Putting the "Wa?" in The War of Northern Aggression. (Nope. That was horrible. I'm so sorry.)

First and foremost, I'd just like to give everyone a quick Joe Biden & The BFDs update: STRIDES. We are making strides, thank you.

1.) I forgot that Helena's boyfriend, Jonathan, actually plays the keyboard and guitar, so if he teaches Helena to play the keyboard and hops on guitar, we're two giant steps closer to releasing our first EP, "This Is a Big Fucking Deal".

2.) I referred to Jonathan in passing as Helena's "Tandoori Boyfriend" the other day, and while I'm not saying it wasn't slightly racist, I'm also not saying it wasn't slightly hilarious. Ergo, our new band name is Joe Biden & The BFD's, featuring Tandoori Boyfriend. Plus, if No Doubt has taught us anything, it's that it's always a good idea to get an attractive Indian guy in the mix. That and I wouldn't hate if Claire's started selling bindis again.

3.) This has nothing to do with the band, but Andrew and I got into a conversation the other day about what Camryn Manheim's been up to and thanks to my TV being muted on WE all day, I now have the answer: she's on Ghost Whisperer. K. I feel better.

4.) I also totally forgot that Laura plays the violin, which means we could get some ironic fiddle action going and ain't nothin' wrong with that. I mean, it worked for The Decemberists and Arcade Fire. That and I know for a fact she can play "The Devil Went Down to Georgia", which is a point of pride that I know all the words to. Ergo, we are now three steps closer to our first EP.

5.) I found an iphone app that teaches you to play the bass guitar. Best idea ever or BEST IDEA EVER? I'm going to my parent's house to borrow my car tomorrow and you bet your Biden I'm going to grab my bass as well. Although I highly doubt it's in tune anymore. And I don't know how to tune it. I guess I could put an ad on Craigslist for someone to come over and tune it for me? Although it might be kind of hard to play the it when I'm a lampshade... Choices. I'm going to stop typing my inner monologue now.

6.) Uh, just kidding, because in addition to Jennifer Love Hewitt, did you know that Jeremy London, a very bloated Jamie Kennedy, and Rachael Leigh Cook are on Ghost Whisperer? I feel like I just found a mass grave filled with 1998.

7.) Also, Rachel Leigh Cooke doesn't look that horrible with blond hair, which I find shocking and unfair because we have similar coloring, yet when I had blond hair I looked like a raging meth addict with a failed home daycare center.

See? Strides.

If you know me at all, you know that there are four things on my bucket list:

1.) Stand in a cranberry bog

2.) Own a confederate flag bikini

3.) Have sex in a hot tub (I'm aware of the health risks, thank you, but I'd still like to go for it.)

4.) Direct and star in a training montage set to Al Corley's "Square Rooms"

I was doing some research on #2 the other night, as you do, when I came across the most perplexing bumper sticker I have ever seen in my entire life:

I just don't get it. I JUST. DON'T. GET IT. And I don't mean that in a, "Ohhh, how could anyone put something so offensive on their car??" kind of way, I mean that I literally don't understand what message that bumper sticker is trying to convey. And it's all that I think about now. It has consumed my life. It's the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning, and the only thing I think about when I go to bed. I think about it in the shower, I think about it when I'm getting ready, I think about it when I'm riding the metro, I think about it when I'm hanging out with friends, I think about it when I'm watching TV, I think about it when I'm writing—it's completely taken over my life. Because I need to know: If you'd known what?

If I had known this. "THIS". WHAT IS THIS?! If we take away the writing, we're left with a small Battle Flag of the Confederacy in the corner of a large white plane, which is The Second Confederate Navy Ensign, or "The Stainless Banner":


So had this person know something about The Second Confederate Navy Ensign, they would have picked their own cotton? Let's just ignore that that's specifically the Stainless Banner and accept that it represents the cause of the Confederacy, right? Well, I still don't fucking get it. Because the question remains: if I had known WHAT?? Known that the South would secede from the Union? Know that they'd fail? Know that there'd be a civil war? I've been polling pretty much every single person I've come in contact with in the past week and a half, and while we've come up with some theories, I'm not really in love with any of them.

1.) My original theory was that it's an anti-Confederate bumper sticker. I thought it meant like, had I known there would be a giant civil war that would give birth to generations of bitter, racist redneck assholes, I would have picked my own cotton. Because if I had I picked my own cotton, there would have never been slavery, and if there had never been slavery, there would have never been a war, and if there had never been a war, the Confederacy would have never existed, and had the Confederacy never existed, we wouldn't have bitter, racist redneck assholes today. There are two problems with this theory, however. First, there's just something about the phrase "picked my own cotton" that doesn't feel terribly sympathetic. I feel like it's a pretty good rule of thumb in general that:

"Picked"

+

"Cotton"

+

Confederate flag

=

Also, the bumper sticker is sold on a scary, southern, I-listen-to-a-lot-of-3-Doors-Down-and-might-bring-a-gun-to-my-school-and-just-let-it-all-wash-over-me website. They sell a lot of intense-looking gun accessories, scopes, silencers, knives, bullets, and absurdly racist novelties. My personal favorite is the pack of five "FEMA Gold'n Tickets".



