Hey honkey! It's Drinking Game Friday!

Before we get to DGF, I want you to do the following:
1.) Pat yourself on the back for being so attractive. Feel that? That was from me to you.
2.) Click this website
3.) Scroll 3/4 of the way down to "Best Local Blog" under the "Home & Away" section
4.) Click "Other"
5.) Write in 2birds1blog
6.) Scroll to the bottom and click "Submit Your Vote"
7.) Tell a few friends to do the same
8.) Feel really good about the decision you just made

Now, if there's anything I learned from the Blogger's Choice Awards Shitstorm '09, it's that you won't vote for me unless I do something for you. Besides writing this blog. Every day. For free. Thereby compromising my job on many an occasion. (00O0o0O feel that baby?! That's just the burn of Jewish Guilt. Should clear up in about 2-3 weeks.) Unfortunately for both of us, I'm in the middle of a big 2b1b re-design and haven't gotten to new stickers yet, so I can't bribe you with those again. However, shoot me an email: meg@2birds1blog.com. Tell me what you want. We'll see what I can do. Or just vote because it takes five seconds and it's the nice thing to do. Kthnx.

NOW. Let's get racist and booze!

Anna reminded me in the comments section of Tuesday's post about what we lovingly refer to as "The Black Purse Debacle of 2004." BPD '04 is probably one of my all-time favorite incidents of accidental racism in the history of accidental racism. Ever. And (surprisingly,) it didn't involve me. It involved Anna, my sister and my sister's friend's boyfriend. Seeing how I was only a witness (and thank Christ I was,) I didn't think it was really my story to tell. However, it's just too good to keep to myself. IT'S JUST. TOO. DAMN. GOOD. So I hope Anna's OK with me sharing it here with you now. (Unfortunately I can't ask her because she's currently at cruising altitude en route to Miami. So fingers crossed.) Here we go:

Every year my sister and our friend Rachel throw a Kegs 'n Eggs party the day after Thanksgiving. It's a magical event full of delicious foods and day drinking, and it's pretty much all I live for. Being only 19 in 2004, an all-you-can-drink day event was particularly exciting to me and my friends and we rolled up ready to party.

What you need to know:
1.) My sister didn't really know Anna very well at this point. Although Anna and I went to high school together and she was best friends with literally all of my best friends, we were never that close. Shocking because now she's my lesbian lover, I know. Why weren't Anna and I friends in high school? Frankly, I was intimated by her. One day during Sophomore year, my biology lab partner, Bruce Tran, made a list of the 10 hottest girls in our school. I distinctly remember him being like, "OH MAN! That new girl Anna is so fucking hot. She's definitely in the Top 5!" So when Anna joined my group of friends a few years later, I was all, "OH GOD. It's Anna. Of BRUCE TRAN'S TOP 5 FAME!!!1 I'm scared so I'm not going to talk to her, ever!" I understand this is quite possibly the dumbest reason to not be friends with someone, but it happened. And I'm not proud. I lost a solid year of friendship with Anna and frankly Bruce Tran, I blame you and your list. My point is Anna and I only got close Freshman year of college and therefore Becca didn't know her as well as my other friends, who I had known since middle school.

2.) There were two other important people at the party that day: my sister's co-worker "June" and June's boyfriend, who we shall call "Andre," as they brought Verdi to the party, which was my first (but definitely not last) experience with malt champagne. There's really no delicate way to say this, but it's an important part of the story so I'm just going to go ahead and say it—June and Andre were ghetto. Lovely people! But ghetto as the day is long. They brought Verdi unironically. They stood out like sore thumbs in a sea of preppy white kids in Glover Park. During the course of their friendship, Becca never gave June a ride home due to honest-to-god safety concerns. Again, two of the nicest people you'll ever meet and I'm not judging. I'm just saying theyz was G-H-E-T-T-O. Moving on.

The party was fantastic. My friends and I ate and drank our little 19 year-old faces off. I liken our first experience drinking malt champagne to the first time a vampire drinks blood on True Blood. At first we were a bit skeptical and weirded out, but once that first drop of Verdi hit our lips—there was no stopping us. We were ripping the bottle away from each other's mouths and chugging like we had been wondering the Gobi desert. It was glorious.

As the party winded down, Anna and I stood in the doorway of Becca's bedroom talking, probably having a drunk heart-to-heart about Bruce Tran and the perils of high school while my sister helped her guests gather their coats and said her goodbyes. Suddenly Becca ran up to us and asked, "Has anyone seen a random black purse??" Just then, June's boyfriend Andre walked by. "Oh, THERE HE GOES!" Anna exclaimed, pointing directly at Andre.

