If my door gets egged this weekend, something tells me it won't be related to Halloween...

Uhhhhh, guys. Something a little bit horrifying slash mostly hilarious slash no, really it was more horrifying just happened. But before I tell you, let's first get the old T.G.I. Hagman out of the way:

As of 5:01am on October 29, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! Sign, sealed, delivered; he's yours.

OK, so it's currently 2:04 in the morning and about a half an hour ago Dan and I scuttled over to Baja Fresh for a midnight taco run (lies. I got a Diet Coke because I'm still full from my lunchtime fish taco/Percocet make out session and Dan got a burrito.) (Don't judge us and our lifestyle.) and on our way back into the apartment, I checked my mail. Mixed in amongst the usual past-due notices and depressing bank statements was this sketchy-ass envelope:

Dan and I got in the elevator with a middle-aged gentleman who lives in my building and I looked at the envelope and said, "Uhh...who do I know at the Center for Arab and Islamic Studies at Villanova University?"

"Ooo! Maybe someone's trying to kill you!" Dan said, with genuine interest and excitement.

"Well that is serial killer handwriting if I've ever seen it." Dan snatched the envelope out of my hand and I asked him to open it. Mostly because if there was anthrax it in—roses are red, fire is hot, I'm holding my breathe and you, sir, are not. Dan opened the envelope and took out a folded piece of lined notebook paper.

"Oh Jesus God. Dan, it's a single piece of notebook paper in handwritten pen. Someone is going to kill me. Dan, someone is absolutely going to kill me."

As the elevator stopped on my floor, Dan unfolded the paper, squinted at what it said and read aloud:

"Evie...Yang's...na na na na na na shrimp fried rice?"

[As it turns out, that's just a little racially charged, Evie-based inside joke/caricature from Tulane Chris. I always forget that he goes to Villanova and has a penchant for sending me comical mail every now and then, that skamp.]

Now, what I failed to mention up until now is that the middle-aged gentleman in the elevator with us was an Asian gentleman. Which means that Dan pulled out a sketch of my parent's Tonkinese cat wearing a paddy hat, squinting and saying "dericious!" over a plate of shrimp while he deadpanned, "Evie Yang's na na na na na na shrimp fried rice" about six inches away from an Asian man. The second after "—rice?" flew out of his mouth, he realized what had just happened, made a "guhhhh" noise and sprinted out of the elevator before collapsing in front of my door in a little puddle of embarrassment.

So basically what this means is that I have now officially offended all two Asians in my apartment building. Every last one of them now thinks that I'm racist. Or have extremely racist friends. I hassle them in the lobby for my food and get amateur Klan art in the mail from Arab/Islamic scholars in Pennsylvania. But if you need to borrow a cup of sugar as racially pure as fresh morning snow, Lord knows I'm here for you.

Sigh. Moving on. So Halloween weekend, huh? Right on. As I mentioned yesterday, Tulane Chris will be visiting this weekend. We're going to do a 2b1b investigation, write a post together, drink a lot, emote, go to Target, emote some more. I'm pretty excited. The culmination of this weekend, however, will be waking up at an obscenely early hour on Sunday morning to cheer Becca and Geoff on as they tackle the Marine Corps Marathon, or their "long distance jog" as I like to call it because belittling my sister's running career is a Facebook interest of mine. It comes from a place of pure jealousy, of course. She sets goals for herself and has the discipline to train for months to accomplish a physical feat, whereas I opened up my umbrella the other day a sugar packet fell out. (That's not a joke, by the way. That happened. I assume I threw a sugar packet in my bag when I got coffee and it got wedged in my umbrella somehow, but still. She did the Army 10K last weekend for funsies and it's literally raining Type II Diabetes on me.)

I realize I could just take up running too, but, you know, effort. I'd prefer to put all of that energy into good old fashioned projecting! I want to make a sign to cheer Becca on, but I can't decide which motivational slogan to go with:

- JOG SLIGHTLY FASTER!

