Tulane Chris Does Death: Part 2

My heaven post is going to be the first in a series called “Tulane Chris Does Death.” I’ve been thinking about death a lot recently. I flew at the beginning of November, and my left ear never popped back after the plane, and it annoyed me enough that I did something completely out of character: I went to the doctor. I hate going to the doctor. Either they find something wrong and I’m sick, or they don’t and I’ve wasted an afternoon. I especially hate going to a new doctor because I have to give a family medical history, and my genetic heritage is unenviable. I’m lucky I grew bones.

“Any illnesses in your immediate family?”

“High blood pressure, kidney stones, Alzheimer’s, costochondritis, rheumatoid arthritis, ankylosing spondylitis, diabetes, stroke, heart attack, migraine, manic depression, borderline personality disorder, ADHD, premature dementia, fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue syndrome, blindness, psychosis, irritable bowel syndrome… a lot of female stuff I probably don’t have to worry about… that’s probably it. Jury’s still out on lupus. Oh, and my mother’s allergic to every single domestic animal except cows.” (Author’s note: Yes, really.) We can see color and our blood clots, but otherwise we’re rapidly turning into one of those European royal families that got so overbred they started producing kings called “the Mad,” “the Simple,” “the Unready” and “the Bewitched.” I lucked out by only getting ADHD and costochondritis, which is a painful but not dangerous inflammation of the chest cartilage, so if I were king all the histories would start “Christopher the Inattentive rubbed his chest and winced.”

Anyway, I didn’t go to the doctor because my chest hurt and I couldn’t pay attention. I’m used to that. I went because of my damn ear. Instead of completely ignoring the rest of my body like I wanted her to, she started looking in things and measuring things, and apparently I have something called “high blood pressure.” I blame American politics; our immigrant neighbors have heard me shout at the newspaper so much that they think every single politician’s name is pronounced “Oh-God-that-jackass,” and that the two major political parties are the Shitheads and the Shitforbrains. I’m supposed to take some expensive medicines called “exercise” and “not eating so much salt.”

Fuck that noise. I didn’t tell the doctor this, but I don’t want to live a terribly long time. Eddie Murphy keeps making movies, and I just am going to get Alzheimer’s. That is a fact. I carry that gene. Men in my family check out on their seventy-ninth birthdays. On November 25, 2063, I will start making even less sense than I do now, so if you want help with a crossword puzzle ask me before then. Now, I could stop eating salt and watching Murder, She Wrote for exercise and have my body live to be ninety-six, or I could keep pouring butterscotch into my bourbon and have my body and mind quit on the same day. The doctor thinks I should stop doing things I like so I can spend my last decade in a facility where occupational therapists named Tillie try to remind me how to do the Hokey Pokey. I think she should fix my ear. Her warnings have made me think about my eventual end, though, so check this space for the next episode of “Tulane Chris Does Death.”

P.S. Grammar check wants me to change “Fuck that noise” to either “Fuck that noises” or “Fuck those noise.”

Drinking Game Friday: Murder, She Drank

So Chris has been harassing me for quite some time to let him guest write a DGF. Not co-blogger Chris. Tulane Chris. I have too many friends named Chris and Andrew. The "Chris" section in my phone goes:
Chris Big Wang
Crazy Chris
Chris Don't Call
Tittie Slap Chris
Tulane Chris

Tittie Slap Chris is co-blogger Chris. Putting people in your cell phone under inside jokes is all fun and games until your phone rings in the other room and your dad picks it up and shouts, "Meghan, your phone is ringing! It's...'Tittie Slap'..." Because explaining to your dad that your roommate got really drunk one night and slapped you square on the tit as hard as he could isn't the most comfortable task in the world.

Anyway, Tulane Chris is Original Co-Blogger Eddie's BFF4lyfe and did a pretty good job writing one of our very first Drinking Game Fridays wayyyy back in the day, so of course I was psyched for him to tackle another.

I've been on pins and needles all week waiting for the subject of Tulane Chris' drinking game. Tulane Chris is one of the most fascinating people I know, with one hell of a..."colorful" past, shall we say. One time Tulane Chris and I hooked up on Abigail Breslin's older brother's couch, so my money was on Little Miss Sunshine. Finally last night, he sent me his drinking game...

From a gchat conversation I am currently having with Original Co-Blogger Eddie:
me: dude

angela lansbury used to be smokin' hot:

Eddie: WOW

ANGELA

WORK IT GIRL

oh god, did tulane chris write a murder she wrote drinking game?

he fuckin' loves that show

Yes. Yes, he did. So cook up a fresh batch of Metamucil, break out the Bengay and turn off your Jitterbug, it's time for Tulane Chris' Murder, She Wrote Drinking Game!


Rules:
- Drink when Angela Lansbury / Jessica Fletcher says:
"Tonight on 'Murder, She Wrote...'"
"Oh, no. I'm afraid this was no accident. No, it was murder."
"Of course!" or "Oh, how silly I've been!" followed by running off to
check something.
"X could not have known that the victim would be at the shooting
range. But you could."

- Drink when there's a guest star that went on to be famous for another
show (Lucille Bluth, the host from "Unsolved Mysteries," Jerry Orbach,
the mom from ALF, Goerge Clooney, etc.)

- Drink when there's a guest star that used to be famous (Tab Hunter,
Dorothy Lamour) but has aged and now does guest shots on prime-time
family crime dramas to pay the bills.

- Drink when the killer trips up say saying something like "I didn't
shoot him!" when Jessica has only said that the victim died, and did
not reveal the manner of death.

- Drink for zany theme episodes: Murder... at a convent! Murder... at an
observatory! Murder... among Siamese twins!

- Drink if the motive is hilariously obscure. Double if it involves an
inheritance or revencge for something that happened many years ago.

- Drink if the murder weapon is bizarre - an Amazon blowpipe or, as in
one episode, a gate. (Yes.)

- Drink if Jessica is involved because of a nephew/niece/cousin/old
friend/old friend's niece's nephew's cousin who is either in danger or
accused of murder.

- Drink for every time someone does something colorful because they're
crusty New Englanders.

- Drink everytime Jessica goes somewhere exotic (New Orleans, London,
the Concorde) and - uh-oh - gets mixed up in murder. Two drinks if the
story is very specific to the place.

- Drink if Jessica goes somewhere NOT EXOTIC AT ALL, like Kansas City,
and gets mixed up in murder.

- Drink whenever Jessica has to deal with a wacky subculture, like
theatre people, pornographers, or the DAR.

Thanks Tulane Chris! And thank you reader. Hey! GUESS WHAT? If you forward our blog to a friend, follow us on Twitter or join our Facebook page, co-blogger Chris will have sex with you! Yep. Has condoms; will travel. And let me tell you something about Chris: that kid is a looker. Me? Nothing really to write home about, but Chris? He's got a shape to him. Now, I haven't technically run this past him yet, but if I know Chris as well as I think I do, I'm sure he'll be fine with it. So thanks for reading, enjoy having sex with Chris and we'll see you back here Monday morning!