Drinking Game Friday is all jacked up on NyQuil

Sorry for the lack of postage on my part this week guys, I've been sick. And when I say sick, I mean sick. With me there's no range of being sick. It's not like I have the sniffles but can go on with my day, or have a sore throat and a cough but it's no big deal. I get the consumption. I get the plague. Every time. And I also get sick a lot, although I'm fully aware that it's my own fault.

You see, I'm playing this super fun game I call "Me vs. Death" where I refuse to get my tonsils taken out, even though I've been told by every single doctor I've been to (including my gynecologist, and Lord knows she wasn't even pokin' around up there) that I need to have them taken out for my own safety. I have what are called "kissing tonsils." That's a really adorable term for tonsils that are perpetually inflamed to the point of touching. (When I'm sick, they go from touching to being painfully smashed together. It's really cute, when I talk I sound like I'm perpetually choking on a dick. Ugh, is Friday morning too early for a dick joke? God I hope not...)

Having kissing tonsils makes lots of little things difficult, like say, breathing, sleeping or swallowing large pieces of steak (and that is in no way a euphemism, I have a really traumatizing story about choking on steak that I'm still not ready to talk about.) Still, I refuse to get those suckers taken out. At first it was because I've never had surgery and I'm a total pussy about pain, but now it's become this fun game where I'm trying to see how long I can go without having the tonsils pack up their bags and move out of town on their own accord. WE'LL SEE WHO LASTS LONGER TONZIES! It's always good when you're essentially having a breath-holding contest with your own organs because no matter who wins, someone has to lose. And either way that someone is me.

I also handle the pain of being sick with all the grace of a dying elephant falling to the ground. There was a point Tuesday morning while I was getting ready for work that I felt so sick I just stood in my closet clutching a pencil skirt and cried. Loudly. To absolutely no one in general, I live alone. I also felt like I had just finished the Iron Man challenge after blow drying my hair and decided to lay down and take a power nap before doing my makeup and getting dressed. As a result I was half an hour late to work and offered mere mumbles when asked where I had been. Later that night when I called my dad to complain about how shitty I felt he said, and I quote, "Meghan act like an adult for once and get a hold of yourself." Richard McBlogger has not spoken words so cold to me since I brought home a C in Ms. Poole's eighth grade History class.

I guess I deserved it (my dad's coldness that is, not Ms. Poole's C. Although I probably deserved that too). I am essentially treating myself like a petri dish in a twisted human science experiment for shits and giggles. Besides, only Nicole Kidman can make violent hacking look hot. And speaking of hot violent hacking, lace up your corset, burst into song and pour yourself some absinthe, cuz it's time for the Moulin Rogue Drinking Game!

Rules
Drink When:
- People talk about Bohemian ideals
- You see a windmill
- Someone says "penniless sitar player"
- Ewan McGregor says "love," and yes this does include songs (HAHA, your liver hates you!)
- The Argentinian narcoleptic falls asleep
- Satine is seen smoking a cigarette
- Satine lies to The Duke
- The Duke hits on Satine
- Satine dies because she wanted to see how long she could go without having to get her tonsils removed

As usual, thanks for reading, emailing, linking, facebook fan paging, twitter etc. etc. but can you do me one final favor? Can you have yourself a great weekend? Kthnx. Oh! And! Eddie, the original second bird, and I will be joining forces once more to live blog the Oscars this Sunday night, so check back for that hilarity or read up about it Monday morning. I'll twitter whatever time we decide we're delightfully tipsy enough to get started. Next week = full blogging schedule 4realz, 4realz I swear!

Recrap Tuesdays

The City
Recapped by Chris
Who out there doesn’t enjoy reminiscing about the holidays? Remember how much fun that office Christmas party was? Or how much of a show New Year’s Eve was? Well thanks this week’s episode of The City, we get to see how the other half (the televised half) of the population celebrates the holidays. Obviously it is not with their families, as no one even mentioned going home. Nor do gifts get exchanged. Holidays on The City are just like any other day; filled with heavily edited drama and awkward cousin on cousin action, only with more sequins. So, for old time’s sake, let’s don our gay apparel, roast some chestnuts on an open fire, pour some champagne and enjoy a very special holiday episode of:

