BLOG BOOTY CALL!!!!!I had planned to write a jaunty little post this morning about my thoughts on marriage, complete with photographic evidence of the contents of my refrigerator (I KNOW, RIGHT?!?!!) but, as per usual, Boss #1 failed to mention last week that I have to go to a SIX HOUR new product training this morning in Crystal City, Virginia (of all places.) (I hate you Virginia.) (No offense, Virginia readers.) (Maryland pride, bitchez.) (Why am I still typing?) You know, in case my stapler or the Swiffer Wet-Jet decide they want to re-do their offices and come to me for their furniture needs. Thank god I'll be able to field those questions. And of course I'm wearing my urban moccasins today. I'm sorry, Corporate Dress Code, but I thought today was going to be a low-key alone day and I wanted to be comfortable! But now I have to go "network" and mingle. In urban moccasins. I just...I just hate this. I hate my life. Please put me out of my misery Jägermeister. Please?! I have nothing left in me and this "just for now" job is starting to take over my life in a way that I am in no way comfortable with. And I'm dying. On the inside.............. ANYWAY! I booty-called Tulane Chris and he pumped out this bad boy of a post for us. Thanks Tulane Chris! Welp! I'm going to go doodle "KILL ME" 5,000 times on a piece of paper while I pretend to be fascinated by wood veneer. If I'm still alive tomorrow, I shall see you then.Enjoy!
Like most people, my childhood was dominated by one primary goal: getting sick enough to stay home to watch game shows on morning television. I think we all made a sandwich out of the old mayonnaise in the back of the refrigerator, kissed the dog on the face, and sat in the bathroom for an hour with the heater on in hopes of getting a Symptom bad enough to get to stay home form school. You didn’t want to actually become ill, just… unwell. Fevers, sniffles, and coughs were pay dirt, diarrhea or a sore throat was acceptable, but vomiting meant you had Gone Too Far, and meant that you couldn’t have snacks while you were home, just Ritz crackers and Sprite. No sane adult can look at Sprite now without having a flashback to himself saying “Mom. Mom, come on. I won’t throw it up. Let me have some bacon. I hate crackers. I’m well. Not well enough for school, just bacon well. Mom. Bacon. Mo-om. MOM. Mom. Bacon,” stealing some bacon, and then vomiting the bacon.
But if you managed to get just a little parvo from the dog, you could have a wonderful few mornings. After the morning performance of “I Feel Bad,” America’s most popular song-and-dance, your parents would go to work (or, in some families, your father would go to work and your mother would pop a few Xanaxes and listen to murder mysteries on tape for a few hours…uh, let’s just say for example.) You were at home more or less alone in the daytime, which was the best thing EVER. (You know, if you didn’t have friends.) The good shows didn’t start for a while, so you had to occupy yourself with games like Drink the Syrup, See What the Dog Will Eat, and Hide in the Clothes Hamper. You could watch Nick at Nite, but they always filled the morning with crappy shows like “F Troop” and “Bewitched” with the second Darren.
Finally, the game shows started at about nine. There were a bewildering array of game shows in the early Nineties. That weird Scrabble with the back-and-forth letters and the weird sound effects. The (Amount Will Vary) Dollar pyramid, the rules of which I literally never figured out. Name That Tune, which I think was staged – no one can recognize “Lady in Red” from three notes, let alone “Stardust.” Press Your Luck, with Whammy and Tammy and the lights bouncing around the box. And, of course, the big ones: Hollywood Squares and The Price is Right.
Hollywood Squares. Lordy-lou, that was a gas. This was the era of Whoopi Goldberg in the center square, and if this Tulane Chris Thursdays gig lasts, you better believe I got a whole damn post about Whoopi just waiting in the wings. I don’t know why I liked this show, because I never knew who anyone on the periphery was. Now, as an alleged adult, I think the idea of Charo answering trivia questions is amazing, but back then I thought she was the Queen of Spain or something. (Fancy dress, spoke Spanish, famous for an obscure reason… it makes a little sense, admit.) I did, however, badly, badly want to be on Hollywood Squares so I could have a square. I picked out which one I wanted (top left) and I wondered if they’d let me decorate it. I was going to put houseplants in it, as well as a gold trashcan like my grandparents had in their study. For some reason, I thought this was “fancy.” Objectively, this is probably just a combination of two common childhood fantasies, fame and having one’s own place. It still makes me sound like a weird fucking little kid, though, which I apparently was.
