5 Reasons to join Twitter

My friend Helena is one of those innately hip people that I strive to be more like on a daily basis. She knows about obscure bands and has really good taste in movies and books. I met Helena my freshman year of college when we lived on the all-girls floor of Hughes Hall together (affectionately dubbed "The Virgin Vault"). I was scared shitless of her. I was all, "oh god, her hair is naturally blond! And she grew up in New York City! And she looks super disinterested!" When original ex-co-blogger Eddie and I planned a ~gIrLs MoViE/bOnDinG nIgHt!~ for our floor the first week of school, Helena skipped it and went to a show at the Black Cat. The next day in cinema class when our professor called her "Hell-len-uh" (as in of Troy) instead of "Hell-lay-nuh" (how you actually pronounce her name,) I was all, "BAHAHAHA! THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR SKIPPING MY GIRLY MOVIE NIGHT, BITCH!!!1"

Then one day Helena stopped by my room to drop off a mix CD that she had made for my roommate. I had just won a vintage salmon-colored blazer on ebay (that to this day I've never worn, but feel slightly better knowing is in my closet,) that I was perhaps a bit too excited about. Helena knocked on my door and asked for my roommate. Excited from my recent victory, I responded with, "SHE'S NOT HERE, BUT I NOTICE THAT YOU'RE WEARING A HANDSOME STRIPPED BLAZER I JUST WON A SALMON-COLORED BLAZER ON EBAY GET INSIDE AND LOOK AT IT CUZ YOU'RE MY NEW BFF BITCH!!!!!" And thank god, she did.

My point here is that Helena is hip and interesting. Over the years she's introduced me to a lot of cool stuff and I totally appreciate it. Her views and opinions on everything and anything also just plain fascinate me. Thus, my new life's goal is to get Helena on Twitter.

However, translating this real world friendship into a Twitter friendship has proven to be a difficult task. Obviously, Helena is too cool for Twitter. Officially, she won't join because "it confuses her." I call bullshit. If you can spread cream cheese on a bagel, you are officially smart enough to operate Twitter. But sorry toots, I'm not giving up. You of all people should know that once I get my little heart set on something dumb and pointless, I don't give up. Thus, I present to you with my 5 reasons to join Twitter:

5.) You can stalk celebrities in a totally socially acceptable and non-threatening way! Seriously, it's awesome! For example, I feel like Kim Kardashian and I are best friends. When she fell asleep in Mexico and got a vicious sunburn in the shape of her sunglasses, I was like "OH KIM GIRL! YOU SO CRAZY!" Oh, what was that? You didn't know Kim Kardashian fell asleep in Mexico with her sunglasses on? Welp, maybe you would if you followed her on Twitter. Do you know what Lauren Conrad had for dinner last night? Lord knows I do. She sent me a picture of the chopped ingredients. Because we're best friends. Via Twitter.

4.) Instant Tech Support! One time I could not for the life of me figure how to set something up for my boss in Outlook and was five minutes away from bursting into tears. I twittered about how Outlook was slowly trying to kill me and within five minutes I had a private message from someone with step-by-step instructions on how to fix my problem. It. Was. Awesome. Had I called my actual tech support guy, I would have wasted half my day listening to him struggle to breathe while craming Cheetos down his gullet and patronizing me for not knowing Outlook like the back of my light saber. I'll never forget you @hdesign.

3.) It's the best procrastination tool ever! Do you know what I do all day at work? I watch old episodes of Dynasty online and twitter screenshots of my favorite ridiculous 80's outfitts and 'staches. That's all I do. If I were just watching Dynasty, I'd probably feel pretty sad about my lot in life. But because Twitter enables me to share with others, I feel like I'm doing something productive with my day. (Or at least that's what I keep telling myself.

2.) Resolves deep seated emotional crises! You know how I'm convinced that if Michael Showalter and I were to talk once, he would instantly fall in love with me? And I missed my opportunity and I've been beating myself up ever since? Well it turns out I was wrong! I followed Michael Showalter on Twitter and sent him that entry and all I got back were crickets! Not even a courtesy follow-back for his #1 fan! And you know what? That's fine. Because now I can sleep at night knowing that if Michael Showalter and I were to talk, he would not fall in love with me. Rather, he would probably shove me and my vat of gumbo into oncoming traffic and have Michael Ian Black kick me while I'm down. And frankly, that is good to know.

1.) Twitter got me laid! Yea, that's right. I got some this past weekend in New York as a direct result of Twitter. And if getting laid isn't a reason to give in to a social fad, then I don't know what is. You see, I was followed by and subsequently followed a gent on Twitter who I thought was totally dreamy sex-bomb hot. And one night after happy hour, via Twitter, I told him as much. He was a pretty good sport about my creepily coming onto him and pretty soon tweets became emails, emails became text messages and text messages became sex. Sorry, but once the shackles of 140 characters of less are broken, things move pretty fast.

So in conclusion: Helena, you need to join Twitter. Because that means I'll probably have sex with you. twitter.com/2birds1blog

This is how people get Swine Flu.

Apologies to the masses who were looking forward to yesterday's recrap of The Hills (and by "the masses," I clearly mean Sabrina from Toronto.) Every now and then my real-person job has to take priority over the blog. Oddly responsible and out of character, I know. Here's the long and short of Monday night's episode: Brody banged Audrina; Lauren is still boring and Spencer is trying to find Jesus. 'Stache already found him years ago, so that should help.

I have to explain what just happened to me at work. Because writing about how painfully awkward and unfortunate I am makes it easier to habitat my person. All day. Everyday.

Russell the Co-Worker had a sales meeting this morning with some people from the Pentagon. Russell decided to shoot the shit with said various Pentagon officials directly in front of my desk before starting their studio tour. I hate when he does this. Because it puts a lot of pressure on me to stop g-chatting and googling "pugs in cute outfits" and actually do my job.

Normally this whole shit-shooting session lasts about five minutes. Sure, I'm temporarily irritated but I get to go on with my day, no fuss, no muss. Today's shit-shooting session, however, went horribly, horribly wrong. It was like some Lemony Snicket shit; unfortunate event after unfortunate event...and none of them made me look very cute.

First of all, I really had to re-adjust my boobs. I don't know what to tell you about that. The bra I'm wearing today is highly uncomfortable and when you've got giant hooters, sometimes you just gotta resituate 'em. However resituating is considerably difficult when you have Pentagon officials staring at you waiting for you to piss your pants laughing because "it feels like a Wednesday, huh?" HAHAHA LOLZ IT DOES! WE ALL HATE OUR JOBS AND IT'S FUNNY! I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING WITH MY LIFE LOLZ! SOMETIMES I CRY LATE AT NIGHT!! LMAO!!!!1

My uncomfortableness increased when I became aware of a bug bite on the top of my left foot. That sick son of a bitch itched like I have never felt from a bug bite before. Not wanting to reach under my desk and make a rapid jerking/scratching motion, I decided to be stealthy and use my right heel to do the scratchin'. Which worked out quite well. I felt better and returned my attention to figuring out how I could squirm at just the right angle to fix my jugs-conundrum.

