Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries

- I ran across this while perusing fuckyeahtattoos the other day:

...Look, I'm not trying to seem insensitive here, but there's just something so hilarious? ironic about paying someone to permanently scar you by dragging an ink-filled needle across your skin to further self injury awareness. It's like going on a hunger strike to battle anorexia. Or organizing a fight club against domestic violence. Or renting out a That's Amore! for a night and turning it into a full-blown Roman vomitorium to end bulimia. It just makes me laugh is an interesting choice.

- Remember the 90210 episode where Steve decides to try out his stand-up chops at comedy night at the After Dark, bombs, panics, and ends up stealing a routine from Richard Belzer and it's this big morality lesson about how you should always tell your girlfriend the truth and never steal from Richard Belzer? .........................................................Hmm? Oh, I'm sorry. There's no punchline here. I just think it's completely absurd that that was actually a plotline on 90210.

- "I still really want to see a Christian foam party"- Andrew, October 14, 2011. It just seemed too funny to waste on Twitter. Sorry.

- Alia Shawkat's overacting in Drew Barrymore's Best Coast music video extravaganza "Crazy For You" is one of the most magical things I've ever seen in my entire life. (4:45)

Best Coast - Our Deal from sssnake on Vimeo.

Sometimes when I come back from the gym out of breath, I throw on my doorknocker earrings and a denim jacket and walk around my bathroom delivering that monologue to myself in the mirror. Kind of like how when I get bored emptying the dishwasher, I make all of my movements really big and dramatically slam dishes down in frustration and pretend I'm the piano player in The Style Council's video for "Shout It to the Top".

It passes the time. Either way, Night Creepers 4 lyfe.

- I listened to the unedited version of "Guilty Conscious" the other day for the first time in a while and it was startling.

- Somebody from Hurricane, West Virginia hacked into my Facebook account last Wednesday at 2:38 in the afternoon. The story here is obviously that there's a Hurricane, West Virginia. And that it was recognized for Outstanding Drinking Water Performance in 2010 and has one of the oldest barbershops in America. Swear to fuckin' God.

- I wrote a tweet last Friday about an incredibly mediocre sandwich I was eating at the time and got this in response:

You know what? I resent that. Because I'm fairly confident that they have sandwiches in the third world and the law of averages tells us that some of them have to be mediocre. So suck it, Angie.

- It's T.G.I. Hagman!

And it really is T.G.I. Hagman. I'm not jumping the gun and dooming a man to months of radiation therapy this time. PROOF:

(That was a very meta experience for me. Check it out:

Let's go one more level.

It's like being trapped in a really mediocre Escher drawing.) As of 1:22am on October 21, 2011 (FOR REALZ, FOR REALZ), Larry Hagman is...alive! And I would sell my soul to the Devil to keep it that way.

Alright, that's going to do it for us this week. Have a great weekend and if you're going to the Maryland Renaissance Festival this Saturday—SEE YOU THERE. (!!!1) Buh bye.

A Few Quick Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries Because They Don't Have Conclusions And Just Kind of Abruptly End, Or "Why I'm Not A Terribly Good Writer"

- I'm sorry, but is the world aware of how busy the gym is at 6 o'clock in the morning? Let me back up a bit. So I've been a fair-weather member of the Fitness First gym on L and 19th for the past couple of years and I'm a huge fan. I like it because it's not trendy or complicated. It's a generic gym—you go in, you get your shit done, and you get out. It's like the Shasta cola of workout establishments. I've been calculating for the past few years what I call my gym's "Aspie Hours", or times throughout the day when the least number of people are likely to be there. These hours are roughly the following: 8:30-9:30am, after the nine-to-fivers go to work, before the housewives come in; 1:00-3:30ish, after the lunch rush, before the evening rush, during group classes; and 8:45-10:00pm, after the evening rush, before closing. I particularly like going during the 8:30-9:30am time slot because it's primarily filled with the elderly and I feel like Super Man on my Arc Trainer by comparison. And yet I went in this morning at 6am. I went in as a joke. As a SICK, understated joke—as performance art, really—and it was packed. Packed with fit, perky, fast-moving people who made eye contact. It was disgusting. So. I learned a lesson. Good. Good for me.

- Hi. If I'm going to spend $52 to make my apartment smell like cannabis for 60 hours, I expect to wake up at the end of those 60 hours thigh-deep in chicken bones and half-eaten Hot Pockets with a 50-page opus on my desktop about how time is cyclical titled "SERIOUSLY_DO NOT FUCKING FORGET THIS.doc", not holding an empty 9oz glass jar with the clearest head I've had since I was 14.