Time stood still. My sister's mouth dropped, Andre kept walking and Anna, genuinely excited that she had helped my sister find the party's random black person, continued to point at Andre. Becca made a half-gasp/half-laugh noise and walked away stupefied. "WHAT?! What's wrong?!" a confused Anna asked me. Between gasps for air as I rolled around the floor hysterically laughing, I explained to Anna that my sister was looking for a random black purse, not a random black person.

Anna was mortified. 100% mortified. She was convinced for years that my sister hated her and thought she was racist. I can honestly say that Becca never hated Anna, but she miiiiiight have thought she was questionably racist a little bit, no matter how many times I tried to explain that Anna doesn't refer to all black people as "black purses."

And now every Thanksgiving when we're going around the table saying what we're thankful for, I thank God this mix-up happened. Because it has enriched my life in ways that you will never be able to understand.

Fin.

In keeping with this week's racially charged theme, I give you the Crash Drinking Game! (And no, not that Crash Drinking Game...)


Rules:
Drink When:
- Someone says a racial slur
- SOMEONE DOES IT! ("It" being sex)
- Sandra Bullock says something racist and it's shocking because she's Sandra Bullock
- Someone dies
- Someone gets finger banged
- St. Christopher is referenced
- A gun is drawn
- Ludacris rants about how it sucks to be black
- UTI. We've all been there. We feel for you old man.
- A grown man cries
- Ryan Phillipe. I said God damn.
- Graham's mysterious brother is referenced
- An Asian person struggles to properly pronounce their L's (THIS REALLY HAPPENS! I'M NOT JUST ASSUMING!)

As always, thank you so much for reading, preaching the 2b1b word, twittering, facebooking and writing us in here. We really, really appreciate it. Have a great weekend and we'll see you all back here bright and early Monday morning! Later!

Recrap Thursday got the Clamp

This past Tuesday’s episode of The City was the ultimate cocktease. If you are going to title an episode “Working Girls,” at least have the decency to showcase one or two hookers. Putting Olivia in a leather get-up and sending her to Canal Street just isn’t going to cut it. Besides, the fear in Olivia’s face would never fly in the dog-eat-dog world of Chinatown prostitutes.

If you are at all interested in what actually happened this week, then in short: Olivia was given another assignment by Erin, who is still somehow her boss. Obviously she half-asses the jobs and then tells anyone who will listen how it was impossible to do. I even believe she told Erin again that she could do it herself if she was unsatisfied. (Olivia’s gotta suck in bed. If you don’t like the way she doesn’t get you off, then you can just do it yourself, because she’s done.) Meanwhile, on Roxy’s first day of work, she and Whitney have a photoshoot with Kelly. Whitney biffs it by forgetting clamps to make size 00 jeans even more form fitting, whereas Roxy takes initiative to go over Kelly’s head and make a suggestion to the client about the final look. Kelly then proceeds to confusingly compliment and chew them both out the next day. Of lesser importance, Whitney’s friend Samantha from last season shows up briefly and she has gotten both a new nose and a personality. Weird!

But enough about the actual events of last night, let’s re-examine this episode and see what the characters were really trying to say. I give you:

The Shitty

[Scene 1: Elle Magazine]

Joe Zee: So how has Olivia been doing? ::wink::

Erin: Oh come on Joe, you can’t be that dumb. You know that she doesn’t know her ass from her elbow when it comes to actually working. Why is she even here? And are you having a stroke?

Joe Zee: No, I’m just saying ::wink:: that I’m in no way contractually obligated ::wink:: to support Olivia’s presence here. ::wink:: Just give her another shot.

Erin: Are you being serious? Another shot? She basically told me to do the job myself. Is that something you think is acceptable for your first day on the job? And quit it with the winking, everyone watching this knows that you in no way believe in Olivia.

[Scene 2: People’s Revolution]

[Whitney and other PR employees are dutifully at work, when Roxy comes in for her first day.]

Roxy: Hey girl! What’s up! Whoa, what is this weird 80’s, long-sleeve shoulder padded, shirted one piece outfit you are wearing, Whit?

Whit: ….Hey Roxy. Are you being serious? It’s your first day and you’re already late. That is not going to fly here. Kelly expects a lot from us, so you better recognize.

Roxy: So we’re just pretending your outfit isn’t hideous? Fine, I can play that game. And as far as Kelly Cutrone is concerned, she’s a pussycat. Me, on the other hand, I’m going to shake this place up. Watch as I loudly announce my presence to the girl sitting no more than 5 feet away from us and can hear this whole conversation. Hey you! You there! I’m Roxy! Oh, you’re name is Michelle? Whit, her name is Michelle! How trite!

[Kelly Cutrone enters wearing all black]

Roxy: Hey Kelly, sweet Grim Reaper costume, but you need one of those hook things.

Kelly: What did you just say to me?

Roxy: I’m psyched to be working here.