The Shitty

[scene: Whitney’s apartment]
Whitney: Do you want to know something completely irrelevant to your life?
Erin: Of course. Is it that you aspire to be just a little bit more like Blossom everyday, and you’re going to start with a collection of ridiculous hats? Do you want me to start saying “Whoa!” all the time?
Whitney: I was considering it, but no, that’s not it. Adam and Jay are having issues because Allie doesn’t know how to use craigslist and find her own apartment.
Erin: Sucks. So, more importantly, this party we’re going to? What’s it like, i.e. will there be tequila?
Whit: Well it’s at Smooth’s loft (Ed. note: I refuse to acknowledge that anyone goes by the name of Smooth. We all know his name is really Marvin. And who is that much of a tool to have installed a permanent stripper pole in their apartment?), which I think is actually a club.
Erin: OMG fun! Can I dance on the pole?! Duncan is coming, that’ll be a nice treat for him. Also, JR is coming. I was reading 2birds1blog last week, and apparently I can’t have my cake and eat it too. But I really wish I could.

[scene: Once Upon a Tart]
Adam: Babe. Honey. Babe. Jay’s getting upset about you still being with us.
Allie: So basically, you’re saying that you want me to move out? Well, if that’s what you want, you can sleep with Jay because you won’t be getting this anymore.
Adam: Jay who? Baby. I love you.

[scene: Marvin’s loft]
Whitney: Is it weird that we are at someone’s apartment and don’t ever meet them? Also, those girls dancing by the poles definitely are not strippers. I think Marvin lied.
Erin: What? I can’t hear you. This holly garland is totally covering my ears. What? Duncan, I’m so glad you’re here, even if you do look vaguely like the Unabomber.
JR: Whoa. Hey, Erin. Hey Duncan. Awkwarddddd.
Duncan: Erin, we need to talk. Two words: not cool.
Erin: You have to understand that I love JR. I love JR. I can tell you this, right?
Duncan: No. No, I’m not ok with that. Are you serious?

[scene: Il Bastardo, Bro-Talk with Adam and Jay]
Adam: I want you to move out so I can sleep with my girlfriend in every part of the apartment.
Jay: Oh. Really? Well. Fuck you.

[scene: Erin’s apartment]
Erin: Thanks for being a gentleman last night.
Duncan: I want to hit JR.
Erin: It’s just that I’m not over him.
Duncan: I’m going to take him out back and shoot him Old Yeller style. I am going to gut JR like a fish.
Erin: You understand right?
Duncan: Growing out my beard for you has made me an angry person. Figure yourself out. I’m outta heeeee.
Erin: Oh, sad times.

[scene: Anonymous New Year’s Party]
Whit: Why is everyone wearing sequins? And top hats.
Erin: Isn’t this thing on my head divine? I’m definitely making out with someone at midnight because of my headpiece.
Whit: No. I think that’s false. Also, I think Niecy Nash from Reno 911 is at this party. Either that or her doppelganger was standing in front of us when we walked in.
Erin: Who cares? I don’t. Duncan broke up with me. That’s all I can talk about. And I don’t think he’s going to call.
Jay: OMG Adam is a dick. He wants me to move out.
Whit: I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?
Jay: Remember how at the beginning of the episode, you said you didn’t want anyone living with you? Did that apply to me?
Whit: Um. Yes. I guess I’ll just have to eat my words.
Jay: Great! So I’ll just stay with you and you can cook for me and do my laundry and it’ll be great!

Fin.

Happy Drinking Game Friday, lover!

Happy D.G.F. gang! Yes, Friday is upon us and it's time to drink once more. Some of us may need the alcohol more than others this weekend, it being Valentine's Day weekend and all.

For someone who gets themselves worked up into a bitter rage over the validity of the Snuggie and rolling briefcases, I don't get extra snarky for Valentine's Day. Whether I'm with someone or not, it honest to God doesn't bother me. I hate when people call it "Singles Awareness Day" and think they're cute and clever because honestly, I'm no more aware of being single than I am any other day. Just today my dad sends me flowers and I get a shit ton of free candy from my friends and co-workers. In that sense, I'd like to be aware of my singleness more often.

Plus, I can't handle the pressure of Valentine's Day when you're in a relationship. It's like New Year's Eve all over again; people repeatedly ask what your plans are and you better have a fun and romantic answer. But! With Valentine's Day, you're not just responsible for your own evening, you have some whole other schmo to worry about. Are they having a good time? Do they find this romantic? Is this good enough for them? Christ, I'm far too self-involved for that.

