Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries:

- First and foremost, I didn't forget about last Thursday's cracked out promise to do a "Spit in Porn" entry; it'll go up tomorrow. I need one more day to gather my thoughts on the subject matter. Because I have a lot of them. But like, a lot of them. To the point where the thought of organizing them into a cohesive blog entry is completely overwhelming. Thus, I've decided I shall spend all day today in a dark corner of a quiet coffee shop, pair of bifocals perched slightly below the bridge of my nose, brow furrowed while I flip through old leather-bound books on human sexuality, biology and...spit..., feverishly taking notes and yelling at the waitress for interrupting my train of thought to do something as pedestrian as clear my cup away, a-thank you. Because tomorrow's entry isn't going to be just your run-of-the-mill blog post—it's going to be my opus.


- Only 10% of me is shocked that my opus involves spitting on genitals.


- Based on my interest in "Nip/Tuck" and Louis C.K. stand-up, Netflix has recommended that I watch Scooby-Doo and the Monster of Mexico.

That dog better be in Mexico to get cheap botox or because he deeply resents his children; anything less and Netflix and I are going to need to have words.


- There is no other music in the world that toes the line between "jolly" and "I'm going to kill myself tonight" like Christmas music. While I was waiting for Teresa to come over and drink wine and Christmas-ify my apartment with me last night, I put on my Pandora Christmas music station and started tidying up a bit. At first it was playing swingin' Michael Buble "Holly Jolly Christmas" type stuff, but somewhere along the line it slowly progressed into like, recently orphaned children singing through their tears about Christmas trees and songs comprised of a single, haunting bell echoing through the night that forgot you. I didn't even notice the progression happening; one minute I was making my bed and the next I was curled up in it, hysterically crying and wailing, "I'M SO FUCKING ALONE!" into a pillow.


- That being said, the Christmas spirit has arrived in the old Meg McBlogger residence!




My Christmas tree is kind of anorexic. And fake. And casting spooky shadows on my wall in that picture. And up until a few hours ago was covered in Luna bar wrappers and old US magazines in the crack between my bed and the wall—or my Shame Hole, as I call it. And by Luna Bars, I obviously mean empty ice cream cartons. And it's now standing on an old H&M pashmina covering a Jäger cooler. Basically my Christmas tree is the antithesis of Alex's fancy-pants real person Christmas tree:
Whatevs. Mine's got moxie.


- Speaking of Teresa, I never thought I'd say this to anything but the mirror as I gaze at my Thrillhouse tattoo (which, for the record, I do quite often), but this is probably the sexiest tattoo I've ever seen:
If Maryland pride is gay, then I'm the Old Line State's Bruce Vilanche.


- If all goes well this year with HannuClaus, I will soon be making the switch from a duvet to a comforter. I'm kind of bummed about it though, because truthfully I find duvets more comfortable than comforters. My problem with duvets, however, is that I'm an incredibly active sleeper and as I toss and turn all night, the duvet separates and gets pushed down to the bottom of the cover and I somehow manage to tangle myself in the entire apparatus and all of a sudden I'm having nightmares about being in a straitjacket and feh. I feel like it has to just be easier to get a comforter. I'm tired of not getting enough sleep because the ratio of duvet to cover is off.


Speaking of my odd little bed neurosis, there was a solid month in 2004 when my sister's best friend, Rachel, would sign into AIM for the sole purpose of featuring a new "Embarrassing Meg McBlogger Fact of the Day" on her profile. I completely forgot about this little gem until it was a featured EMMFOD: 

Embarrassing Meg McBlogger Fact of the Day: When Meghan was a little girl, her parents used to have to safety pin her pillow to the center of the bed.

Uh, A.) that's incredibly true and although safety pins aren't in the mix anymore, the odds of me being able to sleep if my pillow is off-center is still slim-to-none; B.) That being said, just the fact that safety pins were even involved in my bed time growing up makes me feel so Aspie's I'm shocked there isn't a social worker reading this over my shoulder as I type.


