UPDATES!

1.) You're a piece of shit.

2.) God damnit...No you're not. Not at all. I'm sorry.

3.) WHO CARES IF IT WAS A PIECE OF SHIT?! It was my piece of shit! I don't care if it was made of pick-up sticks, tinfoil, and packing tape, it wasn't yours to get rid of! That's like if I borrowed a shirt from you and then put it down the garbage disposal because I decided it was ugly. And then when you get mad at me (and rightfully so), I reverse get mad at you because I was just trying to "do you a favor".

4.) Oh I'M sorry, so what you're trying to say here is that if I should suddenly get the urge to go on a lovely Spring bike ride, I have to call and confirm that either you or Geoff are home, coordinate a good time to come if not, get on the metro, transfer lines, get off at Clarendon, take a bus to your neighborhood, and walk over to pick up the bike first? Uh huh. And how many times have I almost peed my pants in your car because I was too lazy to go in the restaurant?

5.) I only get motion sick going over cobblestones and don't you dare pretend like you don't know that.

And finally, this morning's email exchange with my dad:

To: Dad

From: Meg

Subject: Quick question!

Hey, what's that reclining chair in your Panamanian Relaxation Room called again?

To: Meg

From: Dad

Subject: RE: Quick question!

It is the “Library." Books, old prints, crystal decanters, Panamanian relaxing. A little bit of Regency England, right in the heart of MOCO. I go up there and read with Evie on my lap. We both sip some single malt and settle in. Right now we’re reading a history of the Crusades. Sometimes I read aloud to her. She seems very alert, but that just might be the scotch.

Love,

DAD

He didn't answer the question...but that is adorable.

Like sands through the hourglass...

I moved out of my parent’s house almost eight years ago (and then again two years ago…) and am fully aware that it’s not “mine” anymore. It is—and really has always been—theirs and they’re free to do with it whatever they’d like. Ergo, I was totally fine with it when they decided to fill the void I left in their hearts with my cat doppelganger; I always keep my protests to a minimum when they talk about selling the house and moving to St. Michael’s; and I was more than understanding when literally an hour after I moved to New York, they gave my bike to my sister to abandon in Malcolm X Park because apparently it’s quote, “a piece of shit”, and then when I came home and wanted to take it for a ride one day—Oh, sorry! We gave it to your sister and your sister gave it to a park bench and the park bench set it on fire, and to this day nobody will replace it or apologize to me because every party involved blames it on the other and Meg on a bike? That’s a fucking riot to begin with! I was really cool about that. (Except I wasn’t. And probably never will be. And will continue to bring it up as much as humanly possible. Because what the fuck?)

All things considered, I understand that my parents have the right to make changes to their house and it can’t stay a time capsule of the life and times of Meghan C. McBlogger circa the early ‘00s forever. (Which is a shame because I had a pretty decent collection of graphic-tees, SAT prep books, and Express jewelry lying around, but meh—their loss.) That being said, I have to draw a line somewhere. And that line is drawn square down the middle of a gentleman named Monty.

Monty was my beloved childhood stuffed animal. He was a stuffed…ambiguous…creature-type thing that my parents always told me was a monster (hence the name Monty) but my scary Girl Scouts troop leader insisted was a cat on our Savannah trip and it changed everything and/or begs the question why was I traveling with Monty at the age of 13-years-old when I definitely had breasts? But that’s not the point. The point is, he was my number one jam for a good portion of my life, and while I don’t need to sleep with him every night anymore (that’s what Jason is for) (and as you’ll recall, Jason is a stuffed fox and not a cute passing reference to a gentleman friend) (in retrospect, I kind of wish I had let you think it was a gentleman friend) (your keyboard does have a backspace, you know…) (silence) (only if you stop typing your inner-monologue) (that’s probably for the best), I don’t ever want to get rid of him.

I stayed at my parent’s house for a week or so over the holidays and could not fall asleep for the life of me. After a few restless nights, I hypothesized it was because I didn’t have anything to curl up with, so I got out of bed one night and turned my room upside down looking for Monty. I couldn’t find him anywhere. Frankly I couldn’t find anything anywhere because my dad had just finished turning my room into a guest room so the old guest room could become his infamous Panamanian Relaxation Room. And again, that’s fine! It’s their house. But, you know...Monty.

