I'M ALIVE! SO ALIVE!

Just dropping in to clarify that I haven't been MIA because I died of Salmonella poisoning (HEY-OHHHHH—SMALL VICTORIES!!!!); we're working for The Man this week. For it is The Man who keeps us in house dresses and Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay. Oh, and Lexie Briggs, who donated yet AGAIN this week. God I love that woman. The Man and Lexie Briggs—ideal co-pilots for a fantasy naked hot tub party??? Don't mind if I do, and don't mind if I do. (Let it be known I was about to make an unbelievably nauseating skimmer joke right there but managed to edit myself. You're welcome.)

Alright, momma's gonna go make some money, but I'll be back. And I have a shit-ton of half-written posts hanging out on my desktop, so hopefully not only will I be back, but I'll be coming. In your faces. With posts. Good. Glad you went there with me on that one. I leave you now two quick yummies and a quick reminder to follow us on Twitter because I'll be in Philly for the rest of the week and weekend working with Chris, and Meg/Chris work sessions tend to produce a lot of unfortunate tweeting about "The Price is Right" and scissoring. Not necessarily in that order. KBYE.

1.) I was pokin' around my parent's basement last week and found my COMPLETE COLLECTION OF AMERICAN GIRL TRADING CARDS IN THE OFFICIAL COLLECTIBLE BINDER. No big deal. No big fuckin' mint-condition deal. Anyway, I was flipping through the binder and reminiscing and feeling warm and fuzzy when this card caught my eye:

Does that, or does that not look like the official trading card for 18th Century Molestation? And what does it say about me that if there were such a thing as century specific molestation trading cards, I would pay whatever it takes to get the circa Industrial Revolution one because I have a thing for fingerless gloves and "Spinning Jenny" wordplay?

2.) Meglet and Monty. Eatin' raisins. Looking uncomfortably Asian. And rull tired. 4 lyfe.

The DILF Hunter 5000

OK, look. I’m going to be REAL honest with you: I’m fully aware that a heaping tablespoon of our readership is pissed at us right now because we took two weeks off to, you know, write a book. Because someone gave us money to. Versus this little venture. Which we do for free. Actually, that’s a lie; Lexie Briggs gave us a donation yesterday. So Lexie Briggs: I’m sorry I disappointed you…but mostly, I’m sorry I disappointed myself. You let me know when you’d like to get drinks and they’re on me. (And by drinks plural, I mean one for me and one for you. Reasonably priced. Preferably domestic. This isn’t prom.) ANYWAY, the point is I’m buckling under the pressure of winning your hearts back and now I have writer’s block and can’t think of an introduction for this post and Chris isn’t answering my text messages. To add insult to injury, there’s a crack in my Brita pitcher and I’ve been fucking parched all day but don’t trust unfiltered DC water, so I just chugged four random Stellas I found in the back of my fridge from Halloween in under five minutes and am surprisingly drunk right now.

So here I am, accidentally drunk, playing with “novelty borders” in Illustrator, and trying to think of a way to be non-offensive and charming when it’s like, fuck it—just like these novelty borders, someone’s always going to think I suck, so I might as well just be the best little novelty border I can be for the people who appreciate novelty borders. Which, I might add, certainly has never been me, but you know what? I can’t fly in the face of an 8.5 x 11 piece of computer paper flanked in picnic ants and paw prints. I would go to that block party and I’m not even trying to front like I wouldn’t. So what I’m trying to say is: I recently discovered is that I’m a total DILF hunter and I think we should talk about it. But first:

As of February 11, 2011, Larry Hagman is alive! And here’s a quick story about him before we move on (“We suuuuure did Blanche…”): I found out some disturbing health news Tuesday afternoon and was just generally really down, so I came home and cracked open the Larry Hagman autobiography, Hello Darlin’, which 2b1b super-readers Anna and Sarah were wonderful enough to send to me. Within 19 pages, I was hysterically laughing because a.) He dedicated the book to his liver donor, which I know isn’t “funny”, but also isn’t not funny; b.) The first time he did acid (or a “turn on”, if you will) it was a gift from David Crosby and he did it in a tiny little brown terry cloth robe that his wife, Maj, made for him; c.) He was raised by a “extremely loving” black woman who, if little Larry wouldn’t stop talking at bed time, would blow out the pilot light in the gas heater and let the gas fill the room until he got drowsy and passed out. His grandparents made her stop doing it though when they came home from a church barbecue once and found both of them passed out, “gas still flowing.” Instead she would let little Hagman suck on a bourbon-soaked sock until he got buzzed enough to fall asleep. The concluding sentence of the introductory chapter is, “Was this the start of my alcoholism? Who knows.” Larry Hagman, Lexie Briggs, Anna, and Sarah…you keep me hangin’ on.