- You know what I've come to realize? If God forbid I ever run out of things to write about, all I need to do to get more material is simply go down into the metro. I don't even necessarily have to take it anywhere! I just need to physically enter the human cesspool that is the Washington, D.C. metro system and within 30 seconds, I guarantee you I'll have a story about how society is crumbling in upon itself and I want to set 98% of everyone I see on fire. Case and point:


I had the great displeasure of taking the metro to my parent's house during the peak of evening rush hour the other night. I entered the metro from Dupont south and from the top of the descending escalator I could see that the platform was packed everywhere except for the far end. "HUZZAH!" I thought to myself. Still reeling from Ren Fest. Apparently. "That's the side where the train pulls in; the first few cars are normally pretty empty anyway. I'll stand there!"


I slowly worked my way through the crowd and eventually arrived at the opposite end of the platform. As I stood there waiting for the next train, I felt very content with my situation as I had about five feet on either side of me free of Other Person. Which is exactly when an older woman walked over and stood directly in front of me. Let me repeat that: Bitch stood DIRECTLY. IN FRONT. OF. ME. She had more than enough room to stand next to me, but she chose to stand in front of me. And you know what pissed me off most about that situation? It wasn't that she was poaching my prime platform real estate; it wasn't that her person was about three inches away from mine and very clearly invading my privacy bubble; it wasn't that she was going to board the train before me although I got there first—it was that what she did was the equivalent of the people on "The Price is Right" who graduate from Contestant's Row by bidding one-dollar more than the highest bidder. You people are the fucking scum of the earth and if I'm sure of anything in this world, it's that there's a Hell and there's a special place for you in it. In my mind, here's the pecking order of Hell:

1.) Hilter

2.) Pol Pot

3.) An army of child molesters

4.) "The Price is Right" —and one, Bob! bidders

5.) Osama bin Laden

That's right, —and one, Bob! bidders come before Osama bin Laden. You people are collectively worse than the mastermind of 9/11. I am genuinely shocked that murders haven't been committed as a result of someone betting one-dollar more than the highest bidder, winning, and going on to play Plinko. Because Lord knows I'd kill you! I'd kill you, pry that fucking bedroom set from the Ashley group out of your cold, dead hands, and dance on your grave! And you can say, "Oh, that's just the way you play the game. Those people are being smart," but I completely reject that. You know why? Because there's a little thing called dignity in sport. I mean, we'd all win a few more football games if we went around shaking members of the opposing team, but nobody would actually do that because there's no dignity in that win. If you're going to walk into "The Price is Right" studios, come correct—know the prices of shit. Go to Safeway and do some recon; it's not that hard. A bottle of Garlique is $15.99. There. Have some god damn respect for yourself. Don't just wait until the fine Americans who actually did their homework place their bids and then bid one-dollar more. It's disrespectful to me, it's disrespectful to them, it's disrespectful to Bob Barker and his Beauties, and it makes a mockery out of what is undeniably the finest game show of the 20th century.

And that's why I hate the metro.

Cracked-Out Post Thursdays: Marginally better than No Post Thursdays

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Sideoat grama.

Last week, I forgot my blog email password and had to have Meg reset it to “something I can write a song about,” but I’ll go to my grave knowing that Sideoats grama is the state grass of Texas. That’s one of the beauties of a state with a part-time legislature: every 20 months, when the lawmakers convene, they’re so excited to be actually there that they run wild making everything official. Like kids in a candy store, except the children are middle-aged local businessmen and the candy is 20 million people’s lives. It does serve a concrete goal, albeit an obscure one: it gives third-grade social studies classes a lot of things to color in pictures of. According to Wikipedia (known in the business as “I need a citation, dammit”) in addition to the standards like flag, song, and motto, Texas also has a state:

-       Large land mammal (longhorn cattle)

-       Small land mammal (armadillo)

-       Flying mammal (Mexican free-tailed bat)