The next afternoon when I woke up (don’t judge me or my life style), I went across the hall and found my dad sipping a glass of wine in his chair and reading a book, soaking up all that is his Panamanian Relaxation Room.

Meg: Dad?

Dad: Hmm?

M: Do you know where Monty is?

D: Yeah. He’s in your room somewhere.

M: Well, where in my room? I couldn’t sleep last night so I got up to look for him, but I can’t find him anywhere.

D: I remember seeing him when I was cleaning out your room…check the Container Store bin in your closet. That’s where I put all the stuff I saved for. I wouldn’t throw him out.

After thoroughly ransacking my bin of keepsakes, I didn’t find Monty, but here’s what I did find:

My Retainer  
 
I was about to say that I don’t even remember the last time I wore this, but I do: the night of September 11th. My friend Kelley had people over that night because we didn’t have school the next day, and I remember Jen called our friend Jason to ask where he was and he was like, “UH. I kind of want to be with my family right now and not drinking Michelob Lights in a basement with you assholes…thanks.” It was at that moment that the gravity of the situation finally sunk in, and I had a panic attack and had to go home. Later that night as I was lying in my bed trying to go to sleep, I distinctly remember thinking, “I could fucking die soon.” It’s weird how that wasn’t really an option up until that point. I also remember thinking that if I were to die that night; I totally wouldn’t go to heaven. I’m pretty sure I considered myself Agnostic at that point and didn’t really believe in the concept of a heaven or hell, but that night I was certain there was a heaven and a hell and I was even more certain that I was bound for the more tropical option. I then proceeded to get up, pop in the retainer I had abandoned almost immediately after getting my braces off two years earlier, go into my parent’s room, and at 16-years-old ask if I could sleep with them that night. This never ceases to crack me up. And not because it was only then that the notion that I could die popped into my head, not because I slept in bed with my mom that night, but because my first step towards getting out of hell was wearing my retainer. Like there are over 20 major religions in the world and nobody can agree on anything except that God is a real stickler for orthodontics.

My TI-86 Calculator 
 
If you don’t think I took this home, immediately went to CVS to get AAA batteries and spent a solid day playing “Gang Wars” on it, you are severely underestimating the amount of time I have on my hands.

A Copy of The Chocolate War  
 
Christ only knows why, but in the year 2000, Montgomery County Public Schools made The Chocolate War an option for 10th grade honors English summer reading, and because it’s like 92 pages long, in 14-point font, and not The Poisonwood Bible, everyone did their required summer reading oral presentation on it. But literally. Everyone. An entire class of 25 people. After listening the 12th synopsis of the book, our teacher snapped like a twig and offered to give us all A’s if that meant she didn’t have to sit there and listen to another half-assed essay about the ethics of selling promotional chocolates and its effects on friendship and the heart. I know this sounds crazy, but every now and then I kind of miss high school…

A Pack of Dentyne Ice with Two Pieces Left

“Well Dad, God only knows where my childhood best friend is, but at least we can both have minty-fresh breath for the next couple of hours, HUH??”

The Most Unflattering Photograph of Me That Has Ever Been Taken

If I were .05% more secure with myself, I would totally scan it and upload it for you, because this shit is LOLZ. I’m not kidding, it really is the most unflattering picture of me that has ever been taken. NASA has confirmed it. I’m not even mad. It’s a picture of me giving a side-hug to my friend Eileen on New Year’s Eve 2003, and oh…muh…gawd. I have the brassiest of brassy blonde hair; I’m wearing more eye make up than an entire Japanese kabuki theater; the angle it was taken makes it look like I have 16 chins; I’m wearing a black blazer with no shirt underneath, skinny jeans, and fishnet high-heels (OK, I’m not trying to front…those shoes were kind of cool); and my eyes are just ever-so-slightly…crossed. That being said, I always liked having it around because no matter how god-awful I felt, I could always pull out that picture and be like, “Well thank Christ I don’t look like that,” and feel like a million bucks. Truthfully I’m kind of psyched to have it again.

