I swear to God I'll write the book now.

Email
From: Ex Co-Blogger Chris
To: Meg
Subject: no words
I don't want to say this picture made me think of you, but I'm not NOT saying that. I don't know if it's a compliment or not...but maybe you might want to lay off talking about Evie.

From: Meg
To: Ex Co-Blogger Chris
Subject: re: no words

Dear Christopher,

That's sick.

Love,
Meg (& Evie)

Meg's Internet is still out...but OXYGEN BARS ARE IN!!!1

Oof. Doesn’t it suck to have Christmas right after the semester is over? Ideally I’d have about a week of ‘Quil Time and writing to recharge between the two, but instead I essentially had to finish my schoolwork and immediately start Doing Holidays. I spent the night before I left cleaning my apartment, so that if the plane falls out of the sky and I die, whoever goes through my things won’t judge me too harshly.

I don’t handle flight well. I don’t really believe in the science behind it, and as I’ve gotten older I’ve really grown to fear being a victim in a group tragedy. Can you imagine Meg, my parents, and Giant Camel at a candlelight vigil for me, swaying? I can, and it’s not rosy:

Meg: “Look! Evie’s holding a candle! Eeeeeevie. Sleeeeevie. Eeeeeevers.”

Mom: “Oh, you think it sucks so much being dead? Try staying behind and having to hear about how this tragedy drew the community together.”

Dad: “God, this is an awful crowd. Why is everyone rocking gently? This is profoundly uncomfortable.”

Giant Camel: “Where is the beer guy? Don’t they come around at these?”

So therefore, I like to “Xan out” on airplanes. It’s a matter of delicate timing to take the right amount of Xanax at the right time so that you pass out directly after fastening your seatbelt. I’ve gotten pretty sharp at it over the years, although I’m less precise about taking an amount that will wear off over the course of the flight. I’m the calmest person you’ve ever seen at a baggage claim.

Overall it was a very nice and not terribly bloggable Christmas.

Except for the purse.

My mother’s principal gift to me this year… was a purse. Not a “murse,” not a man-bag, not a billfold. A straight-up woman’s purse in a “Lucy and Ethel” print.

Did you know that shock looks a lot like gratitude? I was staring, open-mouthed, at my Christmas Lucy Purse, and she just burbled away: “Oh, I knew you’d like it. It has Lucy on it.”

So, I have a purse, now. I’ll be carrying it through Kensington later.

Anyway, purse aside, it was a nice reasonable Christmas with few crises. I went to San Francisco for New Year’s, which was nice. I bought a ring with a human tooth set in it which I proceeded to leave in California, but it’s the whizz of a ring. I’m itching to get into a fight and sock someone with it, once it gets mailed to me.

I also tried two hippie-dippy thing I assumed I’d hate: “candlelight yoga,” and an oxygen bar. The yoga was much better than I’d feared – there was a lot of “breathe in the good vibes” and “om”ing, which I refuse to do. I’m about as Buddhist as I am telekinetic, and I think it’s rude and silly to “om” in that context. I don’t expect Buddhists who to preface games of cricket or bouts of emotional repression with the phrase “according to the ancient rites of the Church of England,” and I’m not going to “om” at yoga. Doesn’t that seem almost sarcastic and hipster to do, to essentially throw in part of someone else’s religion as a PS to the exercise I’m doing, frankly, so that if we do book signing I’ll get attention from men instead of pity from women?

Aside from the “om” fiasco, I did like it. It’s exercise that isn’t particularly fast, and I could do it in the semi-darkness, without other people looking at me with that “Oh, You’re New At The Gym” face. You’ve seen it. It’s pity and disgust, but they stretch their lips and claim it’s a smile? It’s the same face you get at the grocery store when you pay in nickels. The instructor knew I was new, so he helped me, which was kind but beyond emasculating. As the class went on, he bought me two foam blocks, a blanket, and a bolster to support and cushion various parts of my body as I went along. I was FAR more heavily padded than the pregnant lady. If the class hadn’t ended when it did, I have no doubt that he would have fed me with an eye-dropper and put me on antibiotics.

