Valtrexia

Before we get to this week's T.G.I. Hagman and "Jersey Shore" recap, here are three things that have nothing to do with anything:

1.) I was running dangerously low on dishwasher detergent last night, so I squirted dish soap all over the dishes to make up for it, and I may have gone a wee bit overboard:

That's obviously just soap that overflowed from the dishwasher into my sink, but it also kind of looks like a big 'ole mess of ejaculate. Because I'm "feisty" and I like to "razz" my roommates (ask Ex-Co Blogger Chris about the time I gave him a back rub with icy hot because I couldn't find any lotion and was kind of curious to see what would happen. HA HA. Me.), I took a picture and tried to tweet, "kicked @dankoe out because I came home and he was jerking off into the sink. guess he's Y bound again," but our stolen whorish Internet went out for half the night and cockblocked my joke. Which was frustrating. So I'm telling you now. Dan came in the sink. Except you already know it's soap. So...Yeah. This didn't really turn out how I planned.

2.) The following is a banner ad that's always on Hulu:

Just like how I can't look at the logo for the show "10 Things I Hate About You" and not see "10 Things I Hate About Iraq", I can't look at that banner ad and not see "SHAVE A KID WITH CANCER!" Every single time. And every single time I think, "Well that seems a bit off-color. But not completely un-fun..." until I realize what it actually says and feel like an asshole for entertaining the thought of hog-tying a kid with cancer down and shearing him like a lamb because a banner ad told me to. The power of suggestion...

and 3.) Speaking of grossly misreading things, Laura wrote me a check last week for some of the camping necessities I bought (i.e.: Hat and beer) and I put it on the fridge without reading it and walked away. A few days ago I went to get something out of the freezer, saw it and completely thought that she wrote the amount as "forty dollars and no cunts."

And the disturbing thing is, when I misread it, I didn't think it was odd at all. I was like, "HA HA, Laura. That minx," and walked away. Embarrassingly, it took days until it clicked that it seems slightly out of character for Laura to write "cunts" on anything, nevertheless something both of our banks are going to see. And that's when I realized that it says "cents". And that's when I called my mom to confirm that she didn't drink when I was in the womb. And that's when I got her voicemail, so it's still anyone's guess. And that's when you diagnosed me with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. And that's when I respected your medical opinion.

Speaking of alcohol, I believe it's time to check in with America's favorite 79-year-old bourbon juggernaut. It's T.G.I. Hagman!

As of 4:28am on October 15, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! And dying to hear about what happened on last night's episode of Jersey Shore, so let's get to it, shall we?

As I'm sure we all remember, last week The Situation was being, as Pauly D puts it, really "negative" and "sour". Meaning he was grouchy and grumpy and, you know, blatantly hit Snooki in the face because she didn't want to leave the clerb when he did. Just average actions of someone with a casual case of the Mondays. To make amends, The Situation goes into Snooki's room the next morning, gives her a quick dry hump and begs for her forgiveness, which she begrudgingly gives him. Did anyone else notice that The Situation had a giant wad of cash in his hand during the entirety of this scene? Look Mike Sorrentino, the whole world knows you made 5 million dollars this year, I don't think you need to walk around with giant wads of cash in your front paws at all times to prove it. It's a bit gouche, don't you think? I'm going to start walking around town with giant fistfuls of nickels and quinoa rice and see where that gets me. Fake it until you make it, sister. Fake it until you make it.

Snooki's best friend, Ryder, who's been in town goes home and Snooki is the saddest girl in Sad Town about it. She goes out to the patio and cries hysterically and confides in J-WOWW that she wants to leave early because she misses her friends and family and people who are real. Even though at this point they have like two days left in the house or something equally ridiculous. Not that I'm judging. I'm not saying I'd pass up an opportunity to be snuggling with Talia right now (especially since as someone in yesterday's comments pointed out, she's got a shape to her) (slash you shut that fast mouth of yours, that's my Facebook wife we're talking about.) (Slash it's been a while, Talia; wouldn't hate a poke...) (And that's Facebook lingo, mom. I haven't moved on from Anna to Talia. Despite the DC/South Korea thing, we're still going strong, a-thank you.), I'm just saying you get paid $10,000 per episode. Frame a picture, think of the money and power through for 48 hours.

