SPAM!

Sometimes I find things that are just weird and ridiculous. Instantly I feel compelled to share them with the Internet. I am calling these random segments "Eye Spy with Eddie"

in my work e-mail I received this poorly created e-mail.

It reads...

“Have you ever heard someone say they want LESS fun? We didn’t think so. In fact, most busy professionals crave a little comic relief, easier networking, and well….more fun!

That’s why we’ve added even more in stock quick-ship fun titles to our patented stack-a-ribbon- awards. Now in addition to the best selling titles like “DIVA” (The office bitch) and “Runs with Scissors” (that guy in the office everyone makes fun of in the break room), you can adorn your attendees with titles such as I READ YOUR EMAIL (which is a violation of privacy) and DORK (the ribbon for the whole accounting department)”

Then it goes on with information about how to buy these awesome gifts for a great price!

That is the way to get the elusive #1 boss mug, make everyone in the office wear ribbons with sayings. Employees enjoy having their physical and mental faults on their shirts.

For shits and giggles you should get frank the 70 year old guy in marketing that always has Viagra delivered to the office (so he does not have to go to UPS and pick it up) a ribbon that says IMPOTENT. Oh man, that will spice up the office holiday party!


Maybe this is the way my mind works, but the first thing I said when I saw the OCD sticker was IS THAT EVEN LEGAL?!? It feels like a lawsuit waiting to happen.

I wish I could quit you,
Eddie

I WANNA SEX YOU UP!

Strippers. ::Patsy proudly stands up and starts a slow clap while nodding vigorously in approval:: After this weekend, I just gotta give it up to strippers who can work a pole. It’s not what you’re thinking; I didn’t go to Score’s and get a killer lap dance this weekend (but there’s always next weekend). However I did do some stripping of my own this weekend. Well, not really, but I did work a pole. Friday night Serena, Blair and I were on the N train headed to Union Square to have drinks with a friend. Recently three strippers have been doing “performance art” by working the poles on the N train. When we found ourselves in an empty subway compartment, Blair channeled the strength of the strippers and starting spinning around the poles at a really impressive rate. As we approached the Manhattan Bridge, I decided to make my dream of spinning around a pole like a stripper while riding the subway over the Manhattan Bridge become a reality. Like most dreams I develop ten minutes before acting on them, it did not end well. Turns out properly spinning on a pole is really fucking hard. You have to have a lot of upper body strength and strong abs. The only time I work my arms is to bring whatever cocktail I’m drinking to my mouth. And the last time I did a crunch was when I laid down and realized my ipod was at the foot of my bed. But, I had a dream to fulfill damnit, so I got some pointers from Serena the stripper (you have to lift yourself up with your upper body, control the release slowly and cross your legs as you spin down) and attacked the pole a few times before going over the Manhattan Bridge. And when I say attacked, I really mean attacked. I sort of just ran and flew myself at the pole, spun once really fast and landed on my ass. Over and over again. Across the Manhattan Bridge. I kid you not, this happened Friday night, it’s Tuesday morning and I am still feeling it. My arms are killing me, my back is killing me and my abs feel like they’re on fire. This proves a few things: 1.) Strippers deserve our respect 2.) Carmen Electra’s “Strippaerobics” might be a late addition to my Christmukkah list and finally 3.) mother fucker I’m out of shape.

If I were to write a self-help book. It would be called How to Make Awkward Work for You. I’m sort of awkward and I am pretty socially inappropriate (for example: actual conversation taken from the subway this morning:
Me: I want to become a high class dominatrix and I’m dead serious.
Serena: Go for it.
Me: I can’t think of anything better than dressing in a hot outfit, whipping some guy with a riding crop and peacing out.
Serena: Oh, so you wouldn’t have sex with them?
Me, screaming: I’M NOT A PROSTITUTE!!!!! ::notices everyone is looking at me::
Serena: Patsy, I am returning your gifts and getting you social graces for Christmas.

However, I kind of make my awkwardness work for me. Friends have told me that my awkwardness is charming and instantly puts people at ease. But being this socially inept and awkward has other bonuses, as I found out Saturday night.

