Thoughts I Couldn't Flesh Out Into Full Entries...

- First things first: I am so sorry about Monday's Ghost Post. My bad, you guys. My bad. Except it totally wasn't—it was the Bolt Bus' bad. I took an early Bolt Bus back to DC Monday morning after spending a lovely weekend in New York. (Yes, I had to go to New York the weekend Chris finally moved to DC. Then Chris sold his watch to buy me a hair comb but I sold all of my hair to buy him a watch chain. Gift of the Magi is so hot right now.) Although the ride back wasn't nearly as gut-wrenchingly hungover as the bus ride there on Friday morning, it was still pretty rough.

Because I hate No Post Mondays just as much as you, the first thing I did when I sat down in my bus seat was crack open my laptop and get to work on a mediocre post. And write a mediocre post, I did! Seriously! I wrote, edited and formatted an entire blog post! It was about how it was a "Road Post" which made me think of road head and how road head fascinates me because I never thought people actually did it until one summer when I totally saw a couple doing it while I was driving home from work and I freaked out and asked everyone I knew if they'd ever done it was mind-boggled to discover that not only had most of the people I'd asked done it, but they all had comical stories about it; thus giving me the million dollar idea to write a compilation of road head stories called Head on the Road (PATENT PENDING! IDEA & TITLE COPYRIGHT OLNEY ELEMENTARY PRESS & 2BIRDS1BLOG PRODUCTIONS!). So, yes. That was the post. Like I said, it was mediocre at best, but it was a post nonetheless.

Towards the end of writing it, I had definitely felt better. I wasn't lying—the second I sat down in my seat, I took out my laptop and started writing. Which means I completely neglected to take off the 5,000 layers I put on while waiting for the bus in the freezing rain. So there I was, typing away in the tropical 85-degree weather of the bus wearing a wife beater, sweatshirt, cardigan, pea coat, scarf, fingerless gloves and small Inuit man hugging my torso under my pea coat but over my sweatshirt (aka first and a half base) for good measure. I was sweating like a bitch but couldn't take any layers off because I was precariously balancing a cup of coffee on my laptop, my laptop on my lap and my right foot was keeping my shitty laptop charger from sliding out of the outlet and leaving me three minutes of battery life. (Oh, I'm sorry Ava Cutrone. Some of our mommy's won't buy us much needed Apple products despite the fact that we're unemployed writers and not sixth graders who sit around pining for breasts all day. GAWD I HATE YOU AND YOUR MACBOOK PRO AND YOUR ENTIRE LIFE!!!!!!1)

In addition to not feeling well from the extreme heat and the vicious cold I had been fighting off all weekend, I was also beginning to get seriously nauseous from typing on the bus. I get motion sick watching Deadliest Catch, I don't know why I thought writing on the bus would be a good idea, but there I was; clacking away. I just love you like that—it's my cross to bear. Sigh...

Thankfully, my stomach was comforted by the fact that all I had to do was hit "post" and I could put everything away, peel off a few hundred layers and curl up for a much needed nap. So I hit post. Nothing happened. Hmm. I allegedly had a strong Bolt Bus wireless signal so it should have went through. I hit post again. It loaded. It loaded. It loaded. And then loaded some more. I sweat. And sweat. And coughed. And then sweat some more. I hit the refresh button. My cursor turned into the dreaded spinning beach ball of doom. Then, to make matters worse, my phone rang. I forgot to put it on silent so the entire bus got to listen to my ringtone (Alex screaming "BATTLE ROYALE!" in a pompous British accent over and over again...I regret nothing) for a while I searched all 5,000 layers for my phone while simultaneously trying not to spill my coffee/knock my laptop over/let my charger slide out. When I finally got to my phone, I didn't recognize the area code calling, so thinking it was someone calling about a freelance writing gig, I answered it. (HA HA, so young and full of hope. I am adorable.) Turns out it was just a loan collector calling about a late student loan payment. Which, according to my calculations, is the exact opposite of someone calling with a freelance writing gig. I let the debt collector get as far as, "Hi Ms. McBlogger this is Heather calling from Key Bank about your studen—" before I blatantly hung up and checked the progress with the blog. This was as far as it had progressed:

My body temperature rose another 10 degrees. I decided to take a few deep breaths, calm down and wait a few minutes for the wireless signal to get stronger. Once it did, I hit the back button on my browser to go back to the post I had written.

IT. HADN'T. AUTOSAVED. A. SINGLE. WORD. OF. IT.

And that's when the wireless signal went out all together.

