If she smokes, she pokes.

Last Saturday morning, over the Breakfast Sampler at IHOP (Dear IHOP, please open in NYC soon. Love, Megan), my friend Chris was telling Megan and I about his theories on the phrase, "If she smokes, she pokes." As he was going through the list of similar qualities that certain women possess that scream promiscuity, Megan and myself just kind of stared at him. In silence. What we realized is between the two of us, we have close to 90% of these points covered. You can see his post here. Note: his points are in black, mine are in red so represent the constant state of burning in my loins.

1. She smokes - I know this is THE old adage, but it holds true now more than ever. Think about it: if a girl smokes a pack of cigarettes a day, that means she’s simulating the act of fellating 20 little white penises every day. With your help, it will be 21. I used to smoke a lot in college while drinking. Usually I would buy a pack of Parliament Lights and pass them out to my friends like candy. I stopped altogether after college, but the past two months I have found myself on occasion having a cigarette when I go out. It's absolutely disgusting, and I always wake up with the worst hangover. Just from one cigarette. Anyways, most people don't know I can't even be near smoke sober and just see me smoking a cigarette drunk, so really, I can be qualified as a smoker.
2. She goes tanning - Don’t get me wrong, I like the look of a “healthy tan” as much as the next guy, but let’s face it: tanning is unnatural, superficial, and downright dangerous to your health. That being said, if a girl isn’t afraid to get skin cancer, chances are, she’s not afraid to get an STD either. If the sight of “melted-caramel-face” doesn’t scare you, take this girl home. Yeah I don't go tanning at all. I've been to the tanning booth like 5 times my whole entire life, and I think that was all in the week leading up to Spring Break. But my girl over here, well, let's just say I found tanning accelerator on the dashboard of her car.
3. She's eating late night food - This is one of my favorite “tells” of all-time because it happens at the end of the night, or the “desperation hour”, as I like to call it. It’s simple: all you need to do is look for the girl who’s walking home with a gyro in her face. Trust me… if this girls isn’t worried about cramming two pounds of undercooked lamb into her gut at 4:00 a.m., I doubt she’ll be opposed to three hours of hateful monkey-sex. The only downside to this scenario is that she will likely be grunting on your toilet while you’re trying to take your shower before work. Yeah, I'll just let this picture answer this for me. Time stamp? Approximately 4:00 a.m. Central.
4. She is louder than all her friends - This one might not seem obvious at first, but it…is…fool…proof. Here’s how to spot her: she’s the one who dry-humps her friend’s ass and laughs maniacally about it afterwards. This girl wants it all. All the attention… all the drinks… all the meat. Be warned though… if you piss this girl off, she will bite off your nose and swallow it. Oh this one is just too easy.
5. She has a bad dye-job - We all know this girl. She’s the one who has fooled herself into thinking a bi-annual bleaching is enough to fool the world into thinking she’s a natural blonde. This hairstyle, know in some circles as the “skank-skunk” (OK, just by me), is an effective indicator of sluttiness because of its high visibility. Here’s a hint: just be on the lookout for blonde with “Roots” blacker than Alex Haley’s (take home, bang, repeat). Megan has the blonde hair, but we both have highlights. Oh and Chris nodded at her when he was repeating this point to us. Thanks, dickwad.
6. She has a kid - Some men view this situation as the ultimate deal breaker, but I feel it’s important to see past all that “closed-minded nonsense”. I promise you: this girl is only looking for two things; the father of her child and anonymous high-risk sex (Remember: she didn’t win that thing in a raffle). There is one catch though: if she’s carrying the kid in one of those chest-mounted baby slings, your range of sexual positions shall be limited to the following: Doggy and Reverse Cowgirl. I mean, come on, it’s not like you’re trying to scar the kid for life. Jesus Barker, you sure have an affinity for colons. I don't have a kid, but I am looking for a daddy.
7. She's fat and dressed to kill - You gotta love these girls because of the “truth in advertising”. It’s not unlike a crackhead holding up a cardboard sign that says, “F*ck it! I need to score some rock.” Don’t get me wrong. I do not want you to pity these girls. Seriously, they’re getting laid more than you will ever know. Think about it this way: how many people do you know who have banged a genuine “Perfect 10”? Probably none. Now, how many of these aforementioned people have banged a girl who was pushing “two bills”? That’s right… all of them, even your old sweet dad. Have you seen how exponentially fast my muffin tops are growing?
8. She has a physical deformity/mental illness - I know what you’re thinking and I agree… GENIUS!! This girl is a sure bet for three reasons: first, she will almost certainly have low self-esteem. Second, she will have an uncontrollable desire for acceptance. Third, she will be mind-meltingly horny from years of sexual frustration. Wait, it gets better… for one, a physical deformity could open some possibilities for undiscovered sexual positions and a mental illness could result in some interesting dirty talk.