As I said in my last post, when I’m at a party, my standard icebreaker is to ask someone the story of losing their virginity. I cannot recommend this enough. Now you can’t just show up at a party and dive straight into hymen talk. You have to wait until people are nice and toasty and then go for it. Saturday night Serena, Blair and I went to my friend from college’s Politically Correct Holiday Party. (This has nothing to do with anything, but there was this guy there who looked JUST like David Boreanaz (of Buffy, Angel and Bones fame) and it was freaking me out the entire time. I tried to hit on him, and my sexy intro ended up with us making a bet to see who could pee their pants for the longest. We didn’t actually try. But either way, that’s not sexy.) Anyway, at the end of the party I found myself with in a corner with a few people including a drunk and rowdy boy. So, away with my new icebreaker I went. He lost his virginity when he was in 11th grade to a random slutty girl at a party and she got blood all over his shirt. “Wow, you must have a big dick,” I innocently responded. “Yea. You wanna see it?” And I did. I will never pass up the opportunity to see someone’s dick and if that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right. So we went to the bathroom (although I explicitly prefaced this with “You’re a good kid and you went to the University of Maryland so I gotta respect you, but although we are going to the bathroom together, I have to be upfront and tell you that I am not going to blow you, jerk you off, make out with you or let you touch any part of my person.” So in we went. The kid was not lying. He had a massive, massive wang. And that’s in regards to both girth and length. So there I am, standing with a drunk kid, pants and black silk boxers at his ankles, having an honest to God intelligent conversation about condoms, love and the merits of long term relationships. Good kid. Although he did ask if he could “at least lick my tit and give him a tug” (response: punching him slightly above the dick) before we both walked out of the bathroom together looking like those people who just hooked up in the bathroom at that party. I decided the best way to remedy this was to turn red and yell “IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!” over and over again which apparently made me look even more guilty. Wouldn’t it have been easier if I could have just handed them my book How to Make Awkward Work for You to them and ask them to turn to chapter 23?

And to end this sexually charged post, I have to mention something that happened yesterday at work. With the five seconds I had to spare, I went on facebook because I saw that my friend who we shall call "Chuck Bass" had posted something on my wall. By “my friend,” I also mean I’ve never met him, but he’s best friends with Serena from college and I have an odd fascination with him that he doesn’t get creeped out by, which I appreciate. The following is what Chuck posted on my wall:

for some reason, this song just reminds me of you (and by you, I mean my crazy, hypersexualized version of you that I jerk it to every day..umm..just kidding!)

http://youtube.com/watch?v=8VhPHtKinmA

“How sweet of Chuck to think of me!” I thought to myself. So I turned up my computer and clicked the link. Guess what the song is called? Smell Yo Dick. Now the song didn’t play too long before I quickly pressed pause so the bible-thumping editorial assistant corner-caddy from me didn’t get offended by my musical choices yet again. However Anne The Evil Copy Editor was dropping something off in my box (that’s what she said) just in time to see “Smell Yo Dick” in large yellow letters on my computer screen as I panicked to mute it. Now, I haven’t gotten a chance to listen to the full song, but from the title I think I get the gist. Chuck, what in the sweet name of hell makes you think of me when you hear “Smell Yo Dick?” Is it because I frequently send you hand written notes with a single pink rose that says, “My Chuck, I would love to smell yo dick?” If so, THAT WAS METAPHORICAL!

Sha la la!
Patsy

Your One Beauty

I know it is not Friday, but I decided to post a drinking game! Rejoice and reflect in my power.

As you might have deducted (or you already know me) I am a lady who loves the ladies. I think a requirement of lesbianism is a LOVE for the classic children’s tale, and 1994 movie version of Little Women. I have made it a family holiday tradition to watch this movie.

Aside from holidays, Little Women has also seen me through some hard times. When I watch this movie I am filled with such hope. I accredit my survival to Little Women, from break ups, finals, and unbearably hot summers where you don’t even want to move (and the idea of New England snow is refreshing.) Everyone has their list of “prerequisite” things that an ideal mate must contain; a love of Little Women is on my list.

The 1994 movie is touching, sweet, slightly feminist, and gives me hope for finding a mate, all topped with holiday joy!

So, gather your sisters, your German professor (and give him your empty hand, in the rain), some tissues, and a holiday drink of choice.

