My Buddy, My Buddy, My Buddy and Me!

I can’t believe New Year’s Eve is barreling down upon us already. So much has happened in 2009, it’s hard for me to put it into words.

And I don’t plan to. Simple as that. You all know what happened in 2009. I’m 97% sure you were also there. So what can I do for you to close out your 2009 since I’m not humorously wrapping up the year? Probably nothing. New Years, like Halloween, is one of those holidays with a disproportionate fun to planning ratio. [Editor's Note: I (Meg) could not disagree with this statement more if I were being paid to. The traumatic heinousness that is New Year's Eve has absolutely nothing to do with the majesty of Halloween. Chris has meth psychosis. That is all.] It’s like the more work you put into planning your night, the less fun you’re going to have. In short, we should all stay home with our cats, read a book, maybe play some Sudoku, and drink tea to celebrate. But you and I both know that’s not going to happen.

As is tradition for me, I plan to black out around 11:59, just seconds before the ball drops. Then pretend to have known where I was when Baby New Year came kicking and screaming into our lives (answer: at the bar getting drink number 972 billion of the night, drunk texting the world some illegible variation of “Happy New Year”). The best part of this tradition is definitely the morning after because the calibre of my misadventures increases significantly on New Years Eve. New Year’s Day is like a scavenger hunt, where I spend all day going from one person to the next finding clues as to what I did the night before. I like to think of it as Supermarket Sweep, except instead of finding riddles about Philadelphia cream cheese in the bread aisle, I’m finding fragments of my shame in the gutters of New York City.

One particularly poignant New Years Eve was spent with our dear Meg McBlogger. To ring in 2008, we met up with Meg’s friend at a bar on the Upper West Side. The price was right and it was a solid plan, so I was 100% down. Cut to NYE circa 10:30, when we trek out from the depths of Brooklyn, to what ends up being borderline Harlem. No worries though because we both were looking good, feeling good, ready to close this year out with style.

Well. Ladies and gentlemen, I was a wittle hasty with my drink, and my memory from this night abruptly ends approximately after saying hello to Meg’s friend. That does not, however, mean that my night ended. Noooooo, far from it. I have this irritating (or amazing) ability to function LONG after my brain shuts down. I only found out about what I did the next day, after waking up on top of my covers in my clothes from the night before.

What I found out is this: I proceeded to THOROUGHLY liquor myself up as the night wore on, which led me to make out with everyone in the bar when the ball dropped. When that party winded down, Meg, her friend, and I decided to hit up a party in Brooklyn. As soon as I exited the cab, I promptly vomited all over the entire borough. Meg, being the saint that she is, realized my level of intoxication, and attempted to flag a cab down to take us home. Being that we lived just north of Satan’s asshole, no cab would take us, until Meg showed a little leg and a lot of chest to some gypsy cab driver. Unfortunately for her, I turned into what she calls “Legs”, meaning my drunk legs kicked in, and I had ambled away somewhere. That somewhere happened to be passed out standing up leaning against the corner between two buildings. Safe. After much cajoling, convincing me a brick wall is not a good sleeping surface, we get into the cab and home safely. SCENE. For me, the retelling of this story is infinitely more fun than actually experiencing it. I’m sure my drunk mind was just picturing a monkey in a top hat riding a unicycle all night.

So what am I trying to get across with this story? Obviously I’m not trying to lead by example. If that were the case, we’d have a situation on our hands. The point is to try and have fun on the night of New Year’s, and you can’t do that when you’re blackout drunk. What if you meet the most amazing guy/girl and have the best sex, but you don’t remember it when you wake up because after you were finished, you wandered away?