To cheer Snooki up, the house decides to go to Space that night. Space is apparently the closest thing Miami has to an authentic New York style club. It's got gorillas and juice heads and tan girls and tiny nets for genital crabs and good drinks and stays open crazy late. The gang is pumped because everyone's been dying to go there, which begs the question why didn't they just go there one of the 5,000 other nights they went to Bed or Tantra? But again, why I'm still trying to suss out logic in this show is beyond me. They head to Space at 1 (which prompted me to yell, "A.M.?!?!?!" and feel like a giant loser because by that time I'm usually drunk and in bed with a gyro or asleep) and everything is fine for a few hours, until Snooki gets in a fight with two random girls sitting next to her on a couch. I would love to tell you what happened, but your guess is as good as mine. I don't think even MTV knows what happened. And nobody really tries to explain what happened or fill in any of the missing information gaps. For the amount of willing suspension of disbelief that's involved with this show, you'd think it would be some avant garde art house shit instead of a reality show with a lazy mic job on a creed of people with whom things escalate quickly. Christ.

Mid-fight, The Situation jumps in and tells one of the random ho's guy friends to leave and "bring your bitch with you." At that point, the shit hits the fan (or "hit shits the fan," as I wrote in my notes because if this post illustrates anything, it's that I have severe dyslexia,) and they all get kicked out of the clerb. It's "only" 3am though, so everyone moves on to a different clerb, except for The Situation and Pauly D who grab two scantily clad ladies on their way out and go home to [shudder, shudder] "get it in".

Pauly D's girl is DTF but, as seems to be becoming a pattern, The Situation's girl just wants to braid each other's hair, get hopped up on Pepsi and play Mall Madness all night. Which doesn't sound completely horrible to me frankly, but The Situation has zero time for girls who aren't DTF. Upon finding out that his girl doesn't drink or hook up with people and has only had sex with one guy, he uses his mouth to pick her up by the scruff of her neck, walks her outside the den, drops her, nudges some courtesy gazelle meat her way with his nose, and saunters back into his room for a mighty lion nap. Slightly mortified by the treatment of her friend, Pauly D's girl excuses herself and leaves too, even though she was totally DTF. Soooo...sucks for Pauly D.

The next day Mike retells this story to J-WOWW, but in his version, his girl was a total grenade so he just had to kick her out and he gave Pauly D's girl the boot too because he's just such a player like that. Lying to cover up your own rejection on reality television is a...unique decision, I guess. I don't think I'd go that way personally, but then again, I'm the one with nickels and quinoa rice and not 5 million dollars, so hey. Go with god.

That night, Mike cooks chicken parm for Sunday night family dinner, burns the chicken and ends up setting the fire alarm off when he puts a hot pan under cold water. The fire department comes and Snooki and J-WOWW are excited because they get to oogle "prime meat of men". The firemen kind of open a few windows and wave a few magazines around while trying to talk to the cast as little as humanly possible and eventually leave them to their dinner.

After dinner, they're all sitting around talking about exotic looking girls when Sammi says that she thinks she looks exotic. Ronnie agrees and says, "You look Asian; I like it." And Oooo0o0o0o is he in for it! Because his ex-girlfriend is Asian and now Sammi thinks he's only dating her because she looks like his ex-girlfriend. Normally I'd gloss right over this because I'd rather gnaw off one of my talons than dissect any more of the Ronnie/Sammi/"Everyone Loves Raymond" plot line, but it did spawn this conversation between Dan and Laura, with whom I was watching this:

Dan: Laura, have you ever hooked up with an Asian before? Or like, had a trsyt?

Laura: [after 15 solid seconds of thought] I hooked up with a German once?

D: Oh. So, the opposite of an Asian.

...It just really hit the spot for me.

This week's comic relief: The boys go tanning and their car gets towed because The Situation thinks it's acceptable to slap one of those "Ocean City, Maryland — PARKING FOR THE SITUATION ONLY!" signs that you get on the boardwalk when you're 12 onto the real parking sign and call it a day. But then he goes and picks up his Escalade and pulls $170 in cash out of his pocket and that's the end of that, whereas if this were me, there would have been a lot more public crying, phone calls to my parents and money wiring involved. So, again, nickels and quinoa rice.