Then, I sneezed. There's really no classy way to say this, but I sneezed an ample amount of snot directly into my hands. Sorry, I'm only human. A human with allergies. So I was in this horrible situation where I couldn't take my hands away from my face or else Pentagon guys would probably lose their complimentary cheese danish, but really need to fix this situation. I didn't know what to do. I just kind of awkwardly sat there for a few seconds covering my face being like, "it is far too early in the morning for me to figure out how I remedy this highly complicated situation." I finally came to the conclusion that I needed a tissue; the nearest box being in the swatch library behind me. But damnit—how to open the door handle with my hands otherwise preoccupied?! I decided the classiest way would be with my ass. And you're welcome, Pentagon officials. If it weren't for the snot, I bet it would slightly hotter.

Once in the library, I blew my nose, fixed my jugs and was feeling 100% better. I opened the door (again using my ass, because frankly it felt kind of cool the first time) and walked out of the library feeling composed, until I slipped on something. I looked down and thought "Hm, I don't remember tracking in any mud?" But it was not mud. It was blood. There was a trail of blood leading from under my desk and into the library. There was a genuine moment of panic when I thought to myself, "Holy shit...did I kill someone? Was that fantasy about shanking the man who bumped into me without saying 'excuse me' on the metro this morning not a fantasy at all, but rather reality?" Thankfully (or not-so-thankfully,) I looked down and realized that my left foot was bleeding profusely, filling my newly purchased and expensive shoes with blood. Damn you bug bite! Damn you pointy heel! Damn you decision to scratch said bug bite with said pointy heel!

So, I had to figure out a way to clean the pool of blood surrounding my desk without Russell or the Pentagon people being any the wiser. This is especially terrible timing as yesterday my co-workers approached me about how they think I'm mysterious and aloof. I guess a pool of blood surrounding my desk leading into the library miiiight not make me seem any more approachable?

I had to clean up the blood before the studio tour started. Because there was no time to go back to the library and get tissues, I busted out a Macgyver move and used 235,259 post-it notes and a bottle of Deer Park water to clean it up. If our cleaning people find the pile of bloody post-it notes in my trash, I will in no way judge them for calling the authorities. I probably deserve as much.

I believe it was when I was going for that last hard-to-reach splash of blood underneath my desk with a hot-pink post-it note that Russel the Co-Worker, looming over me asked, "Girl, what in the hell are you doing down there?" "It's not what it looks like?" was my only answer. He paused, shrugged and then stepped over me to start his studio tour.

So to answer your earlier hilarious question Pentagon guy, yes. Yes it truly does feel like a Wednesday.

Miley Cyrus is my Anti-Drug

I think it’s safe to say there is a part of me that will forever and always be a little kid. I don’t mean that in a creepy, Michael Jacksonesque “Hey little children, come to my amusement park slash house because we’re developmentally the same age and also I want to touch you in appropriately” kind of way. I mean that while a large part of me will become cynical and jaded and misanthropic over the years, there will still be, somewhere, a part of me that is blissfully ignorant and happy.

How can I be so sure? Well, let me paint you a little picture, a self-portrait of sorts. I am 23 years old, have a Bachelor’s degree in Biology and Psychology, have held down a respectable job at a well-known institution for a year and a half. And I love the Disney channel, anything by Pixar, and pop music. To a reasonable degree (the fold out posters from Tiger Beat are only on one wall of my room), but nonetheless, I am unashamed of my life choices.

I can’t even tell you the number of times I’ve had to defend myself from holier-than-thou types who “grew up a long time ago” and know how to “act their age”. I don’t care that you don’t like the same stuff I do, and I’m sorry that you think because I don’t listen to Ladysmith Black Mambazo means that I’m uncultured. My tastes encompass plenty of other movies, music genres, television shows, etc., I just happen to also have the same taste as my little sister. I’ve come to realize that while some other people my age might choose to kill their brain cells via home cooked meth or other illicit substances, I get my high from Miley Cyrus and her ilk.

First, let’s take pop music. Um, hi, do you actually listen to the lyrics to any of those songs? They don’t make a lick of sense to begin with. You don’t listen to them because you want to relate to them. For instance, take this gem from the Jonas Brothers’ “S.O.S.”: Next time I see you/I’m giving you a high-five/cuz hugs are overrated/just FYI. Sure, the song is about a breakup, but has anyone ever high-fived their ex post-breakup in a breakup-related conversation? (“Hey, listen babe, I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Up top!”) And are high fives really less overrated than hugs? I’d be willing to venture that they are, in fact, more overrated. But back to my point, pop music is created to punch your brain into submission. You listen to it because it puts you in a good mood. That’s what it’s there for. If I wanted to listen to music that made me depressed, I’d get a fauxhawk, black eyeliner, and a Myspace page. There’s a time for that, but when it’s 10 PM and I’m getting ready to go out, Dashboard Confessional isn’t the best segue into the night. Britney gets the job done much better.

Secondly, children’s television shows. This is, once more, just a case of not wanting to be lulled into a foul mood. The format for any kid’s TV show is essentially the same thing: problem happens, problem is resolved positively, everyone learns lesson. Whether your watching Spongebob or Smurfs or the Suite Life (but why would you watch that garbage?), you’ll see the tried and true episode arc. I know that when that Cherie gets stuck in the fridge on Punky Brewster, she’s not going to end up dead. Clearly Punky will be able to save her with the CPR she had learned earlier in that episode, and Cherie will learn not to climb into abandoned appliances again, even if it is the best hiding spot ever. (So the Punky reference is a little dated, but you catch my drift.) But if the same thing happened on Law & Order: SVU, poor Henry is going to end up getting booked, because not only did Cherie end up dead because of his appliance but also that refrigerator is his creepy sex dungeon, or something equally as depressing. Who wants that? Not after a long day at work. No thank you, I’d rather watch The Wizards of Waverly Place than Hardball with Chris Matthews.

And finally, have you seen Wall-E? Did your heart not melt? Did you not fall irrationally in love with Wall-E because he is perfect and you sort of wish he were a human being that you could date? And also, yes, these movies are written with kids in mind, but keep in mind, the writers know that kids won’t be going to these movies without their parents. Go watch any of your favorite movies from when you were a kid right now and I guarantee you’ll pick up on things you never noticed before.

Let me reiterate my point: I like these things because they are dumb. They genuinely put me in a good mood. And unlike years of coke addiction, I can enjoy them for as long as I want with no ill side effects. So to everyone who is going to say “What a freak.” I say go fist yourself. If you don’t like to be put into a good mood, then you are a Communist. You do what makes you happy, and so I’ll do the same. So I’m going to continue rocking out to Aly & AJ (“Potential Breakup Song.” Download it. You’ll thank me later.) and being the oldest one in the theater without children for High School Musical 3. I don’t want to grow up; I’m a Toys-R-Us kid.

Can you put sunscreen on Drinking Game Friday's back?

I don't know about where you are at, dear reader, but it is going to be brootiful here in NYC this weekend. Mid-80's, sunny, perfect. I couldn't be more excited, as I've recently purchased some gold lamé hot pants that I've been dying to wear. I'm kidding, that's not why I'm excited (besides I've already worn the hot pants several times to various functions). I'm excited because nice weather means being outside. Everything is better when it's outside.

Remember in college the first time your professor said "Alright everyone, we're going to have class outside today."? I nearly peed my pants with excitement, because that never happens to me. (I was a bio major in college, so this happened in the one English elective I took. It's hard to have chemistry lab outside. Beakers and whatnot.)
Also, what could be better than eating a nice meal at a sidewalk cafe? (Maybe if you ate that nice meal outside with some marble columns). And don't even get me started on outdoors drinking, because I would never stop.