Kelly: Yea whatever, we’ve got a photo shoot coming up. Clamps clamps clamps. Clamps. Oh did I mention you should bring clamps? And new girl, take my car to the shoot. I don’t know you to long to have any sort of trust in you, but this seems sensible to me. Clamps.

[Scene 3: Elle]

Joe Zee: Any ideas what we can do to impress Posh Spice?

Olivia: Oh I have an idea. There’s this great vintage store I shop at, which totally means Posh would love it, I can check it out and..

Joe: No.

Olivia: But wait, what if…

Joe: No, I don’t think so.

Olivia: But...

Joe: Olivia, we’ve already established you can’t past the end of your surgically altered nose, so your ideas just aren’t any good, even though that idea wasn’t half bad. Now I think Erin has another task for you. Don’t screw this one up. ::wink::

Olivia: Did you just wink at someone?

Erin: He’s been doing that. Anyway, I’m going to need you to go get a bunch of accessories for this segment. We need to show everyone that buying knockoffs is a crime. A crime against fashion AND humanity. So if you could scamper down to Canal Street and…

Olivia: (barely disguised fear in her voice) Canal Street? I…I…well, I live near there and I know that it’s closed down a lot and I just don’t….

Erin: No, I think you’ll be ok. Just do it. And don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

Olivia: (aside) Oh god, I’m so scared.

[Scene 4: PR photo shoot]

Kelly: Oh good, you guys made it…20 minutes late. Why bother showing up at all? Tell me you at least brought the clamps.

[Whitney looks at ground and kicks can]

Kelly: Well great. Look at that model. She is like a toothpick, and those skintight jeans are far too baggy. This shoot is ruined. You know what Whitney, for your general incompetence, just stand there with this reflector and look discouraged. And if you try and say anything I’m only going to mention the clamps.

(5 mins later)

Whit: The jeans look great!

Kelly: Whitney. Clamps. Zip it.

Roxy: Hey Whit, I feel like having been on the job as long as I have, I have the right to dictate photo shoots. I mean if Jay Manuel can do it, it can’t be that hard, right?

Whitney: I don’t know about this…just make sure you clear this with Kelly.

Roxy: Yea, and I’ll ask her if I can use the bathroom and chew my food and all of that. Give me a break. Hey important guy! Take her top off, it’d be so much better.

Kelly: Pardon? What’s this idea? (If looks could kill, Kelly gives Roxy the facial equivalent of a push off the Empire State Building) Yea, good idea on my photo shoot.

[Scene 5: Canal Street]

I really cannot improve on this scene any more than it already was. If you want to see what someone looks like doing a drug deal for the first time, but instead of drugs, she is buying knockoff designer handbags, then you must watch the original of this scene. Basically it consists of Olivia encountering a handbag salesman singing an ethnic hymn listing all of the handbags he has. She then urgently says cliché drug deal things like “Walk with me!” “Cross the street!” “Stop! One at a time!” all the while looking over her shoulder for the police to arrest her slumming ass.

[Scene 6: PR]

[Once again, Roxy strolls in after everyone else is there.]

Roxy: Whattup playas? Whit, when did you leave, I didn’t hear you.

Whit: Roxy, it’s almost noon. I left for work at 8:30 like normal people do. Are you being serious right now? And by the way, just because Kelly was “cool” yesterday, get ready for a shitstorm today.

Roxy: Come on, Whit! Really? I told you! She’s a pussycat!

[Enter Kelly]

Kelly: Alright listen up you two stupid bitches. Whitney, I told you to bring the fucking clamps so much that now I can’t even hear the word clamp anymore, and you forgot them. Do you know how fucking bad that makes me look? And Roxy, you harlot, it’s my shoot, my client, so run your ideas by me. Good idea. But I’m the Mama Wolf around here, and if you act up, I will literally eat you. That's what wolves do in the wild. And fashion is a wild industry. But good job.

Whit: What the…

Roxy: Told you. Pussycat.

[Scene 7: Elle]

Erin: You’re kidding right? How did you manage to fuck this up again? There’s literally nothing here but handbags.

Olivia: But look at these handbags! They are awesome! Plus there wasn’t really anything there. I found the only handbags and watches and rings in Chinatown. Everything else down there was crap.

Erin: Of course it’s crap, that’s the point of this segment. To show people how shitty knockoffs are. Are you really that stupid?

Olivia: Well you can go do it yourself. I know that I certainly don’t shop with those plebes.

Erin: Joe! Are you hearing this?

Joe: Wow, I’m really impressed, this is all great.

Erin: Are you serious?!

Joe: Yea, I think for what you asked her to do, she did a mediocre job. ::wink::

Erin: I hope that really is a neurological disorder, you big queen. She sucks and you know it and when you finally admit it, I’m going to shove your words so far down your throat you’ll be shitting War and Peace.