That night nobody feels like going out except for the boys who head to Tantra. There, Pauly D and The Situation meet two girls from "Canadia" who walk up to them and are like, "Hi, can we have sex with you to be on TV for a hot minute?" And the boys are like, "CAN YOU!" and head back to the house. Unfortunately once in bed, yet again, Pauly D's girl is DTF while The Situation's just wants to polish her chastity belt and talk about her fiance. Instead of being a good wingman and entertaining her so Pauly D can bang out his girl right quick, The Situation yells at her for wasting his time, kicks her out, and she gets so upset that Pauly D's girl goes too, leaving him with blue balls. Pauly D thinks he's going to need to have a talk with The Situation about what it means to be a good wingman. Sometime. In the near future, maybe. If there's time. And then the episode just kind of...ends.

FIN.

Welp, that's going to do it for us this week at 2b1b. As always, thank you so much for reading, forwarding to your friends, following us on Twitter, joining the Facebook page, emailing and all of those wonderful things that you do. We really appreciate it. Have a great weekend and we'll see you right back here Monday morning. Buh-bye.

I HAVE BIG NEWS!

I'd like to think that I'm pretty good at laughing at myself and all of the soul-rapingly embarrassing things that happen to me on a daily basis. Typically when I blog about something embarrassing, it's like I purge all of the bad energy associated with whatever happened and as other people find it funny, I find it funny too. It's a wonderful little win-win situation. That being said, there remains one event that is still not funny: Sorr about the bag.

"Sorr about the bag" happened Sophomore year of college in my Computer Literacy for Design class and is still unbelievably traumatizing to think about. Shortly after it happened, I documented it in my LiveJournal and last year I wrote about it again in the blog post An Annotated Anthology of Awkward. That means I've purged the negative energy twice, yet it's still too soon to find it funny. If only you could coke-douche emotions...

From An Annotated Anthology of Awkward:

• I forgot to bring a jewel case for the CD that my design project is on. So what do I use to protect my CD? A ZIPLOCK BAG WITH LITTLE BITS OF CRUNCHED GOLDFISH CRACKERS AT THE BOTTOM I FOUND IN MY MESSENGER BAG FROM GOD ONLY KNOWS WHEN. Who the fuck does that? And then to compensate, I wrote "sorry about the bag" on it, but I forgot the "y" in the word sorry. So I had to draw a little carrot and a y, making myself look like an even bigger asshole. So now I'm that girl who came into class 20 minutes late the first day, who's computer is never connected to the server and who presented her first project in a ziplock bag with bits of goldfish crackers and "sorr about the bag" scrawled on it. I am so fucking awkward. [note: I damn near had a panic attack remembering this incident. The next time our class met, the professor (whom I had such a huge crush on) held up the bag in front of the entire class and delivered a five-minute lecture on how disrespectful I was and how designers who don't take pride in their deliverable should change their major. I have never felt so stupid in my entire life. I went back to my dorm room and cried my fucking eyes out. Oh my God.]

That's not funny. You know how when something really traumatic happens you can remember really oddly specific details from it? Well, not only can I remember exactly what I was wearing the day my professor berated me in front of the entire class, I remember what he was wearing and the girl next to me. And when I close my eyes, I can still see what was on the to-do list next to my computer because I remember staring at it while crying my face off thinking, "what's the use of doing any of that because I clearly don't have what it takes to be a graphic designer!" Oh my god. Seriously. To former graphic design adjunct professor Tobin Lehman: go eff yourself, you pompous little twit on a power trip. You have no idea how much you scarred me for life. Because, dude—a private note on my grade sheet would have sufficed; you didn't have to ream me out in front of the entire class. Stupid, sexy Flanders.

Unfortunately for me, my friends really, really like "sorr about the bag" and ever since blogging about it last January, not only does it get brought up (a lot) in every day conversation, it's actually become incorporated into daily vernacular as a way to say I'm sorry. And no one finds it more hilarious than Tulane Chris.