A Souvenir Keychain from Senior Prom



I mean, I appreciate having it because it’s a cute picture of my friends and me, but it’s also an unfortunate reminder of why I should never spray tan. Prom in general was an unfortunate reminder of why I should never spray tan. Or at least why I should never do six sessions in three days on the darkest setting possible. There’s a really hilarious picture floating around my parent's basement somewhere of Teresa and me at prom and the contrast between Teresa’s pale skin and my synthetic tan makes me look borderline Puerto Rican. It’s genuinely exciting.

A Small Cup of Meggle-brand Lemon Juice

There was a complimentary bowl of them at a Starbucks in Munich…I took one and kept it safe for like half a month in my money belt because, you know, Meggle. I guess I can’t fault my dad for hanging on to something that I literally strapped to my person to smuggle out of Europe.

Nellie’s Collar

Aw, Nells! Nellie was my cat in high school. I rescued her from a tough life on the mean streets of Rockville and then Rachel killed her when we went to Hawaii and she cat-sat for us. Her ashes are now in the closet of the Panamanian Relaxation room, along with those of our first family cat Sibley, Nellie’s short-lived replacement Simon, a standard poodle, and my grandfather. THE AND.

A Pair of Off-Brand Wayfarers That I Bought, Wore Once, Realized What an Asshole I Looked Like In, and Never Wore Again

I mean, that kind of says it all.

My Driver’s Education Program Completion Certificate From June 14, 2001

Do you know what I find fascinating? We have absolutely no idea where on God’s green earth my college diploma is (the college diploma that I worked my ass off for four years to earn and am still in tens-of-thousands of dollars in debt over,) but my driver’s ed certificate (the driver’s ed certificate I assed around in a small office with Eileen and Talia for a few weeks to earn and cost maybe 45-dollars,) is safe and sound and tucked away in my closet. That, to me, is fascinating. Am I saying that it’s wrong? No. Not really. Because given what I’ve chosen to do with myself these days, a degree in graphic design and art history is about as helpful as an asshole on my elbow, whereas every now and then I do need to get a zip car, haul ass to Ikea and get some shit. So you, Mr. McBlogger, have yourself a point.

Thankfully a few hours later, my dad found Monty under a few towels in what used to be my sock drawer (?) and all was right in the world again. That is until I came home a few days later to work on the book with Chris and discovered this new piece of artwork hanging directly next to my bed:

Yep. My old friend Monte-fucking-Carlo. But again, I’m totally cool with it! I’m an adult and it’s their house! Go ahead and give Becca my shit and punch me in the face—I’m totally well adjusted.

OH! ALSO!

Come see Chris and me this Thursday, February 17th, 8:30pm, at The Looking Glass Lounge in Petworth for a live recording of the internet talk show You, Me, Them, Everybody! The Looking Glass Lounge is located a block south of the Petworth metro stop (seriously, AN fiscal metro stop) and you can learn more about YMTE here. 21+, no cover. Watch as we awkwardly try to promote ourselves and stay to have a few drinks with us and the rest of the 2b1b gang! Hope to see you then!

xo

A Seven Locks kind of Valentine's Day

Three things that seemingly have nothing to do with each other:

1.) I keep having nightmares about snakes and lizards, which according to five minutes of intense Internet research means that something "senseless" and horrible is about to happen, AND/or someone in my inner circle will betray me.

2.) As devoted readers know, I love Dr. Dre and The Chronic 2001 more than anything or anybody in this entire world. I listen to that album with the regularity of a bible thumper reading scripture—shit just never gets old. One of my favorite tracks is the emotional roller coaster ride that is "What's the Difference", featuring Eminen and Xzibit.

I love everything about this song, but specifically, I've always had a soft spot in my heart for the exchange between Dre and Eminem at about 2:35, which, in case you work somewhere that doesn't support blasting gangster rap in your cubicle at 10 o'clock in the morning (sell out...), is the following:

Eminem: STOP THE BEAT A MINUTE! I got something to say. Dre, I want to tell you this shit right now while this fucking weed is in me.

Dre: The fuck?

Eminmen: I don't know if I ever told you this, but I love you dawg. I got your motherfuckin back, just know this shit.

Dre: Riiight? Slim, I don't know if you noticed it, but I've had your back since day one, ni*ger. Let's blow this bitch.

