OMG I fucking hate nerds.
If I could live my life all over again, I would be a jock in high school and a frat boy in college, specifically so I could shove nerds into lockers and give them wedgies and all of that.
Let me explain where this is coming from. Everyday from 9-5 I am surrounded by the worst nerds on the planet. People who got beat up in high school, but still decided to pursue the path of nerdery into college, where they failed with the opposite sex repeatedly BUT STILL decided to go on and get a degree in higher education in being a nerd. And so now they all come here to do their science experiments and circle jerk about how smart they are. I can freely admit that I had a brief foray into nerddom growing up, but I managed to major in biology without hiking my pants up to my nipples, slapping on a pocket protector, and jerking off to articles in Science magazine. But being the odd man out here (read: the only non-loser) I am in the minority, and the nerds are picking on me daily.
The people I work with cannot comprehend standard social graces. If you aren't a beaker or a bacteria, they have no idea how to interact with you. And so instead of being polite humans, they are routinely condescending, derogatory, or just outright rude.
Let me give you an example. Six months ago, I was asked to ship some stuff to Australia (which is a whole lot harder than you'd expect. Damn you, terrorists, for making my job more difficult), and I needed to ask someone in the lab for help. So I had to ask this douchebag nerd, and he agreed to help. I find out, six months later, that the shipment never went through. So I email around to find out what the problem was: the recipient tells me its the shipping company's fault, the shipping company tells me it was an internal issue, I email Dr. Douchebag to find out what's wrong. He catches me at the end of the day and tells me that he never received the samples to be shipped from our boss, but he made it seem like it was my fault. He also said that "It's a shame, because the shipping company was great to work with, but it was embarrassing that I never got those samples."
What the fuck are you guilting me about that for? I can't make our boss do something any faster than you can. And if that's really what was wrong, then why did our boss ask me what the holdup was on the shipment? Don't think you're pulling a fast one on me because I'm not as smart as you because I don't have a Ph.D. I have a P.H.D. which is way better. A pretty huge dick. I also have a personality, and the ability to make friends with things larger than bacteria. You might make more money than me right now, but you're also 35 and had to buy your wife from Russia (Seriously, this guy is a FOB from Ireland and his wife's name is Olga...draw your own conclusions). So why don't you take your shitty attitude, put it in a test tube, and shove it up your ass. But you're probably already going to have your mail order bride do that for you when you get home tonight anyway.
We here at 2birds are very much against the Meeks and nerds of the world. Please help us to end their individual reigns of terror. For every new person that friends us on Facebook, Meg will give a Meek a swirlie. For every new person who follows us on Twitter @2birds1blog @misterlizlemon, I will break a nerd's glasses. And for every person you pass this blog along to, Meg and I will both shove a Meek/nerd into a locker.
6.30.2009
6.29.2009
If you took my right to vote away, I would kind of understand.
I'm going to go ahead and ask you to watch the following clip entitled once entitled "Paul Begala Schools Meghan McCain on Bill Maher's 'Real Time":
First of all, Joel Stein was also a guest on this episode, and to him I say: 1.) Me-ow 2.) I'm single and very much looking to mingle and 3.) I haven't asked her, but I'm 99.9% sure that your wife would be fine with you leaving her for me. Kthnx.
Next order of business: Meghan McCain makes me want to set things on fire. She makes me want to set things on fire and watch 'em burn to the ground. And then Country Line Dance on the ashes. That is how much she enrages me.
I could write a book on the many reasons why Meghan McCain enrages me (a book I call, "Meghan on Meghan: Did I Forget to Take My Pills This Morning, Or Do You Really Exist?") but the above clip illustrates one of the primary reasons why I hate the broad so much: whenever she gets busted for being dumb as a box of hair, she makes it all about how "the big, bad political pundit is beating me up because I've got blond hair and jugs-a-plenty! Poor me!" And I say fuck that noise! Because Paul Begala wasn't ripping Meghan McCain a new asshole because she's got giant hooters and pretty hair; he was ripping her a new asshole because she has no idea what the fuck she's talking about. There is a huge difference. I mean, honestly! She said she couldn't talk about the Reagan administration because she wasn't alive then! That statement is so mind-bogglingly stupid it's almost smart again! And frankly, I think Paul Begala went easy on her. If it were me sitting across from her, I'd run off stage, return with a roll of duct tape, tape her mouth shut and sucker punch her square in the ovaries so she can no longer procreate. YOU'RE WELCOME, PLANET EARTH.
And me wanting to punch Meghan McCain in the ovaries has nothing to do with how hot she is. However, it does have everything to do with how dumb she is. There is no correlation between looks and the ability to talk about politics, and for Meghan McCain to keep insinuating that there is brings us all down as a people and a nation. It's just such a cop-out. I also like how in that clip she's all "I'm just the blond at the table, so everyone is being mean to me!" Um. Hi. Kitty Kay is sitting across from you. What is she, chopped liver? No! She's got a nice little shape to her and—GASP!—blond hair! Funny how everyone treats her like an intellectual equal and you like a Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robot.
Also, Meghan McCain, you are not badass. I'm so sick of hearing her be like, "The Republican party doesn't like me because I've got a tattoo and listen to The Clash and use curse words! They can't handle how punk I am!" You, madam, are the Avril Lavigne of politics. You're about as badass as taking your Grandma to see Rent. Maybe the reason the Republican party doesn't like you is because you can't open your mouth without Swedish Chef-style nonsense flying out.
Stop trying to distract us from the matter at hand: you're not that smart.
I've decided that tonight I'm going to go on The O'Reilley Factor with a hook for a hand. And then when I can't keep up with the conversation and make the Democratic party look bad, I'm going to be like, "GAWD YOU GUYS! Everyone is being so mean to me just because I have a hook for hand! Why do you guys assume I can't talk about politics just because I have a hook! I know I'm just 'The Hook Girl,' but I know about politics too! God, can't we keep this conversation about politics and not make it all about my hook?! If you don't like me, you can KISS MY HOOK!" Then I'll become a "young political pundit," verbally assault a security guard or two at the White House Correspondent's dinner and write a book about my dad. FINALLY!
First of all, Joel Stein was also a guest on this episode, and to him I say: 1.) Me-ow 2.) I'm single and very much looking to mingle and 3.) I haven't asked her, but I'm 99.9% sure that your wife would be fine with you leaving her for me. Kthnx.
Next order of business: Meghan McCain makes me want to set things on fire. She makes me want to set things on fire and watch 'em burn to the ground. And then Country Line Dance on the ashes. That is how much she enrages me.
I could write a book on the many reasons why Meghan McCain enrages me (a book I call, "Meghan on Meghan: Did I Forget to Take My Pills This Morning, Or Do You Really Exist?") but the above clip illustrates one of the primary reasons why I hate the broad so much: whenever she gets busted for being dumb as a box of hair, she makes it all about how "the big, bad political pundit is beating me up because I've got blond hair and jugs-a-plenty! Poor me!" And I say fuck that noise! Because Paul Begala wasn't ripping Meghan McCain a new asshole because she's got giant hooters and pretty hair; he was ripping her a new asshole because she has no idea what the fuck she's talking about. There is a huge difference. I mean, honestly! She said she couldn't talk about the Reagan administration because she wasn't alive then! That statement is so mind-bogglingly stupid it's almost smart again! And frankly, I think Paul Begala went easy on her. If it were me sitting across from her, I'd run off stage, return with a roll of duct tape, tape her mouth shut and sucker punch her square in the ovaries so she can no longer procreate. YOU'RE WELCOME, PLANET EARTH.
And me wanting to punch Meghan McCain in the ovaries has nothing to do with how hot she is. However, it does have everything to do with how dumb she is. There is no correlation between looks and the ability to talk about politics, and for Meghan McCain to keep insinuating that there is brings us all down as a people and a nation. It's just such a cop-out. I also like how in that clip she's all "I'm just the blond at the table, so everyone is being mean to me!" Um. Hi. Kitty Kay is sitting across from you. What is she, chopped liver? No! She's got a nice little shape to her and—GASP!—blond hair! Funny how everyone treats her like an intellectual equal and you like a Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robot.
Also, Meghan McCain, you are not badass. I'm so sick of hearing her be like, "The Republican party doesn't like me because I've got a tattoo and listen to The Clash and use curse words! They can't handle how punk I am!" You, madam, are the Avril Lavigne of politics. You're about as badass as taking your Grandma to see Rent. Maybe the reason the Republican party doesn't like you is because you can't open your mouth without Swedish Chef-style nonsense flying out.
Stop trying to distract us from the matter at hand: you're not that smart.
I've decided that tonight I'm going to go on The O'Reilley Factor with a hook for a hand. And then when I can't keep up with the conversation and make the Democratic party look bad, I'm going to be like, "GAWD YOU GUYS! Everyone is being so mean to me just because I have a hook for hand! Why do you guys assume I can't talk about politics just because I have a hook! I know I'm just 'The Hook Girl,' but I know about politics too! God, can't we keep this conversation about politics and not make it all about my hook?! If you don't like me, you can KISS MY HOOK!" Then I'll become a "young political pundit," verbally assault a security guard or two at the White House Correspondent's dinner and write a book about my dad. FINALLY!
6.26.2009
Item J-062509: Drinking Game Friday
As many of you may recall, last summer I peaced out of New York and moved back in with my dear old mom and dad for a good six months. Those six months were dark days. On day 1 I got mono and spent two solid months in the fetal position praying for death to embrace me in his cold, sharp claws. After that I started the Great Job Hunt of '08. Again, I prayed everyday for death to embrace me in his cold, sharp claws. Basically when I wasn't praying for death to embrace me in his cold, sharp claws, I was hangin' with my parents, and they definitely made the entire post-NYC-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life-it's-a-recession-maybe-I-shouldn't-have-pissed-all-over-my-job-and-moved-home-to-be-an-unpaid-comedy-blogger-please-someone-hold-me phase of my life much, much more bearable. If not enjoyable!
Everyday I had the same little routine: wake up (cough—at noon—cough); check my email for the many "Dear Ms. McBlogger: Thank you so much for your interest in working for ______! Unfortunately at this time, you can suck our balls through our drawls. We will keep your resume on file for the future. Sincerely, ______" emails waiting for me; writhe around my bed listening to INXS's "Never Tear Us Apart" for a while; finally make my way downstairs; grab the cat, a box of Kashi and my laptop; plop myself down on the couch next to my mom and watch QVC/job hunt for the rest of the afternoon.
I got in some great quality time with my mom during this period of my life. (I also got some great Diamonique jewelry and Joan Rivers makeup, but that is neither here nor there.) My mom always jokes that she watches so much QVC she could make a QVC drinking game, so I thought, pfff—why not? Because who doesn't love The Q? It's hypnotic! Everyone is so perky and everything is so shiny! It's a zen experience. You can watch it for hours on end and completely zone out and forget all your worries and cares. It's a terrific way to forget that you aren't even qualified to work as a janitor at a gallery and that maybe that art history minor was a flagrant waste of time and ha ha...ha...
So without further ado, I give you My Mom's QVC Drinking Game!