Whereas 97% of all text messages/emails/gchats/voicemails I receive from Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie are updates on Larry Hagman's health, 97% of all text messages/emails/gchats/voicemails I recieve from Tulane Chris are him saying "sorr about the bag" in various contexts. On one hand I'm glad I can bring so much joy and laughter into Tulane Chris' life, but on the other, I really hate this constant reminder of the most publicly embarrassing failure of my life.

From a typical gchat conversation with Chris:

Chris: I know it was really embarrassing for you

But sometimes I imagine "sorr about the bag"

And lol to myself

me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

omg

that story causes me so much anxiety

Chris: I can hear you saying it

I with that was your catchphrase

4:40 PM me: Meg McBlogger: sorr about the bag since 1985

Chris: Meghan McBlogger, how do you plead?

"Sorr about the bag, your honor."
Chris: I was so tickled with that one I had to leave the room and collect myself.

It's so awk to like LAUGH at your own joke

4:45 PM me: let's get matching tattoos that say "sorr about the bag"
Chris: Meghan McBlogger, 1985 - 2060. Friend, Wife, Sorr about the bag.
Chris: Something old, something new, something borrowed, sorr about the bag

4:48 PM me: omg. i'm so tense right now. you're killing me.
and for the record, i'm still sorr about that bag

and i'll be sorr forever

4:51 PM Chris: Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been 24 years since my last confession. I am sorr about the bag.
me: you need to stop.
Chris: ON your deathbed:

Do you accept our Lord, Jesus Christ? Do you renounce the devil, and all his empty promises? Are you sorr about the bag?
Chris: Has the jury reached it's verdict? We have your honor. What say you? We the jury find the defendant, Meghan Catherine McBlogger sorr about the bag.

5:00 PM Chris: I, Meg McBlogger, being of sound mind, am sorr about the bag.

And using it as an everyday replacement for "I'm sorry":

Chris: I have a favor to ask. I need someone to sign for some papers I'm having sentWould you mind doing it and then just regular mailing them?

3:02 PM Like it just needs to be that someone got them

It's a bank thing

But no one I know is HOME IN THE DAY

3:05 PM If it's a hassle no big
I know it's annoying

3:06 PM Sorr about the bag

Cracking himself up. Again.

Chris: We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, ARE SORR ABOUT THE BAG

I want to do a "sorr about the bag" of that "oh my god shoes" thing

6:56 PM I'm snickering aloud in the computer lab

And finally, from a text message I received the day I got fired:


While I'm pretty sure Tulane Chris is extremely satisfied with himself and finds this all hilarious, it's still way too soon for me. Four years later.

Flashback to this past Friday. I got home from a long, hungover and generally rough day at work and all I wanted to do was put on my Jack Daniel's pajama pants, crawl into bed and make love to a sandwich while watching Dynasty. As I walked into my building, Henry at the front desk motioned me to stop and got something out of my mailbox. He handed me an envelope and I was baffled—it was an extremely urgent FedEx envelope with a return address of American Telegram in Las Vegas.

What? Who would send me a telegram? Truth be told, I didn't even think you could send telegrams anymore. Suddenly my heart dropped into my butt—was I finally being served by my ex-bosses? It looked so official, it had to be something to do with that. But don't I have to be there to be officially served? Isn't that what Pineapple Express taught me? WHAT THE FUCK COULD THIS BE?!?!?! Either way, it probably wasn't anything good. I got into my apartment and tore it open, all the while thinking, "like this day could get any worse."

And then I saw what it was:


That's right. Tulane Chris FedEx-ed me an urgent telegram stating, "SORR ABOUT THE BAG".

..............................................................I literally put the telegram down and—completely alone in my apartment—started a slow clap. This kind of dedication to an inside joke isn't stupid; it's art. And thus, today after work, I came home, framed it and hung it on the wall directly underneath my Dr. Dre stickers.


So with that, I announce my big news: On the ninth day of April, in the 2010th year of our Lord and savior Jesus Christ, "Sorr about the bag" officially became funny to me.

Thank you Tulane Chris. Thank you.

The War on Social Terrorism: YOU STARTED IT!

