Follow-Up FAQs

1.) How is Evie?
Evie is great, thanks so much for asking. If you're new here, Evie is my parents' prized Tonkinese show cat who replaced me when I went away to college 9 billion years ago. We infamously didn't get along at first, then fell in love when I moved back home and got mono in 2008. The weekend my mono officially got really bad, I remember lying on the cool tile floor of my parents' kitchen—ALONE, mind you, because Rich and Di went away to the Eastern Shore for a jaunty weekend with Becca and Geoff — Also worth noting they brought me back madras booty shorts to make up for it, and it worked like a goddamn charm—and Evie put our differences aside, sauntered over, and stuck by me all weekend. We've been best friends ever since, and she's had a bit of a cult-following-within-a-cult-following on this here blog.

Here's a one-act I wrote about cat-sitting her that got me into grad school

Here's a picture of a porn star with little Evie heads covering her NSFW bits

Here's a picture of Evie with little porn star heads covering her NSFW cat bits

2.) Is Chris coming back to blog, too?
Man, who knows what that homo is up to. I mean, I do, because we're still actively best friends. So, yeah, I think he is! I asked if he wanted to and he said yes. But he said it (texted it) with the same vague enthusiasm he reserves for when I'm a pound of gummy edibles deep at 2 o'clock in the morning and text him 14-inch long iMessage pitches for various spins on the same ghost-hunting reality show idea. (It's called Low-Key Ghost Hunters. Sometimes he doesn't reply at all.)

For new people, Christopher Turner-Neal is a William Faulkner/Joe Exotic hybrid I've loved ever since I jerked him off on Abigail Breslin's older brother's couch in college. He was visiting a mutual friend and went back to Tulane to immediately come out of the closet, but we stayed friends. Then best friends. Then unhealthily co-dependent parasitic life partners, which is where we currently reside. He co-wrote a large chunk of the blog back in the day, and we wrote poopie-poopie fart joke books together. You'll like him. He's funnier and a better writer than me, but then again, I'm better at social-distancing, SooOooOO...*

*(This is a reference to the fact that I recently publicly shamed Chris on Instagram for trying TO GO TO THE NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA DMV DURING SELF-ISOLATION, and he was super bitchy about it, and now he's going above and beyond by delivering meals to elderly people, possibly to make up for it.)

3.) Are you still the sardonic voice of 20-somethings everywhere?
No. I am very much not the sardonic voice of 20-somethings anywhere, and I shouldn't be the voice of anyone at any age. I dicked around on Blogger for a solid hour last night trying to take that off the blog title, then lost interest and fell asleep watching Dairy Week on The Great British Bake Off. 

I don't know anything about 20-somethings. Maybe late 20-somethings, but certainly not early 20-somethings. I watched Euphoria and it shocked me to my core. I literally sat down, put my readers on, and googled, "Is Euphoria really what high school is like?" It also took me an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize that Jules is trans. The establishing shot of her injecting herself with hormones within the first 15-seconds of the show wasn't heavy-handed enough for me. I honestly thought she was diabetic. I was fully prepared for a Steel Magnolias-style irresponsible Diabetes decision-making plot-line and was shocked when it never came. It also didn't seem weird to me at all that she met what's-his-name's dad on Grindr, because you really do have to cast a wide net.

4.) What is the bag and why are you sorr for it?
The bag is the bag, and I will always be sorr for it.

5.) How can I contact you?
Ignore my blog email because I only ever check that account every few years and then want to flush myself down the toilet because I've missed an important email and have to respond three years later like a jackass. I will eventually update the header, sidebars, etc.

Email me directly at meghan.c.rowland@gmail.com or DM me on Instagram - @meg4lyfe. I'm here. I'm in a way, too. We'll get through this.

See you tomorrow.

