You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?: The Tiny Ginger-Bitch Edition

Ooof. Two YKWRMF? features in two weeks, huh? What isn't ruffling my feathers these days? (UH, ANSWER: my sexy, new two-man band with Helena—Joe Biden & The BFDs. Helena's on keyboard, I'm on bass and lead vocals. It's no big deal. Except that it is in every possible way and it's all that I'm living for right now. Although I don't know if "gigging" is going to be a realistic option for us. As far as I know Helena doesn't play the anything and while I've done some mean community musical theater in my day, the extent of my bass experience begins and ends with getting one for my 20th birthday (I was going through a heavy Doobie Brothers phase at the time and was really into, quote the many emails I sent my dad in April 2005, their "sick bass lines"), posing with it in the mirror, and attempting to play it once when I took a shower at the height of having mono, subsequently thought I was going to die, curled up on the floor, and just strummed it for a while until I felt alive enough to put some pants on. So if we do gig, it might involve partial nudity and a whole lot of "What a Fool Believes". And you know what? You're welcome.)

Remember last week when I said that there are two things I can talk about forever—spit in porn and the moral reprehensibility of TLC's 19 Kids and Counting? Well, I lied. There are three things I can talk about forever, and although this past weekend was all about helping my sister, I think I spent the majority of it talking about the third. I talked about it on the party bus to the rehearsal dinner, I talked about it at the rehearsal dinner, I talked about it in the salon getting ready with the bridal party, I talked about it at the actual wedding... But Lord knows Becca wasn't mad! You know why? Because she agrees with me! In fact, I have yet to meet a single person who doesn't agree with the following statement: You know what ruffles my feathers? The Food Network's Throwdown! with Bobby Flay.

I've never said that to someone and had them been like, "Oh, really? Bobby Flay seems like a really great guy and that show is just great." It's always, "Ugh, Bobby Flay is a douchebag and that show sucks." And you know what? Good! Because I think that just reflects what high-caliber people I surround myself with on a daily basis. Much like how my Thrillhouse tattoo is a litmus test of whether or not I'd like to continue having a conversation with you, your opinion of Throwdown! with Bobby Flay is indicative of whether you fucking suck or not. Because I don't care if you're Cillian Murphy's twin brother with a genetic disorder that makes your dick ejaculate candy corn and rent money; if you like Throwdown! with Bobby Flay, we're done here.

If you've never seen Throwdown! with Bobby Flay before, you are sincerely a better person for it. But for the sake of clarity, here's an excerpt from the show's Wikipedia page:

Throwdown! with Bobby Flay is a Food Network television program in which celebrity chef Bobby Flay challenges cooks renowned for a specific dish or type of cooking to a cook-off of their signature dish. At the beginning of each show, Flay receives – via bicycle messenger – a package detailing the chef he is to compete against as well as the dish. Examples of opponents include a skilled chili maker or a famous wedding cake designer. After practicing and preparing the item in question, Flay shows up for a surprise competition (or "Throwdown"). During the competition, both chefs prepare their particular version of the dish, and both are then evaluated by local judges to determine a winner.

Well, thank you, Wikipedia. That was very eloquent. But here's how Throwdown! with Bobby Flay really works: 

First and foremost, per my sister, the show should actually just be called: FUCK YOU, I'M BOBBY FLAY! And every week on FUCK YOU, I'M BOBBY FLAY!, Bobby Flay leaves New York to go to Small-Town America where he finds an old woman who, as the Nazis were dragging her out of her family's cottage in Soskut, managed to grab the stock-splattered recipe card for her grandmother's famous goulash in her young, trembling fingers and clutch it tightly to her breast for the remainder of the war, so someday it could be passed down to her children, and her children's children, and her children's children's children, to keep those simple country days around her grandmother's hearth alive. And once he finds her, Bobby Flay turns to the camera, lets out a sinister laugh, holds up a fake moustache to his cold, pale lip, and knocks on her door to inform her that she and her goulash recipe are going to be featured on a new Food Network show about Hungarian Family Cooking. Filled with excitement and pride, the old woman then tells everyone she meets from the pharmacist to the paperboy that she and her goulash—her world famous goulash!—are going to be on a show on the Food Network and that they must come over to watch the taping and have a bowl. A week later, it's the big day. As the old woman stands over the giant pot of boiling noodles, gently fingering the delicate gold filigree on the broach affixed to her freshly pressed blouse and thinking of her bubby, Bobby Flay bursts through the wall like a carrot-flavored Kool-Aid guy, shouts, "FUCK YOU, I'M BOBBY FLAY!" and repeatedly rapes her until her friends and family admit that his goulash is better than hers is, or will ever be, and she was a senile, old whore for thinking otherwise. And that is what Throwdown! with Bobby Flay is.

Sort of.

And aside from the blatant grandma-raping and disrespect for Holocaust survivors, it irritates me on the following levels:

1.) Every single time I watch this show, I find myself wondering the same thing—how small is your penis, Bobby Flay? How small is your penis that you feel the need to be on a television show where you travel around the country, reminding chefs who don't have 10 restaurants, nine books, seven TV shows, and a weekly Sirius XM radio show that you're better than them? How small are we talking here? Less than three inches? I mean, does it function at all? Because judging from the mom and pop chefs you force into competing with you, my guess is not.

2.) I find the level of trickery involved in this show to be insulting and cruel. Per Wikipedia:

Each show includes a mini-biography about the chef who is to be challenged, shown before the challenge takes place. The content for the biography is actually collected as part of an elaborate ruse or setup, where the chef or cook is told that they are going to be featured on a fictitious Food Network show. As part of the show, the featured chef (and their associated restaurant, if any) hosts a small party, which is then unexpectedly "crashed" by Bobby Flay. Upon Flay's arrival, he reveals the true nature of the show, and the "Throwdown" is initiated.