So, Chris and I were watching an episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip last week, per his dad’s recommendation, and I got all oddly hot and bothered by Matthew Perry. It started innocently enough when I remarked that he looked good in a suite, and then somehow turned into me full-blown rapping the “spicier” portions of Ludacris’ Fantasy while grabbing my invisible dick with my left hand and uncomfortably caressing my breasts with the right.

Chris didn’t understand my attraction to Matthew Perry at first but eventually admitted that he could see the being attracted to him circa the “Friends” years. And I could NOT disagree more. I like post-rehab Matthew Perry. I like that he looks poofy and a little waterlogged. I like the worry lines across his forehead and the bags under his eyes. I like that you can tell he was once a pretty boy who’s now a little weathered and clearly has a story to tell. And that’s when I connected the dots that Studio 60 Matthew Perry looks disturbingly like a lot of guys I’ve hooked up with over the years. Up until that moment, I never really thought I had a “type” (or, I considered my type to be whoever wanted to have sex with me at that given moment, which I don’t think is really having a “type” more as it's having "low self-esteem”), but standing there in Chris’ apartment, clutching my left breast and pointing to the television screen with a shaking finger, I realized that I do have a type—I’m a total DILF Hunter.

Chris was quick to point out that this must mean I have some serious daddy issues, but the thing is; I don’t. I have an excellent relationship with my dad; we’re friends, but that’s where it ends. My dad could be Steve Martin’s doppelganger and every time I watch that scene in Shop Girl when he gets into bed with a naked, whorish Claire Danes, I want to run a cheese grater over my eyes and jump out a plate glass window. That and I don’t think there’s anything “daddy issues-y” about being into DILFS. Sure it stands for “Dad I’d Like to Fuck”, but since when does that mean it’s my dad? My father is a distinguished older gentleman, and a distinguished older gentleman does not a DILF make.

Let me paint you a picture of what I consider a DILF to be: a man in his mid to late 30’s; typically brunette; classically handsome; exquisite bone structure; maybe married right out of college and got saddled down with the wife and kids a little too early; works an unfulfilling, but decently paid corporate job; perhaps has a wee bit of a drinking problem as a result and has put on a few pounds; maybe he’s looking for a young blogger with dwindling popularity to escape with for a few hours and remind himself what it’s like to be alive, feel a little dangerous with, I don’t know?; but most importantly he’s wearing a crisp Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up three-quarters of the way, top button undone and just slightly exposing his undershirt, haphazardly loosened tie, and a-reeking of musky cologne and a decade of disappointment. BOOM. I’m into, you guys. I’m into a big, big way. The highlight of every single one of my Monday through Fridays is when the guy I’m currently into text messages me a detailed description of what he wore to work that day. Sound a little gay? Well there’s nothing gay about it when the end result is me wanting to jump your fucking bones. (Sorry. Four Stellas. Getting a little defensive. Throwing hard F’s around.) And while I’m fairly certain all of this says something unfortunate about me, I don’t think it’s that I have daddy issues.

That being said, I did bring it up with Laura to see what she thought when we were out getting drinks this past weekend. After I finished my little schpeal, her eyes widened and I could see the pieces fall into place. She stammered, “Like…like Timothy Dalton!” PLINKO. We then spent the remainder of our night sitting in the window at Big Hunt comprising a list of the DILFiest men we could think of—a list that has now become known as The DILF Hunter 5000. Which was awkward when it got crowded and we agreed to share our table with another group of people and frequently interrupted their conversation with things like: “MICHAEL VARTAN?!” “DILF. ME. UP. AND. DILF. ME. DOWN. YES.”

Official rules of the DILF Hunter 5000:

1.) Must be attainably attractive, not too pretty or too exotic. Because that really is the majesty of the DILF. I don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell with Ian Somerhalder, I realize that, but something deep inside of me truly believes that given the right amount of alcohol and a dimmer switch, I could probably get Ray Liotta to go home with me.

