Putting the "Wa?" in The War of Northern Aggression. (Nope. That was horrible. I'm so sorry.)

First and foremost, I'd just like to give everyone a quick Joe Biden & The BFDs update: STRIDES. We are making strides, thank you.

1.) I forgot that Helena's boyfriend, Jonathan, actually plays the keyboard and guitar, so if he teaches Helena to play the keyboard and hops on guitar, we're two giant steps closer to releasing our first EP, "This Is a Big Fucking Deal".

2.) I referred to Jonathan in passing as Helena's "Tandoori Boyfriend" the other day, and while I'm not saying it wasn't slightly racist, I'm also not saying it wasn't slightly hilarious. Ergo, our new band name is Joe Biden & The BFD's, featuring Tandoori Boyfriend. Plus, if No Doubt has taught us anything, it's that it's always a good idea to get an attractive Indian guy in the mix. That and I wouldn't hate if Claire's started selling bindis again.

3.) This has nothing to do with the band, but Andrew and I got into a conversation the other day about what Camryn Manheim's been up to and thanks to my TV being muted on WE all day, I now have the answer: she's on Ghost Whisperer. K. I feel better.

4.) I also totally forgot that Laura plays the violin, which means we could get some ironic fiddle action going and ain't nothin' wrong with that. I mean, it worked for The Decemberists and Arcade Fire. That and I know for a fact she can play "The Devil Went Down to Georgia", which is a point of pride that I know all the words to. Ergo, we are now three steps closer to our first EP.

5.) I found an iphone app that teaches you to play the bass guitar. Best idea ever or BEST IDEA EVER? I'm going to my parent's house to borrow my car tomorrow and you bet your Biden I'm going to grab my bass as well. Although I highly doubt it's in tune anymore. And I don't know how to tune it. I guess I could put an ad on Craigslist for someone to come over and tune it for me? Although it might be kind of hard to play the it when I'm a lampshade... Choices. I'm going to stop typing my inner monologue now.

6.) Uh, just kidding, because in addition to Jennifer Love Hewitt, did you know that Jeremy London, a very bloated Jamie Kennedy, and Rachael Leigh Cook are on Ghost Whisperer? I feel like I just found a mass grave filled with 1998.

7.) Also, Rachel Leigh Cooke doesn't look that horrible with blond hair, which I find shocking and unfair because we have similar coloring, yet when I had blond hair I looked like a raging meth addict with a failed home daycare center.

See? Strides.

If you know me at all, you know that there are four things on my bucket list:

1.) Stand in a cranberry bog

2.) Own a confederate flag bikini

3.) Have sex in a hot tub (I'm aware of the health risks, thank you, but I'd still like to go for it.)

4.) Direct and star in a training montage set to Al Corley's "Square Rooms"

I was doing some research on #2 the other night, as you do, when I came across the most perplexing bumper sticker I have ever seen in my entire life:

I just don't get it. I JUST. DON'T. GET IT. And I don't mean that in a, "Ohhh, how could anyone put something so offensive on their car??" kind of way, I mean that I literally don't understand what message that bumper sticker is trying to convey. And it's all that I think about now. It has consumed my life. It's the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning, and the only thing I think about when I go to bed. I think about it in the shower, I think about it when I'm getting ready, I think about it when I'm riding the metro, I think about it when I'm hanging out with friends, I think about it when I'm watching TV, I think about it when I'm writing—it's completely taken over my life. Because I need to know: If you'd known what?

If I had known this. "THIS". WHAT IS THIS?! If we take away the writing, we're left with a small Battle Flag of the Confederacy in the corner of a large white plane, which is The Second Confederate Navy Ensign, or "The Stainless Banner":


So had this person know something about The Second Confederate Navy Ensign, they would have picked their own cotton? Let's just ignore that that's specifically the Stainless Banner and accept that it represents the cause of the Confederacy, right? Well, I still don't fucking get it. Because the question remains: if I had known WHAT?? Known that the South would secede from the Union? Know that they'd fail? Know that there'd be a civil war? I've been polling pretty much every single person I've come in contact with in the past week and a half, and while we've come up with some theories, I'm not really in love with any of them.

1.) My original theory was that it's an anti-Confederate bumper sticker. I thought it meant like, had I known there would be a giant civil war that would give birth to generations of bitter, racist redneck assholes, I would have picked my own cotton. Because if I had I picked my own cotton, there would have never been slavery, and if there had never been slavery, there would have never been a war, and if there had never been a war, the Confederacy would have never existed, and had the Confederacy never existed, we wouldn't have bitter, racist redneck assholes today. There are two problems with this theory, however. First, there's just something about the phrase "picked my own cotton" that doesn't feel terribly sympathetic. I feel like it's a pretty good rule of thumb in general that:

"Picked"

+

"Cotton"

+

Confederate flag

=

Also, the bumper sticker is sold on a scary, southern, I-listen-to-a-lot-of-3-Doors-Down-and-might-bring-a-gun-to-my-school-and-just-let-it-all-wash-over-me website. They sell a lot of intense-looking gun accessories, scopes, silencers, knives, bullets, and absurdly racist novelties. My personal favorite is the pack of five "FEMA Gold'n Tickets".



The front says: "Bearer of this ticket is entitled to one free house, a hot tub, a 60" plasma TV, your choice of a Volvo or BMW(may be preowned), a lifetime supply of food, all hair care products, lots O' Bling Bling, 2 voter registration cards, and grants holder permission to bitch about not git'n what they should be git'n from the govenrment. Offer Void to Republicans, Taxpayers or Any Other Productive Members of Society."

