WHAT THE FUCKITY FUCK FUCK?!?!?!?!

I would like to preface this post by stating that I, for all intents and purposes, am an intelligent young woman. I spent 12 years in one of the country's best public school systems. I went to a great college. I graduated with honors. I watch Jeopardy at the gym with the captions on. I'm in a book club. Clearly, I'm a highly enlightened individual.

That being said, I learned something yesterday that blew my fucking mind.

Narwhals. Really. Exist.


WHAT THE FUCK?!!?!??!!??!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! I can't even put into words how completely disturbed and shaken up I am by this revelation. Do you understand that I've spent my entire adult life thinking that narwhals are mythical creatures on par with unicorns, fairies, centaurs and cherubs? My entire fucking life. But guess what? They're as real as you and me! They are real creatures of the sea. They're fucking mammals for Christ's sake! They've been classified—that is how real they are! Do you know what blows my mind? I could be swimming in the Arctic Ocean and feasibly, out of nowhere, I could get impaled by the horn of a narwhal. And when news of my death reaches home, the baffling part won't be that a narwhal killed me, it will be why was I in the Arctic Ocean in the first place?" That's the troubling part. WHAT THE FUCK?! You know that scene in A Beautiful Mind when Russell Crow is standing before his intricate wall of magazine clippings and it suddenly dawns on him that there's no connection between the articles because he made the entire thing up and he's totally Schizophrenic? That is what I feel like right now. I've been google image searching narwhals for the past three hours now and the only thing standing between me and a panic attack is this comical illustration of Barack Obama riding one:


Allow me put you in my shoes for a moment. Let's talk about Dragons. Dragons are not real. Furthermore, it is widely accepted among all of Planet Earth that they're not real. Correct? Correct. Now, imagine that one day a friend casually drops into conversation that Dragons are real! But not only are they real, their population is thriving by the thousands in the Arctic and everybody knows this but you. It's common knowledge. You're the dumb-fuck for thinking they're mythological creatures. You're the weirdo. You're the one people look at with a concerned look in their eyes. You call your parents in shock and they just sigh heavily because this is one more thing that you've managed to let escape you. THAT'S ME! I'M THE DRAGON DUMB-FUCK!

This all started last Saturday night when it somehow came up in pre-Jäger Ball conversation with the Tulane Chris and Co-Blogger Chris that Narwhals "exist." Frankly, I 100% didn't believe them. My friends, bless their hearts, are assholes who think it's hilarious to misinform me about things so I look like an idiot when I repeat it later. Kind of like the time at the Cheesecake Factory when Helena—fully knowing I was on the Atkins Diet—told me that everybody knows whipped cream doesn't have carbs! so I face-raped like three plates full while she watched and silently laughed. Or the time Helena told me a "pundit" was a medieval council of elders who decide the fate of heretics and those who speak ill of the King. Or the time Helena told me it was a totally awesome idea to buy and wear a John Deere baby-tee. In retrospect, Helena is an asshole, but either way I totally thought the Chris's were fucking with me. I was randomly musing about this yesterday, giving myself a pat on the back for being so clever and out-smarting the Chris's when I made the horrible decision to google "Narwhal" for funsies. (And let's not lie, because management is here all week and I'm desperate to look like I'm actually doing something.) I clicked on Images. And there they were: NARWHALS. HONEST-TO-GOD NARWHALS. And thousands of educational websites about narwhals! And videos! And books! And a Twitter account! (@common_narwhal!)

Facts I learned about narwhals that blow my mind:
- They are real
- They can not talk
- Their horn is actually an incisor tooth
- They are predators
- SOME MALES HAVE DUAL TUSKS:
http://static.howstuffworks.com/gif/narwhal-hunt.jpg
- There is only a single recorded case of a female narwhal with dual tusks
- They eat shrimp
- They can dive 4,500 feet under the sea and stay there for 25 minutes!
- Male narwhals rub one another's tusks together in an activity called "tusking," which makes me want to vomit
- Their tusks were sold in medieval times as unicorn horns and were worth up to twice their weight in gold
- Nobody knows the function of their tusks; they serve no evolutionary purpose!

BAHHHH WTF?!?!?! But you know what concerns me most? That I managed to get through 16 years of school without learning that narwhals are real animals. That in and of itself is baffling. I mean, I took college level biology and evolution. (Although the lowest grade I got in my entire college career was in evolution. In my defense, I took it with Alex and Helena and we spent the entire class making up comical mini-quizzes for each other about the random personal facts our professor would inject into his lectures and instead of studying, got drunk and free-styled about trilobites...so I guess that didn't help.) And! Apparently there's an entire chapter in Moby Dick on narwhals! I read that in AP Lit! And by I read that, I mean I read selected portions of the Cliffs Notes before giving up and asking my dad to write my paper for me because he loves that book and I'm a stupid, spoiled sack of shit. God damnit! I'm always looking for the easy way out.

I also feel a certain sense of betrayal that nobody bothered to tell me the truth about narwhals. I seriously sat at my computer yesterday slowly scrolling through my gchat contacts thinking, "All of you know that narwhals are real animals and not a single one of you told me...you are all TRAITORS!!!!1" Then I sent an email to my dad about my revelation and asked him why he never bothered to tell me. All I got in return was this incredibly snarky and condescending and email:

We were just talking about Narwhals at dinner last night (again!!!). We were going to get you one for Christmas but we were worried about the horn (in reality a big tooth - paging Dr. Aroyo) getting caught in your clothes when you hugged it. Which you would do all the time because they are soooo huggable. We'll get you a My-Little Narwhal instead.