This is why I propose the New Year’s Eve buddy system. It’s like a middle school field trip, but with less learning, more adult beverages, and equal amounts of awkward. Naturally, unless you are a lone wolf, you’ll be going out on the town with at least one friend on NYE. Great, now you have your buddy. And what you and your buddy are going to do is, well, everything together. You should be able to scream “BUDDY CHECK!” at any point during the night and get some sort of response from your buddy. A head nod, a wave, the middle finger. Any reaction will suffice. Another beer? BUDDY CHECK! If you’re buddy acknowledges you, then you’re good to go. It’s flawless.

This can also work to prevent some terrible life choices from being made. If you see your friend typing furiously on his/her cell phone all night, you can yell BUDDY CHECK and cockblock that booty text message to the ex at 1 AM. See your friend heading out the door with a fuggo? BUDDY CHECK and you make some excuse to nip that prescription for Valtrex in the bud.

Let’s say you do happen to meet that dream guy/girl and you want to have that amazing sex that you won’t remember. You and your buddy call your final check so you can talk it out. If your buddy approves (after all, two pairs of beer goggles are better than one, right?) then off you go into the wild, wild world.

It’s a win-win situation to me. I know that I would still be asleep in an alleyway in Brooklyn if it weren’t for Meg. Without a buddy, that could be you. And we wouldn’t want you to start out the New Year in a ditch.

In conclusion, I hope that each and every one of you has a great New Year and you all get laid and get drunk and be merry and all your wildest dreams come true. Thanks for reading and I love you all and I’ll see you in 2010!

Guess it's time to sell my old textbooks...

You know how much I love you guys? So much. Who helped us to get over 1,000 fans on Facebook? You guys did. (Well, actually you guys are the fans on Facebook.) Who helped us to get over 2,000 followers on Twitter? You guys. (Again, you guys are the followers. Semantics.) Who helped us win 3rd best local blog in the Washington Post’s Best Night Out of 2009? That was all you. If Meg or I genuinely don’t know something and pose the question to you all, don’t you come up with the answer? Yes. Yes you do. I’m constantly impressed by how awesome all of our readers are. And I mean that. (Thus concludes the schmaltzfest portion of this blog post.)

I know it might not seem like it all the time. I’m sort of like the absentee stepfather of the blog. You had Patsy and Eddie in the beginning, but that was young love and drifted apart, as most young relationships do. Then Meg outed herself [Editor's Note: When Chris says I "outed myself," he means I outed that my real name is Meg and not Patsy. Not that I'm gay. Because I'm not gay. Just wanted to clarify that. K, I'm gonna go lick a chick out now.] and introduced you all to Becca, the new bird. “I don’t know about this, but I’ll give it a fair shake,” was what you all thought, whether you know it or not. But when Becca called it quits, you thought “Meg is the only person I can ever trust around here.” (And I know this for a fact because I can read minds.) Then Meg brought me home one night, and naturally you were suspicious. You kept expecting me to disappear, like all the other birds have. And then you found out I have a drunk texting problem. And hate nerds. And am genuinely not funny sometimes. And now I think you really might hate me. But this extended metaphor has a point! I know it got lost in there (refer back 3 sentences), but it has one. What I’m trying to say is that I’m going to do my best to be a better proverbial stepfather to this blog. I’m going to teach it to play catch. Or have tea parties with it. I’m going to go to all it’s school plays and soccer games. I’ll read it stories at night, and make it breakfast in the morning.

And to prove it to you, I’m going to share something with you that I haven’t shared with anyone. Not my family, not my friends, not even co-blogger Meg knows what I’m about to tell you (although by the time you read this, she’ll know, but only because she read this post!).

I’m straight.

No, obviously kidding.

I no longer have any idea what I want to do with my life.

It’s not much of a revelation, because I’m sure seven-tenths of you are saying “Yea, neither do I? What makes you so special?” And if you are saying that out loud, to your computer, maybe reel it in just a little bit. But in response, nothing makes me so special. But when you tell everyone you’ve ever known that you’re going to go to medical school and you spend four years as a pre-med student and the following two years after school working at a medical school, when you finally realize this is not for you, it takes you by surprise.