Who can forget last year's Valentine's debacle? Chris (of Recrap Tuesdays fame) and I were each other's Valentine's, but I didn't think we were actually going to exchange gifts or anything. So maaaaaan did I feel like an asshole when I got home from work and gorgeous big bouquet of flowers was waiting for me. I believe I said "BRB!!!!!", ran to the gas station across the street and got him a frosted glass candle that said "I love you!" in cheesy script, a frozen Digiorno pizza, a box of frozen T.G.I.Fridays hot wings, cookies and a val-pak of condoms. Because what says I love you more than frozen foods and protected sex?

I'm going to NYC this weekend to enjoy myself in a completely non-ironic, snark-free kind of way. And I hope you'll be doing the same, dear reader. Here's something to set the mood, a drinking game to what I think might be the world's most romantic movie. It's time for the Princess Bride Drinking Game!

Rules:
Drink when:
- the following phrases are said:
- Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die
- True love
- Inconceivable!
- As you wish
- Mawidge
- Humperdink
- Boo!
- Man in Black
- Anybody want a peanut?
- It cuts back to Ben Savage and Grandpa
- Andre the Giant's size is mentioned
- There's a sword fight
- Westley defeats a foe
- There's a happy ending...awwwwwwwwwwww!

Thanks for reading and have a great weekend/Valentine's Day/President's Day. Oh and in the spirit of love, I'd love if you became a fan of 2b1b on Facebook! Free Digiorno pizza and condom for every fan!

FML reads like my diary

I've been at my job for three weeks now, and I'm not going to lie to you, it's pretty fuckin' sweet. However, I've been getting nervous recently that it's too sweet. I've yet to have one of my characteristic unbelievably awkward encounters. Sure, there's been a few awkward run-ins here and there, like when I was on the phone with someone yesterday and forgot the word "ergonomic," so I said "ergo-," fake sneezed and then quickly mumbled "nominomical" under my breath. Or when Rusty, a black co-worker, brought me a molasses brownie and I said, "thank you. [PERIOD, pause to notice the main ingredient of said brownie] Brown sugar!" and it came out more like one fluid "thank you [COMMA] Brown Sugar!" I swear I'm not the kind of girl who creates racially-charged nicknames for her co-workers during her first few weeks on the job. It takes at least a month.

I've been a nervous-wreck waiting for the moment when my awkward destiny would inevitably play out. And it did. Tonight. Lemme 'splain...

My company's studio is the penthouse floor of a building downtown. It's gorgeous and huge and wonderful and oh em gee, but the point is that in an effort to be good neighbors, we let other businesses in our building rent the space for their events for free. The other day, Ronald, an assistant from the eighth floor, came up and wanted to talk about renting our space.

Ronald looks like his name should be Ronald. I can best describe him as looking like a very thin Sloth from Goonies. A very thin Sloth with a penchant for silk ties, diamond stud earrings and Scientology. Ronald is clearly a very uncomfortable person and probably makes any and all conversations he has ungodly awkward. So, when he has conversations with someone like me who's already kind of awkward, communication becomes reduced to a series of idiotic gurgling noises and uncomfortable eye shifting. As he was walking out of the studio the other day, I noticed that Ronald has a clubfoot. Like a straight-up, bona fide clubfoot. I'm not making fun, I'm not judging, I just thought, "huh, a clubfoot. -shrugs- Blokay, well that explains that," and went on with my day.

That afternoon, I was walking through the lobby headed towards the revolving door to go home. I pushed the revolving door open and took about two steps before it slammed to a halt. I looked back and realized what was going on— Ronald's clubfoot was stuck in the revolving door behind me. I am in no way kidding. In an effort to remedy the situation, I backed up and pulled the door open to free his foot. Apparently I pulled the door back too far, because when I pushed it forward again, it acted like a sweeper that slammed Ronald in the back and propelled him forward in between the doors with me, a space that is designed for one person. So there Ronald and I are, body-to-body, foot-to-clubfoot, shuffling as one unit trying to go through the revolving door. As we were released into the street, I turned back to apologize, but Ronald, who was visibly upset, avoided eye-contact and took off down the street like a bat outta hell. He was literally making a pumping motion with his left arm to provide extra momentum for him to drag his clubfoot along faster, in a sort of modified shuffle/run.

It was then that I realized that I had managed to out-awkward a clubfooted, silk-tie wearing, Sloth resembling, cult member named Ronald. FML 'aint got shit on me.