Why is The Price is Right so much damn fun? Part of it is watching fat, marginally educated people jump up and down and scream while performing menial tasks for money. Actually, that’s probably all of it. The prizes were always kind of shitty. Even as a child, I wondered if I could get cash instead of a hutch or, God forbid, a pale salmon sectional sofa. I think they reused the same sofa set for seventeen years because no one wanted the damn thing. The Showcase Showdowns were the worst – you had a choice between a nautically themed living room set with a ship’s wheel coffee table and portholes agogo and a package tour to the People’s Islamic Republic of the Grand Duchy of Wallawallabingbangboom Days Inn Resort. People competed for these, tooth, nail, and arm fat – I remember one man spun the glittery wheel so hard it broke.
I was watching The Price is Right with my grandparents the other day, and I imagined what it would be like to be on it. I realized quickly that I was the last person they would choose. Imagine, if you will:
“Tulane Chris, from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, come on down!”
“I am not from Philadelphia. My great-great-grandfather owned a plantation in…”
“Come on down!”
“…moved to Texas after the war, and so anyway I don’t have any actual Yankee blood, not that that’s necessarily…”
“COME ON DOWN.”
I walk sedately down the steps, one at a time, without hooting, hugging a stranger, or thanking Jesus or the Blessed Virgin.
“Tell us a little about yourself!”
“Well, my mother went into labor during Thanksgiving dinner of 1984, which I think is why we’ve had a difficult…”
“And next, we’ll be bidding on this lovely Supreme Court china set! Each Justice, past and present, has been hand-painted on a piece of fine bisque porcelain. From the William Howard Taft gravy boat to the Ruth Bader Ginsburg lazy Susan, this set is a collector’s dream! Bids!”
“I wouldn’t pay a dollar for that. Sandra Day O’Connor makes me nauseous enough with her looking up at me from a sherbet cup. As for that wet sack of hot crap, John Roberts…”
“Bid is one dollar, and since all others have overbid, you win!”
A sedate, hootless walk to the stage. There is a scuffle as I avoid hugging Drew Carey. I do poorly in the game, having estimated every price as “too Goddamn expensive, wasteful to pay that much for a blouse.” A lucky spin lands me in the SHOWCASE SHOWDOWN, where I insist that the other contestant take the polyester dinette set and the trip to Ebola Island. I am called a poor sport, and put on the Studio Audience Blacklist. My Supreme Court dishes and I have to take the Greyhound back, and I pay for road food by staging puppet shows where David Souter and Sonia Sotomayor have a fistfight for Felix Frankfurter’s attention.
Happy Drinking Game Friday gang! Before we getsta boozing, I have a few administrative items I'd like to discuss:
- JÄGER BALL. First of all, are you coming? You are! Awesome. And you're bringing 10 of your closest friends?? Even better! And you've lowered your expectations of what I'm like in real life so there's not an ungodly amount of pressure on me to be as unrealistically attractive and entertaining as I think you think I am?? PERFECT. I like my expectations like I like my cholesterol: low. So, I'm glad that's settled. Secondly, a few people commented on last Friday's post asking if I could recommend a cheap DC hotel or perhaps figure out some kind of group rate for all you out-of-towners. I'm not going to lie, when I first read that I thought, "PSH, fuck if I know how to make that happen," and went immediately back to googling camo pug harnesses. However, it occurred to me a few days later that my sister works for a hotel doing special events. And you guys need a hotel. For this special event. So I sat down with my calculator and worked out that if A + B = C, then maybe I should stop being retarded and ask my sister if she can hook you guys up. So leave a comment or shoot me an email (meg@2birds1blog.com) if you're interested and Becca will see what she can do!