My first thought after this realization immediately was “Oh shit, everyone is going to be so disappointed in me.” In hindsight, this is probably further proof that being a doctor wasn’t what I wanted to do, as I really should give less thought to what everyone else is going to think about what I do with my life. But when your 87-yr-old, invalid shut-in great aunt, who is the sweetest woman on the face of the planet, tells you “I hope I live to see you become a doctor,” it’s hard not to have that echo bouncing around the back of your mind FOR ETERNITY.

Before Meg got her current job as a decorative paperweight, at one point she had an existential crisis because she had no real plan. Her other friends all had life plans, I had med school, but she had no direction. Well, child, I feel your pain. My current job is wearing me down, but if I’m going to look for something, what do I look for? What can I say in my cover letter to make you believe that, regardless of what my resume looks like, I really want to pursue a career in blacksmithing? What do I even want to do? If I could, I would screw all of my responsibilities and spend all day making sick mash-ups and DJ at night. I even picked out a DJ name: DJ Gingerballs. (It’s a work in progress.)

Currently, I’m at a loss. And since this revelation came over me within the past 72 hours, I haven’t really done much soul searching about what I’m going to do with myself. Right now, my current plan is to quit my job, move to DC, and be Meg’s human Snuggie. This will at least get me through the winter months, until it gets too warm to wear a Snuggie 24/7. This is all contingent upon Meg being OK with staring at my mug all the time. Which could get awkward when she goes on dates. [Editor's Note: HAHAHA! Bless your heart.] Or wants some “alone time.” [Editor's Note: That's more probable.] Details.

I’m currently opting to look on the bright side: At least I decided all this before a year of medical school. I saved myself at least 50K in school fees, not to mention I will retain some semblance of a social life, and am now much less likely to suffer a mental break studying the side effects of assorted medications.

In conclusion, I have no conclusion. I’m sure someone else has found themselves in roughly this same situation. Is there a light at the end of this tunnel? Should I just go back to college (listen to lots of Asher Roth) and try and find something else that piques my interest? Should I move to New Mexico to become a world renowned craftsman of silver and turquoise, specializing in bolo ties? Concentrate solely on winning the lottery and living a life of semi-luxury until I M.C. Hammer myself and blow all my money on gold plated gold plates? This is why I love you all so much: because no matter how ridiculous the question, you will inevitably write something. So any suggestions? What would you do if you were me? What have you done? I’m open to consider anything (although I’m not terribly limber, so running off to join the Cirque du Soleil is out). I knew I could count on you.

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.

My legs were crossed the entire time I wrote this.

So yesterday my friend Justine forwarded me a Daily Candy article about The Tinge razor/vibrator. Take a look:

i don't know why i thought you would enjoy this/ want it
xxoo

j

Have you ever been in the shower, shaving your legs, when you started to get turned on? Didn’t you wish that trusty razor of yours could satisfy more sensual needs?

Now it can with the Tinge, the first (and, we’re pretty sure, only) razor-slash-vibrator! Yes. Really.

The Tinge may look like an ordinary shaver, but just throw on the cap and voila — party time! Finally, you can remove unwanted stubble and get off with a single device.

But wait, there’s more: The Tinge has a whopping 32 different speed/mode combinations for your pleasure, and it’s water resistant, so you can get freaky in the bathtub.

That’s not all. The gadget comes with two blade cartridges and a bottle of pleasure gel — all for the low price of just $99.

Ok. First and foremost Justine, whatever I did to make you think that I would ever want a razor slash vibrator, I'm sorry. Whatever I said, just pretend I said the exact opposite and I think we'll be able to move on with our friendship.

The Tinge makes me uncomfortable on so, so many levels. First let's talk about the name: The Tinge. Tinge: (noun) A slight added element, property, or influence. I'm guessing the most literal definition of the word "tinge" has nothing to do with anything, and this is more some minge word play (which is heinous in it's own right,) but less obvious is the origin of the T. Where does it come from? Tantalizing? Tough hair? Trusty? Tingle? Is it Tingle? TINGLE MINGE?! I'm going to vomit everywhere.