Meg

Mail Bag

Dear Meg,

I am a huge fan of yours, [Oh, stop!] and many a time have found myself giggling hysterically in my cubicle, the classroom, my room by myself, on the phone as I attempt to read your blog posts aloud to my friends, family, and whoever else will listen. My all time favorite: My New Pink Button. Funniest thing I've ever read. My second favorite: Sorr bout the bag. This has been incorporated into my everyday speech, and I have as much as possible to tried to infiltrate everyone else's speech with this phrase as well, including my new boyfriend (we'll call him DJ)

SO, last night, my boyfriend and I decided to attempt to use a female condom. I don't know if you've ever used one, but they're REALLY REALLY AWKWARD. (you should do a 2b1b investigates, and maybe you can get pot-smoking fish tranquilizer guy to participate). Basically, once you insert it, the end hangs out like a floppy vacuum attachment, which, we decided, should have INSERT HERE written on it in (flashing) letters. Having recently converted DJ into a 2b1b fan, he took one look, goes "sorr bout the bag!!" and starts giggling hysterically. At which point i also started giggling hysterically, he lost his erection, and we ended up just laying there and quoting you and NOT having sex.

So, thanks for ruining our sex life!
-GJ

You, my new friend, are more than welcome. Because if I'm not gettin' any, nobody's gettin' any. Except the exact opposite of that is true. Meaning everyone's gettin' some and I'm not. Which I suppose isn't the "exact opposite" as much as it's just depressing.

I've never used a female condom before, but that's only because I didn't know they existed until about, oh, an hour ago. Now that I do know, I will never look at a Ziploc bag or my vagina the same way again. Which is unfortunate because I make a lot of to-go sandwiches and bathe with my eyes open. So, thank you.

As far as taking one out for a test spin (vomit), the last time I saw 'ole Fish Dick was when I was running away from his parent's house/numbed phallus, so that's out. I used to have an "eff buddy", but things got complicated at Ren Fest, which is a Statement with a capital S. Chris would probably have sex with me, but he'd probably also spend the entire time making obscure historical references and talking about how much he loves my mom, which is exhausting when he's next to me, nevertheless inside of me. If you're reading this and think you're up for having sex with me while I wear a female condom—that sounds extremely uncomfortable. So, let's not do that.

OK, time out. I obviously just googled "How to insert a female condom" because in my mind the answer was: WITCHCRAFT!, but instead found this highly educational and entertaining student video from Binghamton University. 

I love it for the following reasons:

1.) DOROTHY. You sassy, salty old broad, you.

2.) Dorothy's extremely soothing voice and/or the fact that I genuinely can't tell if she's foreign or just has extremely poor diction

3.) Dorothy's no-nonsense belted sweater

4.) The comical cricket noises at 00:50

5.) "Soft tubular sheath"

6.) Dorothy's makeshift female condom made out of an empty water bottle and coffee stirrers

7.) Every time they mention "the lips", I gag and want to die a little. That's not really a reason why I love this, but I thought it was worth noting.

8.) The quick cut to Dorothy at 3:10 where she talks about the benefits of female condoms while tossing condoms into a basket like she just don't give a fuck

9.) Heather's vajayjay caught on fire from using both a male and female condom

10.) Dorothy's deadpanned salty nut joke at 4:00

11.) It has a pre-planned blooper, and it involves a stunt!

12.) Special Guest Matt is pretty goddamn attractive

Christ. I just typed "Binghamton University Matt R.E.A.C.H." into Google because I'm insanely creepy like that AND/OR I'M A ROMANTIC, and everything that comes up is about Matthew Potel, a Binghamton senior who fell to his death last October while reaching to help fellow students cross a dangerous ravine in the Adirondacks. 'Eh.............. Soooooo, to recap, in the span of one blog post I've managed to: ruin a happy couple's sex life, overinform you about the goings-on (or lack of goings-on) of my vagina, offend Chris (probably), fall in love with a college student, bring you all down with a tragedy, and use the phrase "'ole Fish Dick". 

I believe my work is here is done.

My Top 5 Emotionally Scarring Childhood Movies

Yyyyyyyeah...so I kind of opened a Pandora's box of emotions yesterday with that whole Charlotte's Web rant, didn't I? Sorry about that. (Sorr about the bag...of emotions? Nope. Damnit. I'm horrible at this game and will never be as good as Chris, which is infuriating because I'm technically the one responsible for its creation.) Although, you have to admit, it's kind of nice to know we were all traumatized together, right?? Right. So I say we keep picking that emotional scab until we bleed to death or ask the homely co-worker in the cubicle next to us for a hug, shall we?! I present to you now, my Top 5 Emotionally Scarring Childhood Movies!

