Sham...Wow

I know it's generally not a good sign when you're taking life advice from Rihanna's clavicle, but I decided to adopt "never a failure, always a lesson" as my mantra this week. Because I have learned me a whale of a life lesson. Specifically, if you eat Chinese food that's been sitting out on a counter for 24 hours, you will get food poisoning. And it will be Christ awful. And you will spend days on end alternating between handling "explosive bathroom scenarios" and watching two seasons of "Lie to Me" on Netflix while trying to find a position to curl up in that doesn't make it feel like you're about to vomit your spleen.

I'd like to tell you that I didn't refrigerate said Chinese food because my fridge was broken and I was desperate for food or some shit that would even remotely make sense, but honestly, my fridge was full and I really didn't feel like cleaning it out. So I just left my leftovers on the counter. And then the next afternoon when I was hungry and walked past the kitchen, I saw the food and was all, "WELL HELLO, OLD FRIEND," and dove right in, same fork that had been stewing in the bowl all night and all. And you know why? Because I'm not that intelligent. I'm just not. I can bullshit an A+ paper on literally anything and get through school with flying colors, but I have all the common sense of an Autistic toddler. I swear to God I'm not making this for comedic effect, but I walked face first into a door not 20 minutes ago. Talia once summed me up perfectly when she said, "Meg, you are the dumbest smart person I have ever met in my entire life." Fair. Fair and astute.

So, yes. I'm feeling better, but still sort of like I might explode at any given second. I think it's going to be a long, long time before I eat anything with ginger or snow peas in it in again. Jesus, Mary, mother of God, I wish I hadn't just said ginger or snow peas. Twice. I could seriously burst into tears right now. OK, LET'S RAPIDLY CHANGE THE SUBJECT, SHALL WE? I'm at my parent's house and this is sitting on their coffee table:

It's an informational DVD that came with a hair product my mom bought on The Q, but I spent an uncomfortable three minutes thinking it was some sort of touchy-feely learn-to-make-love-again DVD that they neglected to hide before I came over and very seriously I thought I was going to have to gouge out my eyes and kill myself. But it's not. So, hey HEY hey! Small victories.

...Well, now I'm thinking about snow peas and my parents having sex. RAPID CHANGE OF SUBJECT AGAIN! So you know how I have this ~*MyStErY hEaLtH pRoBLeM!*~, and I'm crazy like a fox, and am just generally, as a human being, broken in half? Well, that's all good and fun, but my health insurance runs out next month and I'm fucked. I need a few procedures, physical therapy, and I HAVE EMOTIONS!!!1 therapy, and it keeps me up at night trying to think of what I'm going to do about it. I could COBRA my parent's health policy, sure, but that would cost about $500 a month. I could get an independent policy, but I might as well be an 85-year-old meth addict with AIDS and a pack-a-day smoking habit for how uninsurable I am. I don't make enough money to get coverage through the Freelancer's Union, and my parents are getting mighty sick of this little HAHA-Meg's-following-her-dreams-and-we-all-help-her-out-because-ZOMG-artistic-passion-LOL! thing, as evidenced by my mom's new nickname for the blog: 2 Burdens, 1 Blog. (Which is actually pretty clever, BUT STILL.) (Slash I don't know what Chris ever did...)

I know it's easy to disregard my anxiety about all of this because I'm not exactly an orphan hustling on the streets for a crust of bread and a few shillings, but my parents—while still 100% supportive of my career—really have made it clear that they're tired of bailing me out. Which makes me feel like a total asshole and like maybe I should say fuck it, put this little dream on the back burner and get a 9-5 for the insurance. But at the same time, I can't help but to think we've come too far to quit now. I'm completely confident that one day I'll be able to fully support myself with my writing, but that day just isn't today. And unfortunately, I'm a hot fucking mess today. I need health insurance. It's time to get creative. And that's when Pete, of sexual-misadventure-essay winner Pete, shot me an email to see how I was feeling and casually mentioned that if I need health insurance, he would marry me.

