So, 2010 is turning out to be a real titty twister of a year for old yours truly. Which, of course, is an upsetting statement as we're only 19 days in. Only 346 more days to go! Haha........hah.
It all started at the stroke of midnight on January first when my stomach packed up it's bags, turned off the lights, triple checked that the coffee maker was turned off and made it's painful exit through various awkward and embarrassing parts of my body. After that I fell into an oddly deep depression and now I might be getting fired. I know I worry about getting fired a lot, but I'm filing this time under the For Realz For Realz account. I've envisioned myself getting fired from this job literally hundreds of times and 99.9% of those times involve one of my bosses casually asking if I know what a "2birds1blog is," me grabbing a box, packing up my things and leaving quietly. Shockingly, the trouble I'm currently in has nothing to do with the blog. I'd give you the details but it's nothing I didn't manically vent to Becky about last night over five Stellas, and I think even she got bored. (Sidenote: did you know that Becky got custody of the fish from The Real World DC house? In addition to already having Lily Hearst's dog? Becky's like the TMZ of pets and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't impressed.) The moral of the story is that my bosses, as per usual, didn't communicate to me something that they wanted done, thus I didn't do it, and now they're in trouble with corporate and I'm afraid I might be on the chopping block. Ugh...and this really isn't helping the ulcer. Or the depression.
But! Instead of piling on the eyeliner, sharpening my razor and blasting Please, Please, Please Let Me Get Want I Want on repeat (all things sadly in character,) I'm going to share with you something that I find hee-larious. I think this might be one of those things that only me and Tulane Chris find funny due to our mutual inappropriate senses of humor, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume you'll appreciate it too.
So I was g-chatting with Tulane Chris the other day and not doing whatever it was Boss #1 never asked me to do when Chris started talking about an irritating friend he had in college. (No, not Terry Cooper.) Apparently one time this friend casually asked over cocktails, "So, who here has been sexually abused?" which Chris pointed out is the "WORST TEN FINGERS QUESTION EVER." This was, and still is, the funniest thing I have ever heard in my entire life. If you've never heard of The Ten Fingers Game before (clearly you didn't go to summer camp...) it's when you and a group of people get in a circle, hold out ten fingers and go around making "Never have I ever..." statements. If you've done something that someone else says they've never done, you put down a finger. First person to put down all ten fingers wins. Or loses. Or drinks. Or is a slut or something. Normally the statements are really asinine and light like, "Never have I ever broken a bone" or "Never have I ever been to Montreal," but if you're playing with close friends, it can be fun to purposely call someone out and say something like, "Never have I ever given a hand job in a public park" and look directly at the friend who has and giggle and LOLZ. However, it's a horse of an entirely different shade of hilarious if you're like, "Never have I ever...been sexually abused" and look directly at your friend who has been as she hangs her head in shame and slowly retracts a shaking finger. Chris and I then spent the rest of the afternoon imagining this game in increasingly innapropriate contexts until we created the following list. (Mine are in red and Chris' are in purple. Which has a very star-spangled effect that adds a nice little patriotic flair to the game.)
Meg & Tulane Chris' List of Grossly Inappropriate Never Have I Ever Statements:
- Never have I ever shown anyone on the doll...
- Never have I ever been a cutter in middle school because I had low self-esteem and no father figure to reinforce my value
- Never have I ever cared for you, Darla
- Never have I ever had to go to family counseling
- Never have I ever had to participate in my parents' Christian Marriage Therapy exercises
- Never have I ever been fingered at a Christian youth group overnight lock in
- Never have I ever given birth in the bathroom at prom, murdered the baby, and gone on with my evening
- Never have I ever gotten fisted and had to go onto a teen advice website to ask if I'm still technically a virgin
- Never have I ever done it "for him"
- Never had I ever had to call the cops when daddy "corrected" mommy one too many times
- Never have I ever not known I was pregnant
- Never have I ever been related to someone on Intervention
- Never have I ever been warned that this will be the last intervention
- Never have I ever uncovered buried memories
- Never have I ever slept with my therapist
- Never have I ever asked my mom if my boyfriend could move into our basement because things are getting kind of rough at home
- Never have I ever shaken a baby
- Never have I ever considered "clowning" an actual career
- Never have I ever had my tuition check for clown school bounce
- Never have I ever prayed on it
- Never have I ever attended a prayer service in which I held my hands palm-forward at chest level, closed my eyes, and swayed
- Never have I ever attended a state school
- Never have I ever really, really, really loved a woman
- Never have I ever avoided my Uncle for sexual reasons
- Never have I ever found time to be with my Uncle for sexual reasons
- Never have I ever bred dogs
- Never have I ever bred pygmy horses
- Never have I ever attended a cancer survivor support group
- Never have I ever had a job where I had to wear a pin with my name printed on it, made from a label maker
- Never have I ever had to show someone on a map where my native country is
- Never have I ever referred to camping in my trailer as "The Wilderness"
- ONCE have I ever interviewed for an office job and been hired as a dishwasher
- ONCE have I ever had sex with someone with a hearing aid, not known and then regretted it after finding out based solely on the fact that it's technically a disability
- ONCE have I ever had sex with a blood relative of Drew Barrymore
- Never have I ever had sex with a blood relative of Dr. Drew
...Yes? No? Just funny to me and Chris? Do not past go? Do not collect $100? Go directly to hell? K. Thought so. I'm gonna go get fired now.
1.19.2010
1.18.2010
Happy MLK Day!
Hope everyone had a lovely MLK day. I had the day off, but was then called into the office and am very likely getting fired tomorrow. So. There's that. WAMP, WAMP!
More to come tomorrow. Sigh.
1.15.2010
God bless me, it's Recap Friday!
T.G.I. HAGMAN, YOU GUYS!!!!1
T.G.I. fuckin' Hagman. And this is your first T.G.I. Hagman, isn't it?! God, I'm so excited for you. I remember my first T.G.I. Hagman like it was yesterday. Sit back and get ready for the ride of your life...
As of 2:02pm on January 15, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive. WIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111111
And speaking of wins, last night's (double) episode of The Jersey Shore was pretty fuckin' sweet. I'm not gonna lie; I went into things a little skeptically. First of all, MTV: you need to stop doing these late-night double feature picture shows. As much as I love the idea of two new episodes of The Jersey Shore, I physically can not stay awake until midnight on a week night anymore. I just don't have the stamina. I have to be up at 7:30 in the morning, it had been a long day at work, I had just had a few cocktails at dinner, I skipped my morning Benefiber that day...I just think it's a lot to ask of me. Then you have the fact that last night's first episode started with a bunch of Ronnie/Sammi relationship crap that I was in no god given way interested in. I would rather watch two people Papier-mâché a piñata in tense silence for 15 minutes. I'm not being sarcastic when I say that that genuinely sounds more interesting. Plus, I've been a little uncomfortable with how popular The Jersey Shore has become recently. Remember the days when everybody was so offended by it and advertisers were pulling their spots left and right and it felt so wrong it had to be right? Sigh...I miss those days. Now it's all super mainstream, the cast is overexposed, I didn't see AN single commercial for Body Heat cologne last night and 'eh...it just makes me nervous. I just wasn't feelin' it going into last night's episode(s). But, I was happily surprised. Last night's episode(s) reminded me why I fell in love with The Jersey Shore in the first place. It's like The Jersey Shore and I are a couple who've been dating for a few years and stopped having sex and everything's become so routine, but all we needed was a romantic weekend alone in the Poconos to reconnect and rekindle our fiery passion. Well I'm back baby, and I'm sorry I ever doubted this relationship. Now get on that bed...I'm gonna recrap the living shit out of you.
Episode 7: What Happens in the AC
UGH. Vom. Episode 7 opens with a Ronnie and Sammi wrapping up their drama from the end of last week's episode. I'm not going to lie, I kind of zoned out and started plucking my eyebrows at this point, so I'm going to go ahead and skip like 15 minutes into the show after they (obviously) made up and everything was back to normal. Deal? Deal. Tweeze? Tweeze.
The gang goes out the next night to see Pauly D guest spin at a local clerb. It was one of those magical nights where everybody hooked up. (God I miss those nights...) Even the two people in the house who never hook up were hookin' up! AND MOZEL TOV, BABY! Snooki hooked up with an Irish cowboy named Keith (no, but like...for realz) and Vinny was hanging out with Tanya (of Boss Danny's date, fame) for the third time. Which means he matched the longest relationship I've ever had in my life, so a tip of the hat to you, sir. The gang rounds up whatever creatures they've caught in their trawl and head back to the house. Tanya and Vinny start snuggling sweetly in the hammock but are slightly distracted by Mike and his date, Paula, who are fucking ass-to-mouth four feet away from them in the hot tub. Snooki and Cowboy O'Hoolihan join them on the roof and Mike decides there's now too much of an audience and it's time to take Paula to his bedroom. (Ahh, the secluded privacy of night vision cameras.) As Mike leads Paula down the stairs, she slips and 100% faceplants. But don't laugh, you guys, BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN THERE! And it is not funny. One time in Junior year of high school, Talia and I went over to this kid Ryan's house who had a treehouse in his back yard that was like...a miniature version of his actual house with fully working electricity and everything. (It's normal, go with it.) I didn't want to go up in the tree house because, obviously, I was going to fall trying to get back down. I mean, I'm me; it's a given. Giving in to peer pressure as most girls in their Junior year of high school do, I went up. About fifteen minutes later as I descended the recently rained on wooden steps leading down from the treehouse, my J-Crew rubber flip-flops of death gave out underneath me and I went tumbling down the stairs and body-planted on the stone patio. Not only was this highly embarrassing on a level that I'm still not ready to emotionally confront, it was extremely painful. Talia, Ryan and Talia's then boyfriend Greg, however, were craaaaaaacking up while I tried laugh it off and fight back tears. The next day I had to take the ACT's (because of course I did) and I couldn't concentrate on the test because every single muscle in my body felt like it had been hit by a truck and the throbbing pain was all I could think about. From that day on, I vehemently refused to go to any parties at Ryan's house because it was the scene of The Incident. So traumatic. I still remember exactly what I was wearing that day. This incident is on par with the Ziplock bag/Goldfish story in how it still makes me feel really anxious to think about. Christ. Why was I talking about this in the first place? Where am I? What am I doing? Oh, yes! Blog. Recapping.