5.) The Lion King

THE STAMPEDE, YOU GUYS. The Stampede. Johnathan Taylor Thomas killed James Earl Jones. Way to go, asshole. If I were Tim Allen, I'd be shitting hammers right now. Or back in 1994, technically. And looking back, "shitting bricks" probably would have sufficed. If you consider bricks to be tools. Which after a lot of soul searching, I've decided I do. I don't really know why I insist on writing these posts at 3:45 in the morning. ANYWAY, although I was probably around 10 when my parents bought this movie, I to this day have never watched it on VHS without fast-forwarding through the scene where Mufasa dies. And you know what? That's a point of pride. I was old enough to take control of my destinty and chose not to subject myself to Disney's cheap torture. Unlike with...

4.) The Fox and the Hound

FRIENDS NEVER SAY GOODBYE! And Goonies never say die! Ah, the sage life advice of woodland creatures and Sean Astin. On a scale of one to soul-raping, I'd say The Fox and the Hound song, "Goodbye May Seem Forever", is a forced fingerblasting. The song on its own might be depressing, but what makes it really emotionally scarring is that we're forced to listen to it as the Widow Tweed abandons Tod in the forest. You know, after his mother was tragically killed by a hunter, thereby making him an orphan. (Down two mother figures in one movie? You, Mr. Disney, were a Nazi.) This scene is also uniquely cruel in that it taps into the pain of both being left behind and being the one forced to leave. "And now I find—we're both alone [...] But in my heart is a memory, and there you'll always be." Not to mention that foxes, animated or otherwise, are just god damn adorable. Wanna see something truly horrifying?

"Oh, hey best friend!"

"This feels like a lot of emotions for a woman who I know for a fact isn't raggin'..."

"Dinger."

"This feels premature..."

"So...so I'll just follow you, or did you wanna meet back up at the house or...?"

"You are aware that there was a recent death in the family, right? I kind of feel like I shouldn't be alone right now."

"K, well I'll just be slicing wrists in the forest if you need me..."

HORRIFYING.

3.) The Land Before Time

Now why did I think this movie was so traumatic again? Hmm...uhhh...OH, I KNOW! Because Little Foot's mom dies directly in front of him after promising that she'll always be with him, even if he can't see her. "What do you mean, 'if I can't see you'? I can always see you! Mother?...MOTHER??" Christ. I saw this at a friend's house, was immediately traumatized, and vowed to never watch it again. Then one day, by a cruel twist of fate, my elementary school randomly combined the AM and PM kindergarden classes, plopped us down in a room, popped in The Land Before Time and shut the door. I was like, "OOOF. Shit's about to get real." I can still feel my throat burning as I looked around the classroom, desperately trying to concentrate on anything but the TV because I was too embarrassed to cry in front of everyone. Looking back, I'm honestly baffled why they would ever play that movie for us in a group setting. I'm going to become a kindergarten teacher and force my students to watch The Boy in the Stripped Pajamas in front of their peers. Why? Two words: character building.

2.) Dumbo

Look, I spent a large part of last night on the phone with my mom harassing at her to sing the "mother-related torch song" from Dumbo to me. Am I proud? No. Will I call back and ask her to do it again later this afternoon? Probably. It's also worth noting that during said call, my mom made the excellent point that whereas Fern from Charlotte's Web was a bitch because she became a fast, dirty whore who abandoned Wilbur to explore a world of boys and partial-birth abortions, Christopher Robin callously abandoned Winnie the Pooh when he went off to school and left all of his toys behind. This enraged me in a way that makes me somewhat uncomfortable to look back on, and in the heat of my anger, I googled "Christopher Robin is an asshole" and found this Facebook group:

It's appropriately called, "Christopher Robin is an asshole", and the description is:

"Pooh thinks you're his best friend, but do you ever take the time to hang out with him. I don't think so. Pooh's always trying to find you, and going to look for you. Stop being such a dick and give Pooh the respect he deserves you cock."

It has one sole member: its founder, Bob Lowe, of Madison, Wisconsin. Mr. Lowe, if this Facebook group was your subtle way of proposing marriage to me—YES, YES, A THOUSAND TIMES YES!

