Mini flags, day drinkin' and animated gifs. God I love federal holidays.

Enjoy your day off everyone! Unless you're an international reader, in which case you probably don't get Memorial Day off. And serves you right for being so un-American. Terrorist...

This week's most frequently asked questions, answered!

1.) You didn't pick my sex story, which sucks for you because it was really funny. Go fuck yourself, Meg.
Well, that's not really a question, but I'll certainly take it into consideration.

2.) You didn't pick my friend's sex story, which sucks for you because it was really funny. Go fuck yourself, Meg.
Again, not a question, but you're a good friend for taking time out of your day to tell me to go eff myself. You could always send some of that hostility Tulane Chris' way, though. Dicking your friend over was a team effort.

3.) I heard a rumor that Chris was pulling really hard for "Sex Minx" to win. Why'd he like her story so much?
Because of this excerpt, specifically what's in bold:

[Sex Minx is getting hit from behind by her boyfriend in the library. He pulls out because they hear someone coming.]

He stumbles back (clumsy fuck — no pun intended) and the condom had sort of come loose, apparently, so when he blew his load, he sent the condom airborne. A rooster tail of white cum and a white condom. Everyone got really flustered.

4.) That story should have been on the blog yesterday and not Pete's.
Well quit your job, abandon your life in New York, move back into your parent's house, start a blog, work really hard and then you can hold competitions and pick winners.

5.) Fine, maybe I will.
I hope you do.

6.) I'm gonna.
Good.

7.) I'm gonna do it right now.
Good luck to you.

8.) Here I go...
OK.

9.) Do you have any advice on starting a blog?
Sigh...

10.) I can't believe Kevin Yang won third place. That's bullshit. I actually tried.
To clarify, Kevin Yang didn't win third place, "Dan D." did. Kevin Yang didn't win any place. You reading this right now who didn't even submit anything? You placed higher than Kevin Yang did.

8.) Gahh! Your store doesn't ship internationally! Change that!
Let me work on it.

9.) I want 2b1b stickers, but I don't want the DC flag ones. What do I do?
I'll add logo stickers to the store later today. Although I don't understand why you wouldn't want to bring DC pride to wherever you live. A district good enough for Obama, Marion Barry and Kal Penn (and Meg McBlogger...) isn't good enough for you?

10.) I mean, not really.
Well. I respect your honesty. I guess.

10.) I ordered something from your store!
Thanks man!

11.) When will I get it?
In about two weeks.

12.) TWO WEEKS?! Are you fucking kidding me? I want my shit now!
Dude, trust me, I know. I want my tote bag just as badly as you do, but we're still setting up our inventory and figuring everything out, so we need everyone in the first order to be patient with us.

13.) Fuck patience, I want my tote!
I don't physically have a tote bag to give you.

14.) Well, give me something else.
What do you want?

15.) A BJ wouldn't hurt.
Trust me, an invisible tote would probably be more satisfying.

16.) $20 for a canvas tote bag is highway robbery.
So don't buy one.

17.) Yeah. But it's the principle of the matter.
Well, we jacked up the price a bit because all of the proceeds go towards supporting the blog and we didn't think you guys would mind paying a little extra if you knew it was going towards the 2b1b Investigates travel fund, computer stuffs, new projects, etc.

18.) Oh. Well when you put it like that, I'm cool with it.
Awesome—shop2birds1blog.com.

19.) No, I'm still not going to buy one. It just doesn't offend me as much anymore.
Oh. Well, thank god for that.

20.) Did you see that Kevin Yang wrote something on his blog about you guys?
No I didn't and I don't want to know what it says, so don't tell me! Likewise, Kevin Yang emailed me and Chris yesterday and I have zero plans of reading it. Ever. I know the subject is "Hi" and the first line is, "Hey, Thanks again for the post? I don't know what to take away from it, but..." and that's knowing too much already. I refuse to let Kevin Yang become a real person and I refuse to let The Kevin Yang Experience become sullied. Reading an email from him or reading a blog post about his reaction to our obsession would humanize him way too much for my liking. I don't want him to justify anything, or clarify anything, or apologize for anything, or not apologize for anything and I sure as shit don't want his writing to improve or his ego to deflate. I want him to stay exactly the way he was Tuesday night: a racist gay Asian who works as a bakery assistant in Orlando and sent in a recycled blog entry 21 minutes late and not spellchecked. That is who I need Kevin Yang to be. And any contact with him from here on out will only change that and make him significantly less funny to me, which is something I just can't have. I'm sorry. My therapist wants me to become more comfortable with the idea that my needs aren't selfish, so I'm going to take a stand here and now and say that I need the Kevin Yang Experience to remain pure.

21.) A simple "no" would have sufficed.
...

22.) Quick question, what did Andrew of the Great Juno Debate fame say last night at dinner that made you laugh so hard you almost vomited nachos and Bud Light everywhere?
"Kevin Yang and the Orlando Sound Machine."

23.) God, can you imagine what that album cover would look like?
Yes.



24.) What would a Kevin Yang doo-wop group be called?
The Yang-a-Langa Ding-Dongs.



25.) What did Austin text you yesterday that made you cackle-out-loud in line at CVS, thereby making everyone else turn and look at you while you stood there and felt like a complete jackass?
"Yang On a Hot Tin Roof."

26.) ...You went home and photoshopped something for that, didn't you?
No, how much time do you think I have? (............Yes.)



