Recrap Tuesday: obscure blogger mad at other blogger.

Welp. Meghan McCain refuses to apologize for the crude and senseless comments she made about our Nation's capitol and those who call it home. Although she miiiiight be hesitant to apologize because I told her to go fuck herself twice; called her "fuckin' obnoxious," suggested that her mom has a raging pill addiction; likened her father to Hans Moleman before hoping he would lose in the election and taunted her relentlessly on Twitter. I suppose that's not really the "best" way to get someone to apologize to you. But I'm from DC! I'm all socially inept and don't know how to relate to people! I'm allergic to spangles and sparkles! If I'm not talking about politics, I get all confused and overwhelmed and need my inhaler. Telling someone to go eff themselves doesn't mean "I like your hair"? Damnit! I need to go play Dungeons and Dragons and clear my head.

Until I get my apology, MMcC is officially being added to my list of All-Time Grudges. Yea that's right MMcM; I just likened you to Dana P. Feel the burn. Run into me in a dark alley and I'll fuck all y'all up with my badminton racket. Those broken laces sting like hell. Go complain about that, Dana P. (God; I really need to let that one go.) However, as with all who wrong me, the grudge can easily be reversed by making it right. I just need a quick little apology on behalf of the District. It doesn't have to be anything fancy. Hell, even a "Sorr about the bag" would suffice. It's just that easy. My homely cardiganed arms are always open to those who want to make it right.

...And now back to your regularly scheduled Hills recap!

So there were three, count 'em!, three plotlines on last night's episode of The Hills. CONFUSING, I know. Let me break it down for you so it's a bit less complex:

- Scott the praying mantis is still milking the Steidi the 'Stache-tender plotline for everything it's worth. Seriously Scott? Didn't you go to Dartmouth on a Lannan Fellowship? Shouldn't your writing be slightly more compelling than this? I mean, I know it's springtime and you probably just want to go frolic in tall grasses and such, but MTV hired you for a reason: to write interesting episodes of The Hills. Not to hang around your tree eating beetles and recycling old plotlines five minutes before deadline. Pull yourself together.

- Audrina broke up with Justin Bobby FOR GOODS, FOR GOODS. JB was upset about it. He packed up his cut-off slacks, stripped knee socks and giant lollipop and skulked back to Oz:


- My favorite plot of the evening was the Lauren Conrad/Stephanie Pratt office drama. The episode started with old LC and Steph walking to work in demin jackets and trousers; bindles on their shoulders. "Now when we get to work Steph, you gotta concentrate OK? Let me do all the talking; you just steam the dresses." "Duhhhhh, hokay Lauren," Steph said as she pet her mouse. "Um, Steph, I think that mouse is dead." "Duhhhhh, I think petted it too hard Lauren." "K...Well you can't have a dead mouse in People's Revolution. Get rid of it." "Duhhhh, hokay. I like to pet soft things Lauren." "Yea...just get rid of it."

After stopping at a creek for a quick drink of water, the two finally arrived at Kelly Cutrone's fashion ranch for work. "Lauren, tell me again about the fashion ranch we're gonna have one day." "Steph, I really have to set up this spreadsheet. I'll tell you another time." Upset, Stephanie started to cry and crushed a stapler with her bare hands. "OK, OK! One day we're going to own our very own fashion ranch, Stephanie." "And I'll get to tend the rabbits?!" "Yes, Stephanie, you'll get to tend the rabbits."

Later that day, Lauren left Stephanie alone to pack up a few garment bags with neutral colored dresses to bring to a photo shoot. Lo swung by to find Lauren and instead found Stephanie stroking a neutral colored velvet dress. "Hey Stephanie, that's a pretty dress." "Duhhhhh, it sure is Lo. I like to petted soft things!" "Speaking of soft things, have you ever felt my hair recently? I just got this amazing new conditioner that makes my hair so smooth. You gotta feel it!" Stephanie grabbed Lo's hair with her big, clumsy hands and ran her thick fingers through it. "K Steph, you're starting to mess up my hair. Let go. Stephanie, what's wrong with you?! Let go of my hair!" Upset and confused why Lo was so angry with her, Stephanie grabbed Lo's hair tighter. "Stephanie, what the fuck is wrong with you?! LAUREN! LAUREN, HELP!" Scared for her job, Stephanie put her massive hand over Lo's mouth and gripped her hair harder. A struggle ensued until Lo's lifeless body fell limp like a dead fish. "Duhhhhhh, I think I killeded her."

