Drinking Game Friday remembers John Hughes

OH MY FUCKING GOD. I FUCKING HATE THE INTERNET AND I HATE MY COMPUTER AND I HATE BOSS #2 AND THERE'S A PINCHED NERVE IN MY NECK THAT I JUST EXACERBATED WITH ALL OF THE CRAWLING AROUND ON MY HANDS AND KNEES I JUST DID TO REPEATEDLY PLUG AND UNPLUG MY COMPUTER 5,000 TIMES TO TRY TO FIX THIS WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT 1991 DELL COMPUTER THAT I'VE BEEN GRACED WITH AND TECH PEOPLE ARE THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE SECOND ONLY TO BOSS #2 AND HERE'S YOUR GOD DAMN DRINKING GAME. FINALLY. SIX FUCKING HOURS LATER. AND YES I DID FORGET TO TAKE MY MEDS THIS MORNING, AS I HAVE FOR THE PAST THREE DAYS AND YES RAGE IS A SIDE EFFECT OF WITHDRAWAL, AND YES THIS DOES EXPLAIN WHY I'M OVERREACTING AND TYPING IN CAPS BUT WHATEVS. OK? GOOD. LET'S MOVE ON. HERE. DRINK.

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Last night was a roller coaster of emotion, you guys. It started when Ronald, of has a clubbed foot fame, came into my office right before I left work and invited me to see the one-man play he wrote, directed, produced and stars in next month. I said YES and please. I didn't ask too many questions about it, but I'm praying to god it's a semi-autobiographical musical...

Riding that high, I went to the gym where I was immediately hit by a low: my gym crush wasn't there. I have a gym crush by the way. Tee hee ha ha hee hee hooo...He's a giant dreamy dream boat that I just want to sail away on. His name is Kyle. (In my mind. Clearly, I've never talked to him, nor do I have plans to ever talk to him. Because that would just be crazy.) Kyle is a veterinarian for sick and lonely pugs, owns his own row house on Capitol Hill and moonlights as a cage fighter. He's the best. He also has the best ass and calves you will ever see. I know this because I frequently stare at them. And by stare, I mean unabashedly gawk. Kyle has turned me into the person I hate: a starer. Because the only thing that gets me through my time at the gym is staring at Kyle's tight little ass bobbin' up and down on the treadmill. And I mean that in the most creepy way possible. I just shamelessly, shamelessly stare. Which is embarrassing because we're both facing the same mirrored wall and sometimes I'll look up from his ass and into his eyes and realize they're staring right back. With a look of concern. But if he doesn't want me to stare at him, maybe he shouldn't always pick the treadmill in front of my bike. Plus he wouldn't dress like that if he didn't want it...

After the gym, I moped all the way back to my apartment where my mood was immediately turned around. For in my mailbox was the most glorious treasure awaiting from a reader in John McCain's office—an autographed JMcC photo and bumper sticker:


God yes. Who has two thumbs, cleared a wall and is going frame shopping this weekend? This girl. After prancing around my apartment for a few minutes, I hopped on the couch in high spirits and turned on the So You Think You Can Dance finale just in time to see my boy Evan get kicked off. Buzz kill. And that's when I looked down to see a blinking gchat message from Becky that said the unthinkable:

Becky: dude john hughes died
me: SHUT YOUR FUCKING FACE
HE DID NOT
STOP LYING
Becky: he did!! i'm like totally freaking out
59
heart attack

I was shocked. Shocked and hurt and destroyed. I looked to my John McCain photo propped against the wall for comfort, just in time to see it FALL OVER. And it fell HARD. Sigh...

What is there to say about the genius of John Hughes that hasn't already been said? I mean, he's the man who wrote perhaps one of the greatest cut downs in cinematic history:

"You're what the french call les incompetent."

No sir, you are les incompetent. Les incompetent, at staying alive. (Sorry. That was uncalled for. I don't deal with grief very well. Or any other emotions for that matter.)

It's with sadness in my heart and gentle rub of Molly Ringwald's shoulder that I present to you The John Hughes Movie Drinking Game.