Ahh, Becca McBlogger: coming in handy since 1980.
- I had the most irritating conversation with Boss #2 on Wednesday. I took a break from forced slave labor to check my email and audibly guffawed at something Rachel sent me. Boss #2 strolled over and asked what was up. "Oh, one of my good friends is pregnant and sent me an email saying that she already feels bad for me for when I get pregnant because of my boobs," I explained. "Truthfully I just don't think I have a body made for pregnancy. I've got the narrow hips of a 12-year-old boy and huge circus boobs. This body was not meant to carry a child." "Oh don't worry," Boss #2 said, "When you're pregnant you can actually feel your hips separating to accommodate the baby. Every woman is built for pregnancy, Meghan. Don't worry. God wouldn't do that to you," and then walked away. And I just sort of stood there with my head cocked sideways, awkwardly shifting my eyes around the room for a solid 30 seconds. Because it's always awkward when someone drops a hard G into casual conversation. It just makes things get real holy, real fast. And much like religion has no place in schools, it also has no place is conversations regarding my separating hips, vagina and massive circus boobs.
- I would like it to be known that the crisp, white shirt I put on this morning is now completely drenched in coffee thanks to an email I just received from College Roommate Danielle. I took a big sip of coffee right before I read it and was NOT prepared for the contents. This resulted in a cheesy sitcom style spit-take, the likes of which haven't been seen since Saved by the Bell. Please allow the following excerpt to enrich your afternoon:
"I am in the middle of a seminar looking like I am taking notes, but really I want to die a little inside.
I bought a new bra yesterday, it's awesome and comfortable. I mean, it was, until I realized say about 20 minutes ago what the clips on the top were for. I am currently wearing a breastfeeding bra. How did you find out, you ask? the clip popped open, out popped my boob and i had to figure out how to reach my hand into my shirt, shove my breast back into the bra and clip it in the middle of a very cold classroom."
And that is why we are friends.
- Boss #1 has a UTI from having "dirty sex" on Halloween. You're welcome.
- If Co-Blogger Chris and I were to ever make a two-man comedy troop, we'd call it "Poppers and Ketamine." He'd obviously be Poppers.
- I need to get laundry detergent and face wash after work.
- This blog post is quickly morphing into a list of not-funny things I just happen to be thinking about at the moment, so I'm going to stop and give you your drinking game. This week's drinking game is inspired by how incredibly excited I am that Co-Blogger Chris is coming to stay with me this weekend! I'm going to hold him gently in my arms, rock back and forth, slowly stroke his soft ginger hair and explain to him that not knowing what you want to be when you grow up isn't that bad. Then when he asks, "how so?" I'm going to awkwardly look around the room for a few minutes mumbling irrelevant adages like "a penny saved is a penny earned" and "home is where the heart is" before and cramming a bottle of Jäger in his face to make it all better. Reunited and it feels so good. And speaking of being reunited! Straighten your back brace, pop in a mix tape and grab your giant binder—it's time for The Romy and Michele's High School Reunion Drinking Game!
Rules: Drink When: - "Me too!" - They discuss a diet - Somebody puts magnets on Michele's back brace - Someone in the service department hits on Romy - Anyone says "Tuscon" - Anyone says "High School" - There's a flashback - Heather smokes a cigarette - Heather says "there's a difference!" - Heather tells Toby Walters to go fuck herself - The Cowboy makes an appearance - Michele goes on a job interview - They exercise - Anyone says "post-it" - Anyone says "A-Group" - Sandy Frink gets an erection - Billy Christiansen runs without his shirt (meow) - Anyone gets hit by a limo - During the follow exchange, solely because it's my favorite:
Romy: Oh my God! Remember what a big controversy it was for us to have our picture taken together? Michele: Yeah, because Danny Weller like, lodged that complaint. Because alphabetically he was supposed to be between us. Romy: So we said: "OK Danny. If you want to be between us, come to Michele's house on Friday night and we'll be waiting." Michele: And then he showed up, and we were like: "Danny, it was a joke!" Romy: And then we turned the sprinklers on him! [both laugh hysterically] Michele: Oh my God! [abruptly stops laughing] Michele: Didn't he die? Romy: I think so.