-       Soil (Houston Black [I name my strippers like I name my dirt: {place}{color}])

-       Cooking implement (Dutch oven)

-       Gem (Blue topaz)

-       Gemstone cut (Lone Star Cut [I want a ring with a stone cut like this and I am NOT KIDDING])

-       Two state peppers (jalapeno and chiltepin)

-       Two state shrubs (crepe myrtle and Texas sage)

-       Two state sports (rodeo and football)

-       Tartan (bluebonnet tartan)

-       Pastry (strudel)

It goes on. And before you pooh-pooh it as “something weird they do down there,” shit ain’t regional. (Note New Hampshire’s TEN state songs.) So, to advance our eventual bid for statehood – the state will be called “LOL” and carved out of some Dakota or other – here is our provisional list of official 2Birds1Blog “things”:

Official birth control method: chanting “No whammies no whammies no whammies” at orgasm

Official cold-water sea mammal (non-mythical): Narwhal

Official conflict-resolution strategy: passive-aggressive text messages

Official emotion: two parts anxiety, one part annoyance

Official office supply named after an autism-spectrum disorder: Aspie’s Clip

Official song: “My password has a first name, it’s K-E-V-I-N; my password has a second name, it’s *-Y-A-N-G-6-9…”

Official means of transportation: taking a cab but claiming to have gone by subway so your friends don’t give you shit for being afraid of the guy who sells socks on the blue line

Official vaginal color: a painful, burning pink

Official irrational fear: that scorpions can read thoughts

Official holidays: Matthew Lillard’s birthday, Larry Hagman’s birthday, No Post Monday (moveable), “Fuck work” day (moveable), Repeal Day, “I remembered that Bea Arthur is dead and cried so I’m not going to school” Day

Official method of suicide: the bukkake cup

Official sport: the five-meter beer carry

Endorsed Ticket in the 2012 U.S. Presidential Election: Lillard/Ulrich of the Thumb Ring Party, running under the slogan “Piss the Russians Off by Making Them Meet with the Stars of ‘Scream’”

Official new method of selecting national officials: whoever does best on a 50-question multiple-choice general knowledge quiz with a BAC of .12. Speed will decide in the event of a tie.

Official new method of selecting state officials: the best two thumb-wrestlers spar with giant foam batons

Official new method of selecting local officials: Hell, whoever walks in the door

Official motto, war cry, all-purpose retort, position on the division of Cyprus and last words: “Sorr about the bag.”

> 140

I just walked six city blocks, in the rain, at 8:30 in the morning to spend the last of my money on a venti gingerbread latte because I decided it looked "cozy" outside, only to come home and accidentally knock my lamp over, thereby not only breaking my lamp, but dumping virtually all 20 ounces of scalding hot gingerbread latte onto my person.

I can say without exaggeration that this is the closest I have ever come to killing myself. Including the time I tried to kill myself.

"My mother, that's who I need"

I'd like to address the following comment from last Tuesday's post about my parents abandoning me on my sixth birthday to go to Monte Carlo:

So when I first read that, I was like, "BAHA, amazing pop culture reference. You are my new best friend," and replied saying as much. But then as the day went on, I started worrying, "Wait, maybe Jocelyn wasn't excited that my life shares a common thread with Troop Beverly Hills and really was accusing me of trying to pass off a TP storyline as my own...?" And let me tell you something: nothing gets my goat more than people accusing me of shenanigans. Because why would I lie to you? Why would I make shit up? Do you know how much effort it takes to make shit up? Too much. That's why this isn't Meg McBlogger's well-researched, Regency Era murder-mystery blog; it's Meg McBlogger's "today I choked on cantaloupe and played with my Aspie's Clip. It was a day," blog. One of these things is easier than the other.