I just don't understand what's stopping him from calling ahead of time and being like, "Hi, I'm Bobby Flay. I heard you make a mean lasagna—let's do a Throwdown."? Why does there have to be an element of surprise? I mean, these are people's signature dishes made from recipes passed down from generation to generation; it's not like they're going to perfect or change it in the week leading up to the Throwdown. Thus, I have two theories on why Bobby needs it:

a.) Because if they were aware ahead of time that they'll be going head-to-head with Bobby Flay in a cooking challenge, the show would just be Iron Chef America, which already exists and already sucks. Plus, the chefs Flay goes head-to-head with on Throwdown! are nowhere near as accomplished as those on Iron Chef America, so basically Bobby Flay tricks small-town successful chefs into being on Iron Chef vs. Homely Chef: Bobby's Gonna Sleep Gooooood Tonight, which is cruel and brings us directly back to point number one.

b.) He gets off on how starstruck everyone gets when he crashes the party. And I hate it. It's the worst part of the entire show. The small-town chef is hard at work making his specialty and you can tell he's shitting himself because he's pretended so many times in the kitchen that he was on his own Food Network show and now he really is and everyone is so proud of him, and all of a sudden Bobby Flay walks in all, "Heard someone was making fettuccine! Ha ha, yes, yes, it's me, Bobby Flay. Very exciting, I know. But seriously, let's all just calm down." Just once I want Bobby Flay to walk in and have the other chef be like, "Are you serious? I have to cook with that asshole?" Like, if Chelsea Handler were to kick in my front door right now and be like, "Meg, I'm a better female comedy writer than you are," I don't think I'd get all teary-eyed and profusely thank her for coming. I'd be like, "Hi, I'm not wearing any pants and your obsession with little people genuinely weirds me out. Please leave." I mean, seeing famous people is cool and all, but so is not being the grown man who got the shakes upon being in the same room as Bobby Flay.

3.) Bobby Flay's professional advantages are laughably unfair:

In the Food Network's test kitchen, Flay and his two sous-chefs (Stephanie Banyas and Miriam Garron) experiment and prepare the particular dish, often opting for a variant of the dish. The format of the show does not edit or disguise Flay's lack of knowledge of technique regarding cooking for the challenge. He often makes use of New York City-area experts to teach him basic techniques.

Seriously? His "lack of knowledge of technique regarding cooking for the challenge"? He's a fucking Iron Chef; shouldn't he be able to handle cooking a bundt cake without needing to raise Julia Child from the dead and slowly feed her Giada De Laurentiis' brains until she gives up her ace-in-the-hole recipes?

4.) He's a total asshole to both of his assistants and you can tell they totally want to jump his bones. They do that girl thing where they pretend to get all pissy and put a hand on one of their hips and say, "BOB-BAYYYY" while trying not to smile and squirt on the camera. I get that chefs are kind of assholes in general and I'm not not saying that I've had a fantasy where Gordon Ramsay puts a bag over my head and hits it from behind while calling me his little piggy, but seriously ladies? Bobby Flay? This may sound antifeminist, but my sugartits really belong in the kitchen it's sexy when a guy's an asshole to you because he's powerful and confident, not because he's worried that if he got into a culinary dick-measuring contest with your grandma, he'd come up three inches short.

5.) He just adds Chipotle flavoring to everything. I mean, for fuck's sake.

6.) There are eight seasons of this horseshit! EIGHT! Which means we live in a world where Clone High got cancelled after one season to make room for Punk'd; Arrested Development got cancelled after three; Undeclared after one; and Party Down after two, but we, as a people and a Nation, agreed that we needed EIGHT seasons of FUCK YOU, I'M BOBBY FLAY?? Fuck George W. Bush; we should be embarrassed when we go abroad because of that.

7.) His daughter and I share an April 16th birthday, which just makes me wish I had been aborted.

8.) I swear to God, there's an episode of Throwdown! that starts with The Flay sitting around one of his restaurants, nonchalantly autographing a giant pile of his BBQ books, sipping wine, and listening to jaunty jazz music for a solid ten seconds before he's finally interrupted by the bike messenger with that week's challenge. And I was just about to say, "what kind of an asshole has the balls to insert that disgusting a level of self-promotion in an already impressively egotistical show," but...you know, Bobby Flay.

But do you know the part that really kills me? He'll always win. Maybe not on the show, but in the Throwdown of Life that is Meg McBlogger vs. Bobby Flay, Flay wins every time. Because despite the fact that I think this show is an epic shit-stain on the underwear of Humanity, I watch it every single time it's on. I can't know that it's on and not watch it. And it doesn't make any sense, I know! If I hate it this much, I just should not watch it! BUT I CAN'T! I PHYSICALLY CAN'T!

And that's when I realized that I'm Throwdown! with Bobby Flay's Mike. If you're active in the 2birds1blog comments, you know that Mike is our resident reader who vocally hates us, yet insists on not only coming back to read us every single day, but be an active member of the 2b1b community. And up until now, I never got Mike. I always thought, "Nobody's strapping you down in a seat, putting hooks in your eyes and forcing you to read our free blog, A Clockwork Orange style, Mike. If we piss you off that much, just stop reading." BUT I GET IT NOW:

Meg McBlogger is to Throwdown! with Bobby Flay

as

Mike is to Meg McBlogger

Which of course begs the question: what does Mike think of Throwdown! with Bobby Flay?

Logic dictates that he should like it, and yet, for some reason, I'm dubious. For the first time ever, I look forward to your comments, sir.

(Attn: Helena:

)

Tulane Chris and the Christmas Spirit

[Before we get to today's Tulane Chris post, I have a few items of housekeeping:

1.) I will pay you 10 whole American dollars if you write a brief, funny and heartfelt maid of honor speech, stuff a sleeping bag into your bra, strap on a wig and deliver it as me tomorrow night at my sister's wedding. Because right now all I've got is an open Word document with the lyrics to "This is How We Do It" in comically large font.