Now, this is disgusting, but the yoga helped me “fix” something. I had a painful, swollen lymph node under my arm, and I did not feel like caring about it. I talk about bowel movements because they’re a rich vein of humor – some comics work blue, some work brown – but otherwise I don’t care to talk about health or the body. I think it’s low-class to talk about health, to hurry, or to wear short-sleeved shirts with ties, and I don’t do any of them if I can avoid it. I had essentially decided to go ahead and die of cancer rather than have my doctor gently feel my armpit, make a concerned face, gently feel my armpit, then order some tests. If I wanted a cheerful Irishwoman to prod around in my various creases, I would have arranged my life very, very differently. Nevertheless, some pulling or stretching or “good vibes” thing I did during yoga unblocked that lymph node. It was… decidedly unsettling to feel the… interior drainage, but I did feel better afterwards. Revolted, but better.

The oxygen bar was less of a thrill. I met up with an old friend from high school – we’ll call him “Alberto,” because that’s his name – and we ran across an oxygen bar. I’ve always wanted to try one because I’m convinced they’re bullshit. A healthy person’s blood is generally 99% or so saturated with oxygen from air, so somehow I don’t think sucking gently flavored oxygen out of a tube changes it much.

TC: “Oh, look, an oxygen bar.”

Alberto: “I’m glad you can read. Don’t slow down, they’ll see us.”

TC: “Let’s go in! Don’t you want some oxygen?”

Alberto: “You know what? I do.” Inhales “Oh, gosh-a-mighty, I feel like a million bucks now. Let’s go.”

TC: “I’ll pay for you to go. Come on. It’ll be fun.”

Alberto: “I bet not.”

TC: “Don’t you actors have some ‘method’ that involves doing all the dumb shit you can so you ‘experience life’ and… inhabit the character, or some queer shit like that?”

Alberto: “Yeah, more or less, although that doesn’t explain why you want to do it.”

TC: “Well as a writer I need to gather experiences so that my characters…”

Alberto: “You write a blog about your bowels and your friend’s cat. It doesn’t have any characters except Kevin Yang.”

TC: “HE’S REAL. WE’RE IN LOVE. HE SENT ME FLOWERS.”

So, ultimately, we hooked up to the oxygen machines and spent 25 or so minutes watching the hippie lady who ran it “encourage her child’s free spirit” by letting her make noise until she got tired of making noise, then make a mess. The hippie lady was far more of a trip than the flavored oxygen because she thinks she can fly. She plans to convene 100,000 didgeridoos, and 1000 drums, and 1000 something elses, and fly on the vibrations. She’s making her wings now.

Now… not to be an asshole (“Too late,” I hear you cry), but… surely even hippies aren’t that altruistic?

“Yeah, we’re all going to get together so this one dame can fly.” I don’t want to owe 102,000 people a favor. She sent us – specifically us, presumably not a lot of people leave their addresses – an email about “sending healing vibes to Haiti on the anniversary of the quake.” Which is very nice, but… wouldn’t you rather have the cash? After all, “vibrations” are what caused this whole problem, and California is on a fault line…

Yeah, so anyway, the oxygen didn’t do anything except condense a lot of water in my nose, despite having the “invigorating” flavor of eucalyptus. We were invited to “take the nosepieces home,” which requires a deeper lust for souvenirs than I have.

“And to my cousin’s daughter, I leave this canula, which I used at an oxygen bar in 2011…”

Anyway, I left Cali-for-ni-a for DC, where Meggles and I had an INTENSE writing weekend, which really deserves its own post. Our twitter followers got a taste of it (@2birds1blog @TulaneChris69), but it’ll take a whole post to really elucidate how wonderful, how unearthly, how phenomenal Meg’s Maya Angelou impression really is.

Arguments

Hey, kids. Daddy’s missed you.