Rules:
Drink For:
- Every evil teacher/principal authority figure (i.e. Principal Ed Rooney in Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Richard Vernon in Breakfast Club etc.)
- Every character played by a brat packer
- Every stolen car (see: Ferris Bueller, Sixteen Candles etc.)
- Andrew Dice Clay cameo (see: Pretty in Pink)
- Unapologetically racist character names that would only fly in the '80's (i.e. Long Duck Dong)
- Every song that plays by The Smiths, Modern English, Billy Idol, Temple City Kazoo Orchestra or Simple Minds
- Any school dance scene (chug if it's a prom)
- [Sidenote: did you know that John Hughes wrote Maid in Manhattan? No? Well, drink.]
- Anyone kisses
- Panties are shown
- The term "richie" is used, or a poor kid is mean to a rich kid
- Conversely, a rich kid is mean to a poor kid
- Every reference to a "woobie"
- Personalized license plate shown
- Pair of boobs shown
- Gym class scene
- Reference to Chicago or a Chicago sports team
- Heart-to-heart between Molly Ringwald's character and her dad
- "Hey Howard, there's your Chinaman."


R.I.P. John Hughes...R.I.P.

Washington DC to Meghan McCain: "Bitch, please!"

God that title hurt to type. As you may recall, I previously fancied myself a bit of a Meghan McCain enthusiast. She was actually the #2 reason why I wished I could have voted for John McCain. We're just so similar: we're both named Meghan; we're both bloggers; she hates Ann Coulter, I hate Ann Coulter; she likes John McCain, I like John McCain; she went to Columbia, I took an informational tour of Columbia—where will the similarities end??

But Meghan McCain is on my shit list. In a big way. And I want an apology. Take a look at the following tweets from Meghan McCain's twitter account:




Ok. So you don't like DC. That's fine; plenty of people don't like DC. I mean, I can't help but think maybe the reason people want to talk to you about politics is because you're campaigning to be the new face of the Republican party and fancy yourself something of a pundit, which means talking to people about politics is literally your job, but whatevs. Lord knows I hate when people expect me to do my job, so I'm just going to take that as one more thing we have in common.

But then you had to go and tweet this:


Bitch, please.

Because guess what? I am from DC. And on behalf of DC; go fuck yourself.

Here is what I've ascertained Meghan McCain believes about DC area natives:
1.) We do not wear makeup. Who has two thumbs, a Sephora insider card and wears more makeup than a drag queen in competition? This girl.
2.) We do not wear sparkles. This is correct. I also do not stuff my bra, make out with my pillow or shop at Claire's boutique, as I am not 12 years old.
3.) We wear very little fabric. Again: bitch, please. It is humid as fuck here and we're in the middle of a recession. You cut corners where it makes sense.
4.) We have flat, lifeless hair. Yea. Well. Personally that is true, but you don't have to rub it in. In 4-6 weeks, I'll be in possession of a BumpIt and then who'll be laughing??
5.) We do not like glamour.

This last statement is enraging on so many levels. Let's break it down, shall we?

First of all, we get it Meghan McCain. DC is full of ugly people. We're all brunette and boring and homely and plain and we've never kissed a boy and we're still waiting to get our period and we all know we're never going to get asked to the dance this weekend so we might as well just tell Mrs. Friedenberg that, yes, we are free to babysit Saturday night. We get it. Ugly.

But, you know what? This is sort of an exciting time to live in DC. King Obama is in office and his army of hipster followers are slowly starting to infiltrate the city. Finally, it's kind of cool to live here; even if you don't give two shits about politics (which, by the way, can be said about many DC residents, including this gal.) We're finally figuring out that culottes might not be the trendiest pant option and we're slowly learning that we look better if we run a comb through our hair. Let us have this moment, Meghan McCain. Stop reminding us what nerds we really are deep down inside. You're like the jealous sister who keeps showing old family photo albums to our hot new boyfriend all, "Aww! Look at this picture of DC when she had braces and a unibrow! Poor DC...Middle School was such a tough time for her."

Remember when Laura Ingraham went on Fox News to talk about your political qualifications and said that you couldn't even "get a role in the Real World" because they "don't like plus-size models"? That sucked. Because 1.) you're not plus-size at all, you just have giant hooters. And the plight of the giant hootered girl is one that I know all too well; and 2.) your physical appearance has absolutely nothing to do with your ability to speak intelligently about politics, and Laura Ingraham looked embarrassingly stupid for inferring otherwise. You really came out on top of that one, homegirl, and I was happy for you. You said on the View, "I speak my mind about politics and I want to have a political discussion about the ideological future of the Republican party and the answer is, 'She's fat. She shouldn't have an opinion." Valid point. Laura Ingraham is a dumb cunt and more power to you, sister.