2.) I'm kind of buzzed and it's all because

3.) This is how we do it.

4.) Our big announcement had to be moved to next week. (Hint: It's not not that Tulane Chris is gay.)

5.) Every time I remember that my dress isn't back from the tailor's yet and tomorrow's the wedding, my stomach drops directly into my asshole and a few more years are shaved off my life.

6.) Washing down a painkiller with a glass of champagne before the wedding ceremony is a good idea, or isn't a good idea? Advise.

7.) What if it's half a painkiller?

8.) Happy T.G.I. Hagman!

As of December 17, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! And has these words of wisdom for my sister and her fiance:

"A marriage is like a salad: the man has to know how to keep his tomatoes on the top." - JR Ewing ("Dallas" #13.24)

I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I am sure I'd like it read aloud by a loved one at my hypothetical future wedding. OK, I'm going to go google public speaking tips and continue to not eat anything. Have a great weekend and yay Becca and Geoff!!! Take it away, Chris.] 

As you may have imagined, I’m not a big holiday person. If I were in charge of the calendar, we’d only celebrate Repeal Day (the American drinking holiday), St. Patrick’s Day (the Americans-pretending-to-be-Irish drinking holiday), Cinco de Mayo (the Americans-pretending-to-be-Mexicans drinking holiday), and Simchat Torah (the little-celebrated Orthodox Jews drinking holiday.) For some reason, though, this year was an exception. I was really looking forward to going home for Christmas, pouring some mulled wine into Mom, and making Texas-themed nativity scenes out of construction paper to confuse nearby children.

“This is, uh… Leroy, the Christmas Jackalope. He carried Mary’s bags out to the stable. He tried to get ice, but the machine was broken.”

I even bought a poinsettia, which looked very festive for the three days it lived. Today, thought, I made a mistake fatal to my newfound Christmas cheer: I left the house.

Is it Christmas or cold weather that makes street preachers emerge? They were everywhere today, like a swarm of devout locusts. In the ten or so blocks I walked, I saw:

-       A man holding a book in the air and hollering. I assumed it was a Bible and he was hollering about Christianity, but it could as easily have been a Harlequin romance in a Bible cover. I could only make out the words “Jesus Christ”: “Manamah bok-tu wah boh! Jesus Christ! Fo-tah-nah boh Jesus Christ! Rama-lama-ding-dong Jesus Christ!” He was either from outer space, or had received the attentions of a very devout, very distractible speech therapist.

-       A man wearing a hand-lettered sandwich board about how Ireland had declared war on the United Kingdom. I didn’t know if he meant in 1916 and just wanted to be sure we were all up to speed, or if he was part of a new “Al-Jazeera – Streetcorner Madman Edition.” He was handing out pamphlets and I badly wanted one, but… you know. Cooties.

-       Some guy handing out copies of the Watchtower. Now, my understanding of Jehovah’s Witnesses is that they believe that only 144,000 people will go to Heaven. I don’t consider myself a bad person, per se, but I’m reasonably sure I’m not one of the 144,000 best people who ever lived. (Best in bed, sure. Best at Yahtzee, you bet. But overall best, no.) Also, I’m reasonably sure there have been 144,000 Jehovah’s Witnesses by now, so isn’t joining that church kind of like buying a ticket for yesterday’s lottery?

-       The Israelite PDKU (or similar.) Every weekend, four or so black men set up a little stage and loudspeaker somewhere on Market Street and explain how Jews aren’t really Jews, they’re the Jews, Jesus was the Antichrist, and women should stay in the home while the menfolk go out and kill Whitey. I’m more upset by the shouting than the implied race war.

So, I managed to get to Old Navy still a lapsed Anglican. Barely, though – coming to home to a hot meal and a blow job after a hard day killing Whitey does have its appeal. I had a spat with some bitch in the checkout line. Now, on Earth, time proceeds in a linear fashion. Night follows day, spring follows winter, and you wait your turn in line. As I was checking out, the next two women in line behind me interrupted the cashier to try to return things without a receipt. Woman A took no for an answer, but Woman B, a homely little number, would not.

Woman A: “Can I change this size without a receipt?”

Cashier: “I’m sorry, but no.”

Woman A: “Okay.”

Woman B (Homelina von Shrew): “How about for a different color?”

Cashier: “Not without a receipt.”

Homelina von Shrew: “Just a quick exchange?”

Cashier: “We’re not allowed, I’m sorry.”

HvS: “Just… can I just switch these tags here?”

Cashier: “No, I’m sorry, not without a receipt.”

HvS: “I can’t just trade this?”

Tulane Chris: “I’m sorry, I’m trying to check out. She said no.”

HvS: “Well! Merry Christmas to you too!”

She flounced out of the store before I could poke out her eye with the receipt spindle. Now, explain this to me: she interrupts my transaction to harass the cashier, won’t take no for an answer, puts the cashier in an awkward position, and I’m the asshole? Why am I not “in the Christmas spirit” if I don’t think she should get to line-jump and nag? Should I have handed her a cup of hearty Christmas ale and bought her the sweater she wanted? Is that festive? Is that Christmasy enough for you? After that we can go home, light a nice toasty fire with all our receipts, and call 911 to bring us cheeseburgers. They won’t mind! It’s Christmas.

So, increasingly sour, I went to the fancy soap store to buy a gift box for my grandmother’s new pug. Ultimately, I’ve spent more money on his gifts than those for my human family and friends: in addition to the dog bath gift set I bought at the soap store, he’s also getting a pack of rawhide candy canes and a chewable platypus with removable squeaky eggs. (The idea is that the dog learns to claw the eggs out, which gets more disturbing every time I think of it.) The dog gift box features shampoo, “paw balm,” and a dry rub which I was severely cautioned about:

Soap Man: “That dry rub is to be used sparingly.”