- THAT DOESN'T LOOK THAT HARD.

- I DID THE ELLIPTICAL FOR 30 MINUTES THIS MORNING!

- NOBODY WOULD JUDGE YOU IF YOU PEED YOURSELF!

- IF YOUR NIPS AREN'T BLEEDING, YOU'RE NOT TRYING HARD ENOUGH!

- COLLEGE GIRLS WITH POOR BODY IMAGE DO THIS EVERY DAY!

- REMEMBER WHEN YOU GOT EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA IN ARIZONA? HA HA, ME TOO.

I guess I could always just make seven signs? Either way, I'm pumped. If you'll be in town for the rallies this weekend, I hope you enjoy yourself! And if not, I hope you have a great Halloween weekend wherever you are! To kick the weekend off right, here's a quick little recap of last week's "Jersey Shore" finale I owe you from when I was out sick. It's late, but meh. Something tells me we'll all live.

"Jersey Shore", Season 2: THE FINALE!

Yes, it's the finale. It's time for our Zelko soaked heros and heroines to return to the tri-state area from whence they came. But not before they go on a wacky road trip to the Everglades to see, quote Pauly D, "crocodiles and alligators, or whatever you call them." You shockingly had it right the first time, sir. Although Snooki refers to them as "crock-o-dillios" which immediately makes me hope I'll be reincarnated into a rapping crocodile so I can dub myself the "Crock-o-Dillio" and release an album called, "What the Crock-o-Dillio??" But, yes. They go to see the gators. None eat them; world weeps. Afterwards they go to a little country cafe where they eat fried frog legs. Ronnie is deeply disturbed, J-WOWW is nauseated. On the car ride home, The Situation gets car sick and pukes frog legs up. Wakka, wakka.

I'm sure you're all wondering what ever will happen to Pauly D and Vinny and their little Miami wifies, right? Well, nothing. They take 'em out to dinner (Vinny's gal is 45 minutes late. Or on Meg time, if you will,) make out with them in the street, tell them to K.I.T. and call it a night. Sorry, both dates were incredibly uneventful. I wish I had more for you. Although I will say that Pauly D's lady has got a pair of hooters on her. So. They'll always have that.

Ronni and Sammi go out for one last Miami dinner and—shock!—they get in a fight. Here:

Good enough.

On their last night out, the gang heads to BED where two girls (both of whom I would describe as "atrocious about the face") are all over Vinny and offer to have a threeway with him. And by "offer to have a threeway with him," I mean scream, "Are we fucking tonight, baby??" and "You're gonna have the threesome of your life!" to him over the thumping Enrique Iglesias music. But alas, he can't stop thinking about Ramona and turns them down. Which is when The Situation swoops in, takes them to the John and makes them forget all about Stepfathers 1-3. Bless his heart.

On their last night in the house, the gang has one last family dinner and then retires to the living room to hand out superlatives. It starts out all innocent and light-hearted like "Most Likely to Get Skin Cancer" hahaha LOLZ all of us! but takes a serious turn when The Situation says Vinny should get "Most Likely to be a Follower." Then guess what happens? Correct: escalate, escalate, escalate → full-blown fight. This was one of the most confusing fight sequences yet, so let me break it down for you:

The Situation rags a little too hard on Vinny for being a "fake" "follower", so J-WOWW puts an end to it by telling The Situation that he's the fake one and storms out of the room → While she's gone, The Situation says she's the fakest one in the house → Abiding by "Girl Code", Snooki tells J-WOWW that The Situation said she was fake and that Pauly D nodded his head in agreement → J-WOWW confronts The Situation and says, "If I'm fake, then Pauly D is fake because he talks shit about you behind your back," → The Situation confronts Pauly D → Pauly D goes into a roid rage and pops a blood vessel or two → He confronts J-WOWW → J-WOWW says she told The Situation that because she heard that he agreed with The Situation that she was fake → He asks her who told her that → Snooki makes an "eep!" noise, implicating herself → Pauly D yells at Snooki for a while → Snooki gets mad at J-WOWW for making her look like an asshole → Snooki cries → Everyone's like J/K!!! We're such a family: we hate each other but we love each other and I'm going to miss you guys so much even though we have a shit ton of promotional stuff coming up and Season 3 around the corner, omg we're such a family.