I swear to Christ, it took everything in my power not to stand up, grab my computer by the screen, walk back to that tin can filled with Windex and broken dreams they call the "toilet" and bash that mother fucker on the seat over and over and over again into tiny little pieces before flushing it all over I-95. Instead, I opted to let out a defeated little "GEH" noise from deep within before angrily slamming my computer shut, shoving it in my bag and taking off every god damn layer I was wearing until I got down to the sweat soaked wife beater and looked like I was competing in a one-woman wet t-shirt contest. But truth be told, I just could not have physically cared less at that point. I was livid and hot and felt like shit and COULD NOT BELIEVE IT WASN'T AUTOSAVING THAT ENTIRE MOTHERFUCKING TIME. GEEHHHHHH!!!!1

So, that's what happened with Monday's post. The only thing that survived Bolt Bus' half-ass wi-fi connection was that cocktease of a timestamp and this gif image I uploaded to wish all of god's chosen people a happy first evening of Passover.


Which still stands. Happy Passover!

- I get emails from readers all the time asking me for advice. I find this laughable because if there's anything you should have learned about me from reading this blog, it's that I do not have my shit together. I'm not entirely sure why anyone would ever want advice from me about anything not involving what to wear to a Dynasty-themed costume party or how many naps are in a dollar, yet, people do. I get asked everything from blogging advice to "I'm in 7th grade and my BFF is mad at me, what should I do?" to "What should I have for lunch?" and everything in between. (The answers, by the way, are: your middle school friends are like wide-legged jeans: once you reach high school you won't want them anymore and you'll be embarrassed you ever had 'em, so don't worry about it; and a $5 footlong from Subway. Obviously.)

Everyone needs a random schmo to turn to for non-biased advice. As someone who's been in therapy since 6th grade, I get that. Christ do I get that. And I'm honored anyone would ever want me to be that random schmo, but I'm just not sure how much I trust myself to help anyone out. I mean, I'm unemployed and currently watching Buffy pantsless at 2:09 in the morning. Am I really the person you want life advice from?

I wrote a blog post earlier this month about how I suck at PR and as a result, I got a bunch of emails from kind PR professionals in the area looking to help me out. As completely touched as I am by each and everyone of them, I decided to put my blog marketing efforts on hold for a while while I tried to figure out what to do about a job. However, one young PR professional didn't take no for an answer; she had all of her (many) friends repeatedly email me and tell me me what a fuckin' idiot I was if I didn't take advantage of what an amazing publicist their friend was. 20 emails later, I thought, "Welp, this is annoying ::strokes imaginary beard:: ...and I like it. This girl's got moxie!" and agreed to go out for a drink to discuss marketing strategies.

As I've discussed before, it's kind of hard for me to open up to people. I'm a little guarded and rarely discuss major problems in my life with even the closest people to me. Phone conversations with my mom routinely end in "Now, is this one of those times when you say everything's OK but then go be secretly depressed somewhere, or is everything really OK?" That being said, what was supposed to be a quick drink with Amy the Publicist about marketing strategies turned into me pouring my little heart and soul out to her for a solid 4 hours straight about everything. The blog, my writing, New York, DC, friends, dudes, family—everything. She was incredibly easy to talk to and had amazing insight and advice about everything I brought up.

"You give really good advice!" I told Amy.

"Yeah, that's kind of my deal," she told me. "People always come to me for advice. Truth be told, I've always kind of wasted to be a relationship advice columnist. Do you know who Dan Savage is?" UH YES. I was two steps ahead of her. The wheels were turning. (Albeit slowly. I had had a few.) Amy is my long-lost advice Twin! The yin to my yang. The rational to my irrational. The experienced to my "Ooo! Yikes. Good question..." So I proposed she write an advice column for 2b1b and she was, thankfully, all about it.

So now, we need you. Got a question you want my badass lesbian publicist to answer? Ask "QUEER ABBY", 2b1b's new weekly advice column! She'll tell it to you like it is and then I'll throw in some of my ridiculousness for good measure. Maybe we'll even get Co-Blogger Chris in the mix?? Your gender, sexuality and all that junk doesn't matter. This is an equal-opportunity advice column. Ask her which frat you should join. As her about your weird polyamorous girlfriend's boyfriend. Just ask. Shoot an email to QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com. If we publish your question, we'll use your first name and last initial, so if you're not hip with that, make sure to let us know you'd like to be anonymous. I'M EXCITED. Amy is gold and my advice somehow always includes "tell them to go fuck themselves." It should be good.

QueerAbby@2birds1blog.com

- I was filling out my Census form the other week, because I think we both know I'm the living, breathing embodiment of a perfect American, and I got hung up on question #8:

I know picture is a little blurry, so to clarify, the question is Is Person 1 of Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish origin?
Yes, Mexican, Mexican Am., Chicano
Yes, Puerto Rican
Yes, Cuban
Yes, another Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish origin...