• Take a sip when Jo (Winona Ryder) writes
• Take a sip and sing along when Beth (Claire Danes) plays the piano
• Take a sip of something citrus when citrus fruits are shown/discussed
• Take a sip when the girls mention missing their father
• Take a sip when transcendentalist and feminist issues are discussed
• Hold hands with the person next to you and try to imitate Claire Danes crumple-faced cry when anyone cries THEN take a sip
• Take a shot when temperance is discussed

I wish I could quit you,
Eddie

Hit me baby, one more time

The past two weeks have been the most stressful at work yet. Since you precious people have to get your weekly magazines EVERY WEEK, we’ve been working three times as hard to put out three issues in 10 day to make up for the days we’re going to lose for Christmas and New Years. But today has been mysteriously boring as shit. Maybe it’s the weather. Currently Mother Nature is crapping all sorts of frozen shit on us. Some call it a “wintry mix.”

Things accomplished today: free pizza in Conference Room B! went to Jack’s 99 Cent Store and got LiveStrong-esque bracelets with Jay the photo editor. They’re red and say “BFF” in script flanked by candy canes, currently playing the “questions” game with my sister via gchat, and general slack-assery et al. Oh, here’s some shit—the magazine I work for is having their “Holiday Party” today and the Art Department isn’t invited! What the fuck is that? Literally every other department is invited except for us! I can hear them laughing and cheering as they open their Secret Santa gifts as I type. I love a good Secret Santa! Whatever…I don’t need our magazine’s half-hearted attempt at a holiday party (who has their company party in the middle of the day? Where’s the open bar?) I have a friend who works for Inc. Magazine and I’m being her hot date to their proper company party downtown tonight, followed by a sample sale on the Upper West Side. SO I DON’T NEED YOUR HALF-ASSED COMPANY PARTY ANYWAY FUCKTARDS!...now I have to go quietly cry in the corner.

So, my drinking career is going backwards. I started drinking early in High School and I never once puked, blacked out, or made a sloppy decision under the influence. That was when I was 15. Now I’m 22 and I can’t drink without puking, blacking out and making a sloppy decision(s). Let’s talk about this past Friday night.

Friday my dear friends Anna and Jill came to visit. So Friday night myself, Anna, Jill, Blair and Serena went to a housewarming party on Roosevelt Island. I didn’t know the hostesses, they are friends of my roommates, but I love a good party full of random people, so I was in. The actual party was pretty fun. I gots to chatting with a small group of random people and found myself asking them all the story of losing their virginities (also asking the guys how long they lasted; average answer: 1 minute) and other inappropriate questions one does not generally ask upon the first meeting. I think that should be the default icebreaker conversation, “how did you lose your virginity?” Because you meet someone and you do the “Oh how do you know blah blah? What do you do? Where did you go to school?” And you don’t remember any of it, nor do you really care about the answers. But I will remember Erick the 23 year old who lost his virginity in his best friends bed and lasted “about 3 minutes” until the day I die.

Much alcohol was consumed, that’s a given. Because I’m working backwards in my alcohol career, lots of mixing of beers/alcohols (clear, brown, champagne) were consumed, so I was properly drunk. When it was time to leave the party (one man down, poor Blair didn’t make it home, opting to puke in a bucket and pass out on the floor instead) Jill and Anna exited with some guy who’s name I do not remember (but he lost his virginity in a nice hotel in the city with a girl he had been dating for a while and lasted “60 seconds max”) and his girlfriend. As they were walking down the hall to the elevator, Jill simply said, “Make sure you take care of your girlfriend, I think she’s pretty drunk.” Now there is no malice in that statement. The girl spent the entire party passed out on a bed in a drunken stupor. Facts are facts. This statement somehow pissed this random girl off, as she snapped out of her blacked out state, ran out of the elevator and slapped Jill across the face. In a “I KNOW YOU DID’NT” moment, Anna and Jill started clawing at the girl in the elevator who was being protected by her boyfriend. That’s when I exit the party and see this scene playing out. Being the good Samaritan I am, I ran up to see what was going on, realized some sort of fight was ensuing and put myself between the crazy couple in the elevator and my friends. I turned sideways, looking at my friends and said “Hey what’s goi---“ and that’s when the crazy bitch in the elevator punched me in my right eye. I got punched! I’ve never been hit in my entire life! And she was a size zero hipster dump! The shock of this flew me to my ass. As I lay there, I saw the elevator doors start to close. It was at that point I remembered my family motto (“Never fuck with a ::insert my last name here::””, said “NOPE,” got my ass up, grabbed the elevator door just as it was about to close, and like Superman, pried it open. I started charging furiously at the hipster she-dump before some random guy grabbed me and held me back Jerry Springer style.