First you took my people's land and now you take my Facebook profile?!

God damnit! After I harassed you all to be my BFF on Facebook, old Mark "The Shnozz" Zuckerberg deleted my account:

Come on Zuckerberg...what did I ever do to you? You have billions of dollars and I have...dozens of dollars.

Facebook deleted my account because I "misrepresented myself" by using a fake name, which violates the terms of agreement. In my defense: oh-pshh-ah! That giant box of six-point-circus-type could have said I do hereby decree to wear a onesie and carry one of those ye-old-timey lollipops around for the rest of my life and I wouldn't have a fucking clue. If there is actually anybody out there who seriously reads the entirety of internet terms of agreement, I will give you a thousand dollars in cash and a solid high-five. It's seriously laughable to me that the act of checking a little box, while wearing my Jack Daniel's pajama pants, laying in bed, using my little laptop with my Seth Meyers Gap ad wallpaper can be considered a binding legal contract. It's on par with the contract in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Whatever happened to the days of signing in blood? Back when contracts were a gentleman's sport and a signature meant something.

I didn't even know Facebook took fake names so seriously...what with being Facebook friends with Zack Morris and Carl Winslowe and all. And where were the Facebook gestapo sophomore year when Helena made a fake profile for Ted Kennedy with the AIM screen name "iKilledAhooker"? Nothing about that profile tipped you off, Zuckerberg? Were you slightly surprised when you didn't get a news feed update on inauguration day saying, "Ted Kennedy is totes seizin' up to the geezin' up"? (Oh my God I'm so sorry. I love that silver fox water buffalo until the day I die! Although the day he dies will probably come first. Gah! I'm sorry, it just keeps coming! THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID! God Damnit!!!)

Oh, and let's not pretend you're too good to be used for promotional purposes, Facebook. You sunk that ship the day you decided to let any Tom, Dick or Mark the Molester join sans college email address, free to hide behind their shadowy blue silhouette default picture. (The question mark had more class.)

Because it's in my nature to find the sneaky and slightly dishonorable way out of a sticky situation (oh me! I'm a wily one!), I decided to send the following sternly worded email to Facebook's disabled profiles department to appeal:

To Whom it May Concern:

I am curious why my Facebook page was flagged and deleted. I did not have any offensive material, nor is my Native American name, Twobirds, a "fake name" which "misrepresents my affiliation."

I would like to think that in this day and age, people would be more sensitive to Native Americans and our everyday plight.

- Twobirds O-neblog

I then got an auto-response saying that the Facebook team thanks me for my inquiry and will get back to me soon...which they never did. I guess I deserve that.

So, my super-networking-seriously-trying-to-grow-my-readership thing lasted a whole weekend, which given my attention span is pretty impressive. Oh wellz. Back to strategizing how I'm going to bring back pogs!

Recrap Tuesdays...(RIP Bromance)

The City
Episode 8: Recapped by Chris

Readers, let’s take a minute to pour one out for Bromance. Recrap Tuesdays won’t be the same without you, Brody.

But lucky for you (or unlucky for you, depending on how you feel about The City/these recrap Tuesdays) the misadventures of Miss Port are still going strong. And after six weeks of poor to mediocre plotlines, we get a smattering of excitement this episode. So pour yourself some champy, put on your best DVF attire, and settle in for this week’s recap.

What these kids need is a lesson in proverbs.

Take Nevia for instance. Don’t they know that people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones? Have you seen Olivia’s (and by proxy Nevan’s) apartment building? It’s 100% glass. So if they keep hurling around boulders, they are going to wind up with an unpleasant draft and an Annie Lennox song.

Nevan, for instance, has balls enough to mock Jay’s choice of outfit for the Hotel Ganesvoort event (which was giving coats to homeless people, but I saw neither coats nor the homeless. FAIL.). However, did he not show up to a fancy brunch spot wearing clothes he found in the bottom of the dollar bin at Walmart? Boulder to glass ceiling.

Likewise, Olivia, who can barely disguise her contempt for everything about Jay’s gig at the Cutting Room and ducks out at the first opportunity, bitches and moans about him not thanking her for hooking him up with a gig that clearly was not his scene. Then, when Whit says WTF, Olivia says her feelings on the matter and closes with “This is not the appropriate place to discuss this so let’s keep our work and personal lives separate.” On a personal note, I’ve had someone give me this brush-off. The other person is trying to come off as mature and a better person, but really they are just a prick because they’ve clearly already said their part but do not want me/Whitney to have a chance to say our piece. Whitney, I’ve got your back. If I see Olivia on the street, I promise to snap her little toothpick legs for you.