- And obviously finish what you're drinking during the following. Because it's so good:
Romy: What the hell is your problem, Christie. Why the hell are you always such a nasty bitch? I mean, okay, so Michele and I did make up some stupid lie! We only did it because we wanted you to treat us like human beings. But you know what I realized? I don't care if you like us, 'cause we don't like you. You're a bad person with an ugly heart, and we don't give a flying fuck what you think!
As always, thank you so much for reading and supporting us. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning!Kisses!
Although I don't respect, understand or even tolerate my sister's questionable zeal for moustaches, I do appreciate her dedication to proving a point. She's thought of two new hot contemporary moustached men:
1.) Jude Law as Watson in the new Sherlock Holmes movie:
and
2.) Ned Flanders
...I hate to admit it, but she's starting to make an uncomfortable amount of sense. And I don't like it. This is my blog. Around here the ratio of hot moustached men to molestery moustached men should always swing towards molestery. It's time I level the playing field. So, Rebecca, I'll see your Jude Law and raise you a Rollie Fingers: Yes, that's right. The Oakland A's Rollie Fingers. A name that sounds like exactly what he'll do inside of you. He's inspired me to name my future son "Statutory Fingerbang" because what's life without challenges?
Oh and hey Bec, remember all those Sweet Valley High books we had growing up? Specifically, remember #5, All Night Long? I sure do. Because I remember having to lock it in the bathroom at night for fear the cover model would come alive and ask me to play a game with my mouth that I can never tell my parents about: I think that majestic golden tan and tidy little moustache speak worlds for themselves.
Score: Becca: 2 Meg: 2
If you look in your court, Ms. McBlogger, I believe you will see there's a ball in it.
Today is Veteran's Day. It's a Federal holiday. My office is closed. I should be doing what I do every other Federal holiday—alcohol and mini flags. But I'm not. Why, you ask? Because I had to come in to work today to help "clean out the back room." Not only that, I had to come in early to help "clean out the back room." That's right. It's currently 7:27 in the morning and I'm at work. Helping to "clean out the back room." I can't even touch how irritated I am with a 30-foot pole because if I did, I would absolutely start to cry. And I refuse to be That Girl crying in the bathroom at work. [Mostly because I've already been her. O hai New York!] So there's no post from me today. BECAUSE I'M BUSY CLEANING OUT THE BACK ROOM OF MY OFFICE AT 7:30 IN THE FUCKING MORNING BECAUSE "THE FENG-SHUI IS OFF" AND WE SHOULD TAKE ADVATAGE OF THIS FREE TIME. Deep breaths, deep breaths...But I wouldn't leave you high and dry. Not today. Not on Veteran's Day. So, enjoy this Tulane Chris guest post. Thank God for Tulane Chris. He's like a reliable booty call. Except that booty call is also a genuinely quality person and you kind of want to date them. Except he's questionably gay. And by questionably gay, I mean absolutely gay. So I don't know why I'm booty-calling him in the first place. What? I don't know. It's early and I'm in charge of finding a peaceful place for the coffee maker. Thank you Tulane Chris for saving the day. Enjoy!
You know what pisses me off? Everything. You know what pisses me off about the two-party system? Everything, but especially when people assume that I belong to one, and that they know which it is. Most people, accustomed to multiple choice questions, hear “Texas” and think Republican and hear “gay” and think Democrat, much as they hear “Norman Invasion” and think “1066.” As a registered third-party member, all-around son-of-a-bitch, and smart kid, I view the major parties as having two primary functions: ruining the country, and providing me with targets.