   NOTE: Depending on what state you live in, this may be eligible for court-ordered public service (check with your parole officer). Ohhhh, I know what you are thinking. And I have the correct number of chromosomes thankyouverymuch.

And here I thought guys only talk to me for my charming personality. Turns out, I just have a bullseye on my forehead (but no lower back tattoos).

Have a good weekend everyone. I'll be at the beach!

For a friend(s)...

Because I'm hungover still drunk, I can't write very well. So I'm going to youtube it up for the day. Enjoy!

I gots me a new gig!

I was asked to be a contributor to this here new "group blogging" blog called Burt Reynold's Mustache. Although I wish we were only talking about Burt Reynolds mustache, cause lord knows I could go on about that shit for days, it's actually a blog where a different blogger writes for a different day month. I'm the 27th in case you are slow.

Why? Cause I'm turning 27
Or probably more like that was the only day left. Nothing like being picked last in gym class.

Anyways, go read my post here, and check others while you are there.

If being gay is wrong, I don't want to be right.

I've traveled around the world a lot in my 26 years. And by the "world", I mean Wisconsin, Indiana, Ohio and upstate New York. And by "traveled", I really mean, "drove through".

Never in my whole entire life have I ever seen people so ridiculously happy as I have on my most recent trip the Chicago. Where was I? The race track? Hmmm, no almost. The guys drinking by themselves at 11am attempting to analyze horsies running around in circles are pretty uplifting, but no. I'm talking about the Chicago Gay Pride Parade.

Last year was my first year living in Chelsea. Let me tell you, if you think I know how to have a good time, I have nothing on the gays. N-O-T-H-I-N-G. I remember my first experience during Halloween here (i.e. "Gay Christmas"), I encountered a 6'6" gentleman wearing nothing but a boa, 6 inch platforms, an afro, and a 3 ft. tube sock over his member, only to be topped by an equally queeny gentleman screaming, "DIIISSSSCOOOO LIIIIIVES!"

But back to the parade. I missed New York's parade last year, and since all the parades are held simultaneously across the country, I missed New York's again this year. This parade made me want to move to Chicago. We're talking leather thongs, glitter, guys in cutoff commando camouflage shorts twirling wooden guns to Rupaul, oiled hard bodies, cowboy hats, cages, and most importantly foam.

I did manage to record a little video to share with you friends. Make sure all of your co-workers are around too. (NOTE: this was taken before the parade started. Just dudes, hanging out. And I mean really hanging out. If you think the guy in the itty bitty blue shorts is bad, be thankful I didn't post the picture I have of the guy in a leather thong. Take note of the people on top of the float too.)



And yes, that is my friend declaring, "That's like the hardest ass I've ever seen." Nice one, Laura.

Oh, and Irish, when you are running the marathon, make sure you look for these guys when you are running through Boys Town around mile 8. They are probably my second most memorable memory 2nd only to seeing my family and friends. They were in the parade too, and literally gave me goosebumps--cause they were that cool. Not cause I'm a gay dude or anything. Although I do love the cock. So we have that in common. And a love for singing Madonna songs.

Sexy knife posing!