You never see anything about Narwhals on TV so you just don’t think about them. What a shame.

Next we’ll have to talk about the Jackalope, the mystical half Jack Rabbit and half antelope that roams free around the great American Southwest. Or Vampire Squid! Or flying snakes! Or Voles and Lemmings! Or Tasmanian Devils! And don’t get me started about the Amazonian insects the enter your skin through cuts and lay eggs there and then the larvae starts moving around so you can see your skin ripple. Or an Amazonian fish that swims up your “you know what.” So many great but little known animals that we just don’t talk about over dinner and a drink. Remember when you once thought of badgers like that?

Love,
DAD

God damnit. I did used to think of badgers like that. I also thought that wolverines were just lady wolves for an embarrassing amount of time. But none of my animal enlightenments have disturbed me quite as much as this whole narwhal brouhaha. Why am I so clueless about animals? I've been to the zoo like 900 times. And the Natural History museum. And, you know, 16 years of fucking school. This is just so incredibly unsettling. I called my mom yesterday and told her I felt like I was going to have a panic attack and she barked at me to "get over it." "Why are you being so mean?!" I asked her. "[sigh] Meghan, there are plenty of things in life to get anxious about," she explained, "NARWHALS are not one of them."

I, madam, beg to differ. I leave you now with this education NatGeo video on narwhals that in my mind is just as disturbing as watching a snuff film. Enjoy:

Coming of Age: The Adventures of Terry Cooper

Remember moving into the dorm freshman year of college and meeting your floormates? Remember how you were ALL BIFFLES for about six days, and then you realized you only liked two of them? Remember how you stopped trying to do names after about a week, and everyone became “Hunchback” and “Guy who shaves his legs” and “Anime kid?” I’ve forgotten most of those boys over the years, but one will always be fresh in my mind. For legal purposes, let’s call him Terry Cooper.

Terry Cooper was the squarest square in Squaresville, Wyoming, a square state. He tucked in T-shirts and made his bed in his college dorm. His eyes were beady and his lips pursed. He bought plants for his room to purify the air, not because he liked plants. Terry did not have a single decorative article in his room. Terry majored in Civil Engineering, and the other civil engineers made fun of how lame he was. If Terry Cooper were a figure from Greek myth, he would be a demon named Practicality whose three heads endlessly scream “Sobriety!” “Caution!” and “Prudent Financial Management!” and who kills by citing statistics.

Terry Cooper and his roommate were both so unpleasant that we nicknamed them “Sour and Dour” and imagined a passive-aggressive Itchy and Scratchy relationship.

SOUR: Did you move the remote? Did you, Goddammit?”

DOUR: Yes. I did it because I hate hearing you breathe.
SOUR: I hope you die.
DOUR: I hope your mother dies.

SOUR: [pointing] Cancer.

Our next discovery was that Dour was almost never there, because he hated Sour/Terry so much. We wondered about this at first, but then it became blindingly, archangel-descending-to-Earth-with-a-message clear. Our dorm walls were tiled, so people would leave messages for each other by the doors in dry-erase marker. Since we were a group of twenty eighteen-year-old boys, they were usually pretty salty. Terry would walk around and edit the profanity out of these, and one day he got so furious that he confronted a friend of mine about it. He knocked on the door after having edited a message I’d written, and when my friend answered, Terry, white-faced and shaking with barely suppressed rage, launched into a tirade about foul language. His last line was “Some of us were raised with CLASS!” before stomping off.

Terry was not done. Our dorm floor had the obligatory Kerouac-inspired guy who did drugs “to gain experience” instead of to get fucked up, and one day he posted a chart on his door inviting us to say how many illegal drugs we had done. Everyone had at least drunk underage, save Terry, the jewel of Lancaster County D.A.R.E. Terry’s Response read “Zero. I have legally drunk alcohol.” Underlined so we would know Terry followed the rules.

So, of course, whenever he came up in conversation someone would scream “Rules! RULES!” This wasn’t funny enough, so we started to speculate on his sex life and personal habits. We gave him an imaginary girlfriend named Matilda. Every night, she talked him into going down on her, and every night she waited until he got into position before farting right in his face. We imagined him looking up with tears in his eyes and saying, deeply hurt, “Matilda, you gave me your word!”

Eventually, this wasn’t enough either, so we decided that he had the worst case of irritable bowel syndrome in medical history. “I have to wear two pairs of Dockers shorts in case there’s an accident. I have to buy the outer pair a size larger so they will fit over the inner pair.”

Eventually, even shit jokes couldn’t mock this guy enough, so we started on child abuse. In our fantasies, young Terry carefully labored to make his mother a perfect martini, just how she liked them, and brought it to her on a spotless silver tray. Terry’s mother would take the glass, pause, and then fling the contents in Terry’s face. Every day.