- Teresa got a part-time job reporting traffic for the local NBC news station and recently said the following on air: "Reports are coming in of an overturned blueberry truck on I-95 just outside of Baltimore. So if you're headed up that way tonight, it looks like you're headed for a real jam." I bring this up only because I need you to know how incredibly sexually attracted I am to that joke. Not only is it a traffic joke, it's a preservatives joke. I'm wetter than a Slip 'n Slide at a Fourth of July party.

- I came back from the gym this past Monday morning and was about to collapse on my bed and make love to a bagel and an episode of "Fraiser"—as is par for the course—when I overheard my neighbor get into a huge fight with her boyfriend. Or I guess he got into a fight with her because he was doing all of the yelling. And I do mean yelling. I've overheard plenty of neighbors yell at their significant others in my time, but this was some next level shit. This was a sensible blouse and an overcooked meatloaf away from being a Lifetime movie. I couldn't figure out what they were fighting about though because it was one of those situations where all you can hear is a lot of forceful mumbling with the occasional clear word or phrase when someone really wants to drive a point home. Like, "mumblemumblemumble I WAS THE ONE mumblemumblemumble WHILE YOUR ASS mumblemumblemumble FOR FIVE HOURS mumblemumblemumble BECAUSE YOU NEED THE DRAMA." Trying to fill in those blanks is like playing The Burning Bed edition of Mad Libs. It's haunting. Anyway, I didn't know what to do about the situation, or even if I should do anything at all. I just kind of sat there awkwardly shifting my eyes around the room all "ha ha...Roz", hoping things wouldn't escalate to the point where I had to put pants on. I felt badly for her. But mostly I couldn't stop thinking about that "Family Guy" cutaway "Horton Hears Domestic Violence in the Next Apartment and Doesn't Call 911":

So then I obviously watched that clip like sixteen times in a row and just cackled and cackled like an asshole with my bagel dangling out of my mouth while God only knows what was going on next door. I justified this in my head by thinking, "Well, I'm not laughing at her; I'm laughing at what her horrible situation reminds me of." But that still felt...off. 

I find my whole reaction to this situation deeply disturbing because I'd like to think I'm a feminist, yet here my neighbor's boyfriend is yelling at her in a sort of scary way and I just could not give two shits. I mean, I sort of did. I guess I gave AN shit. The concept was horrifying, but you know, we're all adults here. Let's tend to our own flocks. And then the fact that that went through my head horrified me even more because again, feminist. So then I tried justifying that by reminding myself that I hate her. Because I do. I've asked her repeatedly to stop slamming the door behind her when she goes in and out of her apartment because besides it being rude and startling, it rattles our shared wall where I have two plates hanging and if they fall and break I'm going to blast the most offensive German shiza porno that euros can buy every single night between the hours of 3-6am until death do us part. And yet she continues to do it! Day in and day out! So her boyfriend's yelling at her? Good. I have a strongly worded letter I wrote to our condo board that he can read aloud to her as well. So basically, this means that in my own mind, the following is my stance on verbal abuse: VERBAL ABUSE IS STILL ABUSE! ABUSERS ARE COWARDS! REAL MEN DON'T HURT WOMEN! THAT IS UNLESS THAT WOMAN WON'T STOP LETTING THE DOOR SLAM BEHIND HER BECAUSE COME ON LADY!

So in conclusion: I am a horrible human being, I bring down my gender and this great nation, and Libya is a land of contrast. THE END.

When was International Women's Day again?

UHHHH, not to call-out and alienate a dedicated reader, but Mike (not Mike-Mike; Mike from Des Moines-Mike) just sent me the most horrifying email I've ever received and I have to share.

Mike and I are usually both up at the same queer and ungodly hours because I'm writing and he's an insomniac, so occasionally we'll shoot emails back and forth. This is from tonight:

You won't believe the shit that went down in my gross anatomy lecture today my professor actually referenced Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask). In actuality we were talking about sex, reproduction, and I had to watch a lady give birth. FML. For real Meg seriously consider never doing that. This lady didn't even have a Brazilian before she let it be filmed so I think that really put her character into question. But my teacher was discussing the finer points of how far the penis can actual go in the cervix or whatever and some girl said "well thats not very deep what if i sleep with someone bigger then that" and he said "you know you should check out a book called 'everything you always wanted to know about sex "[...]