So everyone bangs out and it's all good and fun until the next morning when Paula's friend Lauren comes a-knockin' on the door. It turns out Paula overslept and missed her first day at work. Lauren proceeds to ream Paula out in a way that was so over dramatic it makes me wonder if they planned it and The Situation deals with the entire...situation...by hiding in the shower until they leave. And speaking of The Situation being kind of a douchebag! Everyone in the house hates him and things are starting to get rull tense. The Situation makes fun of Vinny for being so creepily close to him in proximity last night when he was hooking up in the hot tub, which I think is slightly bizarre considering how he routinely fucks girls in a twin bed seperated from Pauly D's twin bed by a gap the size of a Kit-Kat, but who am I to judge? Then this pithy little dialogue exchange goes down:
Vinny to The Situation: I would never wanna be like you when I'm 27, bro.
The Situation to Vinny: Whatever bro, you have no game.
Vinny to The Situation: That's not what your sister said.
And as per my notes: OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH SHIT! OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT!
The Situation LOLs it off, J-Woww tapes a pair of neon yellow spandex biker shorts from 1994 across her nips and calls it a shirt and they all head out to meet up with (speaking of...) Mike's sister at the clerb.
Ok. There's some drama. Let's break it down:
The Situation/Ronnie/Sammmi: I mean, do you really care? In a nutsthell: The Situation tries to start shit between Ronnie and Sammi but true love conquers all. DONE. Do you mind if we just leave it at that? Ok, good. THNX.
Vinny: Vinny is Flirts McGirts with The Situation's little sister Melissa, not only because he likes her but also because it pisses The Situation off. "The fact that she's Mike's sister makes it so much better...it makes it the funniest thing," he giggles. OH VINNY! Vinny's little plan works wonderfully until TANYA, of Boss Danny's date fame, walks into the club and sees Vinny with Melissa. OH SHIT, YOU GUYS!!!1 Tanya pounces on Vinny in an effort to mark her territory and wordlessly tell Melissa to step the fuck off. Melissa obviously gets all bummed out, which pisses of The Situation even more. To quote The Situation, "I'm pissed off because he's not taking care of my sister." This seems like a slightly odd thing to say. I can understand being pissed because Vinny's leading his sister on, but not because he's not tending to her biblical needs. If Geoff broke up with Becca tomorrow, I don't think I'd go over to his place of work with a baseball bat all, "NOW WHO'S GONNA GET HER OFF, ASSHOLE?!?!?!" In the end, Vinny weighs his options and decides to go home with Melissa because "she's a sure thing." But then again Tanya has a dolphin tattoo on her arm...sooooooo...we're not really talkin' Sophie's Choice here.
Pauly D: Meets a nice Jewish Israeli girl named Danielle. He takes her home and invites her upstairs but she declines saying "we've got to wait for marriage, right?" At this point the camera zooms in on Pauly D's flabbergasted face and MTV inserts an ethnically-charged grunting noise. (God, I wish my job was to put ironic sound bytes in episodes of The Jersey Shore. How do I make that happen?) Despite Danielle's chastity belt, he's still interested because he "likes a challenge."
Unfortunately Pauly D doesn't have much time to chase Danielle around the hoopa, because the next day the gang heads to Atlantic City for the weekend to escape the stress and strife of selling t-shirts on the boardwalk once a week and refilling Valtrex prescriptions. The boys obviously pack an emasculating number of outfit changes with them. "I like my clothes like I like my women: options," The Situation jokes. "You like your women like you like your clothes: dirty!" Vinny jabs back. "I like my men like I like my estranged fathers in Lifetime movies: emotionally unavailable!" Meg adds, bringing the jovial mood to an awkward halt.
That night the gang goes out to dinner and things go from bad to worse. As with all fights on The Jersey Shore, things start out with some good natured ribbing and take a sudden turn for Seriousville fast. Vinny and The Situation give each other shit for a while until Snooki dives in on the fun and tells Mike that nobody in the house likes him and he can go fuck himself, please pass the rolls. "Don't worry honey, you got a couple," The Situation says. And eeeeeeshhhh...Snooki used to have an eating disorder. WAMP, WAMP! Snooki leaves the table crying and old J-Woww runs after to console her while the rest of the table lets Mike know exactly how fucked up that was. Oh J-Woww. This is going to sound heinously offensive and I don't mean it to be, but this scene made me miss Talia a lot. I know that sounds horrible, but I see a girl with a flat stomach, blond hair and giant boobs wiping the tears away from the eyes of a hot little black-haired mess and it's like, shit—how many times has that been us? Everyone has a friend like J-Woww. And god bless the J-Woww's of the world.
Feeling guilty, The Situation apologizes to Snooki, who cautiously accepts. To celebrate, J-Woww changes outfits and I swear to god puts the following on: acid wash jeans with giant frayed holes on the thighs, a large bedazzled belt and a plaid shirt completely unbuttoned, tied directly under her giant, professionally augmented breasts. At this point somewhere in Washington, DC, a blogger laying in her bed wearing Jack Daniel's pajama pants and a wife beater starts a slow clap.
Drama Guide:
Snooki: Falls off a couch and it's kind of funny.
Vinny: Hooks up with a token ho, goes to the bathroom and The Situation pulls a "Robbery Move" (meaning he swoops in and grabs her for himself.) Later, Vinny asks Mike: "HOW DOES MY DICK TASTE BRO?!" and I fell out of my bed laughing. So there's that.
Ronnie/Sammi: Fuck if I know and fuck if I care.
J-Woww: YOWZAHS. Homegirl partakes in one too many libations and has to purge in the bathroom. After she's done, she finds Mike and although she's beastly sorry to interrupt his evening, politely asks if he would be so kind as to squire her back to the room, as she has taken ill and a Lady never leaves an establishment such as this alone. Mike ever-so-rudely declines the offer and goes back to finger banging a complete stranger on the couch where so many complete strangers have been finger banged before. Miffed, J-Woww slaps Mike across the face with her riding glove and is escorted out by security, Mike laughing at her misfortune all the way. Once back at the Inn, The Dutchess Woww regails Master Ronnie and Lady Sweetheart with the tale and decrees: "I shall throw a punch and then retire to bed!" And that's exactly what she does. Mike comes home, she punches him in the face, says "goodnight" and goes to bed.
Thus ends this chapter of Crapsterpeice Theater.
Episode 8: One Shot
Ok, I have a comment. Remember in Real World Seattle when Stephen slapped Irene and it was like the most disturbing thing the world had ever seen since Jesus' crucifixion and the producers stepped in and showed the footage to the rest of the house and Lindsey covered her face and cried and the house had an emotional group meeting about whether or not they felt safe living in the same house as Stephen? Yeah. What a bunch of fuckin' pussies. Ok, moving on!
So the drama from AC is temporarily forgotten and Vinny and Pauly D celebrate by hitting the boardwalk to chase some skirt. They meet a bunch of token ho's who are out cruising for henna tattoos and cartilage piercings (that's not me being an asshole, by the way. That's really what they were up to,) and decide they're worth pursuing. While everyone is walking around and flirting, Pauly D's would-be Israeli girlfriend shows up out of nowhere. He promises if she leaves he'll call her later and she does so. Until she comes back with a homemade "I [Star of David with the Italian flag behind it] Jewish Girls" t-shirt for him. And oh. My. Lolz. I absolutely plan on making a t-shirt that says, "I [Star of David with the Italian flag behind it] The Jersey Shore" as soon as humanly possible. Pauly D tells Danielle to go home again and once again she does. Pauly goes on a ride with a token ho and the second he gets off the ride, guess who's back? Yep. Yentl. She runs up to Pauly and starts kissing and hugging him like he's her boyfriend. To quote Wedding Crashers, "We got a stage 5 clinger on our hands. Hello?? Did you hear me? I said stage 5: virgin!" Pauly D and Vinny call the night a wash and head back to the house where Danielle proceeds to call repeatedly. Pauly begs Vinny to answer the phone and pretend to be The Situation, prompting one of the most hilarious scenes in television history. This show deserves an Emmy based on Vinny's spot-on impression of The Situation alone. Not quite getting the hint, Danielle continues to quack the phone off it's beak all night and it's 3-parts hilarious, 1-part incredibly sad.
Bored out of their minds, The Situation and Pauly D decide to prank Snooki and Vinny by putting gross shit under their beds. They put sliced pickles under Snooki's bed and a stink bomb concotion consisting of "grated cheese, milk, Supreme dressing, pickle juice and mayo" called "Hatorade" under Vinny's bed. I mention this only because there's a beautiful moment when Mike and Pauly have just successfully put the pickles under Snooki's bed and are in the living room giggling at their own genius when Mike breaks the fourth wall, looks directly into the camera and whispers "That was a lot of pickles.......that was a lot of pickles," while slowly nodding his head in self-satisfaction. If someone could figure out how I can get The Situation whispering "That was a lot of pickles" to be my ringtone, I would greatly appreciate it.
The next day Pauly finally decides to take Danielle's call. She chews him out for "playing her" and like a housewife on Oxygen's Snapped, Pauly has had enough and let's Danielle know exactly how much of a psycho she is. And let me tell you, this scene is fucking cinematic magic. Better than Gone With The Wind. My absolute favorite part is when Pauly D shouts: "You stalked my entire life at the boardwalk. I WENT ON ONE RIDE, GOD BLESS ME IT'S SUMMER!!!!" Oh my fucking god. I was dying. Dying! It's gotten to the point where I feel completely guilty watching this show alone because nobody should laugh this hard or this loudly watching reality television alone in their apartment. From now on I won't drink or watch Jersey Shore alone anymore. Both are a symptoms of a larger problem.