And the back: "This Ticket Will Allow The Bearer To Move To The Front Of The Welfare Line And To Get A Free Bottle Of Mad Dog 20/20 Anywhere That is Accepted!"

...OOOF. It's not not flagrantly racist. Not quite as good, but still pretty enjoyable is the Headlines From the Year 2029 poster, featuring: "Japanese scientists have created a camera with such a fast shutter speed, they can now photograph a woman with her mouth shut." HA HA, sexism.

My point being, this doesn't really seem like a website that would sell anti-Confederate anything.

2.) My parents' theory is that it's re: "uppity black people", if you will. (And I won't, but I will temporarily for the sake of sussing this out.) Like, if I had known that the slaves would be freed and become so uppity, I would have picked my own cotton. Or conversely, you could look at it in a "FEMA Gold'n Ticket" kind of way and interpret it as, if I had known that one day the slaves would be free and all our tax money would go to supporting them, I would have picked my own cotton. I mean, it works, but I'm not like, "OHHHHH, duh," you know? It doesn't click. I need it to click. (And again, I stress that my parents and I don't agree with any of this, we're just trying to get my life back.)

3.) Piggybacking off the UBP theory, what if it's an Obama thing? If you dissociate this from the rebel flag and assume that the rebel flag is only there to let us know that WARNING: shit's about to get rull racist, it could be like, if I had known that one day the slaves would be free and one of them would become the President, I would have picked my own cotton? Again, it works, but I don't think it's the winner. Mostly because rednecks aren't terribly well-versed in the art of subtlety:









4.) I was really banking on Laura having the answer because she was a history major, and in my mind that means she has the answer to everything. Her best guess was, if I had known that the South would lose and it would be a giant hot-mess, I would have picked my own cotton. And...yeah, I guess. But again, it doesn't quite hit the spot.

So then I took a page from my own book and decided to do what I did when I couldn't figure out what "hit the switch" meant in Dr. Dre's "Xxplosive": I emailed a webmaster.

To whom it may concern: 

I'm putting together a care package for my brother who's fighting overseas in Afghanistan and I just want to clarify the meaning of one of your bumper stickers. Can you tell me what: "If I had known this, I would have picked my own cotton," means? We are from South Carolina and he has lots of Southern pride, so I just want to be sure the guys over there will like it. Again my email is meghan.c.xxxxxxx@gmail.com. 

God bless! 

- Meghan

And to my shock, those assholes totally didn't email me back! Which doesn't make sense because that email had everything: a brother overseas, The Troops, Afghanistan, South Carolina, Southern pride, "over there", God bless!—COME ON! So basically my well-crafted email to a small Internet boutique owner failed miserably, whereas the email I sent to Dr. Dre's webmaster in 2002 saying, "Hi, Meg here. I'm a big Dre. Dre fan, but I can't figure out what 'hit the switch' means and it's driving me crazy. Please advise," actually got results. There is just so much I don't understand in this world...

So I'm turning to you, Internetz. What the hell does that bumper sticker mean?! Crack the code and I'll give you a free SOLD OUT Sorr About the Bag tote bag. Good luck and God speed. In the mean time, I'll be researching something I can actually wrap my head around—cranberry bogs and hot tubs.

Kicking off the year right with some sweet, hot FAQ-ing

Q: Well, well, well...look what the cat dragged in.

A: Sigh. I guess I deserved that. Hello again to you.

Q: Where have you been?

A: It was the holidays! We were on vacation!

Q: Do you think you really do enough around here to warrant a "vacation"?

A: I have my productive moments here and there, thank you.

Q: I'm going to move on because it's the New Year and I'm feeling forgiving.

A: And I thank you for it.

Q: So how was your little vacation?

A: Not bad, thanks.

Q: What did you and Chris do?

A: Chris did a lot of jet-setting, I got heinously sick, almost died, slowly bounced back, and watched a lot of House Hunters International on my parent's couch.

Q: Sounds about right. You ever going to get your tonsils out?

A: You ever going to start your own blog like you're always talking about?

Q: ..............Touché. Speaking of your parents, how are Rich and Di?

A: Uh, incredibly sick of me, I'm sure.

Q: Why?

A: I divided my time at their house evenly between following my mom around and asking her for "hugsies", shouting colorful racial slurs at Evie, and making fun of my dad's Panamanian Relaxation Room.

Q: Well you just sound like a little treat, don't you? No wonder you're single.

A: IT'S A LIFESTYLE CHOICE.

Q: Well I just don't have the physical or emotional strength to touch that comment with a 30-foot pole, so let's just get down to brass tacks, shall we? Three fiscal quarters ago you said you guys had some big news. What gives?

A: We do have big news! And we can finally tell you! Chris and I are writing a book!

Q: What, like just for funsies?

A: No, like for realzies. Like someone is paying us.

Q: In Confederate dollars?

A: NOPE, get this—in American dollars. Like, legal tender.

Q: STFU!

A: I know, right?!

Q: I can't believe you didn't tell us sooner, a-hole!

A: I know! I wanted to, but we couldn't for legal reasons. But if it makes you feel any better, I swear I was thinking about you the entire time, baby.

Q: Were you really?

A: No. Well, some of the time. Mostly I was just thinking about which utilities usually get shut off first so I know in what order to pay my bills.

Q: What came out on top?

A: Cable and Internet.

Q: You really struggle with that one, don't you?

A: I really do.

Q: How much do you pay a month, if you don't mind me asking?