I................just have so many emotions:

1.) I just watched a video of a vaginal delivery on YouTube and I've never been so happy to be raggin' it in my entire life.

2.) Now I can't stop watching birthing videos.

3.) I just tabbed over from a birthing video to type the above sentence and tabbed back just in time to see an episiotomy, and I wish you could hear the noise I made. OH MY FUCKING GOD. TABBED BACK AGAIN AND THERE WAS A CLOSE UP. A CLOSE UP OF THE EPISIOTOMY. THE DOCTOR WAS JUST GOING TO TOWN WITH A PAIR OF SCISSORS LIKE SHE WAS A MEAGER YARD OF FABRIC AT JO-ANN'S.

I'm so sorry, I just got the shivers and 100% feel like I'm going to vomit. 

4.) OK, I originally laughed at that YouTube comment, but honestly, Diane McBlogger: you are a sinner and a saint and God bless you for going through that to give me life. I'd like to think I was worth it, but then again, you automatically assumed I ate out of the trashcan a few weeks ago when I told you I got food poisoning, so, maybe not.

5.) One of the funniest things anyone ever told me about childbirth was courtesy of Rachel after she had her baby last summer. (Side note: not to get all Megan's Law on you, but Rachel and Eric's son, AJ, is adorable in a way that I don't know how to handle. And I'm not just saying that because they're my friends. I don't even like kids! They're perpetually covered in a fine layer of maple syrup and sawdust and make me heinously uncomfortable, but that child is uh-dorable. I really want to link to this video of him hysterically laughing in the bathtub that I've watched too many times for someone not in their family, but: a.) I can't find it on YouTube, and b.) I don't know if Rachel wants me linking a video of her nude child on a blog that featured anal sex and ass-fingering stills yesterday.) (Look at me, thinking before I act. Making mature decisions. Well, I guess this is growing up...)

Anyway, after she had AJ, I sat her down and made her go into a gross amount of detail about what it was like to give birth. About halfway through, I asked her if it was awkward to be all beave to the wind for 18 hours, and she said the only part of the experience that made her bashful was how much you fart during childbirth.

"Yeah, but you're sitting there with a child dangling out of your bits—do you really care if you're farting at that point?" I asked her.

"Meghan, it was the middle of the day. THE SUN WAS OUT. It was so mortifying! I couldn't stop apologizing!" she responded. This conversation happened at least eight months ago and it's still endlessly funny to me. I just love the concept of there being "farting hours" and those hours corresponding with the position of the sun, like some sort of ancient Aztec gassy ritual. I also enjoy the mental image of someone letting a fart slip out at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, awkwardly shifting their eyes around the room, and then being like, "WELP, IT'S FIVE O'CLOCK SOMEWHERE, AMIRITE?! HEY-O!!!!!" Ohhhhh, mercy...it's the little things that get me through the day.

5.) RE: the pubic hair comment: Oh, I'M sorry, but if my vagina was about to be tarred and feathered and drawn and quartered and put in the microwave with a metal spoon and blown up, I think the last thing on my to-do list would be to get a bikini wax. Sorry that "puts my character into question", sir.

6.) Excuse me, but "HOW FAR A PENIS CAN GO INTO THE CERVIX"??? Why is anything going into the cervix during sex?! Am I correct in thinking that that doesn't happen? I'm apprehensive to fully freak out about this and say it's 100% not physically possible becauze (<--- that was a typo, but my God do I wish that's how I spelled "because") I have a very medieval understanding of my genitals and reproductive organs and it's all just witchcraft and wizardry to me, so I suppose there's a .0000000001% chance that "cervix-fucking" is possible, but I'm leaning towards not. Also this just seems like one of those things I'd mock and make a big deal about, only to read 100 comments at the end of the day about how it's normal and I'm the weirdo for thinking otherwise. (See wiping sitting down, parasites, The Snuggie...) One time my sister made a passing reference to when a gentleman's junk hits your cervix during sex and I was like, "HA HAHAHAH, WHAT?!?! YOU FREAK OF NATURE! THAT DOESN'T HAPPEN! LOLOL!" and she gave me one of the most judgmental stares I've ever received and said, "Uh, yes it does. What kind of guys are you having sex with?" That shut me up pretty quickly. So I don't know! It's anyone's game! Maybe ladies all over the world play bumper cars with their cervixes every night and sometimes shit slips in and I'm the weird one with a Hogwarts grand hall of a vagina with rotating staircases that nobody will ever reach the end of, so don't listen to me.