You have all seen the above pictures of Lindsay Lohan and Vanessa Minnillo (Envelope) attempting to be seductive while holding the biggest fucking knives you have ever seen, right? I don't know about all of you, but nothing says sexy like being stabbed. Not like the sexual stabbing involving a penis, but real stabbing. With a knife. Maybe some other objects too. Like a pitch fork. Or a bayonet.

While I did not have access to a pitch fork or a bayonet during Awesomefest 7000, my friends and I did have access to a set of kitchen knives. The below pictures were our attempt to outdo Miss Lohan and Miss Minnillo turning up the sexy. Clearly we are the obvious victors.Oh man, I'm getting hot already!Kate attempting to saw off her breast with a bread knife. That's the hotness.Who is filming the snuff film?Is it just me, or does Megan resemble a swashbuckling pirate in this picture. Yarrrr!While Megan seems to have the Sexy Knife Pose down, this was the only picture I had of me not laughing. Clearly, this is the only reason I am not made out for a career in modeling. Clearly.
Sexy is having your drunk friend get dangerously close to your nipple while trying to pose for a Sexy Knife Pose.
Yeah, that's right. Who is your daddy now?
At one point during our Sexy Knife Posing, we realized the knife sharpener was way more sexy than the actual knives.
Nothing says sexy like a knife sharpener in the two-hole!
Leave it to the actual model to make Sexy Knife Posing actually look normal
This one says, "What, I get stabbed all the time. Ain't no thang!"
Dianka attempted to PG-13 Sexy Knife Posing down with a little plastic knife action as Megan does the obligatory "thumbs up" in the background. A little something for the kiddies. You know.
"To infinity, and beyond!"
You know what else is sexy? Ruffles. No knives necessary.

Oh my god. I'm so going to end up on Dateline NBC for this, aren't I?

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa....so it DOES say, 'I like group sex' on my forehead!

One of my proudest moments in this lifetime is when I got asked to be in a three-some by the girlfriend of the guy I was hitting on all night. This lasted about a year until that experience was topped when I was asked by a guy I went out with once to be his date at a sex party.

While I turned him down, I asked what it is about me that makes people think I actually like sharing. He replied, "You just have that way about you." Thanks, fucker. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Apparently there is a closeted freak in me that people are just dying to get out. Don't get me wrong, I like the sex. I.like.it.a.lot, but when it comes to a choice between just being with a guy I like vs. seeing how many people can finger bang me at once, I will undoubtedly chose the one guy I like.

Remember the guy that didn't drink? Remember him? Well, he was in Asia for the past few weeks for work. His job required him to travel all across the world visiting Third World countries or some shit like that. He tried to explain in more detail what he actually did, but most of the time I ended up staring in the mirror trying to figure how many months pregnant I looked from my beer gut (I'm thinking it's about 4 months now as I am typing this). He would call me about Lost and we would discuss how it was the greatest show in all the land. We would argue which was the better Wes Anderson movie: Rushmore vs. Steve Zissou. Clearly he was slightly delusional as Steve Zissou is the worst. I gave him credit for actually liking Wes Anderson though since one guy I went out with had the audacity to tell me Dear Hunter was his favorite movie OF ALL TIME. Jesus Christ! You mean there is someone out there who remembers anything from that movie besides the Russian Roulette scene at the end?

Like I mentioned before, we had a lot in common. Then the other night he called me. We've only gone out twice in the last two months. I've actually been really busy. But I wasn't blowing him off by any means. Any guy I have actually blown off can attest that I was in fact, maybe, possibly, interested in him. Hell, I didn't even do anything with him besides kiss him. If my vagina hasn't 'accidentally' fallen on your dick 80 times real fast within our first 3 dates, you can pretty much bet that I like you.

I don't know how it happened, but on Sunday night when we were talking, he flat out asked what the freakiest thing I have done is. I could tell by the tone of his voice, that we just entered a whole different level of conversation.

Oh. Fuck.

Look, I understand everyone needs a little bit of sprinkles on their vanilla ice cream, but when you've got more toppings than actual ice cream, you lose the deliciousness of the ice creamery treat. At least that is my opinion. To each his own, dude.