27.) According to Andrew, what would a Kevin Yang Meat Loaf-based band be called and what would their breakout hit be?
Yang Loaf—"I Would Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Go Black)"



28.) Is this what you're doing with your expensive graphic design degree these days?
YEP. And I'm not even mad.

29.) Why does my mouth taste like stale bourbon and Sue Ellen's lipstick?
Because it's T.G.I. Hagman!



As of 5:47am on May 28, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! Zomfg. Larry Hagman/Kevin Yang mash-up: Larry Yangman. Wet. Dream. Come. True.

30.) Last question: Does Queer Abby have some doozies for us this week?
Ooof. Does she ever.

My Dear Queer,

Is that offensive? [Not really] Should I have tacked on the Abbey part? [Most Definitely] I mean, I'm mostly just tickled that the words 'dear' and 'queer' rhyme, so that's really what I was going for, but I like to feel like I'm all hip and with it, but I was raised in super conservative religious household and have no idea how to actually balance being hip and with it with not being offensive. And that's not even my real problem. [Phew]

My conundrum is this: I'm engaged, right? And my fiance is the tits. Seriously, he's amazing and I could totally gush and gush for days about how tit-tacular my fiance is (metaphorically speaking, of course. He's probably like a AA cup). And I'm in love with him, which is largely why I agreed to marry him in the first place, because Lord knows it wasn't for his ten year old desktop computer or impeccable taste in Hawaiian shirts. But despite being very much in love with my fiance and totally full-steam ahead with the wedding and marriage and eventual reproduction and all that jazz, I keep having these Nam-like flashbacks to what it was like when I was with my most recent ex.

You see, my ex and I were pretty nuts about each other. By which I mean, we were young and had all sorts of hormones all over each other and thought it was emotion. They were really intense hormones, though. Like, so intense that I really question whether I will ever experience anything remotely as intense with anyone ever again.

I mean, it's not like I want to get back with my ex. I do not. He dropped out of school to work at a drive-through liquor store and has no intention of ever finishing his education. He has no goals and no aspirations and the last thing I want to be saddled with for the rest of my life is a giant fixer-upper project of a man. Also, he listens to Soulja Boy unironically and thinks it's good music, which I'm not sure I can handle. I'm just a little bit worried that I don't feel anything even close to as intense with my fiance, who is so good to and for me and whom I honestly do love and adore. So, Queer Abbey, my question is this: How can I alleviate some of this baggage? I would really like to be able to just move forward into a healthy and happy relationship with my husband-to-be, but I'm not sure how to do that with all these awesome memories of another man.

Love,

Apologist Zoologist

Dear AZ,

Here are a few things out front that I would like you to keep in mind:

1) No one ever feels the same way about two different significant others. They’re different people, who have different things to offer, bring out different things in you and (hopefully) occur in different stages during your life.

2) It’s not abnormal to view former lovers through rose-tinted glasses. Unless the relationship ended over something totally egregious, or the person ended up being crazy, abusive or a lying, cheating shit bag, you’ll probably (eventually) remember the good times over the bad.

3) When you’re around the corner from committing to one person for the rest of your life, it makes total sense that you would wonder/worry about who/what you’ll never have again.

But more generally, AZ, remember this: there are infinite opportunity costs for every decision we make. The trick is to be thoughtful enough in making them that you can see what you’re missing, and still be 100% confident in the reasons you made the choice you did. It sounds to me like you have your reasons, so you just need to concentrate on reveling in what you have, rather than dwelling on what you don’t.

All that said, I do have one caveat. I'm glad you speak very highly of your fiancé, but make sure those feelings are genuine. A lot of times when we feel the need to sell our decisions to others, we are actually just trying to alleviate our own doubt. If you think there’s any chance your fiance looks great on paper and you know he’s the kind of guy you should be with, but deep down you’re not entirely convinced he’s really what you want right now, you need to give that some serious thought before you walk down the isle.

Honestly though, I would be way more worried about that last possibility if you had said, unlike this one, most of your previous relationships were incredibly intense. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it doesn't seem like that's the case. So my final piece of advice is this, see if you can isolate what made that previous relationship so intense. Maybe it had nothing to do with your ex, specifically, but some sort of fantasy or sexual rapport your interaction with him lended itself to. If that’s the case, maybe it’s something you can inject into your current relationship.

It's instances like these that I can't help but wonder, What Would Kevin Yang Do (WWKYD)?

1.) Stop writing in full sentences and italicize random words just for fun.

2.) Frost a cupcake.

3.) Get a restraining order against Meg & Tulane Chris from 2birds1blog.

4.) Close your eyes, spin around, stop, point to something and open your eyes. Write down whatever it is that you're pointing to.

5.) Close your eyes, spin around, stop, point to something and open your eyes again. Now write that thing down.

6.) Compare those two things in a nonsensical simile.

7.) Pat yourself on the back for being such a clever writer.

8.) Say something racist.

9.) Put on a Beyoncé mix and dance like Elvis is about to ship out.

So, dear reader, I recommend that you do all of the above and post haste! You're welcome.