Now...I'm 99.9% sure that Pete was just kidding, but I'm also 100% sure that I was not kidding when I responded: yes, yes, a thousand times yes! I genuinely think a sham insurance marriage is an amazing solution to my problem. And Pete seems cool. He bought some merch and hooked up in an AU formal lounge once. That makes him good enough to marry in my book. Unfortunately, I think my "WHEN'S THE SOONEST YOU CAN MEET ME AT THE COURT HOUSE I HAVE A WHITE DRESS FROM HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION THAT IF I DON'T BREATHE I CAN STILL FIT IN MAYBE I SHOULD BUY SPANX JUST IN CASE EITHER WAY I SHOULD BUY MY BUS TICKETS RIGHT NOW IF I TAKE AN 8AM BUS AND GET IN AT 12 WOULD YOU MAYBE WANT TO GET LUNCH???" response thoroughly scared him away. Drag.

My next thought was to gay-marry Eileen. Not only is Eileen one of my oldest and best friends, she has a stupid good insurance policy, a decently-sized apartment in New York with a sick view, a building that allows pugs, and one time she fixed a 20-year-old VHS copy of Sound of Music while high as a kite with an eyeglasses repair kit. I mean, not to sound gay, but I could fucking create a life with that woman. It would be a privilege and an honor. There are a few problems, though: a.) gay marriages aren't recognized in New York; b.) marrying Eileen might raise a few eyebrows concerning my sexual orientation; c.) both of those eyebrows would belong to my mother; and d.) that's basically just the plot to Chuck and Larry minus the heartwarming Dan Aykroyd Speech at the end and whole widower plot line. So unless the state of New York opens its mind and Dan Aykroyd takes a break from his busy schedule of Botox and nothing, I think my Eileen plan is out. And it truly is my loss, madam.

Next idea: Tulane Chris. Status: Student. GOD DAMNIT.

Next: Alex. Status: Student. GOD DOUBLE DAMNIT.

Next: Andrew of the Great Juno Debate Fame. Status: Won't drink from the same water bottle as me, so something tells me he won't jump at the opportunity of a sham marriage. Asshole.

And every single other person I know is in a relationship, so fuck me.

So not to be creepy, but I keep coming back to Pete. And I know I responded to his jaunty little "HAHA wouldn't it be funny if?" email with a lock of my hair and the name of five public notaries within a city block of his office, but I feel like marrying me wouldn't be the worst thing he'd ever do. Or anyone, really! Maybe there's another insured gentleman out there that I'm not even thinking of! And that's why I sat down tonight and whipped up a list of 23 reasons why you should marry me:

1.) Got a girlfriend? Cool. This isn't a Shakespeare play, I'm not trying to fall in love with you—I just need a $10 co-pay.

2.) That being said, I got some tig 'ole bitties. I'm sorry, it had to be said.

3.) I refuse to move in with you, which I would interpret as a good thing considering the number of friendships I've ruined as a result of living with friends.

4.) I have a rapier wit. But I don't like to talk on the phone. And again, I won't live with you. So...here's hoping you gchat.

5.) One day you can refer to me in passing as your First Wife. That's kind of glamorous, right?

6.) Two words: JEW HOLIDAYS!!!!1

7.) I have a decent DVD collection.

8.) A very kind reader is sending me a new Brita pitcher. Yeah. Being a blogger is kiiiind of a big fucking deal and if I were you, I'd get in on this obscene fortune and fame ride as soon as humanly possible.

9.) Because this just happened:

Dad: What are you writing? Your reasons why someone should marry Meg McBlogger?

Me: Yeah, but I can't think of anything.

Dad: That's not true, I bet you have at least ten by now!

Me: Yeah, but one of them is literally, "I can carry a tune, question mark? I don't know, period."

Mom: .........You have ties to Jägermeister? Just tell him you can get him all the Jägermeister he wants.

10.) I have ties to Jägermeister. I can get you all the Jägermeister you want.