But my primary reason for thoroughly enjoying the nice weather/being outdoors is that everyone and their mother is doing the exact same thing. Which is a recipe for some prime people watching. I'm not shy about admitting I generally dislike most strangers, but that doesn't mean I can't watch and judge them from afar. And while people watching is a year round treat, warm weather brings out all kinds. So grab a flask, slap on the sunscreen, head to the nearest green space or beach and play the People Watching Drinking Game!


For every shirtless guy you see:
- drink once if he should not be shirtless
- drink twice if he should be shirtless
- drink thrice if he should probably also be pantsless

For every girl in a bathing suit top:
- drink once if she unclasps the back
- drink twice if she removes it altogether (our European readers are going to be wasteddddddd)

For every couple you see:
- drink once for appropriate levels of PDA (hand holding, peck on the cheek)
- drink twice for inappropriate levels (slobbering over each other, dry humping)

Sports:
- drink once for every bro playing frisbee or catch or hackeysack
- drink twice when a catch or throw is totally botched
- drink three times for an unusual sport being played (who brings croquet to the park? is this 1860?)

Thanks for reading, enjoy the weather and we'll see you back here Monday morning! Also, you should totally follow us on twitter and join our Facebook page. That way when your friends like, "oh you should read this blog I found, it's called 2birds1blog," you can be like, "Uh, I knew about that months ago. Didn't you see it on my Facebook? Are you just discovering hoola-hoops and Dan Fogleberg too? Pfff, loser."

Mom, I swear I have no intentions of cooking or consuming crystal meth.

Now, people have reacted poorly when I've brought this up before, but, I stand that .05% of me kinda wants to try crystal meth once, just to see what all the fuss is all about. I don't want to do the physical shooting-up part...or deal with that whole addiction/withdrawal/hurt everyone you love/destroy your entire life jazz. I just want to know what it feels like. Once! Just to know. And then be done with it. If I could go to the hospital, have a doctor shoot-up for me and then take a "totes-magically-not-addicted-yay!" pill, that would be ideal. And only .05% of me feels this way. 99.95% of me thinks I'm full of shit. But you can't tell me that when you're watching Intervention, a teeny-tiny, itty-bitty, insignificantly small part of you isn't thinking, "Well, yes Kristie is bare-ass naked running around her shed/apartment throwing ramen noodles at her dyked-out sister screaming about the devil, but what feels that good that got you here in the first place?"

Intervention isn't alone in making me meth-curious, however. If I turn into a meth-faced, hillbilly, cousin-lovin', mountain-dwelling, straight-up drug addict, I place the blame squarely on our government and their incessant warnings. Here me out.

I've been sick for the past week with either really bad allergies or just my usual chronic tonsil/sinus Tiny Tim-like illness. Normally I'd be all, "meh, just let nature run it's course," and let myself dangle on the fringes of death, but I have plans to go to New York this weekend that I really don't want to back-out of. Thus, I've decided to be "responsible" and try this "resting" thing and take "medicine" that one gets at "a" "pharmacy."

For the record, cold medicines and I are not friends. We're not even frienemies. I hate them and they hate me. One of my personal mottos is "I don't fuck with the Quils." You see, during freshman welcome week in college, we got a bag of freebies which contained samples of NyQuil gelcaps. So, when I (of course) got sick within the first two days of moving in, I downed a bunch of free NyQuil and took a nap. What transpired after that can only be described as the worst NyQuil trip in history. I have seriously never felt that creepy in my entire life. I woke up from my nap, heart racing, sweating like a fat kid at soccer camp, completely freaking the fuck out. I had put this disgusting hippie celestial-themed tapestry on the bottom of the bunk bed above me so I didn't have to stare at springs all night, and I remember being like "holy shit, the stars man! The stars are moving! What in the fuck?! The staaaarrssss!"

Then I shot up, turned to my two roommates sitting at their respective desks and incoherently shouted, "I'M NOT GOING TO DO MY HOMEWORK! I WAS GOING TO DO IT. BUT I THINK I SHOULD GO BACK TO BED! I'M NOT DOING MY HOMEWORK! SO I'M GOING TO GO BACK TO BED NOW!!!! GOOD BYE! HOMEWORK. NOT DOING IT."

They just nodded all wide-eyed like, "Ok psycho, go back to bed. We just met you, we don't really don't care if you do your homework or not."

Ugh. Ever since then, I don't fuck with the Quils. Or any cold medicine for that matter. But, I really want to go to New York this weekend. So yesterday after work, I went to CVS to pick up some über maximum strength, show no mercy, definitely knock me out, border-line rohypnol level Sudafed.

And guess what I learned from my trip to CVS? You can totally make meth with Sudafed! Who knew?? I thought that's what the Quils were for, but apparently Sudafed will fuck you up just as good! I had to ask for it at the front register and felt completely shady about it. The cashier also kept bringing back the wrong kind and I had to keep being like, "no I want the maximum strength. No, not the extra strength, maximum strength. And that val-pak of D batteries. And this draino. And cat-litter...thnx."

It's just an entirely skeezy situation. You have to give them your license, which they scan and then you have to sign this scary electronic letter that's like, "I totes swear that I have a stuffy nose and won't cook meth with this." And of course I accidentally checked the "I do not agree" box by accident. You would think that the first box under the letter would be "I agree" because, you know, give me the benefit of the doubt, but no, "I do not agree" is the first box. So then I had to awkwardly be like, "oh my god I'm so sorry! I meant to click I agree!" and then crack a meth joke. Which apparently they don't like when you do...

But all of these scary government warnings and various hoops to jump through have me wondering—how the hell do you even cook meth in the first place? I mean, I got straight A's in high school Chemistry and am for all intensive purposes an intelligent person, but I don't think I would be able to figure out how to concoct a batch of crystal meth. According to various Datelines and 20/20s I've seen, there seems to be a lot of beakers and measuring and...science involved. How do these hillbillies manage to do it? It's almost impressive. And then I become irritated that a bunch of cousin-fuckin' rednecks are smart enough to figure it out, but I'm not. It's like a dare. So then suddenly I'm back at my apartment with newly purchased maximum strength Sudafed googling "how to cook crystal meth," and "meth ingredients."

Had the government not made it seem like such an impossible feat, maybe I wouldn't be so curious! And all of those hoops and warnings only make the drug seem all the more intriguing! It's basic psychology: tell someone that they can't have something and naturally they'll suddenly want it more. And when there's an A&E show glorifying it, they'll want it even more!

But again, this is only .05% of me talking.

People We Hate: People Who Don't Follow Rules

At the risk of sounding like a misanthrope and alienating all of you fine people, I’m going make a bold statement: I hate people. Whether on my daily walk to work, slogging through 9 to 5, or relaxing at the bar with friend, I am hard pressed to not get irritated with my fellow man. That is not to say I’m an unfriendly person; in fact, it’s quite the opposite. But I continue to run across people who make me scratch my head and wonder how they managed to make it so far in life without getting bludgeoned to death with a candlestick.

Currently, the most hated people on my list are people who don’t follow the rules. I just got back from my first ever trip to the West Coast to visit some friends in San Francisco. The trip was great while I was in San Fran with my friends. It was the getting there and back that really got me riled up.