1.) The Chipmunk Adventure

UH, remember this fucking movie?!!?!?! Laura and I watched a fair bit of it last night on youtube and I'm going to go ahead and make a bold statement: this movie has stood the test of time, if not gotten better since 1987. Is one of its songs currently my ringtone? No. But give me a few hours and it will be. Because the soundtrack is absurdly awesome. ALTHOUGH, can we talk about the musical number, "Getting Lucky"?

First and foremost, The Chipettes were 100% sold into sex slavery. BOOM—there it is. Second, I know this has become one of the most cliché sentences in the American lexicon, but Britney: you look like a whore. Finally, upon closer inspection, this song is grossly innaproprite:

Verse 1:

Honey, you're a sweet thing 

and you look so fine

all I ever wanted

is to make you mine

Chorus:

Give me

a clue

tell me what I need to do

to get lucky with you

Verse 2:

Boy I really love you

with my heart and soul

honey won't you take me

where I want to go

Chorus:

Give me 

a clue

tell me what I need to do 

to get lucky with you

Hook:

Getting lucky

hmmm getting lucky

is what's its really all about

getting lucky

hmmm getting lucky

its something I can't do without

Verse 3:

Honey I've been waiting

waiting patiently

let me unlock you're heart boy

I think I got the key

To get lucky with you

Right. Now I could analyze this song, the whorish outfits, the fact that in order for the girls to acquire diamonds and cash, they have to tame phallic snakes and "get lucky" with you, boy, and interpret what all of this says about our society, but at the end of the day, the four-year-old girl inside me and the 25-year-old woman that is me really just wants to strut around my apartment in a spangly, spangly Arabian Princess outfit and croon to a baby penguin. So there's that.

Speaking of crooning to baby penguins—"My Mother". That song crushes my soul every single time. You'll note, actually, that pretty much all of the movies in my traumatic Top 5 deal with mother/parent abandonment. One might assume that perhaps I have parental abandonment issues, right? "Where might that have come from?", you may be asking yourself. WELL SIT RIGHT DOWN AND LET ME TELL YOU A TALE. A TALE OF ABANDONMENT AND LUXERY VACATIONS.

On my sixth birthday, my parents abandoned me to go on vacation to Monte Carlo for two weeks. Yeah. I know. TWO WEEKS. On my birthday. (#uppermiddleclassproblems) And during those two weeks, I was shuffled back and forth between my aunt, my grandparents, and our freaky Evangelical Christian neighbors. ON MY BIRTHDAY. To say the least, I did not handle this well. If we're going to get specific, I went on a hunger strike and locked myself in my room for a few days. This has since become a staple McBlogger family inside joke. "HA HA, remember that time we went on vacation and old Meg freaked out and went on a hunger strike?? What a weirdo." Oh, I'm sorry—I was six-fucking-years old! My parents left me on my birthday! And I had to spend it with freaky Christians who wouldn't let me read my Simpsons comic books because they were "blasphemous" and "disrespected Christmas"! I was miserable and have never felt so alone in my entire life. And that pain has since been, and continues to be, a huge joke to my family. For example, I was out to dinner with my parents last week and told them that I wouldn't be in town this year for my birthday because I'll be in Charlotte for a friend's wedding. This opened up the door to a whole slew of "UH-OH! You won't be here for your birthday?? Looks like we all better go on a hunger strike! BAHAHA!" jokes. Assholes. 

Now, I know I only got a three on my A.P. Psychology exam and my current occupation is "Executive Fart Joke Broker", but I can't help but think that maybe part of the reason I was so hesitant to be separated from my parents for a long time at the tender age of six-years-old was because I had been conditioned from an early age to think that, oh, you know, they were going to DROP DEAD at any given moment, whether at the hands of hunters, wildebeests, circus workers, earthquakes, the ice age, tar pits, volcanic eruptions, evolution or a Sharptooth attack. Frankly, I can see why I didn't like those odds! So, fueled by this breakthrough and desperate for a little compassion, I tried to broach the topic with my mom again last night. This was the resulting conversation:

Me: I think I have abandonment issues.

Mom: I understand why you would, sweetheart.

Me: Wait...you do?

Mom: Well of course! All your friends are leaving and it must be very upsetting!