But you know what doesn't help your case? When you complain about how people in DC talk too much about politics and tweet things like, "Sticking out like a sore thumb n dc cuz im a raging hottie n this town is BEAT! ;)"

Because, really? I thought you wanted to have a political discussion about the ideological future of the Republican party and not about your physical appearance? So why flaunt the fact that you're glamorous, bedazzled ass is 50 times hotter than ours? Or is hypocrisy the new black? Sorry, I'm from DC, I don't know what dat dem der fashion trends be. If only I had been raised in the hot bed of cutting-edge fashion and glamor that is...Arizona?

I'm disappointed Meggles. After Saturday's tweet, not only do you seem pretty fuckin' obnoxious, but you also come off just as vapid and catty as Laura Ingraham. And that sucks, because how hard does Laura Ingraham blow? (Answer: So hard.)

So Meghan McCain, you're too good for us ugly DC folk. Well then, we invite you to pack up your haute couture dream catchers, turquoise jewelry and pan flute and get the fuck out. Our "vanilla" town clearly can't handle your spicy chipotle flavor.


XOXO,
Washington, DC

Update!

- Although Matt Roberts, inventor of The Tinge vibrator slash razor, had enough free time to read my blog, comment on my blog and send me a passive-aggressive email mocking my broken Slammock dreams, he is faaarrrrr too busy to respond to my Tinge Challenge. In the words of the great Stephanie Tanner; how rude! In the words of the greater Mr. Bear; go fuck yourself dickweed.

- I still have yet to hug John McCain. I believe this is directly correlated to the tears I cry every night and the nightmares I wake from every morning.

- Although I lost The Great JDate Debate, I never emailed my J-Stud. This is primarily because I don't have a JDate account and refuse to pay $40 for a one-month subscription just to email him. It's a recession and sorry guy, but you're not $40 hot. $15 hot? Sure! But $40? Pfff, please...I'm not even $40 hot, so don't take it too personally.

Oddly enough, a few weeks after our debate, JDate matched Anna's roommate Jill with JStud #1. She emailed him and heard crickets back. Perhaps he was too busy ruminating about how cool the ocean is or was on a hat factory tour somewhere. Our loss.

- Although I still think I'm cursed, I never went in for my reiki-healing session. This, again, is related to my lack of the monies. However, I opened my umbrella in my apartment by accident last week and have now convinced myself that I've doubled my curse and will die of swine flu the H1N1 virus soon. Maybe I'll start saving the Mall Madness dollars I get paid in and actually go?

- Alex got me a subscription to GQ for my birthday! (Please don't tell my mom.)

- Lazy-Eyed Tim's story checked out. He really is best friends with my boss. Even better, he apparently just took over the DC/MD/NoVa veneer territory and will from now on be working out of our office frequently. We already have an event scheduled together in two weeks...soooo get ready for more Lazy-Eyed Tim stories!

- Despite my best efforts, Helena still hasn't gotten Twitter. Thus, I will be ghost-writing Helena's Twitter updates until she gets an account of her own. Follow "her" at twitter.com/hojo6969.

Thoughts I couldn't flesh out into full entries

- In my office we play the Comcast "ToP 40 HiTz!" music channel throughout the studio all day. But like, all day. Like eight hours straight, five days a week of the same god-awful songs over and over and over and over again. The worst part is I'm not allowed to change the channel. My bosses think that if clients come in to discover that we have ToP 40 HiTz! blasting throughout the studio, we'll seem young and hip and straight-up dope. Personally, I don't think there's anything cool about the air horn remix of Lady Ga-Ga's Just Dance, but that's just me.

There's one song on the ToP 40 HiTz! list that I hear at least four times a day, that specifically makes me want to rip my hair out. It's called Don't Trust Me by a group called 3OH!3. It's actually got a jaunty little beat that I don't hate and wouldn't mind busting a move to on the treadmill. However, the lyrics are 100% absurd. Specifically, I lay awake at night thinking about how frustrating I find the following lyrics:

shoosh girl, shut your lips,
do the helen keller and talk with your hips.

For the record, I loves me a good Helen Keller joke—what's Helen Keller's favorite convenience store? WAAAWAAA—but this is the most half-assed, lazy attempt at a Helen Keller joke I've ever seen. Because it's like, Helen Keller didn't talk with her hips, she talked with her hands. Why do pop stars keep lying to me via song? I mean, if you're going to be provocative enough to make a Helen Keller joke in your song, I just don't understand why you wouldn't want to take the extra minute or two to make sure it makes sense. Because I want to applaud you, 3OH!3. You're two white boys from Denver who rap Helen Keller jokes. I feel like I should support just on principal. But then you had to be all lazy and have it not make sense so I stay up at night thinking about it! It's like a Ph.D. student handing in a stellar dissertation without spell checking it. How am I supposed to respect you and call you "Doctor" now?