A: I refuse to tell you because I'm fully aware of how astronomically high it is and I don't want another lecture.

Q: You know, if you call Comcast and ask them what they can do to lower your bill, they're usually pretty helpful.

A: So I've been told.

Q: So why don't you just do it?

A: Honestly? Because it sounds like a giant pain in the ass and a huge hassle and like a conversation I don't want to have and I just...can't. There it is. I just can't.

Q: So, it's easier to wait for a book deal to come along than to have a 20-minute phone conversation with—

A: Please just get back to questions about the book. I'm begging you.

Q: So will this be another literary treat from the fine people at Olney Elementary School Press?

A: No! We were approached by a legit publisher, if you can believe that.

Q: Well, frankly I can't, so let's name names.

A: We're very excited to be working with Adams Media.

Q: What else have they published?

A: UHHH, just a little slice of the American Literary Pie called Why Men Love Bitches. No big deal.


Q: So what's your book? Why Men Love Lazy, Apathetic Bloggers?

A: No. Mostly because I've discovered that they do not, but we are writing a tong-in-cheek guide to life for misanthropes.

Q: What's a misanthrope?

A: Well, you'll just have to wait and buy our book to find out. And/or Google it.

Q: Per Wikipedia: Misanthropy is generalized dislike, distrust, disgust, contempt or hatred of the human species, human nature, or society. A misanthrope is someone who holds such views or feelings.

Well, they certainly came to the right people.

A: That's what I said!

Q: I don't mean to rain on your little parade here, but do you think it's flattering that when they needed an author for a book about misanthropes, they came to you?

A: Here's the thing, I'm honestly not an anti-social person. In fact, I think I'm incredibly social! I'm just social with people I deem worthy of being social with. It's everyone else who can go to hell.

Q: Yeah...I think you just defined "misanthrope" right there.

A: Well, either way, I'm excited and it's been fun to write.

Q: How much progress have you guys made thus far?

A: We've written a chapter and some other stuffs.

Q: You've written a chapter and "some other stuffs", she says. Watch out David Sedaris.

A: Alright, alright...pipe down.

Q: So you've joined the ranks of blogs-turned-books, 'eh?

A: Well, not really. The book is going to be 100% new material and has nothing to do with the blog, except that we're writing it.

Q: If I liked the blog, will I like the book?

A: Well, I stress again that we only have a chapter and some other...works, but yes, from what we have so far, I think you will. I wrote a pretty solid Olive Garden joke last night that I was particularly proud of.

Q: If I hate your blog, will I like the book?

A: Ah, sure.

Q: How's the collaboration with Chris going?

A: For two people who "don't work well with others", absurdly well!

Q: O0o0ooo00ooo! Think there's any chance that this project will rekindle some old romantic flames?

A: Probably not.

Q: Why?

A: Because he's a homosexual and I'm still stalking John Larroquette.

Q: And how's that going for you?

A: Not...well.

Q: While I applaud you for getting a book deal, I'm scared that you're going to go the way of so many blogs-turned-books and stop posting all together.

A: What do you care, I thought you didn't like us?

Q: I don't, but that doesn't mean I don't read you everyday.

A: Wait...are you Mike?

Q: No, I'm your subconscious.

A: ARE THEY ONE IN THE SAME?! Is "Mike" the manifestation of my innermost fears and anxieties about my writing?

Q: No, I'm pretty sure he's a real person with a large amount of time on his hands and decent Internet access.

A: Great, you just opened the flood gates for an obnoxious comment re: that statement.

Q: Well, someones got to keep him from jerking off in the bathroom. Now answer the question.

A: We won't stop posting. Girl Scout's honor. 2b1b isn't going anywhere.

Q: That doesn't inspire much confidence; we all know you were a piss-poor Girl Scout.

A: I swear on Friar Tuck's Key of Technology that we'll keep posting.

Q: And I'll take it! Are you putting the book out in your pen name or real name?

A: Real name.

Q: Oh shit, so you're outing yourself?

A: Yep.

Q: So what's your real last name?

A: Well I'm not going to tell you now!

Q: Why not? Gotta do it some time.

A: I don't know...this just seems so...anti-climactic.

Q: We're outing your last name, not finding Osama.

A: I don't know. It feels weird.

Q: Well, when's the book coming out?

A: I'm not entirely sure, but we'll obviously keep you posted.

Q: Can you come to my town for a book signing slash hang-out session??

A: We'd love to! But I'm not sure how that works yet. You can always shoot us an email and we'll forward it to our editor so he knows what's up.

Q: It's going to be embarrassing when no one does that.

A: MIKE!

Q: So now that you finally got a book deal, is this the end of the old Meggles as we know it? Are you up there on your high-horse, all too good for your shit-show of a life now?

A: Well, considering since getting said book deal I've had not one, but two credit cards denied at a walk-in clinic and recently paid for a tall Earl Grey tea at Starbucks with, I shit you not, a Ziploc bag full of nickels and dimes so I could mooch off their wi-fi, I'd say no, I don't think much has really changed. I'm pretty sure I'm still not even on a horse, nevertheless a particularly high one.

Q: Good. Because I like you down there in the mud.

A: Well, here I shall be if you need me.

Q: So I'll see you here tomorrow?

A: I w...ouldn't have it any other way.

Q: ...You were going to say, "I wish I could quit you," weren't you?

A: Is that "over"? That's over, right?

Q: Yeah. It's a little 2005.

A: So what's the 2011 equivalent?

Q: I don't know. You're the one people pay to be funny.