...This blog post didn't really go where I thought it would, and yet, here we are. Hey. Happy Thursday.

[The AJmeister. Stunnin' in skull & crossbones for Auntie Megglezzz.]

Random Whatnot and...Stuff

1.) I really need to try harder with my blog post titles.

2.) UH, no big deal, but the "Soap" theme song is officially my new ringtone, courtesy of old fallin'-off-the-bed-'n-jackin'-up-her-back Ushma.

No voiceover. Strings. 15 seconds of pure magic on a loop. If I was an asshole about not answering my phone before, I'm on a whole other level now. All I do is lay around my apartment with my head in my hands, kicking my little legs back and forth in the air, just waiting for someone to call so I can not pick up and do the "Drop It Like It's Hot" .gif dance. I seriously considered tweeting my number so it would happen more often and I'm still not convinced it's not not a bad idea...

3.) OK, working part-time at the Pleasure Palace: BEST IDEA EVZ or WORST IDEA EVZ?!

PRO: I could walk to work

CON: ...

PRO: I'm an old pro at the retail game

CON: Retail money blows

PRO: Yeah, but it's better than nothing

CON: That's valid

PRO: Blog fodder out the ying-yang

CON: Yeah, but no taking pictures of people, and no naming names

PRO: Well, fucking obviously

CON: Oh, I'M sorry, I'm not the one who got fired for blogging last year

PRO: Yeah you are. Technically.

CON: Point taken

PRO: The hours are perfect

CON: Porn shop smell kind of gives me a headache

PRO: Breathe through your nose

CON: Everything might be covered in a thin layer of question mark

PRO: You finished your Gardasil series in 2009

CON: Did you know that cervical cancer can be caused by a virus?

PRO: Be one less. Tell a friend.

CON: Actually, now they're saying that shit is kind of dangerous

PRO: Well, fuck me

CON: Get back to pro/con-ing the job

PRO: Sorry

CON: Walking home from Georgetown to Dupont at 12:30 in the morning sounds slightly dangerous

PRO: So ride your bike. It's about to be the Spring! Perfect, crisp night-riding weather!

CON: That's actually a pretty good idea. OH, WAIT A MINUTE...

PRO: The ultimate trump card in the McBlogger Family Bike War of 2007—Present would be getting raped while walking home from work

CON: I mean, that's true...but I'd also have to get raped...

PRO: Yeah, but you'd really prove a point

CON: Well, I do like doing that

PRO: Then it's settled

CON: 'Eh...you have to apply in person

PRO: That seems kind of confrontational

CON: HAHA, I know, right??

PRO: You really do need a job though

CON: I don't know what all this you nonsense is. There's no "I" in "we".

PRO: That's not how that phrase goes

CON: This is so exhausting

FINAL SUMMATION: I don't know. Should I apply??

4.) Speaking of porn, I spent this past weekend at Chris' place in Philly and his floor was saturated in nudie mags. It was so incredibly distracting. And not in like a "Ooo0o0o0o! This is so hot, I can't concentrate on my work!" kind of way, but more in a "Ow, that looks like it hurts, why is she so shiny?" kind of way. (Side note: if you ever want to derail a Meg/Chris writing session, give us porn, Silly Putty, and/or a YouTube video of Maya Angelou reciting "Phenomenal Woman" and we'll be DUNZO.) There is absolutely nothing sexy to me about still pornographic images. I mean, they're fascinating, yes, but not sexy. Mostly they just make me appreciate being a lady, because if I ever had to donate sperm in a clinic that only had adult magazines, I'd be fah-fah-fucked. I'd have to ask the nurse to come back in after an unproductive 30 minutes and be like, "Um, here's your Barely Legal back. I'll just take a copy of The Atlantic or something because I'm pretty sure I could work something out to that...Thanks."