That night there's some more The Situation/Ronnie/Sammi love-traingle drama but who gives a flying fuck, so let's move on to the night after that. The gang goes out to the clerb and in desperate need of an HBI, Snooki wears a straight-up corset and hot pants. She seriously looks like someone's Halloween costume, but whatevs. It suits her. Old Danielle stalks Pauly down at the club to let him know how much of a stalker she isn't and bless his summer heart, he loves the challenge and invites her home with him anyway. As the gang heads home, a group of token ho's passes by and re: Snooki's outfit shouts, "Go back to New Jersey or New York with your trampy outfits!" Trying to have Snooki's back, Sammi starts yelling shit back at the girls and out of nowhere an all-out brawl explodes. A few random security people break up the fight and the gang continues to walk home until suddenly one of the random guys from the brawl is back and shouts another insult at the cast. In .2 seconds flat, Ronnie RUNS him down, punches the Christ out of his facehole and skuttles away sideways like a crab while repetedly shouting, "THAT WAS ONE SHOT, BRO! THAT WAS ONE SHOT!"
I'd be lying if I said it wasn't slightly badass. But, this is America and you can't just go around beating the Christ out of people's faceholes and skuttling away like a crab, so the fuzz steps in, puts Ronnie in cuffs and hauls his ass away. Which was kind of a comical image because he was wearing a gay little Ed Hardy t-shirt at the time with giant angel wings on the back. It kind of makes you wonder, what kind of asshole cop arrests an angel?
FIN.
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As per always, thank you so much for reading the blog, have a great weekend, shameless begging to follow us on Twitter, join our Facebook page, forward us to your friends, blah blah shameless, blah. See you back here Monday babies!
T.G.I. fuckin' Hagman. And this is your first T.G.I. Hagman, isn't it?! God, I'm so excited for you. I remember my first T.G.I. Hagman like it was yesterday. Sit back and get ready for the ride of your life...
As of 2:02pm on January 15, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive. WIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111111
And speaking of wins, last night's (double) episode of The Jersey Shore was pretty fuckin' sweet. I'm not gonna lie; I went into things a little skeptically. First of all, MTV: you need to stop doing these late-night double feature picture shows. As much as I love the idea of two new episodes of The Jersey Shore, I physically can not stay awake until midnight on a week night anymore. I just don't have the stamina. I have to be up at 7:30 in the morning, it had been a long day at work, I had just had a few cocktails at dinner, I skipped my morning Benefiber that day...I just think it's a lot to ask of me. Then you have the fact that last night's first episode started with a bunch of Ronnie/Sammi relationship crap that I was in no god given way interested in. I would rather watch two people Papier-mâché a piñata in tense silence for 15 minutes. I'm not being sarcastic when I say that that genuinely sounds more interesting. Plus, I've been a little uncomfortable with how popular The Jersey Shore has become recently. Remember the days when everybody was so offended by it and advertisers were pulling their spots left and right and it felt so wrong it had to be right? Sigh...I miss those days. Now it's all super mainstream, the cast is overexposed, I didn't see AN single commercial for Body Heat cologne last night and 'eh...it just makes me nervous. I just wasn't feelin' it going into last night's episode(s). But, I was happily surprised. Last night's episode(s) reminded me why I fell in love with The Jersey Shore in the first place. It's like The Jersey Shore and I are a couple who've been dating for a few years and stopped having sex and everything's become so routine, but all we needed was a romantic weekend alone in the Poconos to reconnect and rekindle our fiery passion. Well I'm back baby, and I'm sorry I ever doubted this relationship. Now get on that bed...I'm gonna recrap the living shit out of you.
Episode 7: What Happens in the AC
UGH. Vom. Episode 7 opens with a Ronnie and Sammi wrapping up their drama from the end of last week's episode. I'm not going to lie, I kind of zoned out and started plucking my eyebrows at this point, so I'm going to go ahead and skip like 15 minutes into the show after they (obviously) made up and everything was back to normal. Deal? Deal. Tweeze? Tweeze.
The gang goes out the next night to see Pauly D guest spin at a local clerb. It was one of those magical nights where everybody hooked up. (God I miss those nights...) Even the two people in the house who never hook up were hookin' up! AND MOZEL TOV, BABY! Snooki hooked up with an Irish cowboy named Keith (no, but like...for realz) and Vinny was hanging out with Tanya (of Boss Danny's date, fame) for the third time. Which means he matched the longest relationship I've ever had in my life, so a tip of the hat to you, sir. The gang rounds up whatever creatures they've caught in their trawl and head back to the house. Tanya and Vinny start snuggling sweetly in the hammock but are slightly distracted by Mike and his date, Paula, who are fucking ass-to-mouth four feet away from them in the hot tub. Snooki and Cowboy O'Hoolihan join them on the roof and Mike decides there's now too much of an audience and it's time to take Paula to his bedroom. (Ahh, the secluded privacy of night vision cameras.) As Mike leads Paula down the stairs, she slips and 100% faceplants. But don't laugh, you guys, BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN THERE! And it is not funny. One time in Junior year of high school, Talia and I went over to this kid Ryan's house who had a treehouse in his back yard that was like...a miniature version of his actual house with fully working electricity and everything. (It's normal, go with it.) I didn't want to go up in the tree house because, obviously, I was going to fall trying to get back down. I mean, I'm me; it's a given. Giving in to peer pressure as most girls in their Junior year of high school do, I went up. About fifteen minutes later as I descended the recently rained on wooden steps leading down from the treehouse, my J-Crew rubber flip-flops of death gave out underneath me and I went tumbling down the stairs and body-planted on the stone patio. Not only was this highly embarrassing on a level that I'm still not ready to emotionally confront, it was extremely painful. Talia, Ryan and Talia's then boyfriend Greg, however, were craaaaaaacking up while I tried laugh it off and fight back tears. The next day I had to take the ACT's (because of course I did) and I couldn't concentrate on the test because every single muscle in my body felt like it had been hit by a truck and the throbbing pain was all I could think about. From that day on, I vehemently refused to go to any parties at Ryan's house because it was the scene of The Incident. So traumatic. I still remember exactly what I was wearing that day. This incident is on par with the Ziplock bag/Goldfish story in how it still makes me feel really anxious to think about. Christ. Why was I talking about this in the first place? Where am I? What am I doing? Oh, yes! Blog. Recapping.
So everyone bangs out and it's all good and fun until the next morning when Paula's friend Lauren comes a-knockin' on the door. It turns out Paula overslept and missed her first day at work. Lauren proceeds to ream Paula out in a way that was so over dramatic it makes me wonder if they planned it and The Situation deals with the entire...situation...by hiding in the shower until they leave. And speaking of The Situation being kind of a douchebag! Everyone in the house hates him and things are starting to get rull tense. The Situation makes fun of Vinny for being so creepily close to him in proximity last night when he was hooking up in the hot tub, which I think is slightly bizarre considering how he routinely fucks girls in a twin bed seperated from Pauly D's twin bed by a gap the size of a Kit-Kat, but who am I to judge? Then this pithy little dialogue exchange goes down:
Vinny to The Situation: I would never wanna be like you when I'm 27, bro.
The Situation to Vinny: Whatever bro, you have no game.
Vinny to The Situation: That's not what your sister said.
And as per my notes: OHHHHHHHHHHHHHH SHIT! OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT!
The Situation LOLs it off, J-Woww tapes a pair of neon yellow spandex biker shorts from 1994 across her nips and calls it a shirt and they all head out to meet up with (speaking of...) Mike's sister at the clerb.
Ok. There's some drama. Let's break it down:
The Situation/Ronnie/Sammmi: I mean, do you really care? In a nutsthell: The Situation tries to start shit between Ronnie and Sammi but true love conquers all. DONE. Do you mind if we just leave it at that? Ok, good. THNX.
Vinny: Vinny is Flirts McGirts with The Situation's little sister Melissa, not only because he likes her but also because it pisses The Situation off. "The fact that she's Mike's sister makes it so much better...it makes it the funniest thing," he giggles. OH VINNY! Vinny's little plan works wonderfully until TANYA, of Boss Danny's date fame, walks into the club and sees Vinny with Melissa. OH SHIT, YOU GUYS!!!1 Tanya pounces on Vinny in an effort to mark her territory and wordlessly tell Melissa to step the fuck off. Melissa obviously gets all bummed out, which pisses of The Situation even more. To quote The Situation, "I'm pissed off because he's not taking care of my sister." This seems like a slightly odd thing to say. I can understand being pissed because Vinny's leading his sister on, but not because he's not tending to her biblical needs. If Geoff broke up with Becca tomorrow, I don't think I'd go over to his place of work with a baseball bat all, "NOW WHO'S GONNA GET HER OFF, ASSHOLE?!?!?!" In the end, Vinny weighs his options and decides to go home with Melissa because "she's a sure thing." But then again Tanya has a dolphin tattoo on her arm...sooooooo...we're not really talkin' Sophie's Choice here.
Pauly D: Meets a nice Jewish Israeli girl named Danielle. He takes her home and invites her upstairs but she declines saying "we've got to wait for marriage, right?" At this point the camera zooms in on Pauly D's flabbergasted face and MTV inserts an ethnically-charged grunting noise. (God, I wish my job was to put ironic sound bytes in episodes of The Jersey Shore. How do I make that happen?) Despite Danielle's chastity belt, he's still interested because he "likes a challenge."