Dear Queer Abby,

I've kind of reached the limits of dating in this city. My long-term bf broke up with me last year, and it took a while for me to give enough of a fuck to attempt dating (honestly, the first attempt at dating I've had to make in six years... yikes). And, I'm pretty sure I'm a total fuck up at it. I've hit it off with a few guys, but the pattern seems to be something like this:

1) Dude approaches me at bar/club/brunch/ whatevs
2) Sparkling conversation ensues
3) Dancing/making-out/mutual friends/escalating dares leads to digits exchanged
4) Date #1 and #2 are good (and I feel confident enough to text... and I think this is my downfall. You see, I enjoy sending a good text OR taking the initiative and inviting them to do something)
5) Hopes/daydreams build
6) I lose my edge and get suuuper unsure of myself/start to wonder what I'm doing "wrong" as he seems to be communicating less or making fewer plans (and I probably overcompensate at this point by trying harder)
7) He's just "not into it" or "wants to be friends for fear of someone [me] getting hurt".

For reals, what do I do? I can't help getting excited about it, but then I lose confidence and poof, c'est tout.

Tips?

Thanks, love your work!

Determined to Not Die Alone in my Apartment in DC

I promise you’re not fucked up at it. In fact, I’d say you’re doing about five sevenths of it just fine. Seriously, a little hope can be healthy and the reaching out and taking initiative thing can be perfectly ok as well...within reason. Even a little insecurity is completely natural, especially since you’re still working on getting your sea legs in the dating world. The main problem I see here is the bit about over-compensating. Trust me, if he really lacks interest, you can’t possibly compensate for that with your hyper-interest. And, more importantly, why would you want to? You deserve to be with someone who thinks you’re worth working for and is, at very least, going to meet you half way.

Beyond that, it doesn’t matter how determined you are, there really isn't much you can single-handedly do to change his opinion or the course that the courtship will take (short of completely misrepresenting yourself, which I NEVER advise). These things tend to come down to the most inflexible factors on the planet: namely timing and chemistry. Both of you are either ripe for getting into a relationship, or you’re not; and there are either sparks flying from both directions, or there aren’t. It doesn’t necessarily say anything bad about either of you if those conditions aren’t met; you two just aren’t the right match at the right time (most aren’t!). So, don’t start to second-guess yourself, don’t lose confidence and don’t try to change or deny the situation at hand.

Instead, be patient, temper those hopes and dreams for a bit and keep dating around until some guy comes a long and proves that he’s willing and able to do it right. Remember confidence is attractive. So demonstrate your confidence and sense of self worth by walking away when someone seems disengaged. I promise you’ll look better and feel better for it, and eventually you’ll meet the right person.

Wait...you meet people at brunch? That's 3-parts impressive and 1-part questionable. When I'm at brunch I'm usually hungover, cramming sausage links in my mouth, not wearing makeup and sweating Miller High Life. God bless the man who would want to chat that up. I have no advice for you because if you're meeting people at brunch, you're doing significantly better than I am at dating in DC. But then again, the sausage links and Yang obsession probably aren't really helping anything. Although in the immortal words of Luke Connelly from More to Love, "No regrets..."

Welp, that's going to do it for us here at 2b1b this week. A huge thank you to everyone who bought something from the merch store and/or sent in a sex story this week. We really appreciate all you do to support us. Hope you have a great weekend and we'll see you back here Monday morning! Laterzzz.

Guest Blogger — The Sexual Misadventures of our Merch Store Competition Winner

When I was living in DC the year after I graduated, I was at work one day perusing facebook when I noticed that a girl who was a freshman when I was a senior was also in DC doing a summer internship. So I naturally poked her (on facebook, get your mind out of the gutter). She poked me back and then sent me a message saying how we needed to get together for a drink. I invited her to my buddy's party, and we each did a shot of tequila and started sucking face in the corner. Typical, right?

She whispers in my ear that she wants to take me home, so we jump in a cab, and she tells the cabbie to take us to Tenleytown. Since I'm making out with her, I don't notice where we are going. The car pulls up to a big brick building, and we get out. It was then that I noticed that we were at a motherfucking American University Dorm. We walk in, and she gets takes me past the security man up to the room. We knock on the door, she goes in, turns around, and with a sheepish look says "My roommate is home."

My natural instincts kick in, and I turn around and zone in on the dorm common area down the hall. I pull her in and throw her on one of those horrible college couches that are "fire retardant" and are packed with stuffed up toilet paper and styrofoam peanuts. I turn off the lights and try to close the door, but there is no door. So I think to myself "Eh, it is late, no one will walk by."

So I'm sitting down on the couch, with her lying across my lap, and we're making out. I decide to make a move and put my hand on her leg.

"Mmmmm," she moans.

Inside my head, I'm saying, "What in the fucking fuck? Who the fuck moans when someone touches their leg near their KNEE?"

So I move my hand up a little farther...she responds with an "Mmmmm ohhhh yeah oh my gawwwwd."

What? Huh? What the hell is going on? My hand is literally over her pants on her leg. I move it up closer to her ladyparts, and she starts full on screaming, "Oh yeah motherfucking my god oh my god."

It was then that the night took the most interesting turn of all. I find a small hole in the crotch of her jeans, tear it open ever so slightly, move the underwear to the side, and start fingering her. Through a hole in her jeans.

At this point, she is convulsing and screaming like someone in an insane asylum. I keep fingerblasting, and hear a noise behind me. I turn around and a group of people have gathered at the door and are watching us. I awkwardly shrug and keep going. When she is...done...we get up and I walk her back to her door.

She turns to me with a worried look on her face and says to me, "Jesus. You just took my virginity!"