Now, of all of the shower products to choose from that could possibly be designed to double as a vibrator, what genius settled on the razor? A razor is sharp. It cuts. People use it to take their own lives. I don't associate pleasure with my razor. I associate small cuts that take over an hour to stop bleeding. No matter how careful I am when shaving, my shower always ends up looking like a god damn scene from Sweeney Todd. Ergo, maybe a vibrating bar of soap would have been more appropriate.

On a purely functional level, you just have to be fucking kidding me. "Throw on the cap and voila — party time!" I don't know what kind of female circumcision party you're trying to drag me to, but the thought of a rickety piece of plastic standing between my clit and a razor blade pretty much makes me want to buy a chastity belt and never leave my house again. And I won't be "throwing" anything on, thank you very much. I'll be securely fastening at the very least. And I mean, honestly, what are the chances of that cap flying off mid "party"? I think I would have to see some concrete design plans and take a guided tour of the plastic cap factory in China before that thing comes within six inches of seeing inside my pantaloons.

The Tinge also offends me for one of the same reasons that The Snuggie offends me—someone is making a million dollars off it. Why, oh why, do we insist on rewarding such stupidity?? A shammy cloth sold by a trick-beating Scientologist?! LORD KNOWS I HAVE ONE! A backwards robe marketed as a hands-free blanket?! SOLID GOLD! A vibrating razor blade for the sexual adventurous girl-on-the-go?! HERE, TAKE MY WALLET!!!

I think part of the reason I'm so bitter (besides not wanting my genitals sliced and diced,) is that I once had a great invention idea once, but not a single soul supported. I called it The Slammock. I created The Slammock by combining the two places I find most comfortable to sleep—a sleeping bag and a hammock. My design specifically called for a fleece-lined sleeping bag tied onto (not sewn into, that would be too tight and constricting,) a traditional cord hammock. I genuinely think this is an amazing idea and I still wish everyday that I had one. I actually pitched The Slammock to my parents while we were bed shopping for my first apartment. I argued that The Slammock beats a traditional bed, as it is comfortable, financially sound and space efficient. And yet, I was met with negativity by everyone I proposed the idea to. Suddenly everyone was a bed critic—is there enough back support? What if a prankster flips you over while sleeping? How can you have sex on it? What about motion sickness? Will the cords make an imprint on your face? What happens when it starts to sag?! Yes, I'm the idiot, yet slap a sticker that sex "sex toy" on a vibrating razor blade and we're in business!!!??????!?!?

God I hate life.

Seriously, Snuggie. Behave yourself.

Although I've already expressed the burning hatred I harbor for the Snuggie and all those who deem it "funny" or "good" idea, I'm going to address it again. During my first anti-Snuggie tirade at Thanksgiving dinner (when I dropped f-bombs left and right and called my sister less of a human being for wanting one,) I was reacting solely to the stupidity of the concept of a Snuggie. Four months later, I'm offended by so much more than just the concept. It has become this incredibly complex metaphor for why I hate society and why I will always be unsuccessful in life.

Why I Hate the Snuggie: An Analytical Essay

• On the primary level, the Snuggie basically offends me because it's just a genuinely fucking stupid idea. If I could go on a college lecture tour discussing and dissecting the various (and valid) points I could make about why it's a genuinely fucking stupid idea, I would quit my job and do so. Because I've expanded on why I think it's a genuinely fucking stupid idea before, I'll nutshell it for you: The act of snuggling involves grasping a blanket with two hands, pulling the blanket over you resulting in a "fortress of warmth" created over and around your body; sleeves break said barrier and negate the need for the action of cuddling into the blanket, which is what makes snuggling snuggling in the first place. As a corollary, if you eliminate these subtle nuances of snuggling, you eliminate all elements of romanticism as well. At it's very core, the Snuggie is just unnecessary, unflattering and serves as an example of our country's corporate predatory mindset which takes advantage and exploits our economical fears by marketing frivolous expenses as helpful, if not necessary, purchases to gain fiscal responsibility.