We kept on like this until we stopped having to make anything up. Senior year, the ugliest girl I’ve ever seen transferred into our school. She looked like an Easter Island head in a dirty wig. She and Terry fell on each other like wolves on an ailing sheep. I wondered at the attraction until I sat near her in the cafeteria one day and overheard her say excitedly, “Guys! Come fill out these forms!” Easter Island Head was a “bisexual” “swinger” who was “into” “threesomes.” She actually used the phrase “into threesomes,” as though life were a cocaine-and-Zima fueled key party in 1993. She somehow roped Terry and some desperate or very kind-hearted woman into having a threesome. Terry was later overheard to remark, post-threesome, “I don't know what's happening to me... but I think I like it!”

The process continued. Terry now rides a motorcycle and wears a beard. He’s become an actual person, by all accounts, but I’ll always remember the beady-eyed little prig who couldn’t stand to see “fuck” written on a dorm wall.

Embarrassing. Emphasis on the ASS.

First and foremost, I know Co-Blogger Chris already thanked everyone yesterday for coming out Saturday night, but I just wanted to say it again: thank you so much to everyone who came out to Jäger Ball! The turnout was completely overwhelming (in the best way ever, of course) and we had so much fun meeting you all. Chris and I woke up in bed Sunday morning looking like black-and-white photo negatives of each other: I was oddly still in my outfit from the night before and Chris was oddly not wearing anything at all. We let out a mutual hungover grumble, gave each other a once over and agreed—It was definitely that kind of a night.

I have to say, Jäger Ball was especially meaningful to me because it was one night in my life where I just felt 100%...good. I'm used to life turning me sideways, stuffing a sock in my mouth and making me it's bitch, so a night where I got nothing but positive feedback (minus the guy who told me I was "a 7 or 8," which initially was exciting because huzzah! I made it over the mid-point! but then I heard people were telling Co-Blogger Chris he could be a Ralph Lauren model and my 7 or 8 seemed somewhat less impressive...) was a new and unique experience. I walked to work yesterday morning with an extra bounce in my step—the bounce of a winner.

And then I got to work. Where I was immediately knocked down a peg or two where I belong. And ohhhhh was it humbling...

First, let me give you some back-story. Last week Boss #1 got it in her pretty little head that something was wrong with me. I have no idea why. Absolutely nothing was wrong with me. I mean, I don't exactly love being here but I don't think I was being any more surly than usual. Boss #1, however, wouldn't give up. Something was wrong with me and she was going to figure out what it was. It drives her absolutely crazy that she can't break through my tough, enigmatic outer shell. And by "tough, enigmatic outer shell," I mean I don't volunteer graphic information about my menstrual cycle, sex life or bowel movements on a daily basis and this makes me "stand-offish."

She began her probe:

Boss #1: What's going on with you this week, girl?!
Me: Uh, nothing. Why?
B1: You seem depressed.
Me: Oh, no, I'm fine! Sorry!
B1: Don't apologize, just tell me what's going on.
Me: Nothing's going on, I promise. I guess I'm just tired today or something.
B1: It's not just today; it's been for a while now.
Me: Well I genuinely appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. [*ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!*] I feel like this is where a normal person would have accepted that nothing's wrong and backed off. I appreciated her concern and if something were really wrong, I probably would have told her at this point. But there was nothing to tell. And I feel like I adequately expressed that. Case closed. Move on. [*TIME IN!*]
B1: Did you get in a fight with Russell [the Homophobic Co-Worker] again?
Me: No...we're fine, I guess. Honestly I haven't even seen him in a month of Sundays.
B1: How's your family?
Me: They're great! Everything's fine, really.
B1: ...You're not interviewing, are you?
Me: I'm not interviewing, I swear! You know I love this job. [*ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!*] It's true that I'm not interviewing, but it is incredibly untrue that I love this job. Mostly I'm not interviewing right now because I couldn't pass a drug test to save my life and my god do I hate cranberry juice. [*TIME IN!*]
B1: Are you seeing someone?
Me: Uh...no?
B1: Why not? [*ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!*] This is the single most irritating question on the face of the planet that one human being could ask another. Because I don't know why I'm not seeing someone, asshole. Because I hate sex. And my vagina has fangs. Strong, ample fangs that I sharpen nightly and widdle things out of wood with. And I refuse to get them removed because it's unethical and I fear PETA's wrath. That's why I'm not seeing anyone. Christ. [*TIME IN!*]
Me: Uhhh...I really don't know. I'm just not.
B1: OK...well...if you ever need to talk, I'm here.
Me: Well, I appreciate that.

And I did. Although I found her line of questioning irritating, I knew her heart was in the right place and I appreciated her concern. I decided I would attempt to be 5% more perky around the office and figured that would be the end of that. Now, flash forward to yesterday afternoon. There I was, sitting at my desk with a furrowed brow, deep in "concentration" as I filled in a blank spreadsheet with the number "69" over and over again when Boss #1 slithered over...