Here are my two favorite images from the shag carpet of XXX literature that is Chris' floor (Oh! NSFW! Kind of. The floating Evie heads of censorship were 100% Chris' idea, but you're welcome nonetheless.):

I can't stop masturbating to this image and it has nothing to do with the penetration and everything to do with that tattoo. It's like a lasagna of irony: on first layer, nothing says "I'm proud of my Jewish heritage and this for my Bubby who survived in the Holocaust" like a fucking Star of David tattoo. It's like putting "I love the Torah! BUT TAKE THAT, LEVITICUS 19:28!" forever on your person. On the second layer, porn stars with religious tattoos are just such fucking buzzkills. If I'm trying to get off to you doing some girl from behind, the last thing I need is a giant Star of David being repeatedly thrust in my face and reminding me that I keep meaning to google when Passover starts this year. (April 19th.) And finally on the tertiary layer, it's around his belly-button. Let me repeat that: the Star of David is around his belly-button. I mean...I don't know what the literary equivalent of a slow clap is, but I'd like to do that. Right now. Clap. Clap. Clap, clap. Clap, clap, clap, clap. Well done, sir. Well done.

I wish I could have scanned this page to get the detail on her face, but Chris wanted it to frame or laminate and carry around in his wallet and I guess I have to respect that. I'm pretty sure we're going to make this the Official Pornographic Image of 2birds1blog because neither of us can get over how perfectly that face shouts, "TAKE THE PICTURE. I SAID, TAKE THE GOD DAMN PICTURE. I JUST SCRATCHED MYSELF AND I'M NOT DOING THIS AGAIN, SO TAKE THE GOD DAMN PICTURE" through gritted teeth. A++++

5.) I know I'm embarrassingly late to the party, but "Anacostia—The Web Series" is the single greatest thing that has ever happened to me. I don't even remember what life was like before it. Per series creator Anthony Anderson, "I wanted to create a show that was along the lines of 'Dallas' and 'Knots Landing' with a bit of a 'Sex And The City' flair” A "Dallas"-esque show set in Anacostia? I mean...really. Why didn't I know about this until now? My new life goal is to get a walk-on role in season 3. I'm well aware that I'm a white girl from Northwest, which is sort of the antithesis of everything the show is about, but I'd be more than willing to play "Lost AU Freshman doing FSE in Congress Heights #1" and just wander around aimlessly in the background of a shot in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. Mr. Anderson, I look forward to you contacting my agent (chris@2birds1blog.com). And Mr. Wil Lash, I look forward to you asking me out on a date and creating a wonderful life together. I don't know if you heard, but I finished my Gardasil series in 2009. Wink! (meg@2birds1blog.com).

Arguments

Hey, kids. Daddy’s missed you.

Thank you to everyone who’s congratulated us on the book. We are, of course, over the moon about it. I’ve already had three wet dreams about going into Borders, seeing the book on the table, and hollering, “I did 43% of that! Me!” I’ll give you a recap of my holidays travels later this week, including a joke beginning “Two homosexuals walk into an oxygen bar…” and my experience at “candlelight yoga.” For today, though, I’ve collected six of the dumbest arguments I’ve ever had, with a nod to the classic “Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About”:

“Don’t Put Metal in the Microwave”

(Tulane Chris vs. Mom)

Mom: Do you want a kolache?

TC: Sure.

Mom: Okay, let me heat it up for you.

TC: Don’t put that plate in the microwave, it has metal on it.

Mom: What? Oh, the gold leaf? That won’t matter.

TC: Yes, it will! Don’t put metal in the microwave! You taught me that!

Mom: That’s an old wives’ tale. Forget it. If you’re going to act that way I’m eating the kolache.

TC: You can’t punish me for understanding how microwaves work.

Mom (through mouthful of kolache): Can. Did.

Winner – Czech Stop Bakery in West, Texas, for making kolaches good enough to argue over.


“Your Proposed Comic Book is Offensive”

(Tulane Chris and The Furious Jew vs. Deborah)

Deborah: Listen. About this comic book you’re writing… I need you to not do it.

TC&TFJ: Why? It’s a wonderful idea. It’ll sell billions.

Deborah: You’ve drawn me as a spy named “Super Jewess” who saves Christmas.

TC&TFJ: That’s correct.

Deborah: Who kills men by breaking their necks with her breasts.

TC&TFJ: Well, bad men. It’s not like you’re going down to the VFW and snappin’ heads off for sport…

Deborah: You’re answering the wrong question. Do not draw this comic.

TC&TFJ: Why not? You’ll be immortalized!

Deborah: As a breast-wielding assassin with a racially charged name. Why do you not see that this is insane? Name one time when that plot model has worked.

TC&TFJ: Pam Grier’s entire career.

Deborah: …okay, but don’t write this comic book or I’ll skip the breast part and proceed directly to shooting you.

Winner – Deborah

Losers – Teenage girls with racially charged names who need a positive role model; the comic-book buying population.