Rules:
Drink Once When Someone Says:
- "By the way"(given the right host, this alone can keep you blasted for 1-3 hours)
- "Pop of color"
- "Best of the best"
- "It has a good hand"
- Any time the host or caller says "thank you" while trying to end a phone call
- "You're my favorite host"
- A host says to a caller "thank you sooo much, that means sooo much to me"
- "you're on the air with ______, welcome in to QVC"
Drink Twice When:
- Today's special value is announced
- Something is available on easy pay
- A piece of jewlery is measured with the wooden ruler
- The host says she bought the item for herself or a family member
- The host tests the durability of a bracelet by violently banging her wrist on the table
Chug When:
- Joan Rivers or Tori Spelling make a special guest appearance
Thanks mom! And thank you, reader. Now normally this is where I ask you to tell a friend about the blog, but today, let's switch things up! I'm feeling a little crazy, so tell an enemy about the blog. Yeah, that's right, tell a straight-up jackhole to follow us on Twitter, join our Facebook page and/or shoot us an email (meg@2birds1blog.com; chris@2birds1blog.com). And thanks for that. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning!
Everyday I had the same little routine: wake up (cough—at noon—cough); check my email for the many "Dear Ms. McBlogger: Thank you so much for your interest in working for ______! Unfortunately at this time, you can suck our balls through our drawls. We will keep your resume on file for the future. Sincerely, ______" emails waiting for me; writhe around my bed listening to INXS's "Never Tear Us Apart" for a while; finally make my way downstairs; grab the cat, a box of Kashi and my laptop; plop myself down on the couch next to my mom and watch QVC/job hunt for the rest of the afternoon.
I got in some great quality time with my mom during this period of my life. (I also got some great Diamonique jewelry and Joan Rivers makeup, but that is neither here nor there.) My mom always jokes that she watches so much QVC she could make a QVC drinking game, so I thought, pfff—why not? Because who doesn't love The Q? It's hypnotic! Everyone is so perky and everything is so shiny! It's a zen experience. You can watch it for hours on end and completely zone out and forget all your worries and cares. It's a terrific way to forget that you aren't even qualified to work as a janitor at a gallery and that maybe that art history minor was a flagrant waste of time and ha ha...ha...
So without further ado, I give you My Mom's QVC Drinking Game!
Rules:
Drink Once When Someone Says:
- "By the way"(given the right host, this alone can keep you blasted for 1-3 hours)
- "Pop of color"
- "Best of the best"
- "It has a good hand"
- Any time the host or caller says "thank you" while trying to end a phone call
- "You're my favorite host"
- A host says to a caller "thank you sooo much, that means sooo much to me"
- "you're on the air with ______, welcome in to QVC"
Drink Twice When:
- Today's special value is announced
- Something is available on easy pay
- A piece of jewlery is measured with the wooden ruler
- The host says she bought the item for herself or a family member
- The host tests the durability of a bracelet by violently banging her wrist on the table
Chug When:
- Joan Rivers or Tori Spelling make a special guest appearance
I'll add more if i can think of any, feel free to donate some of your own. I humbly submit these for your approval.
Love you, Empty Nester. (That's my blog name, dude.) [Editor's Note: GET IT, YOU GUYS?! GET IT? Empty Nester?! Because it's 2birds1blog?! Isn't she the best!?!????!]
Thanks mom! And thank you, reader. Now normally this is where I ask you to tell a friend about the blog, but today, let's switch things up! I'm feeling a little crazy, so tell an enemy about the blog. Yeah, that's right, tell a straight-up jackhole to follow us on Twitter, join our Facebook page and/or shoot us an email (meg@2birds1blog.com; chris@2birds1blog.com). And thanks for that. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning!
6.25.2009
De-bunking "The Kush"
Have you heard about this newfangled product called "The Kush"? I have. Because you keep emailing it to me being like LOLZYAHHAHAHA YOU NEED THIS, YOU FREAK! Now, while I always love getting emails from you fine people, I'm slightly offended so many of you insinuated I need The Kush. What is The Kush, you may ask? Well...
Here's my beef with The Kush: it, like so many other things, is trying to make a ho into a housewife. The Kush acts like it's a helpful product for big-hootered girls. But it's not. And that offends me. I can only see two groups of people for whom The Kush would be helpful:
1.) Old Saggy Tits McGee
2.) Women recovering from breast enhancement surgery who can't sleep on their side without experiencing pain
For both of these groups of women, I'm sure The Kush is super helpful. And to them I say mozel tov! But I don't appreciate the insinuation that girls with boobs bigger than a C-cup need to sleep with the aid of a boob separating device. I already feel like a freak. Life is hard with monster boobs: dresses are hard to zip; you can't wear button-up shirts without the middle button looking like it's clinging on for dear life; they don't make hot lingerie in size "circus freak"; bathing suites look pornogrpahic; your friends always try on your bra at sleepovers and stuff 'em with grapefruits and strut around and everyone has a good laugh but secretly you're crying on the inside—it's hard, OK?! It's not all giggles and motorboatin'. So thanks Kush, thanks for telling the world that in addition to these every day struggles, I also have to sleep with my arm between my boobs:
Who are you? Steve Carell? Boobs do not feel like sandbags. When you lay on your side, they don't stack on top of each other and cause you discomfort. They just kind of chill there. Now I know you're saying, "Well your boobs just chill there Meg because you're a young 24-year-old. When you get older they're going to turn into sandbags and drop to your knees and then who'll be buying a Kush?!" And to that, I say FINE! GREAT! GRAND! WONDERFUL! But advertise accordingly! Don't show a young, pert chick attempting to fist her boobs to sleep, when you really should only be showing this:
Because that is your target audience. That is who this product is made for. And yes, of course no one wants to see their grandma tittie-fucking a purple god-knows-what, but guess what? That's not my problem! Stop making me look like a freak! Just advertise your product using the person who should actually be using it! Like are we really supposed to think this product is the new, hip way to wipe your ass?
No, of course not! We all know this is for comically obese people who can't wipe themselves. Why are we dressing it up and pretending it's something it's not? Everywhere I look, I see false advertising and this American consumer will not stand for it!
In order to properly debunk The Kush's dishonest marketing campaign completely, I did a few experiments last night.
Exhibit A:
Here I am lying on my side. I assure you that I am not wearing a bra and I am in a comfortable sleeping position. Notice that once in a side-sleeping position, my boobs do not stack like giant cinder blocks crushing my spine and everything else that stands in their way.
Exhibit B:
A Jesus candle, the shape and width of which is comparable to The Kush. It fits perfectly betwixt the bosoms and it's holy iconography reinforces that this is a good, clean, Christian experiment.
Exhibit C:
Notice that when the Jesus candle is placed between the bosoms, it does not rest comfortably, but rather falls out of place. Now this could be because I'm using a large, heavy Jesus candle and not a slip-resistant Kush, sure, but it could also be because in reality, younger breasts don't stack like painful human bricks on top of each other when one lays on her side. And yet, this is exactly what The Kush asks us to believe. The Kush shows a young, pert woman using their product and promises to, and I quote, "fit between the breasts and maintain a more natural shape." To which I say SHENANIGANS! How can the breasts in question maintain their natural shape, if they are already in their naturally separated shape to begin with? Ah-hah! They can't. The young woman in the video is just a rue to glamorize the product and distract you from those who really need it—the old and the surgically modified. Which are both a fine set of people. God willing, I'll be both old and surgically modified myself one day. All I'm saying is, I'm neither old nor surgically modified yet. So stop advertising my body type as your product's average user because you're making me look like a sandbag-breasted über freak.
Oh Kush. Your tangled web of lies has turned you into yet another stupid and useless product that somebody somewhere (who's not me) is profiting from, much like The Snuggie, The Tinge, The Peekaru and the Go-Girl.
Therefore, Jesus and I proudly proclaim this myth: BUSTED.
"The Kush is designed to fit between the breasts to maintain a more natural shape while resting on your side. No straps, no underwires, no constraints, no adhesives and no garments needed - the slip-resistant surface and contoured shape help keep Kush in place as a woman rolls from one side to the other during sleep. Providing millions of women with the opportunity for a more restful and natural sleep, Kush Supports Like A Dream"
Here's my beef with The Kush: it, like so many other things, is trying to make a ho into a housewife. The Kush acts like it's a helpful product for big-hootered girls. But it's not. And that offends me. I can only see two groups of people for whom The Kush would be helpful:
1.) Old Saggy Tits McGee
2.) Women recovering from breast enhancement surgery who can't sleep on their side without experiencing pain
For both of these groups of women, I'm sure The Kush is super helpful. And to them I say mozel tov! But I don't appreciate the insinuation that girls with boobs bigger than a C-cup need to sleep with the aid of a boob separating device. I already feel like a freak. Life is hard with monster boobs: dresses are hard to zip; you can't wear button-up shirts without the middle button looking like it's clinging on for dear life; they don't make hot lingerie in size "circus freak"; bathing suites look pornogrpahic; your friends always try on your bra at sleepovers and stuff 'em with grapefruits and strut around and everyone has a good laugh but secretly you're crying on the inside—it's hard, OK?! It's not all giggles and motorboatin'. So thanks Kush, thanks for telling the world that in addition to these every day struggles, I also have to sleep with my arm between my boobs:
Who are you? Steve Carell? Boobs do not feel like sandbags. When you lay on your side, they don't stack on top of each other and cause you discomfort. They just kind of chill there. Now I know you're saying, "Well your boobs just chill there Meg because you're a young 24-year-old. When you get older they're going to turn into sandbags and drop to your knees and then who'll be buying a Kush?!" And to that, I say FINE! GREAT! GRAND! WONDERFUL! But advertise accordingly! Don't show a young, pert chick attempting to fist her boobs to sleep, when you really should only be showing this:
Because that is your target audience. That is who this product is made for. And yes, of course no one wants to see their grandma tittie-fucking a purple god-knows-what, but guess what? That's not my problem! Stop making me look like a freak! Just advertise your product using the person who should actually be using it! Like are we really supposed to think this product is the new, hip way to wipe your ass?
No, of course not! We all know this is for comically obese people who can't wipe themselves. Why are we dressing it up and pretending it's something it's not? Everywhere I look, I see false advertising and this American consumer will not stand for it!
In order to properly debunk The Kush's dishonest marketing campaign completely, I did a few experiments last night.
Exhibit A:
Here I am lying on my side. I assure you that I am not wearing a bra and I am in a comfortable sleeping position. Notice that once in a side-sleeping position, my boobs do not stack like giant cinder blocks crushing my spine and everything else that stands in their way.
Exhibit B:
A Jesus candle, the shape and width of which is comparable to The Kush. It fits perfectly betwixt the bosoms and it's holy iconography reinforces that this is a good, clean, Christian experiment.
Exhibit C:
Notice that when the Jesus candle is placed between the bosoms, it does not rest comfortably, but rather falls out of place. Now this could be because I'm using a large, heavy Jesus candle and not a slip-resistant Kush, sure, but it could also be because in reality, younger breasts don't stack like painful human bricks on top of each other when one lays on her side. And yet, this is exactly what The Kush asks us to believe. The Kush shows a young, pert woman using their product and promises to, and I quote, "fit between the breasts and maintain a more natural shape." To which I say SHENANIGANS! How can the breasts in question maintain their natural shape, if they are already in their naturally separated shape to begin with? Ah-hah! They can't. The young woman in the video is just a rue to glamorize the product and distract you from those who really need it—the old and the surgically modified. Which are both a fine set of people. God willing, I'll be both old and surgically modified myself one day. All I'm saying is, I'm neither old nor surgically modified yet. So stop advertising my body type as your product's average user because you're making me look like a sandbag-breasted über freak.