B1: Hey girl! How you feeling this week?
Me: Great! Great weekend. How are you?
B1: I'm fine, thanks. So after our talk last week I got you something off the Internet that I really think is going to make you feel better! [*ZACK MORRIS STYLE TIME OUT!*] How cute is she?! I mean, she must really appreciate me to want to get me a little present to try to cheer me up! Coming off the love-fest that was Jäger Ball, I felt on top of the world at that moment. Just really appreciated. Plus, I was straight-up giddy thinking about what my little pressie might be. An early Christmas gift? Jewelry? The handbag she knew I'd been coveting? The bar stool she promised me a few weeks ago? Tehehe... [*TIME IN!*]
Me: Awwww...Boss #1! You didn't have to do that! I told you I'm fine!
B1: Well it's just a little something that I think you'll really benefit from. Here! [She reached into her bag, pulled out the gift and set it before me:]


It was a bottle of Natra Pure All-Natural Colon Cure. My boss got me a fucking bottle of laxatives she bought off the Internet. (Now with Green Tea!) And I'm not just saying this for affect, but at that moment, I 100% thought that I was going to burst into tears. Because apparently the vibe I give off to people on a daily basis is that I'm depressed and constipated. DEPRESSED. AND CONSTIPATED. People look at me and think, "Hm. You know what that girl needs? A good cleanse of her colon! That'll perk her right up!"

Me: You got me........a colon cleanser.
B1: I SWEAR BY THIS STUFF! It's got like, corn husk it in or something and you take two a day with a glass of water and I'll tell you what—you'll be a new woman by morning!
Me: You got me........................................a colon cleanser.
B1: You're welcome, girl!

And that was that. That's all it took to knock me down from my post Jäger Ball high and humble the ever-living shit out of me [pun intended!] And you know what the most embarrassing part is? I'm probably going to try it tonight. Because why not? I got it. It's not like I can sell it on ebay and take the money. Who would buy shady Internet laxatives? OH WAIT...Plus I'm just genuinely curious if I will indeed feel like a new woman in the morning. So I'm going to come home, pop on some jammies, turn on NatGeo and shit my brains out.

Yep. Here I am. Right back where I belong.

I hope I never see a bus again for a long time

Ok, well, first and foremost, thank you so much to everyone who braved the cold and the inclement weather and came out to drink with us at Jägerball Saturday night! I would say that Jägerball was an out and out success. We crammed as many people as possible upstairs, hell, we even had a line at one point! Who knew?! To everyone I spoke with, it was great meeting you and I do remember your names, regardless of the plethora of pitchers I was drinking. To everyone I didn't speak with, thanks for coming and maybe next time I'll get to meet you and make an awkward pass at you. Something to look forward to, right? I have one small request, and if you guys could help a brother out, I'd really appreciate it. If anyone has any pictures of me, could you email them to me? I'm on the hunt for a new FB picture (haven't gotten around to quitting yet) and I feel as though there may have been ONE single good picture of me taken last night at some juncture. chris@2birds1blog.com, in case you forgot. If you don't have a picture and want to email me anyway, that's cool too. So that's settled then.

Now as I said to some of you, my bus ride down to DC on Friday was HORRIBLE because I got gangbanged by the two biggest men on the planet. It boggles my mind when another tall, broad dude has a choice between sitting next to me and a small Asian woman and he inevitably chooses to sit next to me. So I spent 4.5 hours on Friday stuck behind some guy who needed to recline his seat all the way back and then glare at me when the chair hit my knees and beside another guy who was starfishing it the whole ride, taking up about 95% of my personal space.

This wouldn't happen if my job didn't pay me in gold stickers and good intentions. Because if I had a million dollars (if I had a million dollars), you can bet your sweet ass one of the first things I'd invested in would be a personal car and a driver. I would give my left arm to be able to say "Driver, bring the car around." But I don't live in a fantasy world, and I have to settle for the cheapest transportation option around. Which, unfortunately, is how the riff raff of the world also opts to travel. Which is fine. As much as I hate the general population at large, I can tolerate them when it's necessary. But there are choice people in the world who do not understand how to behave in a public forum, and it is those people who I would like to see thrown to a pack of starving lions. Here's the thing, people. It's called public transportation because you and the public at large are being transported with you. That means that the bus/train/airplane/tram/van/rickshaw is not your own private towncar. Please act accordingly.

On my bus ride home yesterday, I took your standard, standard double-decker Megabus home. Which if you've ever taken Megabus, you'll know that there is no overhead luggage storage. This man must have been new because as soon as he got upstairs, he complained loudly about how there wasn't overhead storage, so there was no place for him to put the 13 bags he carried onto the bus. So what does he decide to do? He puts them in an empty row of seats. Naturally. And does he remove them when we stop in Baltimore to pick up more passengers? Of course he doesn't. He just stares at his stuff daring someone to ask about it. Sir, why are you carrying that much stuff onto the bus in the first place? Do you really need to access each and every one of your L.L. Bean backpacks in the 4 hours we will be in this sardine can? The answer, of course, is no.

A much more memorable experience was my flight home from California from earlier this year. Yes, I'm still holding a grudge against a fellow passenger from over six months ago. But you would too! OK, everyone knows that you need to stretch and stuff when on a long flight so you don't get an embolism and up and die when you stand up, right? Well if not, you're welcome, and now you're going to fear long plane rides for the rest of your life. Ok, so fair, you make sure to stretch and unstretch your legs a few times mid-flight. But NO. This woman stands up somewhere around Kansas, gets into the aisle and proceeds to do yoga for 15 minutes. YOGA. ON A PLANE. Ma'am, I can think of several places for you to do yoga. A gym. A park. Your home. The aisle of a plane is not one of those places. Please sit back down, you hippie bitch, I need to get to the tiny bathroom.