I knew this was going to be a unique flight when I was waiting to board my flight. The ticket taker announces that we are going to board by zones. I think that’s logical, they probably have it set up so that people in the rear of the plane board first to keep the aisles clear and speed up the boarding process. I hear “At this time we are now boarding zones 1 and 2,” and suddenly half of the plane is in line to board. Considering I am zone 5, I’m fairly positive there are not 300 people in zones 1 and 2. You may think, “Haha I’m going to board early, take 30 minutes to cram my clearly oversized ‘carry-on’ bag in the overhead compartment and make everyone else so jealous that I’ve been on the plane for an extra 2 minutes.” But really, everyone HATES you. That is why this rule is in place: to keep me from breaking you in half and shoving YOU in the overhead.

After I got to my seat and simmered down (watching several people open the same overhead compartment to see if it’s full, after an announcement has been made twice saying that any closed compartment is full) we finally take off. Now, for some reason, there were several people traveling together who couldn’t get seats together. However, a plane is not a cocktail party, and you shouldn’t stand in the aisle and hover over me, talking about God-only-knows-what-but-I’m-sure-it-can-wait. Especially until after the fasten seatbelt sign has been removed. Once again, this is a rule put in place for a very good reason. The plane is currently ascending at a 45 degree angle, so you should stay in your seat to prevent being thrown backwards into a metal cart of free peanuts and biscotti. Or we are currently going through a patch of turbulence, so please remain seated so as to keep from being tossed into a neighbor’s lap causing an awkward erection and minor bruising.

One woman on this flight took the cake, blatantly disregarding the rules of aviation. She decided that 10,000 feet is the perfect altitude for some bikram yoga action. I kid you not, this woman ignored the flight crew, stood in the aisle, and did some light yoga. I’m perfectly fine with in-flight exercises because nothing scares me more than death by a rogue embolism. But first and foremost, the flight attendants are trying to get by to give me my complimentary snacks. Secondly, we have been on the plane for less an hour. Thirdly, no one is impressed that you can put your palms flat on the ground. This probably makes me sound like a stickler for rules, but if there is a solid reason for them, I’m going to do what I’m told. What makes other people think they are above that? You just can’t wait to get on the plane because the time you are going to spend sitting in the boarding area is taking away from the time you could be spending on the plane? Newsflash: we’re going to be on that damn plane for at least 5 hours, I think you’ll survive to be away from it for a bit. So you think now would be a good time to get your YoYo Ma CD out of your Jansport even though the pilot has asked everyone to remain seated? I hope the plane lurches suddenly and your CD cracks in half AND imbeds itself in your arm. Now you have no concert violnist and a flesh wound. That’d teach you. And to my yoga-practitioner, you are one cumulonimbus cloud away from breaking your neck. Then you’ll be a permanent Downward Facing Dog. I’m not saying I want you people to get hurt so you’ll learn your friggin’ lesson, but I’m also not NOT saying that.

Recrap Tuesday: If I wrote The Hills

Soooooo to be completely honest with you, I didn't watch last night's episode of The Hills. I was busy at Alex's celebrating two momentous occasions: the first new episode of Gossip Girl in a month of Blair-less Sundays and Alex's triumphant victory over the GREs (as shown in this symbolic photo of Alex's GRE book in the trashcan and the champagne toast that followed:)



60 minutes of Gossip Girl, 1 bottle of champagne and 2 Benadryl later, the length of Lauren's side braid was the least of my concerns.

But that doesn't mean I'd leave you all high and dry without a recrap! And if there's anything I've learned from my painful and embarrassing addiction to Liz Gately produced television, it's that all you need to know about any given episode can be learned from watching it's preview from the week before. And luckily I totally saw last week's preview, which means I am completely up to speed with what's going on! So allow me to fill in the holes with what is probably somewhere in the neighborhood of what actually happened.

Our episode opens with Lauren and Audrina laying out at the pool/shopping on Melrose/drinking at a bar/eating tapas at an exclusive tapas bar with an ironic name/at the Dentist office where Audrina is getting her front teeth shaved down. Ooo! I like that last one. Let's go with that. SO! Audrina and Lauren have a heart-to-heart about what boYz and all the DramZ and how over it they are. I'm sure Lauren was probably all "Whatever, I'm just being true to myself and come what may," and Audrina's all "b0yZ suck!!" until they are interrupted—"Hi Audrina, I'm Dr. Cohen, I'll be administering your teeth reshaping today. Now I'm going to put this spacer in your mouth to give me better access to your front teeth, so just relax your hooves and open wide." Holding Audrina's little hand, Lauren realizes that Brody hasn't been on the show in like forevs forevs. "Have you seen Brody recently Audrina?" "ehhheehahheharheahhhhennt" Damn that spacer. "She said she hasn't seen him in like forevs forevs," says Dr. Cohen, quite used to translating dental procedure mumblings. "Huh. Weird. He's not answering my texts or phone calls. Wonder what's up?" "ayyyuuhhhoooo" Ugh Ok, now this is just getting old. "She said she doesn't know," Dr. Cohen explains, "But...alright look, you girls didn't hear this from me, but I heard that Brody and the boys are going on an all-Dude getaway to Mexico/Vegas/Miami/Fire Island this weekend. How funny would it be if you two just show up out of the blue and crash it?!" "OMGAWD, Dr. Cohen, that would be friggin' hilarious! God, why are Jewish people always the funniest people ever?!" "And the stingiest!" (Lauren, Audrina and Dr. Cohen into the camera at the same time:) L'CHIEM! (cue recorder doing a stereotypically Jewish-sounding wamp, wamp, waaaaamp! noise and fade to commercial.)

The last we left them, Spencer was refusing to go to couple's therapy with Heidi, and not much as changed since. In fact, they're not even talking to each other and sleep in separate rooms. Heidi claims the bedroom for herself and instructs Spencer that he'll be sleeping on the sofa tonight. "Ugh...I wonder what my power-couple name would be if I were to ditch Heidi and date Staci the Bartender," Spencer muses to himself as he drifts off to sleep on the couch, "Spenci the Fleshtender? Stencer Bratt? (yaaaaawn) Stency and the Jetts?..." Just as Spencer is about to drift off to sleep, he feels Heidi climb on top of him, her legs clutching his sides like a vice. "Heidi baby, not now, I'm tired." (BuZZzzzZZzzzz) "Babe, put your vibrator away and let me sleep." "It's not a vibrator Spencer, it's a razor. Well, technically it's a vibrator slash razor called the Tinge, which by the way, it's inventor has yet to get back to Meg from 2birds1blog about after he so rudely contacted her in the first place, but that is neither here nor there. Because Spencer, if you don't go to couples therapy with me, Fleshy the 'Stache gets it." (Zoom to dramatic close-up of the razor buzzing, zoom to dramatic close-up of Spencer's eyes, wide in horror and finally zoom to dramatic close-up of Fleshy the 'Stache) "NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Anything Heidi! I'll do anything! Just don't kill Fleshy! He's all I got in this two-bit-world! If the viewers aren't distracted by him, then they'll realize what a freakishly giant forehead and shitty attitude I have!" "Then you'll go to therapy with me?" "YES! FINE! I'LL GO!" (razor stops buzzing) "Ok, thanks! Good night sweetie! See you in the morning!" And with that, Heidi prances back into the bedroom for a peaceful night's sleep, while Spencer takes out a Barbie brush and begins to comb Fleshy to calm him down.

Meanwhile, Stephanie has started her new internship at Kelly Cutrone's People's Revolution. I think we can safely assume that she's going to completely fuck this one up. I'd like to imagine that on her first day she eats a box of envelopes like a billy goat and headbutts a model in the gut with her mighty horns. Kelly probably said something really insensitive yet truthful like, "Stephanie Pratt, you are an envelope eating billy goat and you need to get your shit together if you're going to last one more day around here, sweetheart." Stephanie probably then freaks out and looks for Lauren to wipe her tears and pick pieces of envelope out of her teeth, but as we know, Ms. Conrad has surprised Brody and his boyZ in Mexico with Audrina, and is thus no where to be found.