Oh Kush. Your tangled web of lies has turned you into yet another stupid and useless product that somebody somewhere (who's not me) is profiting from, much like The Snuggie, The Tinge, The Peekaru and the Go-Girl.
Therefore, Jesus and I proudly proclaim this myth: BUSTED.
6.24.2009
NYC Prep: Why the Royal Family Stopped Inbreeding
I don't think it's going to come as a shock to anyone when I say that I love Gossip Girl. Because I do. I love it. If I could take it down to City Hall, marry it, go home and fuck it, guess what? I would.
It might also not come as a shock to anyone when I say that I love shitty reality television. Because again, I do. I really, really love it. Just yesterday I discovered the CMT reality show, World's Strictest Parents. In this hee-larious show, rebellious white trash teens are sent to live with super-strict, equally white trash families to reform their troubled ways. I watched two back-to-back episodes yesterday. That's two hours of my life I will never get back. And I am in no way mad about it, because that shit is comedy gold.
So, given my love for Gossip Girl and shitty reality television, you can understand how excited I was to watch the premiere of Bravo's new reality show NYC Prep last night. For those of you who don't schedule your life around Bravo programming like I do, NYC Prep follows the lives of six teens attending New York City's most elite prep schools. It's basically a real life Gossip Girl. Yeah, that's right. A real life Gossip Girl. I squealed like a piglet when I first heard about it. My little curly-cue tail went pencil straight with excitement. I hadn't been this amped up for a television show since Real Housewives of New Jersey, and lord knows that shit didn't disappoint.
NYC Prep premiered at 10 o'clock pm last night. It was an hour long. I watched it at Laura's apartment. Guess what I did at 10:33 pm? I walked out.
Yeah. Let's let that statement burn for a little longer.
WALKED. OUT.
Hurts, don't it? Because it sure as shit hurt me! But I didn't have an option! I was so overcome with confusion and disappointment that I had to physically remove myself from the situation. It was that bad. But not so bad it was good. It was just straight-up bad. These "children" are horrible, horrible human beings who do not deserve the attention that having their own television show will harbor. Why—OH WHY—do we, as a society, keep rewarding stupidity, greed and general god-awfulness?! Here's a little laundry list of what upset me:
1.) Two of the main characters on the show have lazy eyes. Not one; TWO. That's 2 out of 6. This means that 33% of the cast has a lazy eye. WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!?!?! You people are rich as sin! How have you not remedied this situation already?! I can literally feel the individual blood cells flowing through my veins right now—that is how fucking fired up I am about this. You stupid little twats have PERSONAL GOD DAMN SHOPPERS; I think you can afford a motherfucking eye patch. Can I please tell you something? Right now, at the very moment that I'm typing this, I have a giant zit, square in the middle of my forehead. If I knew, today, that a camera crew was going to walk into my office and fucking follow me around and broadcast their footage to the entire god damn world via Bravo TV, you bet your balls I'd be crying my face off at the dermatologists, begging them to do something about it. A Hormone shot, a steroid shot, a skin graft—anything. And it's just a zit! You little shits have LAZY EYES! I can't concentrate on the offensively overprivileged things coming out of your mouth because I'm too busy watching your left eye roll around your eye socket like it's a god damn Magic 8-Ball! Do you have the money and means to fix your wonk eyes? SHAKE, SHAKE, SHAKE! My sources say YES! Of course you do! Fix the god damn thing!!!!!
2.) PC.
What in the fuckity fuck is wrong with you, kid? I mean god damn. I understand that you're trying to go for the whole I'm-a-total-asshole-and-that's-my-shtick-Chuck-Bass thing, but you might want to tone it down just a tad bit. There's a scene where one of the Lazy-Eyed Twins is talking to PC about how she wants to have a benefit for Operation Smile. PC guffaws, rolls his eyes and goes on a rant about how it's just so in right now to help a cause and Operation Smile is just so passé. ARE YOU FOR FUCKING SERIOUS?! Here's a little life lesson for you, kid. See this?
That's a camera. And see this?
That's a boom mic. The boom mic and camera work in tandem to record and broadcast everything you say and do. People don't tend to react too kindly to overprivileged assholes featured on Bravo television. Don't believe me? Go have a talk with the hollow shell of a former socialite that is Kelly Bensimon. I'm sure she'll have some good pointers for you about how to pick up the pieces of your shattered life.
3.) Right before I walked out, there was a teaser for an upcoming scene in which the other Lazy-Eyed Twin has a meltdown because although she's not dating PC, he flirts with another girl. To which I said, out loud, "I thought he was a homo?!", threw up my hands and walked out. Girl, I know you got one eye pointing towards the heavens and one eye pointing towards the homo, but as someone with two functioning eyes, let me help you out: that kid is a closeted homosexual. Remember Olivia's super gay cousin Nevan on The City? Remember how he was a one-man gay pride parade and yet "loved the pussy?" And remember how we all laughed at him and sort of felt sad for him at the same time? Yeah, well, PC is that guy minus five years. I recommend you take the time and energy you would spend chasing PC and direct it towards finding yourself an eye patch or a good optometrist. It'll save you a lot of heartbreak and eye-related headaches in the future.
4.) Taylor. Taylor is the show's "Jenny Humphrey" equivalent. She goes to public school, lives on the Upper West Side and struggles with her feelings of financial inadequacy. She's two devastating things: adorable and desperate to fit in with douchebags. Baby angel. I just want to take you in my arms, hold you, gently rock back-and-forth and whisper, "everything's gonna be alright," before softly kissing you on the forehead. My poor little Tay-Tay. Sometimes not fitting in is actually a good thing, depending on who you don't fit in with. If you were surrounded by a bunch of Nazis, would you think "Oh raspberries! I don't fit in! Better punch a Jew in the face so they'll invite me to their Nazi tea parties!" or would you think "Gross! Nazis! I better get out of here!"? I would like to think you would choose the latter. Overall, her entire situation just breaks my heart and I can't watch her sell her hymen up the river to fit in. I say good day to the entire situation.
5.) They all have blackberries at age 14. Do you know what I had at age 14? A subscription to Nickelodeon magazine and no period.
I just can't get behind this show. Not only has it made me not want to have children (ever), it's also robbed Gossip Girl of a bit of it's magic. Because now I know that the real Blair Waldorf has a wonk eye and a crush on the closeted kid. Thanks a lot, NYC Prep. You know how the captain of the Titanic felt so guilty about what he had done that he shot himself in the head and went down with the ship? Yeah, well, NYC Prep producers take note. It would be the honorable thing to do.
It might also not come as a shock to anyone when I say that I love shitty reality television. Because again, I do. I really, really love it. Just yesterday I discovered the CMT reality show, World's Strictest Parents. In this hee-larious show, rebellious white trash teens are sent to live with super-strict, equally white trash families to reform their troubled ways. I watched two back-to-back episodes yesterday. That's two hours of my life I will never get back. And I am in no way mad about it, because that shit is comedy gold.
So, given my love for Gossip Girl and shitty reality television, you can understand how excited I was to watch the premiere of Bravo's new reality show NYC Prep last night. For those of you who don't schedule your life around Bravo programming like I do, NYC Prep follows the lives of six teens attending New York City's most elite prep schools. It's basically a real life Gossip Girl. Yeah, that's right. A real life Gossip Girl. I squealed like a piglet when I first heard about it. My little curly-cue tail went pencil straight with excitement. I hadn't been this amped up for a television show since Real Housewives of New Jersey, and lord knows that shit didn't disappoint.
NYC Prep premiered at 10 o'clock pm last night. It was an hour long. I watched it at Laura's apartment. Guess what I did at 10:33 pm? I walked out.
Yeah. Let's let that statement burn for a little longer.
WALKED. OUT.
Hurts, don't it? Because it sure as shit hurt me! But I didn't have an option! I was so overcome with confusion and disappointment that I had to physically remove myself from the situation. It was that bad. But not so bad it was good. It was just straight-up bad. These "children" are horrible, horrible human beings who do not deserve the attention that having their own television show will harbor. Why—OH WHY—do we, as a society, keep rewarding stupidity, greed and general god-awfulness?! Here's a little laundry list of what upset me:
1.) Two of the main characters on the show have lazy eyes. Not one; TWO. That's 2 out of 6. This means that 33% of the cast has a lazy eye. WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!?!?! You people are rich as sin! How have you not remedied this situation already?! I can literally feel the individual blood cells flowing through my veins right now—that is how fucking fired up I am about this. You stupid little twats have PERSONAL GOD DAMN SHOPPERS; I think you can afford a motherfucking eye patch. Can I please tell you something? Right now, at the very moment that I'm typing this, I have a giant zit, square in the middle of my forehead. If I knew, today, that a camera crew was going to walk into my office and fucking follow me around and broadcast their footage to the entire god damn world via Bravo TV, you bet your balls I'd be crying my face off at the dermatologists, begging them to do something about it. A Hormone shot, a steroid shot, a skin graft—anything. And it's just a zit! You little shits have LAZY EYES! I can't concentrate on the offensively overprivileged things coming out of your mouth because I'm too busy watching your left eye roll around your eye socket like it's a god damn Magic 8-Ball! Do you have the money and means to fix your wonk eyes? SHAKE, SHAKE, SHAKE! My sources say YES! Of course you do! Fix the god damn thing!!!!!
2.) PC.
What in the fuckity fuck is wrong with you, kid? I mean god damn. I understand that you're trying to go for the whole I'm-a-total-asshole-and-that's-my-shtick-Chuck-Bass thing, but you might want to tone it down just a tad bit. There's a scene where one of the Lazy-Eyed Twins is talking to PC about how she wants to have a benefit for Operation Smile. PC guffaws, rolls his eyes and goes on a rant about how it's just so in right now to help a cause and Operation Smile is just so passé. ARE YOU FOR FUCKING SERIOUS?! Here's a little life lesson for you, kid. See this?
That's a camera. And see this?
That's a boom mic. The boom mic and camera work in tandem to record and broadcast everything you say and do. People don't tend to react too kindly to overprivileged assholes featured on Bravo television. Don't believe me? Go have a talk with the hollow shell of a former socialite that is Kelly Bensimon. I'm sure she'll have some good pointers for you about how to pick up the pieces of your shattered life.
3.) Right before I walked out, there was a teaser for an upcoming scene in which the other Lazy-Eyed Twin has a meltdown because although she's not dating PC, he flirts with another girl. To which I said, out loud, "I thought he was a homo?!", threw up my hands and walked out. Girl, I know you got one eye pointing towards the heavens and one eye pointing towards the homo, but as someone with two functioning eyes, let me help you out: that kid is a closeted homosexual. Remember Olivia's super gay cousin Nevan on The City? Remember how he was a one-man gay pride parade and yet "loved the pussy?" And remember how we all laughed at him and sort of felt sad for him at the same time? Yeah, well, PC is that guy minus five years. I recommend you take the time and energy you would spend chasing PC and direct it towards finding yourself an eye patch or a good optometrist. It'll save you a lot of heartbreak and eye-related headaches in the future.