Democrats aren’t good for much, but by God, great fun can be made of them. They’re better than Republicans for this for the same reason some kids get bullied more than others: they’re more likely to react in a satisfying way. Republicans don’t historically sulk much unless they get caught with their hand in the cookie jar – cookie jar is, of course, English for “some dude’s underpants” – but Democrats cry if you slam the door too loud. If you don’t believe me, imagine going to a Republican fundraiser. You shove Newt Gingrich, he shoves you right back. Call Libby Dole a cunt, and in a flash, her liver-spotted claws have grabbed a handful of cocktail shrimp and have thrown it in your face as she shrieks, “You’re the cunt! YOU’RE THE CUNT!” and Tom DeLay starts working your kidneys. Barbara Bush smells human blood and has her first orgasm since the 2006 congressional election. Bobby Jindal rips open his shirt with a howl, and before you know it a cannibal bacchanale has begun. A horrified Jenna Bush backs toward the door, as a heavily sighing Kay Bailey Hutchison takes a shot for the road and helps John McCain on with his coat. Faintly, you hear her say, “Oh, this again,” and him reply “Every damn time since the Ford inaugural ball,” as they slip away.
Now imagine you clean the shrimp off your blouse, pee out the blood, crawl away from Sarah Palin’s drunken embrace, and go to a Democratic fundraiser. Joe Lieberman and Arlen Specter are tentatively kissing in a hallway between the two event rooms; unable to decide which event to enter, they have fallen into each other’s arms. It is clear that Joe Lieberman will be the top. Call Nancy Pelosi something relatively innocuous, like “shrill old fart,” and watch the feathers fly. A shriek, another shriek, and – what the hell – another shriek, and she collapses sobbing into Harry Reid’s arms. “Look what you’ve done!” he hisses. “We spent millions of dollars of stimulus money on her self-esteem, and you’ve ruined it! We’ll have to print more now!” Jimmy Carter is so overcome, as usual, that he starts weeping right along with her. This sets off the Kennedys, who have formed an autistic hive mind since Ted’s death, and they begin screaming and banging their heads against the wall in unison. Michael Moore looks up, says, “It’s a conspiracy,” and continues to eat Kool Whip with a spoon while masturbating to a well-thumbed copy of one of his own screenplays. Hillary Clinton pretends to get a phone call and jogs out, calling out over her shoulder that Oz has invaded Atlantis. Her husband glares after her, abandoned. You feel a tap at your shoulder, and turn to see Barbara Boxer flanked by some of the more popular representatives. She announces that she has heard that you are a total skank who eats poop, and that you look fat, and that none of the cool elected officials will ever speak to you again, and you’ll be lucky to even get to hang out with appointed officials, so there! Your work done, you walk out as George Soros tries to get everyone to sit in a circle so everyone can share feelings and look at pictures of the Leader for inspiration.
See what I mean? A violent, drunken orgy is somehow more reasonable than a lot of emotions getting all over everything. (Full disclosure: I would TOTALLY have sex with Bobby Jindal. I bet he does everything, twice.) There is a secondary reason why I like making fun of Democrats better than I like making fun of Republicans, and that’s Jimmy Carter. I could say a lot of things about him; get me drunk enough and I doubtless will, but here’s the crux of it:In 1588, the Spanish Armada was approaching England with the intent of deposing the Protestant Queen Elizabeth and replacing her with the Catholic daughter of King Philip II of Spain (who, because everyone used to marry everyone else, was also Elizabeth’s former brother-in-law.) The English were outgunned and outmanned, and a desperate army was gathered at Tilbury, near the mouth of the Thames, to defend London against a potential landing by the army of the Duke of Parma, a Spanish ally. At this desperate hour, here is what Elizabeth said:
My loving people,
…Let tyrants fear… I am come amongst you, as you see, at this time, not for my recreation and disport, but being resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live and die amongst you all; to lay down for my God, and for my kingdom, and my people, my honour and my blood, even in the dust.
I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too, and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realm…
…not doubting but by your obedience to my general, by your concord in the camp, and your valour in the field, we shall shortly have a famous victory over those enemies of my God, of my kingdom, and of my people.