"Yo, dawg, homes it's so cool you cats like showed up here all uninvited like, dude," Brody slurs to Lauren, as they all take a cool night dip in the pool after a hot day in the Mexico/Vegas/Miami/Fire Island sun. "Yeah, well, it's really good to see you Brody," Audrina purrs, suddenly seeing Brody for the first time as the big, hulking, completely not-gay, sexual force of nature that he is. "Yeah, dude, you too Audrina. Homes you look different...did you do something different to, like, your mane or something dawg?" "No. I had my teeth shaved." And with those five magical words, Brody Jenner had fallen in love.

Back in LA, Spencer and Heidi went to their first meeting with their therapist. The thought of having to watch their session is enough to make me want to jog to Capitol Hill and kiss Alex on the lips for nailing the GREs so I could be too distracted to watch this episode. I'm going to take a wild guess and assume the session went like this, except times times 20 minutes longer:
Heidi: Stop cheating on me.
Spencer: No. Stop yelling at me.
Heidi: Not until you stop cheating on me.
Spencer: No. Now stop yelling at me.
Heidi: No.
Therapist: I'm going to go find a rope and a sturdy shower rod to hang myself from. Please leave your check on my desk and get out when the timer goes off.

Somewhere in Mexico/Vegas/Miami/Fire Island, Audrina has climbed into Brody's bed, naked, ready for him to come in and take her in his big, strong, totally-not gay arms and make a real mare out of her.

Back in Mexico/Vegas/Miami/Fire Island, Brody is about to open the door to his room when he senses what's about to happen and hesitates, possibly because according to a radio interview I heard circa Christmas time, he's seriously involved with a Playboy model, possibly not. Just then, there's a sudden ghust of wind and a cloud of smoke and glitter appear and disco whistles blare from every direction. "What's going on?!" Brody yells, as the stardust and glitter settle and the shadowy figure of a white leisure-suited man steps forward, "Hello, son," says the figure (waka-chika, waka-chika, waka-chika, waka-chika) "It is I, circa 1980 Can't Stop the Music Bruce Jenner. I have travelled through time and space to warn you that if you go into that room and make love to that horse, you will live to regret it and ruin your chances with the Playboy bunny you're banging." (step-touch-turn-clap-disco boogie!) "But, according to something I said on an episode of Bromance, we've never had a good relationship. I inferred that you've never been there for me!" "Well son," (hustle-hustle-step-turn-boogie lady!) "I'm here for you now. And I'm warning you, don't make it all the way with that horse! You shall live to regret it! Heed my warning son! I must go, my time in your realm is short," "No, dad! Wait, don't go!" "I must son! But remember don't lay lady lay her!" (strut, strut, turn, snap, poof of smoke and fade).

What will happen on the next episode of The Hills?? Does Brody get down on it with Audrina? Will Heidi and Spencer work it out in couples therapy? Will Lauren have to fire Stephanie? Stay tuned for next week's episode of The Hills...or just watch a preview online that will answer all of these questions now and save you a lot of time and boredom in the future.

Thoughts I couldn't flesh out into full entries

- In my office we play the Comcast "ToP 40 HiTz!" music channel throughout the studio all day. But like, all day. Like eight hours straight, five days a week of the same god-awful songs over and over and over and over again. The worst part is I'm not allowed to change the channel. My bosses think that if clients come in to discover that we have ToP 40 HiTz! blasting throughout the studio, we'll seem young and hip and straight-up dope. Personally, I don't think there's anything cool about the air horn remix of Lady Ga-Ga's Just Dance, but that's just me.

There's one song on the ToP 40 HiTz! list that I hear at least four times a day, that specifically makes me want to rip my hair out. It's called Don't Trust Me by a group called 3OH!3. It's actually got a jaunty little beat that I don't hate and wouldn't mind busting a move to on the treadmill. However, the lyrics are 100% absurd. Specifically, I lay awake at night thinking about how frustrating I find the following lyrics:

shoosh girl, shut your lips,
do the helen keller and talk with your hips.

For the record, I loves me a good Helen Keller joke—what's Helen Keller's favorite convenience store? WAAAWAAA—but this is the most half-assed, lazy attempt at a Helen Keller joke I've ever seen. Because it's like, Helen Keller didn't talk with her hips, she talked with her hands. Why do pop stars keep lying to me via song? I mean, if you're going to be provocative enough to make a Helen Keller joke in your song, I just don't understand why you wouldn't want to take the extra minute or two to make sure it makes sense. Because I want to applaud you, 3OH!3. You're two white boys from Denver who rap Helen Keller jokes. I feel like I should support just on principal. But then you had to be all lazy and have it not make sense so I stay up at night thinking about it! It's like a Ph.D. student handing in a stellar dissertation without spell checking it. How am I supposed to respect you and call you "Doctor" now?

- Please read the following Craigslist missed connection entitled, "You gave me an enema - m4w - 42 (Metro)":

You gave me a wonderful therapeutic enema at a wonderful place in Dupont Circle on Thursday afternoon (I prefer not to mention the place by name, but I'm sure you know the name!). I didn't want to ask for your number while I was in such a compromising position, but I've never stopped thinking about you! Perhaps it's common, but you may have been able to tell my attraction to you by the state of my "ding-dong". I took a long cool shower when I got home!

...Is it sad that what I took away from this missed connection is the hope and dream that one day I'll meet a man so into me he'll be able to sustain an erection thinking about me, even while getting an enema?

- Yesterday my friend Ali and I went to Earth Day on the National Mall. I'm not really into environmental issues that much, but I am into openly gawking at hot hipster boys while eating a hot dog. So I was pretty much all over this event.

At one point during the day, a representative from the Netherlands got on stage and talked about how the Dutch are the greenest motherfuckers on the planet and how we could learn a thing or two from them. Which is legit. But, she closed her speech with something to the effect of, "And you should come to the Netherlands and stimulate our economy! I mean, when Katrina happened, the Dutch came to your aide, sooooo you kind of owe us one. KTHNXBYE!!"

For realsies, lady? Are you really throwing Katrina back in our faces? The Netherlands is like that friend who drove you to the hospital when you got appendicitis and now that he needs a ride to Chipotle is all, "well I mean, I did drive you to the hospital that one time..."

- Also speaking at the event was This Old House's Steve Thomas.

And holy crap was I excited. You see, Steve Thomas' co-host on This Old House is the #3 person on my List of People I Just Want to Hug—Mr. Bob Villa. I figured hugging Steve Thomas is probably the closest I'm ever going to get to hugging Bob Villa, so I'll take it and be happy.

BUT I FUCKED IT UP! I MISSED MY OPPORTUNITY! AGAIN! GAHHH!!!11 I lost my nerve and it was like the Michael Showalter experience all over again! I looked up and saw a denim-clad man walking towards me me and just as I was about to make a Canadian Tuxedo joke to Ali, I realized who it was—Steve Thomas! "OMGALIIT'SSTEVETHOMAS!!!!!!!!!!!" I yelled at Ali. "Say hi!" I froze. "Say hi!" I continue to freeze, but this time also managed to make a series of inaudible high-pitched gurgles. "MEG, say hi!!!!"