I very sincerely had to read the last option like 50 times because I kept reading it in the entirely wrong inflection in my head. I kept reading, "Yes, another Hispanic, Latino or Spanish origin," as if it were like, "Yes, just another god damn Hispanic, Latino or Spanish person" and not like, "Yes, [I am of] another [meaning of a different variety of] Hispanic, Latino or Spanish origin."

I was seriously about to call my mom and be like, "Uhhh...did you see question #8 on the Census? The government's getting kind of ballsy about the Latino community, huh?" until I read it more carefully. HA HA, oh ADD. You sneak up on me in the most interesting places.

- Speaking of racism, you know what sucks? I have a tendency to like the most offensive flags possible. No, seriously, I really do. It all started back in 1988 when I was just a wee little Meglet and Cry Baby was one of my favorite movies. (Looking back? Highly inappropriate.) (Also, my favorite song? Lou Reed's Take a Walk on the Wild Side. Also highly inappropriate. I remember on my first day of kindergarten, my dad sang it to me but changed the words to, "And all the BIG GIRLS IN KINDERGARTEN GO—" and I gleefully did the doo-doo-doo's. You can imagine how traumatized I was when I actually listened to the words years later and realized the special song my dad and I share contains the lyrics, "she never lost her head, even when she was giving head." God damn hippie parents...) Anyway, in the scene where they go to Turkey Point, there are Confederate flags everywhere and I distinctly remember being like, "OO0OO0O! I LIKE THOSE FLAGS." Ever since then, I've had a soft-spot for Confederate flags. I like them a lot. PURELY AESTHETICALLY SPEAKING, of course. It's kind of unfortunate that they're associated with KKK rallies, cousin-fuckin' and Deliverance.


You know what's even more upsetting? I have secretly always wanted a Confederate Flag bikini.



There it is. The embarrassing, redneck truth. It's bad; I know. I'm always secretly hoping someone will throw a theme party where it'll be appropriate to wear one so I'll finally have an excuse to get one. It would also be perfect to wear lounging around my apartment, overdosing on Tylenol PM. Unfortunately I don't think my friends are ironic enough to throw a "FAVORITE SYMBOLS OF HATE POOL PARTY!!!!!!" ...Or are they?

I brought up my unfortunate love of Confederate Flags at a dinner party a while back and it led to a discussion about which country has the best flag. My vote? Saudi Arabia, HANDS DOWN. If there is anything more simplistically beautiful or badass than the Saudi Arabian flag; I would love to know what it is.

The green, the white, the sword, the beautiful Arabic script...Aces ten.

I have a little mini American flag stuck on the lamp on my drafting table in my apartment. It's right across from my bed so I stare at it a lot when I'm trying to go to sleep. One night I decided I should get another mini-flag to stick on the lamp going in the other direction to balance it out, but which flag? I immediately thought of the Confederate Flag, but what with the signed Ron Paul photo Anna got me and the McCain bumper sticker and signed photo on the fridge, things are getting slightly too Limbaugh in here for my liking.

So then I thought, oh! The Saudi Arabian flag! It's so pretty! But Dan informed me at the dinner party that the pretty Arabic script says the Islamic declaration of faith and I already have a brass sign in my apartment that says "welcome" in Arabic. What's the problem with that, you ask? Um, hi. I got tattoos and my mom decided it meant I'm a "prison dyke." What do you think she'll assume if I have a Saudi Arabian flag and an Arabic welcome sign? That Jew likes to overreact, bless her heart. I'd like to stay off the no-fly list, thanks just the same.

So then—I swear to god—I decided I should get a mini Gadsden flag. I've been a fan of the Gadsden flag ever since I did a project on it in the 4th grade Revolutionary War unit. I thought it was incredibly cool that Maryland was part of the sectioned "Join, or Die!" rattlesnake. Because I was kind of lame and didn't have friends, clearly. But still! A Gadsden flag! It's yellow and black, has a woodblock image of a snake on it and says "Don't fuck with me." In so many words. And it's a throwback to our ye olde forefathers and the Revolutionary War! How could I offend anyone there, right?

Wrong. Rewind to two weeks ago.




WELL, THANKS A LOT YOU FUCKING TEA PARTY WEIRDOS. Thanks a lot. You took the god damn Gadsden flag from me. HAPPY NOW?! I can't find a god damn flag that isn't associated with Extremists, Klansmen, Islam or fucking Tea Party weirdos. Frankly, I'm kind of fine with being an extreme Islamic Klansmen, but a member of the Tea Party?! Feh. No thank you.

Back to square one. What about Fiji? It's got a lion and bananas; that's kind of badass, right?

Although given my track record, the International Society of Skull Fuckers will announce that they've adopted it as their new flag tomorrow. Callin' it right now.

Ooo baby do you know what that's worth? Here's the Season Finale of Kell on Earth

Season Finale y’all! It seems like just yesterday we were marveling at how dumb Vorhees is; at how wacky Andrew M.’s clothing choices are; at how badly Skinner needs under eye concealer. And look how much we’ve grown since then!