2.) Doesn’t necessarily have to have kids. Jude Law has three kids but is way too pretty to ever be considered a DILF. Conversely, George Clooney doesn’t have any but aesthetically fits the bill. DILF is a state of mind, not a lifestyle.

3.) Of a certain age, but not of another. Which is just another way to say—

4.) DILF ≠ Distinguished Older Gentleman

5.) We recognize that every rainbow has a spectrum. George Clooney, to me, is a DILF, but he’s also in that age range where he could just as easily be a Distinguished Older Gentleman. Likewise, Joseph Gordon Levitt is going to be a great DILF someday, but that day is not today. The age range can get a little ambiguous, but all we can do is try our best.

6.) He has to put the F in DILF. Laura was quick to put Steve Carell on the list, but does anyone really want to fuck Steve Carell? I’d shake hands with Steve Carell and buy him a beer, maybe even have a sweaty make out session with him in a sports bars commode; anything else just seems…overkill.

Over the course of this past week I challenged myself to pare down the DILF Hunter 5000 to what I consider to be the top 10 DILFs of all time. Screw writing the manuscript—that was a challenge. But thankfully after a lot of soul-searching, reordering, and revision, it’s done. I proudly present to you now, Meg McBlogger’s Top 10 All-Time DILFs:

#10: Alan Ruck

Or Alan “Ruck Me Harder”, if you will. Baha. I know what you’re thinking: “PSHHHH, seriously, Meg? He hasn’t been in anything since Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and he was like 25 in that.” Oh, really? Allow me to point you to a little slice of the human experience called Cheaper by the Dozen and episode four of “Stella” entitled “Coffee Shop”. He played an emasculated, down-on-his-luck DILF in both of those and need I mention those blue eyes?? (Plus in CBD he wore a tux. Netfix it immediately. Or just come over because I own it. It’s a genuinely funny movie. Don’t judge me.)

#9: Will Arnett 

Knock, knock? Who’s there? I’d lick that receding hairline. That’s my entire joke. ‘Sup?

#8: Timothy Dalton circa 1987's The Living Daylights 

Look, we can go tit-for-tat all day about whether or not he was a respectable Bond (Lord knows I’ve got the time) (and four years of 007 Days of Christmas marathons under my belt) but I think we can all agree that in his prime, Timothy Dalton was a DILF and he made no apologies for it. I mean, that noble mane of hair! Those suits! Eyebrows that could make Peter Gallagher blush! And my god—the cleft chin. I, personally think cleft chins are sexy, but I think that’s mostly just because I have one and spent the majority of my youth being told it was a butt chin and developed a self-deprecating sense of humor and semi-serious self-mutilating problem as a result, but DALTON! Dalton made it look good.

#7: That Correspondent From The Daily Show who Kind of Looks Like Timothy Dalton if you Cross Your Eyes and Squint

Which I do. Frequently. It gives me terrible headaches and I might be developing a lazy eye, but Timothy Dalton looks like a decrepit vampire these days and Jason Jones? I. SAID. GOD. DAMN.

#6: Justin Kirk

I dated a guy who looks like Justin Kirk once and we both know I was in no way the one who ended it.

#5: Jon Hamm

I mean, “Mad Men” and “30 Rock” reruns basically just serve as softcore pornography at this point. Reasons one and two to get my cable turned back on…

#4: Clive Owen

I just…he’s just so…and he makes me feel…and I could…and he…and I…I have to go.

#3: Jason Bateman

There’s no one else I’d rather make sweet Pop-Pop with.

#2: Paul Rudd

As I obnoxiously shouted over the head of a perfect stranger a mere six days ago: “LAURA!!! PAUL RUDD—THE ORIGIONAL DILF!!!! THE DILF THAT LAUNCHED A THOUSAND MINI-VANS!!!! FUCK. YES.”