• On the secondary level, I'm offended that people are beginning to publicly wear the Snuggie. New York Times reporter Allen Salken recently wrote an article about his experience wearing a Snuggie out and around New York City because the Snuggie commercial says it's "great for the outdoors." You, sir, are a fucking moron and this article was a flagrant waste of ink, paper and pixels. As even Salken recognizes, the Snuggie commercial shows a family wearing Snuggies at an outdoor sporting event as well as camping to illustrate that the product is "great for the outdoors." They clearly meant that the Snuggie is a great blanket alternative for the outdoors. So in instances where it would be appropriate for one to wear a blanket outdoors, the Snuggie suggests that you instead wear a Snuggie. If this is the case, then why are people trying to wear Snuggies publicly when a blanket would not be appropriate? This isn't the Snuggie people's fault, it's society's fault (New York Times reporters included) for being dumb as fuck. Salken walked around the city streets, rode the subway, went ice skating and went to a bar all while wearing the Snuggie. Now I ask you sir, when in any of those instances would it be appropriate to wear a full blanket? "Oh, well, I mean you get cold ice skating, I can understand wanting to wrap something warm around yourself!" Congratulations, you just invented the pashmina, scarf and wrap. Need sleeves? Put on a jacket, asshole.

But Salken isn't the only person idiotic enough to take the Snuggie's claims literally and step out in one, idiots are gathering in masses to go on Snuggie pub crawls! What in the fuckity fuck is going on here?! I would love for someone to explain the point behind this one to me. Why would someone (who's not homeless) ever wear a blanket at a bar? They wouldn't. So why are you wearing a Snuggie? And likewise, why would you walk to and fro the bars in a blanket? You wouldn't. You'd wear a jacket. So why are you fucking wearing a god damn Snuggie? Now, I love me a good pub crawl, please don't get me wrong. And I've worn some interesting things on said crawls in my day including, but not limited to, a slutty pirate costume, so please don't think I'm too pretentious to "get it." I get it. "It's" just fucking stupid. I can only justify the Snuggie pub crawl phenomena as an easy way for douche bags to meet other douche bags in their area. It's like the 20-something equivalent to the lame frat at your school having a mixer with the fat chick sorority. And it wasn't cool then and it's not cool now.

• Finally, on a tertiary level, I am offended by what the Snuggie phenomena says about our society. Our society rewards stupidity, and the Snuggie is just another brick in the wall. Jessica Simpson can't figure out if she's eating chicken or tuna, so her career is reborn? Paris Hilton is essentially a human blow-up doll and she doubles her inheritance? A couple of stoners are sitting around high as cats, too lazy to take their arms out from underneath their blanket to grab the bong and, what, a couple of millionaires are made and the Snuggie phenomenon born?! It's infuriating! Why do we reward such stupidity?! And on a selfish personal note, this whole Snuggie situation is just a microcosm for why I will always be unsuccessful. Look at this blog. I stay up until 2 o'clock in the morning five times a week to produce substantial content on a daily basis. Where has this gotten me? Tired! But slap some in "Engrish" on a picture of a cat stuck ass backwards in a fridge or create a blog for stupid spoiled whores to vent about not getting a new handbag for sucking cock and BADA-BING-BADA-BOOM----INSTANT BOOK DEAL! That's not hard work, that's stupidity, and why oh why do we reward such stupidity? Did you know that my sister has both a Snuggie and a Slanket? What in the fuckity fuck is going on in this world!?!!

...I feel like my T-cells are on fire from writing this entry. I'll be curled up in a little ball on the floor rocking gently if you need me.