BUT I DIDN'T! I physically couldn't. I don't know what's wrong with me. I mean, no offense to either of them, but seeing Michael Showalter and Steve Thomas isn't exactly like seeing Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. And yet I was that level of shaking like a leaf, paralyzed with fear, starstruck. I'd probably be cool as a cucumber if I ever were to meet Angie and Brad. I'd strike up a conversation and charm the pants off 'em. Yet give me an obscure comedian and a home renovator and I'm passing out like a 13-year-old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert.

Drinking Game Friday: Hare of the Dog Edition

It's time for The Painfully Hungover at Work Drinking Game!

Rules:
Drink When:
- Your brain hurts too much to write a blog intro, so you dive directly into writing the drinking game.
- You hear your alarm clock go off and you think it's god playing a sick, sick joke on you. And no ones laughing.
- Prying your cold, dead corpse out of bed to take a shower is the equivalent of being asked to build a model airplane with one hand tied behind your back while wearing a blindfold. On a tightrope. With no glue. Or pants.
- You whimper, cry and moan in the shower like you're in The Crying Game.
- The back of your hair inexplicably won't dry (no matter how long you've been blow drying it) and it's as if each strand of hair is mocking you behind your back. Literally.
- The skirt that fit last week suddenly doesn't fit this morning, and you know it's because you drank the entire Heineken factory last night.
- Some asshole cuts you off while boarding the metro and you take solace in the fact that he won't be so pleased with himself when you vomit all over him and everything else on god's green earth in T-minus 30 seconds.
- You have six different kinds of beverages lined up on your desk because you've embarked on an Odyssey to figure out what will quench your thirst.
- The thought of taking part in small-talk with your co-workers, bosses, clients, the salad guy, the Fed-Ex guy and your building's concierge is enough to make you fantasize about pulling a Freaky Friday with the homeless man you pass on the way to work, because then you'd be napping in the sun and he'd be assembling marketing binders.
- Your office phone rings and it's like someone is skull-fucking you.
- You honestly weigh the pros and cons of curling up under your desk and taking a nap because yeah, it's a recession, but it might be completely worth getting fired for.

Thanks for reading, have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning! In the meantime, you can follow us on twitter or join the facebook group. Or hell; do both! It can't suck that badly.

An Open Letter

Dear Neighbor Across the Airshaft,

I don’t know if you’re aware of this fact but we live in New York City. This has multiple ramifications for apartment dwellers like you and I, but the one you should be aware of is that apartments here are constructed out of papier-mâché and thus I can hear everything that goes on in your apartment. I’m sure I’ve been guilty of aurally intruding upon you; when I’m pumping some cleaning jams or watching television with Marlee Matlin. However, these volume-related indiscretions are relatively minor compared to what you put me through at least once a day.

Sunday morning, I was just sitting in my living room enjoying some leftover Chinese food and reading a book. Sounds peaceful, right? It was, until I start hearing what sounds remarkably like what I imagine a teddy bear being murdered must sound like. A high-pitched, repeated squealing noise. Can you imagine what that noise was, Neighbor Across the Airshaft? That’s right. It was you faking your orgasm during sexy fun times. You are having sex though right? Because no one makes noises like that when they are alone. However, I’ve never heard any of your male companions making a sound.

Don’t get me wrong, neighbs, I’m not opposed to you having sexual relations. But let me reiterate the fact that we live in a cardboard box. Even if you were really achieving orgasm EVERY time you and your boyfriend/the mailman/your super/that guy from Craiglist go at it (which I highly doubt), can’t you like stick your face in a pillow or something? Or turn on some music? Something. Anything. Because it sounds like you are in my living room. And it’s not just that we share a wall. I saw people on the street staring at your apartment. That’s three stories down. They were about to report a heinous teddy bear murder in progress.

Let’s brainstorm more constructive ways for you to express your pleasure. First, you could otherwise occupy your mouth by biting down on something. For example, I’m sure there is a pillow at your disposal. If not a pillow, your manfriend’s arm. If all else fails, bring some apples to bed. You can simultaneously smother your fits of passion and get some of your daily dietary fiber. Next, you could learn morse code to transmit your feelings to the manfriend. Here’s a helper: Dash, dash. Dot, dot, dot, dot. Dash, dot, dash, dash. Dot. Dot, dash. Dot, dot, dot, dot. Just slap that rhythm out every 30 seconds or so. Lastly, you could just incorporate a ballgag into your lovemaking. I’d say that’s a win for everyone.

So in conclusion, I’m glad you are getting banged out on the regular. I’m not so glad to be privy to the sound of your passion. Don’t make me fight fire with fire.

Yours truly,

Chris

Why The Peekaru is the End of Days.

Although I've been getting emails and twitter messages for quite some time now about The Peekaru, I've been hesitant to sit down and actually write something about it. It's just a big-ass can of worms that I don't know if I'm strong enough to open. I feel like if I were to start analyzing why I find The Peekaru so offensive, my heart might be all, "fuck this noise!", pack up his bags and exit through my asshole. And can I really blame him for not wanting to stick around and circulate blood so I can give The Peekaru more undeserved attention? No; I can not.

However, The Peekaru isn't going away; it's gaining momentum. One more obscure blog article by some schmo-ette blogger isn't going to make a lick of difference. So it's with a heavy heart and a Bayer aspirin by my side that I analyze the offensiveness of...The Peekaru.

Why The Peekaru Brings us Down as a People and a Nation

Right off the bat I'm going state explicitly that this product is so offensively unnecessary that it makes it hard for me to breathe. Every time I glance at it, my chest tightens a little bit more. I ask you this: if we entered another Ice Age today, what would archaeologists assume about our society 30 million years in the future upon discovering worthless products like The Peekaru? Answer? They would assume that we are the most simple motherfuckers to ever graze god's green earth. Our race would be called Doucheasapians. History textbooks would read:

"Doucheasapians roamed the earth 30 million years ago in the DaneCookazoic era. These early creatures were too busy masturbating with razors and watching The Hills to figure out how to operate simple blankets. Because Doucheasapians could not handle the complexity of blankets but needed the warmth they supplied, they developed Peekarus and Snuggies to stay warm while leaving their hands and arms free to exchange high-fives at bars playing Journey. They were a simple people with simple wants and simple needs."

And I mean, honestly, is it really necessary to cover over 95% of your child's body in fleece? I get that it's admirable to protect your child from the cold and nobody likes a baby-sicle, but isn't this a bit overkill? What sort of mysterious Arctic chill has gripped your random Pennsylvania town that you need to wrap your baby in head-to-toe material and protect it in a tent of your own body warmth? Isn't that called a womb? If your baby still needed to be protected from the elements by being trapped inside your person, don't you think Mother Nature would have let it cook for a few more months? It popped out for a reason. It's ready to wear Baby Gap and experience sunlight.

On a secondary level, this situation is just absolutely frightening to look at. My vagina already hurts every time I see a pregnant woman; I don't need a reminder that one day those fleece lips will one day be replaced by something else entirely more frightening and personal...

On a tertiary level, have some god-damn respect for you and yours. I can understand "function over fashion," but only to a certain point. It's the same point where I get off-board with Crocs, sneakers with business suits and rain ponchos: you look abso-fucking-lutely ridiculous. And you should care about that. But not only are you making yourself look like a jackass, you're making your child look like a total jackass—against his/her will! The Peekaru is essentially Snuggie-rape! And you have a natural born right to choose whether or not you want to subject yourself to The Snuggie. Don't take that right away from someone. Nevertheless family. That's just sick.