Fin

Thoughts Chris Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries

- I can't just assume that everyone else is as over-observant as I am. I learned this the hard way in college. I would see the same kid every time I was in the dining hall without fail for 3 months straight. Maybe I noticed him because he looked like a bizarro-world version of our friend Alex, but nonetheless, he was always there. And then one day, we ended up at the same party and with a few Busch Lights to back me up, I said something like "ZOMG! You're the kid I always see! Do you know who I am?" To which I received, crickets, tumbleweeds, and a raised "Who is this crazy person?" eyebrow.

- Who decided it was a good idea to use sirens in the background of songs? One minute you're driving down the highway casually listening to some jams, then next minute Beyonce's "Ring the Alarm" comes on, but you instinctively turn down the radio and prairie dog it trying to figure out where the siren is coming from.

- If I ever go invisible on Gchat, it's supposed to make me more productive. People won't message me, therefore I won't be chatting, therefore I will do more work. Why, then, do I always end up messaging even more people? Who am I trying to fool?

- When you're in kindergarten and your teacher asks you want you want to be when you grow up, I would be willing to bet good money no one ever pictured themselves as a doctor in their 50s, about to retire. Or a seasoned police officer, who had been hurt on the job and will have a steady pension in a few years. Or a washed-up ballerina who can no longer dance, but teaches ballet at the local church on weeknights. Or John Glenn. Everyone's future career selves is probably somewhere in their mid- to late-20's and fiercely hot.

- What bothers me most about Lady Gaga isn't her ridiculous costumes or her inflated sense of self-worth or her terrible acting skills. It's that her desire to be famous is so transparent. Nearly half of the songs on her album are about fame, being famous, getting famous, wanting to be famous. Is that all it takes these days? Just the will of a champion and the ability to menstruate from your chest? To her credit, at least Lady Gaga can keep you entertained. Whether she's wearing a giant metal gyroscope or a dress made out of bubbles, you can't help but pay attention because it's fascinating.

- There are lots of times during the course of a normal week where I want to compliment a total stranger. I think an unsolicited compliment can brighten up anyone's day. I haven't actually gone through with it yet, because knowing myself I'll fuck it up and end up with a restraining order. But seriously, if I were to stop some random girl on the street and say "You look beautiful," would I get a face full of mace?

- One thing I should have never done was to tell my family my intended plans for my life. Especially the fact that I plan to go to medical school one day. After being out of college for 2 years, the ability to self-motivate myself to actually get around to applications is fading fast. Unfortunately, my entire extended family is aware of my ultimate goal to become a doctor. This never sucked more than when my great-aunt told me at the last family get-together "I hope I live long enough to see you become a doctor." Talk about pressure. Is it wrong that part of me is hoping dementia sets in soon and she forgets who I am, let alone my intended goals?

- Meg and I were discussing how we got the same spam email with the subject "How to lick a chick out." I then told her how I get nothing but spam emails in my blog email account, including the recent email from a "nun" in a "mission" in "Spain." This spam email was entirely in Spanish but the gist of it was that if I provide this woman with my bank account, she will gladly fork over money that was left to her by a former orphan, but that she cannot accept because she took a vow of poverty. Which makes you wonder, if spam emails like this still exist, does that mean that there are people out there who still fall for them? If so, where is this collective rock these people have been living under that they do not understand that the internet is chock full o' scam artists?

I was Accidentally Racist: Asian Edition!

So...I was accidentally racist again last night. This time may have been the most mortifying thus far. I don't know why this keeps happening to me (again and again and again...) but I hate it. I would take this time to prove to you that I'm not racist, but I feel like people who say racist things and then work overtime to prove how not racist they are actually the biggest racists on the planet. So I'm not saying I'm not racist. But I'm also not saying I'm not, not racist. Walk with me...

As I'm sure you've picked up by now, I've been in a bit of a way recently. I'm one of those people where if one aspect of my life is going downhill (i.e. work...in a big way) then everything else seems like it's going downhill too and I just sit here all day thinking about how everything is spiraling out of control and there's nothing I can do about it except turn off the lights, put on The Smith's Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want and dramatically writhe, writhe, writhe, check my email, writhe, writhe, change into comfy pants, writhe. You know. I'm That Guy.

I decided to skip the gym last night and instead curl up on the couch with a bottle of wine, an order of pad thai and my lap top to do some extensive job hunting. Having already taken off my pants the minute I got home (per usual,) I ordered Thai food to be delivered. I was told that my order would take about 40 minutes and decided to take that time to return a phone call to College Roommate Danielle. Like clockwork, I got a call 40 minutes later from the Thai food delivery guy saying that he was downstairs and I needed to come down to get my food. Right off the bat I was irritated. If I have to go through the trauma of putting my pants back on and physically moving myself downstairs anyway, I might as well have gotten carry-out, but! whatevs. I was just psyched my food was there.