Tulane Chris: “Okay.”

Soap Man: “It’s got cornmeal in it.”

Tulane Chris: “Okay.” (Cornmeal? I’m not going to fry the dog…)

Soap Man: “You don’t want to overload its fur with it.”

Tulane Chris: “Okay?”

Soap Man: “Put it in your hand first, then rub it on the dog. Especially on its neck. You don’t want to use a lot. It’s just to get the stink out.”

Maybe I’m just a prude, but when I think about “getting the stink out” of an animal, my first thought is not “better put cornmeal on its neck.” I use an old-fashioned Southern remedy called “brush its teeth and wash its ass.” Also, I bought it and I’ll do what I want with it. If I want to rub it on my own neck, I’ll damn well do it. If I want to whip it up with an egg and spread it on the dog and let it dry into a crust and carefully crack it off and pour wax into it and make a wax model of the pug, I will. Dammit.

Then I went to the liquor store. If anything could revive my holiday cheer… but it was not to be. As I approached, a man going in politely held the door for an older man coming out, then let it slam in my face. You know what’s great about liquor stores? Liquor. You know what a side effect of that is? No children. So why did a woman bring her screaming toddler into the liquor store? “Come, Tansy. Let’s go annoy the drunks. It’s Christmas.” Also, why do people with screaming children approach the problem in one of two completely ineffective ways: by doing nothing, or by yelling at the child? Let’s plot it out:

Child makes noise -> ignore it -> child continues to make noise until distracted by snail.

Child makes noise -> yell at child -> child makes more noise to drown out adult.

It continued. At the pharmacy, the pharmacist hollered a question about my “narcotics” (generic Ritalin) to his co-worker across the room, in front of a line of several people. The “burrito technician” at Qdoba winked at me and said, “See you tomorrow,” which means I can never go there again. He apparently has me confused with someone who does go there every day, which means I look like someone who goes to the burrito store every day, which implies horrible things. Either that, or he’s going to break into my apartment. I’m okay with that as long as he brings a sprig of holly – after all, it’s Christmas.

Roommates

My apartment has “central heating” in the same way Soviet Russia had “central planning.” They wouldn’t turn it on in the fall until one of my neighbors threatened, so they’ve retaliated by having it on high most of the time. The temperature in my apartment is now 85 degrees, so I’m sitting in my underwear with all the windows open. I’m free to do this because I have no roommates.

I can’t imagine ever having a roommate again. (Roommate as opposed to choosing to live with someone, that is.) I’ve had terrible luck with roommates of convenience, whom I like to describe with nicknames in the pattern [mental state] [ethnicity] – the Simple-Minded Yankee, the Furious Jew, and the Mad Samoan.

My relationship with the Simple-Minded Yankee was doomed from the start:

My grandmother: “Do you know your roommate yet?”

Not-yet-Tulane Chris: “We’ve exchanged emails. He’s from Chicago…”

My grandmother: “Oh, Chris. A yankee.”

………

My mother: “Did you find out about your roommate?”

Me: “Yes, he’s from Chicago. I think he…”

My mother: “Oh, a yankee. Well, you can probably change at the semester.”

………

My aunt: “I hear your roommate’s from Chicago.”

Me: “Yes, Mom and Grandmother both said…”

My aunt: “A yankee. Bring plastic wrap, you know how they are.”

They were right to be cautious. “Todd” was the ugliest person I’ve ever met in real life, by a substantial margin – whatever you’re imaging, it’s not bad enough; my normally unflappable father noticeably recoiled when he came into the room. I try not to judge people by their looks, much preferring to judge them by their stationery and TV-watching habits, but homeboy was busted like a six-dollar watch. Todd brought exactly one book to college: Awesome Abs.  His primary word was “dude,” pronounced “d00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000d,” like a dying wildebeest hoping to mate one last time before the lions close in. He was an enormous prude and a general nightmare to be around. I used to pretend to be asleep when I heard him come in so I wouldn’t have to talk to him; this often resulted in my actually falling asleep and waking up hours later, completely disoriented. He referred to getting drunk as “getting shitty,” which disgusted me. He pronounced it “ssshhhhitty,” which made it, of course, infinitely worse. Once, when I was terribly sick with mono and half dozing, he thought I was more asleep than I was – and sprayed me with a cloud of Lysol. I waited until he was gone for the evening and licked every possession of his I could stand to have near my face, but his illiterate cold-weather immune system would not succumb.

The next year, I roomed with a friend, which started out just fine: we were both messy, nocturnal, and didn’t like having people over. Over the summer, “Adam” had had a religious awakening. Most people experiment with drugs and sex in college, and for once I swam with the tide; Adam had decided to experiment with Lubavitch Judaism. He was technically Jewish, but had been raised as a Christmas agnostic as a compromise between his occasionally devout Baptist father and Soviet-atheist but ethnically Jewish mother, who has the distinction of being the most interesting person I have ever met. I’ll tell you about her in a future post.

So, as our sophomore year of college wore on, Adam got more and more... aggressively Jewish. IT was all very educational and novel at first, but then, as with many conversions, the initial excitement gave way to an obsession with rules. I got In Trouble for Ham Day, despite keeping the entire ham on my side of the room. He started rigging the door not to lock so he wouldn’t be using a tool on the Sabbath. (My suggestion that he stop being a tool the rest of the week didn’t go over well.) He started observing all the holidays, including the little-known drinking holiday Simchat Torah. He’d been so staid recently that it took me a while to understand:

Adam (entering): Heeeeeeeeeeeee hee hee.

Me: Are you all right?

Adam (lying in the center of the floor): HEEEEEEEEEEE hee hee.

Me: Did you… do you have meningitis? Try to move your neck.

Adam: Heee. No. Drunk. Torah.

Me: That could mean anything.