Unfortunately Pauly D doesn't have much time to chase Danielle around the hoopa, because the next day the gang heads to Atlantic City for the weekend to escape the stress and strife of selling t-shirts on the boardwalk once a week and refilling Valtrex prescriptions. The boys obviously pack an emasculating number of outfit changes with them. "I like my clothes like I like my women: options," The Situation jokes. "You like your women like you like your clothes: dirty!" Vinny jabs back. "I like my men like I like my estranged fathers in Lifetime movies: emotionally unavailable!" Meg adds, bringing the jovial mood to an awkward halt.
That night the gang goes out to dinner and things go from bad to worse. As with all fights on The Jersey Shore, things start out with some good natured ribbing and take a sudden turn for Seriousville fast. Vinny and The Situation give each other shit for a while until Snooki dives in on the fun and tells Mike that nobody in the house likes him and he can go fuck himself, please pass the rolls. "Don't worry honey, you got a couple," The Situation says. And eeeeeeshhhh...Snooki used to have an eating disorder. WAMP, WAMP! Snooki leaves the table crying and old J-Woww runs after to console her while the rest of the table lets Mike know exactly how fucked up that was. Oh J-Woww. This is going to sound heinously offensive and I don't mean it to be, but this scene made me miss Talia a lot. I know that sounds horrible, but I see a girl with a flat stomach, blond hair and giant boobs wiping the tears away from the eyes of a hot little black-haired mess and it's like, shit—how many times has that been us? Everyone has a friend like J-Woww. And god bless the J-Woww's of the world.
Feeling guilty, The Situation apologizes to Snooki, who cautiously accepts. To celebrate, J-Woww changes outfits and I swear to god puts the following on: acid wash jeans with giant frayed holes on the thighs, a large bedazzled belt and a plaid shirt completely unbuttoned, tied directly under her giant, professionally augmented breasts. At this point somewhere in Washington, DC, a blogger laying in her bed wearing Jack Daniel's pajama pants and a wife beater starts a slow clap.
Drama Guide:
Snooki: Falls off a couch and it's kind of funny.
Vinny: Hooks up with a token ho, goes to the bathroom and The Situation pulls a "Robbery Move" (meaning he swoops in and grabs her for himself.) Later, Vinny asks Mike: "HOW DOES MY DICK TASTE BRO?!" and I fell out of my bed laughing. So there's that.
Ronnie/Sammi: Fuck if I know and fuck if I care.
J-Woww: YOWZAHS. Homegirl partakes in one too many libations and has to purge in the bathroom. After she's done, she finds Mike and although she's beastly sorry to interrupt his evening, politely asks if he would be so kind as to squire her back to the room, as she has taken ill and a Lady never leaves an establishment such as this alone. Mike ever-so-rudely declines the offer and goes back to finger banging a complete stranger on the couch where so many complete strangers have been finger banged before. Miffed, J-Woww slaps Mike across the face with her riding glove and is escorted out by security, Mike laughing at her misfortune all the way. Once back at the Inn, The Dutchess Woww regails Master Ronnie and Lady Sweetheart with the tale and decrees: "I shall throw a punch and then retire to bed!" And that's exactly what she does. Mike comes home, she punches him in the face, says "goodnight" and goes to bed.
Thus ends this chapter of Crapsterpeice Theater.
Episode 8: One Shot
Ok, I have a comment. Remember in Real World Seattle when Stephen slapped Irene and it was like the most disturbing thing the world had ever seen since Jesus' crucifixion and the producers stepped in and showed the footage to the rest of the house and Lindsey covered her face and cried and the house had an emotional group meeting about whether or not they felt safe living in the same house as Stephen? Yeah. What a bunch of fuckin' pussies. Ok, moving on!
So the drama from AC is temporarily forgotten and Vinny and Pauly D celebrate by hitting the boardwalk to chase some skirt. They meet a bunch of token ho's who are out cruising for henna tattoos and cartilage piercings (that's not me being an asshole, by the way. That's really what they were up to,) and decide they're worth pursuing. While everyone is walking around and flirting, Pauly D's would-be Israeli girlfriend shows up out of nowhere. He promises if she leaves he'll call her later and she does so. Until she comes back with a homemade "I [Star of David with the Italian flag behind it] Jewish Girls" t-shirt for him. And oh. My. Lolz. I absolutely plan on making a t-shirt that says, "I [Star of David with the Italian flag behind it] The Jersey Shore" as soon as humanly possible. Pauly D tells Danielle to go home again and once again she does. Pauly goes on a ride with a token ho and the second he gets off the ride, guess who's back? Yep. Yentl. She runs up to Pauly and starts kissing and hugging him like he's her boyfriend. To quote Wedding Crashers, "We got a stage 5 clinger on our hands. Hello?? Did you hear me? I said stage 5: virgin!" Pauly D and Vinny call the night a wash and head back to the house where Danielle proceeds to call repeatedly. Pauly begs Vinny to answer the phone and pretend to be The Situation, prompting one of the most hilarious scenes in television history. This show deserves an Emmy based on Vinny's spot-on impression of The Situation alone. Not quite getting the hint, Danielle continues to quack the phone off it's beak all night and it's 3-parts hilarious, 1-part incredibly sad.
Bored out of their minds, The Situation and Pauly D decide to prank Snooki and Vinny by putting gross shit under their beds. They put sliced pickles under Snooki's bed and a stink bomb concotion consisting of "grated cheese, milk, Supreme dressing, pickle juice and mayo" called "Hatorade" under Vinny's bed. I mention this only because there's a beautiful moment when Mike and Pauly have just successfully put the pickles under Snooki's bed and are in the living room giggling at their own genius when Mike breaks the fourth wall, looks directly into the camera and whispers "That was a lot of pickles.......that was a lot of pickles," while slowly nodding his head in self-satisfaction. If someone could figure out how I can get The Situation whispering "That was a lot of pickles" to be my ringtone, I would greatly appreciate it.
The next day Pauly finally decides to take Danielle's call. She chews him out for "playing her" and like a housewife on Oxygen's Snapped, Pauly has had enough and let's Danielle know exactly how much of a psycho she is. And let me tell you, this scene is fucking cinematic magic. Better than Gone With The Wind. My absolute favorite part is when Pauly D shouts: "You stalked my entire life at the boardwalk. I WENT ON ONE RIDE, GOD BLESS ME IT'S SUMMER!!!!" Oh my fucking god. I was dying. Dying! It's gotten to the point where I feel completely guilty watching this show alone because nobody should laugh this hard or this loudly watching reality television alone in their apartment. From now on I won't drink or watch Jersey Shore alone anymore. Both are a symptoms of a larger problem.
That night there's some more The Situation/Ronnie/Sammi love-traingle drama but who gives a flying fuck, so let's move on to the night after that. The gang goes out to the clerb and in desperate need of an HBI, Snooki wears a straight-up corset and hot pants. She seriously looks like someone's Halloween costume, but whatevs. It suits her. Old Danielle stalks Pauly down at the club to let him know how much of a stalker she isn't and bless his summer heart, he loves the challenge and invites her home with him anyway. As the gang heads home, a group of token ho's passes by and re: Snooki's outfit shouts, "Go back to New Jersey or New York with your trampy outfits!" Trying to have Snooki's back, Sammi starts yelling shit back at the girls and out of nowhere an all-out brawl explodes. A few random security people break up the fight and the gang continues to walk home until suddenly one of the random guys from the brawl is back and shouts another insult at the cast. In .2 seconds flat, Ronnie RUNS him down, punches the Christ out of his facehole and skuttles away sideways like a crab while repetedly shouting, "THAT WAS ONE SHOT, BRO! THAT WAS ONE SHOT!"
I'd be lying if I said it wasn't slightly badass. But, this is America and you can't just go around beating the Christ out of people's faceholes and skuttling away like a crab, so the fuzz steps in, puts Ronnie in cuffs and hauls his ass away. Which was kind of a comical image because he was wearing a gay little Ed Hardy t-shirt at the time with giant angel wings on the back. It kind of makes you wonder, what kind of asshole cop arrests an angel?
FIN.
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As per always, thank you so much for reading the blog, have a great weekend, shameless begging to follow us on Twitter, join our Facebook page, forward us to your friends, blah blah shameless, blah. See you back here Monday babies!
1.13.2010
You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?
You have no idea how many times I've attempted to write this post. Because Lord knows it needed to be written; I just haven't had the strength or the stamina to be the one to do it. Now I've dissected, studied and successfully attacked some of the most irritating people in our society—Red vests; Playfully Difficult People; Smug Pugs; Backpack Rollers; Meghan McCain—and biting words normally flow right out of my head and onto this blog at an alarming rate. However, every time I sit down and try to analyze those god damn Metro Pole Leaners, I become so overwhelmed with an unprecedented amount of confusion and anger that the only thing I can manage to do is mash my keyboard with clenched fists of rage, attach this picture and call it a post:
But that's not fair. It's not fair to me, it's not fair to you and it's certainly not fair to Metro Pole Leaners. Because they deserve to have new assholes ripped thoroughly and properly and who am I to deny them that? Sigh. Look. What it all boils down to is this:
Things that are appropriate to lean on:
- Sturdy walls
- Appropriately high safety railings
- Backs of chairs
- Counter tops
- Friends
- Family
- Bill Withers
Things that are not appropriate to lean on:
- Plate glass windows
- Things made out of trick wood
- Jenga towers
- Stilt walkers
- A one-legged friend
- Me after a few cocktails
- METRO POLES DURING RUSH HOUR
For the sweet love of all that is holy, you can not lean on the poles in the metro during rush hour. You just. Can't. And the fact that people do everyday—morning and night!—boggles my mind and makes me question everything I've been taught about right and wrong and the definition of voluntary vs. involuntary manslaughter.