I hung up with Danielle, begrudgingly put pants back on and went downstairs and there was no one in the lobby. "Have you seen a Thai food delivery guy?" I asked our doorman. "Well, there was a food delivery guy just here but he said he was looking for **** New Hampshire Avenue, which doesn't exist." God damnit. They got my address wrong. I live on **** 20th Street, not **** New Hampshire. The smell of sweet, sweet Thai food was still wafting through the lobby and I drooled on the pants I resented so. I thanked the doorman, went upstairs and called the delivery guy back. I gave him my correct address, he giggled, I wept and he said he would be there in five minutes.

Five minutes later, I went back downstairs and waited for another 15 minutes. Finally I got a call from the delivery guy, who was at **** N Street. Gah! 20th street! Not N! COME ON DELIVERY GUY! You're cutting into my precious, precious writhing time! I corrected my address for him (again) and he assured me that he'd be there in 20 minutes. I sighed, went back upstairs and poured myself a glass of wine.

20 minutes later, feeling famished, tired and slightly buzzed, I returned to the lobby where there was a young Asian man waiting. Still slightly irritated, I walked up to him, motioned towards the plastic bag in his hand in a miffed tone said, "Hey. I think that's mine." He shifted his eyes around the room and stared at me inquisitively. I motioned a twenty towards him, "For Meghan, right?" I asked impatiently, "Pad thai and crispy tofu?" He paused and then in an accent that may have been from New Jersey said, "Um. I live here."

Oh. My. God. This was not the delivery guy at all. This was just some random Asian kid who lives in my building who I was shoving a twenty dollar bill in the face of and demanding the contents of what I could now clearly see was a CVS bag from.

I turned bright red. A wave of nausea rocked my entire body and I literally hid my face behind my hands as I cried, "OH MY FUCKING GAWD. I AM SO. SO. SO SORRY." He didn't laugh, but he didn't get mad either. He just sort of nodded at me like, "Yeah...this must be really embarrassing for you," which kind of made it worse. "I'm so sorry! I saw— I thought— I've been waiting and I just thought—" I mumbled. He nodded again. Just then, the real Thai food delivery guy walked in, waved and pointed to the receipt on the bag. My eyes lit up and I motioned towards the Thai food guy and then back at my neighbor and said, "SEE?!"

What I meant by "SEE?!" was that I really was waiting for Thai food and wasn't just assuming that an Asian person has an order of pad thai on him at any given moment. However, directly after I stopped motioning between the two of them, with a "RIGHT?!" look on my face, I realized that I was coming off a little too "SEE?! ALL YOU SQUINTY FUCKERS LOOK ALIKE TO ME!" Which is really, really not how I meant it.

I tipped the delivery guy $10 and in the truest definition of the word, ran back up to my apartment.

I have never been so mortified in all of my life. But in my defense, I was fucking starving. I saw an Asian man in flip-flops carrying a plastic bag—I assumed it was dinner time. A + B = C. Do I think I was wrong in this situation? Of course I do. Do I think my neighbor wasn't exactly helping himself? Maybe.

The ultimate irony here is that the entire reason Danielle called me in the first place was to tell me about something embarrassing that happened to her that day because she knew of all people, I would be able to relate. After we hung up I legitimately thought to myself, "Hmm. That's odd...something senseless and mortifying hasn't happened to me in a month of Sundays...Welp! Looks like someone's turning over a new leaf!"and strutted off all cocky-like to go to ask my Asian neighbor how tending the rice fields is working out for him.

Guess I should look for a new apartment as well as a new job tonight...Greeeeat.

And now I'm going ape shit

I have to tell you something upsetting—I almost died last Wednesday night. That's right. I stared into Death's cold, soulless eyes and saw no mercy. I choked on his icy grip and gasped for air. More importantly, I fought back like a Babylonian Warrior and I lived to tell the tale. (Specifically, I was really high and choked on a sandwich, but let's not mince words.) So who's to blame for nearly ending my precious little life? A little television channel called TLC. For it was the shock of seeing a commercial for their new documentary My Monkey Baby that lodged a shitake mushroom square into my windpipe and sent my life flashing before my eyes. And there's no way in hell I was going to let the last thing I see in my lifetime be a capuchin monkey in a Victorian parlour dress being spoon fed in a high chair. So I had no choice but to survive.

But really. My Monkey Baby. That really happened. Last night. And it will happen again tonight at midnight EST, so I recommend you set your DVRs to stunned! Because did you know that there are over 15,000 monkeys in the United States who have been adopted by couples looking for an alternative to human adoption? Did you know that these monkeys are called monkids and cost upwards of $5,000? Did you know that the statistics I just shared with you make me want to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich until I cease breathing or society becomes less appalling, whichever happens first?