Time out. What? All I did was finger this chick. Yeah, it was through a hole in her jeans, but I was fully clothed the whole time.

So I break the news to her. "Um no, we didn't have sex. Sorry?"

She responds, "Yes, oh my god, Jesus, you popped my cherry. You took my virginity."

By now I am freaking out and thinking that I am going to be wrongfully arrested for rape or something, so I take my hand out and say "I didn't pop your cherry, look at my fingers. No blood!"

She then looks at me and starts saying, "Blood? Blood? Oh my god Blood! BLOOD! OH MY GOD BLOOD!"

Now I'm screaming, "NO! NO BLOOD! NO BLOOD!" while she's screaming "BLOOD! BLOOD!"

I flip out and run down the hall with my hands flailing in the air, looking for any means of escape.

When I got home, I felt so awkward and strangely guilty about this situation that I emailed the girl at 3am to ask her out to dinner so we can have The Talk about the birds and the bees, and I can make sure she isn't going to have me arrested. This is while scenes of me in jail for molestation are flashing through my head.

And a week later, I finally did take her virginity. For real. In a bed that I rolled into my dining room. Because that is how it should be done.

(PS: I recently found out that she is a lesbian. No joke. What the hell?)

"It's 6 o'clock in the morning. We just stayed up all night talking about Kevin Yang."

The results of the 2birds1blog Merch Store Sexual Misadventure Contest are in!

The winner is Pete McDermott, with what we here in the 2birds1blog editorial office call the "Blood/No Blood Story"; the runner-up is "Sex Minx" with what Chris affectionately calls the "Rooster Tail Story"; and 21 minutes late with no proofreading is Kevin Yang.

Tulane Chris and I were on a conference call for six hours last night/this morning discussing this competition. Five were spent on Kevin Yang. Who is Kevin Yang? He's a recent college graduate and avid baker. He's the gin in our martini, the clams in our linguine, he puts the spring in Springfield. He also puts the uhh... in honorable mention.

Chris and I were about to wrap up the competition and agree on our winners when at 11:21 I saw that one lone entry trickled in after the deadline. At first we weren't going to read it because, you know, deadlines, but the same curiosity that killed the cat also took a bite out of us. So we opened it up and sunshine, lollipops and rainbows came out. We were hooked from the very first paragraph. And by "hooked," I mean dangerously obsessed. Here is the entirety of Kevin Yang's masterpiece entitled "Once You Go Black", annotated by me and Tulane Chris.

I’ve always considered myself open to accepting all sorts of cultures and people. A nighttime adventure into uncharted territory for a black party has opened my eyes to believe that the world is better off with everyone being egalitarian with their friendships. Aside from having a deep connection with different kinds of alcohol and forms of pasta, I don’t think that hooking up with a black man is a good way to advocate my newfound appreciation for egalitarianism or for black people. For starters, hooking up with a black man is probably right up there with being the general manager for Kinko’s. Though I hold high regards for the hip-hop community and what they have brought to the table, I’m not too fond of black men assuming that if I’ve never been with a black man then perhaps I’m interested in becoming their baby boy.

I can not tell you how many times I've read that paragraph out loud to Chris on the phone resulting in the two of us cackling like witches for on average 15 minutes. There are so many things to discuss. Mainly, we can't tell if this is the beginning of an erotic novel or simple clan literature. Black people have a deep connection to different kinds of alcohol and forms of pasta? I know I like my racial stereotypes like I like my carbohydrates: complex. Secondly, hooking up with a black man is probably right up there with being the general manager for Kinko's? You know what they say about black people and copy machines... I mean, I don't, but maybe you do. And if you do, let us know because we don't know what the fuck Kevin Yang is talking about. This story has become like mystical scripture to us—we keep re-reading it over and over again waiting for revelation to descend.

I hooked up with a black guy when I went to an indie, eighties revival club with my friend Sara who was home for spring break. These clubs are what most people refer to as a “mix crowd” since there is straight, gay, A-sexual people there. Other than going there to get drunk, I don’t see that point in going to any clubs at all if I just plan on drinking. It’s not like I hate these kinds of clubs, but looking for someone to go home with isn’t an easy task because a straight guy can look as gay as the next one. The night was pretty hazy thanks to contributions of wine and vodka so I won’t concern myself with details.

Every time a Kevin Yang sentence makes no sense, an angel gets its wings.

Sara, her friends, and I made our way to the crowded dance floor. I was dancing as if the ghost of Elvis Presley possessed me when I noticed someone looking at me from the corner of my eye. [Editorial note: We hope it's old Elvis.] Any kind of music that isn’t hip-hop or doesn’t involve shaking my ass, I have a hard time dancing to. And besides leaving my mouth wide-open like a Venus flytrap while I’m in public, dancing like a fool can be a terrible shortcoming of mine. It took about ten minutes of flailing my arms in multiple directions to realize that he was black and was probably into me. He was standing by the wall with his friends and my group was pretty much next to his. Sara nudged me to go talk to him.

First and foremost, what we ascertained from this passage is that Kevin Yang eats insects. Pass it on. Also, this is so grammatically incorrect it's hard to tell just how racist he's being.

“Hi! What’s your name?” I asked him about to fall over.

“Jester.” The music was too loud so I had a hard time hearing his name. That’s what I thought when I heard when I asked his name.