The front says: "Bearer of this ticket is entitled to one free house, a hot tub, a 60" plasma TV, your choice of a Volvo or BMW(may be preowned), a lifetime supply of food, all hair care products, lots O' Bling Bling, 2 voter registration cards, and grants holder permission to bitch about not git'n what they should be git'n from the govenrment. Offer Void to Republicans, Taxpayers or Any Other Productive Members of Society."

And the back: "This Ticket Will Allow The Bearer To Move To The Front Of The Welfare Line And To Get A Free Bottle Of Mad Dog 20/20 Anywhere That is Accepted!"

...OOOF. It's not not flagrantly racist. Not quite as good, but still pretty enjoyable is the Headlines From the Year 2029 poster, featuring: "Japanese scientists have created a camera with such a fast shutter speed, they can now photograph a woman with her mouth shut." HA HA, sexism.

My point being, this doesn't really seem like a website that would sell anti-Confederate anything.

2.) My parents' theory is that it's re: "uppity black people", if you will. (And I won't, but I will temporarily for the sake of sussing this out.) Like, if I had known that the slaves would be freed and become so uppity, I would have picked my own cotton. Or conversely, you could look at it in a "FEMA Gold'n Ticket" kind of way and interpret it as, if I had known that one day the slaves would be free and all our tax money would go to supporting them, I would have picked my own cotton. I mean, it works, but I'm not like, "OHHHHH, duh," you know? It doesn't click. I need it to click. (And again, I stress that my parents and I don't agree with any of this, we're just trying to get my life back.)

3.) Piggybacking off the UBP theory, what if it's an Obama thing? If you dissociate this from the rebel flag and assume that the rebel flag is only there to let us know that WARNING: shit's about to get rull racist, it could be like, if I had known that one day the slaves would be free and one of them would become the President, I would have picked my own cotton? Again, it works, but I don't think it's the winner. Mostly because rednecks aren't terribly well-versed in the art of subtlety:









4.) I was really banking on Laura having the answer because she was a history major, and in my mind that means she has the answer to everything. Her best guess was, if I had known that the South would lose and it would be a giant hot-mess, I would have picked my own cotton. And...yeah, I guess. But again, it doesn't quite hit the spot.

So then I took a page from my own book and decided to do what I did when I couldn't figure out what "hit the switch" meant in Dr. Dre's "Xxplosive": I emailed a webmaster.

To whom it may concern: 

I'm putting together a care package for my brother who's fighting overseas in Afghanistan and I just want to clarify the meaning of one of your bumper stickers. Can you tell me what: "If I had known this, I would have picked my own cotton," means? We are from South Carolina and he has lots of Southern pride, so I just want to be sure the guys over there will like it. Again my email is meghan.c.xxxxxxx@gmail.com. 

God bless! 

- Meghan

And to my shock, those assholes totally didn't email me back! Which doesn't make sense because that email had everything: a brother overseas, The Troops, Afghanistan, South Carolina, Southern pride, "over there", God bless!—COME ON! So basically my well-crafted email to a small Internet boutique owner failed miserably, whereas the email I sent to Dr. Dre's webmaster in 2002 saying, "Hi, Meg here. I'm a big Dre. Dre fan, but I can't figure out what 'hit the switch' means and it's driving me crazy. Please advise," actually got results. There is just so much I don't understand in this world...

So I'm turning to you, Internetz. What the hell does that bumper sticker mean?! Crack the code and I'll give you a free SOLD OUT Sorr About the Bag tote bag. Good luck and God speed. In the mean time, I'll be researching something I can actually wrap my head around—cranberry bogs and hot tubs.

What a Shitshow

Before we get to Chris' post—T.G.I. HAGMAN!!!1

As of 12:13am on June 25, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! Just let it all wash over you.

----------------------------

To Torrey, the Tulane grad who commented on my post the other day: I have a frighteningly blurry memory of hitting on someone named Torrey/Tori/Tor-E at the 2004 Beaux Arts Ball. If that was you, I AM SO SORRY, it was an open bar and I was 19. Hopefully it wasn’t you and we can still be friends. If it was you… I was real drunk, so you didn’t miss much.

Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome my dad to our readership! He started reading a couple of weeks ago and proceeded to send me an email with the subject line “Meg” about how funny he thinks Meg is. What he doesn’t know is that I tell Meg funny things Dad says and she thinks he’s funny. It’s all very Parent Trap. I talked to Dad recently and he said something about how “it’s all funny, but as a parent occasionally it’s more information than I particularly…” so I’ve devised a code for everyone’s comfort: if the first few sentences contain any of the phrases “rim job,” “tampon cannon,” “fecal vomit,” or “scrotal catastrophe,” the rest of the post will be vulgar. I will also announce at the beginning of each post referencing any drug or alcohol experiences I may or may not have had (totally did have) that it’s a Drama in Real Life! Post.