Thank you to everyone who’s congratulated us on the book. We are, of course, over the moon about it. I’ve already had three wet dreams about going into Borders, seeing the book on the table, and hollering, “I did 43% of that! Me!” I’ll give you a recap of my holidays travels later this week, including a joke beginning “Two homosexuals walk into an oxygen bar…” and my experience at “candlelight yoga.” For today, though, I’ve collected six of the dumbest arguments I’ve ever had, with a nod to the classic “Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About”:

“Don’t Put Metal in the Microwave”

(Tulane Chris vs. Mom)

Mom: Do you want a kolache?

TC: Sure.

Mom: Okay, let me heat it up for you.

TC: Don’t put that plate in the microwave, it has metal on it.

Mom: What? Oh, the gold leaf? That won’t matter.

TC: Yes, it will! Don’t put metal in the microwave! You taught me that!

Mom: That’s an old wives’ tale. Forget it. If you’re going to act that way I’m eating the kolache.

TC: You can’t punish me for understanding how microwaves work.

Mom (through mouthful of kolache): Can. Did.

Winner – Czech Stop Bakery in West, Texas, for making kolaches good enough to argue over.


“Your Proposed Comic Book is Offensive”

(Tulane Chris and The Furious Jew vs. Deborah)

Deborah: Listen. About this comic book you’re writing… I need you to not do it.

TC&TFJ: Why? It’s a wonderful idea. It’ll sell billions.

Deborah: You’ve drawn me as a spy named “Super Jewess” who saves Christmas.

TC&TFJ: That’s correct.

Deborah: Who kills men by breaking their necks with her breasts.

TC&TFJ: Well, bad men. It’s not like you’re going down to the VFW and snappin’ heads off for sport…

Deborah: You’re answering the wrong question. Do not draw this comic.

TC&TFJ: Why not? You’ll be immortalized!

Deborah: As a breast-wielding assassin with a racially charged name. Why do you not see that this is insane? Name one time when that plot model has worked.

TC&TFJ: Pam Grier’s entire career.

Deborah: …okay, but don’t write this comic book or I’ll skip the breast part and proceed directly to shooting you.

Winner – Deborah

Losers – Teenage girls with racially charged names who need a positive role model; the comic-book buying population.


“You’re a Scorpio If I Say You’re a Scorpio, Dammit”

(Tulane Chris vs. Mom)

TC: My horoscope says I have a bright, optimistic nature. That’s unlikely.

Mom: Let me see. No, it doesn’t, it says you’re poor in money but rich in friends. You’re a Scorpio, like me.

TC: No, I’m a Sagittarius. It changes on the 22nd and I was born on the 25th.

Mom: No, you’re a Scorpio. You just don’t want to be like me.

TC: No, it’s as close to a fact as you can get in astrology. I was born on November 25, which means…

Mom: I’m tired of you always chirping about this. “Look at me! I’m Chris! I was born on the cusp! Look at my cusp! Don’t I have a big, hard cusp?” You’re spoiled, is what your problem is.

Losers – Astrology; rational thought


“Mice Are Disgusting”

(Tulane Chris vs. Meg McBlogger)

TC: I’m buying a shotgun.

Meg: I said I’d let you do those Netflix reviews. Settle down.

TC: No, we have mice and they won’t get in the traps and die. I’m raising the stakes.

Meg: Are you kidding me?! I love mice! They’re cute and they have little tails. When I lived in Brooklyn we had a little mouse and I named her “Heidi Mousetag.” I taught her how to run through a maze I built out of a pile of empty beer bottles.

TC: Mice shit everywhere. If something’s going to shit in my kitchen it’s going to be me.

Meg: Everything shits. I don’t think your shit-free world is very realistic, hippie.

TC: I’m going to shit on your counter and see if you like it.

Meg: Try it, toaster strudel. You make me go across the street and put in my headphones if you have to go while I’m at your apartment. You couldn’t shit on a countertop for a million dollars.