Also, Nevia, living in a glass house is a surefire way for everyone to find out you are adhering to your own proverb of if you can’t keep it in your pants, keep it in the family. Seriously, the Cruel Intentions vibe was palpable when Nevan called Olivia “babe” at brunch.

My future best friend, Erin, Queen of the Tequila Shots (seriously, I dare you to take a shot of tequila everytime Erin mentions it) clearly has forgotten that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. As this proverb isn’t immediately self-explanatory, I will it dumb it down for you, Erin. Don’t be greedy. Either be satisfied with Canuck Duncan or go for Phelpsian JR. You can’t have your cake and eat it too. In short, one guy in your bush is worth two not in your bush. (Too vulgar? I make no apologies.) If I had to weigh in on this one, I would have avoided the teary spectacle at Brother Jimmy’s and made out with JR over the bar. Think about it, he can give you sex AND free tequila shots. And we know how much you like those.

Whitney needs to keep in mind that oil and water don’t mix, oil being the contents of Jay’s hair and water being the sole contents of Olivia’s stomach. At least I respect Jay for being straightforward about his feelings about Olivia. Whenever her name was mentioned, he was full of eyerolls and snark. Olivia, however, puts on a horrible fake smile, talks like a child, and pretends everyone is her biffle. If she hated Jay’s gig at the Cutting Room, why book him for your fundraising event? Also, why do you look like Gretchen Weiners a la Trang Pak right now, Liv? It’s not going to work out, Whitney. And at least after this spat with O-town, you know where she stands. Let this be a lesson for you.

Only Jay seemed to remember that to err is human, to forgive divine when Olivia made Whitney late to his show. Though the tone of his voice betrayed a certain Chris Brown edge (too soon?), he did manage to get over it. Hopefully Olivia and Whitney do not heed this sage advice and we have an all out feud on our hands.

Will Olivia finally get her comeuppance when Nevan is killed by a taxicab in Central Park? Does Erin choose Mounties over getting mounted? Will Sam ever be relevant? Until next week, my friends.

Sidenote: in researching the proverbs for this recap I came across this “proverb”: Don't try to teach your Grandma to suck eggs. Is that even real? What the hell could that possibly mean? You are welcome for that.

"Live"-blogging the 2009 Grammy Awards

I didn't think about live-blogging the Grammy Awards until people started telling me what a bad call it was that I hadn't. My b*...HOWEVER, I was shooting emails back and forth with Andrew who was watching at work, resulting in a sort of a ghetto bastardized live-blog. But in no way live. Or as well-written as if I had known it would end up here. And I unnecessarily talk about light bulbs at one point...Blokay, well enjoy!

Andrew & Meg on the 2009 Grammy Awards: RAW, UNCENSORED & UNCUT!
Andrew: Hope to be out of here by 10ish. Too late to come over and say hi?
Meg: nope! come on over, i'm here watching the grammys, wondering how high whitney houston is.
A: Cracked out of her mind.
A: WHAT IS THAT DRESS
M: jennifer hudsons? it looks like an oragami project that someone got frustrated with and gave up halfway through.
A: F'REALZ
M: the comedic stylings of dwayne "the rock" johnson make me want to crawl out of my skin and die a little.
A: This is the strangest Grammys ever.
M: i dont think there's a host. i think it's going to be a shit ton of celebrities mis-reading jokes off a teleprompter. i'm breaking out in hives in preperation for how awkward this is going to get.
M: chris martin makes me so uncomfortable. he's flailing and sweaty.
M: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH carrie underwood's "outfit" looks like one of the costumes in "priscilla queen of the desert." i believe specifically from the scene where they perform "shake your groove thang" in a bar.
A: There's certainly a bondage element to it...
A: Love that the random country singer thanked paul mccartney.
A: Why does Kid Rock exist?
M: HAHA right? i mean, besides his amazing performance in "joe dirt", he's pretty much a waste of flesh in a bowler hat. and speaking of his stupid hats, the one he's wearing to night looks too big on him. AND kid rock gets a lot of poon, that blows my mind.
A: The artist/song selection blows my mind. [editor's note: Andrew brings a good point to the table. There were a lot of random collaborations, presented by equally random celebrities this year. I feel like the show's producer and his assistants got together in a room with three fishbowls filled with random celebrity's names and scheduled the acts according to what they pulled. ::pulls from first Bowl:: "Tito Puente! Performing with..." ::pulls from second bowl:: "Nas! Presented by..." ::pulls from third bowl:: "Betty White!"]
M: right? jesus. i need a 60 watt bulb. the bulb in the lamp on my side table is 75 watts and it's blinding me. [editor's note: Yes I could have easily deleted that line, deal with it. I left it in as a personal reminder that I need to go to CVS and get light bulbs. If you see me, please remind that I need light bulbs and cereal.]