Finally, The Peekaru enrages me for the exact same reason that everything and everyone around me does: it's a stupid product that was invented by a stupid person who will be more wealthy and successful than I will ever be. Ever. Period. And I want to cry about it forever.

But, you know what? Fuck it! Fuck my current aspirations and dreams! I'm going to invent something totally pointless and idiotic and make millions of dollars! And then I'm going to fill my bathtub with hundred dollar bills and diamonds! And then I'm going to get in the bathtub and roll around until I'm covered in diamond-paper-cuts and bleed to death. Because that's how I've always envisioned my own demise.

SO! What to invent? Hmm...Well the Peekaru is basically just a slightly altered version of The Snuggie, so maybe I'll just slightly alter The Peekaru. I mean, that Peekaru kid's face is just hangin' out there in the cold. If you're going to commit to a stupid idea, I say go hard or go home. Thus, I give you the world's only full face Peekaru—The Womb Tomb!

CHA-CHING!!!

Recrap Tuesdays: Better for you than meth, but not as fun as heroin.

Last night's episode of The Hills was about as eventful as taking your Nana out to lunch. Except at least at lunch there's a small chance Nana might not chew her corned beef thoroughly and start to choke. "I'M LOKING! LOW-KINGGG!" She'll shout at you while she clutches her throat. "I think she said she's choking!" the nosy bitch at the table next to you will interrupt. You'll then freak out and only be able to say "oh my gawd!" repeatedly and flutter your hands frantically until a skilled waiter comes over and busts out the Heimlich. After a few tries, the rogue piece of sandwich will come flying out of Nana's gullet and cannonball directly into your soup, sending matzoh and chicken broth flying all over your new DVF sundress. First Nana will feel flustered, then embarrassed and then resolve to take you shopping after lunch to get you a new shmatah because she just feels just terrible doll!

...Not only was that more action than Nana's seen in years but it was a helluva lot more action than the Hills delivered this episode.

Tonight's episode revolved around two equally boring and uneventful plot lines: the love triangle between Spencer, Heidi and Stacie the Bartender; and Stephanie's attempt to land a job at People's Revolution.

Let's start with Stephanie, shall we? Stephanie Pratt is my anit-drug. The next time I'm at a party and someone passes the bong my way, I'm going to take a moment, open the locket hanging around my neck, look deep into the eyes of Stephanie Pratt staring back, close the locket and say, "Naw man. That stuff's not cool. And you're not cool for doing it!" And then walk away righteously. Because I don't ever want to think it's acceptable to act the way Stephanie did in her interview with Kelly Cutrone.

After performing sexual acts on Lauren that are illegal in eight states, Stephanie got an interview for an internship position at Kelly Cutrone's fashion PR firm, People's Revolution. You know, a job that as Stephanie herself pointed out, hundreds of intelligent and capable young girls would die for. Being a Hillion, however, Stephanie was ushered to the top of the list of candidates and scored an interview with the almighty KCut herself. (Not before production had to stop filming to find Stephanie, who disappeared after chasing a feather that floated out of the door and down the street.) Once back, Stephanie proudly handed her resume (which was folded into thirds and stuffed in an envelope, what in the fuck was that?) to Kelly. Kelly took one look at her resume and excused herself to change her adult diaper; as she had shat herself out of disbelief. The rest of the interview went a little something like this:
Kelly Cutrone: "Sorry I just shat myself. It's just that I've never seen a resume as god-awful as this one in real life before."
Stephanie Pratt: "Yea, well, let me nutshell it for you: I want to design handbags and I think working for you will make it look more legit when I get a handbag deal from being on this show."
K: "So you're using me?"
S: "Yeah, pretty much. Oh, unless that means I won't get the job."
K: "Eh, well I'm contractually bound to give you the job anyway. Let me ask you a series of simple questions so you'll at least appear to be qualified. Can you put a sheet of labels into the printer, press print and then stick 'em on envelopes?"
S: "WOAH, WOAH, WOAH MRS. CUT-THRONE! These 'sheets' you speak of, are they linen or Egyptian cotton? And talk slow talk, I'm taking notes!"
K: "O...K...let's move on to another question: do you know your ass from a hole in the ground?"
S: "Like...specifically what kind of a hole in the ground? Ooo! I went to the Grand Canyon once! Or did I go to Grand Cayman?"
K: "Oh fuck this. You're hired. Lauren; if she fucks up, it's your funeral."

Sadly, things weren't going much better for old Heidi and Spencer. Heidi came back from her soul-searching trip in Colorado only to discover that Spencer has been seeing Stacie the Bartender. Heidi tries to confront Spencer, but Spencer is too livid that Heidi ran into her ex-boyfriend while out to dinner with her family to talk about it. Because, you know, having a threesome with Jose Cuervo and a slutty bartender doesn't hold a candle to saying "It's good to see you too," to your ex-boyfriend. God, Heidi. Keep your pants on, you fucking whore.

My favorite scene in this episode has to be when Spencer and Uncle Doug McConaughey are driving to club H. Wood, jamming out to their sicky-nar-nar tunes and talking Bro talk. First of all, this scene looks like it was shot using a camera that just wrapped a snuff film. Second of all, at one point the camera cuts to Uncle Doug McConaughey, who has his eyes closed and is swaying back and forth to the music like he just took a few too many hits of ex. Apparently the same person who forgot to tell Uncle Doug that Ecstacy hasn't been cool since 1998 also forget to tell Spencer that Heidi had plans to swing by the club to see what Spencer's up to.

And Spencer was up to his neck in pussy. Specifically Stacie the Bartender's. And there's no way you're going to get him to go to a couple's therapist to talk about his Stacie-the-Bartender-pussy-addiction. So, maybe, juuuuust maybe, Heidi might actually think about considering the possibility of weighing the pros and cons of leaving Spencer, someday. Fin.

Chris on Karaoke

Last weekend, my friend and I finally got around to going out and doing some karaoke, like we’d been talking about for weeks. And thank the good Lord above that we did. I hadn’t had that much fun since the time I murdered that hobo in Penn Station. But that’s beside the point. The point is, karaoke was so much fun. Which isn’t unusual, I mean, if you’ve been planning on/looking forward to something than chances are you’ll have a good time. However, I have some theories about what you can do to ensure any future karaoke excursion you may partake in is good times.

1. Drink. This might be self-evident. However, I don’t know about you, but if I’m going to stand up in front of a group of strangers and sing along to Don’t Stop Believin’ in my best Steve Perry impression, I’m going to need to be three sheets to the wind. Maybe four for good measure. I prefer BYOB places, because it’s more cost-effective. If I’m going to have to buy drinks to pre-game with, why not just game with them too? The only downside to getting crunk (or krunk for karaoke drunk) is…well, actually I can’t see a downside.

2. The company you keep. This is important for a variety of reasons. First and foremost, while you are belting out the hits of the 80s, 90s and today, you need your friends to be there to cheer you on. Or sing back up. Or dance back up. Or take pictures. The only time I’ve seen someone rock out solo, this weird kid sitting at the bar waited for an hour and a half for his song to come on…and proceeded to pace up and down the bar to “Amish Paradise.” While I respect his moxie, I also pity him immensely.