Hearing the clack of Lauren's heels coming down the hall, Stephanie panicked and hid Lo's dead body in a pile of dresses waiting to be steamed. "Hey Steph, I need you to run to the store and—is that Lo in that pile of clothes?! Is she dead, Stephanie?!" "Duhhhhh, I did a bad thing Lauren. DON'T BE MADDED AT ME!" Just then, Kelly Cutrone came into the office looking more frazzled than usual. "Shit. Kelly's here. You gotta hide Stephanie. She's gonna be so pissed when she sees this mess." Confused and scared, Stephanie lumbered out the back door and ran to her hiding spot down by the creek.

"Lauren," Kelly said as she took her sunglasses off to examine the curious pile of clothing before her. "Is that Lo Bosworth's dead body laying on that Zac Posen dress?" "............Yes." "Yea, OK. This was fun while it lasted. Remember when I said Stephanie's interview was such a farce she just might be a genius? Well I was wrong. You have to kill her." Lauren opened her mouth to protest, but she knew Kelly was only right.

Down at the creek, Stephanie paced back and forth mumbling about how mad Lauren must be at her for doing the bad thing. "Hey Steph," Lauren said softly. "Duhhhhh, Lauren you're so maded at me! I did the bad thing again!" "I'm not mad at you Steph. Nobody's mad at you anymore. And nobody will ever be mad at you again," Lauren said as she took Kelly Cutrone's luger out and unsnapped the safety. "We're going to get our own fashion ranch Steph. And you can tend the rabbits and nobody will ever be upset with you again." Then, as one mascara laden tear ran down Lauren's cheek, she pulled the trigger and shot Stephanie in the neck. Stephanie fell forward into a pile of sand and Lauren threw the gun into a pile of ashes. "Yeaaaaa...that had to be done," Kelly Cutrone said as she put her hand on Lauren's shoulder. "Come on, let's go get a drink and I'll tell you about the time I partied with Poison at the Viper Club."

Fin.

Yeah. I'm not entirely sure if that was Of Mice and Men or The Hills.

'Eh fuck it; close enough.

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

Drinking Game Friday promises to buy you dinner if you just do one thing for me.

I feel like 10-yr-old Kaitlin and you, collectively, are my Uncle Rick when I tell you: Rick! Rick! Rick! I got an apartment!!
Also, Rick, if I get my ears pierced, they'll look really professional when I grow up and I go on job interviews...
For those of you following me on Twitter, I apologize that you have to hear this again, in more than 140 characters. For those of you not following me on Twitter, for shame! (www.twitter.com/misterlizlemon).

Anyway, I am unreasonably excited about this for a variety of reasons.
a) I'm getting a place of my own, which will significantly cut down on roommate issues, like who is responsible for cleaning which week and why the electric bill is so high. Unless I suddenly develop multiple personalities a la The United States of Tara and one of my alters is a total neat freak, whereas another alter, called "the Monkey Man," literally throws feces everywhere. Barring any unforeseen traumas that may shatter my psyche, I think I'm in the clear.
b) I secured this place completely on my own. I did all the legwork, I dealt with the brokers, I saved up for it. I feel like a real adult. While I might never grow up, I can at least appear like an adult to the rest of the world. Also, this is a feat for me because I get outrageously nervous doing anything for the first time. Going to a new bar for the first time? I need to do countless hours of research, and I need to show up with someone. I can't even begin to tell you how nervous I was the first time I had sex. (That, my children, is a tale for another day. And a more adult-oriented website.)
c) I also got a pretty bitchin' apartment, considering I make pennies being a nerd. It's a pretty decent sized space, so the next time Meg comes to visit, we won't be awkwardly sitting on top of one another. But we might do that anyway, just for shits and giggles.

So understandably, I'm psyched. But like Jessie Spano on cafeinne pills, I am simultaneously so excited and so scared. Why scared? Because the physical act of moving is a fate worse than death. Why do you think the Egyptians had slaves build the pyramids? Because no one wants to cart a mattress up 4 flights of stairs themselves. Especially if that "mattress" is actually a sandstone block weighing several tons. (Did I really just make a history joke? You know what, I stand by that. I'm leaving it.)

All that being said, this is whole moving thing is going to have to happen. And I have a feeling I'm going to have to rope some friends into helping me, so this week's Drinking Game Friday is the Reluctantly Helping My Friend Move Drinking Game.