Winner – rodent-borne plagues. 

[Ed. Note: I'm sorry Chris, but we argued for well over an hour last Friday night about who'd be a better "named dry hump", Eartha Kitt or Nigella Lawson, and you went with the mice argument for this post? Your choices intrigue me, sir. Also, VIVA HEIDI MOUSETAG, as seen here in her luxury shoebox condo.]

“No, It Just Sounds Like It All Sounds the Same”

(Tulane Chris vs. Stoner Boyfriend from 2005)

Stoner Boyfriend: You want to smoke some pot?

TC: No, it makes me anxious and nauseated. It’s too much like not being stoned. Do you have any liquor?

Stoner Boyfriend: No. You should smoke pot. It’s natural.

TC: Yes, I bet all those years of selective breeding and Mexican pesticides to really brought out the rich dankness of God’s creation. Are you sure you don’t have any liquor?

Stoner Boyfriend: Just relax. I’ll put on some tunes. There, listen to that jam.

TC: I don’t like reggae.

Stoner Boyfriend: Sure you do. Here, listen. Hit this and it’ll make sense.

TC: It all sounds exactly the same.

Stoner Boyfriend: No, it doesn’t.

TC: It does! What’s the name of this song? Tell me without looking.

Stoner Boyfriend: Uh. Jah… deh… lion of Judah…

TC: Safe bet. I hate reggae.

Stoner Boyfriend: You just haven’t heard enough. Here, listen to this.

TC: It’s exactly the same, except now the lyrics are about beating gay people to death in the streets. Did you think we were going to make out to this? This sucks.

Stoner Boyfriend (eyes narrowing): Narc.

Loser – Any credibility my taste in men had.


“Your Mom Has a Gender”

(Tulane Chris vs. Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie)

TC: I think the next time I finish on a guy’s face, I’m going to try to make a handlebar mustache. I might have to save up for a couple of days to have enough of a supply, but I think it’ll be worth it.

E-C-B E: That’s disgusting.

TC: It doesn’t get stale. It’ll be fine. Or did you mean that I should go for muttonchops?

E-C-B E: That’s so antifeminist.

TC: I doubt there’s going to even be a woman in the room, but if there is I’ll pay her the same rate.

E-C-B E: That’s not what I’m talking about. You don’t understand the theory.

TC: I’m not sure if you understand how this works. Most guys will only let you do that so you’ll let them do it to you. It’s very egalitarian. Very free to be you and me. Of course, you don’t let them do it to you – not unless you’re some kind of faggot – but in theory there’s all that give-and-take you League of Women Voters broads seem to…

E-C-B E: The League of Women Voters were quitters. We should have taken the vote from men, not shared it, and if you call me a broad again I’ll Valerie Solanas you right in the nards.

Winner – Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie, despite a clear below-the-belt shot.


“Twat Did You Say? I Cun’t Understand You”

(Mom vs. Dad vs. Dad’s dental structure, I guess)

Mom: Where is your father?

TC: At work.

Mom: I’m proud of him. People come up to me all the time and tell me how brave he is to teach with that speech impediment.

TC: He doesn’t have a speech impediment.

Mom: He does. You probably just can’t hear it.

TC: What is it, then?

Mom: Oh, you know, that thing with his speech. It’s hard to explain.

Later…

TC: Mom said something about your brave struggle against a speech impediment? It was very Lifetime.

Dad: Your mother brings that up every twenty-eight days, ever since her hysterectomy. Her personality demands that she do something maddening on a regular cycle, and now that her hormones are on an even keel - the only thing about her that is, incidentally – she’s locked onto sspeech pathology as a PMSS placceholder.

TC: Oh, heyo. Your S’s are kind of fucked up. I wouldn’t have noticed if no one had pointed it out.

Winners – Delta Burke, Bronson Pinchot, and Jonathon Taylor Thomas, who played us in the Lifetime Movie Dr. McBlogger’s S’s: Portrait of a Marriage.