Me: Oh, no no no—what I meant to say was, I think you gave me abandonment issues.

Mom: Oh, Jesus Christ. I gave you abandonment issues because of one birthday in Europe? You wait until I die! That'll make me missing your birthday in Europe seem like a day at the beach—which it was, by the way.

And then she burst into uncontrollable laughter. 

...I wish I had studied slightly harder in A.P. Psych. Now if you need me, I'll be in the fetal position somewhere not eating.

On Today’s Episode, Tulane Chris Answers Recent Readers’ Questions, Then Goes on a Weird, Emotional Tirade about Breast Cancer in Advertising

“Will you make bad internet dates a regular feature on the blog?”

Not regular, although I might get drunk enough to do it occasionally. I don’t have a huge amount of free time, and I’m a little nervous of where the feature might lead. I’m afraid I’d develop a tolerance pretty quickly, and then it’s all “Is this guy posing with a power drill and a cow’s skull really weird enough? I don’t know. Maybe I should go with the leper.”

“What did Giant Camel say about the internet date post?”

He said, “That’s the funniest thing you’ve ever written. Are you going to marry him and triple-barrel your name? Blogger-Blog-VenomKitty? Wait, is this the fat guy who hangs out in front of the art supply store and hits on the road crew?”

“Doesn’t Tulane Chris live with Giant Camel?”

Not at the moment. Giant Camel allegedly went back to Texas to take a contract job, but I suspect something more sordid.

“Why don’t you make ‘sorr’ cards for special occasions?”

I have mixed feelings about this. One the one hand, part of the beauty of ‘sorr’ is its spontaneity: “Did you vomit in my purse?” “Sorr about the bag…” On the other hand, I would love to see nice ivory cardstock, deep-embossed with legends like “Sorr you’re such a bitch,” “Sorr your marriage has failed as disastrously as your business” and “Sorr your children were such bitter disappointments.” File this one under development. Someone did make a “sorr about the bag” e-card.

“Why don’t you create a nemesis for Kevin Yang called Kevin Yin?”

I don’t mind this idea. Kind of an eternal “Spy vs. Spy,” played out in every bakery, interracial gay bar and Vans outlet between Florida and Hong Kong. I’m hitting a wall imagining Kevin Yin, though. Would he just be barely skewed Kevin Yang? Different color sneakers, hair parted on the other side, goes on disastrous non-dates with Hispanics? Works in a diner instead of a bakery, smokes pot instead of drinks? If they ever meet, the universe will be instantly eradicated by the explosion into life of another, grander universe, full of powdered sugar, incoherent similes, and shitty makeouts on an air mattress? I bet we could sell this as a comic book if we worked on it.

“How about an ‘Around the World with Tulane Chris’ feature?”

I’d like to quote here a conversation I had the other night with a friend who’s teaching English in Vietnam (Vietnam. Imports: French, American, and Chinese soldiers. Exports: French, American, and Chinese soldiers with gonorrhea):

College Friend Nora “Apples” Podjeska: Oh, you should come visit me here.

TC: That’s not terribly realistic. I buy irregular underpants in bulk . I don’t think I could afford…

CFN“A”P: But you’d love it. There’s so much history, and there are all these beautiful gardens, and the food is so good and cheap. You like Asian guys, don’t you? I bet for five bucks you could go to town.

TC: As tempting as that sounds, I’m not entirely sure…

CFN“A”P: It would take a little getting used to. There are crowds everywhere – Chris, everywhere – and we live next door to a dump so there are minor odor and vermin problems. Just wear a lot of cologne and wash your hands a lot.

TC: I already do.

CFN“A”P: You might have a little problem… I mean, the thing about eating dogs is true. It’s fairly upsetting the first time you pass a butcher’s, and anyway, you’ve always been good in a crisis. You’d love it. Except for the crowds and the dog-eating. Oh, and leave your shirt on so they can’t see your “Better Dead than Red” backpiece. It’s not really funny here yet.