People never cease to bewilder, shock and amaze me. I don't know why I'm wasting my time with this "graphic design" crap because I think anthropology is my true calling. I could sit in my bed, curled up in the fetal position, rocking ever-so-gently, making "pfffwhhaaaaa?!" faces all day long trying to figure out why people do the socially retarded, super retarded, what's a term I won't get sued again for using? unacceptable things that they do.

Before I die, I'm going to publish an anthology of my experiences with these characters who routinely ruin my day and boggle my mind called Interesting Decisions and the People Who Make Them. This weekend provided me with material to add yet another chapter:

Chapter 7362349: People who invoke the "YOU STARTED IT!" Principle.

It all started at Axis bar on U street Saturday night, where I was ready to give my liver another round of good old fashioned hazing in honor of Jodi's birthday. I should have known something was up the minute I talked to the bartender. The bartender (a dead ringer for Harry from Sex and the City who was playing Seal on his ipod,) came over and asked, "Thup? What can I get you ladeeth to drink?" TEE hee HEE heeee, he had a lisp! I don't know if I've made this clear or not, but what babies are to normal people, lisps are to me. I think they're effing adorable. Like kittens and puppies and rainbows and sunshine.

In an effort to hear the bartender talk his silly talk some more, I asked him what beer he recommended. He all but rolled his eyes and exasperatingly handed me a menu. Thinking maybe he hadn't heard me, I asked him again what he recommended. "There'th a menu," he deadpanned. O...K...now I've only been a bartender for all of 12 hours, but I'm pretty sure when someone asks you what beer you recommend, you recommend a beer. Any beer. Just say the name of a beer. I didn't ask because I'm wildly fascinated by what beer you like guy, I asked because I'm lazy and all I want for Christmas is to hear you say "Tham Adamth ith pretty thweet."

I pushed this little mishap out of my mind and continued with my good time. An hour or so later, I was a few cocktails deep and had a nice buzz going. In honor of my new job and feeling a little sassy, I snuck behind the bar and posed for a picture with a bottle of vodka and a beer pitcher. Just as the flash was going off, I got bitch-slapped in the face with seltzer water. Looking down at my now wet shirt and wiping my hair back, I looked to see who had given me this lovely little hose down. I looked up at the culprit and was met with the stony, upper-middle-class, dockers wearing, black eyes of a White Cap. A random White Cap shot me with seltzer water.

(Dramatic Double Dare Re-enactment)

Now, that alone not enough to send me into full What's The Matter With Society? mode. Don't worry, I'm not that snarky. I have a sense of humor and understand that rowdy things happen when people are drunk. Ergo, I decided to give the White Cap a chance to LOLZ it off and make it right with me. Because...you know...you don't just go around spraying random people in the face with water and then not say word one to them when they're attempting to dry themselves off with cocktail napkins while looking at you like "what the fuck was that for, guy?" ...Right?

"Hey. So you just sprayed me with water there a second ago. You should probably buy me a drink to make it right," I said in a light-hearted and friendly tone as I wiped mascara from under my eyes.

"No. I'm good, actually," the White Cap said back to me with the same tone and look in his eye that one might give a hunchback after they ask you if you want a rim job.

WOAH, WOAH, WOAH, White Cap! Now I'm not asking you to buy me a drink because I want to go to the prom with you or go steady and wear your varsity Letterman jacket, you jackass. I'm asking you to buy me a drink so I don't punch you in the nuts for dousing me with water. I realize you don't know me, but here's an intro: I'm a house cat. I sleep a lot, am fascinated by balls of twine and hate getting wet (that's what she said.)

This is where my inner rage started to boil. What the fuck was this guy thinking?! Of all the interesting decisions to make, why would he act like such a little douche bag and not only spray me with water (which is slightly Three Stooges of him and kind of just a lame move on it's own) and then refuse to buy me a drink or even offer the slightest little piff of an apology?

It was at this point that I was feeling like a rejected, washed up, sad sea hag when my family motto came echoing into my mind: "Don't fuck with a McBlogger!" I could hear my forefathers cry out. And you're damn right. Don't fuck with a McBlogger. It's not an interesting decision, it's just an all-around horrible one.