It gets better, order another round.

After this debacle, we decide to run to the subway and try to catch the fucktards and give them a beating they wouldn’t forget. I ran ahead of the group, as I am in full diva don’t fuck with me mode, and ended up at the end of the subway platform alone. Alas! Those assholes got away. I stood there defeated. I turned around to see a group of thugs staring back at me. “Some dumb bitch punched me and I was trying to catch her so I can beat her ass in!” I explained to the head hood. I was met with sympathetic “Shit girl”s. They turned out to be really cool people! They informed me I had a “runny mascara situation” where I had been hit and I sassily told them not to worry about it. Then one of the thugs looked at me and said, “So we gonna smoke this blunt or not?” to which I said, “Spark that shit up! Pass that shit to me!” to which he said, “SHIT GIRL, there’s an established circle, you new to the crew, wait yo turn!” to which I said “Well then hurry up and light that shit!” And then I smoked a blunt with my newfound thugalicious friends. Soon my friends caught up and we boarded our subway home. It turns out that copious amounts of various alcohols, found drugs, and a rocking subway car do not make for a good time. It was at Smith and 9th street that I calmly exited the train and threw up in a well-placed trashcan. Thank you MTA. The next thing I remember is lying in my bed thinking “Well that’s not a good sign” as Jill told me how big to open my mouth and I struggled to accommodate the small piece of cake she was trying to feed me. I was hung-over well into the next night. Oye.

I find myself saying this more and more, but I’ll say it again for good measure: only me.

Sha la la!
Patsy

La-la-la-la I don’t hear you

Dear drunk guy on the street who called me a hooker at 4pm on a Tuesday,

You have problems that were clear. Anyone working on his second 40 oz in the middle of the day, standing outside in the winter with a friend under a bridge commenting on every passerby has a few issues. If you ask me you should get your eyes checked.

I know sex workers in this city do not look like the “typical” ladies of the night. I just don’t understand how my pony tail, a winter hat, arm warmers, black pea coat, winter boots, and black dress pants looked like I feel into the sex worker category. You even went one step further and asked me how much I would cost…instead of wittily replying I ignored you. For me not to respond took personal restraint, I was proud of myself.

The issue is deeper than you drunk sir, it is a growing problem in this overly friendly and small “city”. See no one taught you people that normal individuals do not talk to strangers. Starting a conversation with someone on the street has no point and can only lead to danger. Yet you appear to think starting a conversation with a young woman walking alone at night is a wise choice. You people have also decided someone wearing headphones is a minor to conversation deterrence, and that they must secretly want to chat. Day after day someone tries to strike up a conversation with me while I am wearing my ipod. STOP!

In conclusion I am not a sex worker, and if you don’t know me, don’t talk to me. If you try to start a conversation with me I will ignore you. Yes, I am being rude but it is my way of forcing you people to grow up.

From your neighbor who was raised not only on the East Coast but also in the era of fear and “stranger danger,”
Eddie

Chia's Come in Waves

I have an important issue to discuss with our 2birds audience. It is about a holiday advertisement that we all know (and probably hate) the Chia Pet commercial.

I would like to assume that we all know the jingle that goes along with Chia Pets. If you have not heard it in sometime (meaning you live under a rock, or in a foreign country) I found the “classic” commercial on YouTube.

My favorite part of the Chia Pet ad is not the jingle, it is the fact Chia Pets are sold at “fine retail outlets” like K-Mart, Woolworth, and Ames.

The president of the Chia Corporation in San Francisco has decided, once again, to use all their advertising money during the holiday season. Now when I watch TV I see a Chia Pet every commercial break. In addition to the annoying ad (as shown above) have a voice over line that Chia Pets make great gifts. Come on people, who wouldn’t want to give a green pet rock?!