Eminem: I mean it dawg, you ever need somebody offed—whose throat is it?

Dre: Well if you ever kill that Kim bitch, I'll show you where the ocean is.

And then Eminmen goes on about how if he were to kill his ex-wife, he'd want to drive around for a while with her dead body in the front seat honking and waving to people, which sounds suspiciously like the plot to Weekend at Bernie's to me, but my point here is this: I love it. I love it because whereas we live in an era when Cam'ron can't even ask someone to pass him the nut bowl without adding a paranoid PAUSE or NO HOMO, ten years ago Dr. Dre could stick Eminem saying "I don't know if I ever told you this, but I love you" to him in the middle of one of the most aggressive tracks on his album without anyone even batting an eyelash. Why? Because they're friends! And friends love each other. Sure the entire thing is padded with some good old-fashioned hypothetical wife-killing, but the sentiment remains the same: it's OK to tell your friends that you love them. To quote Bun B after the untimely passing of Pimp C: "[...] [I]f you really love your homie, don't feel like you can't tell him you love him. Because when things happen, you're going to wish you had said it. You're going to wish you said it louder." PREACH.

3.) Being obnoxiously broke has seriously adverse affects on my friendships: I can rarely afford to go out; I never have people over for dinner because I never eat dinner; I bring cheap booze to parties; and I can't afford to give birthday, wedding, shower, housewarming gifts. Not to mention I keep weird sleeping hours and don't answer texts or emails until 3 o'clock in the morning, so it always seems like I'm blowing you off. What I'm trying to say is: I'm fully aware that it can be a giant pain in the ass to be friends with me. With that in mind, I decided to make my friends Valentine's this year as a small token of gratitude for putting up with me. It took me all of 36 seconds in front of a blank Illustrator file to think of the perfect way to say "I love you": via Dre and Em in "What's the Difference". With that in mind, I designed a 5 x 7 card with their conversation from "Stop the beat a minute..." to "...Let's blow this bitch" on the front, and "You ever need somebody offed—whose throat is it? HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!" on the back:

Then I tied the card up with red and white baker's string and popped it in a red A7 envelope:


Now, it was right around the time when I let go of said envelopes and they started tumbling into the mailbox when I realized that not everybody has been listening to The Chronic 2001 once a day for the past ten years, and not everybody has an oddly specific interest in, and knowledge of platonic signs of affection in hip-hop music and culture. Both of those things might just be a "me thing". And it was around when I started walking back to my apartment when I calculated that only three out of the 25 people I had just sent that Valentine to are going to recognize its contents as lyrics from "What's the Difference" and not as Dr. Dre/Eminem slash fiction that I had just cooked up myself and felt the need to physically mail to them. And finally, it was when the apartment door closed behind me that it finally sunk in that in a matter of days, 91.7% of my closest friends and family might think I'm a wee bit of a flagrantly racist, misogynistic, would-be murderer.

SYNTHESIS OF #1-3: To all of the people who received a Valentine's Day card from me this year: I am not a flagrantly racist, misogynistic, would-be murderer. It's from the Dr. Dre song "What's the Difference" featuring Eminem and Xhibit. I did not fabricate that conversation, I do not normally drop hard N's in my holiday cards, and I don't actually fantasize about "blowing this bitch"—please do not betray me by reporting me to the local authorities. I was just trying to say I love you. No homo.

The DILF Hunter 5000

OK, look. I’m going to be REAL honest with you: I’m fully aware that a heaping tablespoon of our readership is pissed at us right now because we took two weeks off to, you know, write a book. Because someone gave us money to. Versus this little venture. Which we do for free. Actually, that’s a lie; Lexie Briggs gave us a donation yesterday. So Lexie Briggs: I’m sorry I disappointed you…but mostly, I’m sorry I disappointed myself. You let me know when you’d like to get drinks and they’re on me. (And by drinks plural, I mean one for me and one for you. Reasonably priced. Preferably domestic. This isn’t prom.) ANYWAY, the point is I’m buckling under the pressure of winning your hearts back and now I have writer’s block and can’t think of an introduction for this post and Chris isn’t answering my text messages. To add insult to injury, there’s a crack in my Brita pitcher and I’ve been fucking parched all day but don’t trust unfiltered DC water, so I just chugged four random Stellas I found in the back of my fridge from Halloween in under five minutes and am surprisingly drunk right now.