FIN!

And yes, it was just as anti-climactic for me as it was for you. Welp! Have a great weekend guys and we'll see you next week! Buy-bye.

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.

SHIT'S. ABOUT TO GET. REAL. (& a recap.)

Well Christ, now that you've all thrown some pity money my way, I suppose I'm obligated to write regularly again and let you know what's up with me, right? Well played, reader. Well played indeed.

Well, to simplify the situation greatly, I've had to face some hard realities in the past few weeks and those realities caused all of these emotions and Lord (and a slew of state-certified therapists) knows that I have no god-given idea how to deal with emotions in a healthy way. I didn't want to get into all this shit here because this is a comedy blog after all and if you wanted to hear me bitch and moan about how hard life is, you probably would have just been my friend in middle school. But I didn't have any friends in middle school. So I interpret that as a pretty good indicator that nobody wants to hear me bitch and moan. Plus, it's hard to write something from the heart when you know some schmo is going to shit all over it in the comments section. I'm going to be honest with you right now: that is a mind fuck. Bloggers aren't supposed to acknowledge that part of the job because if you do, you're giving power to the people trying to fuck you and the only way to fight back is to deny that they have power over you in the first place. You know who else has to deal with that kind of mental battle every day? Prison inmates. Prison inmates and bloggers. I would not be surprised if I go into my kitchen tomorrow morning to get a bowl of Kashi Go-Lean and a Latin King jumps out and either shanks me or makes me his life bitch. I think we both know I'm rooting for the latter, but still. I'm just saying it's a bizarre occupational hazard.

So, yes, light-hearted end of the week ass rape jokes aside, I wasn't going to talk about it. But as we've experienced in the last two weeks, when I don't talk about it, I don't talk at all. Which I expected a lot of animosity about, and while I certainly got it, mostly I just got a lot of support. By complete strangers! It's crazy. And flattering and touching and slightly overwhelming because you know, emotions and such and such. But eff the commenters! Eff them in the A. And the B. And up the U with electrical wire. And throw a CD in there to boot. (That's a coke douche, by the way, not a compact disc. Although fuck it—throw that in there too. Everything's in mp3 these days anyway and shit is wide.) I'm going to tell you what's up. Although I will let you know that a large quantity of red wine was recently spilled on my keyboard and the S and control keys are fucked up, so it there might be some pelling errors. <--- I didn't plan that. That was organic. But I'm keeping it to prove a point. And if you have a problem with it, shoot me an email me and I will personally come to your place of residence and felate you, because you need to chill the fuck out. And because I'm aware I give a half-assed BJ, I will also bring a few cans of Coors with me to compensate—Christ knows I got extra from camping and Christ double knows I got the time.

So, I was trying to pinpoint today the source of this whole existential life crisis that I'm currently going through. Was it the change of seasons? My sister's upcoming wedding? The fact that all of my friends seem to be fleeing this city like it's the second outbreak of the bubonic plague? No. Well, maybe. But specifically, it was because I looked at my bank account. And the balance was $12.30. So then I looked in my back-up bank account. And the balance there was -$55.30. So then I looked at my emergency savings account. And the balance there was $14.95. Which puts my finances at a grand total of -$28.05, before bills and cost of living and blah blah pants and sandwiches blah. Final summation: bitch has gotta go back to work.