#1: Jeremy Piven

First and foremost: I don’t have to explain anything to you people. Second and second most: Fine. Let’s just all acknowledge that Jeremy Piven is a douchebag, OK? Jeremy Piven is a giant douchebag and I, Meg McBlogger, recognize that. He’s a “Jewish Buddhist”, whatever the fuck that means; he pussied out of a play with an excuse only applicable to 19^th century hatters; he might actually think he’s Ari Gold after the cameras stop filming—I get it; he’s a douchebag. But that doesn’t mean when he shuts that pretty little goddamn mouth of his and stands perfectly still, he isn’t the sexiest man in the entire world. Yeah. I said it. I honestly think that Jeremy Piven is the sexiest man in the world. I pitted him against every single other member of the DILF Hunter 5000, and he came out on top every time. And am I embarrassed to admit that on a blog where I’m already on thin ice? No. No, I’m not. I’m proud of myself for being able to be that honest. Because originally I hid Piven at #6 and put Rudd at #1, but it was with Alex’s emotional support in the basement level of a Panera that I learned to be proud of my feelings for the Piven and not care what other people think. I’m sorry that I can actually look past people’s personalities and inner selves and judge them solely on their physical appearance and you can’t. I’m a

lso sorry I didn’t get tickets to Burning Man this year, hippie.

Also,you don’t think that Jeremy Piven has contributed anything to society or even to your life? Uh, let me remind you of a little motion picture called PCU, and a line that’s not only my personal mantra, but is what inspired Ex Co-Blogger Eddie to write her senior history thesis on "Dallas", thereby introducing her to Larry Hagman, thereby introducing me to TGI Hagman, thereby introducing you to TGI Hagman:

Tom: What is he doing?

Droz: He’s finishing his senior thesis. Pigman is trying to prove the Caine-Hackman theory. No matter what time it is, 24 hours a day, you can find a Michael Caine or Gene Hackman movie playing on TV.

Tom: That’s his thesis?

Droz: Yes! That’s the beauty of college these days, Tommy! You can major in Game Boy if you know how to bullshit.

And bullshit we did. And continue to! Well, not Eddie. She’s an upstanding member of society who counsels America’s youth about doin’ it with condoms. I…made this list. And got drunk alone tonight because I couldn’t afford Gatorade. Well. Remember to use a condom! There. Now we’re even. 

Welp, that’s going to do it for us! Good riddance to this god-awful week and here’s to shit getting better. If you find yourself sitting around this weekend coming up with some quality DILFs, shoot them my way. 

Remember, there’s no “I” in “DILF Hunter 5000”. Except for the one in “DILF”. That literally stands for I. Good. Glad we’re friends again. See you on Monday.

SHIT'S. ABOUT TO GET. REAL. (& a recap.)

Well Christ, now that you've all thrown some pity money my way, I suppose I'm obligated to write regularly again and let you know what's up with me, right? Well played, reader. Well played indeed.

Well, to simplify the situation greatly, I've had to face some hard realities in the past few weeks and those realities caused all of these emotions and Lord (and a slew of state-certified therapists) knows that I have no god-given idea how to deal with emotions in a healthy way. I didn't want to get into all this shit here because this is a comedy blog after all and if you wanted to hear me bitch and moan about how hard life is, you probably would have just been my friend in middle school. But I didn't have any friends in middle school. So I interpret that as a pretty good indicator that nobody wants to hear me bitch and moan. Plus, it's hard to write something from the heart when you know some schmo is going to shit all over it in the comments section. I'm going to be honest with you right now: that is a mind fuck. Bloggers aren't supposed to acknowledge that part of the job because if you do, you're giving power to the people trying to fuck you and the only way to fight back is to deny that they have power over you in the first place. You know who else has to deal with that kind of mental battle every day? Prison inmates. Prison inmates and bloggers. I would not be surprised if I go into my kitchen tomorrow morning to get a bowl of Kashi Go-Lean and a Latin King jumps out and either shanks me or makes me his life bitch. I think we both know I'm rooting for the latter, but still. I'm just saying it's a bizarre occupational hazard.

So, yes, light-hearted end of the week ass rape jokes aside, I wasn't going to talk about it. But as we've experienced in the last two weeks, when I don't talk about it, I don't talk at all. Which I expected a lot of animosity about, and while I certainly got it, mostly I just got a lot of support. By complete strangers! It's crazy. And flattering and touching and slightly overwhelming because you know, emotions and such and such. But eff the commenters! Eff them in the A. And the B. And up the U with electrical wire. And throw a CD in there to boot. (That's a coke douche, by the way, not a compact disc. Although fuck it—throw that in there too. Everything's in mp3 these days anyway and shit is wide.) I'm going to tell you what's up. Although I will let you know that a large quantity of red wine was recently spilled on my keyboard and the S and control keys are fucked up, so it there might be some pelling errors. <--- I didn't plan that. That was organic. But I'm keeping it to prove a point. And if you have a problem with it, shoot me an email me and I will personally come to your place of residence and felate you, because you need to chill the fuck out. And because I'm aware I give a half-assed BJ, I will also bring a few cans of Coors with me to compensate—Christ knows I got extra from camping and Christ double knows I got the time.