“Speaking of Delta Burke…”

(Mom vs. My First Attempt at a Screenwriting Career)

TC: Ex-Co-Blogger Eddie and I are going to write a sitcom!

Mom: I thought you were both busy with that gay thing.

TC: Right, but we’re allowed fifteen minutes of recreation between Will and Grace and bedtime. We’ll have to focus pretty hard, but it’s worth doing. Anyway, the “you” character is going to be played by Delta Burke, we hope! Isn’t that cool?

Mom: Oh, so I’m fat and shallow, am I?

TC: No, uh… you’ve lost a lot of weight…

Winner – Adams Media, since because my first sitcom attempt failed, and my second attempt failed, I’m free to co-write a book for them.

This weekend was a lot of things. Easy was not one of them.

How'd the writing go? Allow me to answer that question with a conversation:

Sunday afternoon, 6pm, my parent's basement...

M: I'M TRYING TO WORK CHRIS, SO YOU NEED TO WORK WITH ME. STOP MAKING FUN OF EVERY SINGLE THING I SAY AND JUST WORK WITH ME. Jesus. Did you take your Ritalin today?

TC: UH, NO. Asshole. Did you take your feelings pill today?

M: No.

TC: Oh.

M: .......

TC: Well. That might explain a few things.

M: [Shift eyes around the room uncomfortably]

C: So. Should we do that, ass around while they kick in, and try writing again later?

M: PLINKO.



But all fighting (and that's via verbal assault, Twitter, and gchat status update, mind you) aside, we've come out the other end of our writing lock-in alive and—dare I say it—stronger. Or with a deeper appreciation for marginally discounted rotisserie chicken and Maya Angelou jokes at the very least. I need to get some sleep before I take Chris to the bus station so he can scamper back to his corner of the mid-Atlantic, but I'll try to get you a Jersey Shore update later. In the mean time, allow me to share with you the most magical thing I've seen in 25 years on this planet. This is a picture my sister took of an ad she saw in SkyMall magazine for a cat toilet training system called, the "Litter Kwitter". They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but this one only needs six. Specifically: "The fuck are you looking at?"



I'm sure it's the four days of Hormell cheese, Mountain Dew, and old-fashioned hard work talking, but oh my fucking God—it NEVER gets old.

It's been "A Night"

It's currently 3:35 on Friday morning, which means Meg & Chris' Super Productive Writing Retreat is officially underway. Underway and not off to a terribly good start. I had oddly specific fantasies going into this experience about how dignified it would be. I pictured the two of us sitting around a fireplace in tweed jackets, smoking pipes, drinking brandy, and being, you know, all literary-like. Instead we've spent most of the night at airports in two completely different states wondering why we couldn't find each other and giggling like schoolgirls in my parents' kitchen, whispering ass-to-mouth jokes and singing the theme song to Maude. In retrospect, I'm not entirely sure why I thought it would go any other way...

I'm in complete awe that Tulane Chris doesn't want to punch me in the mouth right now. He's been traveling since 10am and we only figured out that I was waiting for him in Baltimore and he was at Dulles at around midnight. I don't really know what to say about that except—my bad! I've been beer bonging cough medicine like an insecure girl trying to come out of her shell at Beach Week for about a month now and I think it's finally cought up to me. <--- Mostly because that's how I just spelled caught. Cought. And speaking of spelling errors, I think it's hilarious that I misspelled "sow" in the sentence, "sow my wild oats," yesterday considering how many times I, in my extremely burnt-out state, had to google "oats" to crack the case that there isn't an E in it anywhere.


Yes. We are truly are a wonderful, wonderful resource.