To be perfectly honest, having been sans television for the past three weeks and therefore away from the recapping, I felt like I was so out of touch with what was going on at People’s Revolution. I came back expecting to have infinite fodder for jokes, but seriously you guys without the easy targets of Vorhees and Andrew S., shit gets complicated. Especially when I’m trying to be funny before the sun is up. I’m lucky I manage to put a large majority of my clothes on correctly in the morning. One of these days, I should probably start drinking coffee. What am I even talking about right now? Tangents, tangents, tangents.

Back to the subject at hand. Kell on Earth season finale. So with the recession in full swing, Kelly’s all worried about business and junk like that. We’ve seen our fair share of her clients try to dick her out of some money, and we all know that homey don’t play that. So what’s a fashion publicist to do? Well according to Kelly, they need to stop dealing with cool, hipster, broke ass clients and start taking on big names. Like Lifesavers? I know when I think haute couture, Lifesavers is probably about number 3 after Swiffer Wet Jet and Kix Cereal. So I support this decision of hers. BLANYWAY, lucky for Kelly DKNY calls a bitch up and is like “Hey want to help us make a movie?” And Kelly asks, “Will there be any tasteful nude scenes?” to which DKNY responds, “Yes, of course. But those are for our own private use. The video we distribute is about a sweater.” At this point Kelly said the name of the sweater (“The Cozy” for those of you who weren’t listening) seventy bajillion times like a good publicist should. So things are looking up!

Meanwhile, KCut’s bday is coming up and Skinner and Andrew want to throw her a surprise party. Trouble is, Madam Cutrone is a wily son of a bitch and she’s not one to be easily surprised. But they are like the Little Engine that Could and they chug along with thoughts of “I think I can.” So it’s Covert Op Bday Surprise for Private Andrew and Lieutenant Skinner (what? It’s so early. Please bear with.) So anytime Kelly pops out of the office for one reason or another, Andrew convinces Skinner (clubs her on the head and drags her by the hair) to duck out and help him do some planning.

The best part is when they go to get Kelly a cake, but of course wacky hijinx occur, because they decide they want to eat more cake, so they tell the restaurant they are tasting cakes for their wedding. So on the way to the bakery, they realize that a) Andrew is wearing the skirt (OF COURSE he is) and b) Skinner needs an engagement ring. At which point, Andrew proceeds to get down on one knee on a Soho street corner and fauxpose to Skinner. They chuckle and are merry. It reminds me of the time Meg and I were on the National Mall and I fauxposed and then an entire family reunion asked us if we just got engaged and they cheered for us. And we walked away in shame for lying. But hell, that family reunion has a story to tell thanks to us, amirite?!

Back to KoE. So Kelly’s being the next Quentin Tarantino for DKNY, filming a new girl power army decked out in multicolored Cozy sweaters marching through the streets of NYC. And wouldn’t you know they are having trouble with their guerrilla film making. Who would have thought that filming on the streets of NYC would be hard to do without also getting men in business suits on their Blackberries wandering into the shot? Clearly Kelly underestimated the “Fuck you” mentality of her own co-city dwellers. So they jet set all over the city to film the girls in several locations (P.S. anyone else notice Fatima from ANTM Cycle 10 was one of the models?). In SoHo, K.Cut brings Ava to see Mommy at work, because it’s important for Ava to know where the money for her MacBook is coming from. Or something like that. Honestly, I tuned out a little bit towards the end. I had been awake since 5:50 yesterday morning, so Quality Time with Ava sort of nodded me off. In the end, though, Kelly finished up a pretty bitchin’ film for DKNY, so maybe this bodes well for the future of PR in tough times. Yes? Yes.

So it’s party time! After much hoopla about who is actually attending the party (Pablo, the showroom manager? Where has he been? Have we seen him before? Why is he even invited? And why is he bringing three guests?), the party is on like Donkey Kong. Andrew takes the good old fashioned subway to the hotel (which is surprising to me, because wouldn’t it be so much easier to just take a cab. Especially if you’re secretly loaded, you crazy bastard.) with Kelly’s birthday/Andrew and Skinner’s wedding cake in tow. Now all we need is Kelly. Cue Robyn trying to wrassle Kelly into going to a “cocktail event for clients” wink wink. But of course, Kelly is having none of it and is in no mood. There should have been comical Benny Hill music playing during this part, because of course Kelly isn’t going to want to go to what’s supposed to be her surprise party. It’s just too easy.

But after hemming and hawing and caftaning, they manage to get Kell to the party and she’s either the world’s best actor and deserves an EGOT right now, or she was legitimately surprised because the tears were a-flowing! So maybe the cake read "Congratulations Mr. and Mrs. Mukamal”. Details. Skinner and Andrew managed to do the impossible and surprise K.Cut. What a nice birthday.