(Side note: Speaking of accusations of shenanigans, about a year ago I got an email from a guy asking if I was actually "a real person," and it was the biggest mindfuck I'd ever experienced. My reply derailed at an almost impressive rate: "Dear [Said Guy]: I'm pretty sure I'm a real person. Or as a real as anyone can be sure they are. Because I suppose there's always a chance that none of this is actually happening and this is a simulated reality created by machines like in the Matrix, or we exist only in the complex fantasies of a kid with Down's Syndrome like in St. Elsewhere, in which case, no, I don't exist, but that means that that you don't exist either, so why would you be questioning my existence in the first place?" And that's when I had a panic attack and ran away from my computer like a small child because someone who has as many anxiety problems as I do should never think about that much about their own existence. But for the record: I am a real person. I am a real person, who just took a real Klonopin. While doing real breathing exercises. In a real hot shower.)

So, yes, I was pissed, but I was willing to let it go because I'm working on this new thing where I don't let blog comments and/or emails control my life to the point where I'm calling Tulane Chris on a semi-regular basis with bad acid reflux in the Self-Help section of Barnes & Noble asking him to bring me Zantac and hold me. But then I went out to dinner with my parents tonight and my mom was like, "CAN YOU BELEIVE SOMEONE ACCUSED YOU OF MAKING UP THE MONTE CARLO STORY?!?!" and it opened up that can of worms all over again. But thankfully for all of us, I recieved this email about an hour ago:

From: mom  

Subject: monte carlo

hi meg, 

you know that i don't like to invade your professional life, but i feel that i have to set the record straight for your readers. here goes.  

i realize that much of the time meg lives in her own world, a world inhabited by helper monkeys and fox dogs, and we love her for it. however, her tale of woe regarding a certain trip to monte carlo is absolutely factual. come on, readers, did you really think that things like that only happen in movies? i do take exception to the term "vacation". it was a business trip. a really nice business trip, but business none the less. despite all of the trials and tribulations, real or merely perceived, you survived. do you even remember that i went to england by myself when you were two years old, leaving you with...of all people... your father?! mothers do go away, meg, but most of the time, we do come back. i love you like a peacock loves rice krispies. 

mom mcb

(Hehehe...she threw in an inside joke. Peacocks.)

OK, look: I know my mom was trying to have my back there—and bless her heart for doing so—however, there are a few points I'd like to address:

1.) Diane: you are a lambchop for referring to this little goat 'n pony show as my "professional life". I know we've had our differences (specifically that you abandoned me on my sixth birthday to stretch out on a yacht like a cat in the sun for two weeks while I went on a hunger strike and contemplated the meaning of life,) but you're the best.

2.) Maybe I wouldn't have to live in my own world if this one didn't suck so much. (HAHAHAHA! I legitamtely just laughed-out-loud at my own emo-ness. That felt like something Dawn would say on Buffy.) (← Fag.)

3.) A BUSINESS TRIP. A "BUSINESS" TRIP. Are you kidding me? a.) What business is Dad in that he just has to jet set off to Monte Carlo for weeks on end or else he'll lose his job? MI6? Formula-1? High-stakes poker? Last time I checked he was in HR. b.) OK, let's just say hypothetically I'm willing to accept that Dad did have a business trip in Monte Carlo because it was the late 80's and everyone was going on lavish business trips and doing rails off their DeLoreans, it still doesn't make a lick of difference! You were gone for two weeks: one week was supposedly for "business" and one week was for funzies. My birthday fell on funzies. FUNZIES, MOM—FUNZIES.

4.) Your trip to England in no way compares to Monte Carlo. (God, how obnoxious do we sound right now? I'm 10 seconds away from deleting this entire post, throwing Turtle Rapes Shoe up for tomorrow and working this out in an emergency therapy session where they already think I'm a middle-class piece of shit just by virtue of being there.) First of all, as you yourself pointed out, you went to England. Not you and Dad, just you. And while I agree that Dad demonstrates a "unique" level of responsibility with his children (i.e. the time he paid me $5 to snort a line of fresh cracked pepper, I did, and subsequently burst into tears, ran upstairs and shoved a Q-tip so far up my nose I thought I was going to give myself a labotomy,) at least AN parent was there! If I couldn't have been with both of my parents on my sixth birthday, one would have been acceptable. Because you know what wasn't acceptable? Spending my birthday with some Bible-thumping Army wife who was all, "HEY, HALF-BREED JEW HEATHEN! GUESS WHAT I GOT YOU FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY? HORN POLISH AND A NOSE JOB! SEE YOU IN HEL!" Six. Years. Young.