But the thing is, (and I realize this is going to sound obnoxious at first, but stick with) I have to go back to work-work. Like, I have to get a real person job again. I refuse to go back to retail because not only do you work all the time and not make any money, my last experience left me totally jaded. Because you know what's an ironic moment? When you can't make payments on the loans you took out to get a fancy BA in art, because you're not qualified for a promotion at the arts and crafts store you work at. That moment is a real fucking kick in the pants. And then right after you find out you got passed, one of your best friends comes into the store to say goodbye on her way to move to New York and per chance, The Rolling Stones' "Wild Horses" starts playing on the store soundtrack and suddenly you're looking around for fucking James Van Der Beek because life is feeling a little too "Dawson's Creeky" for your liking, so you deal with it by calling your parents on M street and just yell a bunch of swears, get sick, and never go back. Christ.

I'm aware that everyone, including me, has to work. I'm aware that I'm not special and I'm not exempt from any of the shittier aspects of life. However, the fact that I have to go back and get a 9-5 again, to me, feels like a failure. The fact that I couldn't make this blog my bread and butter after trying very, very hard to, makes me feel like a failure. I know because I don't have Google Ads it must seem like I'm not trying to monetize or like I don't take my writing seriously, but behind the scenes I hustle. Chris and I both hustle hard. And I personally have come so close, so many times to getting a break, but fall just short every single time. So I keep trying. I tell myself it's the kick in the ass I need to make this my number one priority and work harder. But when I realized a few weeks ago that I was officially out of "post-firing" money with absolutely nothing to show for it, I just felt like a big fat fucking failure.

Intellectually, I can sit myself down and say that going back to a 9-5 will by no means end my dream and it doesn't actually mean I've failed, but for me, right now, it does. And as I told my mom (or more accurately, as I screamed at my mom), I am allowed to take a moment and be upset about it. I'm not quitting. The blog is not dead. I just needed some time to fucking sit down, eat a bowl of Xanax, come to terms with what's up, look for jobs, and cry at everything on TV, including, but not limited to, that god damn Hallmark card commercial with the daughters going through their dad's drawers and finding every card they've ever given him and they're all, "He kept them all...I didn't even know he read them," and then they all start crying and suddenly Dad pokes his head in all, "What you hens cluckin' about? I'm only moving downtown." You know what? THAT COMMERCIAL IS FUCKING FUCKED UP. They totally lead you into thinking Dad is dead and let's not pretend like we haven't all cleaned out a dead loved one's room and you find their old like, "#1 Grandpa!" shit and think you're going to vomit your insides out and your parents are crying and that's ass-backwards and confusing because you're only 12-fucking-years old and what the shit can you say to make any of it better? FUCK HALLMARK FOR CAPITALIZING ON THAT MOMENT. That is some voodoo shit right there and and I am not amused. It's like the "Golden Girls" episode when you think Blanche's husband is alive again and then right at the end you find out it was all a dream. If someone is alive, just say they're alive. If someone is dead, just say they're dead. Hallmark Dad is alive, George Devereaux is dead. How hard was that??

Anyway, I needed a moment to sit in my apartment, scream at the television like a senile old person and just fucking be sad. The weird thing about writing a comedy blog about the unfortunateness of your life is that after a while, you sort of get psyched when shit happens because it means you have new material. But this little life realization totally snuck up on me. All of a sudden it was like, "this is isn't funny. This isn't funny at all. All of my friends are in love and settling down and getting married and having babies and going back to school and moving on, and I'm single, living in the town I've always lived in or near, in my sister's apartment and I write a free comedy blog primarily about my body fluids and bad luck. What the fuck am I doing?" And the answer is: I don't know. I mean, I guess nobody really knows what they're doing, but I don't even have the comfort of getting to pretend like I do. I can't slap a bunch of smiling pictures of myself on Facebook, add a fancy job title at an impressive company and feel validated. Why? Because everyone knows that I got fired six months ago and went to the hospital because I couldn't stop shitting myself. I mean...really.