I resent Meg’s trying to fob off the weird onto me during the ash discussion. I fully intended to blog about that same conversation but Meg, having the blog password and all, was faster. If she wants to risk grandparental scolding from beyond the grave, so be it, but I’m not trusting her with my ashes. At this point, I don’t even trust her to have me cremated. She’d probably just drag me into the yard and throw a tarp over me, or surreptitiously put me in Evie’s litterbox and hope I went out with the next scoop. So, for my loyal fans, both of you, here is what you must do with my ashes: If Adrien Brody is still alive and reasonably pleasant to look at, rub my ashes onto his nude body. If not, sneak my ashes into Snake and Jake’s in New Orleans on Dollar Schlitz Night and divide them equally between the ashtrays and the sofa cushions. This will be easy, because every night is dollar beer night.

So… diarrhea. I think it’s hilarious. Here’s my algebra:

(Feces x Desperation) + Embarrassment = LOL!!!1

I told Meg I planned to try to write a diarrhea post and she said, “Oh, I had diarrhea yesterday!” It’s the great equalizer! Not everyone gets drunk and goes home with someone who turns out to have one ball (TAMPON CANNON, DAD!) or drinks so much they vomit twin streams of pre-bottled rum and coke out their nose their first day in New Zealand (scrotal catastrophe!), but everyone has diarrhea. Screw hearing a child’s laughter or falling in love for the first time; the true universal human experience is taking the stairs at a gallop and throwing an elderly man to the floor in a race to get to the toilet in time. Fistfuls of Immodium at the bus station.

So, in the interests of opening up and building a closer relationship with my readers, here is my best personal diarrhea story. Picture it. New Orleans, February 2010. A young graduate student travels to his favorite city to watch their team play in the Super Bowl. A kindly stewardess offers him a chicken roll on the plane. He eats it, not knowing it is RIFE with contagion.

So, I get to New Orleans and all is great. Celebrations, whatever. The game isn’t for a couple of days. The next day, we all go out to get Po-Boys, when the Feeling strikes me. The Po-Boy place does not have a toilet, forcing me to caaaaaaarefully jog two blocks to a coffeeshop, buy some juice, and proceed to… you know. I assume it’s just travel disarray and go on about my day.

So we went to the movie theater, and I shat myself. We were casually walking along, excited about seeing the movie, and THERE IT WAS. No warning or anything, just straight-up shat myself.

If the Super Bowl had not been the next day, I would have just killed myself. I would have died at home and my friends there, unlike MEG, might at least have rolled my corpse into the lake. However, I had a game to watch.

I realize I just might be able to class this one through. I ran to the bathroom and… you can imagine what I had to do. The only really awkward part was throwing my underpants away in the big trash can, but her I had an ace in the hole: I was in New Orleans. In any other city in the world, throwing your underwear away in a Megaplex bathroom is cause for alarm, even hostility from passersby. In New Orleans – hell, everyone’s had those days. You’re more likely to get a sadly sympathetic smile and a murmured, “Lord, I had a day like that last week…” It takes more than feces-streaked boxer-briefs to stand out in New Orleans.

So THANK GOD, the movie was sold out and we left. I peeled off the two closest friends of mine in the group and told them I had something important and private to tell them. They are a pair of Cajun siblings whom I’ll call Butter Legs and Smashbone and two of my favorite people in the world. Since they already knew I was gay they must have thought I had cancer. They very kindly took me home with only minor giggling, although I had to make them postpone a trip to the liquor store until they dropped me off. My exact words were “Guys, I don’t want to be all ‘I have diarrhea’ about this, but…”

So, I spent a night shivering and feverish on the couch watching “Mad Men” with our host’s belligerent girlfriend. I was sick enough that I couldn’t completely tell her apart from the show, so I’m not completely sure if there’s a really critical pre-school teacher on the show or not. I do feel sorry for a pre-school teacher who doesn’t pity people who have Had Accidents because she has a short career in front of her.

I got up in the morning to giggles. “Chris. Chris, do you feel better? Chris. We bought you Chinese food.” Specifically, they had brought me a Pu Pu platter.

“Chris?”

“Butter Legs?”

“Remember during the playoffs when you said that if the Saints went to the Super Bowl you’d shit yourself?”

“Yes.”

“And they’re at the Super Bowl?”

“Yes.”

“And you shat yourself!”

“Yes.”

Premonitions do run in my mother’s family, and somehow it seems oddly appropriate that mine should specifically be attuned to bowel movements. So, the rest is history and the Saints won. Now, every time Butter Legs has diarrhea, she texts me because “it reminds her of me.” This is funnier if you realize that Butter Legs is small, very pretty, and generally a fairly demure Southern lady. She makes pepper jelly with her aunt, always writes thank-you notes, and uses diarrhea as a reminder to stay close to friends.

So, if any of you still had me on a pedestal and thought I was glamorous, rest assured: I put my pants on one leg at a time, and then I shit them.