That’s grace under fire. That’s one hell of a pair. Fast forward to 1979, when James Earl Carter, a peanut farmer from Plains, Georgia, president of the richest and most powerful country the modern world has ever seen, tries to cheer us all up:
I know, of course, being President, that government actions and legislation can be very important. That's why I've worked hard to put my campaign promises into law -- and I have to admit, with just mixed success. But after listening to the American people I have been reminded again that all the legislation in the world can't fix what's wrong with America. So, I want to speak to you first tonight about a subject even more serious than energy or inflation. I want to talk to you right now about a fundamental threat to American democracy.
…
The threat is nearly invisible in ordinary ways. It is a crisis of confidence. It is a crisis that strikes at the very heart and soul and spirit of our national will. We can see this crisis in the growing doubt about the meaning of our own lives and in the loss of a unity of purpose for our Nation.
Jimmy Carter is the least majestic person in history.
You know how much I love you guys? So much. Who helped us to get over 1,000 fans on Facebook? You guys did. (Well, actually you guys are the fans on Facebook.) Who helped us to get over 2,000 followers on Twitter? You guys. (Again, you guys are the followers. Semantics.) Who helped us win 3rd best local blog in the Washington Post’s Best Night Out of 2009? That was all you. If Meg or I genuinely don’t know something and pose the question to you all, don’t you come up with the answer? Yes. Yes you do. I’m constantly impressed by how awesome all of our readers are. And I mean that. (Thus concludes the schmaltzfest portion of this blog post.)
I know it might not seem like it all the time. I’m sort of like the absentee stepfather of the blog. You had Patsy and Eddie in the beginning, but that was young love and drifted apart, as most young relationships do. Then Meg outed herself [Editor's Note: When Chris says I "outed myself," he means I outed that my real name is Meg and not Patsy. Not that I'm gay. Because I'm not gay. Just wanted to clarify that. K, I'm gonna go lick a chick out now.]and introduced you all to Becca, the new bird. “I don’t know about this, but I’ll give it a fair shake,” was what you all thought, whether you know it or not. But when Becca called it quits, you thought “Meg is the only person I can ever trust around here.” (And I know this for a fact because I can read minds.) Then Meg brought me home one night, and naturally you were suspicious. You kept expecting me to disappear, like all the other birds have. And then you found out I have a drunk texting problem. And hate nerds. And am genuinely not funny sometimes. And now I think you really might hate me. But this extended metaphor has a point! I know it got lost in there (refer back 3 sentences), but it has one. What I’m trying to say is that I’m going to do my best to be a better proverbial stepfather to this blog. I’m going to teach it to play catch. Or have tea parties with it. I’m going to go to all it’s school plays and soccer games. I’ll read it stories at night, and make it breakfast in the morning.
And to prove it to you, I’m going to share something with you that I haven’t shared with anyone. Not my family, not my friends, not even co-blogger Meg knows what I’m about to tell you (although by the time you read this, she’ll know, but only because she read this post!).
I’m straight.
No, obviously kidding.
I no longer have any idea what I want to do with my life.
It’s not much of a revelation, because I’m sure seven-tenths of you are saying “Yea, neither do I? What makes you so special?” And if you are saying that out loud, to your computer, maybe reel it in just a little bit. But in response, nothing makes me so special. But when you tell everyone you’ve ever known that you’re going to go to medical school and you spend four years as a pre-med student and the following two years after school working at a medical school, when you finally realize this is not for you, it takes you by surprise.
My first thought after this realization immediately was “Oh shit, everyone is going to be so disappointed in me.” In hindsight, this is probably further proof that being a doctor wasn’t what I wanted to do, as I really should give less thought to what everyone else is going to think about what I do with my life. But when your 87-yr-old, invalid shut-in great aunt, who is the sweetest woman on the face of the planet, tells you “I hope I live to see you become a doctor,” it’s hard not to have that echo bouncing around the back of your mind FOR ETERNITY.