- Please read the following Craigslist missed connection entitled, "You gave me an enema - m4w - 42 (Metro)":

You gave me a wonderful therapeutic enema at a wonderful place in Dupont Circle on Thursday afternoon (I prefer not to mention the place by name, but I'm sure you know the name!). I didn't want to ask for your number while I was in such a compromising position, but I've never stopped thinking about you! Perhaps it's common, but you may have been able to tell my attraction to you by the state of my "ding-dong". I took a long cool shower when I got home!

...Is it sad that what I took away from this missed connection is the hope and dream that one day I'll meet a man so into me he'll be able to sustain an erection thinking about me, even while getting an enema?

- Yesterday my friend Ali and I went to Earth Day on the National Mall. I'm not really into environmental issues that much, but I am into openly gawking at hot hipster boys while eating a hot dog. So I was pretty much all over this event.

At one point during the day, a representative from the Netherlands got on stage and talked about how the Dutch are the greenest motherfuckers on the planet and how we could learn a thing or two from them. Which is legit. But, she closed her speech with something to the effect of, "And you should come to the Netherlands and stimulate our economy! I mean, when Katrina happened, the Dutch came to your aide, sooooo you kind of owe us one. KTHNXBYE!!"

For realsies, lady? Are you really throwing Katrina back in our faces? The Netherlands is like that friend who drove you to the hospital when you got appendicitis and now that he needs a ride to Chipotle is all, "well I mean, I did drive you to the hospital that one time..."

- Also speaking at the event was This Old House's Steve Thomas.

And holy crap was I excited. You see, Steve Thomas' co-host on This Old House is the #3 person on my List of People I Just Want to Hug—Mr. Bob Villa. I figured hugging Steve Thomas is probably the closest I'm ever going to get to hugging Bob Villa, so I'll take it and be happy.

BUT I FUCKED IT UP! I MISSED MY OPPORTUNITY! AGAIN! GAHHH!!!11 I lost my nerve and it was like the Michael Showalter experience all over again! I looked up and saw a denim-clad man walking towards me me and just as I was about to make a Canadian Tuxedo joke to Ali, I realized who it was—Steve Thomas! "OMGALIIT'SSTEVETHOMAS!!!!!!!!!!!" I yelled at Ali. "Say hi!" I froze. "Say hi!" I continue to freeze, but this time also managed to make a series of inaudible high-pitched gurgles. "MEG, say hi!!!!"

BUT I DIDN'T! I physically couldn't. I don't know what's wrong with me. I mean, no offense to either of them, but seeing Michael Showalter and Steve Thomas isn't exactly like seeing Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. And yet I was that level of shaking like a leaf, paralyzed with fear, starstruck. I'd probably be cool as a cucumber if I ever were to meet Angie and Brad. I'd strike up a conversation and charm the pants off 'em. Yet give me an obscure comedian and a home renovator and I'm passing out like a 13-year-old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert.

Random Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh-Out Into Full Entries

- Lord knows I love me some Britney Spears 'til death do us part. That being said, I can't listen to the song "Circus" without feeling uncomfortable and enraged. Why, you may ask? Allow me to point out the following lines:

"So baby, I hope that you came prepared
I run a tight ship, so beware

I'm like the ringleader
I call the shots"

Because it's like, you don't run a tight ship. At all. You run a notoriously sloppy and white trash ship. In fact, if you ran a ship, I'm almost positive it would look a little something like this:


And you don't call the shots and everybody knows it. Your dad calls the shots. By court-order. Because your grown-ass can't call the shots without handing the keys to your career over to the first used-car salesman you see or attempting to stab a paparazzo in the heart with an Umbrella/trident. A "tight ship" that does not make.

And then when I don't think it can get any worse, we get to this gem:

"I'm like a performer, the dance floor is my stage."

What was that Brit? You're not like a performer, you are a performer. That's your job. And the dance floor is your stage. Because you're a performer. The only way I can excuse this line is if every lyric website on the Internet is grammatically incorrect and it's supposed to be:

"I'm like [COMMA] a performer [PERIOD]. The dance floor is my stage."

Which reminds me of that Simpson's episode when Lionel Hutz changes the catchphrase on his business card from "Works on contingency, no money down." to "Works on contingency? No! Money down!"

Sigh...I just don't understand why Britney Spears has to lie to me via song.