My Monkey Baby follows three couples who have chosen to adopt and raise a monkey as their own child. And I can't stress how literally I mean that statement. These aren't helper monkeys or service animals of any kind. And the people who have adopted them aren't obsessed pet owners either. Mostly because they don't consider their monkeys to be pets—they consider them to be their adopted offspring. Which is apparently a uniquely American "craze." That's what the documentary calls this, by the way. A "craze." To which I say, the fuck?! Because The Twist? That was a craze. Crystal Pepsi? A craze. Nickelodeon's Gak? A craze. Being so disillusioned that you honestly think a pet monkey is your child? That's called being mentally ill. And frankly I don't want to live in a world where people this sick are rewarded with their own light-hearted TLC documentary, comically titled My Monkey Baby.

I think my favorite couple of the night was Indiana's Jesus and Carmen. Gather ye 'round children and let me tell you a tale about Hay-Zeus and Carmen: Hay-Zeus really, really, really doesn't want kids. So much so that when he was 22 years young, he scoured this great Nation to find a doctor ethically questionable enough to give him a vasectomy. Which bless his heart, he did. Now he's left fillin' up Carmen, his girlfriend of one year, with blanks and a burning desire for something more. *~QuIz TiMe!!~* Should Hay-Zeus and Carmen:
a.) Get a dog
b.) Have a sit-down about the direction of their relationship and consider reversing Hay-Zeus' vasectomy
c.) Take up ball room dancing
or d.) Drive to Missouri, buy a monkey for $5,000, name it "Butters" and raise it as their child

If you chose D, you are possibly clinically insane, but more importantly correct! For that is exactly what the J-meister and Carmen do. And then they swaddle it in blankets, pop it in a baby carrier and take it to Target where they buy it infant clothes and a pint-size Swiffer Wet Jet at a very reasonable 15% off. God I love this country.


Next up we have Bob and Mary Lynn. Mary Lynn is somewhat recently divorced and desperately misses her ex-step children, whom she no longer sees. Although happily married to her third husband, Bob, Mary Lynn sadly can not bear children of her own. *~QuIz TiMe!!~* Should Mary Lynn and Bob:
a.) Get a dog
b.) Get a better attitude
c.) Adopt a human baby in desperate need of a loving home
or d.) Adopt a wild monkey in desperate need of a jungle

If you chose D, you might live in Tennessee, as that is exactly what Bob and Mary Lynn decide to do.

Mary Lynn is now a "stay-at-home mom" to her monkey daughter "Silly Willy," who at one point refuses to wear her bloomers, causing Mary Lynn to shriek "DID YOU TAKE OFF YOUR PANTIES?!" an ungodly number of times. Which is when I lit a q-tip on fire and shoved it in my ear to burn the pain away. I'd say the highlight of the entire program for me was when Mary Lynn loses one of her hormone pills and fears Silly Willy ate it. *~BONUS QuIz TiMe!!*~ If you were concerned that the monkey you believe is your honest-to-god child ate one of your hormone pills, would you:
a.) Assume she'll be fine and continue on to Dress Barn
b.) Tear your car apart until you find the lost pill
c.) Take your monkid directly to the vet
or d.) Call an animal psychic to read your monkid's thoughts

If you chose D, congratulations—you are now the proud parent of a rabid monkey baby.

And finally, there's old Lori and Jim Johnson from Bumblefuck Nowhere U.S.A. First and foremost, let it be known that I think I'm 78% in love with Jim Johnson and would be more than willing to get married to him on the back of his John Deer mower. Unfortunately for me, Jim is married to Lori. And unfortunately for Jim, Lori is insane. Prior to marrying Jim, Lori had six human children of her own who selfishly grew up and moved away from home to pursue "lives of their own." After her last child moved out, Lori fell into a deep depression and ended up in the hospital. *~QuIz TiMe!!~* Should Lori:
a.) Get a dog
b.) Continue seeking medical help for her depression
c.) Mentor an inner-city child
or d.) Leave the hospital and adopt a monkey because a monkey will never leave you to go to college, fall in love, get married or try to have a life of it's own in any way, shape or form

Thankfully for capuchin monkey Jessica Marie, Lori chose D. And then she married Jim Johnson. Bitch.

You'll notice in that photo that Jessica "Jessy" Marie has quite the gummy primate smile. That's because Jessy kept "nipping" at her mommy and daddy, so mommy and daddy had all of her teeth ripped out. Which makes it even more pleasurable when her daddy Jim Johnson tongue kisses her. And I'm not making that up for effect. He literally french kisses his monkey daughter.