A: I will........see....you..tomorrow.

Q: Can't wait for the book, Meg.

You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?: The Tiny Ginger-Bitch Edition

Ooof. Two YKWRMF? features in two weeks, huh? What isn't ruffling my feathers these days? (UH, ANSWER: my sexy, new two-man band with Helena—Joe Biden & The BFDs. Helena's on keyboard, I'm on bass and lead vocals. It's no big deal. Except that it is in every possible way and it's all that I'm living for right now. Although I don't know if "gigging" is going to be a realistic option for us. As far as I know Helena doesn't play the anything and while I've done some mean community musical theater in my day, the extent of my bass experience begins and ends with getting one for my 20th birthday (I was going through a heavy Doobie Brothers phase at the time and was really into, quote the many emails I sent my dad in April 2005, their "sick bass lines"), posing with it in the mirror, and attempting to play it once when I took a shower at the height of having mono, subsequently thought I was going to die, curled up on the floor, and just strummed it for a while until I felt alive enough to put some pants on. So if we do gig, it might involve partial nudity and a whole lot of "What a Fool Believes". And you know what? You're welcome.)

Remember last week when I said that there are two things I can talk about forever—spit in porn and the moral reprehensibility of TLC's 19 Kids and Counting? Well, I lied. There are three things I can talk about forever, and although this past weekend was all about helping my sister, I think I spent the majority of it talking about the third. I talked about it on the party bus to the rehearsal dinner, I talked about it at the rehearsal dinner, I talked about it in the salon getting ready with the bridal party, I talked about it at the actual wedding... But Lord knows Becca wasn't mad! You know why? Because she agrees with me! In fact, I have yet to meet a single person who doesn't agree with the following statement: You know what ruffles my feathers? The Food Network's Throwdown! with Bobby Flay.

I've never said that to someone and had them been like, "Oh, really? Bobby Flay seems like a really great guy and that show is just great." It's always, "Ugh, Bobby Flay is a douchebag and that show sucks." And you know what? Good! Because I think that just reflects what high-caliber people I surround myself with on a daily basis. Much like how my Thrillhouse tattoo is a litmus test of whether or not I'd like to continue having a conversation with you, your opinion of Throwdown! with Bobby Flay is indicative of whether you fucking suck or not. Because I don't care if you're Cillian Murphy's twin brother with a genetic disorder that makes your dick ejaculate candy corn and rent money; if you like Throwdown! with Bobby Flay, we're done here.

If you've never seen Throwdown! with Bobby Flay before, you are sincerely a better person for it. But for the sake of clarity, here's an excerpt from the show's Wikipedia page:

Throwdown! with Bobby Flay is a Food Network television program in which celebrity chef Bobby Flay challenges cooks renowned for a specific dish or type of cooking to a cook-off of their signature dish. At the beginning of each show, Flay receives – via bicycle messenger – a package detailing the chef he is to compete against as well as the dish. Examples of opponents include a skilled chili maker or a famous wedding cake designer. After practicing and preparing the item in question, Flay shows up for a surprise competition (or "Throwdown"). During the competition, both chefs prepare their particular version of the dish, and both are then evaluated by local judges to determine a winner.

Well, thank you, Wikipedia. That was very eloquent. But here's how Throwdown! with Bobby Flay really works: 

First and foremost, per my sister, the show should actually just be called: FUCK YOU, I'M BOBBY FLAY! And every week on FUCK YOU, I'M BOBBY FLAY!, Bobby Flay leaves New York to go to Small-Town America where he finds an old woman who, as the Nazis were dragging her out of her family's cottage in Soskut, managed to grab the stock-splattered recipe card for her grandmother's famous goulash in her young, trembling fingers and clutch it tightly to her breast for the remainder of the war, so someday it could be passed down to her children, and her children's children, and her children's children's children, to keep those simple country days around her grandmother's hearth alive. And once he finds her, Bobby Flay turns to the camera, lets out a sinister laugh, holds up a fake moustache to his cold, pale lip, and knocks on her door to inform her that she and her goulash recipe are going to be featured on a new Food Network show about Hungarian Family Cooking. Filled with excitement and pride, the old woman then tells everyone she meets from the pharmacist to the paperboy that she and her goulash—her world famous goulash!—are going to be on a show on the Food Network and that they must come over to watch the taping and have a bowl. A week later, it's the big day. As the old woman stands over the giant pot of boiling noodles, gently fingering the delicate gold filigree on the broach affixed to her freshly pressed blouse and thinking of her bubby, Bobby Flay bursts through the wall like a carrot-flavored Kool-Aid guy, shouts, "FUCK YOU, I'M BOBBY FLAY!" and repeatedly rapes her until her friends and family admit that his goulash is better than hers is, or will ever be, and she was a senile, old whore for thinking otherwise. And that is what Throwdown! with Bobby Flay is.

Sort of.

And aside from the blatant grandma-raping and disrespect for Holocaust survivors, it irritates me on the following levels:

1.) Every single time I watch this show, I find myself wondering the same thing—how small is your penis, Bobby Flay? How small is your penis that you feel the need to be on a television show where you travel around the country, reminding chefs who don't have 10 restaurants, nine books, seven TV shows, and a weekly Sirius XM radio show that you're better than them? How small are we talking here? Less than three inches? I mean, does it function at all? Because judging from the mom and pop chefs you force into competing with you, my guess is not.