5.) I don't actually have a fifth point, I just prefer to go out on odd numbers.

So. Yeah. Thank you for having my back slash I still don't forgive you slash you never apologized slash if you did, I wouldn't forgive you. So, you know, food for thought.

At least we'll always have that Girl Scouts orienteering trip when you got overzealous and took me and my troop on a short cut through the canyon, only to discover that the bridge was out, so I—cocky from my gymnastics lessons—decided to walk across a fallen tree to get to the other side and fix it, which was a good plan until I twisted my ankle and got stuck halfway across (classic Meg), but ever the loving mother and fearless troop leader, you conquered your fear of heights to get across the tree, save me, and ultimately SAVE THE DAY.

And attracted by your newfound confidence, Craig T. Nelson decided he wanted to hit that again.

THE AND.

Happy Thanksgiving!

And Merry Tulane CHRIStmas! We love you guys and are incredibly thankful that you continue to read our blog and support us in everything that we do. [Or most of what we do, at least. Lord knows the beginning of this week was a little rough. And The Human Centipede review was troubling, at best. Ohhhhhhhh, us!] xo

11.24.09

- And speaking of Thanksgiving and rap music! I have an embarrassing story for you. You know how I feel about Dre? Well, that's how my sister feels about Ludacris. The very first time I ever heard the Ludacris song, "MoneyMaker," the line, "Just be thankful that Pharrell gave you something to bump to," got my gears a-turnin'. I decided that that year at Thanksgiving dinner, when my family was going around the table saying what we were all thankful for, I was going to say that I was "thankful that Pharrell gave me something to bump to!" and it would be the funniest thing anyone had ever heard in their entire lives and my sister would have a newfound respect for me and I'd be the hero of Thanksgiving from thereon after.

Now, I hatched this plan in July of 2006 which means that by the time Thanksgiving actually rolled around, I had been sitting on it for an embarrassing four months. But finally those excruciating four months passed, Thanksgiving was upon us, and I was anxiously seated at the dinner table ready to grace my family with the Greatest Joke Ever Told. Unfortunately, what I didn't factor in is that my family doesn't actually have a tradition where we go around the table and say what we're thankful for. But you bet your sweet ass that was about to change.

"Hey! I got an idea!" I said. "Let's go around the table and say what we're thankful for!!!!" I was met with a few raised eyebrows. My family isn't really the touchy-feely kind. We spend most of Thanksgiving drinking, watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 and napping. (Christ I love Thanksgiving.) But that year, I insisted we go around the table, open our sardonic little hearts and say what we were thankful for. Eventually, my family agreed. I was so excited. My turn couldn't come fast enough.

Mom: "Well I'm thankful for having such a wonderful fam—" YEAH, YEAH, YEAH, NEXT!

Aunt: "I guess I'm thankful for having people in my life who—" OK GREAT, WONDERFUL, BECCA GO!

"Uhhh...I'm thankful for—" GREAT, TOUCHING, LOVED IT. MY TURN!!!!

My heart was racing and I could barely contain my own excitement. I took a breath and composed myself.

"Well everyone," I said, barely able to keep a straight face, "This year—I am thankful that Pharrell gave me something to bump to!"

Nothing. Nobody spoke.

"O...k...," my dad said, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence, "I guess it's my turn. I'm thankfu—"

"NO, NO, NO!" I interrupted, "Maybe you didn't hear me. I said, I'm thankful that Pharrell gave me something to bump to!" [Crickets and blank stares] "Like...like in the 'MoneyMaker' song? Ludacris, Becca? Ludacris?" I searched my sister's stony face for a sign that she not only knew what I was talking about, but thought it was the greatest thing since sliced Jesus.