So, I was trying to pinpoint today the source of this whole existential life crisis that I'm currently going through. Was it the change of seasons? My sister's upcoming wedding? The fact that all of my friends seem to be fleeing this city like it's the second outbreak of the bubonic plague? No. Well, maybe. But specifically, it was because I looked at my bank account. And the balance was $12.30. So then I looked in my back-up bank account. And the balance there was -$55.30. So then I looked at my emergency savings account. And the balance there was $14.95. Which puts my finances at a grand total of -$28.05, before bills and cost of living and blah blah pants and sandwiches blah. Final summation: bitch has gotta go back to work.

But the thing is, (and I realize this is going to sound obnoxious at first, but stick with) I have to go back to work-work. Like, I have to get a real person job again. I refuse to go back to retail because not only do you work all the time and not make any money, my last experience left me totally jaded. Because you know what's an ironic moment? When you can't make payments on the loans you took out to get a fancy BA in art, because you're not qualified for a promotion at the arts and crafts store you work at. That moment is a real fucking kick in the pants. And then right after you find out you got passed, one of your best friends comes into the store to say goodbye on her way to move to New York and per chance, The Rolling Stones' "Wild Horses" starts playing on the store soundtrack and suddenly you're looking around for fucking James Van Der Beek because life is feeling a little too "Dawson's Creeky" for your liking, so you deal with it by calling your parents on M street and just yell a bunch of swears, get sick, and never go back. Christ.

I'm aware that everyone, including me, has to work. I'm aware that I'm not special and I'm not exempt from any of the shittier aspects of life. However, the fact that I have to go back and get a 9-5 again, to me, feels like a failure. The fact that I couldn't make this blog my bread and butter after trying very, very hard to, makes me feel like a failure. I know because I don't have Google Ads it must seem like I'm not trying to monetize or like I don't take my writing seriously, but behind the scenes I hustle. Chris and I both hustle hard. And I personally have come so close, so many times to getting a break, but fall just short every single time. So I keep trying. I tell myself it's the kick in the ass I need to make this my number one priority and work harder. But when I realized a few weeks ago that I was officially out of "post-firing" money with absolutely nothing to show for it, I just felt like a big fat fucking failure.

Intellectually, I can sit myself down and say that going back to a 9-5 will by no means end my dream and it doesn't actually mean I've failed, but for me, right now, it does. And as I told my mom (or more accurately, as I screamed at my mom), I am allowed to take a moment and be upset about it. I'm not quitting. The blog is not dead. I just needed some time to fucking sit down, eat a bowl of Xanax, come to terms with what's up, look for jobs, and cry at everything on TV, including, but not limited to, that god damn Hallmark card commercial with the daughters going through their dad's drawers and finding every card they've ever given him and they're all, "He kept them all...I didn't even know he read them," and then they all start crying and suddenly Dad pokes his head in all, "What you hens cluckin' about? I'm only moving downtown." You know what? THAT COMMERCIAL IS FUCKING FUCKED UP. They totally lead you into thinking Dad is dead and let's not pretend like we haven't all cleaned out a dead loved one's room and you find their old like, "#1 Grandpa!" shit and think you're going to vomit your insides out and your parents are crying and that's ass-backwards and confusing because you're only 12-fucking-years old and what the shit can you say to make any of it better? FUCK HALLMARK FOR CAPITALIZING ON THAT MOMENT. That is some voodoo shit right there and and I am not amused. It's like the "Golden Girls" episode when you think Blanche's husband is alive again and then right at the end you find out it was all a dream. If someone is alive, just say they're alive. If someone is dead, just say they're dead. Hallmark Dad is alive, George Devereaux is dead. How hard was that??