Speaking of oates <--- oh my fucking God. Speaking of oats, after Chris and I realized that we were in different airports, I hopped in my car and fully intended to floor it all the way to Dulles, but instead ended up in bumper-to-bumper traffic a few miles outside of the airport because they shut down a giant stretch of 95. I was sitting in traffic feeling like a complete failure when the Hall and Oates masterpiece "I Can't Go For That" came on the radio. I then proceeded to do a full (seated) body roll and say out loud (to no one in particular): "HALL AND OATES—AINT NOTHIN' WRONG WITH THAT!" It was only when I started doing little Shooter McGavin hands at breast-level while making a "SAY WHAAAAAAAT?!" face at myself in the rear-view mirror that I looked over and realized that the old man in the pickup truck next to me was staring back with a look on his face that so clearly said: "That's sad." So I stopped, but I can not express how hard it was not to start again. I fucking love Hall & Oates and I really don't care who knows it. I remember my first week at AU, I got in like, an uncomfortably long conversation with Ashleigh and her then boyfriend Ben about my zeal for Hall & Oates. And I don't think they were doing much of the talking. Or any, really. That's actually all I ever envision when people talk about the first week of college: me in a too-tight Von Dutch t-shirt with brassy blonde highlights, talking at people about Hall & Oates. Shit, I just checked the official Hall & Oates website and they're touring in the Spring, but only in Japan and Hawaii. That's bullshit. But do you know what's not? This H&O window decal:

I wonder how much it would cost to get Hall & Oates to play an event? That event specifically being I hang out in my apartment with ten of my closest friends and a giant bottle of Mt. Gay vanilla rum... I legitimately just thought to myself, "If my parents were loaded and I was nine years younger, I could go on Sweet Sixteen and force my dad to get Hall & Oates to ride in in a Delorean and play my party." This was supposed to be a mildly entertaining story about running a toll on the highway but somehow morphed into my inner Hall & Oates monologue at a sort of alarming rate. Hm. Well, I ran a toll. I got flustered. Don't tell my mom.

So yes, point being, Chris and I are finally in the same place, specifically at my parents' house. We didn't drink any brandy tonight but we did microwave a few English Muffins and coin the term "crass-to-mouth". It's a start. I obviously missed tonight's premiere of the third season of Jersey Shore, but I'll get a recap up for Monday and try not to make it a habit. I wish I could recap Hall & Oates videos on youtube. (Stop.) (OK.) I leave you now with the first T.G.I. Hagman of 2011, and we'll see you right back here bright and early Monday morning! Buh-bye.


As of 5:28am on January 7, 2011, Larry Hagman is...alive! But he'll only come out at night. The lean and hungry type. Nothing is new, I've seen The Hagman here before. Watching and waiting, Ooo he's sitting with you but his eyes are on the door. Ohh-oh here he comes. Watch out girl, he'll chew you up. Ohh-oh here he comes, he's a Meg-Eater! Well, good. Now I feel fucking filthy. Happy weekend.

UPDATES! UPDATES! UPDATES!

1.) NO BIG DEAL:

That's just my dad wailing away on my bass, which now officially resides in my apartment. I was bringing it into my buiilding tonight when the little Ethiopian woman at the front desk stopped me and was like, "Ohhh Meghan, your sister just got married, right? You're next!" and I was like, "Oh, well I've got some time; I'm five years younger than she is." And then I, in all seriousness, proceeded to pat my guitar and say, "Still gotta sow those wild oats!" And you know what? Douchebag. Because yes, I'm sowing my wild oats. If "sowing my wild oats" means keeping a bass guitar that I don't know how to play on my couch to watch HGTV with me and feed a blog joke. Sometimes I think I honestly might be allergic to being myself. It would explain the constant health problems.

2.) Although, this is promising:

I really appreciate that Jonathan has decided to embrace "Tandoori Boyfriend". Mostly because I had no plans to stop using it. You guys should come over for dinner next week. Tulane Chris is coming tomorrow night until ? for a write-a-thon at my parent's house, but after that? This information might be more appropriate in an email, but I'm laΩzy. <--- Holy shit. Where did that omega come from? I'm not going to lie, I've been up working all night and just started writing this at 5 o'clock in the morning. I can feel my T-cells. And they feel like cotton candy.