Before Meg got her current job as a decorative paperweight, at one point she had an existential crisis because she had no real plan. Her other friends all had life plans, I had med school, but she had no direction. Well, child, I feel your pain. My current job is wearing me down, but if I’m going to look for something, what do I look for? What can I say in my cover letter to make you believe that, regardless of what my resume looks like, I really want to pursue a career in blacksmithing? What do I even want to do? If I could, I would screw all of my responsibilities and spend all day making sick mash-ups and DJ at night. I even picked out a DJ name: DJ Gingerballs. (It’s a work in progress.)
Currently, I’m at a loss. And since this revelation came over me within the past 72 hours, I haven’t really done much soul searching about what I’m going to do with myself. Right now, my current plan is to quit my job, move to DC, and be Meg’s human Snuggie. This will at least get me through the winter months, until it gets too warm to wear a Snuggie 24/7. This is all contingent upon Meg being OK with staring at my mug all the time. Which could get awkward when she goes on dates. [Editor's Note: HAHAHA! Bless your heart.] Or wants some “alone time.” [Editor's Note: That's more probable.] Details.
I’m currently opting to look on the bright side: At least I decided all this before a year of medical school. I saved myself at least 50K in school fees, not to mention I will retain some semblance of a social life, and am now much less likely to suffer a mental break studying the side effects of assorted medications.
In conclusion, I have no conclusion. I’m sure someone else has found themselves in roughly this same situation. Is there a light at the end of this tunnel? Should I just go back to college (listen to lots of Asher Roth) and try and find something else that piques my interest? Should I move to New Mexico to become a world renowned craftsman of silver and turquoise, specializing in bolo ties? Concentrate solely on winning the lottery and living a life of semi-luxury until I M.C. Hammer myself and blow all my money on gold plated gold plates? This is why I love you all so much: because no matter how ridiculous the question, you will inevitably write something. So any suggestions? What would you do if you were me? What have you done? I’m open to consider anything (although I’m not terribly limber, so running off to join the Cirque du Soleil is out). I knew I could count on you.
- Asher Roth's existence is so unbelievably funny to me.
...........................Yep. That's it. There's the punchline. I can't really expound on it much more, suffice to say that to me, Asher Roth is like someone getting hit in the groin: universally laugh-out-loud funny, every time. Or, in SAT terms: Asher Roth: Meg as Han's Moleman'sMan Getting Hit by Football: Homer:
I've done some soul-searching to figure out what it is about Asher Roth that I find so comical, but I can't figure it out. It's not like I think his "rhymes" are that clever or he's so charming and hilarious in his interviews. I honestly think it's just because he loves college. [Please know that I just cracked my own shit up writing that last sentence. And it's not even funny. It's just simple a fact. Asher Roth loves college. Man gets hit in groin. Lolz^infinity.] After everyone left the Halloween party last weekend, Teresa and I literally sat around my apartment for a good 45-minutes, just drunkenly eating pizza and taking turns saying "Asher Roth loves college" back and forth and cracking up. We're like the Bevis and Butthead of Asher Roth jokes. And again, I use the term "joke" very loosely. And oh my god, and have you ever seen Asher Roth's myspace page?! It's like the TajMahal of Yo-Boy. Picking my favorite part would be like picking my favorite star in the heavens. But, I can give you my top-3: 3.) The background picture is a sepia photograph of Asher Roth using his laptop on the John 2.) His PR person's email address is dana@biz3.net and 1.) And if you only do one productive thing with your day—call that number. Mr. Roth definitely opens by reminding all of you who got way too high on 420 to "cop" his new album and absolutely closes with the phrase "peace and love yo." You also have the option of forwarding the Asher Roth hot line information to a friend with your personal message. And after a few Kirkland Signature brand Amber Lights last night, that's exactly what I did. Although, when I tried to enter Teresa's number (thanks to my Costco induced buzz) I consistently hit one number off for all 10 digits. So someone with a 351 area code will be getting an interesting message from the Asher Roth hot line this morning with a preamble by Meg McBlogger featuring some uncomfortably out-of-context cancer jokes. And you're welcome.