4.) Taylor. Taylor is the show's "Jenny Humphrey" equivalent. She goes to public school, lives on the Upper West Side and struggles with her feelings of financial inadequacy. She's two devastating things: adorable and desperate to fit in with douchebags. Baby angel. I just want to take you in my arms, hold you, gently rock back-and-forth and whisper, "everything's gonna be alright," before softly kissing you on the forehead. My poor little Tay-Tay. Sometimes not fitting in is actually a good thing, depending on who you don't fit in with. If you were surrounded by a bunch of Nazis, would you think "Oh raspberries! I don't fit in! Better punch a Jew in the face so they'll invite me to their Nazi tea parties!" or would you think "Gross! Nazis! I better get out of here!"? I would like to think you would choose the latter. Overall, her entire situation just breaks my heart and I can't watch her sell her hymen up the river to fit in. I say good day to the entire situation.
5.) They all have blackberries at age 14. Do you know what I had at age 14? A subscription to Nickelodeon magazine and no period.
I just can't get behind this show. Not only has it made me not want to have children (ever), it's also robbed Gossip Girl of a bit of it's magic. Because now I know that the real Blair Waldorf has a wonk eye and a crush on the closeted kid. Thanks a lot, NYC Prep. You know how the captain of the Titanic felt so guilty about what he had done that he shot himself in the head and went down with the ship? Yeah, well, NYC Prep producers take note. It would be the honorable thing to do.
6.23.2009
Drink everytime Chris says "Umbrella"
I don’t think talking about the weather is a particularly exciting topic of conversation, but holy hades, it has been raining forever. New York City has up and turned itself into Seattle. I’ve practically forgotten what the sun looks like. I think it’s yellow, but I can’t be sure. All this grey weather has turned me into an emo kid. I recently dyed my hair black, cut myself some severe angled bangs, and took self photos in sepia to post to my Myspace account.
But seriously, I think I’m getting seasonal affective disorder. But instead of getting depressed, I just get pissed off at people. Oh who am I kidding, I get pissed off at people no matter what the weather is. But can we briefly discuss something? I understand the purpose of umbrellas; we use them to prevent ourselves from getting sopping wet when Mother Nature is bawling her eyes out because she can't remember who El Nino’s baby daddy is. But if walking outside is the equivalent of diving into a pool, you are going to get wet and a comically oversized umbrella is not going to help your cause. Nothing makes me more crotchety than some douchebag, middle-aged power broker strutting around carrying a giant golf umbrella, taking up half the goddamn sidewalk, leaving a path of pedestrians in his wake clutching their eyes.
Look at that guy. Sure he’s dry—but he’s a total asshole. There’s not need for an umbrella-Hummer equivalent; a normal sized umbrella will suit you just fine, especially when you’re on a crowded sidewalk in a busy city, dickhead. I can probably think of 10 people who are in greater need of a gigantic umbrella than you on your two block walk from the subway to your office.
1.) Considering it’s called a golf umbrella, I think the most obvious choice are the spectators at a golf tournament.
While they are using them individually, it’s not out of place. Everyone is walking in one direction, so no one has to worry about losing an eye on their way to work.
2.) Jon & Kate plus 8. Scratch that, just Jon plus 8, because I sort of hate Kate and that hairdo deserves to get sopping wet.
If you have 8 children and you want to keep them all dry at once, a giant umbrella makes sense. If you are one person, even if you have an 8 inch penis that you want to keep all dry at once, you don’t need a giant umbrella. You need to put on pants, and then you need to call Meg. [Editor's Note: HOLLER!]
3.) If water is lethal to you like The Wicked Witch, you could use a huge umbrella.
This bitch has a reason to tote around a giant umbrella and not look like a jackass. She’s just trying to stay alive. Even the Bee Gees would support that.
4.)
A herd of mogwai would benefit more from a 62 inch umbrella than a disgruntled businessman. In fact, this would benefit everyone, since I’m not trying to get killed by a gremlin on my way to/from work.
5.) I’m not sure it rains in fairytales but if it did, I’d let The Gingerbread Man use this gigantic umbrella.
I'll cut this guy a break, because while he is extremely tiny, he is made out of baked goods. And he’s apt to go the way of the Wicked Witch if caught in a torrential downpour.
6.) Donna Summer might have been able to avoid that whole MacArthur Park fiasco if the man above would lend her his umbrella.
And she’ll never have that recipe again. Agaiiiiiin.
7.) If your job is to transport the Dead Sea Scrolls from one location to another in the pouring rain, then you have a worse job than anyone reading this article.
I can’t imagine they stand up to much of anything. And if your job is to keep those things safe, then by all means, have a continent sized umbrella.
8.) Or if you’re a continent sized person, like Hagrid, and your umbrella is proportional, then it makes sense.
Big guy, big umbrella. Giving Hagrid a regular umbrella, you’d end up with a fat guy in a little coat scenario.
9.) Say you are this kid, just your everyday aspiring bandleader.
And it’s your first parade. And your baton is missing. Do you: have a super sweet 16 (super nerdy) shit fit and punch the tuba player OR do you grab your giant umbrella and John Phillip Sousa the shit out of it?
10.) And last but not least, Mary Poppins.
Sure, she gets by with that regular-sized, albeit magical umbrella, but think of how much further she can soar with a HUGE umbrella. Lift or some other physics property is sure to be at work here.
I think, in the future, people should refer to this list. If you aren’t made of sugary sweets or allergic to water, are not unhumanly in size or a magical nanny, then put the giant golf umbrella away. Their need is greater than yours, and you are just an asshole.
But seriously, I think I’m getting seasonal affective disorder. But instead of getting depressed, I just get pissed off at people. Oh who am I kidding, I get pissed off at people no matter what the weather is. But can we briefly discuss something? I understand the purpose of umbrellas; we use them to prevent ourselves from getting sopping wet when Mother Nature is bawling her eyes out because she can't remember who El Nino’s baby daddy is. But if walking outside is the equivalent of diving into a pool, you are going to get wet and a comically oversized umbrella is not going to help your cause. Nothing makes me more crotchety than some douchebag, middle-aged power broker strutting around carrying a giant golf umbrella, taking up half the goddamn sidewalk, leaving a path of pedestrians in his wake clutching their eyes.
Look at that guy. Sure he’s dry—but he’s a total asshole. There’s not need for an umbrella-Hummer equivalent; a normal sized umbrella will suit you just fine, especially when you’re on a crowded sidewalk in a busy city, dickhead. I can probably think of 10 people who are in greater need of a gigantic umbrella than you on your two block walk from the subway to your office.
1.) Considering it’s called a golf umbrella, I think the most obvious choice are the spectators at a golf tournament.
While they are using them individually, it’s not out of place. Everyone is walking in one direction, so no one has to worry about losing an eye on their way to work.
2.) Jon & Kate plus 8. Scratch that, just Jon plus 8, because I sort of hate Kate and that hairdo deserves to get sopping wet.
If you have 8 children and you want to keep them all dry at once, a giant umbrella makes sense. If you are one person, even if you have an 8 inch penis that you want to keep all dry at once, you don’t need a giant umbrella. You need to put on pants, and then you need to call Meg. [Editor's Note: HOLLER!]
3.) If water is lethal to you like The Wicked Witch, you could use a huge umbrella.
This bitch has a reason to tote around a giant umbrella and not look like a jackass. She’s just trying to stay alive. Even the Bee Gees would support that.
4.)
A herd of mogwai would benefit more from a 62 inch umbrella than a disgruntled businessman. In fact, this would benefit everyone, since I’m not trying to get killed by a gremlin on my way to/from work.
5.) I’m not sure it rains in fairytales but if it did, I’d let The Gingerbread Man use this gigantic umbrella.
I'll cut this guy a break, because while he is extremely tiny, he is made out of baked goods. And he’s apt to go the way of the Wicked Witch if caught in a torrential downpour.
6.) Donna Summer might have been able to avoid that whole MacArthur Park fiasco if the man above would lend her his umbrella.
And she’ll never have that recipe again. Agaiiiiiin.
7.) If your job is to transport the Dead Sea Scrolls from one location to another in the pouring rain, then you have a worse job than anyone reading this article.
I can’t imagine they stand up to much of anything. And if your job is to keep those things safe, then by all means, have a continent sized umbrella.
8.) Or if you’re a continent sized person, like Hagrid, and your umbrella is proportional, then it makes sense.
Big guy, big umbrella. Giving Hagrid a regular umbrella, you’d end up with a fat guy in a little coat scenario.
9.) Say you are this kid, just your everyday aspiring bandleader.
And it’s your first parade. And your baton is missing. Do you: have a super sweet 16 (super nerdy) shit fit and punch the tuba player OR do you grab your giant umbrella and John Phillip Sousa the shit out of it?
10.) And last but not least, Mary Poppins.
Sure, she gets by with that regular-sized, albeit magical umbrella, but think of how much further she can soar with a HUGE umbrella. Lift or some other physics property is sure to be at work here.
I think, in the future, people should refer to this list. If you aren’t made of sugary sweets or allergic to water, are not unhumanly in size or a magical nanny, then put the giant golf umbrella away. Their need is greater than yours, and you are just an asshole.
6.22.2009
Gilly?........Thorry.
Soooo...I don't really know how to say this...but I sort of spent all morning crudely photoshopping Alex and Maya Angelou's photos together in a piece of work I call, "A Friendship Out of This World," instead of writing today's blog.
Then Boss #2 (aka the Boss who hates me almost as much as I hate her,) showed up and is taking me on a car ride. I know no other details about it. She just said, "We're going on a car ride." If I wind up raped and dead in a ditch tomorrow, I want you to remember me for this:
More tomorrow! (God willing)
Then Boss #2 (aka the Boss who hates me almost as much as I hate her,) showed up and is taking me on a car ride. I know no other details about it. She just said, "We're going on a car ride." If I wind up raped and dead in a ditch tomorrow, I want you to remember me for this:
More tomorrow! (God willing)
6.19.2009
You know you love me. XOXO, Drinking Game Friday
It's Drinking Game Friday gang! But guess what? This isn't just any Drinking Game Friday. No, this is perhaps the best Drinking Game Friday in the history of Drinking Game Fridays. Why, you may ask? Because I just found out that there is a Blair Waldorf sex tape. That's right. Blair Waldorf in nothing but a headband, gettin' her freak on. I haven't been this excited since I realized I could get free Kashi Go-Lean crunch through my office's Pea-Pod account.
Although the video hasn't officially been leaked yet, there's a teaser on Perez with stills and a promise that in the video, you see Leighton Meester give a "foot job." Frankly, the thought of Leighton Meester (or anybody for that matter) giving a foot job is enough to make me vomit my strawberry NutraGrain bar in my mouth a little bit. There's something so sad about Leighton Meester. I think it's because in reality, she's sort of white trash and has sketchy Lohan-esque family members who are always in-and-out of jail, trying to screw her out of money. That makes me sad. It also sullies the perfection and majesty that is Blair Waldorf, which makes me resentful. Therefore I choose to believe that Leighton Meester does not exist. Only Blair Waldorf. When I turn off the show, she continues to live in my TV and is in no way free to give anyone a foot job. I also choose to believe that the sex tape features Blair having a three way with Nelli Yuki and the ghost of Bart Bass. And she uses her vagina. Not her foot.
Unfortunately, since I haven't seen the Blair/Nellie/Bart sex tape (yet,) it can't be this week's Drinking Game. So, we'll just have to go with the next best thing. That's right, put some Lincoln Hawk in the tape deck, punch a Humphrey in the face and order Deroda to make you a martini—it's time for the Gossip Girl Drinking Game!