Did you catch that she described my theoretical vacation as a “crisis?” I would like to visit her and see Vietnam, but somehow setting it up as “spend a lot of money to interact with your three least favorite things: people who hurt dogs, large crowds, and totalitarian government” didn’t… sell it. I do love to travel and I do regret not having the money to do it. When I was younger (last week) I used to fantasize about becoming a travel writer. So, if you send me somewhere, within reason, I will write about it. However, until then, we’ll have to settle with tucking a little imports/exports behind every country I mention. (India. Imports: tech support calls. Exports: the phrase “Have you tried turning it off and then on again, sir” in perfectly grammatical, heavily accented English)

………………………………INTERMISSION………………………………

"If a tree falls in the woods and no ones around, does it raise awareness of breast cancer?"

I’ve waffled on writing about this because I was worried it would be misinterpreted, but after seeing someone else with similar opinions, I decided to wade in. I’m tired of breast cancer branding. It upsets me and I don’t think I’m alone.

Point the first: ubiquity. I have seen breast cancer-branded: wine, eggs, yogurt, snuggies, football games, Waxahachie Fire and Rescue, water, meat, tennis balls, scrubs, soybeans… Overexposure makes anything stale. Notice how even Leno gave up Paris Hilton jokes? When something’s completely expected, it’s simply not a grabber anymore. The newspaper seldom reads “Sun Rises in East; Proceeds Westward Across Sky.” It’s just another bland truism: congress is bickering instead of running the country, today’s teenagers are shocking, and there are little pink ribbons on every available surface.

Point the second: What do they mean by “awareness?” These labels all seem to read that they’re trying to raise “awareness.” Well, of what? The overwhelming majority of people know that there’s a disease called breast cancer. Just saying “breast cancer breast cancer breast cancer” over and over doesn’t do anything. The snuggie isn’t embroidered with the phrase “Women over 50 should have regular mammograms.” One egg in every dozen doesn’t crack open to reveal a little folded sheet explaining how to do self-exams. At halftime, Garrett “Sugar Balls” Hartley didn’t show a PSA about how some high-risk women may need to be screened for the BRIC gene. Just because someone’s talking doesn’t mean they’re saying anything. Is it too idealistic to just want a poster that says, “Get a damn mammogram?” Ellen and Designing Women both did Very Special Episodes about breast cancer, in which characters went to the doctor and learned about it. It wasn’t just Jean Smart and Delta Burke sitting around saying:

“Did you know that breasts can develop cancerous tumors?”

“Yes.”

“Me too. Do you think I should tell Julia? JULIA! DID YOU KNOW….”

Point the third: How much money is actually going to breast cancer research? I can’t say for sure, but I’m inclined to agree with the author of the post I linked to above that changing the packaging probably costs more than the donation, at least in some cases. This makes it, essentially, an advertising expense, on par with adding the word “X-TREME.” A lot of products say “a portion” of the proceeds go to breast cancer research. That could mean any damn thing. 0.001% is technically a portion. Yes, it’s still better to have the money for research than not, and it’s naïve to expect businesses to do anything for the common good, but still. It’s slimy.

Point the fourth: It is ghoulish. When I was a child, my mother had a breast cancer scare. Everything turned out to be fine, but it was very tense for a while. It offends me that these companies are essentially profiteering off this. “Don’t you wish there was a cure? Buy these green beans. If you care about the women in your life, you’ll buy this battery!” I get enough nagging about whether or not I love my mother from my actual mother – I don’t need Piggly Damn Wiggly weighing in. And besides, don’t you think women who have breast cancer deserve a break? They can’t leave the house – hell, they can’t open the cupboard – without being reminded that they’re sick. But they’re not struggling in vain! Their illness helped sell some peas. If this blog folds, I’m going to start making candy and selling it under the name “Chris’s Costochondritis Snaps.”

This wasn’t as funny as I thought it would be, and I realize it’s because I’m genuinely angry. I’m willing to concede that a lot of individuals involved in these marketing decisions may have been very well-meaning, but I also don’t think that’s really the point. Good intentions are useless without common sense. A small check to a reputable charity does more than a cartful of pink-ribboned groceries, and it’s more civilized. If the breast cancer branding is as successful as it seems to be, we may be perilously close to seeing Uncle Ben’s colonoscopy.

Also about women: My school’s sororities recently did their community service push. One of them chose violence against women, so they covered the lamps on the main campus thoroughfare with sheets of awareness-purple acetate… which made the whole area much darker… and significantly more dangerous…