Adam: Simchat Torah. It commemorates G-d giving us the Torah, so we might… HEE hee hee. Grace in His eyes. We celebrate with drinking.

Me: “We,” Jews, or “we,” you and a family-size bottle of Turning Leaf?

Adam: Turning Leaf isn’t kosher. Manischewitz Triple Berry Trouble. With a straw. Hee.

Matters drew to a head the day before Passover, when we had a “discussion” about what behaviors were reasonable at 2 A.M.

Me: I’m going to sleep.

Adam: I’m going to vacuum.

Me: Nope.

Adam: It’s Passover. I have to vacuum.

Me: I don’t think you’ve ever vacuumed before in your life. Try experimenting with some nice, quiet dusting.

Adam: No, but there are bread crumbs.

Me: They’ll be there in the morning.

Adam: Right, but Passover… I’m vacuuming.

Me: THE ANGEL OF DEATH DOES NOT HAVE A MONOPOLY ON KILLING FIRSTBORN SONS, AS YOU WILL DISCOVER IF YOU TURN ON THAT VACUUM.

Adam: Infidel.

Me: Sleepy infidel.

(Yes, I know Passover begins at sundown and I assume he did too. I don’t know why he wanted to vacuum at two.) I tried to paper over the misunderstanding the next day with a light-hearted prank:

Adam: Did you put blood on the doorposts and lintel?

Me: Well, ketchup. You didn’t have any Passover decorations up, and I thought…

Adam: That’s not funny.

Me: I’m afraid it is.

Adam: I respect your religious heritage.

Me: You ran a betting pool on the Papal election called “White Smoke, Green Cash!”

Adam: Are you still pissed about losing? I told you, you had to beat the spread.

After this interlude, I managed to live alone until I finished college and moved to New Zealand for a few months. I stayed in a hostel for a while, but then some Argentineans moved in and started having all-night drum-and-sings, so I looked for apartments. The first one I looked at was old, isolated, grubby, and had several posters of German castles Scotch-taped to the wall, so I was sold. The landlady was a kind of odd Samoan woman in her late forties named Teresa Burnside, who, as I discovered, lived there.

She was crazy as a shithouse rat.

She was paranoid, largely about the water company. According to her, the water company “pushed water through the pipes” so that our water heater overflowed and raised our bill, which she combatted by strictly rationing the hot water. The third roommate, a very nice Canadian girl, and I had to tell her when we planned to shower in advance so she could know how long to have the water on. Later, when the washing machine “broke” (it worked fine for me but she thought it was broken) she couldn’t decide whether to blame me or the water company, so she yelled at us both. Then when she bought a new washing machine, she asked me if I knew anyone with a van I could borrow. I said I didn’t, which was true, and she accused me of lying and shouted at me for five minutes. She also shouted at me for:

-       coming in the back door, which I hadn’t done

-       being annoyed when she rented out the living room to a stranger

-       accidentally using her bowl

-       not doing my laundry by dissolving the detergent in a little cup of hot water I had heated in the electric kettle

-       not remembering to unplug the microwave, turn off the outlet switch, and prop the microwave door open

-       because there were ants in the compost

She saved all her eggshells in a plastic bag in the pantry, and decorated the kitchen with a government-issued illustrated guide to the food groups for Pacific Islanders, complete with boiled pig’s head. I had a bottle of gin in the freezer which she referred to as “whiskey,” which she thought was very exotic. She offered to ask her family on Samoa if I could stay with them, “they would probably even let you borrow a lavalava, but they might not, because they’re still mad at me for missing the last family reunion. I don’t care. I’ve been to Samoa. I want to go somewhere else if I’m going anywhere.” Like a pecan log, she had an odd sweetness under the nuts. She made delicious pumpkin soup to share, and we watched an eclipse together. Since I’ll never see her again this side of the veil, I have the freedom to remember her almost fondly.

Now that I have my own apartment, I’m free of roommate drama. All I know about my neighbors, moving from my end of the hall toward the elevator, is:

The Russian girl occasionally gets laid

The girl on her other side slams the door all the time

The Chinese guy on her other side is a reasonably talented jazz trumpet player.

They may not give me material for a post, but at least they don’t talk to me.

You Know What Ruffles My Feathers?: XXX Edition

Porn: can't live with it, can't get off without it. Or at least so goes my current masturbatory conundrum. I'm going to level with you: I watch a fair bit of pornography. Not in like a I'm-a-30-year-old-IT-consultant-with-a-World-of-Warcraft-zine-and-a-blow-up-doll-named-Mizuki kind of way, but in what I consider to be a healthy way. Porn is a necessity for me for a few reasons:

1.) I'm lazy. (But that's a given.)

2.) I have a god awful imagination

3.) I'm high-strung

4.) I have the attention span of a 10-year-old boy, two liters of Mountain Dew deep

1 + 2 + 3 + 4 = "OK. Here we go. I'm going to think of something really hot. Let's see...two people. Two people fuckin'. But where? An...outcropping? Is it an 'outcrop' or an 'outcropping'? Outcropping is the verb, right? Although in what context would a portion of exposed rock be used as a verb? Or is that the difference between a verb and an action verb? I should google this. NO. Two people having sex, FOCUS. So they're having sex on...a rock. You know, the more I think about it, the more it makes sense to me that 'outcropping' would be the noun and 'outcrop' is the verb. AN outcropping. The boulders outcropped over time. That sounds right, right? Kind of? Fuck it, I'll just play some online Family Feud until I fall asleep and call it a night."