Anyway, I needed a moment to sit in my apartment, scream at the television like a senile old person and just fucking be sad. The weird thing about writing a comedy blog about the unfortunateness of your life is that after a while, you sort of get psyched when shit happens because it means you have new material. But this little life realization totally snuck up on me. All of a sudden it was like, "this is isn't funny. This isn't funny at all. All of my friends are in love and settling down and getting married and having babies and going back to school and moving on, and I'm single, living in the town I've always lived in or near, in my sister's apartment and I write a free comedy blog primarily about my body fluids and bad luck. What the fuck am I doing?" And the answer is: I don't know. I mean, I guess nobody really knows what they're doing, but I don't even have the comfort of getting to pretend like I do. I can't slap a bunch of smiling pictures of myself on Facebook, add a fancy job title at an impressive company and feel validated. Why? Because everyone knows that I got fired six months ago and went to the hospital because I couldn't stop shitting myself. I mean...really.

That being said, I totally understand that it's my choice to share all of this with you. And I am 100% dedicated to making this little horse and pony show (and my writing in general) a success. However, I don't know if that's actually ever going to happen. I don't know if I'll ever monetize, I don't know if I'm ever going to get an agent, I don't know if I'll ever get a book deal, I don't know if turning down that awesome design job a year and a half ago to stay in a shitty receptionist job to dedicate myself to writing this blog was a good idea and if I didn't do this anymore, I really, really don't know what I'd do. And as long as we're being honest; that scares the ever-living shit out of me. Because everyone knows about it. If I fail, everyone is going to know, so part of me is nervous to even try. But that's where your supportive emails and tweets and PayPal donations really helped. It's very powerful to just have random fucking people tell you not to give up. Because of course my family and friends are supportive and have been telling me not to give up, but they're my family and friends. They're pretty much contractually obligated to believe in me. But you're not. And you seem to be into it. So blokay. I won't go anywhere. I even wrote two blog posts today to make sure that we're back on schedule for next week. hey HEY hey.

So there. That's mostly what's been going on with me. I'm sorry if it inconvenienced you and I'm sorry if my explanation made you feel uncomfortable (as it would me), but I don't know. The minute money is involved, I feel oddly obligated to be honest. Which is weird because I'm Jewish. HI-OHHHHHHHHHH! She's back! And now that we've established I'm not swinging from nerd rope on my shower rod, let's check in on another loose cannon, shall we?

As of 6:18am on October 8, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! And $12 million dollars richer. Which is an interesting turn of events. But apparently he's giving away $10 million of it to charity. Soooooo, Mr. Hagman, I will kindly direct you to my personal PayPal button at your right and bid you a good weekend.

So, this was a boring week in the "Jersey Shore" world, but meh, what else is new? Everyone is psyched that Angelina is gone and to celebrate that fact, the boys go and throw her bed out. This scene enrages me for two reasons: 1.) Upon lifting up her mattress, they discover that the supporting planks are broken and are obviously like, "Heyoo0o0oo, she's such a slut she broke her bed!" I'm sorry but Ikea furniture doesn't hold up for shit and if you'd like to argue that, I have a two broken end tables looking me square in the eye that would love to speak with you; and 2.) The production crew usually gets to take shit from the house for themselves at the end of a reality show and how pissed would you be if you had shotgunned Angelina's bed and then Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino and "DJ Pauly D" decided to physically throw it in a dumpster to further prove that the girl who has left the show, has indeed left the show? How bored and full of forbidden homosexual thoughts are you when that suddenly gets thrown on the agenda?

To further further celebrate the fact that Angelina's gone, the house gets together and cooks a big lobster feast and prays and mumbles about family and Sammi feels weird because now that Angelina's gone, she doesn't have any girlfriends in the house blah blah blah I'm so bored I could puke. But why talk about that when we can talk about how J-WOWW and Snooki attempt to "rescue" a lobster by putting him in a salad bowl of water, feeding him worms and keeping him as a pet? Because again, I'm relating to the "Jersey Shore" a little more than I'd like to. It's time you all know about M'Lady.

M'Lady was a crab. Some say the best crab. One day the summer before freshman year of college, me, Teresa and our friend Franky went crabbing because we're from Maryland and stereotypes are fun and usually based on fact. We were probably out crabbing for like, six hours, and all we caught was one lone crab. Unfortunately, we caught her kind of early on in the day (looking back, if it was a lady crab, why did we keep her? Teresa, email me about this immediately because that seems out of character for us) and therefore become oddly attached to her. We named her M'Lady and we were her #1 fans. When we finally decided to call it a day, we threw M'Lady and like, a lone Pepsi can to clank around together in an igloo cooler lined with part of a folded up Sugarcult poster or something equally ridiculous and as we sped off, it became apparent rather quickly that M'Lady was dying because we forgot to put any fresh water in there. So, I swear to god, Teresa pulled like a hard J-turn off the highway, threw it in reverse, backed into the jetty and we at the last possible second filled M'Lady's cooler with bay water and she lived.

