks” and spent the next day curious about the inside of the toilet, then maybe I would have learned these lessons earlier.
On the bright side, I’m not dead. And if I’m not mistaken, a wise sage once said “Just dance, gonna be ok, dada doo doo.” Dada doo doo, indeed.
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