- I want to do a cover of Asher Roth's "I Love College" and call it "College was Mediocre."
"That paper I wrote last night was awfully wordy, wish I'd had more time to edit Hit up Subway, watched some Lifetime, skipped my book discussion cuz I ain't read it Made a terrarium in Bio that was sick, free ice cream in the dining hall so I take a lick Pass out at a reasonable hour, wake up in time to take a shower Man, college was mediocre."
- I had dinner with my parents a few nights ago and my mom (being the wonderful human being that she is) slipped me 40-bucks across the table before we left. After thanking her profusely, she looked at me uncomfortably and said, "Just...please buy something healthy with it. Maybe a fruit or a vegetable? It's like when you give money to a homeless person and you know they're just going to end up buying alcohol with it. It's so disheartening." Frankly, I'm not even mad. Because that was a truly humorous and appropriate comparison, and good for her for making it.
- And speaking of getting fucked up, I opened my door last night and found this waiting for me outside: I am one-part sketched out and three-parts extremely interested.
- Taking mass quantities of anti-depressants is a great thing, because, you know, I don't want to kill myself on a daily basis and such. However, it can also suck. Specifically because I can't cry. I haven't cried in a solid seven months. And sometimes in life you just need a good, cathartic cry. And I don't mean this in like a "OH LOLZ! My life is so perfect I can't even find something to cry about! POOR ME!" kind of way. Because there's plenty of material to cry about—I just physically can't. Which is unbelievably frustrating. I have actually sat myself down with depressing material for the sole purpose of having a good cry more times than I care to count. Because after hours and hours of Trainspotting and Eternal Sunshine and documentaries on blood diamonds, I can't work out a single damn tear. Last Friday, however, I finally cried. So what could have been so traumatic that it could break the seven month cry-seal? Golden Girls. Season 6, episode 9. "Mrs. George Deveraux," featuring Sonny Bono and Lyle Waggoner. I shit you not, that's what did it. Blanche's late husband returns claiming he faked his own death and right when Blanche decides she's ready to take him back in her life, she wakes up—it was all a dream. George is still dead and Blanche is left clutching an empty pillow, looking around her bedroom, alone and confused. I swear to god, my throat closed, my chest tightened and suddenly there was a wet substance streaming down my face. I was crying. And then I remembered the tragedy that was Sonny Bono's passing and started crying harder. And then I remembered that Bea Arthur is totally dead and cried even harder than that. AND THEN I remembered that Rue McClanahan was recently hospitalized and it was all just fucking over. I turned on Rufus Wainwright's version of "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," took a hot shower and cried my fucking face off. Seratonin Reuptake Inhibitors be damned. So Mr. Deveraux—this Jäger's for you.
- I'd like to leave you all with a friendly public service announcement: if your company has a graphic designer (or a "graphics person" or "graphic artist," as you probably call them), don't make them design stuff for your kid's school. Just don't do it. I know it makes sense because they work for you and you want to look like the #1 Class Mom, but please, don't make them do that. It's so unbelievably offensive. Because we didn't coke ourselves out and stay awake for days on end and memorize the subtle differences between 500 typefaces to design the logo for your son's football phone tree. It's like asking your dentist friend to pick a piece the lettuce out of your teeth after lunch. So please, for me, don't do it. Thank you.
That's right, we're having a 2birds1blog reader meet-up! So mark your calendars baby, cuz we've got a date. And Co-Blogger Chris is coming! And Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie! And Tulane Chris! And Becca! And Alex! And Helena! And Anna! And basically the entire 2birds1blog gang! So, I guess technically it's more of a gangbang than a "date." Either way, it should be ridiculous and we can't wait.
Let's show those Jäger bitches that we know how to party and we're worth sponsoring!..............(Cuz I think I'm eating cat food for dinner tonight.) Mmmkthnxseeyouthere!
Posts