Rules:
I have to insist that this be played with 40s and wine flavored Black & Milds (which it turns out have a grape aftertaste, therefore making them "wine flavored"). The irony makes the experience that much better.
Drink When:
- Gossip Girl posts (or people get texts from her)
- Blair cries
- Either Kati or Isobel speaks
- There is a drunk, slutty Serena flashback
- Either Dan or Jenny whines about being "poor"
- Blair wears lingerie
- Dan judges Sererna
- Dan makes anybody feel bad about being rich
- Anyone gets it on in a limo
- Anyone travels from the Upper East Side to Williamsburg
- Jenny makes an article of clothing
- Lily says "Rufus"
- Daroda says "Yes, Ms. Blair"
- Anyone says "Lincoln Hawk"
- Rufus strums his gee-tar, all lonely like
- Anyone says "XOXO"
As always, thank you so much for reading, forwarding, following us on Twitter, joining the Facebook page and emailing us. We love you guys and we'll be back here bright and early Monday morning. Have a great weekend! Kbyeeee!
Although the video hasn't officially been leaked yet, there's a teaser on Perez with stills and a promise that in the video, you see Leighton Meester give a "foot job." Frankly, the thought of Leighton Meester (or anybody for that matter) giving a foot job is enough to make me vomit my strawberry NutraGrain bar in my mouth a little bit. There's something so sad about Leighton Meester. I think it's because in reality, she's sort of white trash and has sketchy Lohan-esque family members who are always in-and-out of jail, trying to screw her out of money. That makes me sad. It also sullies the perfection and majesty that is Blair Waldorf, which makes me resentful. Therefore I choose to believe that Leighton Meester does not exist. Only Blair Waldorf. When I turn off the show, she continues to live in my TV and is in no way free to give anyone a foot job. I also choose to believe that the sex tape features Blair having a three way with Nelli Yuki and the ghost of Bart Bass. And she uses her vagina. Not her foot.
Unfortunately, since I haven't seen the Blair/Nellie/Bart sex tape (yet,) it can't be this week's Drinking Game. So, we'll just have to go with the next best thing. That's right, put some Lincoln Hawk in the tape deck, punch a Humphrey in the face and order Deroda to make you a martini—it's time for the Gossip Girl Drinking Game!
Rules:
I have to insist that this be played with 40s and wine flavored Black & Milds (which it turns out have a grape aftertaste, therefore making them "wine flavored"). The irony makes the experience that much better.
Drink When:
- Gossip Girl posts (or people get texts from her)
- Blair cries
- Either Kati or Isobel speaks
- There is a drunk, slutty Serena flashback
- Either Dan or Jenny whines about being "poor"
- Blair wears lingerie
- Dan judges Sererna
- Dan makes anybody feel bad about being rich
- Anyone gets it on in a limo
- Anyone travels from the Upper East Side to Williamsburg
- Jenny makes an article of clothing
- Lily says "Rufus"
- Daroda says "Yes, Ms. Blair"
- Anyone says "Lincoln Hawk"
- Rufus strums his gee-tar, all lonely like
- Anyone says "XOXO"
As always, thank you so much for reading, forwarding, following us on Twitter, joining the Facebook page and emailing us. We love you guys and we'll be back here bright and early Monday morning. Have a great weekend! Kbyeeee!
6.18.2009
Oh, BTW
You can check out my recent interview with Washingtonian.com here. The only comment it's gotten so far is this (in response to me saying that DC is dangerously close to Virginia):
DC is "dangerously close to Virginia"? For others that proximity would be a strong point--or one of them.Well thanks Meek. Thanks for taking my cool moment and making it all about you.
It was originally the result of a compromise between the Federalist Alexander Hamilton, with New York associations, and the Virginian Jefferson.
Copping a Squat vs. The Go-Girl: A lesson in Recessionomics
2b1b reader @pdconnell tweeted me a link yesterday to a product called the "Go-Girl." What is a Go-Girl, you may ask?
I'm sorry, but I just can't get behind the Go-Girl. I don't find it Tinge-worthy, but I'm fired up nonetheless.
First let me state for the record that I have nothing against female urination devices. Because I get it. God do I get it. The Go-Girl's website says it targets athletes, outdoorsy girls, travelers, road trippers and busy moms. They forgot a large portion of their audience: The Lazy Girl. I'm not going to lie, sometimes when I'm sitting at my desk and I've downed 3-5 cups of coffee, I just don't feel like getting up to go to the bathroom. There it is. The truth. How many times have I gchatted Co-Blogger Chris and whined about how I wish I were wearing a diaper? Too many times. That's how many. In high school, my friend Jen and I invented a little product we called "Urban Diapers For the Busy Girl-on-the-Go." And by "invented," I clearly mean we just wished it were socially acceptable for capable, yet lazy 18-year-old girls to wear adult diapers, but who's keeping score? So given my distaste for getting up to go to the john, you'd think I'd be all about the Go-Girl.
You would be wrong. Here's my problem with the Go-Girl: it's trying to make a ho into a housewife. It's essentially just a fancy way to cop a squat, and that seems exorbitantly unnecessary to me. Lord knows I'm willing to spend my money on tons of shit I don't need, but urination accessories? That's where I draw the line. Let's not pretend we're not going through a Recession right now. When you're considering workin' at the local strip club to make rent every month, I think you're officially not too good to cop a squat.
However, the Go-Girl people say their product is superior to copping a squat because it allows you to "avoid the usual contortions." Excuse me? Exactly what contortions are you performing when copping a squat? This isn't Cirque du Soleil; you're literally just bending your knees and lowering your ass to the ground. I feel like that sounds way less challenging than finding a way to discreetly shove a cup down my pants to pee in.
And why do we need to class up copping a squat in the first place? Sure it's rull country, but it gets the job done in a pinch. I'm not saying if I were given the option of using a toilet or copping a squat, I'd go with the squat; I'm just saying if it aint broke, don't fix it.
It might just be the Jew in me talking, but here's what it all boils down to for me:
Free
$18.99+s&h
(And by the way, why is that last Go-Girl picture is the scariest image I've ever seen in my entire life?)
The Go-Girl people actually address the issue of frugality on their website by suggesting that instead of throwing away your used Go-Girl, you put it in the dishwasher and reuse it. Now, I fully understand that urine is sterile and dishwashers can kill bacteria and blah blah blah, but if you have me over to your house and serve me a meal on a plate that shared real estate in the dishwasher with your piss-cup, I shall excuse myself from the table, pee on your child and/or most priceless possession and promptly exit your home.
Score:
Go-Girl: 0
Copping a Squat: 1
"Simply put, GoGirl is the way to stand up to crowded, disgusting, distant or non-existent bathrooms. It’s a female urination device (sometimes called a FUD) that allows you to urinate while standing up. It’s neat. It’s discreet. It’s hygienic.
GoGirl is easy to use. Just lower your panties, and put GoGirl against your body, forming a seal. Aim and, well, pee. Pretty simple, huh?"
I'm sorry, but I just can't get behind the Go-Girl. I don't find it Tinge-worthy, but I'm fired up nonetheless.
First let me state for the record that I have nothing against female urination devices. Because I get it. God do I get it. The Go-Girl's website says it targets athletes, outdoorsy girls, travelers, road trippers and busy moms. They forgot a large portion of their audience: The Lazy Girl. I'm not going to lie, sometimes when I'm sitting at my desk and I've downed 3-5 cups of coffee, I just don't feel like getting up to go to the bathroom. There it is. The truth. How many times have I gchatted Co-Blogger Chris and whined about how I wish I were wearing a diaper? Too many times. That's how many. In high school, my friend Jen and I invented a little product we called "Urban Diapers For the Busy Girl-on-the-Go." And by "invented," I clearly mean we just wished it were socially acceptable for capable, yet lazy 18-year-old girls to wear adult diapers, but who's keeping score? So given my distaste for getting up to go to the john, you'd think I'd be all about the Go-Girl.
You would be wrong. Here's my problem with the Go-Girl: it's trying to make a ho into a housewife. It's essentially just a fancy way to cop a squat, and that seems exorbitantly unnecessary to me. Lord knows I'm willing to spend my money on tons of shit I don't need, but urination accessories? That's where I draw the line. Let's not pretend we're not going through a Recession right now. When you're considering workin' at the local strip club to make rent every month, I think you're officially not too good to cop a squat.
However, the Go-Girl people say their product is superior to copping a squat because it allows you to "avoid the usual contortions." Excuse me? Exactly what contortions are you performing when copping a squat? This isn't Cirque du Soleil; you're literally just bending your knees and lowering your ass to the ground. I feel like that sounds way less challenging than finding a way to discreetly shove a cup down my pants to pee in.
And why do we need to class up copping a squat in the first place? Sure it's rull country, but it gets the job done in a pinch. I'm not saying if I were given the option of using a toilet or copping a squat, I'd go with the squat; I'm just saying if it aint broke, don't fix it.
It might just be the Jew in me talking, but here's what it all boils down to for me:
Free
$18.99+s&h
(And by the way, why is that last Go-Girl picture is the scariest image I've ever seen in my entire life?)
The Go-Girl people actually address the issue of frugality on their website by suggesting that instead of throwing away your used Go-Girl, you put it in the dishwasher and reuse it. Now, I fully understand that urine is sterile and dishwashers can kill bacteria and blah blah blah, but if you have me over to your house and serve me a meal on a plate that shared real estate in the dishwasher with your piss-cup, I shall excuse myself from the table, pee on your child and/or most priceless possession and promptly exit your home.
Score:
Go-Girl: 0
Copping a Squat: 1
6.16.2009
Don't make me confiscate your vagina.
It's been a while since something has boggled my mind on par with The Snuggie, The Tinge or The Peekaru. For a minute, I thought my rants and ravings had actually made a difference in this topsy-turvy, mixed-up world. But I thought wrong. For there exists a television show that is so off-the-charts, batshit crazy to me, I am right back at square fucked. The show is on the Discovery Health channel. And it is called, I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant.
The title is pretty self explanatory, but in case there's any lingering confusion, "I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant is a compelling documentary special that explores the fascinating and utterly surprising phenomenon of women who were completely unaware that they were pregnant...until they went into labor!"
I am literally so overwhelmed with confusion, embarrassment and sheer mind-boggledness that I'm going to delineate the points I want to make to in order to keep myself on track. Because at any point, I might just throw in the towel on society, move to the Mojave dessert and kick it with the lizards. For lizards don't wear backwards robes and masturbate with razor blades.
- How could you honestly not know you were pregnant? Every woman has the same story: "Well there I was, fuckin' my boyfriend sans condom, as per usual, and didn't get my period for nine months straight. I didn't think nothin' bout it cause I had been jumping on my cousin's trampoline a lot that summer and she told me that could cause me to skip mah period. Then I gained a whole mess of weight, but I thought it was just because they opened a Chipotle across from my office. And yeah, a giant fetus tried to crawl it's way out of my cooter, but I thought I was just having gas pains from all that Chipotle. OH, L0LZ!!!!" At what point during those nine months did you not connect the dots between the whole fucking without a condom thing and your lack of a period? Because yes, anemia, stress, increased bicycle riding, trampoline jumping and wearing of tight hot pants are all somewhat valid reasons one might miss a period, but I would think the raw dick shooting sperm square into your vagina might be the #1 suspect.