Full circle: K.Cut totes cried during her confessional because of the party, but she still manages to plug her book by excusing herself to go outside. The consummate publicist, that Cutrone.

The Friendship Application: COMPLETED

[Note from Meg: Just wanted to take a minute and thank you guys so much for making us Washington City Paper's Best DC Blog of 2010! Becca, Alex and I had so much fun last night at CP's Best of Party (some of us got drunker than others...then had to get on a bus at 7:30 this morning to go to New York...and perhaps almost vomited on strangers...it was rull touch and go for a while...I'm looking at myself here.) Nonetheless, we are totally honored and love you guys a shit ton. Don't ever forget it.

Before we get to Chris' Friendship Application, there's one friend I'd like to check in with who needs no application or introduction. It's T.G.I.Hagman baby!

As of 12:43pm on March 26th, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! SO ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR, GET YOUR HAGMAN ON THE FLOOOR. Gotta, gotta get up and get down. Gotta, gotta get up and get down. Oh my god, please stop. (Done.) And now without further ado, I present to you Chris' completed 81-question Friendship Application.]

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Dear Meghan McBlogger,

I am writing to formally request your friendship. I came across your friendship several years ago and am very interested in becoming your in-city best friend. While I do not currently live in the DC metropolitan area, I am relocating there within the week. I feel that I have all of the qualities you are looking for in an in-city best friend. I'm a motivated self-starter who works well under pressure. Oh wait, wrong cover letter. I'm a relatively lazy guy who will only get out of bed for a solid Bloody Mary and brunch situation, followed by openly people watching in a public arena. I'm well versed in talking you down from ledges or freezing you out of bed in the mornings. Some of my interests include: freestyle raps about inanimate objects (boiled hot dogs, bottle of lube, et al.); crepes, crepes, crepes; pony play; and Hottie Timtern, to name a few. Currently, our friendship exists mainly through Gchat and explicit text messages. I would like to bring out friendship out of the world of technology and into the world of real....ology. Please find my completed friendship application attached.

Official Application to be Best Friends with Meghan McBlogger
Please answer all questions in detail honestly and to the best of your ability

The Basics
1. Name:
Chris "Gingerballs" McBloggy

2. Age:
24 years young

3. Gender:
Male

4. Hometown:
Weymouth, MA

5. What is your Twitter name?
@misterlizlemon. Because I aspire to be more like Liz Lemon in my every day life.

6. Quickly tweet something really, really nice about me.
Done and done.

7. What did you tweet?
"@2birds1blog has a great rack."

8. Are you on Facebook?
Um. Kind of.

9. If so, poke me for good measure and take a screen shot to prove it.
See attached. Except I'm slow and couldn't screen shot the first poke. So I'm sending a screenshot of my attempt a second poke. Apparently Facebook has a one poke rule? What if I like to poke multiple times? Prudes...

10. Are you, or are you not a known Ginger?
They don't call me "Gingerballs" for nothing. Although I'm gonna be real upfront with you, I wish I was more ginger-y. But it would be so weird if I showed up to work with a full on head of ginger hair. And no soul.

11. Do you, or do you not burn very easily at outdoor swimming pools?
I burn very easily near: incandescent light bulbs, open flames, hair dryers, toaster ovens, curling irons, children's finger paintings of the sun. So yes, outdoor swimming pools are sunburns waiting to happen.

12. Are you a gender queer and as a corollary, will "gender queer" ever not be one of my favorite phrases in the entire world?
Fact: I had to urban dictionary what "gender queer" means. No, I'm definitely a guy. I think you and I both know that. Re: the corollary, I plan to work "gender queer" into your wedding toast in one way or another. Because I know how much joy that will bring you. [What about GINGER QUEER?!]

13. Where in DC are you moving?
This is a trick question.

14. If that was a trick question because you are actually moving to the wilds of Northern Virginia, where in Northern Virginia are you moving?
I will be living in Arlington, VA. Specifically Rosslyn. Bigups to the Arlington rap. "Just try and mess with us I'll shoot you right in the foot, punk. Just don't come on Tuesday nights that when I meet with my book club."

15. How much longer do you estimate you'll be able to take me being an asshole about the fact that you're moving to Northern Virginia before it starts getting old and downright offensive?
I'll give it another 36 hours. [I'll take it.]

16. How many metro stops separate my apartment from yours?
Only 6.

17. Is there a transfer involved?
Yes, but it's at Metro Center. Doesn't everyone transfer at Metro Center?

18. Hmmm...
Oh come on!

19. Do you see yourself having me over to your apartment for home cooked meals at least once a week?
I don't know, are you willing to transfer trains? God forbid you say no to that question. Um, yes. I make a mean lasagna. When I become a 1950's housewife, wearing my apron, vacuuming, and drinking martinis (a la Joanie ANTM-style) I expect you to be there with me. I aspire to have dinner parties. There. I said it. I was honest.