I figured this White Cap needed to be taken down a peg or too, and I would be more than willing to do it for him. But I didn't want to do it just for myself; I wanted to do it for society as a whole. White Caps need to learn that you can't go around acting like a flaming douche bag to everyone you meet and not suffer the repercussions. I can't just declare a War on Social Terrorism and be too scared to drop a few bombs. What kind of leader would I be?

I slyly wrapped my hand around the beer in front of me and slowly slid it towards the White Cap, ready to knock it into his lap in an effort to make it look like he had pissed himself. However, White Cap whapped my hand away, grabbed the beer and turned his back to me. OH. HELL. NAW.

Having lost my drink when I went down with the seltzer Titanic, I looked around for a liquid to shower this douche bag with, to no avail. That's when I turned around to see the cocktail waitress' busing station and a little light bulb went off above my head. If beer was out, then Tabasco sauce was in. I unscrewed the top and acted like that White Cap's back was the juiciest steak in town and doused him in Tabasco. As she had been watching this all go down, I tossed the Tabasco to Anna so she could get in on the fun. (PS: I wold like to take this time to publicly apologize to Jilllian who sadly got in the Tabasco crossfire and deserved none of it. I am so sorry for that civilian casualty!) Feeling like maybe he wasn't spiced up well enough, I got greedy and unscrewed the lid of a pepper shaker and tossed it to Anna, who promptly spilled it down Dr. Douchebag's polo shirt. Whenever Anna and I are getting away with one of our pranks, we inevitably get caught. And that is exactly what happened.

The White Cap realized what was up and took off his jacket to discover the spicy Jackson Pollack I had created on the back of his pea coat. I gave him a look that said "eesh, that sucks" and took out my iphone ready to text what had just happened to Talia across the bar. The White Cap turned red with anger, grabbed my wrist and shoved me back with not exactly Ike Turner force, but enough to be completely uncool.

My jaw hit the floor and I began to have a little conversation with myself:
"Holy shit. That asshole just pushed you!"
"I know, right?! Punch that asshole in the mouth!"
"No, no, no! Do not punch him! To be fair, you were acting like a total cunt face and he's rightfully mad."
"But dude, pushing a girl?!"
"Yea. Good point. OK punch him."
"Seriously? Do I even know how to punch someone?"
"You took kickboxing. Upper-cut, jab, jab, upper-cut and then grapevine your way outta there!"

Unfortunately by the time I talked myself into punching him, he had already turned around and was cleaning Tabasco sauce off of his jacket and the moment had passed, so I looked over at Anna to see if she saw what had just gone down. And indeed she had. In the grand tradition of getting in a physical fight for the sake of having for your drunk best friend's back at Christmas time (what an oddly specific tradition...) she went to grab the White Cap's beer to throw in his face. Unfortunately this enraged the beast even more and he stopped her mid grab and proceeded to full body, two hands on chest style, full force shove all 100 lbs of Anna off of him. Now, I realize that it probably was a dick move on my part to douse this kid in a delicious pepper sauce, but hitting a girl is about as cool as a pair of denim shorts. Anna went to shove him back and it was clear this guy was about to deck her in the face so I jumped in to separate them and it turned into a bona fide scramble before out of nowhere Meredith, or as I now refer to her, the Beast from the Northeast, stepped in and threw her full beer square in the face of the White Cap like a fuckin' champ. It was brilliant. Then the shit really hit the fan and old Lispy McLisperson had to grab the White Cap to keep him from pummeling three girls to the ground.

A few minutes later, the bartender came back and said, "Alright look you guyth, now I kicked him out, but to be fair, he did have a fair amount of condimenth on him stho the next time I catch you guyth thpilling thtuff all over people, I'm kicking you guyth out too! Alright?!" What?! HE STARTED IT!