(Luckily for my friends, I have neither a sleeper sofa or an air hockey table. However, my grand piano isn't going to get up those stairs on its own.)

Drink once:
- for every flight of stairs you walk up or down
- for every item you drop
- for every battle scar you acquire (bruises, scrapes, cuts, et al.)
- for every pound you lose afterwards

Drink twice:
- when you pull a muscle because you failed to do your pre-move lunges
- when someone tells you to lift with your knees
- when any container rips or breaks
- for every item broken during the move
- for any item lost during the move

Drink thrice:
- when you have to change clothes from sweating far too much to be considered healthy
- when a fight inevitably happens because someone is stacking things incorrectly
- you realize everything you own won't fit in a car
- when someone asks you if you "really need all this stuff"

Finish one Long Island Iced Tea:
- when you've finished, even though all of your stuff is still in boxes in the corner of the room.

Though this won't be happening until the end of the month, I plan to get very drunk after the big move. I'll let you guys know how much you need to drink, if you want to play at home. In any event, thanks for reading! Have a great weekend, and see you back here on Monday!

That's a lot of Look (and my violet psyche)

I did a lot of research on walking poles this morning. I wanted to avoid writing a post about how ridiculous this woman looks, only to have someone point out that these poles are made for people with Parkinson's disease or something and oh, aren't I just a horrible person? Because this woman looks like she could possibly have a shake. And there's plenty of uneven pavement in this city—Lord knows I've experienced it first hand. Although it would prove me wrong, I really had hoped this was the case. It would make me feel better about this woman and our society as a whole.

So I went to Google and typed in "urban walking sticks." Via the second link, I discovered The Nordic Walking Pole, The American Nordic Walking Association and their blog, the Nordic Walking Blog. What is Nordic Walking, you ask? Well, "Nordic Walking is a great fitness workout for people who are looking for a fun physical activity and maximum health benefits combined with convenience." (Read: It's speed walking with two sticks.)

Now, I'm not hating on Nordic Walking. I watched the exclusive web trailer and while, yes, you do indeed look stupid while Nordic Walking, it apparently targets 90% of your muscles and seems to be a good fitness option for the older crowd. Hell! I'm even gonna go ahead and say that Nordic Blading looks kind of legit:


So I get Nordic Walking. I may not like it, but I get it. I am an educated consumer in the art of Nordic Walking.

But here's the thing: the woman in question was not Nordic Walking. I wouldn't even say she was walking at all; it was more of a meander than anything else. Being educated in the art of Nordic Walking, I also know that for Nordic Walking to be effective, the poles must be shoulder-width apart, at their proper 45-degree angle, hands open and in the "grip-and-go" state.



Therefore, I am able to mock this woman, free of all guilt or ignorance.

Now, the problem I have with this woman's misuse of her Nordic Walking poles is the same problem I have with The Snuggie/Slanket, The Peekaru and The Tinge: it's stupid and unnecessary and someone (who is not me) is making money off of your stupidity and need of said unnecessary products. And I hate it.

I just don't understand why this woman feels the need to walk around with Nordic Walking poles at all. Lady you're clearly not exercising; you're just slowly walking to the office. And you're walking through fucking Dupont, not the god damn Himalayas. It's not that challenging of a walk. I know this because I live in Dupont Circle. If it were challenging to walk around Dupont everyday, do you think I'd live there? No. Because I am a fat, lazy, house cat who hates a challenge. If I can do it, you can do it.

And this isn't even the first able-bodied jackass I've seen sauntering around the city with walking poles! There are plenty of 'em out there! Check out this father-son team featured on the Nordic Walking Blog:

What?! You're not exercising! You're not even hiking! You are literally walking on the flattest, most lush-green-grass-covered plane of earth in existence! What, your son doesn't get beat-up enough at school so you decided to give him two sticks and take him on a walk to the local yacht club? Good idea. That'll make a man out of him. What sort of father are you?! This photo isn't "family fun," it's evidence for someone to call Child Services.

Sigh. I just. Don't. Get it. If you're not going to use the walking sticks for their intended low-resistance, high-results purpose, then why use them at all? Because you look absolutely ridiculous! And I can completely understand looking ridiculous if it means dropping a few pounds. Fuck, I'd commute to work in a sombrero and assless chaps if it means dropping even half a dress size. But would I walk around in a sombrero and assless chaps just for funsies? No. Because I still have a shred of self-respect left. One single shred.