So here I am, accidentally drunk, playing with “novelty borders” in Illustrator, and trying to think of a way to be non-offensive and charming when it’s like, fuck it—just like these novelty borders, someone’s always going to think I suck, so I might as well just be the best little novelty border I can be for the people who appreciate novelty borders. Which, I might add, certainly has never been me, but you know what? I can’t fly in the face of an 8.5 x 11 piece of computer paper flanked in picnic ants and paw prints. I would go to that block party and I’m not even trying to front like I wouldn’t. So what I’m trying to say is: I recently discovered is that I’m a total DILF hunter and I think we should talk about it. But first:

As of February 11, 2011, Larry Hagman is alive! And here’s a quick story about him before we move on (“We suuuuure did Blanche…”): I found out some disturbing health news Tuesday afternoon and was just generally really down, so I came home and cracked open the Larry Hagman autobiography, Hello Darlin’, which 2b1b super-readers Anna and Sarah were wonderful enough to send to me. Within 19 pages, I was hysterically laughing because a.) He dedicated the book to his liver donor, which I know isn’t “funny”, but also isn’t not funny; b.) The first time he did acid (or a “turn on”, if you will) it was a gift from David Crosby and he did it in a tiny little brown terry cloth robe that his wife, Maj, made for him; c.) He was raised by a “extremely loving” black woman who, if little Larry wouldn’t stop talking at bed time, would blow out the pilot light in the gas heater and let the gas fill the room until he got drowsy and passed out. His grandparents made her stop doing it though when they came home from a church barbecue once and found both of them passed out, “gas still flowing.” Instead she would let little Hagman suck on a bourbon-soaked sock until he got buzzed enough to fall asleep. The concluding sentence of the introductory chapter is, “Was this the start of my alcoholism? Who knows.” Larry Hagman, Lexie Briggs, Anna, and Sarah…you keep me hangin’ on.

So, Chris and I were watching an episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip last week, per his dad’s recommendation, and I got all oddly hot and bothered by Matthew Perry. It started innocently enough when I remarked that he looked good in a suite, and then somehow turned into me full-blown rapping the “spicier” portions of Ludacris’ Fantasy while grabbing my invisible dick with my left hand and uncomfortably caressing my breasts with the right.

Chris didn’t understand my attraction to Matthew Perry at first but eventually admitted that he could see the being attracted to him circa the “Friends” years. And I could NOT disagree more. I like post-rehab Matthew Perry. I like that he looks poofy and a little waterlogged. I like the worry lines across his forehead and the bags under his eyes. I like that you can tell he was once a pretty boy who’s now a little weathered and clearly has a story to tell. And that’s when I connected the dots that Studio 60 Matthew Perry looks disturbingly like a lot of guys I’ve hooked up with over the years. Up until that moment, I never really thought I had a “type” (or, I considered my type to be whoever wanted to have sex with me at that given moment, which I don’t think is really having a “type” more as it's having "low self-esteem”), but standing there in Chris’ apartment, clutching my left breast and pointing to the television screen with a shaking finger, I realized that I do have a type—I’m a total DILF Hunter.

Chris was quick to point out that this must mean I have some serious daddy issues, but the thing is; I don’t. I have an excellent relationship with my dad; we’re friends, but that’s where it ends. My dad could be Steve Martin’s doppelganger and every time I watch that scene in Shop Girl when he gets into bed with a naked, whorish Claire Danes, I want to run a cheese grater over my eyes and jump out a plate glass window. That and I don’t think there’s anything “daddy issues-y” about being into DILFS. Sure it stands for “Dad I’d Like to Fuck”, but since when does that mean it’s my dad? My father is a distinguished older gentleman, and a distinguished older gentleman does not a DILF make.