“I want to make out with you,” he said putting his arms around my hips. I wondered if all black men were this forward. So without the restraints of being sober, I approved because I was open to what life had to offer. At the time unfortunately, I figured making out with a black man was one of those things. Jester isn’t the type of black guy you’d see out of a Ludacris music video or working on his unemployment, he was more along the lines of an Oreo: black on the outside, white on the inside.

OK. Now we know how racist he's being.

“We can’t make out here,” he said. “My friends don’t know I’m gay, we’ll have to go somewhere else.” This I could agree with, I don’t like displaying public affection – it’s not cute and not attractive on any front. It’s even worse when the people making out are a couple. I decided it would be more adequate to make out in the restroom.

OK, wait a minute. So his friends don't know he's gay but he just put his arms around a twinky gaysian boy's slender Elvis-swinging hips and said, "I want to make out with you"? Are all black guys this subtle? (And PS: every time Kevin Yang says "black men" or "black guys", drink.)

I led him to one of the stalls and shut the door behind it. Since the stall looked as if Hulk Hogan kicked his way out of the stall, the lock didn’t work so I had Jester lean against the door to keep it closed. While we were making out, he would tell me that he really wanted to hook up tonight or tomorrow morning.

We've done some further research on Kevin Yang, (some might say "obsessive" research) and on his personal blog (from which this was a fucking recycled post), he refers to himself as a witty "essayist" who graduated from the "prestigious" University of Florida. So. Just put that in your pipe and smoke it. And do you think he meant Hulk Hogan or the Incredible Hulk? Either way, Lord knows the best way to stay in the closet is to follow a twinky gay Asian guy into a bathroom stall to suck face. What did his friends think he was doing in there the entire time? Talking about pussy and the Tampa Buccaneers?

“I’m way too drunk,” I said to Jester, smiling. “Maybe tomorrow?” He nodded his large head and I motioned him to open the door. We exchanged number and parted ways. I had hoped this was probably the last time that I’d see him again.

The club was closing up and I explained to Sara what had happened with Jester. “You should go over to his place!” she exclaimed. “It might be a lot more fun now than it will be tomorrow when he doesn’t look like Tyson Beckford.”

Hurry! Go home with a stranger while you're drunk! It's more fun when you don't realize what's going on! Sara sounds the kind of girl who'd want to play Russian Roulette but be like, "Instead, let's put three bullets in the gun."

It doesn’t take much egging on for me to go with what anyone suggests since my morals are on par with a remote control. Sara was right, I knew if I had seen Jester the next day, he wouldn’t appear as attractive as he did fifteen minutes ago. Added to the fact that I have as much shame as David Hasselhoff when I drink, I agreed to Sara’s plan and texted Jester that I’d be at his place in ten minutes.

The drive to Jester’s wasn’t difficult since I had learned on multiple occasions, while watching Cops that keeping your hands at ten and two on the steering wheel and not changing the music will ensure getting to your location safely. On the way to Jester’s apartment, I decided to text my friend Vladmir who had a history of sleeping with black men.

“Any wisdom to share about black guys and hooking up?”

“Get some jelly and relax,” he responded.

When I first read this out loud to Chris, he was terrified that Kevin was talking about jam. Nothing says a fun summer night like moderate drunk driving and a butt full of preservatives. And is he getting these similes from clicking the random article button on Wikipeida?

Once I got to his apartment, I knocked on the door. His roommate opened the door and greeted me with a look as if he were witnessing dogs having a conversation about math. I explained to him that I was looking for Jester and he reluctantly let me in.

“What’s wrong with your roommate?” I asked Jester, walking into his room as he was sprucing up.

“We normally don’t have people over at this time. Plus he doesn’t know I’m gay,” he responded while putting on his play list of Beyoncé’s greatest hits. It was three A.M.

“Well wouldn’t it be obvious if I’m in here and you’re playing Beyoncé?”

Round and round the emphasis goes! Where it stops, nobody knows! You people just don't know how much Chris and I hysterically cackled and continue to hysterically cackle (we're literally cackling right now) re: the sentence, "Well wouldn't it be obvious if I'm in here and you're playing Beyoncé?"

Before he answered, he pushed me onto his air mattress and we proceeded to make out. This time, I could taste something that I couldn’t pin point but it reminded me a lot like ass breath. What did he gnaw on? Dirty socks? I knew I had to get out of here because nothing turns me off more than bad breath, except for unkempt pubic hair. [What a fucking princess.] I tried to play it cool, but it was difficult to let out my enthusiasm for a good time if someone that had the breath of Oscar the Grouch’s trashcan. This was my first hand on experience with a black guy and so far, I wasn’t enjoying it.

We fully recognize the ludicrousness that we're dedicating this much time to acknowledge a piece of writing that's so "grammatically creative" when we had over 150 spell-checked entries from people who actually gave a fuck.

Twenty minutes had gone by and I was in a desperate need to get up and leave. I didn’t know what to do while Ass Breath was all over me. I felt bad getting up and go since I was in unknown territory. And I figured asking him if he would rather watch a movie or play video games were more suitable but realized that wasn’t an option after he face raped me. Luckily, I had the necessary phone app on my iPhone to guilefully get out of this situation.

“Give me a second,” I told him slowly pushing him away. “I need to set an alarm on my phone.” Prior to hooking up, he asked me if it was okay that I spend the night and before realizing the situation in his mouth, I agreed. I leaned over the bed to reach into my pant pocket, pulled out my phone, and turned my back facing Ass Breath to avoid him from seeing what I was doing. I have an app that’s called FakeMyCall and it’s pretty self-explanatory. I plant a ring tone to call me thirty seconds later, I answer the call, and pretend I’m on the phone. I’ve only used this app twice but it’s a surefire way to get out of awkward situations.