For those of you who don't live in a major metropolitan city with it's own subway system and have no idea what I'm talking about, allow me to explain. A subway (conversely called a metro, T, El etc.) is a system of transportation in which people are shot through a tunnel underground at high speeds. Having taken high school physics and shown up the day when Newton's First and Second Laws of Motion were explained, the metro car designers were savvy enough to install poles for people to grab onto in an effort to not go flying about and topple all over each other. Now I will give you this: it is genuinely more comfortable to lean against said pole than to just hold on to it with your hand. TRUE STATEMENT, yes. However, during rush hour, commuters are jammed into cars like cattle and there isn't enough room to keep your butt virginity, nevertheless enjoy little luxuries like leaning against the pole. Because when you do that, you render the entire pole useless from ass to neck for your fellow riders. And that, in a nutshell, makes you a piece of shit.
Case and point—check out this guy who graced my morning commute a few weeks ago at approximately 8:45 in the morning:
I mean, I feel like I could just post that picture and call it a day. It does all the work for me. The pole is quite literally being cradled betwixt this man's ass cheeks. Where in the name of Christ was I supposed to grab to steady myself? His ankles? The nape of his neck? I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I was on a third date, no thank you. Of course everyone around me was in the same predicament, so now not only are we all butt-fucking each other, we're also playing a massive game of human pick-up-sticks with arms going every which way, desperately trying to grab onto anything to steady ourselves. Unfortunately for me, by the time I realized Pole Fucker wasn't going to give up his precious pole real estate, it was too late and there was nothing left for me to grab. Suddenly I was in Lionel Richie's Dancin' on the Ceiling video and I had one foot on the wall, both hands on the ceiling and one leg wrapped around a total stranger, just praying to any and every god that will listen for the metro conductor to ease her into the next station and not jam on the brakes, sending me flying into an Asian man's lap.
Here's what really irritates me about Metro Pole Leaners: you could not find a more irritating, intrusive and inconvenient way to communicate to your fellow man that you just don't give a fuck. That's what MPL's are saying, by the way—"I don't give a fuck." And let me tell you something: in civilized society at 8:45 in the morning, crammed into a tiny tin can being shot through a tube at 40mph, genitals-to-ass and ass-to-genitals— you should give a fuck. I have very little hope left for society and even I feel like that's not too much to ask. I mean, you might as well whip your dick out and do pirouettes while pissing. Because that would communicate the exact same level of Dont-Give-a-Fuck to each and every individual in a 360-degree radius just as well.
I seriously show the above picture off to everybody and anybody who'll look at it like I'm a proud new mother. I am that desperate for someone to explain it to me. I was just showing it to my sister last Sunday at brunch when she brought up the point that most Metro Pole Leaners tend to be tourists who don't know any better. I personally think she's giving MPL's way too much credit because a.) I have experienced many an Executive Metro Pole Leaner in my day and b.) New York is just as touristy and I feel like when I lived there I never experienced this problem. You would have to be fucking suicidal to lean against a subway pole during rush hour in New York. This begs the question—is this yet another commuting problem unique to DC? Are we that much a city of nerds that we can't even get the courage to ask MPL's to ackrite?
It's a complicated question with an even more complicated answer. Because yes, I think we, as a city, are way too easy on MPL's. However, it's been my experience that even if you do point out to an MPL what they're doing, they still don't give a fuck. In fact, when I ask an MPL to move, 100% of the time (and I am in no way inflating that number just to get my point across) they get offended, as if I'm intruding on their space. In their minds, that's their pole and you have no business tryin' to get all up on it. MPL's are a strictly Pole Monogamous people. And that in and of itself is more mind boggling than the fact that they're on the pole to begin with! Because the metro is a mode of PUBLIC transportation. PUBLIC! Meaning for the people! You don't pay rent, asshole! GAHHHHH IT'S JUST SO FUCKING INFURIATING!!!!!1
Which is why I feel no remorse in having sucker-punched an MPL in the back of the head and urge you to do the same. Well, maybe don't punch them, but certainly don't be afraid to stand up for yourself when encountering an MPL! And if they give you shit (and they will give you shit) don't back down! Odds are everyone around you is thinking the exact same thing as you and if Jerry Seinfeld's career taught us anything it's that people have a soft-spot in their hearts for people who say what you're thinking. They'll have your back, don't worry. And even if they don't, I do. FIST PUMP OUT!
But that's not fair. It's not fair to me, it's not fair to you and it's certainly not fair to Metro Pole Leaners. Because they deserve to have new assholes ripped thoroughly and properly and who am I to deny them that? Sigh. Look. What it all boils down to is this:
Things that are appropriate to lean on:
- Sturdy walls
- Appropriately high safety railings
- Backs of chairs
- Counter tops
- Friends
- Family
- Bill Withers
Things that are not appropriate to lean on:
- Plate glass windows
- Things made out of trick wood
- Jenga towers
- Stilt walkers
- A one-legged friend
- Me after a few cocktails
- METRO POLES DURING RUSH HOUR
For the sweet love of all that is holy, you can not lean on the poles in the metro during rush hour. You just. Can't. And the fact that people do everyday—morning and night!—boggles my mind and makes me question everything I've been taught about right and wrong and the definition of voluntary vs. involuntary manslaughter.
For those of you who don't live in a major metropolitan city with it's own subway system and have no idea what I'm talking about, allow me to explain. A subway (conversely called a metro, T, El etc.) is a system of transportation in which people are shot through a tunnel underground at high speeds. Having taken high school physics and shown up the day when Newton's First and Second Laws of Motion were explained, the metro car designers were savvy enough to install poles for people to grab onto in an effort to not go flying about and topple all over each other. Now I will give you this: it is genuinely more comfortable to lean against said pole than to just hold on to it with your hand. TRUE STATEMENT, yes. However, during rush hour, commuters are jammed into cars like cattle and there isn't enough room to keep your butt virginity, nevertheless enjoy little luxuries like leaning against the pole. Because when you do that, you render the entire pole useless from ass to neck for your fellow riders. And that, in a nutshell, makes you a piece of shit.
Case and point—check out this guy who graced my morning commute a few weeks ago at approximately 8:45 in the morning:
I mean, I feel like I could just post that picture and call it a day. It does all the work for me. The pole is quite literally being cradled betwixt this man's ass cheeks. Where in the name of Christ was I supposed to grab to steady myself? His ankles? The nape of his neck? I'm sorry, I wasn't aware I was on a third date, no thank you. Of course everyone around me was in the same predicament, so now not only are we all butt-fucking each other, we're also playing a massive game of human pick-up-sticks with arms going every which way, desperately trying to grab onto anything to steady ourselves. Unfortunately for me, by the time I realized Pole Fucker wasn't going to give up his precious pole real estate, it was too late and there was nothing left for me to grab. Suddenly I was in Lionel Richie's Dancin' on the Ceiling video and I had one foot on the wall, both hands on the ceiling and one leg wrapped around a total stranger, just praying to any and every god that will listen for the metro conductor to ease her into the next station and not jam on the brakes, sending me flying into an Asian man's lap.
Here's what really irritates me about Metro Pole Leaners: you could not find a more irritating, intrusive and inconvenient way to communicate to your fellow man that you just don't give a fuck. That's what MPL's are saying, by the way—"I don't give a fuck." And let me tell you something: in civilized society at 8:45 in the morning, crammed into a tiny tin can being shot through a tube at 40mph, genitals-to-ass and ass-to-genitals— you should give a fuck. I have very little hope left for society and even I feel like that's not too much to ask. I mean, you might as well whip your dick out and do pirouettes while pissing. Because that would communicate the exact same level of Dont-Give-a-Fuck to each and every individual in a 360-degree radius just as well.
I seriously show the above picture off to everybody and anybody who'll look at it like I'm a proud new mother. I am that desperate for someone to explain it to me. I was just showing it to my sister last Sunday at brunch when she brought up the point that most Metro Pole Leaners tend to be tourists who don't know any better. I personally think she's giving MPL's way too much credit because a.) I have experienced many an Executive Metro Pole Leaner in my day and b.) New York is just as touristy and I feel like when I lived there I never experienced this problem. You would have to be fucking suicidal to lean against a subway pole during rush hour in New York. This begs the question—is this yet another commuting problem unique to DC? Are we that much a city of nerds that we can't even get the courage to ask MPL's to ackrite?
It's a complicated question with an even more complicated answer. Because yes, I think we, as a city, are way too easy on MPL's. However, it's been my experience that even if you do point out to an MPL what they're doing, they still don't give a fuck. In fact, when I ask an MPL to move, 100% of the time (and I am in no way inflating that number just to get my point across) they get offended, as if I'm intruding on their space. In their minds, that's their pole and you have no business tryin' to get all up on it. MPL's are a strictly Pole Monogamous people. And that in and of itself is more mind boggling than the fact that they're on the pole to begin with! Because the metro is a mode of PUBLIC transportation. PUBLIC! Meaning for the people! You don't pay rent, asshole! GAHHHHH IT'S JUST SO FUCKING INFURIATING!!!!!1
Which is why I feel no remorse in having sucker-punched an MPL in the back of the head and urge you to do the same. Well, maybe don't punch them, but certainly don't be afraid to stand up for yourself when encountering an MPL! And if they give you shit (and they will give you shit) don't back down! Odds are everyone around you is thinking the exact same thing as you and if Jerry Seinfeld's career taught us anything it's that people have a soft-spot in their hearts for people who say what you're thinking. They'll have your back, don't worry. And even if they don't, I do. FIST PUMP OUT!
The 5 Co-Workers You'll Meet in Hell
Jesus Lord Almighty, I'm going to vent to you all for a second. I know last time I complained about the nerds I work with, I started some serious in-fighting about the proper and ethical treatment of nerds. But this has nothing to do with the fact that these people are nerds, it's just that they are horrible human beings. Horrible! Of the 20 people I work with, there are about 4 or 5 who I try my best to avoid whenever possible, simply because they are miserable creatures who I'm convinced dwell only in dark, musty corners of buildings.