But then we got home (after we did a quick photoshoot with her...) and were faced with the dilemma of, "we have this delicious blue crab on our hands. We befriended her. What the fuck are we supposed to do with her now?" There was only one humane thing we could think of: make a dip out of her. Because every now and then, humane = delicious. But we had bonded with M'Lady so hardcore by that point though that none of us wanted to be the one to actually put M'Lady in her boiling grave of death. In the end Franky did it because he's a boy and boys kill things and girls run into Teresa's dad's den and google artichoke crab dip recipes. Feminism Schmeminism. Then it came time to pick M'Lady apart and again, none of us wanted to do it. So then we had the issue of having a delicious fully-cooked blue crab on our hands and what to do with it. I think I've blocked out how we solved that problem though, because in my mind we went from taking the lid off the pot and discovering one lone crab claw sticking out of the water and straight into the air like the hand at the end of Carrie to happily enjoying a zesty artichoke crab dip. And then when I "used the facility" later that night, I texted Teresa and Franky and told them I had just given M'Lady a "royal burial at sea," which in retrospect is equal parts digusting and hilarious. And then a year later I named my Acura Legend after her to memorialize the M'Lady name forever. Until my sophomore year roommate totaled it and it was like losing her all over again. The moral of the story is: do not befriend crustaceans. Also, don't duct tape a picture of yourself, your male friend and your crab friend to your door the first day of college or everyone will repeatedly come up to you and tell you that your boyfriend is really cute and you'll have to be repeatedly correct them all, "dat dem der ain't mah boyfriend. That's mah crabbin' buddy, Franky, and our delicious catch o' the day, M'Lady!" and everyone think you're a weirdo. And they will be right, but that's not the point.

Speaking crabs, that girl who stood Vinnie up finally calls him back and wants a second chance. He's all for it. He plans a romantic little picnic for the two of them on the beach, which she shows up for about three hours late. I mention this mainly because I appreciate the "time wasting" shots of Vinnie clipping his claws, sighing heavily, looking in new and exciting drawers for unfound treasure and the like. Finally after waiting a while, two random girls call him up and are like, "Hi. Can we suck your dick?" and Vinnie's like, "I don't know, give me like, five minutes," and they're like, "OK, our fathers didn't love us." So Vinnie waits out the five minutes convinced that his lost lady friend will show up and all will be right in the world. But then she doesn't, so he calls the ho's back and tells them to come over and get on it. BUT THEN HIS ORIGINAL DATE SHOWS UP!!!!111 So he call the ho's and tells them not to come over. And thus concludes Vinny Guadango and the Case of Too Many Vaginas.

Speaking of vaginas in the house, Snooki's BFF from home, Ryder, is in town visiting! According to J-WOWW, the way Snooki and Ryder communicate is "hysterical." And I agree. If we live in a world where "hysterical" is a synonym for "mind-bogglingly irritating."

OK, basically here's all you need to know about this episode: The Situation is a dick. He's way too rough with girls, they can smell the HIV wafting off him like the Axe body spray I'd bet dollars to donut he douses himself in daily, they want nothing to do with him and thus he's become a blue-balled party-pooper. To cope with this, The Situation has tried everything from slamming random chicks up against the wall and tattooing his tongue on their pubes, attempting to make out with Snooki, smacking Snooki in the mouth when she resists and doesn't want to go home, sulking in the corner of the club with his sunglasses on like a god damn pedophile, and attempting to pull a "robbery" by macking on Vinnie's chick while he's in the shitter. He always wants to go home when they're out at the clerbs and even Sammi and Ronnie are like, "seriously? It's 7:30pm" and The Situation is like, "but I want to go nowwwww-wuh." Everyone thinks he's changed, nobody likes him, he still think he's the shit, and now he's on "Dancing With The Stars" with Bristol Palin and Audrina Patridge. I don't know. I have literally lost the ability to tell whether that's a win or lose in today's cultural landscape. I'm apt to think lose, but then again he has five million dollars and I have emotions. Draw?

As always, have a great weekend and thank you for sticking with. xoxo