2.) I find the level of trickery involved in this show to be insulting and cruel. Per Wikipedia:

Each show includes a mini-biography about the chef who is to be challenged, shown before the challenge takes place. The content for the biography is actually collected as part of an elaborate ruse or setup, where the chef or cook is told that they are going to be featured on a fictitious Food Network show. As part of the show, the featured chef (and their associated restaurant, if any) hosts a small party, which is then unexpectedly "crashed" by Bobby Flay. Upon Flay's arrival, he reveals the true nature of the show, and the "Throwdown" is initiated.

I just don't understand what's stopping him from calling ahead of time and being like, "Hi, I'm Bobby Flay. I heard you make a mean lasagna—let's do a Throwdown."? Why does there have to be an element of surprise? I mean, these are people's signature dishes made from recipes passed down from generation to generation; it's not like they're going to perfect or change it in the week leading up to the Throwdown. Thus, I have two theories on why Bobby needs it:

a.) Because if they were aware ahead of time that they'll be going head-to-head with Bobby Flay in a cooking challenge, the show would just be Iron Chef America, which already exists and already sucks. Plus, the chefs Flay goes head-to-head with on Throwdown! are nowhere near as accomplished as those on Iron Chef America, so basically Bobby Flay tricks small-town successful chefs into being on Iron Chef vs. Homely Chef: Bobby's Gonna Sleep Gooooood Tonight, which is cruel and brings us directly back to point number one.

b.) He gets off on how starstruck everyone gets when he crashes the party. And I hate it. It's the worst part of the entire show. The small-town chef is hard at work making his specialty and you can tell he's shitting himself because he's pretended so many times in the kitchen that he was on his own Food Network show and now he really is and everyone is so proud of him, and all of a sudden Bobby Flay walks in all, "Heard someone was making fettuccine! Ha ha, yes, yes, it's me, Bobby Flay. Very exciting, I know. But seriously, let's all just calm down." Just once I want Bobby Flay to walk in and have the other chef be like, "Are you serious? I have to cook with that asshole?" Like, if Chelsea Handler were to kick in my front door right now and be like, "Meg, I'm a better female comedy writer than you are," I don't think I'd get all teary-eyed and profusely thank her for coming. I'd be like, "Hi, I'm not wearing any pants and your obsession with little people genuinely weirds me out. Please leave." I mean, seeing famous people is cool and all, but so is not being the grown man who got the shakes upon being in the same room as Bobby Flay.

3.) Bobby Flay's professional advantages are laughably unfair:

In the Food Network's test kitchen, Flay and his two sous-chefs (Stephanie Banyas and Miriam Garron) experiment and prepare the particular dish, often opting for a variant of the dish. The format of the show does not edit or disguise Flay's lack of knowledge of technique regarding cooking for the challenge. He often makes use of New York City-area experts to teach him basic techniques.

Seriously? His "lack of knowledge of technique regarding cooking for the challenge"? He's a fucking Iron Chef; shouldn't he be able to handle cooking a bundt cake without needing to raise Julia Child from the dead and slowly feed her Giada De Laurentiis' brains until she gives up her ace-in-the-hole recipes?

4.) He's a total asshole to both of his assistants and you can tell they totally want to jump his bones. They do that girl thing where they pretend to get all pissy and put a hand on one of their hips and say, "BOB-BAYYYY" while trying not to smile and squirt on the camera. I get that chefs are kind of assholes in general and I'm not not saying that I've had a fantasy where Gordon Ramsay puts a bag over my head and hits it from behind while calling me his little piggy, but seriously ladies? Bobby Flay? This may sound antifeminist, but my sugartits really belong in the kitchen it's sexy when a guy's an asshole to you because he's powerful and confident, not because he's worried that if he got into a culinary dick-measuring contest with your grandma, he'd come up three inches short.

5.) He just adds Chipotle flavoring to everything. I mean, for fuck's sake.

6.) There are eight seasons of this horseshit! EIGHT! Which means we live in a world where Clone High got cancelled after one season to make room for Punk'd; Arrested Development got cancelled after three; Undeclared after one; and Party Down after two, but we, as a people and a Nation, agreed that we needed EIGHT seasons of FUCK YOU, I'M BOBBY FLAY?? Fuck George W. Bush; we should be embarrassed when we go abroad because of that.

7.) His daughter and I share an April 16th birthday, which just makes me wish I had been aborted.

8.) I swear to God, there's an episode of Throwdown! that starts with The Flay sitting around one of his restaurants, nonchalantly autographing a giant pile of his BBQ books, sipping wine, and listening to jaunty jazz music for a solid ten seconds before he's finally interrupted by the bike messenger with that week's challenge. And I was just about to say, "what kind of an asshole has the balls to insert that disgusting a level of self-promotion in an already impressively egotistical show," but...you know, Bobby Flay.

But do you know the part that really kills me? He'll always win. Maybe not on the show, but in the Throwdown of Life that is Meg McBlogger vs. Bobby Flay, Flay wins every time. Because despite the fact that I think this show is an epic shit-stain on the underwear of Humanity, I watch it every single time it's on. I can't know that it's on and not watch it. And it doesn't make any sense, I know! If I hate it this much, I just should not watch it! BUT I CAN'T! I PHYSICALLY CAN'T!

And that's when I realized that I'm Throwdown! with Bobby Flay's Mike. If you're active in the 2birds1blog comments, you know that Mike is our resident reader who vocally hates us, yet insists on not only coming back to read us every single day, but be an active member of the 2b1b community. And up until now, I never got Mike. I always thought, "Nobody's strapping you down in a seat, putting hooks in your eyes and forcing you to read our free blog, A Clockwork Orange style, Mike. If we piss you off that much, just stop reading." BUT I GET IT NOW:

Meg McBlogger is to Throwdown! with Bobby Flay

as

Mike is to Meg McBlogger

Which of course begs the question: what does Mike think of Throwdown! with Bobby Flay?