and i like miley cirus. yea. i just said that.
M: oh adam levine...the things i could do to you with my mouth and one hand.
A: Sorry, I walked away and did some work... then I come back to find what appears to be the jonas brothers and stevie wonder...
M: does it make me lame that i found the joke "it's good to see stevie wonder and the jonas brothers back together again!" genuinely funny?
A: No worries, I got a kick out of it too.
A: I like Craig Ferguson. / M: LOLZ. OHHH CRAIG FERGUSON! [sent at same time]
A: [regarding Katy Perry's outfit/set:] So much fruit.
M: that's what she said? katy perry sounds like fucking shit live. like i remember people sounding better in high school musical productions. and she looks like a drunk ice skater.
A: Um.... kudos to her for (so very clearly) not lip syncing?
M: would it kill her to dress like a normal person for once? christ.
A: The Jonas Bros looked SO uncomfortable.
M: hahaha! right? kanye west looks like 1986.
M: seriously. his haircut is some straight-up tito jackson shit.

also estelle's collar is attacking her. but kudos for wearing a dress that would make me look pregnant 6 ways to the weekend.
A: [re: Adele] Never chew gum at an awards show.

In other news... an epic hip hop summit is coming up!
M: that's my mom's #1 pet peeve. when celebrities chew gum on tv. well, maybe not #1, that's an oddly specific #1 pet peeve. whenever i chew gum she brings up how stupid people on tv look when they chew gum. so when i'm on the next season of bromance as "girl in hot tub, episode 5," you bet your balls i won't be chewing gum.

i'm excited for the hip hop summit. i hope no one gets shot.
M: is morgan freeman wearing those gloves you put vaseline in and wear overnight to get silky smooth hands? and since when is morgan freeman BFF with kenny chesney? and why is morgan freeman even here? WHA HAPPENED?
A: Could M.I.A. be more pregnant?!
M: did you see that shot of her sitting down backstage? she was like UGHHHHHH I'M SOOOO PAINFULLY KNOCKED UPPPP! also is this in black and white or have i been sniffing glue again?
A: It does seem to be b&w...
M: ok..........MIA is wearing a mesh jumpsuit with polka-dot cut-outs over her boobs and belly. if i were her child i'd peace out of there right now so as to not wear that shit show of an ensemble by association.
A: Today is her due date.
M: [hip-hop summit ends] that was it? why was that such a big deal? i didn't even know who most of those people were. was that "D12?"
M: when i look at kate beckinsale, it's like looking into a mirror.
A: I was about to ask you how you got to the grammys so fast!
M: wait, who is jack black married to? also: jack black's hat is comically too small, whereas kid rock's was comically loo large. they need to consult whoever jason mraz's hat guy is.

Then Andrew showed up at my apartment so the emails stopped. You didn't miss much after this though. There was the sad montage of people in music who have died in the past year (I forgot Isaac Hayes died! It hurt just as bad as the first time I found out he died!); Neil Diamond gave a Wayne Newton-esque performance where he basically spoke the words to a few of his hits in a sing-songy voice and tried to resist the urge to sit down or take a nap while performing; Allison Krauss (who looked like a bedazzled dominatrix) and Robert Plant won best album of the year, prompting Plant to say the following, "Back in the day we would have called this selling out...But I think it's a good way to spend a Sunday." And that was the most successful joke of the entire evening. Off the cuff or written in advance by a professional joke writer.

Andrew's final thoughts: "That was incredibly cracked out, but incredibly entertaining."
My final thoughts: Like how Christmas doesn't feel like Christmas without the snow, the Grammys just don't feel like the Grammys without a temper tantrum from Kanye West. However, for Neil Diamond gracing my television screen with a performance, (cough, Stephen from Toronto can suck it, cough) I have to give it an A+. Diamond is forever!