Yesterday someone I follow on Twitter tweeted a link to a "What Color is Your Psyche?" quiz. Being bored as fuck, I dediced to take it. I was very displeased with my results, so I made Anna and Chris take it as well. Now, both of their results were pretty accurate and yet, here's mine:

Your Psyche is Violet

You are spiritual, intuitive, and serene. People trust you to rescue them from bad situations, and you usually come through. While you are quite enlightened, you find that your path is very lonely. When you are too violet: you can't connect to ordinary life or ordinary people When you don't have enough violet: you lack wisdom and can't learn from the past

What Color Is Your Psyche?

What?! First of all, I am the least spiritual, intuitive and serene person you will ever meet. "Neurotic," "stressed out" and "tense" are three better terms to describe myself. And my path in life is destined to be "very lonely"?! Not even just plain lonely, but very lonely? What the fuck is that?? I want off this path! I mean, being enlightened is great and all, but I don't want to be very lonely for the rest of my life! Look at that sad, emo avatar! I don't want to be the girl who picks flowers and cries!

I'm scared that this whole urban walking pole craze, Tinge, Snuggie/Slanket/Peekaru nonsense is just further proof of my lonely enlightenment. Because I don't want to walk down a very lonely path for the rest of my life without the aid of two European crafted Nordic Walking poles.

Where's My Federal Bailout?

I don't know about you, but I continue to find myself strapped for cash. This might be my own fault for having basic needs. My financial problems could be easily remedied if I gave up drinking (but once it hits your lips, it's just so good), eating (I have got to stop ordering the Lover’s Delight at Plunder), clothing myself, existing, etc. Aside from an extreme hunger strike to boost my bank account, I’ve been toying with idea of getting a second job.

This thought is usually beaten into submission by my social life because bars don’t have "disgruntled hours" for those working multiple jobs. But the closer I get to having my own apartment and becoming an actual adult, the more I realize my current salary is not nearly as much money as I had previously thought. Since Amy Winehouse's mental state is in better shape than our economy, I probably won’t be seeing a raise in the near future. So I’ve got to think about alternative ways to put dollars into my starving bank account. However, if I'm going to sacrifice my free time that I spend working on my night cheese or smiling with my eyes (10 points to whomever gets those references), it's got to be worth it. Retail jobs are like waterboarding without the water, and they don't believe in weekends or holidays. So no thank you, as I've got plans for Memorial Day Weekend that don't include hawking a Banana Republic credit card with your purchase of argyle socks. What I need is a supplementary source of income off the beaten path.

What got me started thinking about this was an email I received at work. When I’m not blogging my face off, I work as a professional nerd in a science lab curing cancer, replete with beakers and Bunsen burners, et al. No joke, I’m looking at a test tube right now. Anyway, this email was from the Psychology department looking for volunteers for a research study. Normally, I can these emails faster than you can say “I am a Nigerian prince”, but I noticed they were offering compensation for volunteers, so I thought to myself “Free money? Yes please!” So naturally, my first thought is to become a semi-professional guinea pig. I'll just keep my eyes peeled for more mass emails from work and ads posted on the subway or other reputable sources. Are you between the ages of 18-45? Yes, go on. Do you sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and cough? That has happened to be before, so this still applies to me. Do you frequently use large doses of herion? Dammit, you lost me on that one. On the upside of this "career", you get paid a decent hourly rate for essentially doing nothing. $10/hour might not sound like much, but when you consider the fact that you're being paid to sleep/learn a foreign language/put together a puzzle/take an unnamed drug with unknown side effects, it's not a bad wage at all. On the downside, you could be taking a drug with unknown side effects and wind up like this infant (slightly NSFW).

As Napoleon Dynamite taught me, you need to have good skills. Nunchuck skills, bowhunting skills and the like. Although I might be whiter than an albino polar bear in a snowstorm, I've got some moves. (Yours truly was a member of a hip hop dance group in college, FACT!) That being said, a posting on Craigslist is advertising for a male go-go dancer. Upside: I would be getting paid to shake my moneymaker like somebody's bout to pay me, AND it's a night job, so it wouldn't interfere with my daily 9-5. Downside: Heavily tattooed?...That could be a problem. Also, I'm not fond of glitter.