Not to mention the fact that it's hard for me to get in the mood. In order for me to function on a daily basis and, you know, not kill myself or another human being (HA HA, me), I take two different kinds of antidepressants, both of which are the pharmaceutical equivalent of dipping your genitals into a vat of ice water while watching Schindler's List. They absolutely destroy my sex drive. And I realize the obvious solution is to ask my psychiatrist to switch my meds, but I can't bring myself to talk to him about anything to do with sex. He's this adorable little old man named Floyd who wears cable knit sweaters year-round and always has absurdly shiny loafers and he loves talking to me about architecture and his grandchildren and I can't bring myself to look into those two kind, old eyes and say, "EXCUSE ME SIR—I CAN'T COME!!!!" Plus, that'll obviously lead into a conversation about how, "It says here in your file that you're not married and you're not in a relationship?" And I'll have to admit, "I know. I've got no one. I just stay up all night masturbating and watching 'Cash Cab'. And not necessarily in that order."

So, my solution is porn. That being said, there's a growing trend in pornography today that I'm not on board with. And it's affecting not only my sex life, but more near and dear to me these days, my masturbatory life. I didn't even know I felt so passionately about this subject until I started ranting about it to Tulane Chris the other week for what some may consider an "uncomfortably long amount of time". I gave Teresa the same speech the other day and when I finished, she just looked deep into my eyes and after a long, silent pause said, "You need to tell the world about this." It would be a privilege and an honor. So, you know what ruffles my feathers? Spit in porn.



Spit in porn. If you don't know what I'm talking about, you're probably not old enough. I recommend you talk to a parent, family friend, community leader or trusted Rabi. However, because I'd like to avoid any and all "I'm really mature for my age, Meggles! Can you tell me what's up?" emails that'll bump me up a few uncomfortable notches on the Phil Spector ladder, I'll get more specific here in public. There are three instances where spit is becoming more and more prevalent in porn:

1.) Cunnilingus. A gentleman has wined and dined his lady friend. He takes her back to his condo, lights a few scented candles and pours two glasses of '08 Turning Leaf Merlot. He gently lays her down on his Sealy Posturepedic and reads a few passages from Christopher Marlowe's The Passionate Shepherd to His Love aloud to her. When he sees that her bosom is heaving just right, he lifts her modest A-line skirt, pulls down her red cotton briefs and buries his face in her warm womanhood as she writhes in ecstasy.

And then he pulls back ten inches and to hocks a loog directly onto her genitals. Because nothing says love like making her crotch feel like a stadium floor, post Brooks & Dunn concert.

2.) Fellatio. I'll give you that saliva is an incredibly necessary party of a good blow job. Or really any blow job. I know this because I've tried to give one without and the results were challenging, at best. Although in my defense, drugs and alcohol were in the mix and nothing gives you dry mouth like a metric ton of light beer and handful of pain killers. After a rowdy night out at the bar, I went back to a gentleman friend's house and we started hooking up. (This really isn't pertinent to the story, but I need you to know solely for the LOLZ factor that this was playing on repeat in the background the entire time:

I undid said gentleman's pants to discover the biggest dick I had ever seen in real life. Like to the point where it wasn't an exciting discovery, it was more, "Oof. This is too much for a Thursday." I started going down on him and it was an all-around sad state of affairs. Not only did I have a vicious case of dry mouth, I felt like I was trying to squeeze Dom Deluise into a pleather mini-dress. Sensing my teeth were in the mix way more than they should be, I tried to cover them with my lips and distinctly recall not being able to and internally shouting, "MY GOD—THERE'S NO ROOM AT THE INN! THERE'S NO ROOM AT THE INN!!!" This of course begs the question: when Joseph and Mary were turned away from the inn and Mary was forced to give birth to the son of God in a manger, do you think she ever stopped and thought, "This is going to going to compliment a blow job joke 2,000 years from now perfectly."?

I glanced up from my #blowFAIL and grabbed a half empty can of beer on the night stand, desperate for the lubrication. (To answer your question, yes, it is now on my bucket list to have a Lifetime movie made about my life called, Half Empty Can of Beer on the Night Stand & Desperate for Lubrication: The Meg McBlogger Story.) I finished the beer, took a deep breath and wondered how the hell I was going to do this. And that's when I looked down and realized that my gentleman friend had 100% passed out. Now, I realize that normally when the person you've been fellating for the past ten minutes passes out on you, it's not a "compliment" per se, but honestly, I've never been so relieved in my entire life. I felt like I had woken up and realized I forgot to study for a test, only to have my mom tell me to go back to bed because it's a snow day. Except in this case I got to turn the shitty techno music off, re-hinge my jaw and go to bed. But, you know, semantics.

My entire point being: while I admit that saliva is a necessary part of a blow job, there's no need to shove a dick down your throat until you regurgitate half of a turkey sandwich all over it like you're feeding a god damn baby bird.

3.) As a lubricant in Sex. 1 & 2 are more prevalent, but this certainly happens more than I feel is Kosher.

It's important to note that while I think that spit in porn is offensive (and how!), it's not because it's degrading. Because degradation has its place in the porn world and I respect that. If you want someone to chain you to a wall and nail you with eggs while they call you a whore—cool. If you think that's hot, I say go with God. Because you know what I think is hot? John Larroquette, a Chipotle burrito and three hours set aside exclusively for napping. To each her own. What offends me is that I think spit is disgusting, yet I'm constantly bombarded with it mainstream porn. I find it all very problematic on the following levels:

- It blue balls me every time. (Or blue ovaries...?) Admittedly, I have an odd aversion to spit. Making out doesn't bother me and I'm fine with being gone down on (I encourage it, in fact!), but I find any other interaction with spit just plain foul and unnecessary. If you held a gun to my head and said, "Either suck this lollipop after I do or I'll shoot you in the head"—tell my mother I love her. Spit just really, really grosses me out and I have zero apologies about it. Which is why I don't appreciate it when I get into a scene and I'm almost about to cross my t's and dot my i's and all of a sudden the spit starts flying like it's a Best of Skoal video. It's disgusting and I completely lose momentum and it's hard to recover from something like that. It's like your parents walking in on you. After that happens you're not all, "Geez, that was embarrassing. Now where was I...?" No. You go to therapy. For years and years and years.