That being said, I totally understand that it's my choice to share all of this with you. And I am 100% dedicated to making this little horse and pony show (and my writing in general) a success. However, I don't know if that's actually ever going to happen. I don't know if I'll ever monetize, I don't know if I'm ever going to get an agent, I don't know if I'll ever get a book deal, I don't know if turning down that awesome design job a year and a half ago to stay in a shitty receptionist job to dedicate myself to writing this blog was a good idea and if I didn't do this anymore, I really, really don't know what I'd do. And as long as we're being honest; that scares the ever-living shit out of me. Because everyone knows about it. If I fail, everyone is going to know, so part of me is nervous to even try. But that's where your supportive emails and tweets and PayPal donations really helped. It's very powerful to just have random fucking people tell you not to give up. Because of course my family and friends are supportive and have been telling me not to give up, but they're my family and friends. They're pretty much contractually obligated to believe in me. But you're not. And you seem to be into it. So blokay. I won't go anywhere. I even wrote two blog posts today to make sure that we're back on schedule for next week. hey HEY hey.

So there. That's mostly what's been going on with me. I'm sorry if it inconvenienced you and I'm sorry if my explanation made you feel uncomfortable (as it would me), but I don't know. The minute money is involved, I feel oddly obligated to be honest. Which is weird because I'm Jewish. HI-OHHHHHHHHHH! She's back! And now that we've established I'm not swinging from nerd rope on my shower rod, let's check in on another loose cannon, shall we?

As of 6:18am on October 8, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! And $12 million dollars richer. Which is an interesting turn of events. But apparently he's giving away $10 million of it to charity. Soooooo, Mr. Hagman, I will kindly direct you to my personal PayPal button at your right and bid you a good weekend.

So, this was a boring week in the "Jersey Shore" world, but meh, what else is new? Everyone is psyched that Angelina is gone and to celebrate that fact, the boys go and throw her bed out. This scene enrages me for two reasons: 1.) Upon lifting up her mattress, they discover that the supporting planks are broken and are obviously like, "Heyoo0o0oo, she's such a slut she broke her bed!" I'm sorry but Ikea furniture doesn't hold up for shit and if you'd like to argue that, I have a two broken end tables looking me square in the eye that would love to speak with you; and 2.) The production crew usually gets to take shit from the house for themselves at the end of a reality show and how pissed would you be if you had shotgunned Angelina's bed and then Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino and "DJ Pauly D" decided to physically throw it in a dumpster to further prove that the girl who has left the show, has indeed left the show? How bored and full of forbidden homosexual thoughts are you when that suddenly gets thrown on the agenda?

To further further celebrate the fact that Angelina's gone, the house gets together and cooks a big lobster feast and prays and mumbles about family and Sammi feels weird because now that Angelina's gone, she doesn't have any girlfriends in the house blah blah blah I'm so bored I could puke. But why talk about that when we can talk about how J-WOWW and Snooki attempt to "rescue" a lobster by putting him in a salad bowl of water, feeding him worms and keeping him as a pet? Because again, I'm relating to the "Jersey Shore" a little more than I'd like to. It's time you all know about M'Lady.

M'Lady was a crab. Some say the best crab. One day the summer before freshman year of college, me, Teresa and our friend Franky went crabbing because we're from Maryland and stereotypes are fun and usually based on fact. We were probably out crabbing for like, six hours, and all we caught was one lone crab. Unfortunately, we caught her kind of early on in the day (looking back, if it was a lady crab, why did we keep her? Teresa, email me about this immediately because that seems out of character for us) and therefore become oddly attached to her. We named her M'Lady and we were her #1 fans. When we finally decided to call it a day, we threw M'Lady and like, a lone Pepsi can to clank around together in an igloo cooler lined with part of a folded up Sugarcult poster or something equally ridiculous and as we sped off, it became apparent rather quickly that M'Lady was dying because we forgot to put any fresh water in there. So, I swear to god, Teresa pulled like a hard J-turn off the highway, threw it in reverse, backed into the jetty and we at the last possible second filled M'Lady's cooler with bay water and she lived.