3.)

Your competition is Laura on empty paint cans and hubcpaps, like some Stomp shit. Let the battle royale begin.

4.) Thank you so much for everyone's input on the THIS conundrum. I knew I could count on you. Although between the comments and emails, it was a lot of theory to digest. I made some venn diagrams. Did a lot of soul searching. Here's the thing though: as much sense as a lot of your arguments made, we're all just making educated guesses from a liberal perspective. I want to hear what someone who would actually buy the sticker thinks, because whoever wrote it had them in mind. And that's why I spent a large portion of yesterday combing through Southern pride and white power forums until I finally found Yahoo answers forum member stkamur.



stkamur is a proud owner of this bumper sticker and explained its meaning in a forum about how the "socialist progressives" are driving a wedge between the country and there's going to be a second Civil War, or something equally terrifying.

Point is, if black tribal leaders hadn't sold black slaves and they never arrived here in America, then we wouldn't today have Al Sharpton, the black panthers, (old & new), Whoppi Goldberg, hip-hop "music ?", and crack-head, "who da baby daddy?" welfare mentality that has infected the sensibilities of a nation.

Blacks have had fifty years to move on and get a piece of the American dream but the majority are satisfied to live off the welfare crumbs from the liberal democrats. Racism will NEVER end as long as the likes of Jesse Jackson and others are given a free microphone to piss and moan about circumstances prior to 1964.

So, like I said, "I'd a-picked my own cotton". 

(Now it's me: +12, you boobs: -12).

I have so many emotions:

1.) There's a distinct possibility that this was ghostwritten by Tulane Chris, because my God does that man hate Whoopi Goldberg.

2.) I just all-around appreciate that Whoopi Goldberg is one of the reasons why he would have picked his own cotton. Like if given the chance, he'd go back in time and sprint through the fields screaming, "GET RID OF THEM!!! GET RID OF THEM ALL!!! ONE DAY ONE IS GOING TO RISE UP, BRIEFLY MARRY TED DANSON, WEAR LOOSE-FITTING COTTON TUNICS, TINY SUNGLASSES, AND DOMINATE THE CENTER SQUARE!!!"

3.) The first time I read this, I read the last line as, "Now it's me: +12, boobs: -12", and thought he was a gay, racist, redneck, Conservative extremest. Which would have been scary because if that's not proof that the world is going to end in 2012, I don't know what is.

Absurdity aside, stkamur's explanation pretty much echoes the theory that most of you thought was correct: Anonymous 9:21's.



Yeah. It clicks, but I still feel unsatisfied. It's like this time that my friend Megan was like, "Hey Meg, Osama bin Hidin'!" and I was like, ".........What?" and she had to repeat the joke like 65 times and walk me through it step-by-step until we realized that I got the joke the whole time, it just wasn't funny. I was giving the joke more credit than it deserved; I was searching for a second level that never existed. That's how I feel now. I don't really know how to describe it and I don't think my life will ever be the same and mostly I just wish someone were here to hold me.

It's also worth nothing that almost every single website that comes up when you google, "If I had known this, I would have picked my own cotton," is about how nobody gets it. Which is absurd because apparently it's a popular catchphrase that's been around for a long time! It's just so irresponsible. Don't mass produce something if it doesn't make any fucking sense. If I was on the highway behind a car with that bumper sticker, you would have to scrape my bloody remains off the Jersey wall because I would have been too hypnotized by its ambiguity to concentrate on the road. It's infuriating. Slash makes me think that we should make my favorite nonsensical Kevin Yang catchphrase, "Well wouldn't it be obvious if I'm in here and you're playing Beyoncé?", into a bumper sticker, sell it in the South, and make a babillion dollars.

Anyways, I'll eventually learn to let this go, but in the mean time, thanks again for everyone's input and Anonymous 9:21, shoot me an email and I'll send you a yummy!



Anonymous 9:21's friend hates black people. Pass it on.