- It's never not shocking when it happens. Even though it's becoming more and more popular (much to my chagrin), I never expect it. It's like the Trojan Horse of porn. Except instead of bunch of Greeks inside, it's just a giant string of spit.

- It doesn't belong in mainstream porn. Look, I'm not here to judge; if you're into it, that's fine. I suppose on some level I can see where it could be hot. I mean, it's primitive and animistic and if it were any other fluid besides spit, (or urine. Or blood. Tears are OK.) (Side note: DO NOT google "cry fucking" to see if it's a real thing. It is. And it's horrible.) maybe I could get into it. But it's not; it's spit. So I'm out and I don't want to see it in my every day, mainstream porn. I argue instead that it should be in it's own sub-genre of BDSM porn and there it shall forever stay. I was on the phone with Tulane Chris earlier tonight venting about this very topic (because when people ask me, "What's up?", this is usually the answer. It shouldn't shock you if when I'm done writing this, I take a picture of it, print a 2 x 3 copy and keep it in my wallet to show people at holiday parties and family functions.), and upon googling "spit in porn", I discovered that "spit-swapping" is a porn fetish. Although I'll probably take 16 showers tonight knowing that that exists, I appreciate that it stays in its own lane. At least I don't need to worry every time I stumble upon a new clip on Fleshbot that all of a sudden someone's going to start pouring a martini glass of saliva down their own throat out of nowhere. And if that does start happening? Suicide pill. Because I don't want to live in that world, thank you very much. (I'd just like it to be known that during our conversation tonight, Chris also said, "Have you ever noticed that spit in porn is always so opaque? Do you think they make them eat special herbs to make it so shiny?" 17 showers.)

- Its integration into mainstream porn sends a message to sexual novices that it's what they should be doing too. Major mainstream porn producers need to accept that they're responsible for shaping the sexual repertoire of the youth of America. When The Kids starting having The Sex, 9 times out of 10 they look to porn to show them the way. (Which, interestingly enough, is the same reason why I insist on wearing a pearl choker, fuchsia lipstick and blue eyeshadow when I have sex. No complaints thus far.) But do you know what 99.9% of mainstream porn today is telling kids to do? Spit on each other's junk. And ew! Spitting shouldn't be an assumed part of sex—it's something you should probably have a chat with your partner about before doing. You wouldn't haphazardly shove an eel up someone's ass on a first date, so take some time to get the green light on spit.

- There's a rape-y grey area. 'Ehh...I mean, I feel weird taking this somewhere serious because the majority of my argument really is: Spit—GROSS! But it's worth noting that when you tell hundreds of thousands of teenage boys that it's OK to use their spit as lube, you're also telling them that it's OK if she's not ready yet; that there are ways of getting around that. Getting wet is a lady's biological way of putting out the welcome mat. If she's inviting you in, then by all means enjoy the party. However, if you're not welcome, you're not welcome. And that's the message we should be driving into kids heads, not that you can hack up a shortcut if she's being a Frigid McPrudenstein.

- It happened to me. Really when you get down to brass tacks, a guy I used to hook up with spat on me right before we had sex, it was revolting, I sterilized my vagina in the dishwasher, and I'm sick of being reminded of it every time I want to get off. He was on top and right after he put the condom on, he looked down, conjured up a big spit ball, and let it drop onto my nethers. It had never happened to me and at that point I had never even seen it in porn. "Uhhhh," I said as I shifted my eyes back and forth and wondered if anything would ever be the same again. Ever. "Well that was romantic." "Sorry, I'm just trying to get things going," he said in an irritated tone. Oh, I'M sorry! I'M sorry! Far be it from me to ruin your evening by not being a Slip 'n Slide after two minutes of hand-holding. And I had no idea you were having tea with the Queen later and were on such a tight schedule! Is there anything else you'd like to do before you go? Blow your nose on my arm? Cough Avian flu directly into my lungs perhaps?

If I'm not wet enough to your liking, here are two ways to expedite the process: 1.) Work slightly harder. I know coming from me of all people that's kind of a mighty pill to swallow, but if the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, the way into my pants is on or around my neck. It' not that hard. (Baha...) 2.) Lube. Call me old-fashioned, but I've got a bottle and it gets the job done. One time Ex Co-Blogger Chris came over and we made up a song about it, key lyric being: "bottle-a lube, bottle-a lube, I keep it in plain view cuz I'm proud of my sex life." (late 2009: different times.) Point being; I had some, we could have used it. I jut don't understand why in God's name spit was the natural choice over lube or foreplay. That's like if you can't find what you're looking for at the mall and your immediate reaction is to burn that mother to the ground. Take a giant step backwards. Phone a friend. Re-think your options.

And that's when he said it: "Well, it's what they do it porn." That was his justification for hacking up a lung onto my birth canal. That it's what they "do in porn." You know what else they do in porn? Donkeys. Old people. Old people doing donkeys. Are you going to bring them into the mix? Let this be a lesson to you, my dear porn, that you are wielding a powerful, powerful weapon. And I for one don't think it's too much to ask that you keep it in your mouth.

2011 Celebrity Deathwatch!

SORR we’ve been a tad AWOL this past week. Meg’s sister is “getting married," and for some reason insists that Meg be “involved.” Sounds like a heathen custom to me, but there you have it. As for me, I’m in the midst of finals. The two projects I’m working on have started to blur together in my subconscious, with the result that I now have a recurring dream where a group of 1930’s English socialites invade the ancient kingdom of Himyar. We’ve got big news next week, but until then… it’s the 2Birds1Blog 2011 Celebrity Deathwatch!

Disclaimer: This isn’t about what I want to happen or anyone I intend, personally, to kill. (Cheaters never win, kids.) It’s solely who I think is on their way out.