Luckily for me, go-go dancing isn't the only opportunity Craigslist turned up. If you're familiar with my 2birds intro, you would know I've got mad game when it comes to rapping. Well lookie here! Professional beat dropping! And I played the drums in high school! I'm perfect for this! Upside: I could make it big as a rappercussionist. Bring the word "rappercussionist" into more common usage. Downside: Oh wait, they are serious about this. And our first gigs would probably be on the F train. Next!

Realistically, if I get a second job, I'm going to need it to be a job with bountiful night shifts. I've considered bartending, as (I like to think) I've got personality coming out of my ears and could charm the pants onto a nudist. However, I'm also pretty klutzy and while it was endearing when Jersey dropped bottles of top shelf liquor in a montage in Coyote Ugly, something tells me it wouldn't be quite as cute if I were to do that in real life. Even if I do sing "One Way or Another" immediately afterwards.

I guess I'm just going to have keep on doing what I do and hope to win the lottery sometime soon. Unless someone is in need of a trophy husband. Or my rappercussionist career takes off.


(Sidebar: After much cajoling from various friends, I've made the plunge and joined Twitter. You can follow me at www.twitter.com/misterlizlemon, because if you think I'm funny here, I'm even funnier in 140 characters or less. Fact!)

Recrap Tuesday/My Birthday Ode to Anna!

It's Cinco de Mayo bitches! I know I'm excited for two reasons: 1.) it makes catching the Swine Flu Mexican Flu H1N1 virus seem festive and appropriate and 2.) it's my best friend Anna's birthday! That, of course, means it's time for my sixth annual ode to Anna M. Hugo!

Sorry about the delay in this ode, my boss wouldn't shut up about her daughter's prom,
It was hard to act like I gave a shit, when all I want to do is get my birthday rhyme on.
Oh Anna my dear, I can't believe another year has flown!
And my love for you has exponentially grown.
I want to take this time to get sappy and express my feelings, if I may
Although when my mom reads this, she'll probably think that we're gay.

Picking my favorite moment in our friendship would be impossible and super hard to fix,
So I managed to narrow it down; here are my top six:

#6 was in July of 2007 when we were two bored little hosts,
22 years-old, playing in a creek and a-hunting for ghosts.
We caught a few, and Jesus Christ they were scary,
Which brings me to my #5 moment: Jill's infamous question: "Is that my Gary?"

#4 isn't the nicest of our jokes, and saying it publicly would make me a mean little gnome,
I think you'll understand if I just leave it at, "I am completely willing for you to go home."

#3: Jill's 21st birthday was the best weekend of my life, and that's not a pile of lies,
Endless Jäger bombs, partying mini-mall style and stealing a stranger's basket of fries.
My favorite part of the weekend was when you shouted at a party, "Does anyone have any coke?!"
From the sea of judgmental eyes staring back, it was clear only me and you got the joke.

My #2 moment came at Gary and Brooke's engagement soiree,
With a "pardon," we stole a bottle of vodka and snuck off and away.
A mean woman in pink decided to stop us, just for her own sick pleasure,
We hid in the bathroom and washed our hands for good measure.
Andy got mad at us; that night he seemed to be in a bit of a funk,
But thank god he introduced us to the phrase, "I am awesome when I'm drunk."

My #1 favorite memory went down on the train from Italy to France,
A googly-eyed Moroccan coke dealer wanted to take us on an unwanted tour of his pants.
I clung to you for dear life, and you clung back with all of your powers,
We were prepared to keep each other safe, for a long sleepless eight-hours.
Just when I thought I couldn't stay awake any longer for the duration of our route,
A French train conductor came in and promptly kicked the Moroccan coke dealer out.
Thank god that kind Frenchman came in and saved us two poor American foxes,
Because low and behold, I opened the coke dealer's luggage and inside was JUST MORE BOXES!
Now it's pretty funny, but at the time the situation gave me a real chill,
To top it all off, Jill kicked out a French hottie, as she was tripping balls on NyQuil.

We've had us some times and I love you quite dearly,
You mean the world to me, and I don't mean that queerly.
I guess it's time to end this ode, but tonight a fun Cinco de Mayo will be had!
Oh yea, and jodí tu papa—that's Spanish for I fucked your dad.

Happy birthday Anna! And now back to you regularly scheduled recrap of The Hills!