Logic dictates that he should like it, and yet, for some reason, I'm dubious. For the first time ever, I look forward to your comments, sir.

(Attn: Helena:

)

Tulane Chris and the Christmas Spirit

[Before we get to today's Tulane Chris post, I have a few items of housekeeping:

1.) I will pay you 10 whole American dollars if you write a brief, funny and heartfelt maid of honor speech, stuff a sleeping bag into your bra, strap on a wig and deliver it as me tomorrow night at my sister's wedding. Because right now all I've got is an open Word document with the lyrics to "This is How We Do It" in comically large font.

2.) I'm kind of buzzed and it's all because

3.) This is how we do it.

4.) Our big announcement had to be moved to next week. (Hint: It's not not that Tulane Chris is gay.)

5.) Every time I remember that my dress isn't back from the tailor's yet and tomorrow's the wedding, my stomach drops directly into my asshole and a few more years are shaved off my life.

6.) Washing down a painkiller with a glass of champagne before the wedding ceremony is a good idea, or isn't a good idea? Advise.

7.) What if it's half a painkiller?

8.) Happy T.G.I. Hagman!

As of December 17, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! And has these words of wisdom for my sister and her fiance:

"A marriage is like a salad: the man has to know how to keep his tomatoes on the top." - JR Ewing ("Dallas" #13.24)

I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I am sure I'd like it read aloud by a loved one at my hypothetical future wedding. OK, I'm going to go google public speaking tips and continue to not eat anything. Have a great weekend and yay Becca and Geoff!!! Take it away, Chris.] 

As you may have imagined, I’m not a big holiday person. If I were in charge of the calendar, we’d only celebrate Repeal Day (the American drinking holiday), St. Patrick’s Day (the Americans-pretending-to-be-Irish drinking holiday), Cinco de Mayo (the Americans-pretending-to-be-Mexicans drinking holiday), and Simchat Torah (the little-celebrated Orthodox Jews drinking holiday.) For some reason, though, this year was an exception. I was really looking forward to going home for Christmas, pouring some mulled wine into Mom, and making Texas-themed nativity scenes out of construction paper to confuse nearby children.

“This is, uh… Leroy, the Christmas Jackalope. He carried Mary’s bags out to the stable. He tried to get ice, but the machine was broken.”

I even bought a poinsettia, which looked very festive for the three days it lived. Today, thought, I made a mistake fatal to my newfound Christmas cheer: I left the house.

Is it Christmas or cold weather that makes street preachers emerge? They were everywhere today, like a swarm of devout locusts. In the ten or so blocks I walked, I saw:

-       A man holding a book in the air and hollering. I assumed it was a Bible and he was hollering about Christianity, but it could as easily have been a Harlequin romance in a Bible cover. I could only make out the words “Jesus Christ”: “Manamah bok-tu wah boh! Jesus Christ! Fo-tah-nah boh Jesus Christ! Rama-lama-ding-dong Jesus Christ!” He was either from outer space, or had received the attentions of a very devout, very distractible speech therapist.

-       A man wearing a hand-lettered sandwich board about how Ireland had declared war on the United Kingdom. I didn’t know if he meant in 1916 and just wanted to be sure we were all up to speed, or if he was part of a new “Al-Jazeera – Streetcorner Madman Edition.” He was handing out pamphlets and I badly wanted one, but… you know. Cooties.

-       Some guy handing out copies of the Watchtower. Now, my understanding of Jehovah’s Witnesses is that they believe that only 144,000 people will go to Heaven. I don’t consider myself a bad person, per se, but I’m reasonably sure I’m not one of the 144,000 best people who ever lived. (Best in bed, sure. Best at Yahtzee, you bet. But overall best, no.) Also, I’m reasonably sure there have been 144,000 Jehovah’s Witnesses by now, so isn’t joining that church kind of like buying a ticket for yesterday’s lottery?

-       The Israelite PDKU (or similar.) Every weekend, four or so black men set up a little stage and loudspeaker somewhere on Market Street and explain how Jews aren’t really Jews, they’re the Jews, Jesus was the Antichrist, and women should stay in the home while the menfolk go out and kill Whitey. I’m more upset by the shouting than the implied race war.

So, I managed to get to Old Navy still a lapsed Anglican. Barely, though – coming to home to a hot meal and a blow job after a hard day killing Whitey does have its appeal. I had a spat with some bitch in the checkout line. Now, on Earth, time proceeds in a linear fashion. Night follows day, spring follows winter, and you wait your turn in line. As I was checking out, the next two women in line behind me interrupted the cashier to try to return things without a receipt. Woman A took no for an answer, but Woman B, a homely little number, would not.

Woman A: “Can I change this size without a receipt?”

Cashier: “I’m sorry, but no.”

Woman A: “Okay.”

Woman B (Homelina von Shrew): “How about for a different color?”

Cashier: “Not without a receipt.”

Homelina von Shrew: “Just a quick exchange?”

Cashier: “We’re not allowed, I’m sorry.”

HvS: “Just… can I just switch these tags here?”

Cashier: “No, I’m sorry, not without a receipt.”

HvS: “I can’t just trade this?”

Tulane Chris: “I’m sorry, I’m trying to check out. She said no.”

HvS: “Well! Merry Christmas to you too!”