A caveat: the people you go to karaoke with should be of comparable skill level to you. If you are going to karaoke and can sing, then by all means, go with your other friends with talent and bask in each other’s awesomeness. But don’t go with your friends who can’t sing and belt out; this is shady Asian karaoke, American Idol auditions are next week. In my humble opinion, karaoke is made for Japanese businessmen and Americans who know they can’t sing.

3. The songs you sing. This might be the most crucial factor, since this is the reason you are going to karaoke. Choosing the right song, it’s best to use the Goldilocks method. Avoid songs that are too fast or too slow and you’ll find one that’s just right. My preference is for songs from the mid to late 90s. They are just old enough to be retro, but new enough for you to know all the lyrics. Last weekend, the big hit of the night was when my friend Jaimie queued up Celine Dion “That’s the Way It Is”. When the title first flashed across the screen, everyone collectively said “Jigga what?” to which Jaimie replied “Oh just you wait…” Sure enough, ass soon as the music started, everyone was singing along. Because surprisingly everyone knows that song.

These are my three things to take into consideration in your karaoke planning. Of course, these are just theories based upon my previous experiences. If anyone has other ideas as to what may or may not make the perfect karaoke excursion I’d love to hear it. Also, any suggestions for good karaoke songs (I’m partial to “Total Eclipse of the Heart” myself) is totally welcome.

Happy (Good) Drinking Game Friday!

Easter weekend? Don't mind if I do, and don't mind if I do! Because HE IS RISEN, YOU GUYS! He is mother-effin' risen. And who's psyched? This girl. Because that means my office is closed today. GLORY BE! Those irritating Bible scriptures at the bottom of my boss' emails suddenly seem a whole helluva lot less offensive right now.

Sorry I have to keep things brief today. I've got quite a busy little Good Friday planned for myself, what with Church services, quality family time and all that private reflecting I'll be doing. Sigh. That's a lie and we both know it. I just want to sleep in and spend the day doing laundry and catching up on 30 Rock.

However, it would be just plain blasphemous for me to not supply you with a Friday drinking game. So pour yourself a glass of red, put out a plate of cheese and Host and give Judas the stink eye— because it's time for The Passion of the Christ Drinking Game!


Rules:
Drink When:
- There's writing on the screen (HAH! Just kidding.) But drink when a Bible scripture is shown
- Anyone says "of Nazareth"
- Anyone says "blasphemy"
- Someone prays
- There's a flashback
- There's a trial
- Judas kisses Jesus
- Pontius Pilate addresses the crowd
- Jesus resists one of Satan's temptations
- There's a flogging
- Someone loses an ear
- There's a crucifixion
- RESURRECTION BITCHES!

Have a great weekend and thanks for continuing to spread the 2b1b gospel! We'll see you back here bright and early on Monday morning.

The Tinge Challenge

I received the following email yesterday regarding last week's rant on The Tinge, vibrator slash razor:

Hi Meg,

I just wanted to take this opportunity to introduce myself…My name is Matt Roberts, I invented the Tinge Razor.

A friend of mine forward me your blog write-up unfavorably reviewing our product.

If you actually reviewed or read up on the Tinge Razor you would know that we thought of all the issues you raise in your write-up.

A couple things I would like to point out…

1: You cannot use the razor and toy feature together, it is one or the other.

2: While in vibrating mode it is virtually impossible to cut yourself as the safety cap cannot come in-voluntarily.

3: If this still makes you uncomfortable you can easily remove the razor blade all together

All of these things are pointed out in our new marketing video to be on our site shortly. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OJqPC3D7KzA

Hope this helps…It’s unfortunate that you chose to take your frustrations and difficulties with your own invention out on us.

I for one would be happy to learn more about your idea…Feel free to forward me a business plan.

Regards,

Matt

Regards,

Matt A. Roberts
President/ CEO Illusions International, Inc

Alright smart ass. You're pissed; I get it. But there is absolutely no need to drag my broken Slammock dreams into the fight! That's just below the belt, Matthew. Something tells me that when your first grade class was going around the room saying what you wanted to be when you grow up, little Matty didn't say "inventor of the scariest vibrator known to man!" So, back off.

That being said, I do appreciate this email. When I propose questions on the blog like, "what the fuck was this person thinking when he invented this," I'm not just hypothetically asking the cosmos. I want an answer. For example, if the Snuggie people were to email me and say, "Look, me and my buddy were high as cats playing X-Box and I put my robe on backwards so I could fully grasp the controller but keep my arms warm," I'd probably hate the Snuggie 67% less than I do today. So, I'm not trying to be snide when I say thank you Matt. Thank you for taking the time to explain The Tinge to me.

However, I still can't get behind it. Let's go point-by-point, shall we?

1: You cannot use the razor and toy feature together, it is one or the other.

Well, I should fucking hope not! I thought that was a given. But while I know that I'm not going to be putting a vibrating razor blade on my clit, I'm still horribly, horribly uncomfortable with the razor blade/clitoris proximity. It just shouldn't be. I fully understand what you're trying to achieve here Matt, and it's a good idea—disguise your vibrator as something innocuous so your kids don't find it and get scarred for life. Mozel tov! I just have a problem with what you have chosen to disguise the vibrator as. Better ideas to me are the following:

Lipstick


Nail Polish


Or a Sponge


These manage to be common household objects, while still being comfortable enough to stimulate my hoo-hah. Because on the most basic and human level, a razor blade is just not appetizing. I'm sorry. Take discreet smoking devices, for exmple. My sister has a smoking device that's made to look like a cigarette that's helped me out in many a public situation. But you know what probably wouldn't have been as effective? A bong disguised as a shot gun that you smoke by sucking through the barrel and pulling the trigger. While clever and well-disguised, it still looks like I'm about to blow my fucking brains out, Matt. See the difference?

2: While in vibrating mode it is virtually impossible to cut yourself as the safety cap cannot come in-voluntarily.

As my friend Andrew pointed out, I'd feel a whole better had you said "While in vibrating mode, it is fucking impossible to cut yourself."

3: If this still makes you uncomfortable you can easily remove the razor blade all together

Well if I did that I'd just be left with a razor and a vibrator. Which I already have. The whole novelty of your product lies in you combining the two for me. Why would I wear my robe backwards when I can buy a Snuggie, which comes backwards?

The first smart ass email I sent back to Matt was fueled by my anger about the Slammock jab:

Hey Matt,

It's a comedy blog.

Best of luck,
Meg

But then I remembered that my vibrator recently broke and it's a recession. So, I added 2 and 2 and sent this:

Wait, Matt! Before you get even more pissed at me, what if you send me a Tinge and I write about my experience with it? HEAR ME OUT! It's a win/win situation. You win because if your calculations are correct, I'll love it and write about it; and I'll win because my vibrator recently broke and I've been to lazy to get a new one.

Thoughts?

- M

Sadly, I never got a response.

Look Mateo...I don't want to fight with you. Your goal is to bring pleasure into this world, and I respect the hell out of that! I think the real enemy here is Daily Candy for writing a snarky litte review of your product with the shiteous (albeit hilarious) title "Cut a Rug" and releasing it on April Fool's Day so nobody thinks your product is real. And yet, you put their review on the front page of your website and write me a nasty email? Come on, Matt! I'm two seconds away from adding you to the official 2b1b Boycott List.

But that doesn't have to happen. I can be your best friend, or I can be your enemy. The choice is yours and yours alone.

So I challenge you Matt. I challenge you to let me try and review your product. Put your money where your mouth is.

Or rather, put your razor where my clit is, as it were.

You know where to find me.