My phone rang thirty seconds later. “Hello? Oh my gosh? Are you serious? Okay, I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”

“Who was that?” Ass Breath asked.

“It’s The Boys and Girls Club,” I told him in an overstated tone. “I just remembered that I’m taking my little brother to the Humane Society to go pick out a dog in morning. I have to go."

“But it’s three-thirty, what are they doing calling you at this time?"

I had to come up with something plausible. “They have a twenty-four hour call center.”

Then he said something to reassure that I was not going to be seeing him again.

“Can’t I just stick it in once?”

“I have to think about the kids first,” I said while I was looking for my T-shirt and jeans among the piles of clothes on the floor. Not only did he have a hard time cleaning his mouth, he also had a hard time cleaning up his room.

As I was about to step out the front door to discover his roommate not in the living room, Ass Breath told me to text him next time I’m free. I gave him a friendly wave and smiled, shut the door, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“No thanks, buddy,” I said to myself.

The next morning, I looked in the mirror and spotted a dark circle on the left side of my neck, along with two more dark circles on my chest. Not pleased about last night since I now was forced to wear a hoodie, I considered borrowing my mother’s foundation to cover the marks left by Ass Breath. I looked in the mirror not only ashamed, but also dirty. Something had to be done, and it needed to help me get rid of the images from last night. So I brushed my teeth, flossed, and Listerined my mouth for two minutes. Following my discoveries, I received a text from Vladimir asking about my night.

“I didn’t have sex last night, so I’m quite relieved that nothing went past second base.”

“Good, the last time I had sex with a black guy, I was ruined for two weeks. You don’t deserve that. Come join our no sex pact: N.O.P.P. No Orifice Perpetration Pact.”

“Sounds like a very noteworthy cause,” I replied, laughing out loud.

“I am not only a member, but the President too.”

I was quite disappointed by the old saying, “Once you go black, you never go back,” because perhaps it could have been more enjoyable had Ass Breath considered eating a box of Tic-Tacs. I don’t see myself hooking up with another black man anytime soon, but I won’t rule anything out. My experience goes, “I went black, and I came running back.”

...Ladies and gentleman, Mr. Kevin Yang. Chris and I then spent (and I'm not exaggerating this for comedic effect) at least 5 hours researching Kevin and laying the groundwork for our new Kevin cult. Did you know that Kevin works in a cupcake bakery? Did you know he has 588 friends on Facebook? Or that his interests include "obese people" and philosophy? Or that the sixth most popular tag on his blog is "black"?

Likes: chicken nuggets. Dislikes: black people; unkempt pubic hair.

As we researched further and our obsession grew, Chris proposed we do one of the following:

1.) For our first 2birds1blog Investigates project, fly to Orlando, stay in a Super-8 Motel, and stalk Kevin Yang's cupcakery in order for him to seduce and bed Kevin Yang.

2.) Write a graphic novel about The Kevin Yang Experience.

3.) Introduce a new weekly blog feature called "Yang Out The Ying-Yang" where we catch up with Kevin Yang and his newest misadventures.

4.) Write a children's book called, Kevin Yang and the Blustery Day.

5.) Delete the blog entirely and replace it with a picture of Kevin Yang's face, which links to the Kevin Yang flickr account.

6.) Write a Kevin Yang Choose Your Own Adventure.

7.) Get costumes and act out Kevin Yang's "Once You Go Black" in a two-man production.

8.) Hastily scratch "Kevin Yang" on the Vietnam Memorial Wall with a car key.

9.) Launch a new comic titled, Kevin Yang Compares Any Two Things. (Side note: I need you to know that Chris just said to me, "I want to see Kevin Yang watch female ejaculation porn." And he wants you to know that upon reading the following in Kevin Yang's blog bio, "having graduated from a prestigious university with a degree that has about as much credibility as a chair," I stopped reading, got infuriated and screamed, "WHAT?! CHAIRS ARE KIND OF CREDIBLE!")

10.) Buy a tombstone that says "Kevin Yang" and quote, "just put it somewhere."

Frankly, I'd love nothing more than to do all of the above. It is now 5:30 in the morning and Kevin Yang is still funny. Like, Chris just said "Kevin Yang and the Goblet of Fire" and I laughed so hard I thought I might get my period. Chris literally just went to the bathroom because he thought that if he didn't, he might poop.

What blows our minds the most is that Kevin Yang actually exists. After six hours, we've built him up to be this demi-God of racism and inscrutable comparisons and we're legitimately star-struck at the thought that he reads our blog. We keep stating simple facts about Kevin's existence and the thought of his normalcy blows our minds. Like, Kevin Yang gets crushes. Kevin Yang has given good advice. Kevin Yang brought bag lunches to school. Kevin Yang has pubic hair. Kevin Yang had a kindergarten teacher. He's like the opposite of a Chuck Norris joke.

Kevin Yang is the new and the now. (For so many reasons.) We're not sure if this is just one of those things that's (ungodly) funny only to us, but we do know that he's here to stay. This is normally where we'd put a conclusion, but we've been trying (unsuccessfully) to think of a conclusion for the past hour and it just keeps turning into more Kevin Yang has...jokes. I think it's because we just don't want this to end. We don't think anything can be this funny ever again. Ever. We could die. Right now. Last meal? Different kinds of alcohol and forms of pasta.