“You’re a Scorpio If I Say You’re a Scorpio, Dammit”

(Tulane Chris vs. Mom)

TC: My horoscope says I have a bright, optimistic nature. That’s unlikely.

Mom: Let me see. No, it doesn’t, it says you’re poor in money but rich in friends. You’re a Scorpio, like me.

TC: No, I’m a Sagittarius. It changes on the 22nd and I was born on the 25th.

Mom: No, you’re a Scorpio. You just don’t want to be like me.

TC: No, it’s as close to a fact as you can get in astrology. I was born on November 25, which means…

Mom: I’m tired of you always chirping about this. “Look at me! I’m Chris! I was born on the cusp! Look at my cusp! Don’t I have a big, hard cusp?” You’re spoiled, is what your problem is.

Losers – Astrology; rational thought


“Mice Are Disgusting”

(Tulane Chris vs. Meg McBlogger)

TC: I’m buying a shotgun.

Meg: I said I’d let you do those Netflix reviews. Settle down.

TC: No, we have mice and they won’t get in the traps and die. I’m raising the stakes.

Meg: Are you kidding me?! I love mice! They’re cute and they have little tails. When I lived in Brooklyn we had a little mouse and I named her “Heidi Mousetag.” I taught her how to run through a maze I built out of a pile of empty beer bottles.

TC: Mice shit everywhere. If something’s going to shit in my kitchen it’s going to be me.

Meg: Everything shits. I don’t think your shit-free world is very realistic, hippie.

TC: I’m going to shit on your counter and see if you like it.

Meg: Try it, toaster strudel. You make me go across the street and put in my headphones if you have to go while I’m at your apartment. You couldn’t shit on a countertop for a million dollars.

Winner – rodent-borne plagues. 

[Ed. Note: I'm sorry Chris, but we argued for well over an hour last Friday night about who'd be a better "named dry hump", Eartha Kitt or Nigella Lawson, and you went with the mice argument for this post? Your choices intrigue me, sir. Also, VIVA HEIDI MOUSETAG, as seen here in her luxury shoebox condo.]

“No, It Just Sounds Like It All Sounds the Same”

(Tulane Chris vs. Stoner Boyfriend from 2005)

Stoner Boyfriend: You want to smoke some pot?

TC: No, it makes me anxious and nauseated. It’s too much like not being stoned. Do you have any liquor?

Stoner Boyfriend: No. You should smoke pot. It’s natural.

TC: Yes, I bet all those years of selective breeding and Mexican pesticides to really brought out the rich dankness of God’s creation. Are you sure you don’t have any liquor?

Stoner Boyfriend: Just relax. I’ll put on some tunes. There, listen to that jam.

TC: I don’t like reggae.

Stoner Boyfriend: Sure you do. Here, listen. Hit this and it’ll make sense.

TC: It all sounds exactly the same.

Stoner Boyfriend: No, it doesn’t.

TC: It does! What’s the name of this song? Tell me without looking.

Stoner Boyfriend: Uh. Jah… deh… lion of Judah…

TC: Safe bet. I hate reggae.

Stoner Boyfriend: You just haven’t heard enough. Here, listen to this.

TC: It’s exactly the same, except now the lyrics are about beating gay people to death in the streets. Did you think we were going to make out to this? This sucks.

Stoner Boyfriend (eyes narrowing): Narc.

Loser – Any credibility my taste in men had.


“Your Mom Has a Gender”

(Tulane Chris vs. Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie)

TC: I think the next time I finish on a guy’s face, I’m going to try to make a handlebar mustache. I might have to save up for a couple of days to have enough of a supply, but I think it’ll be worth it.

E-C-B E: That’s disgusting.

TC: It doesn’t get stale. It’ll be fine. Or did you mean that I should go for muttonchops?

E-C-B E: That’s so antifeminist.

TC: I doubt there’s going to even be a woman in the room, but if there is I’ll pay her the same rate.

E-C-B E: That’s not what I’m talking about. You don’t understand the theory.

TC: I’m not sure if you understand how this works. Most guys will only let you do that so you’ll let them do it to you. It’s very egalitarian. Very free to be you and me. Of course, you don’t let them do it to you – not unless you’re some kind of faggot – but in theory there’s all that give-and-take you League of Women Voters broads seem to…

E-C-B E: The League of Women Voters were quitters. We should have taken the vote from men, not shared it, and if you call me a broad again I’ll Valerie Solanas you right in the nards.