Let me paint you a picture of what I consider a DILF to be: a man in his mid to late 30’s; typically brunette; classically handsome; exquisite bone structure; maybe married right out of college and got saddled down with the wife and kids a little too early; works an unfulfilling, but decently paid corporate job; perhaps has a wee bit of a drinking problem as a result and has put on a few pounds; maybe he’s looking for a young blogger with dwindling popularity to escape with for a few hours and remind himself what it’s like to be alive, feel a little dangerous with, I don’t know?; but most importantly he’s wearing a crisp Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up three-quarters of the way, top button undone and just slightly exposing his undershirt, haphazardly loosened tie, and a-reeking of musky cologne and a decade of disappointment. BOOM. I’m into, you guys. I’m into a big, big way. The highlight of every single one of my Monday through Fridays is when the guy I’m currently into text messages me a detailed description of what he wore to work that day. Sound a little gay? Well there’s nothing gay about it when the end result is me wanting to jump your fucking bones. (Sorry. Four Stellas. Getting a little defensive. Throwing hard F’s around.) And while I’m fairly certain all of this says something unfortunate about me, I don’t think it’s that I have daddy issues.

That being said, I did bring it up with Laura to see what she thought when we were out getting drinks this past weekend. After I finished my little schpeal, her eyes widened and I could see the pieces fall into place. She stammered, “Like…like Timothy Dalton!” PLINKO. We then spent the remainder of our night sitting in the window at Big Hunt comprising a list of the DILFiest men we could think of—a list that has now become known as The DILF Hunter 5000. Which was awkward when it got crowded and we agreed to share our table with another group of people and frequently interrupted their conversation with things like: “MICHAEL VARTAN?!” “DILF. ME. UP. AND. DILF. ME. DOWN. YES.”

Official rules of the DILF Hunter 5000:

1.) Must be attainably attractive, not too pretty or too exotic. Because that really is the majesty of the DILF. I don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell with Ian Somerhalder, I realize that, but something deep inside of me truly believes that given the right amount of alcohol and a dimmer switch, I could probably get Ray Liotta to go home with me.

2.) Doesn’t necessarily have to have kids. Jude Law has three kids but is way too pretty to ever be considered a DILF. Conversely, George Clooney doesn’t have any but aesthetically fits the bill. DILF is a state of mind, not a lifestyle.

3.) Of a certain age, but not of another. Which is just another way to say—

4.) DILF ≠ Distinguished Older Gentleman

5.) We recognize that every rainbow has a spectrum. George Clooney, to me, is a DILF, but he’s also in that age range where he could just as easily be a Distinguished Older Gentleman. Likewise, Joseph Gordon Levitt is going to be a great DILF someday, but that day is not today. The age range can get a little ambiguous, but all we can do is try our best.

6.) He has to put the F in DILF. Laura was quick to put Steve Carell on the list, but does anyone really want to fuck Steve Carell? I’d shake hands with Steve Carell and buy him a beer, maybe even have a sweaty make out session with him in a sports bars commode; anything else just seems…overkill.

Over the course of this past week I challenged myself to pare down the DILF Hunter 5000 to what I consider to be the top 10 DILFs of all time. Screw writing the manuscript—that was a challenge. But thankfully after a lot of soul-searching, reordering, and revision, it’s done. I proudly present to you now, Meg McBlogger’s Top 10 All-Time DILFs:

#10: Alan Ruck

Or Alan “Ruck Me Harder”, if you will. Baha. I know what you’re thinking: “PSHHHH, seriously, Meg? He hasn’t been in anything since Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and he was like 25 in that.” Oh, really? Allow me to point you to a little slice of the human experience called Cheaper by the Dozen and episode four of “Stella” entitled “Coffee Shop”. He played an emasculated, down-on-his-luck DILF in both of those and need I mention those blue eyes?? (Plus in CBD he wore a tux. Netfix it immediately. Or just come over because I own it. It’s a genuinely funny movie. Don’t judge me.)

#9: Will Arnett 

Knock, knock? Who’s there? I’d lick that receding hairline. That’s my entire joke. ‘Sup?