20. Should I bring red or white?
A bottle of red....a bottle of white..... (Slash you know I don't see color.)

21. Will you please stop eating my Mrs. Dash?
But I'm so hungry...it's a cry for help...

22. Should I stop injecting inside jokes into this public friendship application?
Yes, probably.


Day-to-Day Life
23. What is my standard coffee order?
Quad venti skim latte. I don't know that I've ever actually heard you order a coffee. Because up until about a year ago, neither of us drank coffee. But yet the one time I needed to talk to you, you drove us to a Starbucks. Because it felt like what we should do. And then it was mighty awkward when neither of us was going to order anything there.

24. I'm hungry, will you fax me a sandwich?
I can fax you a picture of a sandwich. Which you can then eat. Like the Japanese porn star diet a la Season 2 of 30 Rock. (God bless Netflix for having this available to watch online.)

25. What is your pet name for me?
Pumpkin spice latte or sugartits, depending on how saucy I'm feeling. [Correct!]

26. The building next to mine is on fire and I call you up to see if you want to get coffee and gawk at it all country-like with me. What would your answer be?
You bring the mash liquor, I'll bring the banjo.

27. It's a random Tuesday at approximately 2pm in the afternoon. You have a voice mail on your work phone. Upon checking it, you discover that it's a solid three minutes of me heavily breathing in a suggestive manner. Are you:

a.) Annoyed
b.)Humored
c.) Aroused
or d.) Extremely aroused

equal parts b.) and d.)

28. It's a random Tuesday at approximately 2:30pm in the afternoon. You have a voice mail on your work phone. Upon checking it, you discover that it's me holding up my phone to my computer as Fleetwood Mac's Holiday Road blasts in the background. Are you:

a.) Confused
b.) Singing along
c.) Embarrassed
or d.) Extremely aroused

a.), c,) and d.)

29. It's a random Tuesday at approximately 3pm in the afternoon. You have a voice mail on your work phone. Upon checking it, you discover that it's me talking in a robot voice pretending to be Stephen Hawking "singing" Gwen Stefani songs, accompanied by the "digital" ringtone on the iphone in the background for good measure. Are you:

a.) Offended for Stephen Hawking
b.) Stifling laughter
c.) Irritated that I keep calling you at work
or d.) a combination of A, C and extremely aroused

b.)

30. Are questions 27-29 things I have actually done to Alex?
I'm sure they are.

31. Are you as amazed as I am that Alex is still my friend?
Not really. Stephen Hawking voicemails make the day pass by just a little faster.

32. I can't find my pants. Where do you suggest I look?
The freezer. That's a lie, your freezer contains a single ice cube, why would you have gone in there in the first place? Look in the microwave.

33. My toilet seat cover mysteriously came off. Can you fix it?
I can try. But in the process I might break your toilet, turning a minor annoyance into a major inconvenience, which spurs you to get some professional help. In which case, WIN!

34. Wanna get some froyo after work, sit in the circle and people watch?
DO. I. EVER. See you Monday at 5:30? [I can't, I told you! I'll be busy painting lamb's blood on my door for Passover!]

35. Road trips: PRO or CON?
Very PRO. Especially if the end result is getting to see a Powerline concert!

36. Remember the time it was really hot in our apartment so we went to Duane Reed to get a baby pool to fill with cold water and put in the living room, but then you wouldn't let me do that so we just laid around on the futon and watched porn all day instead?
Do you remember when we simulated sex to embarrass our neighbors across the airshaft who could blatantly see us watching porn? [Obvs. Every night.]

37. If yes, would you be interested in doing that again?
I have just two things to say to you: fried chicken. Butt Fuckin' Bi-s. Alex, you in?

38. Complete this sentence: Bottle-a-luuuuube; ____________ .
Bottle-a-luuuube, I keep it on my shelf cuz I'm proud of my sex life. [CORRECT! In so many ways, correct.]

39. Can I trust you to be in my apartment and not fiddle with, take or unbend my Aspie's Clip?
No. That's a definite no. I won't unbend Aspie's clip, but I'll fiddle with him, then eventually lose him in the cavernous folds of your duvet cover.