Winner – Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie, despite a clear below-the-belt shot.


“Twat Did You Say? I Cun’t Understand You”

(Mom vs. Dad vs. Dad’s dental structure, I guess)

Mom: Where is your father?

TC: At work.

Mom: I’m proud of him. People come up to me all the time and tell me how brave he is to teach with that speech impediment.

TC: He doesn’t have a speech impediment.

Mom: He does. You probably just can’t hear it.

TC: What is it, then?

Mom: Oh, you know, that thing with his speech. It’s hard to explain.

Later…

TC: Mom said something about your brave struggle against a speech impediment? It was very Lifetime.

Dad: Your mother brings that up every twenty-eight days, ever since her hysterectomy. Her personality demands that she do something maddening on a regular cycle, and now that her hormones are on an even keel - the only thing about her that is, incidentally – she’s locked onto sspeech pathology as a PMSS placceholder.

TC: Oh, heyo. Your S’s are kind of fucked up. I wouldn’t have noticed if no one had pointed it out.

Winners – Delta Burke, Bronson Pinchot, and Jonathon Taylor Thomas, who played us in the Lifetime Movie Dr. McBlogger’s S’s: Portrait of a Marriage.


“Speaking of Delta Burke…”

(Mom vs. My First Attempt at a Screenwriting Career)

TC: Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie and I are going to write a sitcom!

Mom: I thought you were both busy with that gay thing.

TC: Right, but we’re allowed fifteen minutes of recreation between Will and Grace and bedtime. We’ll have to focus pretty hard, but it’s worth doing. Anyway, the “you” character is going to be played by Delta Burke, we hope! Isn’t that cool?

Mom: Oh, so I’m fat and shallow, am I?

TC: No, uh… you’ve lost a lot of weight…

Winner – Adams Media, since because my first sitcom attempt failed, and my second attempt failed, I’m free to co-write a book for them.

Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries:

- First and foremost, I didn't forget about last Thursday's cracked out promise to do a "Spit in Porn" entry; it'll go up tomorrow. I need one more day to gather my thoughts on the subject matter. Because I have a lot of them. But like, a lot of them. To the point where the thought of organizing them into a cohesive blog entry is completely overwhelming. Thus, I've decided I shall spend all day today in a dark corner of a quiet coffee shop, pair of bifocals perched slightly below the bridge of my nose, brow furrowed while I flip through old leather-bound books on human sexuality, biology and...spit..., feverishly taking notes and yelling at the waitress for interrupting my train of thought to do something as pedestrian as clear my cup away, a-thank you. Because tomorrow's entry isn't going to be just your run-of-the-mill blog post—it's going to be my opus.


- Only 10% of me is shocked that my opus involves spitting on genitals.


- Based on my interest in "Nip/Tuck" and Louis C.K. stand-up, Netflix has recommended that I watch Scooby-Doo and the Monster of Mexico.

That dog better be in Mexico to get cheap botox or because he deeply resents his children; anything less and Netflix and I are going to need to have words.


- There is no other music in the world that toes the line between "jolly" and "I'm going to kill myself tonight" like Christmas music. While I was waiting for Teresa to come over and drink wine and Christmas-ify my apartment with me last night, I put on my Pandora Christmas music station and started tidying up a bit. At first it was playing swingin' Michael Buble "Holly Jolly Christmas" type stuff, but somewhere along the line it slowly progressed into like, recently orphaned children singing through their tears about Christmas trees and songs comprised of a single, haunting bell echoing through the night that forgot you. I didn't even notice the progression happening; one minute I was making my bed and the next I was curled up in it, hysterically crying and wailing, "I'M SO FUCKING ALONE!" into a pillow.


- That being said, the Christmas spirit has arrived in the old Meg McBlogger residence!




My Christmas tree is kind of anorexic. And fake. And casting spooky shadows on my wall in that picture. And up until a few hours ago was covered in Luna bar wrappers and old US magazines in the crack between my bed and the wall—or my Shame Hole, as I call it. And by Luna Bars, I obviously mean empty ice cream cartons. And it's now standing on an old H&M pashmina covering a Jäger cooler. Basically my Christmas tree is the antithesis of Alex's fancy-pants real person Christmas tree:
Whatevs. Mine's got moxie.


- Speaking of Teresa, I never thought I'd say this to anything but the mirror as I gaze at my Thrillhouse tattoo (which, for the record, I do quite often), but this is probably the sexiest tattoo I've ever seen:
If Maryland pride is gay, then I'm the Old Line State's Bruce Vilanche.