Where was I? Oh right, so what set me off today is The Guy Who Cannot Complete His Thoughts. I'm helping him to submit some of the forms he needs to submit for his grant. I use the term help loosely, though, because he comes to me, asking for help, and suddenly I'm doing nearly everything for this to get submitted on time. I'll be rull honest with you, I would love to slack off between the hours of nine and five, and do nothing more than read blogs and Gchat all day. Is submitting these forms part of my job description? Yes. Would I complain about it at any other time? Probably. But The Guy Who Cannot Complete His Thoughts is aggravating because he will sporadically come into my office to discuss these forms with me. And then he'll leave. And then he'll come back to say just one more thing. And then he'll leave. And then he'll be back to say just onnnnne more thing. And then he'll leave. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. If what he had to say was something I needed to know, I could tolerate this. But normally, he's just reading the instructions for me. Sir, I'm pretty sure that when I got my elementary school diploma, I was also awarded the ability to read things on my own. If I need your help with something, I know where to find you. You'll be hovering around my office, remembering something else you desperately need to say.
He's not that bad though. He is at least being proactive about the work he needs to get done. I can respect that. If there's one person I physically cringe when thinking about approaching with a question it would be The Girl Who Is Never At Fault. Every single time I get a note with her name on it, I put it at the farthest reaches of my desk, so I don't have to think about it right away. I don't think I can properly express how much of a pain it is to work with this person. Because every time I've ever dealt with her, there's some problem that isn't her fault. For instance, she came into my office once to tell me the keyboard in the lab was "broken" and if we had an extra keyboard to use. After thirty minutes of me trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with the keyboard, it turns out she spilled a cup of coffee on it. UM THANKS, maybe next time you feed the computer a half-caf latte, let me know before I call India to get tech help. That's a very specialized example. Generally, if I ever need anything from her, I know that my question will be met with the same "I don't know what you're talking about, you must be crazy to think I can help you" stare. I could ask her for a piece of paper and she would say "Oh, I don't know what paper is. I can't help you, sorry." Super frustrating when I have a specific file that the boss said you personally would have. Trust me, if I could get it without your help, I would GLADLY do just that. In fact, I wish I could do that, because to be frank, you smell like curry and bad cheese. It's called Speed Stick. It's not expensive.
If my job requires it (which thankfully) it doesn't, I'll venture out of my office to deal with these people. But God forbid I run into The Guy Who Has All The Answers and Needs to Share Them. Any and every time I'm asking someone a question within his earshot, he just has to chime in with his all-important answer. As long as it's even peripherally related to him or his work, he has an opinion that I need to hear. "Did someone say my name?" No, I'm pretty sure I've never "Dickwad" in the office before, as that's unprofessional, and I'm nothing if not the textbook definition of a professional.
Unfortunately, however, being in my office does not prevent Them from bothering me. I don't close my office door (because the lack of white noise in my office when the door is shut is like Poltergeist-level unsettling), but even if I did, it wouldn't stop Them. Though it would give me a heads up when The Guy Who Doesn't Believe in Introductions busts into my office with a question. Due to the unfortunate layout of my office, my desk is against the far wall, and my back faces the door. On more than one occasion, without a "Hello" or "Can I bother you for a second?", The Guy Who Doesn't Believe in Introductions will start talking, literally inches from my ear. Not only is it terrifying (the number of times I've shit my pants is just embarrassing at this point), but there's also no segue. He just dives headfirst into his question. Haven't you ever heard of foreplay? Can you tantalize me a little bit with an anecdote before we get right to the penetrating questions? (See what I did there?) You can't just walk up to someone with their back turned and then shoot a question at them. What if I carried mace? You would get your question answered with an eye full of hurt.
I'll take him anyday of The Girl With Oddly Specific Requests. Mainly because she is also The Girl Who Is Never At Fault. When I need something from her, it's an outrageous request and usually ends in her suggesting I see a psychiatrist. But if she needs something from me, that's an entiiiiiiiirely different story. And I always know, before she even opens her mouth, when she needs something from me. Because she'll ask me in this meek little sing-song "I'm trying to be as nice as possible" voice, "Chris?" At this juncture, I'm like Pavlov's dog, trained to roll my eyes and scoff when I hear that. "What?!" "Oh, I was just wondering if maybe it was possible that we had a cell phone I could use." Homegirl, stop. Think about your request. You've been working here longer than I have. You know that we don't have one, and what could we possibly even need that for? So that you can text Miss Cleo and get your horoscopes and charge the standard text messaging fee to the lab? Do you really want the Crazy Frog ringtone that badly? No. We don't have one. She is constantly asking me if we have communal lab things. I don't know what kind of hippie commune she thinks we work at, but she needs to snap the fudge out of it.
Like I said, they aren't bad people. But they are annoying as all get out. Though I guess there's something to be said for consistency. If they all started to ackrite, I'd be liable to think it were the apocalypse. Can't you just leave me in peace to do this Sudoku online? I've got 4 more hours here and I can't be bothered to actually deal with you people right now.
Where was I? Oh right, so what set me off today is The Guy Who Cannot Complete His Thoughts. I'm helping him to submit some of the forms he needs to submit for his grant. I use the term help loosely, though, because he comes to me, asking for help, and suddenly I'm doing nearly everything for this to get submitted on time. I'll be rull honest with you, I would love to slack off between the hours of nine and five, and do nothing more than read blogs and Gchat all day. Is submitting these forms part of my job description? Yes. Would I complain about it at any other time? Probably. But The Guy Who Cannot Complete His Thoughts is aggravating because he will sporadically come into my office to discuss these forms with me. And then he'll leave. And then he'll come back to say just one more thing. And then he'll leave. And then he'll be back to say just onnnnne more thing. And then he'll leave. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. If what he had to say was something I needed to know, I could tolerate this. But normally, he's just reading the instructions for me. Sir, I'm pretty sure that when I got my elementary school diploma, I was also awarded the ability to read things on my own. If I need your help with something, I know where to find you. You'll be hovering around my office, remembering something else you desperately need to say.
He's not that bad though. He is at least being proactive about the work he needs to get done. I can respect that. If there's one person I physically cringe when thinking about approaching with a question it would be The Girl Who Is Never At Fault. Every single time I get a note with her name on it, I put it at the farthest reaches of my desk, so I don't have to think about it right away. I don't think I can properly express how much of a pain it is to work with this person. Because every time I've ever dealt with her, there's some problem that isn't her fault. For instance, she came into my office once to tell me the keyboard in the lab was "broken" and if we had an extra keyboard to use. After thirty minutes of me trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with the keyboard, it turns out she spilled a cup of coffee on it. UM THANKS, maybe next time you feed the computer a half-caf latte, let me know before I call India to get tech help. That's a very specialized example. Generally, if I ever need anything from her, I know that my question will be met with the same "I don't know what you're talking about, you must be crazy to think I can help you" stare. I could ask her for a piece of paper and she would say "Oh, I don't know what paper is. I can't help you, sorry." Super frustrating when I have a specific file that the boss said you personally would have. Trust me, if I could get it without your help, I would GLADLY do just that. In fact, I wish I could do that, because to be frank, you smell like curry and bad cheese. It's called Speed Stick. It's not expensive.
If my job requires it (which thankfully) it doesn't, I'll venture out of my office to deal with these people. But God forbid I run into The Guy Who Has All The Answers and Needs to Share Them. Any and every time I'm asking someone a question within his earshot, he just has to chime in with his all-important answer. As long as it's even peripherally related to him or his work, he has an opinion that I need to hear. "Did someone say my name?" No, I'm pretty sure I've never "Dickwad" in the office before, as that's unprofessional, and I'm nothing if not the textbook definition of a professional.
Unfortunately, however, being in my office does not prevent Them from bothering me. I don't close my office door (because the lack of white noise in my office when the door is shut is like Poltergeist-level unsettling), but even if I did, it wouldn't stop Them. Though it would give me a heads up when The Guy Who Doesn't Believe in Introductions busts into my office with a question. Due to the unfortunate layout of my office, my desk is against the far wall, and my back faces the door. On more than one occasion, without a "Hello" or "Can I bother you for a second?", The Guy Who Doesn't Believe in Introductions will start talking, literally inches from my ear. Not only is it terrifying (the number of times I've shit my pants is just embarrassing at this point), but there's also no segue. He just dives headfirst into his question. Haven't you ever heard of foreplay? Can you tantalize me a little bit with an anecdote before we get right to the penetrating questions? (See what I did there?) You can't just walk up to someone with their back turned and then shoot a question at them. What if I carried mace? You would get your question answered with an eye full of hurt.
I'll take him anyday of The Girl With Oddly Specific Requests. Mainly because she is also The Girl Who Is Never At Fault. When I need something from her, it's an outrageous request and usually ends in her suggesting I see a psychiatrist. But if she needs something from me, that's an entiiiiiiiirely different story. And I always know, before she even opens her mouth, when she needs something from me. Because she'll ask me in this meek little sing-song "I'm trying to be as nice as possible" voice, "Chris?" At this juncture, I'm like Pavlov's dog, trained to roll my eyes and scoff when I hear that. "What?!" "Oh, I was just wondering if maybe it was possible that we had a cell phone I could use." Homegirl, stop. Think about your request. You've been working here longer than I have. You know that we don't have one, and what could we possibly even need that for? So that you can text Miss Cleo and get your horoscopes and charge the standard text messaging fee to the lab? Do you really want the Crazy Frog ringtone that badly? No. We don't have one. She is constantly asking me if we have communal lab things. I don't know what kind of hippie commune she thinks we work at, but she needs to snap the fudge out of it.
Like I said, they aren't bad people. But they are annoying as all get out. Though I guess there's something to be said for consistency. If they all started to ackrite, I'd be liable to think it were the apocalypse. Can't you just leave me in peace to do this Sudoku online? I've got 4 more hours here and I can't be bothered to actually deal with you people right now.
Yyyyeeaaahhhh...sorry about it.