Those are obviously more extreme examples, but I'm sure you all know the type of people that I'm talking about. The person who does not understand that they are sharing with other people. Like the woman who brings her stroller and multitude of shopping bags onto the metro at rush hour. (You're clearly not going to work with your baby. Your errands couldn't have waited an hour or two?) Or the man who sits across two seats so that no one sits next to him. (I can tell by your wide leg spread that you have an impossibly small penis.) Or the girl who spends the entire bus ride talking to Jessica on her cell phone about what a crazy night she had and OMG I didn't mean to let Bobby fingerbang me on the dance floor but he's got such nice teeth and I got drunk on wine coolers and can you believe it? LOLZ OMG! To all this people, I would like this post to serve as an eternal middle finger to you. Please do not watch your step when exiting, I hope you do not mind the gap, and do not have a nice day. Kindly go to hell.

Drinking Game Friday takes a big old Recrap

If I were to make a list of my top 5 guiltiest guilty pleasures, it would go as such:

5.) Tori and Dean's Home Sweet Hollywood
4.) The Olsen Twins as an entity
3.) Any and every Mo'Nique special
2.) Russian-pop-lesbian duo t.A.T.u.'s "Not Gonna Get Us"
1.) Guidos

Knowing this, you can imagine how excited I was when I found out about MTV's newest reality show, Jersey Shore. Basically Jersey Shore is like a season of The Real World but exclusively with Guidos. It's the true story. Of eight strangers. Picked to live in a shore house. To find out what happens. When the Valtrex runs out. And there's not a black person for miles. It's The Real World: Guidos. And oh muh gawd I'm excited! Thus, Drinking Game Friday will be taking a brief hiatus while Recrap Fridays: Jersey Shore takes over. Don't worry! DGF will be back! But I mean, come on, I've recapped shows about vapid whores, Bros, emotional fatties and monkey babies—did you expect me to not recap a show about Guidos?

I'm going to admit something right here and right now, fully aware that some of you might lose respect for me. I, Meghan C. McBlogger, totally have a thing for Guidos (except I can't do extreme spiky-haired Guidos. I'm horny, not blind.) I can't explain it. It goes against everything I stand for, yet, get me in a room with a juiced-up Italian guy with a rosary and a Hollywood tan and you'd better have a fainting couch cuz I've got the vapors! I've only dated one Guido in my lifetime. And by dated, I mean we hooked up, went on three dates and he dropped me like third period French. But my god were those three dates glorious. His name was Dave, he hailed from Long Island and had a tribal sun tattoo on his back that upon discovering I literally pointed and laughed-out-loud at. (Looking back, this may or may not have contributed to the whole dropping-me-like-third-period-French thing.) Even the story of how we met is just so perfectly...cheap. I was at The Reef late one Saturday night Senior year, desperately trying not to pass out against/crash through a fish tank, when Dave the Guido approached and instigated a game of Thumb War. Yes, that's correct. Thumb War. I lost (perhaps because my hand-eye coordination was that of a newborn baby at the time) and he happily claimed his prize—a hardcore All-American make out session!!1 Did I know his name? No. Did that bother me? No. Was the smell of his Dep hair gel driving me wild? Yes. A few days later we went on our first date to Lauriol Plaza. We pretty much had absolutely nothing in common except we both liked making out, quoting 80's movies and drinking. And apparently that will only bond two people together for so long. But I'll never forget you Dave The Guido. You or our hardcore, pasta-fueled hook-ups that I can now only re-live vicariously through my new favorite show—Jersey Shore.

Jersey Shore: Episode 1

The show opens by introducing us to it's eight feisty characters, the first being Pauly D. Pauly D. has obscenely spiky hair, a tanning bed in his apartment and is a DJ who wants people to "come in their pants when they hear his music." Well sir, as Rhianna said, please don't stop the music. Next up we have Nicole a.k.a. "Snookie". Snookie is my absolute favorite character. She looks like if Elvira and Tila Tequila had a bastard love-child and the mother bathed in Zelko throughout the duration of the pregnancy. Nobody in the house can remember Snookie's nickname so she's consistently referred to as "Snickers," which is never not the funniest thing I've ever heard. Next up is Mike. Mike gave himself the nickname "The Situation." So you know he's gotta be cool. Then we have Sammy "Sweetheart." Sammy Sweetheart is a sweet little Guidette with a don't-fuck-with-me attitude looking to break some hearts. She is also the source of one of my favorite quotes from the episode: "If you're not a Guido you can get the fuck out of my face." There's poetry in directness. Then there's Vinny. Vinny's mom still cuts his food for him and he makes a point of telling viewers that although he went to college, he "still loves to fist pump." Who says a Guido can't be a Renaissance Man? Next up we have Jenni a.k.a. "J-Woww." First and foremost, I love imagining the conversation between Jenni and the MTV graphics people where she clarifies that there are two W's in the fabricated name of "J-Woww." It keeps me warm at night. J-Woww likes to rip guy's heads off after sex (shout-out to Scott the Praying Mantis!), sounds like she just ate a pack of Newport lights for dinner and if I had a dick, I wouldn't put it within 15-feet of her. And then we have Ronnie. Tehehehee...Ronnie's kind of a dreamboat that I'd love to sail away on. I mean, whatever. He likes cheap cologne, protein shakes and fist pumping in the ocean. Gross. He's lame....tehehe. Ronnie's life philosophy: "Beers, pussy and the the beach. All you need to know." I couldn't have said it better myself, sir. Last but not least we have Angelina a.k.a. "Jolie." Angelina has a boyfriend who she's going to "try" not to cheat on and openly refers to herself as the Kim Kardashian of Staten Island. Because that's a challenge.