"Here you go weird officemate I picked in secret Santa here is a Chia pet for your cubical”

“Here ya go grandma you probably would have been happy with a Liz Claiborne sweater but here is a Chia Pet! Ch-Ch-Ch CHIA spells CH-CH-CH CHRISTMAS!”

Readers, I am being honest with you when I tell you I was going to buy a Chia Pet and prove they 1) suck 2) do not make great gifts. I had a hypothesis and everything set for a great entry. When I went to pick up the Chia at a local fine retail store I found out Chias are NOT CH-CH-CH CHEAP. One Chia would have set me back twenty-five dollars.

I know buying gifts for everyone on your list is hard. So instead of giving you the information to cross Chia Pets off your list I created (with help from friends)

Eddie’s list of "Semi-crappy gifts that are better than Chia Pets because they are under $25:” Holiday gift ideas for those random people you must buy for!

Meat Mitt (who doesn’t want to pick hot meat right off the grill?

• WARNING MUST KNOW IF RECEIVER IS VEGAN OR VEGETARIAN)

• Gift Cards to a used book store
  

• 4 bottles of natures candy…Andre
  
• (WARNING MUST KNOW IF RECEIVER HAS A DRINKING PROBLEM )
• Duct Tape
• You can use Duct Tape to make a wallet, fix leaky windows and pipes…hell even make a prom dress.

• 20 boxes of Rice-A-Roni

• A magazine subscription

• “Artsy” paper weight

• Plaster imprints of your Hands
• (WARNING THIS GIFT IS ONLY CUTE TO PARENTS AND GRANDPARENTS AND YOU MUST BE UNDER THE AGE OF SEVEN or have a child under the age of seven….or borrow a relative under the age of seven)
  

• A real plant

• A box of tissues with tissue cozy

• Movie Tickets

• I.O.U for Sex or Sexual Favors

• Lots of Candy

• Scratch off Lottery Tickets

These are just a few ideas…feel free to comment and if I enjoy your ideas I will add them to the “master list.” This way no one has to resort to a Chia Pet for the office White Elephant.

Youz a ho, ho, ho

Hello 2bird readers! First I would like to apologize for my absence that I’m sure crumbled your world and broke your heart. I know, I can be so cruel. But I have returned with kooky stories and the makings of a bangin' drinking game this friday to make up for my absence.

So it’s Christmas time in the big City. I love Christmas time: fabulous store windows, twinkle lights everywhere, trees, ribbons, ice-skating, hot cocoa (with a lot of Baileys)! However, my normal holiday joy was put on hold this year for two reasons.

Reason 1:
Obviously relating to Rick a.k.a. my patriotic asswipe of a landlord. Now, as explained, I gots the holiday spirit just like any other girl, but Rob has taken it too damn far. Let me explain to you what the already tacky exterior of our apartment now looks like. The large American eagle liberty poster has been replaced by a large flag of the nativity scene with 2 floodlights illuminating it at all times. In addition we’re talking garland (fake, obviously), mini Santas, ribbons and bells everywhere, twinkle lights, 3 wreaths (one of which is made of blue and white lights to shut the Jews up), a large “Merry Christmas” sign that’s made out of the material of one of those fake diamond rings you get out of the vending machine at an arcade, little signs proclaiming “Joy!” “Noel!” “Jesus is the only Lord and Savior!” everywhere (well…maybe not that last one,) and finally we come to the icing on the cake: the singing fake Christmas tree lit up by mini Santa Claus lights. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. The apartment looks like a red carpet showgirl any other day of the week, of course he would bring out the big guns during Christmas. Expect pictures for 4th of July…

Reason 2:
Every Jane or John feels a little lonely around Christmas time. It’s natural. The city is so romantic this time of year, they might as well be playing porno in Times Square and hand out condoms and Barry White CDs. Coming off of the worst date known to man and a mighty rough experience with a fucktard gent over Thanksgiving break, I’m not exactly in the mood to put myself back out there and find Mr. Right. You know what doesn’t help? Waking up on a cold Monday morning at 6:45, checking perezhilton.com and seeing this banner ad:



Boyfriend Season? Fuck. Great, now I have to get a camo-printed ho dress, John Deer trucker hat and a rifle from my grand pappy and catch me one of dem critters.

Sha la la!
Patsy