I know I promised you all a good old fashioned All-American rant on metro pole huggers today, but it's just not going to happen. Boss #1, Boss #2 AND Russell the Homophobic Co-Worker are all in the office today making my life a living hell. In retrospect, I probably should have written today's post last night, but I had a few margaritas and went to bed early instead. I feel like now is the time I should apologize, but frankly, it was awesome and I have no regrets. I'm not even trying to lie. So I guess I apologize for that. Unfortunately I have to wrap things up quickly because I gotta go assume the position while The Holy Trinity of A-Fucks take turns paddling me like the little bitch I am. Or Wednesday, as I call it.
I feel like I should leave you with something...hmm...I sort of wish I hadn't exhausted Turtle Rapes Shoe yesterday. That's my one ace in the hole. Oh, I know! I'll leave you with this comical image I made for Ex Co-Blogger Eddie. Eddie wrote her senior thesis on the 80's soap opera Dallas and in that time became oddly attached to Larry Hagman (aka J.R. Ewing). She was petrified he was going to die before she completed her thesis; a fear that has since grown into an overall obsession with Larry Hagman's health and well-being. It's not unusual for me to get a text or email at least once a week from Eddie simply stating: "Meg, I thought you would like to know that as of _____ at __:__, Larry Hagman is alive." I think 98% of Larry Hagman's Dead or Alive? page traffic comes directly from Eddie. The following are her honest-to-god facebook interests:
My favorite Larry Hagman updates are on Fridays because that means it's the completely fictional, yet gloriously hilarious (probably in my mind, and my mind only) holiday that is... T.G.I. HAGMAN BABY!!!...T.G.I. HAGMAN!
K. Well, that was fun. Hopefully Co-Blogger Chris will swoop in and save the day with something more substantial later this afternoon. In the mean time, pray for Larry Hagman's health.
*BTW: This is what happens when Jäger refuses to support us financially...OH SHIT!
I feel like I should leave you with something...hmm...I sort of wish I hadn't exhausted Turtle Rapes Shoe yesterday. That's my one ace in the hole. Oh, I know! I'll leave you with this comical image I made for Ex Co-Blogger Eddie. Eddie wrote her senior thesis on the 80's soap opera Dallas and in that time became oddly attached to Larry Hagman (aka J.R. Ewing). She was petrified he was going to die before she completed her thesis; a fear that has since grown into an overall obsession with Larry Hagman's health and well-being. It's not unusual for me to get a text or email at least once a week from Eddie simply stating: "Meg, I thought you would like to know that as of _____ at __:__, Larry Hagman is alive." I think 98% of Larry Hagman's Dead or Alive? page traffic comes directly from Eddie. The following are her honest-to-god facebook interests:
Eddie Izzard, Jackie O., Crafting, Dance Parties, Flappers, Cat and Girl, Larry Hagman's Health, Burlesque
My favorite Larry Hagman updates are on Fridays because that means it's the completely fictional, yet gloriously hilarious (probably in my mind, and my mind only) holiday that is... T.G.I. HAGMAN BABY!!!...T.G.I. HAGMAN!
K. Well, that was fun. Hopefully Co-Blogger Chris will swoop in and save the day with something more substantial later this afternoon. In the mean time, pray for Larry Hagman's health.
*BTW: This is what happens when Jäger refuses to support us financially...OH SHIT!
1.12.2010
Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries
- For all of you Monday night TLC fans, the following is an email I got from my sister yesterday afternoon:
...That's genuinely the funniest thing I've read in at least a month. So there's that.
- I've got an incredibly huge thing for bike messengers. They're dirty and sweaty and have sexy tattoos, bulging calf muscles, scruffy beards and one pant leg is always rolled up slightly higher than the other. I don't know what it is about that combination that gets me all hot and bothered, but holy fixed gear—it does. I actually looked into becoming a bike messenger during The Great Job Hunt of '08 in an effort to make money and infiltrate their inner circle. It seemed like a great idea until I found out that a large part of their job is physically moving oneself from one place to another in a quick and timely fashion. That's not really my scene. I'm more into sitting at my desk trying not to get a urinary tract infection while I muster up the energy needed to physically get up and go to the bathroom. More to the point, a bike messenger came into my office this morning to pick up a package and yowzah—he was the hottest person I have ever seen in real life.
That's not him. That's what comes up when you do a google image search for "hot bike messenger," but you get the point. (And you're welcome.) The second he rounded the corner and came into my office, I pardoned myself, ran into the back room and thanked god that this wasn't one of those mornings where I wake up at 8:57am and army crawl my way from my bed to the metro, dressing in whatever clothes and spare scraps I can find along the way. Because of all the mornings not to look homeless, this was definitely one of them. Now, normally when bike messengers come into the office, I'm a hot giggly mess who can only speak in broken English, but today I was on the ball. I managed to get out both "thank you" AND "you too!" without stuttering, spitting or blacking out and hitting my head on the way down. When Hottie Bike Messenger started to walk away from my desk with my package (bwahaha hehe oh my!) I declared it a personal victory and continued browsing through my iphone, looking for the picture I was going to use in today's post. PER CHANCE, the next photo I flipped to was this little doozie of Evie curled up in my mom's arms over Christmas break:
And oh...my...just and gentle God. I was in no way prepared for the extreme adorableness that is that photograph. I mean, look at her little chin resting on my mom's arm!!! And that spicy little chicken wing all curled up, tucked beside her!!!!!!1 I couldn't help myself. Before I knew it, a noise flew was flying out of my mouth that can only be described as a cross between "AWWWWWWWWWWWW" and the cliché French "HAWH HAWH HAWH" laugh. "I'm sorry?" Hottie Bike Messenger asked as he stopped dead in his tracks and turned around, thinking I was still talking to him. "Oh.....no. I [points down to iphone] there was this picture. Of a cat. It's not a big deal. I'm sorry, that's all. You can go now." Hottie Bike Messenger nodded once, turned back around quickly walked out of the office and out of my life forever. So. Good. I meet the man of my dreams on a day when I'm actually looking presentable and I manage to alienate him and make him think I'm a Creepy Cat Lady in one felt swoop. That's cool. I'm not really into having sex anyway.
- Speaking of having sex, if you're reading this and happen to be a bike messenger living in the greater Washington, DC area or know someone who is—I don't want to say I'll pay you good money to have sex with me, but I also don't not want to say I'll pay you good money to have sex with me. Let's just say I've got good credit, live near a bank and am very discreet and just leave it at that, shall we? Good. meg@2birds1blog.com.
- Also, speaking of Evie! Did you know that when I was home for Christmas, I found out that my parents bought her from a woman in central New Jersey who they're 99.4% sure is a Neo-Nazi? I don't know why, but this makes the mythology of Evie McBlogger that much more rich to me. Plus, knowing she's part Jersey Neo-Nazi also makes reading Ambien & Evie a much more complex experience that I think is worth another go.
- You know when you save an inside joke as a draft in your phone because you don't want to forget it, but forget it anyway and then when you discover it like, years later it's that much more funny because it's aged like a fine wine? Well that's what happened with this conversation between me and my dad that's been saved in my old phone since April of 2008:
I am now speaking directly to my future hypothetical children—Maybelle and Henry von Hottie Bike Messenger: You are to read, print and save this blog post until the day I day because that, and only that, is what I want engraved on my tombstone. In 44-point Trajan. Do that for mumsy. Thanks!
- It's been a while since I've done a "You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?" feature, but that's not due to lack of feather ruffling. Because my feathers have been a-rufflin', friends. My panties are in a twist. My bonnet is full of bees. My...thing is all...jacket up...? Point being: I'm pissed off. Specifically, I'm pissed off at two distinct groups of people. And let me tell you, there is a special place in hell reserved for these people. When Hitler and Pol Pot organize their 10th Annual Seventh Circle of Hell Block Party, these are the people they'll send evites to:
1.) People who don't respect the 30-minute time limit on machines at the gym
and
2.) People who lean against the metro pole during rush hour
I genuinely have trouble putting into words how irritating I find these people. I've been wanting to do a blog post on them both for quite some time, but every time I start writing it, I get legitimately flustered and overwhelmed and have to stop before I have a brain aneurysm.
Let's start with people at the gym who don't respect the 30-minute time limit on machines—what the fuck is wrong with you people? There are signs literally everywhere telling you not to do exactly what you're doing. And these signs aren't just afterthoughts jotted down on a post-it note, haphazardly slapped on the mirror. They're typed, printed, framed and nailed to the wall. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to make sure this rule is known, so maybe it's a good idea you respect it. You know, THIS RULE THAT ALL GYMS IN AMERICA HAVE. Don't act like you don't know what's up. And by the way, it is a rule. If you were to take the time to glance up from your John Grisham novel and read the sign that's posted directly in front of your fat fucking face, you'll see that it's not suggested you respect the 30-minute time limit, it's not encouraged that you respect the 30-minute time limit, it's not preferred that you respect the 30-minute time limit; it's a RULE. I don't mean to be a total Terry Cooper all fallin' in love with the rules or whatever, but that rule is in place for a specific reason—nobody has time to stand around the gym for 45 minutes while you leisurely stroll on the treadmill reading Us Weeklys from the past five weeks. The gym is the kind of heinous place you just want to get in, get out and be done with. I mean, we all have places to go; homes to get home to; episodes of Intervention waiting for us. And you're holding shit up with your own selfishness. You are a Selfish Shellfish and it fucking pisses me off!