After we're introduced to the cast mates, they slowly filter into their cheetah-print and Italian flag-laden shore house where they'll be spending the rest of their summer. Pauly D. and The Situation instantly click. Ronnie, quote, "just wants to get creepy and weird" (seriously. I'm in love.) J-Woww introduces herself as J-Woww and everyone has the common sense to know that that's about as cool as a pair of tapered khakis. Angelina packed her stuff in trash bags which the rest of the cast thinks is weird but I can't hate on because that's how I moved out of my dorm Sophomore year. Really most of the entertainment lies in watching Snookie try to successfully drive herself to the house. After almost committing vehicular manslaughter a few times, she tries to make a 3-point-turn in the middle of an intersection and her car dies. OH SNOOKIE! After everyone arrives at the house we meet Danny. Danny looks like comedian Jesse Joyce to the point where I find it distracting and will be the Guidos boss for the summer. Yep, that's right. They have to work. Specifically at Danny's t-shirt shop, The Shore Store, in teams of two. Danny tries to explain that their living in the shore house is contingent on how well they work at the store, but the gang basically kicks him out so they can get the party started.

And get the party started they do! The first night in the house can only be described in one word: Snooktastic. Snookie gets shit faced. Quote Ronnie, "That girl went from stupid to incoherent." Yes, Snookie had herself a good old time. She rips a bunch of shots, gets in the hot tub in her leopard print bra and thong, tries to have sex with the entirety of the cast (gender not being an issue this many shots deep) and eventually passes out in a hammock mid slur. This would be pretty standard for first-night shenanigans, except that it's like 4 o'clock in the afternoon and everyone else in the house is stone cold sober. And let me tell you, being the one sloppy drunk amongst a sea of sober people is a mighty recipe for lasting embarrassment. Snookie wakes up a few hours later to find the rest of the house gone and spends all night stumbling around trying to work the complicated mechanics of the ironic duck phone. (If you only watch one scene, I'd go with that one.)

The next morning Snookie doesn't remember a thing ("Story of my life!" she laments) and ends up being late to orientation at the Shore Store because she's busy puking her face off in the bathroom. She starts to get a weird vibe from the rest of the house and manages to deduce that mayyyyybe she did something embarrassing last night. She offers the house a heart-felt apology at dinner and all seems to be right with the world. For now.

The next night, the boys decide to go fishing. No, not that fishing, bless your heart! "Fishing" is when the boys stand on the roof and whistle at girls until a few "semi-decent looking" ones stop, come up, get in the hot tub and give 'em some dome. The rest of the girls in the house are mortified by this. And by mortified, I mean jealous. They park themselves in lawn chairs ten feet away from the hot tub and do that thing girls do where they're like "OH MY GAWD, WHAT PROSTITUTES!" but on the inside really wish it was them taking off their Victoria Secret red cotton thongs in a hot tub. Angelina asks, "how do you meet a guy and take your bra and underwear off?!" Alcohol and low self-esteem, my friend. Trust me.

And then drama ensues: The Situation has a crush on Sammi Sweetheart and feels awkward canoodling with Token Hoz in front of her but she's like woah, we're not married psycho, go do what you want; Angelina, Sammi and J-Woww get in a fight with the Token Hoz because they're, you know, Token Hoz; Snookie gets upset that nobody's paying attention to her so she locks herself in her room to play with the ends of her hair; Angela and the guys get in a fight re: The Situation "cheating on" Sammi Sweetheart with Token Hoz; Ronnie walks around wearing only a fedora and no shirt and I have a moment; Snookie overhears the girls talking shit about Token Hoz, assumes they're talking about her and decides she's sick of the duck phone being her only friend so duck phone and her are bouncing. BUT WILL SHE?!

Jersey Shore: Episode 2

Um, Yeah. There was a second HOUR LONG episode last night. WTF MTV? Do you know what a challenge it was just to stay awake for the 10-11 episode?! I have work in the morning! I have a Jäger Ball to save energy for! I can't stay up until midnight watching reality television about Guidos on a school night! And yet, I did. Because god forbid I let the blog get behind on recaps. And as a result, I couldn't get out of bed this morning and was a half an hour late to work. Perhaps I need to re-evaluate my priorities...Anyway, I took half-assed notes because I was nodding off in my old person rocking chair, so here's all you need to know about the second episode:

*The Situation made Sammy Sweetheart a plate of eggs so you know he's in love --> *They work their first day at the Shore Store. LOL selling t-shirts is hard! --> *Snookie has a heart-to-heart with Sammy Sweetheart and decides to stay --> *The boys go to the gym, eat protein bars and talk about who they want to "pound out" --> *The Situation refers to himself in the third person a lot and sells a shit ton of hot pants --> *They all go out --> *Pauly D. and J-Woww make out --> *Snookie brings some guy home and is all bummed out that he won't make out with her until he projectile vomits everywhere. True story. --> *Angelina cheats on her boyfriend but "doesn't remember it" in the morning --> *Vinny gets pink eye from freak dancing with an old, fat chick for laughs at a club called Karma which is so ironic the world explodes --> *They go out again --> *The Situation and Sammy Sweetheart hookup but then she turns around and hooks up with my boy Ronnie --> *The Situation is heart broken so we decide to hook up with each other to make them jealous--> *The episode concludes with a hilarious montage of The Situation watching the sunrise all sad-like with sad, sad background music and black and white scenes of him and Sammy Sweetheart spliced in, which is hilarious because didn't you people meet two days ago? FIN.