She flounced out of the store before I could poke out her eye with the receipt spindle. Now, explain this to me: she interrupts my transaction to harass the cashier, won’t take no for an answer, puts the cashier in an awkward position, and I’m the asshole? Why am I not “in the Christmas spirit” if I don’t think she should get to line-jump and nag? Should I have handed her a cup of hearty Christmas ale and bought her the sweater she wanted? Is that festive? Is that Christmasy enough for you? After that we can go home, light a nice toasty fire with all our receipts, and call 911 to bring us cheeseburgers. They won’t mind! It’s Christmas.

So, increasingly sour, I went to the fancy soap store to buy a gift box for my grandmother’s new pug. Ultimately, I’ve spent more money on his gifts than those for my human family and friends: in addition to the dog bath gift set I bought at the soap store, he’s also getting a pack of rawhide candy canes and a chewable platypus with removable squeaky eggs. (The idea is that the dog learns to claw the eggs out, which gets more disturbing every time I think of it.) The dog gift box features shampoo, “paw balm,” and a dry rub which I was severely cautioned about:

Soap Man: “That dry rub is to be used sparingly.”

Tulane Chris: “Okay.”

Soap Man: “It’s got cornmeal in it.”

Tulane Chris: “Okay.” (Cornmeal? I’m not going to fry the dog…)

Soap Man: “You don’t want to overload its fur with it.”

Tulane Chris: “Okay?”

Soap Man: “Put it in your hand first, then rub it on the dog. Especially on its neck. You don’t want to use a lot. It’s just to get the stink out.”

Maybe I’m just a prude, but when I think about “getting the stink out” of an animal, my first thought is not “better put cornmeal on its neck.” I use an old-fashioned Southern remedy called “brush its teeth and wash its ass.” Also, I bought it and I’ll do what I want with it. If I want to rub it on my own neck, I’ll damn well do it. If I want to whip it up with an egg and spread it on the dog and let it dry into a crust and carefully crack it off and pour wax into it and make a wax model of the pug, I will. Dammit.

Then I went to the liquor store. If anything could revive my holiday cheer… but it was not to be. As I approached, a man going in politely held the door for an older man coming out, then let it slam in my face. You know what’s great about liquor stores? Liquor. You know what a side effect of that is? No children. So why did a woman bring her screaming toddler into the liquor store? “Come, Tansy. Let’s go annoy the drunks. It’s Christmas.” Also, why do people with screaming children approach the problem in one of two completely ineffective ways: by doing nothing, or by yelling at the child? Let’s plot it out:

Child makes noise -> ignore it -> child continues to make noise until distracted by snail.

Child makes noise -> yell at child -> child makes more noise to drown out adult.

It continued. At the pharmacy, the pharmacist hollered a question about my “narcotics” (generic Ritalin) to his co-worker across the room, in front of a line of several people. The “burrito technician” at Qdoba winked at me and said, “See you tomorrow,” which means I can never go there again. He apparently has me confused with someone who does go there every day, which means I look like someone who goes to the burrito store every day, which implies horrible things. Either that, or he’s going to break into my apartment. I’m okay with that as long as he brings a sprig of holly – after all, it’s Christmas.

Roommates

My apartment has “central heating” in the same way Soviet Russia had “central planning.” They wouldn’t turn it on in the fall until one of my neighbors threatened, so they’ve retaliated by having it on high most of the time. The temperature in my apartment is now 85 degrees, so I’m sitting in my underwear with all the windows open. I’m free to do this because I have no roommates.

I can’t imagine ever having a roommate again. (Roommate as opposed to choosing to live with someone, that is.) I’ve had terrible luck with roommates of convenience, whom I like to describe with nicknames in the pattern [mental state] [ethnicity] – the Simple-Minded Yankee, the Furious Jew, and the Mad Samoan.

My relationship with the Simple-Minded Yankee was doomed from the start:

My grandmother: “Do you know your roommate yet?”

Not-yet-Tulane Chris: “We’ve exchanged emails. He’s from Chicago…”

My grandmother: “Oh, Chris. A yankee.”

………

My mother: “Did you find out about your roommate?”

Me: “Yes, he’s from Chicago. I think he…”

My mother: “Oh, a yankee. Well, you can probably change at the semester.”

………

My aunt: “I hear your roommate’s from Chicago.”

Me: “Yes, Mom and Grandmother both said…”

My aunt: “A yankee. Bring plastic wrap, you know how they are.”

They were right to be cautious. “Todd” was the ugliest person I’ve ever met in real life, by a substantial margin – whatever you’re imaging, it’s not bad enough; my normally unflappable father noticeably recoiled when he came into the room. I try not to judge people by their looks, much preferring to judge them by their stationery and TV-watching habits, but homeboy was busted like a six-dollar watch. Todd brought exactly one book to college: Awesome Abs.  His primary word was “dude,” pronounced “d00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000d,” like a dying wildebeest hoping to mate one last time before the lions close in. He was an enormous prude and a general nightmare to be around. I used to pretend to be asleep when I heard him come in so I wouldn’t have to talk to him; this often resulted in my actually falling asleep and waking up hours later, completely disoriented. He referred to getting drunk as “getting shitty,” which disgusted me. He pronounced it “ssshhhhitty,” which made it, of course, infinitely worse. Once, when I was terribly sick with mono and half dozing, he thought I was more asleep than I was – and sprayed me with a cloud of Lysol. I waited until he was gone for the evening and licked every possession of his I could stand to have near my face, but his illiterate cold-weather immune system would not succumb.