Meg’s note: “If you put Larry Hagman on that watch, I will stick your keys square up my snizz and never return them.” [Ed. Note: Hi there. While we're talking about me (and my snizz) (and all the things I've threatened to stick up there) (because what a list that is!), I'd just like to make you all aware of the following:

1.) Three of Ex Co-Blogger Chris' Celebrity Deathwatch predictions from this past year came true. (Including Leslie Nielsen. I mean, I know he was old, but how the hell did you see that coming??)

2.) ∴ The annual 2b1b Celebrity Deathwatch post is obviously haunted.

3.) Today is our 666th post.


4.) Today is also T.G.I. Hagman.

= NOPE. NOPE. NOPE. This is some VOODOO shit and it all makes me heinously uncomfortable. I'd pull the plug on this little shit show here and now if I wasn't busy stress-vomiting all night because despite consuming nothing but cocaine, air, and tap water for the past week and a half, I can either sit or breathe in my bridesmaid's dress—God forbid I want to do both! So you, sir, better thank your lucky stars that I'm retaining water like a pregnant woman stewing in sea salt and have 120 wedding programs to assemble. But listen to me here and now: if my Lord and Savior Larry Martin Hagman dies within the next 24 hours, I'm placing the blame directly on you. You shall forever wear a scarlet 10-gallon hat upon your head and live as an outcast in the woods like the dirty, whorish Angel of Death you are. In fact, where's my Hagman at?


As of December 10, 2010, Larry Hagman is...alive! OH and he better stay that way if a certain ginger-haired blogger and "Designing Women" enthusiast values his gonads. Now, proceed with your death harbinger...ing...Harbinger... of Death...ing...harbinge.]

The list:

Betty White: I don’t want it to happen, but we’ve lost a Golden Girl each year for the past three years and that’s too strong a trend to ignore, as much as we may all want to. I expect a repeat of this voicemail from 2009:

Dad: “Hi, I’m just checking on you. I heard… you know, about Bea, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Call me.”

I was going through “a bad time,” and I’m fairly certain he was afraid her death would push me over the edge. Fifteen xanax, a bottle of Kentucky Deluxe, and a note that read simply “And then there’s Maude.”

Pope Benedict XVI: It hasn’t been a good year for the church. If I were in my eighties and had just spent the past year saying, in public, “Oh, come now, we’re not all pedophiles. I mean, statistically…” I would be ready to die.

Kim Jong-Il: He’s old, he’s sick, he’s as mad as an eel, and the chances daily increase that someone will hit the red button labeled “Fuck This Noise (Pyongyang).” We may be in for another round of the Mao-Castro “is he or isn’t he” dance. North Korea being as… unorthodox as it is, I’ll bet you we get at least one newsreel where he’s clearly been stuffed, and someone tries to make him nod by pressing the back of his head with a stick.

(PS, apparently there’s another Kim Jong-Il who’s a South Korean long jumper. I’m not sure about Korea (and who is?), but in most countries, if your parents name you “Benito Mussolini” or Whackjob von Nutz,” you go to the courthouse on your eighteenth birthday and sign up as “William Jones.”

Fidel Castro: Speaking of old Communists, I’ve thought Castro was dead for years. If Hollywood makeup and method acting can turn Charlize Theron into the spitting image of Aileen Wuornos, I think 2011 might be the year Michael Cera calls a press conference that begins, “Um. You know, the word ‘treason’ gets batted around a lot these days…”

One of those Professional Starcraft Kids, One’s as Good as Another, Really: you know how in the H. P. Lovecraft stories, everyone’s always going irrevocably insane because they saw something indescribable from beyond the stars? That’s how I feel about professional Starcraft. I tried to play a game of Starcraft once, and I’ve literally never shown less aptitude for any activity. It was like watching a brine shrimp try out for the Detroit Lions – I genuinely did not seem to have the right physical structures. With the pressure ramped up after this year’s release of Starcraft II, it can’t be long before one of them actually bursts into flames.

Otto von Habsburg: He has been the claimant to the various Habsburg thrones since 1922. That’s almost ninety years of “Oh, please. Just one little old kingdom. You’d hardly miss it.  You’re not even using – what’s this called? Slovakia? Well, I can change the name later. Just let me have it.” He is 98 and has twenty-three grandchildren and four citizenships. I would feel ready, I think.

King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia: At 86, he recently transferred some of his powers to younger relatives. Now I’ve never been a king and I likely never will be one, but if I were, you could have my powers when you pried them out of my cold, dead, hands. If he’s anything like me, which we probably both hope is not the case, this transfer of power is a sign that his end is near.

Deborah Devonshire, Phyllis Diller, Angela Lansbury, Mel Brooks, the Queen of England, etc.: None of these have any particular warning signs except that they’re all over eighty and I like them all. 2010 was a very good year for me so, believer in the other shoe dropping that I am, I fully expect all the celebrities I like to kick it in 2011. (Yes, I do think people die deliberately to upset me. Why else?)

Ariel Sharon: In a coma for four years. This one feels kind of like a bunt, but everyone always used to put Brooke Astor on their death lists and she kept going for years and years…

Barbara Bush: Is a bitch. That’s my contribution.

Jimmy Carter: It simply isn’t healthy for an eighty-six-year-old man to scamper off to global tension spots every fifteen minutes. I think he’s decided to fall over dead during one of these trips and get a street named after him in some dangerous country, and I have to say it’s not a terrible plan, if only because it makes this address possible:

People’s Bureau of Correct Behavior Enforcement

1701 Jimmy Carter Avenue

Fort Nightmare, Dangerstan 00178

(Yes, all countries have American-style ZIP codes. It’s a NATO thing.)

People Who Won’t Die:

Aretha Franklin. Cancer better think (think!) twice, because Aretha Franklin is going to find its house, get the key out of the fake rock, and kick its ass.