Welp, with that said, hope you all have a fantastic weekend! Can't wait to meet you guys at Jäger Ball TOMORROW NIGHT! If you can't make it, don't forget there are local Jäger Balls going on in Boston, Atlanta, Birmingham, Dallas, LA, The Republic of Macedonia and Timor-Leste! Have fun and take a shot of Jäger for me! See you guys Monday!

I was Accidentally Racist #235234

Ok. So. Don't judge me. But...I was accidentally racist again (or again. Slash again. And again.) last night. BUT! Before we get to those highly embarrassing details, there's another local Jäger Ball I need to tell you about!:

Boston!


Kate and Jenna organized this one and you can hit them up on Twitter if you have any questions or email Kate at katemotter@gmail.com! Despite today's post, people of all races, creeds, religions and ethnicities are welcomed, I promise. ALSO, REGARDING JÄGER BALL DC: Just to clarify—drink specials end at 11, not the party. That goes way past 11. It's not a school night bitches; let's get crazy with it! Co-Blogger Chris and I plan on sleeping on a pile of melted ice in the alley of the bar. So there's that. Now, let's get to some good old-fashioned hardcore American racism, huh?!

Yesterday Boss #2 and I hosted a late lunch meeting to show off our new line of furniture (read: Boss #2 gave the presentation, I hung up coats and played Snood in the bathroom.) After our group left, it was my job to go in with a damp rag and clean the surface of everything because a.) we can't have any fingerprints on anything, ever and b.) I'm the office's bitch and that's the kind of stuff I do. As I stood there a-scrubbin', I marveled at the ungodly number of ridiculous fingerprints on everything. "God. There are fingerprints everywhere," I said to Boss #2, "Where did these people come from? A fried chicken conference?" Sigh.............

.............The group we had just hosted was the Congressional Black Caucus.

But! Before you call the ACLU on me or show up at my office with pitchforks and torches, here me out. The following was my thought process:

[Man. There are lots of fingerprints everywhere. This is irritating. You should complain about this.]
"God. There are fingerprints everywhere."

[Hmm...On second thought, you probably shouldn't have done that. Complaining about your job to your boss is never a good idea. You should crack a joke to lighten the mood to show how easy-going and charismatic you are. Because easy-going and charismatic people get raises all the time.]
Where did these people come from? A...

[OK, now think. What gives you greasy fingers? Oh, I know!]
fried chicken—

[Now we need a location. What would have a comically ridiculous amount of fried chicken?]
Conference?

That was my thought process. And there wasn't a hint of irony or malice in there, I promise! The second it flew out of my mouth, I realized exactly what it sounded like and made a noise that can best be described as "offfffffffffffmgahhhh!" So altogether it came out: "God. There are fingerprints everywhere. Where did these people come from? A fried chicken conferenceofffffffffffffmgahhhh!" I turned bright red and said, and I quote myself, "Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean that in a racist way; I meant that in a chicken way!"

I meant that. In. A. "Chicken Way." What's worse is that I don't even think Boss #2 even heard me in the first place. She was like, "Hmm, what did you say? Just use some Windex if it won't come up" and walked away, leaving me to wallow in my own pile of self-mortification. I would have felt so much better had she heard, judged me, listened to my explanation and decided that I'm not racist in the end. It's like when you trip up the stairs and no one's there to see it, so you end up feeling even more stupid somehow. Right?

In conclusion: I am not racist. I enjoy African Americans and Asians and wish only good things for people of those persuasions. Kthnx.

I'm quickly becoming a contestant on More to Love

Knock, knock, knock—Housekeeping! OK, a few things to clear up before we get to Chris' post:

1.) Happy birthday Jessica! You're 24! And in Florida! And not coming to Jäger Ball! WAMP, WAMP!

2.) Speaking of Jäger Ball, here's some info on a few satellite parties that have cropped up:

LA! 8pm. El Chavito (Connected to the El Chavo restaurant) 4441 W Sunset Blvd. Lindsey is manning that effort, so hit her up at keefner@gmail.com or @KeefnerL on Twitter!

Dallas! 8pm. The Quarter Bar at Breadwinners. 3301 McKinney Avenue. Let @THEasutinreed know if you're interested! (PS: kind of a hottie, right? I know. We've been emailing. No big deal.)

Atlata! Team Atlanta will be piggy-backing the Santa Pub Crawl. Schedule of events:
5pm: Front Page News Midtown
6:30pm- Leopard Lounge
8pm - Sutra Lounge
9:30pm - Cosmopolitan
10:45pm - Eleven50
Say hi to Alvin at amowusu11@gmail.com if you want to join the party! (And you'd better...)

Birmingham! 9pm. Bourbon Street Bar & Lounge. 1568 Cooper Hill Rd. Riley will be drinking "a baby" in the corner with Gussy. (LOCAL JOKES! LOOK AT ME!) rmcduff@gmail.com to join!