"Yeah. I got it," she said instead, "It's just trying a little too hard. Gotta ask though, how long were you sitting on that one for, buddy?"

".....................................Four months."

"Nice. Dad, you're next."

And now this is what I'm reminded of every Thanksgiving. Personal failure. Sounds about right.

Tulane Chris' "Home for Thanksgiving" Drinking Game

[Editor's Note: I'd just like it to be known that I briefly considered posting the last scene of American History X today before Chris' drinking game to, you know, keep Monday and Tuesday's spice going. And to be an asshole. Mostly to be an asshole. But I decided not to! So I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm thankful for me, too. Proceed, Chris.]

Drink: 

- for every fifteen pounds your high school friends gained, on the aggregate 

- every time the conversation between relatives lags, and is then punctuated by a loud upbeat sigh: “Yeah, the… Chargers… playoff. AAAAaaaah.”

- every time someone ritually pretends to consider refusing more food

- when something’s Not Right, as in “Did you put rosemary in the dressing? I know this is hard for you to understand, because of your learning disability – what’s it called again? Alcoholism? – but in this country…”

- something is Not Right to the max, as in last Thanksgiving when Giant Camel and Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie put the whole berry and the jellied cranberry sauce together in the saucepan and melted it, then looked at me like I was from space when I told them they were a bunch of drugged out Communists and ran to the store so I could have cold tubular jellied cranberry sauce like a human being from America

- something fails disastrously, as in three Thanksgivings ago when my mother and I tried to make organic zesty cranberry-sage weight-smart relish that we found in Prevention magazine (yes) and ultimately had to order pizza

- if there’s a festive centerpiece. Drink twice if it incorporates a cornucopia. Drink thrice if someone puts it on his head in an attempt to be wacky.

- at that awkward moment when half the family starts to tuck in and someone has to start the blessing at a shout to be heard over the crunch of gristle and the sloonk of cranberry sauce

- if you have to set aside a “special” dish for someone with a dietary restriction

- if they bitch anyway

- when your teenage cousin in his idealistic phase tries to get a discussion going about actual native-colonist relations

- for every muffled “Oh, God,” the above provokes

- if the Thanksgiving Piñata makes an appearance

- when you have to go around the table and say what you’re thankful for

- when someone says something WILDLY inappropriate during the previous, as when we did it in my freshman Intro to Theatre Arts class in high school and one kid was “thankful for his multiple personalities.” (He was totally my lab partner in chemistry and we got In Trouble because he lost our strip of magnesium we needed for an experiment.)

- if someone at work asks you “if Jews celebrate Thanksgiving.” Twice if you’re not Jewish. Three times if you have the presence of mind to pretend to be Jewish, make up a holiday, and take the rest of the day off.

- While making a hand turkey

- BECAUSE IT’S TULANE CHRIS’S 23RD BIRTHDAY AGAIN

- Because the Saints will have an easy win over the Cowboys, which they badly need, and I have $25 on them

- When you have this conversation:

“How’s work?”

“Well, I got fired from the ____ and now I sell ____ at intersections.”

“Oh. I guess you meet a lot of interesting people?”

“No, mostly teenagers throwing Mountain Dew cans at my head and people trying to pay me in Chick tracts.”

“Well, are you seeing anybody?”

“Sigurd went back to Iceland. He said he’d rather die of sealpox than spend another fifteen minutes watching my central nervous system lose the fight against a diet of Pop-tarts and Taaka. I think he stole my iPod.”

“…pets?”

“Ate each other.” 

This year, I’m thankful for our readers, especially those of you email me greyhound racing tips and graphic pornography. And as for the man who sends me graphic racing tips and greyhound pornography – I’m grateful for you too, but in a different way.