Sit down and let me tell you a true story from my life. When I go to the gym, I have a specific routine I like to do: I start with 30 minutes on the elliptical and end with 30 minutes on the arc trainer. The other day I got to the gym and it was oddly packed. I walked past the ellipticals to scope out how much time people had left to see if it was more time efficient to wait or if I should switch up my routine and do the arc trainer first (shudder, shudder). Irritatingly enough, most people had like 18-20 minutes left except for one girl who had 48 MINUTES LEFT! 48 MINUTES! And she was already sweating like a bitch when I got there which I can only assume means she had been there for a while! She also had this huge test prep book draped all over her machine, papers flying everywhere, her jacket and bag strewn about like she fuckin' owned the place—I mean, what the fuck is going on here?! This isn't your apartment; you can't just set up shop and hunker down for the night! And I can understand this behavior if it's 9 o'clock at night and the place is practically empty, but this was seriously at 6:15 in the evening. You could not pick a busier time to raise a leg, spray a machine and make it yours for the night. And I know this has nothing to do with anything, but she was offensively ugly. There, I said it. I know, I know, I'm a horrible human being and I'm no prize piece either and blah blah blah, but seriously—that bitch had a face on her head. And that face looked like scrambled eggs. And for whatever reason it made the situation that much more irritating to be in. By the time I was done with the arc trainer and needed an elliptical, they were all still in use! Including, of course, by Head-Face Girl who had been there for the past babillion years! The fuck?! So then, of course, I was put in a position where I had to decide if I was going to say something to her or not. Did I? Of course not. Because then I'd be That Guy. Did I say something to the manager? No. Because then I'd be That Guy^max. I just don't appreciate being in the position where I have to choose between letting an inconsiderate A-fuck win or risk being That Guy. Because nobody in that situation wins and it's just not fair.
Christ. Now I'm all riled up just in time for Boss #2 to come in for the day. I'll attack Metro Pole Humpers tomorrow...Lord knows I just don't have the strength now. Time to lower my blood pressure with 'Ole Faithful:
"I think I need an Intervention because I'm Obsessed with Hoarders...SEE?! See what I did there??"
...That's genuinely the funniest thing I've read in at least a month. So there's that.
- I've got an incredibly huge thing for bike messengers. They're dirty and sweaty and have sexy tattoos, bulging calf muscles, scruffy beards and one pant leg is always rolled up slightly higher than the other. I don't know what it is about that combination that gets me all hot and bothered, but holy fixed gear—it does. I actually looked into becoming a bike messenger during The Great Job Hunt of '08 in an effort to make money and infiltrate their inner circle. It seemed like a great idea until I found out that a large part of their job is physically moving oneself from one place to another in a quick and timely fashion. That's not really my scene. I'm more into sitting at my desk trying not to get a urinary tract infection while I muster up the energy needed to physically get up and go to the bathroom. More to the point, a bike messenger came into my office this morning to pick up a package and yowzah—he was the hottest person I have ever seen in real life.
That's not him. That's what comes up when you do a google image search for "hot bike messenger," but you get the point. (And you're welcome.) The second he rounded the corner and came into my office, I pardoned myself, ran into the back room and thanked god that this wasn't one of those mornings where I wake up at 8:57am and army crawl my way from my bed to the metro, dressing in whatever clothes and spare scraps I can find along the way. Because of all the mornings not to look homeless, this was definitely one of them. Now, normally when bike messengers come into the office, I'm a hot giggly mess who can only speak in broken English, but today I was on the ball. I managed to get out both "thank you" AND "you too!" without stuttering, spitting or blacking out and hitting my head on the way down. When Hottie Bike Messenger started to walk away from my desk with my package (bwahaha hehe oh my!) I declared it a personal victory and continued browsing through my iphone, looking for the picture I was going to use in today's post. PER CHANCE, the next photo I flipped to was this little doozie of Evie curled up in my mom's arms over Christmas break:
And oh...my...just and gentle God. I was in no way prepared for the extreme adorableness that is that photograph. I mean, look at her little chin resting on my mom's arm!!! And that spicy little chicken wing all curled up, tucked beside her!!!!!!1 I couldn't help myself. Before I knew it, a noise flew was flying out of my mouth that can only be described as a cross between "AWWWWWWWWWWWW" and the cliché French "HAWH HAWH HAWH" laugh. "I'm sorry?" Hottie Bike Messenger asked as he stopped dead in his tracks and turned around, thinking I was still talking to him. "Oh.....no. I [points down to iphone] there was this picture. Of a cat. It's not a big deal. I'm sorry, that's all. You can go now." Hottie Bike Messenger nodded once, turned back around quickly walked out of the office and out of my life forever. So. Good. I meet the man of my dreams on a day when I'm actually looking presentable and I manage to alienate him and make him think I'm a Creepy Cat Lady in one felt swoop. That's cool. I'm not really into having sex anyway.
- Speaking of having sex, if you're reading this and happen to be a bike messenger living in the greater Washington, DC area or know someone who is—I don't want to say I'll pay you good money to have sex with me, but I also don't not want to say I'll pay you good money to have sex with me. Let's just say I've got good credit, live near a bank and am very discreet and just leave it at that, shall we? Good. meg@2birds1blog.com.
- Also, speaking of Evie! Did you know that when I was home for Christmas, I found out that my parents bought her from a woman in central New Jersey who they're 99.4% sure is a Neo-Nazi? I don't know why, but this makes the mythology of Evie McBlogger that much more rich to me. Plus, knowing she's part Jersey Neo-Nazi also makes reading Ambien & Evie a much more complex experience that I think is worth another go.
- You know when you save an inside joke as a draft in your phone because you don't want to forget it, but forget it anyway and then when you discover it like, years later it's that much more funny because it's aged like a fine wine? Well that's what happened with this conversation between me and my dad that's been saved in my old phone since April of 2008:
Dad: I don't want to say Jimmy Buffet's a one-trick-pony...
Me: And yet, you just did.
Dad: Well let's just say he made an entire career off of the concept of an incredibly gay town on the tip of Florida.
I am now speaking directly to my future hypothetical children—Maybelle and Henry von Hottie Bike Messenger: You are to read, print and save this blog post until the day I day because that, and only that, is what I want engraved on my tombstone. In 44-point Trajan. Do that for mumsy. Thanks!
- It's been a while since I've done a "You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?" feature, but that's not due to lack of feather ruffling. Because my feathers have been a-rufflin', friends. My panties are in a twist. My bonnet is full of bees. My...thing is all...jacket up...? Point being: I'm pissed off. Specifically, I'm pissed off at two distinct groups of people. And let me tell you, there is a special place in hell reserved for these people. When Hitler and Pol Pot organize their 10th Annual Seventh Circle of Hell Block Party, these are the people they'll send evites to:
1.) People who don't respect the 30-minute time limit on machines at the gym
and
2.) People who lean against the metro pole during rush hour
I genuinely have trouble putting into words how irritating I find these people. I've been wanting to do a blog post on them both for quite some time, but every time I start writing it, I get legitimately flustered and overwhelmed and have to stop before I have a brain aneurysm.
Let's start with people at the gym who don't respect the 30-minute time limit on machines—what the fuck is wrong with you people? There are signs literally everywhere telling you not to do exactly what you're doing. And these signs aren't just afterthoughts jotted down on a post-it note, haphazardly slapped on the mirror. They're typed, printed, framed and nailed to the wall. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to make sure this rule is known, so maybe it's a good idea you respect it. You know, THIS RULE THAT ALL GYMS IN AMERICA HAVE. Don't act like you don't know what's up. And by the way, it is a rule. If you were to take the time to glance up from your John Grisham novel and read the sign that's posted directly in front of your fat fucking face, you'll see that it's not suggested you respect the 30-minute time limit, it's not encouraged that you respect the 30-minute time limit, it's not preferred that you respect the 30-minute time limit; it's a RULE. I don't mean to be a total Terry Cooper all fallin' in love with the rules or whatever, but that rule is in place for a specific reason—nobody has time to stand around the gym for 45 minutes while you leisurely stroll on the treadmill reading Us Weeklys from the past five weeks. The gym is the kind of heinous place you just want to get in, get out and be done with. I mean, we all have places to go; homes to get home to; episodes of Intervention waiting for us. And you're holding shit up with your own selfishness. You are a Selfish Shellfish and it fucking pisses me off!
Sit down and let me tell you a true story from my life. When I go to the gym, I have a specific routine I like to do: I start with 30 minutes on the elliptical and end with 30 minutes on the arc trainer. The other day I got to the gym and it was oddly packed. I walked past the ellipticals to scope out how much time people had left to see if it was more time efficient to wait or if I should switch up my routine and do the arc trainer first (shudder, shudder). Irritatingly enough, most people had like 18-20 minutes left except for one girl who had 48 MINUTES LEFT! 48 MINUTES! And she was already sweating like a bitch when I got there which I can only assume means she had been there for a while! She also had this huge test prep book draped all over her machine, papers flying everywhere, her jacket and bag strewn about like she fuckin' owned the place—I mean, what the fuck is going on here?! This isn't your apartment; you can't just set up shop and hunker down for the night! And I can understand this behavior if it's 9 o'clock at night and the place is practically empty, but this was seriously at 6:15 in the evening. You could not pick a busier time to raise a leg, spray a machine and make it yours for the night. And I know this has nothing to do with anything, but she was offensively ugly. There, I said it. I know, I know, I'm a horrible human being and I'm no prize piece either and blah blah blah, but seriously—that bitch had a face on her head. And that face looked like scrambled eggs. And for whatever reason it made the situation that much more irritating to be in. By the time I was done with the arc trainer and needed an elliptical, they were all still in use! Including, of course, by Head-Face Girl who had been there for the past babillion years! The fuck?! So then, of course, I was put in a position where I had to decide if I was going to say something to her or not. Did I? Of course not. Because then I'd be That Guy. Did I say something to the manager? No. Because then I'd be That Guy^max. I just don't appreciate being in the position where I have to choose between letting an inconsiderate A-fuck win or risk being That Guy. Because nobody in that situation wins and it's just not fair.
Christ. Now I'm all riled up just in time for Boss #2 to come in for the day. I'll attack Metro Pole Humpers tomorrow...Lord knows I just don't have the strength now. Time to lower my blood pressure with 'Ole Faithful:
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