- Dr. Dre is my role-model. I strive to be more like him everyday. **[HOLY HELL! Ok, I'm going to interrupt myself right there. So this random thought was going to be about how much I love Dr. Dre and how I feel this odd connection with him that I don't know how to explain. Sort of like my love for John McCain. But less...white. Anyway, as I finished writing the sentence "I strive to be more like him everyday," The Next Episode came on my ipod shuffle, which I interpret as the Universe confirming that I indeed do have a connection with Dr. Dre. I might even be bold enough to say that we're soul mates. I wonder what Dre would say if he knew that his soul mate is a 23-year-old white blogger actively campaigning to hug John McCain?]**

- Can we please talk about the following Missed Connection on Craigslist?

I fingered you for a little bit this weekend - m4w - 28 (dcmdva)
well, the title speaks for itself. Shoot me an email/photo to confirm it's you, and let the games begin.
ps - the music was loud-

1.) I have to applaud the romantic who can't help but wonder if there was a real connection between him and the gal he finger fucked on the dance floor for a little bit this weekend.
2.) This ad would be considerably less funny to me had it said, "I fingered you this weekend." The poetry lies in the inclusion of "a little bit."
3.) "ps - the music was loud-" is the least helpful situational clue ever. I hope some chick somewhere is reading this thinking, "No way! I was fingered for a little bit this weekend! I wonder if it was by this guy? Oh. Wait...Yep, nope, not him. We had some soft Enya playing in the background." (Some chick besides myself, that is.)

- Every morning for the past week I've had the song from the "Jitterbug" cell phone commercial stuck in my head. I don't know what about taking a shower at 7 o'clock in the morning makes me think of seniors who don't want a complex cell phone, but a.) it does and b.) it's driving me up the fucking wall. It's so ridiculously infectious. And then! Because I'm consciously thinking about not thinking about it, I get it stuck in my head anyway. I've caught myself on numerous occasions softly humming it while doing the Lindy Hop under my desk at work. And that, my friends, is when you know you're part of the problem and not the solution.

Now I pass that burden on to you. You're welcome.

UPDATE!

OK SO! Team Hug John McCain 2009 is actually a force to be reckoned with and probably the most successful team I've ever been on (and Lord knows I played a lot of competitive T-ball in my day.) On one hand I'm impressed with the team's effort to support my juvenile antics, but on the other, I'm depressed because this means people are just as bored at work as I am. I hoped better for you.

All in all, team HJMcC'09 showed some nice hustle out there, but I'm giving MVP to a staffer in McCain's office who emailed me and has since been named my official Senatorial Hug Consultant. According to Staffer, a Team HJMcC'09 victory might be more difficult than anticipated because the J McC doesn't hand out hugs like lollipops. Apparently, there exist only three documented J McC hugs: 1.) w/ Joe Lieberman, 2.) w/ George W. Bush and 3.) w/ an intern who awkwardly turned a side-hug into a full-frontal hug (which is so impressive I'm not even mad.)

But we're not giving up, team! We can still come back! Staffer has concocted a genius plan where I'll sneak into an intern photo-op and get an official John McCain side-hug. Staffer's probably going to call me the day-of, so my plan is to shout "MCCAIN POWER!", punch my boss in the face, run to Capitol Hill and then fold in like melted butter amongst the interns until go-time. In case you were wondering if I have a frame ready for the official photo, I don't, but I always imagined it looking like this:

My birthday is April 16th. Just an FYI.

In other news, remember that asshole bartender from Axis with the lisp who didn't do a god-damn thing when a white cap started to go all Chris Brown on me and Anna? Well it turns out he was in the same fraternity at GW as my friend Dave! This originally confused the hell out of me because Dave is cool as shit whereas Lispy is about as cool as a Meek on her period, but then Dave informed me that Lispy was generally recognized as a giant douche bag even back then. Apparently his pledge nickname was something disgusting like "Let it Bleed," because one night he was bangin' a chick doggy-style (I know! I was surprised someone would willingly have sex with him too!) when he missed and rammed it in her ass resulting in some...unpleasantness. First of all, what sort of whack-a-mole game are you playing with your dick that you missed her vagina entirely and landed completely up her ass? I don't have a dick, but if I did I don't think I'd be all willy-nilly ramming it into whatever hole I land in if I did. Secondly, I know this happened before the run-in at the bar, but I'm still going to make the following statement and stand by it: if you're a jerk to me or my friends, God will punish you by saturating your dick in anus blood. There. I said it. The choice is yours.