- The show's website describes this as a "phenomenon." A PHENOMENON. Aurora Borealis; that is a phenomenon. Gravitation is a phenomenon. Arctic cyclones are a phenomenon. Hillbillies having unprotected sex and not realizing they're knocked up? That is stupidity. There is a slight difference between the two.
- My favorite moment of any given episode is when the women recall going into labor. At this point, they all still have no idea they're pregnant and assume it's either bad menstrual cramping or gas. I get that. If I had a swizzle stick for a brain, I'd probably assume I had gas as well. The best, however, is when they don't realize they're pregnant UNTIL THE BABY CROWNS. Yes. It literally takes a human head exiting their vagina to turn on the light bulb that says, "Oh wait! I might be pregnant! This explains those arid nine months after I had unprotected sex, the weight gain, the back pain, the swollen ankles and the past eight hours of excruciating abdominal cramps! IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW!"
- How do these children not come out with a few extra legs or an arm in the middle of their forehead? You know these women are smoking packs of Marlboro Lights and enjoying a Busch Light or twelve at night. Shit, I cringe at the thought of what I inhale and drink in a nine month period. If I were to unknowingly have a baby today, it would come out looking like a god damn Cubist painting. I don't know why these women always look so happy to see their perfectly healthy surprise babies. I would take one good look at mine and think it was the work of the devil for surviving that 9-month pickling.
Maybe the reason I'm so mind-boggled by all of this is because I am the anti-IDKIWP. I'm the kind of girl who shakes a guys hand and runs to CVS to get a liter of Gatorade and a pregnancy test. Seriously. Every single time I have sex with someone, I convince myself I'm pregnant. Even after I get my period. And use condoms. And take birth control. It's completely unhealthy. I should go to Costco and buy pregnancy tests in bulk and save myself a lot of time and money. But frankly, I would rather single handedly keep Clear Blue in business than be the woman who assumes she's got gas until she pisses out a baby at work.
Plus, if your period goes missing, wouldn't you rather take a simple test and know you're not pregnant for sure, for sure? No matter how hardcore you convince yourself you have a super light flow because of all that line dancing you did, it's got to linger somewhere in the back of your mind that you might be pregnant. That suspense would kill me. Last May I convinced myself I was pregnant. Normally I would just jog to the local convenience store, pick up a pregnancy test and get some reassurance for my neurotic little mind, but I was in Tuscany on a family vacation. And let me tell you, I couldn't find a single pregnancy test in that whole god-fearing countryside. There I was in the most gorgeous place I'd ever been, staying in a villa surrounded by my family, but I couldn't enjoy one minute of it because I was so preoccupied wondering if I was pregnant. I honest-to-God had a dream about wire hangers one night.
Finally, we took a day trip to Florence. I figured plenty of American college students study abroad there, so there had to be at least one pharmacy who carried pregnancy tests. I snuck away from my family and headed for the first pharmacy I saw. Now, keep in mind I don't speak a lick of Italian. After wandering the store for 20 minutes I had two boxes in my hand: one was an enema and one was a pregnancy test. The problem was, I wasn't 100% sure which one was which. In the end, I decided to get them both, just to be sure. As I walked back to find my family with my newly purchased Italian enema and pregnancy test, I got my period.
I still have the enema and pregnancy test in my bathroom to remind myself what a fucking idiot I am. Best. Souvenir. Ever.
The title is pretty self explanatory, but in case there's any lingering confusion, "I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant is a compelling documentary special that explores the fascinating and utterly surprising phenomenon of women who were completely unaware that they were pregnant...until they went into labor!"
I am literally so overwhelmed with confusion, embarrassment and sheer mind-boggledness that I'm going to delineate the points I want to make to in order to keep myself on track. Because at any point, I might just throw in the towel on society, move to the Mojave dessert and kick it with the lizards. For lizards don't wear backwards robes and masturbate with razor blades.
- How could you honestly not know you were pregnant? Every woman has the same story: "Well there I was, fuckin' my boyfriend sans condom, as per usual, and didn't get my period for nine months straight. I didn't think nothin' bout it cause I had been jumping on my cousin's trampoline a lot that summer and she told me that could cause me to skip mah period. Then I gained a whole mess of weight, but I thought it was just because they opened a Chipotle across from my office. And yeah, a giant fetus tried to crawl it's way out of my cooter, but I thought I was just having gas pains from all that Chipotle. OH, L0LZ!!!!" At what point during those nine months did you not connect the dots between the whole fucking without a condom thing and your lack of a period? Because yes, anemia, stress, increased bicycle riding, trampoline jumping and wearing of tight hot pants are all somewhat valid reasons one might miss a period, but I would think the raw dick shooting sperm square into your vagina might be the #1 suspect.
- The show's website describes this as a "phenomenon." A PHENOMENON. Aurora Borealis; that is a phenomenon. Gravitation is a phenomenon. Arctic cyclones are a phenomenon. Hillbillies having unprotected sex and not realizing they're knocked up? That is stupidity. There is a slight difference between the two.
- My favorite moment of any given episode is when the women recall going into labor. At this point, they all still have no idea they're pregnant and assume it's either bad menstrual cramping or gas. I get that. If I had a swizzle stick for a brain, I'd probably assume I had gas as well. The best, however, is when they don't realize they're pregnant UNTIL THE BABY CROWNS. Yes. It literally takes a human head exiting their vagina to turn on the light bulb that says, "Oh wait! I might be pregnant! This explains those arid nine months after I had unprotected sex, the weight gain, the back pain, the swollen ankles and the past eight hours of excruciating abdominal cramps! IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW!"
- How do these children not come out with a few extra legs or an arm in the middle of their forehead? You know these women are smoking packs of Marlboro Lights and enjoying a Busch Light or twelve at night. Shit, I cringe at the thought of what I inhale and drink in a nine month period. If I were to unknowingly have a baby today, it would come out looking like a god damn Cubist painting. I don't know why these women always look so happy to see their perfectly healthy surprise babies. I would take one good look at mine and think it was the work of the devil for surviving that 9-month pickling.
Maybe the reason I'm so mind-boggled by all of this is because I am the anti-IDKIWP. I'm the kind of girl who shakes a guys hand and runs to CVS to get a liter of Gatorade and a pregnancy test. Seriously. Every single time I have sex with someone, I convince myself I'm pregnant. Even after I get my period. And use condoms. And take birth control. It's completely unhealthy. I should go to Costco and buy pregnancy tests in bulk and save myself a lot of time and money. But frankly, I would rather single handedly keep Clear Blue in business than be the woman who assumes she's got gas until she pisses out a baby at work.
Plus, if your period goes missing, wouldn't you rather take a simple test and know you're not pregnant for sure, for sure? No matter how hardcore you convince yourself you have a super light flow because of all that line dancing you did, it's got to linger somewhere in the back of your mind that you might be pregnant. That suspense would kill me. Last May I convinced myself I was pregnant. Normally I would just jog to the local convenience store, pick up a pregnancy test and get some reassurance for my neurotic little mind, but I was in Tuscany on a family vacation. And let me tell you, I couldn't find a single pregnancy test in that whole god-fearing countryside. There I was in the most gorgeous place I'd ever been, staying in a villa surrounded by my family, but I couldn't enjoy one minute of it because I was so preoccupied wondering if I was pregnant. I honest-to-God had a dream about wire hangers one night.
Finally, we took a day trip to Florence. I figured plenty of American college students study abroad there, so there had to be at least one pharmacy who carried pregnancy tests. I snuck away from my family and headed for the first pharmacy I saw. Now, keep in mind I don't speak a lick of Italian. After wandering the store for 20 minutes I had two boxes in my hand: one was an enema and one was a pregnancy test. The problem was, I wasn't 100% sure which one was which. In the end, I decided to get them both, just to be sure. As I walked back to find my family with my newly purchased Italian enema and pregnancy test, I got my period.
I still have the enema and pregnancy test in my bathroom to remind myself what a fucking idiot I am. Best. Souvenir. Ever.
Chris doesn't have a problem. He has a solution.
You would think that after 24 years on this planet, one-third of which I have been sipping on sizzyrup, I would have learned my limits.
You would be wrong. You would be very wrong. What I have learned is that the minute I start drinking, my limits turn their phones off and go on an all-expense paid trip to Tahiti. For those of you who follow me on Twitter, I’m sorry that I’m about to repeat myself, but my past weekend can be best summed up by the song “Just Dance”. After havinga little bit way, way too much, I lost both my keys and my phone. I woke up on Long Island at 9 AM on a Friday, and called out of work so that I could break into my apartment via the fire escape.
I think that’s a classy birthday celebration. But not something I care to repeat ever. So I’m going to lay out a few lessons that I learned over the weekend, for my own benefit, but also so that you, my innocent readers, can learn from my mistakes.
Lesson #1: Drinking to Get Drunk = How to Lose your Dignity in 10 Drinks (or Less)
I should have been alerted to the fact that this night was headed for disaster when my friend asked “What do you want?” and my response was “Something strong.” Dear readers, should you ever be drinking with me and I say I want something strong, please slap whatever beverage I am currently consuming to the floor, regardless of party fouling and point me to the exit. The last time I ordered “something strong” I drank three Long Island iced teas in 2 hours, and hit on my friend’s straight brother. Shamelessly. This is not to say I’m not successful in my mission to get royally fucked up. But I might be the perfect example of being too successful.
Lesson #2: Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Drink
Having gone to a school with a pretty good reputation for getting our drink on, I can handle my alcohol. But in a night when the alcohol consumed ranges from grain alcohol to rubbing alcohol, even the most seasoned of drinker’s is likely to black out and wake up tied to a school desk with fuzzy bunny ears on your head. In the night in question, I believe I drank every hard liquor under the sun, including a frozen margarita at some point. No wonder I woke up an hour and a half away from my apartment.
Lesson #3: When the Going Gets Drunken, the Drunken Turn Their Phones Off
If you’ve read this blog, you may know that I am quite a fan of drunk texts. I love sending them, I love receiving them. I don’t necessarily enjoy reliving my night through them, but at the time, they are fun times. However, drunk calls are a horse of a different color. Sure, some drunk calls are innocuous enough, like if you’re calling your friend to ask “Where the fuck are you, slut?” But it’s never a good idea to call a friend when your body realizes alcohol is a depressant. I’m going to invent a phone breathalyzer that will determine whether or not you are too drunk to be on the phone. While you’re busy breathily complaining about the state of your shambleshow of a life, your phone will be busy picking up the scent of Jack Daniels on your breath and S. it D., shut it down. Because sexually transmitted crazy mouth is not the only kind of crazy mouth you can contract. (Could Liz Lemon dictate more of my life? I don’t think so.)
Lesson #4: Whatever You Do, Don’t Wear Layers While Drinking
This may be a bit obscure for some of you. The reason I say this here is that I had the misfortune of wearing a jacket while I was out the other night. And I put my keys in said jacket. Then my jacket vanished. However, I would be lying if I said I’ve never also lost a shirt because I thought a Coyote Ugly style striptease was a good idea. Had I not worn an undershirt, I probably would have been more reluctant to take that layer off. To all of the female readers, I do not know how you can get smashed and somehow keep track of your bag/clutch/assorted other accouterments. Adding these things to your attire sounds like a recipe for a drunken misfortune to me. (On a related note, this past St. Patrick’s Day, I watched as some drunk girl ran literally right out of her shoes, and then left them behind, running barefoot on the filthiest street in existence. She now has herpes.)