And to the White Cap: YOU STARTED IT, YOU BIG CRY BABY! This boggles my mind and makes me feel like I'm five years old again. You wouldn't have gotten sprayed with Tabasco if you hadn't sprayed me in the first place! Take a physics class! Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. You spray me with water and I'll spray you with Tabasco. Sure mine is slightly worse, but as my favorite comedian Keith Malley once said, "You start it with a BB gun, I'll end it with a tank." Sorry man, If you didn't want to get sprayed with Tabasco, you probably shouldn't have sprayed me with water with no apologies. I don't go around blowing on dead dandelions and then beat the shit out of them when the seeds blow away in the wind. CAUSE AND EFFECT. And when you go shoving girls around like they're rag dolls, you have no excuse for your behavior because YOU STARTED IT! Did you expect me to just stand there and let you be a dick to me? LOLZ! I think not. I'm sure that's what you're used to because girls rarely stand up to White Caps (because frankly they're kind of scary and intimidating) but as General in the War on Social Terrorism, I'm willing to take a few hits for the team. And so is Anna apparently. And Jillian. And Meredith. Purple Hearts for us all!

Sigh...interesting decisions. Interesting decisions all around.

That burning sensation is just the irony

You know that feeling when you're in your cubicle and think, if I play one more round of online Family Feud, I'm going to physically turn into Louis Anderson and kill myself? Have you developed Carpal Tunnel Syndrome from playing hour after hour of spider solitaire? Ever reached the awkward "some weather we're having..." point in a gchat conversation with your best friend because you've already discussed everything else on the face of the planet earlier that morning? These are frightening moments. The War on Office Boredom is no joke, and as (self-appointed) Secretary of Defense, it's my job to make sure our arsenal is always fully stocked.

Suit up soldier, I have a new weapon for you to play with today: www.inspotla.org

InSpot is a website where you can send comical ecards with a personal message to partners warning them that they miiiight have caught a little somin' somin' from you the last time you two got rowdy. You know, specifically HIV, but you can customize the STD to your case. (FYI: I first heard about this through the podcast Keith and the Girl. It's offensive and hilarious and therefore I'm addicted. You should be too. www.keithandthegirl.com)

I've never been in this situation, but I would imagine that having to tell the random Bro you effed last weekend that you have a scorching case of herpes might be somewhat mortifying. However, spreading diseases around like you're handing out lollipops in a doctor's office is no fun either. Therefore, I'm supportive of any way to anonymously let someone know they better get themselves checked out before having sex again. However, these ecards are a wee bit too lighthearted for the subject matter, and not in an ironic someecards.com kind of way. Take a look:

I like this one because you can actually hear the "eeeeeshhh..." and loosening of the tie when you read it.


That's a witty little catchphrase. But do we really need a zinger (in pink, no less) to say "I gave you AIDS"??? Why don't we just do this exchange:
Infected Guy: Did you hear the one about the chick who unknowingly had sex with a random guy without a condom and contracted HIV?
Fucked Girl: No, I don't think so.
Infected Guy: Oh, really? That's weird...CUZ IT'S ABOUT YOU! (BADUMP, CHHH!)


I think if I ever were to get an STD, I'm going to have a party and invite everyone I've had sex with. This is what the invitation will say:
Who: You and Me
What: Had sloppy unprotected sex
When: Oh man...three weeks ago? Four weeks?...to be honest it's all kind of a blur, that was a really busy month for me.
Where: My apartment. And speaking of my apartment, come over Friday night at 9.
Why: Yea...just come


Hmm...what says "I care about you, but not that much" more than breaking tragic news in an ecard? Oh I know! Breaking tragic news in a post-it-note! Ooo, you know what would burn more than the gonorrhea I just gave you? An ecard of a post-it-note!

Again, while I promote getting tested and having others get tested and educating yourself about safe sex, and blah blah blah, I also promote pranking and extreme tomfoolery. Thus, it is HILARIOUS to send these to your friends and scare the hell out of them.

Check out this one I sent to Eddie:


I think the most ironic part of this whole situation is that these emails usually get flagged as spam and never get read. And best of all, when you move it out of spam to your inbox, some email providers ask you to confirm that you really want to do that to avoid getting a virus. Hah! WHERE WERE YOU LAST SATURDAY NIGHT WHEN I HAD SIX LONG ISLAND ICED-TEAS AND WENT HOME WITH A GUY NAMED "RICKY," HOTMAIL?!?!?!