But then we got home (after we did a quick photoshoot with her...) and were faced with the dilemma of, "we have this delicious blue crab on our hands. We befriended her. What the fuck are we supposed to do with her now?" There was only one humane thing we could think of: make a dip out of her. Because every now and then, humane = delicious. But we had bonded with M'Lady so hardcore by that point though that none of us wanted to be the one to actually put M'Lady in her boiling grave of death. In the end Franky did it because he's a boy and boys kill things and girls run into Teresa's dad's den and google artichoke crab dip recipes. Feminism Schmeminism. Then it came time to pick M'Lady apart and again, none of us wanted to do it. So then we had the issue of having a delicious fully-cooked blue crab on our hands and what to do with it. I think I've blocked out how we solved that problem though, because in my mind we went from taking the lid off the pot and discovering one lone crab claw sticking out of the water and straight into the air like the hand at the end of Carrie to happily enjoying a zesty artichoke crab dip. And then when I "used the facility" later that night, I texted Teresa and Franky and told them I had just given M'Lady a "royal burial at sea," which in retrospect is equal parts digusting and hilarious. And then a year later I named my Acura Legend after her to memorialize the M'Lady name forever. Until my sophomore year roommate totaled it and it was like losing her all over again. The moral of the story is: do not befriend crustaceans. Also, don't duct tape a picture of yourself, your male friend and your crab friend to your door the first day of college or everyone will repeatedly come up to you and tell you that your boyfriend is really cute and you'll have to be repeatedly correct them all, "dat dem der ain't mah boyfriend. That's mah crabbin' buddy, Franky, and our delicious catch o' the day, M'Lady!" and everyone think you're a weirdo. And they will be right, but that's not the point.

Speaking crabs, that girl who stood Vinnie up finally calls him back and wants a second chance. He's all for it. He plans a romantic little picnic for the two of them on the beach, which she shows up for about three hours late. I mention this mainly because I appreciate the "time wasting" shots of Vinnie clipping his claws, sighing heavily, looking in new and exciting drawers for unfound treasure and the like. Finally after waiting a while, two random girls call him up and are like, "Hi. Can we suck your dick?" and Vinnie's like, "I don't know, give me like, five minutes," and they're like, "OK, our fathers didn't love us." So Vinnie waits out the five minutes convinced that his lost lady friend will show up and all will be right in the world. But then she doesn't, so he calls the ho's back and tells them to come over and get on it. BUT THEN HIS ORIGINAL DATE SHOWS UP!!!!111 So he call the ho's and tells them not to come over. And thus concludes Vinny Guadango and the Case of Too Many Vaginas.

Speaking of vaginas in the house, Snooki's BFF from home, Ryder, is in town visiting! According to J-WOWW, the way Snooki and Ryder communicate is "hysterical." And I agree. If we live in a world where "hysterical" is a synonym for "mind-bogglingly irritating."

OK, basically here's all you need to know about this episode: The Situation is a dick. He's way too rough with girls, they can smell the HIV wafting off him like the Axe body spray I'd bet dollars to donut he douses himself in daily, they want nothing to do with him and thus he's become a blue-balled party-pooper. To cope with this, The Situation has tried everything from slamming random chicks up against the wall and tattooing his tongue on their pubes, attempting to make out with Snooki, smacking Snooki in the mouth when she resists and doesn't want to go home, sulking in the corner of the club with his sunglasses on like a god damn pedophile, and attempting to pull a "robbery" by macking on Vinnie's chick while he's in the shitter. He always wants to go home when they're out at the clerbs and even Sammi and Ronnie are like, "seriously? It's 7:30pm" and The Situation is like, "but I want to go nowwwww-wuh." Everyone thinks he's changed, nobody likes him, he still think he's the shit, and now he's on "Dancing With The Stars" with Bristol Palin and Audrina Patridge. I don't know. I have literally lost the ability to tell whether that's a win or lose in today's cultural landscape. I'm apt to think lose, but then again he has five million dollars and I have emotions. Draw?

As always, have a great weekend and thank you for sticking with. xoxo