On the whole, I’m a more or less responsible member of society. Every other life lesson I was supposed to learn is in there someone. Say please and thank you. Eat your vegetables. Pay your bills on time. I think it would be in the best interest of society at large if someone were to write a children’s book about responsible drinking. Get us all while we were young. If only Oscar the Grouch spent the better portion of his night drinking at Cooper’s, then wound up in bed with Snuffy, or if Curious George got curious with the Man in the Yellow Hat’s “special drinks” and spent the next day curious about the inside of the toilet, then maybe I would have learned these lessons earlier.
On the bright side, I’m not dead. And if I’m not mistaken, a wise sage once said “Just dance, gonna be ok, dada doo doo.” Dada doo doo, indeed.
You would be wrong. You would be very wrong. What I have learned is that the minute I start drinking, my limits turn their phones off and go on an all-expense paid trip to Tahiti. For those of you who follow me on Twitter, I’m sorry that I’m about to repeat myself, but my past weekend can be best summed up by the song “Just Dance”. After having
I think that’s a classy birthday celebration. But not something I care to repeat ever. So I’m going to lay out a few lessons that I learned over the weekend, for my own benefit, but also so that you, my innocent readers, can learn from my mistakes.
Lesson #1: Drinking to Get Drunk = How to Lose your Dignity in 10 Drinks (or Less)
I should have been alerted to the fact that this night was headed for disaster when my friend asked “What do you want?” and my response was “Something strong.” Dear readers, should you ever be drinking with me and I say I want something strong, please slap whatever beverage I am currently consuming to the floor, regardless of party fouling and point me to the exit. The last time I ordered “something strong” I drank three Long Island iced teas in 2 hours, and hit on my friend’s straight brother. Shamelessly. This is not to say I’m not successful in my mission to get royally fucked up. But I might be the perfect example of being too successful.
Lesson #2: Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Drink
Having gone to a school with a pretty good reputation for getting our drink on, I can handle my alcohol. But in a night when the alcohol consumed ranges from grain alcohol to rubbing alcohol, even the most seasoned of drinker’s is likely to black out and wake up tied to a school desk with fuzzy bunny ears on your head. In the night in question, I believe I drank every hard liquor under the sun, including a frozen margarita at some point. No wonder I woke up an hour and a half away from my apartment.
Lesson #3: When the Going Gets Drunken, the Drunken Turn Their Phones Off
If you’ve read this blog, you may know that I am quite a fan of drunk texts. I love sending them, I love receiving them. I don’t necessarily enjoy reliving my night through them, but at the time, they are fun times. However, drunk calls are a horse of a different color. Sure, some drunk calls are innocuous enough, like if you’re calling your friend to ask “Where the fuck are you, slut?” But it’s never a good idea to call a friend when your body realizes alcohol is a depressant. I’m going to invent a phone breathalyzer that will determine whether or not you are too drunk to be on the phone. While you’re busy breathily complaining about the state of your shambleshow of a life, your phone will be busy picking up the scent of Jack Daniels on your breath and S. it D., shut it down. Because sexually transmitted crazy mouth is not the only kind of crazy mouth you can contract. (Could Liz Lemon dictate more of my life? I don’t think so.)
Lesson #4: Whatever You Do, Don’t Wear Layers While Drinking
This may be a bit obscure for some of you. The reason I say this here is that I had the misfortune of wearing a jacket while I was out the other night. And I put my keys in said jacket. Then my jacket vanished. However, I would be lying if I said I’ve never also lost a shirt because I thought a Coyote Ugly style striptease was a good idea. Had I not worn an undershirt, I probably would have been more reluctant to take that layer off. To all of the female readers, I do not know how you can get smashed and somehow keep track of your bag/clutch/assorted other accouterments. Adding these things to your attire sounds like a recipe for a drunken misfortune to me. (On a related note, this past St. Patrick’s Day, I watched as some drunk girl ran literally right out of her shoes, and then left them behind, running barefoot on the filthiest street in existence. She now has herpes.)
On the whole, I’m a more or less responsible member of society. Every other life lesson I was supposed to learn is in there someone. Say please and thank you. Eat your vegetables. Pay your bills on time. I think it would be in the best interest of society at large if someone were to write a children’s book about responsible drinking. Get us all while we were young. If only Oscar the Grouch spent the better portion of his night drinking at Cooper’s, then wound up in bed with Snuffy, or if Curious George got curious with the Man in the Yellow Hat’s “special drinks” and spent the next day curious about the inside of the toilet, then maybe I would have learned these lessons earlier.
On the bright side, I’m not dead. And if I’m not mistaken, a wise sage once said “Just dance, gonna be ok, dada doo doo.” Dada doo doo, indeed.
6.15.2009
Wait...Kelly Bensimon is a what now?
When I get stressed out or overwhelmed by life, I Wikipedia things. Wikipedia-ing is a very therapeutic act for me, I don't really know how to explain it. Looking for a little Zen this morning, I decided to Wikipedia The Real Housewives of New York City. The following, from Kelly Bensimon's bio, caught my eye:
...Wait...what now? Kelly Bensimon is an aspiring carpet cleaner? Why is that the funniest sentence I've ever read in my entire life? Specifically that she's not just a carpet cleaner, she's an aspiring carpet cleaner.
I'm slightly confused though...is Kelly Bensimon really an aspiring carpet cleaner? And what exactly does that mean? My first theory was that maybe she's coming out with a special line of Kelly Bensimon Carpet Cleaner. Lord knows those bitches are hawking everything else under the sun, it wouldn't be that odd for one of them to have their own brand of carpet cleanser. However, a google search for "Kelly Bensimon" and "carpet cleaner" yielded nothing helpful.
So then I moved on to Urban Dictionary.
God bless Wikipedia.
...Wait...what now? Kelly Bensimon is an aspiring carpet cleaner? Why is that the funniest sentence I've ever read in my entire life? Specifically that she's not just a carpet cleaner, she's an aspiring carpet cleaner.
I'm slightly confused though...is Kelly Bensimon really an aspiring carpet cleaner? And what exactly does that mean? My first theory was that maybe she's coming out with a special line of Kelly Bensimon Carpet Cleaner. Lord knows those bitches are hawking everything else under the sun, it wouldn't be that odd for one of them to have their own brand of carpet cleanser. However, a google search for "Kelly Bensimon" and "carpet cleaner" yielded nothing helpful.
So then I moved on to Urban Dictionary.
Carpet Cleaner:I'm going to choose to go with Dick McPlenty on this one and believe that Kelly Bensimon enjoys having her arms tied behind her back as she's gettin' hit from behind and pushed around the room like a vacuum cleaner. In the most amateur way possible.
From "Dick McPlenty:" While banging a girl doggy style, tie her arms behind her back, lift up her hips, and run around the room pushing her face first across the carpet. Not recommended with large women.
i.e. she shur is one helluva good carpet cleaner
God bless Wikipedia.
6.12.2009
BONUS!
Just because the gang here at 2b1b loves you so much (and by you, I clearly mean drinking) we thought we'd give you a bonus DGF. In honor of this weekend being Pride, I give you Tulane Chris' Gay Pride Drinking Game!
You can bypass all the following rules and just sip when you see a shirtless man. This is a variation called "Suicide by Alcohol Poisoning."
Drink when:
- You ask yourself "Is this person a lesbian or a thirteen-year-old boy?"
- A gay parent brings their kid to Make A Statement about how Gay People Are Good Parents and then has to shepherd them away from booze and almost-naked leather daddies all day.
- Some company puts a rainbow and their logo on a banner/cup/keychain/little twinky guy to make you think that Budweiser/ Ikea / Chili's / Amalgamated Consolidated cares about gays.
(- Throw a Molotov cocktail for each company that does this in lieu of offering partner benefits.)
- You hear a couple bickering about if one of them is checking other people out.
- You catch yourself wondering about the logistics of being a tranny or drag queen - where do you find size 14 chartreuse heels, is it expensive to have wigs washed and styled, etc.
- The entertainment lineup goes like this:
Drag queen stand-up comic
Angry girl band
Drag queen stand-up comic
Angry girl band
Drag queen stand-up comic
Angry girl band
Loretta Swit
Drag queen stand-up comic
Angry girl band
- Every time you hear a fag hag say something about loving gay men.
- Drink twice if she's homely. (She will be.)
- Every time someone bitches about how some OTHER city's pride is SO much better / worse than the one here.
- Every time you notice that some guy shaved his whole body three days ago, so now he has chest stubble.
- Drink in honor of the little twinks who went on "Pride diets" and starved themselves for six days, started drinking at 7 am, and were asleep in their own vomit by 8:30.
- Drink for every reference to Proposition 8, twice if you don't even LIVE in California, and three times for every crappy pun like "Prop H8."
- DRINK BECAUSE LIZA WON A TONY
- Drink when there's a grudging reference to AIDS, which though a serious issue is a total buzzkill.
If you're living in a major American city, enjoy your incredibly fagalicious weekend!
You can bypass all the following rules and just sip when you see a shirtless man. This is a variation called "Suicide by Alcohol Poisoning."
Drink when:
- You ask yourself "Is this person a lesbian or a thirteen-year-old boy?"
- A gay parent brings their kid to Make A Statement about how Gay People Are Good Parents and then has to shepherd them away from booze and almost-naked leather daddies all day.
- Some company puts a rainbow and their logo on a banner/cup/keychain/little twinky guy to make you think that Budweiser/ Ikea / Chili's / Amalgamated Consolidated cares about gays.
(- Throw a Molotov cocktail for each company that does this in lieu of offering partner benefits.)
- You hear a couple bickering about if one of them is checking other people out.
- You catch yourself wondering about the logistics of being a tranny or drag queen - where do you find size 14 chartreuse heels, is it expensive to have wigs washed and styled, etc.
- The entertainment lineup goes like this:
Drag queen stand-up comic
Angry girl band
Drag queen stand-up comic
Angry girl band
Drag queen stand-up comic
Angry girl band
Loretta Swit
Drag queen stand-up comic
Angry girl band
- Every time you hear a fag hag say something about loving gay men.
- Drink twice if she's homely. (She will be.)
- Every time someone bitches about how some OTHER city's pride is SO much better / worse than the one here.
- Every time you notice that some guy shaved his whole body three days ago, so now he has chest stubble.
- Drink in honor of the little twinks who went on "Pride diets" and starved themselves for six days, started drinking at 7 am, and were asleep in their own vomit by 8:30.
- Drink for every reference to Proposition 8, twice if you don't even LIVE in California, and three times for every crappy pun like "Prop H8."
- DRINK BECAUSE LIZA WON A TONY
- Drink when there's a grudging reference to AIDS, which though a serious issue is a total buzzkill.
If you're living in a major American city, enjoy your incredibly fagalicious weekend!
TGIDF!
Gimme a D! D! (You got your D! You got your D!)
Gimme an R! R! (You got your R! You got your R!)
Gimme an I! I! (You got your I! You got your I!)
Gimme an N! N! (You got your N! You go your N!)