11.) The next McBlogger family vacation is this fall—time to shag ass. (Slash as of now I think they have me sleeping in a storage closet, so I also need an insurance husband to justify why we should get a house with three bedrooms instead of two bedrooms and a dungeon in the basement for old, single Meg and her hollow womb. Kthnx.)

12.) I have a convertible. I named him Kevin. I don't really consider that to be a selling point, but my dad told me to add it. So here we are.

13.) I was dicking around on Wikipedia last night and put it in Afrikaans for funzies and now I can't figure out how to switch it back to English. Again, that's also not really a selling point, but I just feel like it's something my sham husband should be able to help me with.

14.) You can have Evie as my dowry. She's small, portable, light in the hoof. All in all, not a bad deal.

15.) Mom: Instead of finding a random person or a gay guy to marry, why don't you just approach someone you're actually interested in?

Me: Because I don't want to have sex with my sham husband. It's just prostitution at that point, right?

Mom: 'Eh, everyone's a prostitute. As the old saying goes, "when two people are having sex, someone's getting fucked."

16.) I'll have sex with you.

17.) I have zero qualms about having a child, putting her in pageants, and spending her prize money on Bartles & Jaymes and chicken kickers.

18.)
This box was in my parent's kitchen tonight and I pointed out that you could use it to make a sick robot costume. I'm full of amazing ideas like that!

19.) Then Evie crawled in, it was adorable, and I started calling her R2Eve2. Bee-bop-boop:


20.) Richard and Diane would be your in-laws. They obviously insisted I add this one, but let's also not pretend like I'm not sitting in their house right now on a Wednesday night for no God given reason when I have an apartment of my own.

21.) My dad volunteered to cover the expenses of a modest City Hall ceremony. Why? Because even when desperately trying to pawn me off on a stranger, I'll always be his little girl.

22.) We can get one of those $400 divorces you always see advertised on billboards in se habla Español neighborhoods. Because I am in no way trying to put airs on here.

23.) Beautiful, beautiful blog fodder.

In the immortal words of Kenny Ortega and Zefron, "this could be the start of something new." meg@2birds1blog.com.

Necessity is the Mother of Invention, but Survivor is the Mother of the Snuggie

On my lunch break this morning, I came home, sat in front of my television for an hour of brain cell genocide when I had to make an important decision. Do I watch Bring It On: All or Nothing or Who Wants to be a Millionaire? It’s a common complaint, but out of 300+ channels, these are the only things that even remotely piqued my interest. Lucky for you all, I went for Bring It On, and while it’s nowhere near as good as the original, it is one amazingly bad flick. Lucky for me I tuned in just in time to watch Hayden Planetarium krumping:


And then I had a revelation. Everything bad is secretly good. This explains an infinite number of things: why Meg and I routinely quote lines from Center Stage (Meg is far better at this game than I am), why the Snuggie has its own Wikipedia entry, and why Kristinia DeBarge was able to release that trash heap of a song.

So this makes for quite a conundrum. Meg and I have been brainstorming about a good product to invent to fiscally supplement our current meager incomes. And while we routinely scoff at the likes of the Go Girl and the Kush and the Comfort Wipe, we may need to divert our attentions from the cure for cancer to an Automatic Ass-Hair Braider. I was going to characterize the biochemical processes of motivation, to make a wonder pill of will power, but I should probably look into making something that’ll make your farts smell like fresh linen instead.

When did this happen? When did we stop inventing televisions and clock radios and focus instead on vibrator/razor combinations? Is everything that is worthwhile already invented? Last time I checked my compendium of science fiction movies, we still are in need of flying cars, teleportation, and time travel. So if we can get on that instead, I’d really appreciate it. But I have a theory as to the cause of all this obsession with making the trivial aspects of our everyday lives easier.

Survivor.