Which leads me to my problem with this "craze": I can understand being obsessed with your pet (cough—Evie—cough). Likewise, I can understand pets in outfits are adorable. I can even understand that there are people bat-shit crazy enough to consider their pet as their child. However, it is complete and utter bullshit to demand that the rest of the world recognize that a monkey is your child and must be treated as such. Because you don't fucking tongue kiss your children. Nor do you have their teeth removed when they "nip" at you or put them in cages when they lose their "panties." It's just asking far too much of us. If we have to play by your ass-backwards rules then you have to play by a few of ours.

For example, when Lori and Jim are kicked out of a restaurant for bringing Jessy, Lori throws a shit fit at the audacity of the manager to not only kick them out, but also to call Jessy a "monkey" instead of her "daughter." "WELL I'M CERTAINLY NEVER COMING BACK HERE AGAIN!" Lori shouts. Madam, your daughter has a tail. A rat-like tail protruding straight out of her ass bone. She also has fur. And starred in the 1995 movie Outbreak. Because your daughter is a fucking monkey and monkeys are not allowed in eating establishments for good reason: they're unsanitary. Just because you put an ironic wedding gown on it does not mean it's been soaked in a vat of Purell for a week.

All I'm trying to say is the day we have to accept monkeys as legitimate forms of children dining next to us at the Cracker Barrel is the day I'm allowed to call Child Protective Services to tell them that you just went to first base with your daughter and put her and her panties in a cage. God bless America.

Drinking Game Friday's Heart is True, It's a Pal and a Confidant

I know what you're all thinking. It's Friday, you want to get your weekend started early, so you're going to cozy up to 2birds1blog, hulu, and a bottle of scotch. Well, kudos to you, I like your moxie. And we at 2b1b wish we could share in your alcoholism spirit. Unfortunately for us, I personally am getting all sorts of effed in the A with work, which includes me coming into work on Sunday. Meg frantically Gchatted me with the cryptic "I may or may not be getting fired. Please post a DGF. Kgtgbye!" not more than five minutes ago.

Luckily for us, we have amazing fans/readers. (Yes, I'm talking to you specifically. By the way, you look great today! That outfit really accentuates your intelligent personality!) Kelli-Ann, a reader from the Bronx, who is not a creepy fan (we hope), could sense our collective distress and sent us the following Drinking Game. I'm fairly confident she's not a creeper, because she sends this DGF about The Golden Girls which she thought we might be a fan.

To which I reply: Might? Hell yes, I'm a fan, and I'm not ashamed to admit it! After a long day of work, WeTV plays a 2 hour marathon of this shit and I eat it like candy. (But it's obviously butterscotch candy in some cutesy porcelain dish that's been sitting there since the Carter administration.)

Without further ado, I present to you Kelli-Ann's Golden Girls Drinking Game:

The Golden Girls Drinking Game

Drink when:
- Dorothy makes fun of or hits Rose
- Dorothy being knocked up in high school is mentioned
- Blanche's sex life is mentioned
- Sophia pictures Sicily
-- Drink twice if you can guess the year
- A visitor arrives
-- Drink twice if it is Stan
--- Drink thrice if the door is slammed in his face
- Rose uses a Scandinavian word
- Sophia makes a sarcastic comment
- One of the ladies gets a date
- Blanche lies about her age
- Blanche tells the story of her first time
- Sophia's purse is shown
- Sophia comes up with a money making scheme
- They have a late night discussion
-- Drink twice when they get the cheesecake
--- Drink three times if the conversation is about sex
- Blanche makes a comment on how beautiful she is
-- Drink twice if she uses a southern style metaphor
- Blanche refers to her perky bosom
- The ladies fall for the same man

I would like to add Drink once everytime Rose mentions St. Olaf. But with all of the above rules, that might put you over the edge into alcohol poisoning.

Well, I can say for both Meg and I that we have the best blog fans on the entire internet. So just keep doing what you do, whether that's following Meg or myself on Twitter, becoming a fan on the old FB, sending emails (including lifesaving DGFs), sharing us with your friends, and especially for reading. As always, thanks for reading, and see you back here on Monday.

Recrap Wednesday is back!...And a day late. But more importantly, back!

Another year, another season of me half-heartedly watching The City and recrapping it for your recrapping enjoyment. And rejoice, because this season Whitney is back with a vengeance a Xanax. Seriously, homegirl’s first voiceover sounded like she hasn’t slept since the Cold War. Come on, Whit! You got rid of that greasy Australian mongrel! You got a bangin’ new apartment! And you’re back under the tutelage of Kelly Cutrone! Liven up!