- If all goes well this year with HannuClaus, I will soon be making the switch from a duvet to a comforter. I'm kind of bummed about it though, because truthfully I find duvets more comfortable than comforters. My problem with duvets, however, is that I'm an incredibly active sleeper and as I toss and turn all night, the duvet separates and gets pushed down to the bottom of the cover and I somehow manage to tangle myself in the entire apparatus and all of a sudden I'm having nightmares about being in a straitjacket and feh. I feel like it has to just be easier to get a comforter. I'm tired of not getting enough sleep because the ratio of duvet to cover is off.


Speaking of my odd little bed neurosis, there was a solid month in 2004 when my sister's best friend, Rachel, would sign into AIM for the sole purpose of featuring a new "Embarrassing Meg McBlogger Fact of the Day" on her profile. I completely forgot about this little gem until it was a featured EMMFOD: 

Embarrassing Meg McBlogger Fact of the Day: When Meghan was a little girl, her parents used to have to safety pin her pillow to the center of the bed.

Uh, A.) that's incredibly true and although safety pins aren't in the mix anymore, the odds of me being able to sleep if my pillow is off-center is still slim-to-none; B.) That being said, just the fact that safety pins were even involved in my bed time growing up makes me feel so Aspie's I'm shocked there isn't a social worker reading this over my shoulder as I type.


- You know what I've come to realize? If God forbid I ever run out of things to write about, all I need to do to get more material is simply go down into the metro. I don't even necessarily have to take it anywhere! I just need to physically enter the human cesspool that is the Washington, D.C. metro system and within 30 seconds, I guarantee you I'll have a story about how society is crumbling in upon itself and I want to set 98% of everyone I see on fire. Case and point:


I had the great displeasure of taking the metro to my parent's house during the peak of evening rush hour the other night. I entered the metro from Dupont south and from the top of the descending escalator I could see that the platform was packed everywhere except for the far end. "HUZZAH!" I thought to myself. Still reeling from Ren Fest. Apparently. "That's the side where the train pulls in; the first few cars are normally pretty empty anyway. I'll stand there!"


I slowly worked my way through the crowd and eventually arrived at the opposite end of the platform. As I stood there waiting for the next train, I felt very content with my situation as I had about five feet on either side of me free of Other Person. Which is exactly when an older woman walked over and stood directly in front of me. Let me repeat that: Bitch stood DIRECTLY. IN FRONT. OF. ME. She had more than enough room to stand next to me, but she chose to stand in front of me. And you know what pissed me off most about that situation? It wasn't that she was poaching my prime platform real estate; it wasn't that her person was about three inches away from mine and very clearly invading my privacy bubble; it wasn't that she was going to board the train before me although I got there first—it was that what she did was the equivalent of the people on "The Price is Right" who graduate from Contestant's Row by bidding one-dollar more than the highest bidder. You people are the fucking scum of the earth and if I'm sure of anything in this world, it's that there's a Hell and there's a special place for you in it. In my mind, here's the pecking order of Hell:

1.) Hilter

2.) Pol Pot

3.) An army of child molesters

4.) "The Price is Right" —and one, Bob! bidders

5.) Osama bin Laden

That's right, —and one, Bob! bidders come before Osama bin Laden. You people are collectively worse than the mastermind of 9/11. I am genuinely shocked that murders haven't been committed as a result of someone betting one-dollar more than the highest bidder, winning, and going on to play Plinko. Because Lord knows I'd kill you! I'd kill you, pry that fucking bedroom set from the Ashley group out of your cold, dead hands, and dance on your grave! And you can say, "Oh, that's just the way you play the game. Those people are being smart," but I completely reject that. You know why? Because there's a little thing called dignity in sport. I mean, we'd all win a few more football games if we went around shaking members of the opposing team, but nobody would actually do that because there's no dignity in that win. If you're going to walk into "The Price is Right" studios, come correct—know the prices of shit. Go to Safeway and do some recon; it's not that hard. A bottle of Garlique is $15.99. There. Have some god damn respect for yourself. Don't just wait until the fine Americans who actually did their homework place their bids and then bid one-dollar more. It's disrespectful to me, it's disrespectful to them, it's disrespectful to Bob Barker and his Beauties, and it makes a mockery out of what is undeniably the finest game show of the 20th century.

And that's why I hate the metro.