40. What do you think Weekend Hair is doing right now?
Well it is spring break, after all. Weekend Hair is probably just waking up from a raging foam party at Senor Frog's last night where she was doing body shots and dancing on stage and came in second in the wet T-shirt contest. Then she met this really hot guy who had a great tan and really nice teeth, but was kind of a douche, but it didn't matter because he bought her a ton of Jell-o shots, but then when they went back to his place, she realized he was hung like a sparrow, so she made up some excuse about her period, and ran out of the room, only to wind up at a party in someone's room down the hall, where she ran into her friend Amber. They made out a little bit because this other guy, Brad, totally told them to do it, but it's just for funsies, right? And anyway, it was just so that Weekend Hair could impress Brad and she totally did because he drives a BMW back home. So of course she brought Brad back to her room, and they totally did it, but Brad didn't use a condom because he said he doesn't like they way they feel but it's totally ok because Weekend Hair is on the pill, besides she can always go get Plan B, amirite?
I'd say that's what Weekend Hair is doing right now.

41. You should join the Fitness First on L Street and be my gym buddy. Right?
Lord knows I need to join a gym. That being said, I would be the worst, most unreliable gym buddy on the planet.

42. Also you should totally do hot yoga with me and Becca. Riiiiiight?
There are literally hundreds of things I'd rather do than that. Like get a paper cut on my tongue.

43. I currently have Emma Bunton's Free Me stuck in my head. Is this:

a.) Typical
b.) Emma who?
c.) LET ME LOOSE TO LOVE YOU, OH HOW I LONG TO SEDUCE YOU!
d.) Well crap, now I'm extremely aroused

a.) and d.) More so d.)

Social Life
44. I'm having a few people over to watch the premiere of Jersey Shore: Miami. What do you bring?
Just my Ed Hardy T-shirt, some pickles, a handle of vodka, and a good attitude. [OMG...good answer.]

45. We're at happy hour and Alex keeps obsessively checking his Blackberry. What do you do?
Berate him into putting his Blackberry down because are his email friends more important than us sitting right in front of him? If so, then why doesn't he see if his Blackberry will buy him a drink because I'm sure as shit not buying the next round. If that doesn't work I would "accidentally" knock over a drink onto the offending piece of technology.

46. Do you remember the first time you met Helena and she got drunk and told you, "I can see the homo in your eyes but theman in your arm hair"?
Like it was yesterday. Did Helena and I get off on the most awkward foot ever? Yes. Did she legitimately want to know "How big?" within minutes of meeting me? Yes. Was that prefaced by a misleading lead-in question by Meg? No, definitely not.

47. Is that not just as funny as it was when it originally happened, if not more?
Oh it's funnier each and every time I reminisce about it. Helena, I love you dearly but you are never living that down.

48. What are your thoughts on being my wingman?
I feel extremely positive about it. I feel as though our combo of awkward charm and banter would be enough to seduce any menfolk.

49. If positive, what wingman skills would you bring to the table?
Well, I have a pretty good gaydar, so that'll weed out you wasting your efforts on someone who isn't interested. I'm also relatively good at meeting new people. I'm also well-versed in diffusing an awkward situation...although usually I'll just straight up address the fact that it's awkward. Most times all involved parties have a reaction like "Oh man, you're right! It so is! Glad someone pointed that out!" and no harm no foul.

50. REAL WORLD SCENARIO: We're at Little Miss Whiskey's. I'm at the bar waiting for a beer when a handsome gentleman slides up next to me and says something. Thinking he's hitting on me, I get all giggly and girly and seductively compliment his glasses. It is at this point I realize he's actually staring slightly past me and not hitting on me at all, but rather trying to order another beer from the bartender. I am horribly, horribly embarrassed. How do you ease my pain?
Order us both shots and share with you any number of stories where I've been infinitely more embarrassed in the game of love. Then at some point where you're distracted/on the phone/in the bathroom, I would discretely corner said gentleman and talk you up until he hits on you for real. [YOU STUD...]

51. ANOTHER REAL WORLD SCENARIO: We're at The Reef because it's 2006 and we don't know any better and I've had, let's just say, one too many Chardonnays. Sensing I'm about to vomit, I stand up to go to the bathroom but immediately fall right back down on my ass. When you come over to help me get up, I calmly tell you: "Chris. I am about to vomit and black out. You need to get me home."

WHAT IS YOUR GAME PLAN?
Ahh, this is a trick question because I will most likely be nearing the same level of intoxication as you. So what I would do is slur "WE'RE OUT OF HERE. MOVE," grab you by the arm, and drag you out of the bar. Meanwhile, I'm trying to call a cab, but in reality I'm just calling Jumbo Slice over and over again. I assume that by now, you're almost about to be the Old Faithful of vomit, so I hustle you to the nearest trash can and hold your hair back, while yelling at anyone who glances at us that it's none of their business and to keep moving. Somehow I'll manage to catch a cab, where you fall asleep on my shoulder while I pat your hair and sing Michael Buble to you until we get back to your apartment or mine.

52. YET ANOTHER REAL WORLD SCENARIO: I have smoked too much pot and am having a panic attack while watching reruns of America's Next Top Model on UPN. I call you to calm me down. What do you say?
I tell you to put on something less visually stimulating, because Jay Manuel and Miss Jay are both something to behold whilst sober, for a variety of reasons. I tell you that Discovery Channel is showing a marathon of Planet Earth and that I'm willing to stay on the phone with you until you zone out watching a sea star crawl across the ocean floor.