3.) Next item of business: remember how I used to harass you guys to vote for us for the Blogger's Choice Awards? Remember how annoying that was, so I stopped because I love you like that? Yeah. Well. I have to start again. The votes are getting a little too close for comfort and it would be a shame to lose it at the end. So if you're new to the blog, I'm going to have to go ahead and ask you to go here, sign up for an account (oh my god, I know, I'm sorry, but come on! We all know you're bored as sin at work right now! Consider it something productive to do!) and vote for 2birds1blog for the following three categories: Best Humor Blog, Best Blog About Stuff and Best Blog of All Time. And then ask your friends and family to do the same. And if you need motivation to take the time and vote, I ask you to simply read this. It's guaranteed to light a fire under your sweet, sweet ass. KTHNX!

4.) Ah...also we were nominated for Best Blog About Stuff after the whole Suzy Soro incident, so if you've already voted for us for Humor and All Time, can you do me a solid and vote for us for Best Blog About Stuff? Please? I mean, you already made an account. The hard party is over...And we only have 90 votes. It's embarrassing. Slash I'm grateful for each and every of them. THAAAAAAAAAANKS!

Now, let's get Christacular!

Thanksgiving has come and gone, and I've got the extra pounds to show for it. Not only did I rape and pillage a turkey with my mouth on Thanksgiving day, but I also ate everything that wasn't bolted down while I was home. I don't know what's worse of these two scenarios:
Back in the day, when Meg and I were first getting to know each other, I was hanging out with her and some of her AU friends, one of whom said to me, "Chris, why aren't you drinking?" To which I responded, "I just don't feel like drinking right now." Which was met with 100% legitimate shock and horror.
OR
On the car ride home, my mother turns to me and says "I was just telling your father when we were coming to get you that there's lots of leftovers in the fridge, but they won't be there for long once you get home."
So not only am I a fatty fatty two by four, I'm also a drunk. (You can judge this for yourself when you come to Jäger Ball this Saturday at Town Tavern from 8-11 PM. Although the level of drunk I will be there is not terribly indicative of my day to day level of drunk.)

But you know what? I can embrace the fact that not only do I like my drink, I also thoroughly enjoy my food. But I only eat like an escapee from fat camp when I'm safely in the house I grew up in. And I think there's several logical explanations for why that is.

1. I'm perpetually poor. And by the transitive property, no money is equal to no food. Meg is fond of gummi fangs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I prefer to go the Survivor route and feast on white rice. Unsalted, unbuttered, plain white rice. While this may be slightly more nutritious than gummi fangs, it is arguably less satisfying. So when I go home, I feel like Templeton the rat at the fairgrounds. My parent's cupboards are a veritable smorgasboard-orgasboard-

orgasboard, and I literally feast on everything in sight. Seriously, the first thing I do when I get to my parents' house is open the refridgerator. Because it's just nice to know that you have options if you're hungry. Do I want to eat leftover pork chops or pizza? Beef stew? Sometimes, I can't handle all of the choice and I just break down into tears. I'm not proud.

2. There's no judgment at home. If I were to unhinge my jaw, and tip the entire contents of my parents' pantry into my stomach, not a single person in my family would think any differently of me. In fact, this is kind of expected of me. But let's be serious, in a family where my father always orders two meals when we go out for dinner, am I really going to be looked down upon? I'm more apt to disappoint my family if I don't eat a hearty meal. I'm getting away from the point, however. The kitchen of my parents' house is like Vegas, because what happens there, stays there. So if I do a keg stand with a vat of gravy, my parents will just look at me lovingly, and then go about their parently business. No harm, no foul.

3. Sometimes, home is just straight up boring. Since I've moved away from home, first for college, and then again to NYC, I've lost touch with practically everyone I grew up with. So without the distraction of friends to hang out with, going home is like being sentenced to solitary confinement. There's only so much TV I can watch without getting jittery. And the internet loses its appeal after hour number 5. (I know, who'd've thunk it?!) When I'm home, I usually end up pinballing from the TV, to the computer, to the fridge. Lather, rinse, repeat. I'm all too aware that boredom eating is a terrible decision and I'm about three hamburgers away from a TLC special on eating disorders, but when there's nothing else to do, my body tells me to eat. And eat. And eat. I can't help but listen. If that involves making a sandwich out of homemade bread, leftover steak tips, and American cheese, well then who am I to argue?

4. Storing food for the winter, ever heard of it? If it's good enough for woodland creatures, than it's good enough for me. Harkening back to point #1 (doesn't everything come back to that point?), I don't know when the next time I'll see food is, so I might as well eat until I'm uncomfortably full when I have the chance. For reals though, when I got back to my apartment on Sunday, my fridge contained: hummus older than the Reagan administration, chocolate syrup, grape jelly, 3 Miller High Lifes, a jar of pickles (containing 1 pickle), mayo, mustard, packets of soy sauce and duck sauce, and maraschino cherries. All of which is edible, but aside from the pickle and the beer, you can't really sit down and eat a tub of mayo. Hence the binging while I'm at my parents' house. And the purging when I return to my daily regimen of white rice and shame.

Luckily for me, going back to my parents' house only happens sparingly. So in the intervening months, I've got time to starve away the pounds. Because as Kate Moss said "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." Which is obviously appended with "Except for everything in your parents' cupboards when you're at home."