...Ok, fuck that. I'm just irritating myself at this point, so I'll stop. The moral of the story is it's Drinking Game Friday and I am PSYCHED! Like psyched enough to start a cheer, psyched. (But not psyched enough to finish that cheer. I mean, I love DGF, but I'm not in love with it.)
I would like to share with you a series of emails that Alex and I exchanged yesterday. Please keep in mind that we both went to an extremely expensive college and graduated with honors. Thank you.
From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: none
I love the phrase "put the moves on." As in, did he put the moves on you?
From: Alex
To: Meg
Subject: re: none
I would literally allow my stapler to put the moves on me.
From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: re: re: none
HAHAHAHA! I'm so putting the moves on you the next time I see you.
From: Alex
To: Meg
Subject: none
From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: re: none
o0o00OOOoo0o0o0o...That stapler is getting fresh with you, sir.
From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: My stapler is already involved
From: Alex
To: Meg
Subject: re: My stapler is already involved
From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: SPENT
Via gchat
Oh office antics. They get us through the work day and keep us sane, bless their heart. Anna and I used to have "Fax Fridays" where we would try to out-fax each other something ridiculous. One time I simply scanned my middle finger and faxed it over to her. In Congress. ...
There's only one show that adequately displays the art and craft of office antics. That's right! Iron your khakis, reload your stapler and practice your best courtesy laugh—it's time for The Office Drinking Game! (American version)
Rules:
Drink When:
- Anyone says "Dunder Mifflin"
- Anyone says "That's what she said"
- Anyone says "question" before asking a question
- Anyone says "Vance Refrigeration"
- Pam says "This is Pam"
- Pam says "Okay"
- Dwight says he's "assistant regional manager"
- Michael says "comedy" or "comedian"
- Michael says "Orfice"
- Kelly mentions a celebrity
- Andy calls Jim "Big Tuna "
- Jim looks into the camera when not doing an interview
- Andy and Dwight fight/argue/try to get on Michael's good side
- Dwight's Bubble Head Doll is seen.
- A Dundie is seen.
- Angela and Dwight have a conversation with their backs to each other
- Jim plays a prank on Dwight
- The party planning committee has a meeting
- Meredith's alcoholism is implied or expressed
As per always, thank you so much for reading, passing the blog along, joining our facebook page, following us on twitter and harassing me to get off my fat ass and oink my way to the gym. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning. Loveyoumeanitbyeeee!
Gimme an R! R! (You got your R! You got your R!)
Gimme an I! I! (You got your I! You got your I!)
Gimme an N! N! (You got your N! You go your N!)
...Ok, fuck that. I'm just irritating myself at this point, so I'll stop. The moral of the story is it's Drinking Game Friday and I am PSYCHED! Like psyched enough to start a cheer, psyched. (But not psyched enough to finish that cheer. I mean, I love DGF, but I'm not in love with it.)
I would like to share with you a series of emails that Alex and I exchanged yesterday. Please keep in mind that we both went to an extremely expensive college and graduated with honors. Thank you.
From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: none
I love the phrase "put the moves on." As in, did he put the moves on you?
From: Alex
To: Meg
Subject: re: none
I would literally allow my stapler to put the moves on me.
From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: re: re: none
HAHAHAHA! I'm so putting the moves on you the next time I see you.
From: Alex
To: Meg
Subject: none
From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: re: none
o0o00OOOoo0o0o0o...That stapler is getting fresh with you, sir.
From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: My stapler is already involved
From: Alex
To: Meg
Subject: re: My stapler is already involved
From: Meg
To: Alex
Subject: SPENT
Via gchat
Alex: I was just lol-ing and everyone in my office kept asking me what was up
but I couldn't tell them
"oh my friend meg and I are exchanging semi-erotic pictures of staplers"
me: HAHAHA!
why not? it's completely normal.
alex, do you ever stop and think, "i went to college....for this?"
Alex: that's a point of pride
$40,000 a year
for this.
Oh office antics. They get us through the work day and keep us sane, bless their heart. Anna and I used to have "Fax Fridays" where we would try to out-fax each other something ridiculous. One time I simply scanned my middle finger and faxed it over to her. In Congress. ...
There's only one show that adequately displays the art and craft of office antics. That's right! Iron your khakis, reload your stapler and practice your best courtesy laugh—it's time for The Office Drinking Game! (American version)
Rules:
Drink When:
- Anyone says "Dunder Mifflin"
- Anyone says "That's what she said"
- Anyone says "question" before asking a question
- Anyone says "Vance Refrigeration"
- Pam says "This is Pam"
- Pam says "Okay"
- Dwight says he's "assistant regional manager"
- Michael says "comedy" or "comedian"
- Michael says "Orfice"
- Kelly mentions a celebrity
- Andy calls Jim "Big Tuna "
- Jim looks into the camera when not doing an interview
- Andy and Dwight fight/argue/try to get on Michael's good side
- Dwight's Bubble Head Doll is seen.
- A Dundie is seen.
- Angela and Dwight have a conversation with their backs to each other
- Jim plays a prank on Dwight
- The party planning committee has a meeting
- Meredith's alcoholism is implied or expressed
As per always, thank you so much for reading, passing the blog along, joining our facebook page, following us on twitter and harassing me to get off my fat ass and oink my way to the gym. Have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning. Loveyoumeanitbyeeee!
6.11.2009
Meg & Chris Play MASH
Ah, yes. Here we are. Just another glorious day in the office. But today isn't just any other day, today is Co-Blogger Chris' birthday! He's graced this earth for 24 glorious years now, and good for him for making it this far (because Lord knows I remember a New Years Eve when a belligerently drunk Chris wiggled his way out of my talons and disappeared down a dark Brooklyn street and I thought, "Welp, that's the end of that kid. Guess we'll find him floating in the East River sometime in the next week or so.")
I thought it might be fun to play a good old fashioned game of MASH with Chris to see what year #24 has in store. (Plus we're both bored as fuck and MASH is L0LZ, but that goes without saying. Also, true or false: I frequently play MASH solo using this website?......True.)
M A S H
Job:
Doctor
Psychologist
Scientist
Payless Sales Associate
# of Cover Letters You Had to Write to Get Said Job:
0
1
2
489,628,300
# of Condescending Bosses You Have:
0
0, but your co-workers are assholes
1
489,628,300
Who You Talk to on Gchat All Day:
Matt
Corinne
Meg
Ramona from The Real Housewives of New York City
Fill in the Blank: Your Sex Life is ______:
Amazing
Satisfying
Exhausting
Questionable
# of Beers it Takes to Get Drunk:
6
8
10
0
# of AIDS scares:
0
1
2
69
Husband:
Matt
Jake Gyllenhaal
Cat Deeley
Rob, our ex Slumlord Naziaire
# of Kids:
2
3
4
1/2
Car:
Prius
Lexus
Jeep
Segway
Chris:
You will become a scientist, a job which you had to write 489,628,300 cover letters to get. At your job, you have 0 condescending bosses, but all of your coworkers are assholes. You spend your days talking with me on gchat, it takes you 6 beers to get drunk and you have an exhausting sex life. You have 1 AIDS scare before you quit dipping your wick in anything that moves and settle down in a nice little shack with your husband—Rob, our ex Slumlord Naziaire. Together, you have half a child whom you shuttle around in a nice American made Jeep. FIN.
And for good Measure...
I thought it might be fun to play a good old fashioned game of MASH with Chris to see what year #24 has in store. (Plus we're both bored as fuck and MASH is L0LZ, but that goes without saying. Also, true or false: I frequently play MASH solo using this website?......True.)
CHRIS' FUTURE
Job:
Scientist
# of Cover Letters You Had to Write to Get Said Job:
489,628,300
# of Condescending Bosses You Have:
0, but your co-workers are assholes
Who You Talk to on Gchat All Day:
Meg
Fill in the Blank: Your Sex Life is ______:
Exhausting
# of Beers it Takes to Get Drunk:
6
# of AIDS scares:
1
Husband:
Rob, our ex Slumlord Naziaire
# of Kids:
1/2
Car:
Jeep
Chris:
You will become a scientist, a job which you had to write 489,628,300 cover letters to get. At your job, you have 0 condescending bosses, but all of your coworkers are assholes. You spend your days talking with me on gchat, it takes you 6 beers to get drunk and you have an exhausting sex life. You have 1 AIDS scare before you quit dipping your wick in anything that moves and settle down in a nice little shack with your husband—Rob, our ex Slumlord Naziaire. Together, you have half a child whom you shuttle around in a nice American made Jeep. FIN.
And for good Measure...
MEG'S FUTURE
# of Cover Letters You Had to Write to Get Said Job:
0
1
# of Condesending Bosses You Have:
0
Who You Talk to on Gchat All Day:
Chris
Alex
Anna
Every awkward hookup you've ever had
Fill in the Blank: Your Sex Life is ______:
AWESOME
Colorful
Satisfying
Perverse
# of Beers it Takes to Get Drunk:
5
6
8
1 sip of O'Douls
# of AIDS scares:
0
1
2
0 but you have the clap
Husband:
Cat Deeley
Hottie Caribou Coffee Barista
Michael Showalter
Craig T. Nelson
# of Kids:
1
2
3
18 and a real loose vagina
Car:
Jeep
Lexus
Prius
Huffy
Meg:
After trolling for several years on craigslist, you finally managed to land your dream job as a trophy wife after sending out only 2 cover letters. This job has all the perks including a mansion which you call home, 2 beautiful children, and your loving husband Hottie Caribou Coffee Barista. You have 0 condescending bosses, but he is a sexual harasser, but it's cool because he's your husby. When you aren't being inappropriately groped, you spend all day on gchat chatting with every awkward hookup you've ever had and unfortunately, HCCB only lets you drive a huffy when you leave the house. After 8 beers, you start to feel a bit tipsy, so you and HCCB go up to the bedroom for some of your satisfying sex life, which was marred only slightly by 2 AIDS scares throughout your life.
My MASH life is infinately better than my real life will ever be. (Minus the AIDS scares.)
M A S H
Job:
Trophy Wife
Mattress Tester
Graphic Designer
Fluffer
Trophy Wife
# of Cover Letters You Had to Write to Get Said Job:
2
68 and 1 headshot
# of Condesending Bosses You Have:
0, but he's a sexual harrasser
1
3 and none of them know your name and treat you like a slave
Who You Talk to on Gchat All Day:
Every awkward hookup you've ever had
Fill in the Blank: Your Sex Life is ______:
Satisfying
# of Beers it Takes to Get Drunk:
8
# of AIDS scares:
2
Husband:
Hottie Caribou Coffee Barista
# of Kids:
2
Car:
Huffy
Meg:
After trolling for several years on craigslist, you finally managed to land your dream job as a trophy wife after sending out only 2 cover letters. This job has all the perks including a mansion which you call home, 2 beautiful children, and your loving husband Hottie Caribou Coffee Barista. You have 0 condescending bosses, but he is a sexual harasser, but it's cool because he's your husby. When you aren't being inappropriately groped, you spend all day on gchat chatting with every awkward hookup you've ever had and unfortunately, HCCB only lets you drive a huffy when you leave the house. After 8 beers, you start to feel a bit tipsy, so you and HCCB go up to the bedroom for some of your satisfying sex life, which was marred only slightly by 2 AIDS scares throughout your life.
My MASH life is infinately better than my real life will ever be. (Minus the AIDS scares.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