It would appear that the praying mantis MTV hired to write this season of The Hills has better things to do than stay in his tree and hone his craft. Rather, he's decided to drag out this whole Stacie the Bartender/Spencer/Heidi love triangle mishigoss that got old like six episodes ago. Things I find more interesting than this storyline: measuring for blinds; organizing fridge magnets; watching a street be repaved; researching the benefits of switching to soy milk; converting degrees from Fahrenheit to Celsius to kelvins; teaching myself the dance from the "Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)" video; icing a pulled a hamstring; having a good cry; burning some old pictures and passing out in bed with a full bowl of Kashi Go-Lean Crunch cereal on my stomach. (At some point that list changed from asinine tasks to things I did tonight, but I digress.) Come on Scott; I get that you're just an insect trying to write a scripted reality show and we're already asking a lot of you, but something tells me that you can do better than this. Have some pride in your work.

Our episode began with Heidi taking a lovely stroll down the pier with a sailor she picked up at the local Bennigan's. I was going to judge her for this, but then I remembered that she's managed to alienate pretty much everyone she's ever known ever and it must be hard for her to find people to confide in at this point. Plus Bennigan's does an unbeatable nacho plate. You take your friends and nachos where you can get 'em. Anyway, Heidi confides in the sailor that she saw a text on Spencer's phone that morning from—gasp!—Staci the Bartender wondering if he was going to H. Wood that night. "Oh Heidi. You're a fine girl. What a good wife you would be," the sailor said, "But my life, my lover, my lady, is the sea. And that plate of Bennigan's hot wings I just housed down me gullet. Yar." "Well, I appreciate your honesty," Heidi said to the sailor, fighting back tears as she looked out longingly at the ocean. "Heidi if I were your boyfriend/fiance/husband but only if we're in Mexico, I'd treat you like the Mermaid Princess I know yee are. Yee should totes go to H. Wood tonight and see if that salty olde sea hag has the cannon balls to show up!" "You know what Sailor? You're right! I'll get my older, less attractive sister to come and tell Stephanie there's a big, fat hit of meth waiting there with her name on it!" "Arrr! Sounds like a plan. And shall Black Beard be joining yee?" "Black Beard? The pirate?" "No, Lauren Conrad!" PIRATE ZING!

Later that night at H. Wood, Staci the Bartender totally showed up—while Heidi and crew were there! I know, I fell off my couch and choked on a bugle I was so shocked! A delightfully West Side Story scene ensued between The Blonds (Stephanie, Heidi and Holly) and The Brunettes (Staci the Bartender and her two token brunette friends.) At first they stayed to their mutual sides of the club, sharpening their switch blades and making racial slurs, but then—Stephanie's syringe slipped out of her arm and rolled into Brunette turf. Stephanie ran after it and found herself suddenly surrounded by good for nothin' Brunettes. "Get outta here Pratt, we don't much care for your kind here," Staci the Bartender said, throwing her toothpick to the ground. "And what kind would that be Staci? Def Leppard loving, tequila pouring, boyfriend stealing, 'Nettes?" Heidi said, quick to defend a fellow Blond. "You watch your tongue Blondie or the next thing you'll be gettin' plowed by is my blade, not your cheatin', shady boyfriend/fiance/husband but only if we're in Mexico, Spencer!" "Blonds!" "Brunettes!" "BLONDS!" "BRUNETTES!" And then a violent, yet graceful dance/fight sequence broke out until Office Krupke came and broke it up. I'm not sure if Holly made it out alive. The last I saw of her she had just arobesqued into Staci the Bartender's shiv. No one seemed too concerned though.

Across town there was yet another fight going on, this one between Audrina and Brody's Playmate girlfriend, Jayde. Oh Jayde. Her names about as real as her tits. And her tits are about as real as her lips. And her lips are about as real as her nose. And her nose is about as real as her chin. And her chin is about as real as her hair. And...oye...this joke could take days. The moral of the story is she looks like a less rode hard and put away wet Janice Dickinson. Slightly. Ever so slightly. Poor Jayde just couldn't seem to go anywhere this episode without running into Audrina. Which is unfortunate because, you know, Audrina had sex with her boyfriend and such. Fully aware that he was still in a relationship with her. Because she's always had a "little crush" on him. Jayde decided to get Audrina back by doing some hardcore staring and whispering before finally asking Brody to make her leave the club. As a defeated Audrina skulked off, Jayde decided to really stick it to Auddy by sloppily making out with the Brodster—RIGHT IN FRONT OF AUDRINA! ...Come on Jayde, that's all you got? Personally, I would have ripped out Audrina's heart via her asshole and hit the dance floor with some Thriller moves until it stopped beating. But then again I'm so east coast about these things! L0LZ!

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.