The next year, I roomed with a friend, which started out just fine: we were both messy, nocturnal, and didn’t like having people over. Over the summer, “Adam” had had a religious awakening. Most people experiment with drugs and sex in college, and for once I swam with the tide; Adam had decided to experiment with Lubavitch Judaism. He was technically Jewish, but had been raised as a Christmas agnostic as a compromise between his occasionally devout Baptist father and Soviet-atheist but ethnically Jewish mother, who has the distinction of being the most interesting person I have ever met. I’ll tell you about her in a future post.

So, as our sophomore year of college wore on, Adam got more and more... aggressively Jewish. IT was all very educational and novel at first, but then, as with many conversions, the initial excitement gave way to an obsession with rules. I got In Trouble for Ham Day, despite keeping the entire ham on my side of the room. He started rigging the door not to lock so he wouldn’t be using a tool on the Sabbath. (My suggestion that he stop being a tool the rest of the week didn’t go over well.) He started observing all the holidays, including the little-known drinking holiday Simchat Torah. He’d been so staid recently that it took me a while to understand:

Adam (entering): Heeeeeeeeeeeee hee hee.

Me: Are you all right?

Adam (lying in the center of the floor): HEEEEEEEEEEE hee hee.

Me: Did you… do you have meningitis? Try to move your neck.

Adam: Heee. No. Drunk. Torah.

Me: That could mean anything.

Adam: Simchat Torah. It commemorates G-d giving us the Torah, so we might… HEE hee hee. Grace in His eyes. We celebrate with drinking.

Me: “We,” Jews, or “we,” you and a family-size bottle of Turning Leaf?

Adam: Turning Leaf isn’t kosher. Manischewitz Triple Berry Trouble. With a straw. Hee.

Matters drew to a head the day before Passover, when we had a “discussion” about what behaviors were reasonable at 2 A.M.

Me: I’m going to sleep.

Adam: I’m going to vacuum.

Me: Nope.

Adam: It’s Passover. I have to vacuum.

Me: I don’t think you’ve ever vacuumed before in your life. Try experimenting with some nice, quiet dusting.

Adam: No, but there are bread crumbs.

Me: They’ll be there in the morning.

Adam: Right, but Passover… I’m vacuuming.

Me: THE ANGEL OF DEATH DOES NOT HAVE A MONOPOLY ON KILLING FIRSTBORN SONS, AS YOU WILL DISCOVER IF YOU TURN ON THAT VACUUM.

Adam: Infidel.

Me: Sleepy infidel.

(Yes, I know Passover begins at sundown and I assume he did too. I don’t know why he wanted to vacuum at two.) I tried to paper over the misunderstanding the next day with a light-hearted prank:

Adam: Did you put blood on the doorposts and lintel?

Me: Well, ketchup. You didn’t have any Passover decorations up, and I thought…

Adam: That’s not funny.

Me: I’m afraid it is.

Adam: I respect your religious heritage.

Me: You ran a betting pool on the Papal election called “White Smoke, Green Cash!”

Adam: Are you still pissed about losing? I told you, you had to beat the spread.

After this interlude, I managed to live alone until I finished college and moved to New Zealand for a few months. I stayed in a hostel for a while, but then some Argentineans moved in and started having all-night drum-and-sings, so I looked for apartments. The first one I looked at was old, isolated, grubby, and had several posters of German castles Scotch-taped to the wall, so I was sold. The landlady was a kind of odd Samoan woman in her late forties named Teresa Burnside, who, as I discovered, lived there.

She was crazy as a shithouse rat.

She was paranoid, largely about the water company. According to her, the water company “pushed water through the pipes” so that our water heater overflowed and raised our bill, which she combatted by strictly rationing the hot water. The third roommate, a very nice Canadian girl, and I had to tell her when we planned to shower in advance so she could know how long to have the water on. Later, when the washing machine “broke” (it worked fine for me but she thought it was broken) she couldn’t decide whether to blame me or the water company, so she yelled at us both. Then when she bought a new washing machine, she asked me if I knew anyone with a van I could borrow. I said I didn’t, which was true, and she accused me of lying and shouted at me for five minutes. She also shouted at me for:

-       coming in the back door, which I hadn’t done

-       being annoyed when she rented out the living room to a stranger

-       accidentally using her bowl

-       not doing my laundry by dissolving the detergent in a little cup of hot water I had heated in the electric kettle

-       not remembering to unplug the microwave, turn off the outlet switch, and prop the microwave door open

-       because there were ants in the compost

She saved all her eggshells in a plastic bag in the pantry, and decorated the kitchen with a government-issued illustrated guide to the food groups for Pacific Islanders, complete with boiled pig’s head. I had a bottle of gin in the freezer which she referred to as “whiskey,” which she thought was very exotic. She offered to ask her family on Samoa if I could stay with them, “they would probably even let you borrow a lavalava, but they might not, because they’re still mad at me for missing the last family reunion. I don’t care. I’ve been to Samoa. I want to go somewhere else if I’m going anywhere.” Like a pecan log, she had an odd sweetness under the nuts. She made delicious pumpkin soup to share, and we watched an eclipse together. Since I’ll never see her again this side of the veil, I have the freedom to remember her almost fondly.

Now that I have my own apartment, I’m free of roommate drama. All I know about my neighbors, moving from my end of the hall toward the elevator, is:

The Russian girl occasionally gets laid

The girl on her other side slams the door all the time

The Chinese guy on her other side is a reasonably talented jazz trumpet player.

They may not give me material for a post, but at least they don’t talk to me.