#8: Timothy Dalton circa 1987's The Living Daylights 

Look, we can go tit-for-tat all day about whether or not he was a respectable Bond (Lord knows I’ve got the time) (and four years of 007 Days of Christmas marathons under my belt) but I think we can all agree that in his prime, Timothy Dalton was a DILF and he made no apologies for it. I mean, that noble mane of hair! Those suits! Eyebrows that could make Peter Gallagher blush! And my god—the cleft chin. I, personally think cleft chins are sexy, but I think that’s mostly just because I have one and spent the majority of my youth being told it was a butt chin and developed a self-deprecating sense of humor and semi-serious self-mutilating problem as a result, but DALTON! Dalton made it look good.

#7: That Correspondent From The Daily Show who Kind of Looks Like Timothy Dalton if you Cross Your Eyes and Squint

Which I do. Frequently. It gives me terrible headaches and I might be developing a lazy eye, but Timothy Dalton looks like a decrepit vampire these days and Jason Jones? I. SAID. GOD. DAMN.

#6: Justin Kirk

I dated a guy who looks like Justin Kirk once and we both know I was in no way the one who ended it.

#5: Jon Hamm

I mean, “Mad Men” and “30 Rock” reruns basically just serve as softcore pornography at this point. Reasons one and two to get my cable turned back on…

#4: Clive Owen

I just…he’s just so…and he makes me feel…and I could…and he…and I…I have to go.

#3: Jason Bateman

There’s no one else I’d rather make sweet Pop-Pop with.

#2: Paul Rudd

As I obnoxiously shouted over the head of a perfect stranger a mere six days ago: “LAURA!!! PAUL RUDD—THE ORIGIONAL DILF!!!! THE DILF THAT LAUNCHED A THOUSAND MINI-VANS!!!! FUCK. YES.”

#1: Jeremy Piven

First and foremost: I don’t have to explain anything to you people. Second and second most: Fine. Let’s just all acknowledge that Jeremy Piven is a douchebag, OK? Jeremy Piven is a giant douchebag and I, Meg McBlogger, recognize that. He’s a “Jewish Buddhist”, whatever the fuck that means; he pussied out of a play with an excuse only applicable to 19^th century hatters; he might actually think he’s Ari Gold after the cameras stop filming—I get it; he’s a douchebag. But that doesn’t mean when he shuts that pretty little goddamn mouth of his and stands perfectly still, he isn’t the sexiest man in the entire world. Yeah. I said it. I honestly think that Jeremy Piven is the sexiest man in the world. I pitted him against every single other member of the DILF Hunter 5000, and he came out on top every time. And am I embarrassed to admit that on a blog where I’m already on thin ice? No. No, I’m not. I’m proud of myself for being able to be that honest. Because originally I hid Piven at #6 and put Rudd at #1, but it was with Alex’s emotional support in the basement level of a Panera that I learned to be proud of my feelings for the Piven and not care what other people think. I’m sorry that I can actually look past people’s personalities and inner selves and judge them solely on their physical appearance and you can’t. I’m a

lso sorry I didn’t get tickets to Burning Man this year, hippie.

Also,you don’t think that Jeremy Piven has contributed anything to society or even to your life? Uh, let me remind you of a little motion picture called PCU, and a line that’s not only my personal mantra, but is what inspired Ex Co-Blogger Eddie to write her senior history thesis on "Dallas", thereby introducing her to Larry Hagman, thereby introducing me to TGI Hagman, thereby introducing you to TGI Hagman:

Tom: What is he doing?

Droz: He’s finishing his senior thesis. Pigman is trying to prove the Caine-Hackman theory. No matter what time it is, 24 hours a day, you can find a Michael Caine or Gene Hackman movie playing on TV.

Tom: That’s his thesis?

Droz: Yes! That’s the beauty of college these days, Tommy! You can major in Game Boy if you know how to bullshit.

And bullshit we did. And continue to! Well, not Eddie. She’s an upstanding member of society who counsels America’s youth about doin’ it with condoms. I…made this list. And got drunk alone tonight because I couldn’t afford Gatorade. Well. Remember to use a condom! There. Now we’re even. 

Welp, that’s going to do it for us! Good riddance to this god-awful week and here’s to shit getting better. If you find yourself sitting around this weekend coming up with some quality DILFs, shoot them my way. 

Remember, there’s no “I” in “DILF Hunter 5000”. Except for the one in “DILF”. That literally stands for I. Good. Glad we’re friends again. See you on Monday.