Hear me out. Survivor was one of the first reality TV game shows, which was the first time your average Joe Schmoe got their first taste of fame and maybe a little bit of fortune. Once Survivor got big, a new batch of TV shows came out for other types of people. You have your Bachelor/Bachelorette/Who Wants To Get Syphillis types of shows, for the lonely people out there who are moderately attractive. American Idol/So You Think You Can Dance/Whore Out Your Talent for Fame shows for people with an actual talent who are moderately attractive. Deal or No Deal/Wipeout/Shows Where Moderately Attractive or At Least Generally Likeable Who Have No Discernible Talent Compete for Money and Fame. Notice anything similar between all these shows? There’s no room for ugly people on reality TV shows (unless that show is The Swan and you are receiving plastic surgery to be not so ugly anymore).

So now everyone who is moderately attractive (or wants to be more moderately attractive via The Biggest Loser or Dance Your Ass Off) is getting famous and making a little money. What about everyone else; those with, shall we say, a face made for radio? How can they get a piece of the pie?

Well, the majority of them are watching their more attractive neighbors and friends eat bugs with Joe Rogan for money, or race around the globe for money, or remember the lyrics to songs with Wayne Brady for money. But a minority of the rest of them can somehow get financial backing to produce the first genius idea they have while on the can. They aren’t going to get famous (Does anyone know who invented the Snuggie? Didn’t think so.) but they can make a few bucks.

And the cultural landscape is primed for a few moronic ideas. Of course people are going to need something to help them wipe their fat asses, because they are too busy watching other fat asses lose weight on television. And while they’re watching TV, they get cold, but don’t want to take their arms out from their blanket to change the channel because Hole in the Wall just doesn’t translate from Japanese television, so naturally they need a Snuggie.

In conclusion, if Mark Burnett had never produced Survivor, then Germany would never have produced the ShamWow and that guy would never have punched that hooker, and Billy Mays might still be alive (R.I.P.).

So I’m not sure what this post says about me, since I was able to reference all of these trashy reality TV shows. Either I’m slovenly and physically repulsive, or I’m slated to invent the next Peekaru. Probably a little of both? In the meantime, I’ll be working on that motivation pill. Once I work up to it.

Tasteless Tuesday

Allow me to share this gem of a story I discovered yesterday while paroozing Gawker:

"Vince Shlomi best known as television's ShamWow! guy, was arrested in Miami last month [f]or beating up a prostitute.

According to the police report:

• Shlomi meets Sasha Harris in a Miami club. They go back to his hotel.
• She propositions him for "straight sex." He pays her a thousand bucks in cash.
• He kisses her.
• She "bit his tongue and would not let go."
• He punches her in her face repeatedly until she lets go.
• He runs down to the hotel lobby.
• They both get arrested."

BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE!

It also turns out that Shlomi is a renegade Scientologist! He joined the church in 1982 to create contacts for his film The Underground Comedy Movie, a direct-to-DVD comedy movie featuring Slash and Joey Buttafuoco. However, the Church of Scientology brought Shlomi up on criminal charges in fake-me-out Scientology court and kicked him out. A cult, asked him to leave. Impressive or what?!

When I read this article, I ran outside with my scarf and mittens and checked for snow 'cuz I thought Christmas had come early. While clearly this is a completey horrendous and sad situation, I can't help but think it's also a gift from God directly to me. And I took that gift. I untied the bow, tore away the wrapping paper and slowly opened the box. And what was inside? A deluxe set of comical ShamWow! jokes to be made at the expense of this situation.

Best. Christmas. Ever.

Yayyyy! Leave your own ShamWow/prostitute joke as a comment because this entire situation gives me a giggle. As I am a horrible human being.

Sham. Wow. - Gawker

And the hooker was German, so you know she's good. - Myself

Rumor has it the hooker can hold up to twenty times as much semen as other prostitutes. - Chris

Remember Vince, the ShamWow can dry everything but the tears of a life gone horribly, horribly wrong. - My Dad

Beware ShamWow imitators. And kissing prostitutes that charge $1,000 for straight sex on the mouth.

He should have just told her we can't do this all day. It's from his commercial, you know like call right now 'cause we can't do this all day. Then she would have let go of his tongue. I had to work too hard, this isn't funny any more. Damnit. - My Mom

[...that last one is only funny to me because I think it's cute when my mom de-rails a joke via gchat.]