53. It's Sunday morning and we have brunch plans. You walk into my apartment to find me still in bed, nude, covered in cheese fries and laying next to a bottle of seltzer and a pair of Tweezers. What's going through your head?
"There's no way I'm piecing together what went on here last night. I'd better find her Jack Daniels pants for her."

54. I'm staying at my parent's house to cat-sit Evie for a week in June. Wanna come over, watch scary movies and use a little Barbie brush to comb Evie's hair with me?
Only if you promise to hold me when the movies get rull scary. But I know better and I know that you're infinitely more apt to hold Evie when things get dicey. So I'm a maybe on this one. [Yeah. You should probably just sit this one out.]

55. Let's say I have a blind date in a few hours and I feel like there are sumo wrestlers thumping around my stomach I'm so nervous. How would you clam me down?
I'd tell you to swig some Pepto, maybe take a shot of some liquid courage, then proceed to list every reason why this guy would be stupid not to fall head over heels in love with you. Also, I'd run down a couple of escape scenarios for you in case he turns out to be a carnie. [DOUBLE STUD!]

56. You're going to be here for my birthday this year. That should be a recipe for: ________ .
blackouts.

57. We're out at a bar and I get into a scuffle with some crazy bitch who don't know how to ackrite. Got my back, son?
I will be like the J-Woww to your Snooki: ready to toss my drink on a bitch, while wearing the most revealing clothes EVER.

58. It's the end of the night and I'm too lazy to take the metro home so I take a cab. Are you judging me?
When have I ever judged you?

59. I'm running late...are you mad at me?
Mad? No. Irritated? A little. Is it because I am perpetually early to everything out of a deep-seated neurosis of being late? Of course.

60. I'm drunk and just binge-ate a few empanadas. Are you laying in bed next to me drinking seltzer and tweezing someone's eyebrows?
This question escapes me. Which leads me to believe you were drunk and binge-eating empanadas when you wrote it. Chances are we were drinking and eating together, so I wouldn't be surprised if I was also in bed next to you. However, I HATE seltzer water, and I don't know why I would be tweezing someone's eyebrows. So I think I'm going to answer no. [It was a failed reference to this debacle.]


Complete the Sentence
61. Naps are:
the only way I'm able to stay out until four in the morning anymore.

62. Pants are:
overrated.

63. Stefanie Skinner is:
a Child of the Corn and so so so unfortunate. [RUDE.]

64. Bee Movie is:
the wedge that is slowly driving our friendship apart.

65. I lost my privileges to add movies to our Netflix queue because I:
added Bee Movie in every available language. [Incorrect. You took away my queue privileges when I added and subsequently made us watch Epic Movie. You're still welcome for that.]

66. Heidi Mousetag was:
the most adorable (disease-ridden) houseguest we ever had. I hope she's going strong in Prospect Park.

67. I still think about her every:
other day.

68. Poppers and:
ketamine. [YEP.]

69. I'm a little bit Aspie's, you're a little bit:
neurotic. [I would have also accepted "Rock 'n Roll".]

70. I order my eggs:
Benedict. [I would have also accepted "poached".]

71. My favorite brunch beverage is:
Bloody Mary.

72. My favorite beer is:
In a can: PBR. In a bottle: Red Stripe.

73. Getting me out of bed in the morning is:
A CHORE.

74. A good way to get me out of bed is to:
Turn the fan on high, crank the A/C up, and rip the covers off of you. [So evil...yet so effective.]

75. My stomach is usually sitting:
Sideways.

76. Lobster rolls make me:
Incredibly uncomfortable in the rectal region.

77. My #10 jam is:
"Switch" by Will Smith? Really, Meg? [I stand by that decision.]

78. My #1 jam is:
Gwen Stefani.

79. Not mentioned on my "jams list" at all was:
ME. Your BIFFLE.

80. Whereas your #1 jam was:
You and everything about you. [That was really sweet. I'm a jackass. It's like the time you got me a dozen roses for Valentine's Day and I got you gas station condoms and a frozen pizza.]

81. Which makes me a heinous:
spiteful bitch. [I love it when you talk dirty to me...]


I hope that I have answered your questions in a manner consist with your goals for an in-city best friend. I can furnish any number of references should you require further information regarding my friendship abilities. I look forward to hearing back from you!

Best,
Chris McBloggy


(Sidebar: DC metropolitan area and readers. See you in 29 hours and 15 minutes. Not that I'm counting. Lies, I'm obviously counting. GET. PSYCHED. Because Lord knows I am. Have a great weekend and see you back here on Monday!)