[Tomorrow we'll post Pete's story. Congrats Pete, you won the free "sorr about the" bag from the all-new 2birds1blog merch store! You're no Kevin Yang, but we think you did just fine!]

REMINDER!

Hi! Quick reminder! All entries for the 2birds1blog Merch Store Competition are due TONIGHT at 11:00pm EST, NO EXCEPTIONS! Please don't be the guy who sends me your story at 12:24 and asks me to take it even though it's late. Because then I have to be the guy who hikes up her bifocals, wags her finger in the air and emails you back all, "NOW WAIT A MINUTE, WAIT A MINUTE!—WEBSTER'S DICTIONARY DEFINES 'RULES' AS..." And then you'll go to happy hour and tell your friends about how we've been emailing and it turns out I'm a real asshole and I'll go to happy hour with my friends and vent about how you turned me into a real asshole and it'll be like a really unfortunate version of the "Tell Me More" musical number from Grease. And it's stressing me out just thinking about it. So let's not do it, OK? OK. Good. That being said, keep the stories coming, because they are solid gold. meg@2birds1blog.com!

And because I stayed up late last night watching Cedric the Entertainer stand-up clips on youtube instead of writing (which happens more than you'd think...) and I have to work on the store some more this afternoon before I go to actual work, I leave you with the best sexual misadventure of them all:

I have booty shorts and a rock collection — I could probably never be your woman.

I've lived alone in my studio for about a year and a half now and guess what? I love it. I want to be buried here. No offense to anyone I've ever lived with, but if you put a gun to my head and made me choose between repeating my middle school experience or living with a roommate again, guess what I'd chose? Cyanide pill. That's how much I love not having a roommate.

Why do I love not having a roommate? Um, gee, I don't know. Perhaps because I can eat cereal for breakfast, lunch and dinner without a smug roommate shooting me dirty looks from the kitchen while they cook "chicken", "vegetables" or other such "proteins" and "nutrients"? Or maybe because I can plop down on the couch and watch a Deadliest Catch marathon and drink grain alcohol from 5:00pm until whenever I pass out, free of judgment? Or perhaps because I can wear my Second Skin (Fall & Winter: wife beater and Jack Daniels pajama pants; Spring & Summer: wife beater, booty shorts and thigh-high knit socks.) (Seriously. Find me an outfit more comfortable than one of those two and I will blow my head off because my entire universe just folded in upon itself.) day in and day out without feeling like a total slob? Although to be fair, I did recieve the following text message last week from College Roommate Danielle:

I am totally wearing thigh socks and teeny pajama shorts dancing around the room drinking tequila. and it makes me think how i used to LOVE when you would put on your thigh socks pajama shorts and dance with your t-square! I for reals miss you.

And shortly thereafter:

Wow, I really hope you remember doing that otherwise I sound SUPER gay right now.

Of course I remember that. Because I still do it. And save for Danielle because we're kind of gay for each other, I couldn't with a roommate.

When I tell people that I live alone, I usually get one of two reactions:

1.) The person gives me a knowing look and says, "Living alone is (or, must be) awesome."

or 2.) The person looks horrified and in only a slightly judgmental tone says, "OH GOSH, I could never live alone—you must get so lonely."

I don't understand that. Because I have friends; I just don't want to live with them. And to be fair, they probably wouldn't want to live with me. Because my personality is a lot like cigarettes: not immediately addictive and hazardous to your health upon prolonged exposure. I just think it works better for all parties involved when I live alone. Which kind of worries me and adds to my whole emo "I'M NOT LOVABLE!!!!" life-fear that was seriously exacerbated upon turning 25. When I moved back home from New York, I had a sit-down with my parents (married 37 years last Thursday) and was honestly like, "How the FUCK do you live with another human being for that long?" It boggles the mind. Because as my last blog post can attest, I can't be alone for 37 minutes without wanting to break my lease if it means getting away from myself. I remember them giving me a really good and comforting answer at the time, but I can't remember what it was for the life of me. So fuck me.

But the point being, in the entirety of my living alone, I've only gotten lonely twice. The first time was, of course, during the Snowpocalypse. Because that was a long time to be shut-in alone. (Although said loneliness was quickly remedied when I threw my ironic Barack Hussein Snowbama party and when Helena snowed herself in with me for the last half of the week, bless her heart.) The second time I got lonely happened this past week.

I was taking a little break from my productivity streak to clean my apartment (being productive even when taking a break from being productive? The end is nigh.) and guess what ultra randomly came on my iTunes shuffle? White Town's "Your Woman". And I swear to god, I said (out loud and to know one in general) "HOLY SHIT" and looked around my apartment for someone to be like, "OH MY FUCKING GOD!!!!1 DO YOU REMEMBER THIS SONG?>!1?!?!" with.

That was a lonely moment. Because, OH MY FUCKING GOD!!!!1 DO YOU REMEMBER THAT SONG?>!1?!?! I mean, talk about things that transport you directly back to middle school. Fuck chamomile tea; listening to that song was like stepping into a time machine. I can remember exactly where I was the first time I heard it: I was in my mom's car, the radio was on and she was giving me and Teresa a ride to Lake Forest mall, where I was probably going to spend my allowance on rocks at the Natural Wonders store. (Yes I had a rock collection. No I don't want to talk about it.)