Anywhoodle, much has changed in the choreographed world of Whitney Port, including the loss of my nearest and dearest, Erin Lucas. Pour out a shot of Cuervo for my homegirl. Those will be incredibly hard shoes to fill, and I doubt whether Allie or Samantha can don half as many berets or rip as many shots of tequila as our dearly departed Erin. (Yes, Allie and Samatha are still around, although they only appeared for nanosecond this past week, to inquire “Who are these people?” More on that later.)

So since Whit has moved on from DVF, we’re obviously going to need new drama. And as luck would have it, an “old friend” (big wink!) of Whitney’s, Roxy, just “happens” (double wink!) to move to NYC. And isn’t it the darnedest of coincidences that she needs a job and place to stay?

First and foremost, her name is Roxy. Your name is Roxy if: you own a small chain of food stores in the Greater Boston area (and even then it’s spelled Roxie), you appear in the musical Chicago (still –ie), or you’re currently dancing on the center stage to “Paradise City.” Or you own Roxy Clothingline. Seriously, Roxy? Why not just call yourself WeatherVane. Or The Limited Too. But if you insist…

Roxy, shows up to her this-is-real-no-seriously-really-real interview with Kelly Cutrone wearing all black and SEVERE red lipstick, looking like a hardcore backup dancer from the Addicted to Love music video. I think she said she took Unprofessional 101 in college. To make matters worse, her interview basically just consists of her complaining and being kind of a general bitch. I mean, I get you’re the new badass in town, but is a job interview really the right forum to announce that to us? Apparently it is, because Kelly Cutrone eats that shit up, even when Roxy makes some snide remarks about Whitney. No matter.

Likewise, our own socialite, Olivia, appears to have been shopping around for a new job. No sense in staying at DVF without Whitney to push around. MTV gets Olivia a job Olivia, having impressed Joe Zee so much, is offered a job at Elle. Just so you know this interview is real, MTV throws in a shot of Olivia’s resume. Within two seconds of arriving at Elle, Olivia is hired and is meeting her new boss(?). My confusion arises because Olivia is offered the job of Accessories Editor, and then suddenly, Joe Zee is all “ZOMG, you NEED to meet Erin, she will be working closely with you and you’ll love her!” or something like that. And then here comes Erin, the Public Relations Manager. Hold the phone, what does Accessories have to do with Public Relations? I’ll admit, I’ve never worked at a magazine (see I’m a bigger person than you are, Olivia), so I really haven’t any clue. But this just seems like MTV auditioned any employee of Elle Magazine to see who could be the bitchiest. Then gave them a tight-fitting black dress, an angled bitch haircut (see Tabitha of Shear Genius fame), and an empowering song to strut down the hallway to. Blanyway, more on that in just a sec.

Back to L.E.I., I mean Roxy. Somehow, in the course of brunch with Whitney, the two go from catching up “I haven’t seen you in so long!” to being roommates faster than you can say “Roxy, look into colors.” This all happens because Mudd Jeans flatout asks Whitney “Can I sleep on your couch?” Talk about balls. I wouldn’t be surprised if next week we find out Roxy is a post-op tranny. In case you were wondering, Whitney obviously caves and agrees to let Roxy stay. No one is surprised when Roxy ends up throwing a huge party, even after Whitney explicitly warned her against this. But Roxy just wants to have fun/wants more guys around who aren’t wearing offensive red shorts/wants to drink more jungle juice. Unfortunately for both Roxy and Whitney, the cops show up because Manhattan is just like college. On the plus side, Whitney tells Roxy that she got the job at People’s Revolution.

While Whit and Roxy are becoming BFF to the max power over a tour of Whit’s apartment/roof deck, Erin and Olivia are duking it out over Olivia’s first assignment: find two outfits for the everyday woman to wear for under $75 and $25, respectively. Fact: getting a socialite to stay under budget is never going to happen, especially when that budget is $25. And when that socialite is Olivia Palermo/dumb as a box of rocks. Erin is appalled, though not surprised, that Olivia cannot perform the simplest of tasks, and the first fight of the season ensues. In my notes, I wrote “Fake?” but the way Olivia storms off and pulls her microphone off makes me think that maybe people stopped being polite and started getting real. When the two present the outfits on the Morning Show, Anne Slowey, Elle’s poor man’s Anna Wintour, makes a crack about dressing the everywoman and not dressing oneself. Cut to Olivia slinking away in some terrible, over-sized formal shorts.

So there it is. Episode one. Will Roxy and Whitney reach an agreement or will Whitney eventually brain Roxy with her bedazzled potted plant? Will Olivia and Erin ever become friends and rule the offices of Elle with their dual bitchery, or will Olivia call Nevan up and cry for hours because she’s no longer the big fish in a little pond? Will Kelly Cutrone wear a color other than black? Who will drink tequila with me? All these questions and more this season on The Shitty.