I have such vivid memories of being so utterly confused by that song. And apparently it doesn't take a lot to confuse the gender norms of an 11-year-old girl because I was very much like, "I DUN'T GET IT! THE WORDS ARE 'I COULD NEVER BE YOUR WOMAN,' BUT A MAN'S SINGING IT! WHHHHHAAAAA?!?!?!" This was of course before the days when you could Google song lyrics, so I distinctly remember working it out in my head and reasoning, "Maybe he's saying 'I could never be A woman.' That would make sense. Because boys can't be girls. BOYS CAN'T BE GIRLS!!!!!" Nowadays nothing shocks these young kids, what with the Katy Perry kissing girls and liking it and Brandon Flowers and his whole, "somebody told me that you had a boyfriend who looked like a girlfriend that I had in February of last year" conundrum. Back in my day we had White Town. And we were confused, thank you very much. Simpler times...

It now being 2010 and the future with our hovercrafts and meals in pill form and silver go-go boots and all, I decided to utilize our advances in technology to eradicate my 11-year-old confusion about White Town and the song "Your Woman" via Google once and for all. AND EVERY FACT I LEARNED BLEW MY MIND MORE THAN THE LAST. Behold:

1.)

That's what the gender-bending, sex pot voice of White Town looks like?! Are you fucking kidding me? He looks like Al Roker pre lap-band surgery. For some reason I always imagined him looking like Boy George, circa Worried About the Boy:

Which thereby makes me feel even more country that anybody who breaks gender stereotypes must automatically look like Boy George in my mind.

2.) According to the FAQ section of the official White Town website, this is what "Your Woman" is about:

I love 'Your Woman' *BUT* what is it about??? Are you a man/woman/transsexual?

Ummmm ...well, that's a toughie. When I wrote it, I was trying to write a catchy pop song that had more than one perspective. Although it's written in the first person that viewpoint isn't the same as it may
sound. So, these are *some* of the things it's about:
Being a member of an orthodox Trotskyist / Marxist movement (as I was for three years in the 80s).
Being a straight guy in love with a lesbian (ditto).
Being a gay guy in love with a straight man.
Being a straight girl in love with a lying, two-timing, fake-ass Marxist.

The hypocrisy that results when love and lust get mixed up with highbrow ideals :-)

First and foremost, discussing Marxist/Trotskyist ideals in the same sentence as an emoticon is sort of a hard pill to swallow.

Secondly, Jesus Christ. "The hypocrisy that results when love and lust are mixed up with Marxist/Trotskyist ideals"? That sounds like something that would come out of the mouth of someone I'd date because he's an artist and just had a show at Galapago's and we can be nonconformist and artsy together. Except when I say that I'm nonconformist and artsy, I mean that I want to be reincarnated into Tom Servo and would rather sit at home and eat Hot Pockets than go to a thumpin' club—more commonly called being a "loser"—and when I say he's nonconformist and artsy, I mean he talks about things like "the hypocrisy that results when love and lust get mixed up in highbrow Marxist/Trotskyist ideals"—more commonly called being an "asshole." And yet, I agree to let him stay with me in DC for the weekend because I haven't had sex since the '00s and why the hell not, except I forget that he talks about things like "the hypocrisy that results when love and lust get mixed up in highbrow Marxist/Trotskyist ideals" and suddenly setting myself on fire is seems like a completely viable option for getting myself out of this situation. Unfortunately, I don't have renter's insurance, so instead I make Andrew of The Great Juno Debate come hang out with us because I don't trust myself to be alone with him without stabbing either him, myself, or a combination of both of us in the eye with a salad fork and then that night when we go out, I make every single person I've ever met come with and threaten Dan and Andrew Not The Great Juno Debate with bodily harm when they want to go home at the completely reasonable hour of 3 o'clock in the morning.

That's a totally hypothetical situation, by the way.

3.) In everything I read about White Town, lead singer Jyoti Prakash Mishra makes a point of mentioning that they're a "self-financed band." I don't get that. Why would you want to draw attention to the fact that you're self-financed? Isn't that just pointing out that nobody wants to invest in your project? Although I might just be projecting because this is a "self-financed blog."

4.) The White Town Wikipedia page was last edited at 9:15pm on May 5, 2010. Which makes me laugh. Because I bet it was by someone who's name rhymes with Schyoti Schrakash Shishra.

5.)

I find it shocking that White Town has 1,481 fans on Facebook. Because that means 1,481 people are willing to publicize to the world that they are one of the 1,481 fans White Town has on Facebook. (Kimberly and Joe: I'm lookin' at you.)

6.)

How bad do I want an official White Town mug? Rull bad.

7.) You know how on Bravo reality shows, there's that jaunty little jazz music that plays when one scene is transitioning to the next? I've decided that if Bravo ever gave me my own reality TV show, this is what I'd want to play during my scene transitions instead (before you press play, close your eyes and picture me walking out of my apartment on my way to brunch with big sunglasses on and Ichabod the Rasta Pug in a Sorr About the Bag tote at my side):


I mean, am I wrong in thinking that a Nintendo-ized version of "Your Woman" is just nerdy and cracked out enough to be the soundtrack to my everyday life?

Bravo TV, you know where to reach me. (...At the Natural Wonders store in Lake Forest Mall.)