He then when the generic route and asked if I was willing to have a threesome. I explained that I've been asked more than once, but it just doesn't interest me. I explained that I did, however, like to see my ex get hit on by other girls. I never get jealous. Ever. To me, watching a girl try and hit on someone that is in love with me is the ultimate confidence booster. She can't have him. I can. I fully expect any guy I am with to react the same way. Nothing is a bigger turnoff than guys who react negatively to jealousy.

Somehow it got brought up that he actually used to watch his ex-girlfriend have sex with other guys. He implied basically that me liking girls to hit on my boyfriend was akin to him watching some random guy fuck his girlfriend. Ok.

I went along with it for a little bit since I'm pretty open about a lot, but even I do have my limits. His voice kept on getting lower and lower, then finally I had to make him stop fucking talking. Clearly this was going to a place I did not want to go, and I was uncomfortable going there being that I barely knew the guy. (Note: I'm hardly against phone sex, but to me it's a little personal. Now that's ironic considering my most recent behavior). I basically told him that I wasn't that freaky, and when he asked why not, I explained that I had a lot of Catholic guilt issues I had to overcome to even be comfortable having sex with anyone, even the guy I loved. Only in the past few years have I really been able to realize that my dad is wrong, and that having an orgasm does not mean an after-lifetime spent in a fiery pit of hell.

Then, in that same low register voice, he asked me, "So do you have fantasies about your family?"

[Scrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech!]

Did he just? No no, he didn't. Wait, I think he did!

We're just going to throw him in the pile of 'oh hellllz no.'

"They confiscated everything, even the stuff we didn't steal!"

Since I am going to be in Chicago this Thursday and Friday, I asked Megan to write a post for me. Guest blog if you will. All the cool kids are doing it. Instead she forwarded me a post she did for her own blog a while ago. Considering my last post incited much pride from a lot of various Big 10 alumni, I figured I would re-post this. I mean really, she is a much better writer than me. She actually majored in English, while I just practiced my ebonics on the football team. But really, if you want to know about the relevance of punctuated equilibrium vs. phyletic gradualism, I'm your girl (it was bittersweet that Stephen Jay Gould died the same week of my graduation). Oh yes, she refers to me as "Don" in the below passage (which is a play off of my last name), you know, since we both have the same name. Without further ado, I present to you the four best years of my life in one short paragraph. It's a little sad to me that's all that is left. One short little paragraph. My responses are in red. I apologize if the majority of the thing is inside jokes, but fuck, it's my blog.

God I miss college. I miss charging an entire Playstation on Don’s account at Iowa Book & Supply and playing Tony Hawk in between classes (my dad was proud). I miss the guy who sold gyros in the ped mall at 2 a.m. when the bars closed down. I miss the night crew at Panchero's. DA-VEED. I miss sitting on our porch swing talking on the phone and hearing the sounds of my roommates watching TV inside through the screen window. I miss K Tan (Megan went tanning like every other day. I'm sure if I took her to Africa with me during this time, people would think I came back with a native). I miss the Java House and their big, comfy couches where you can study (you studied? HA) all day and people watch. I miss Miami Nights with Hack Attack and Kelley Jo. I miss cheap tabs. I miss Miranda's pseudo room in the basement. I miss the dirty ass elevator doors at Burge Hall (and Kate passing out in the elevator with the doors closing and opening on her head). I miss Sunday nights listening to Kyle play the piano in the study lounge at Currier. I miss hooker boots and tube tops. I miss open doors in hallways and IM'ing Don from one room over (DMBMeg and Hellafied LIVE ON). I miss the videotaped drunken cake fight in the hallway of Burge 1400’s on my 19^th birthday. “I DON’T WANNA BE CAKE ON MY FAAAACE!!” (yes, we viedotaped ourselves drinking and smoking pot and then got into a cake fight. We weren't too bright) I miss sitting on our counter in the kitchen in the morning after a long night of drinking, trying to piece together unaccounted for moments (thank god we had boyfriends. All of our unaccounted for nights could have led to trouble). Laughing. I miss the River Room and smoothies with Mel, watching the boys play pool. I miss our carpet picnics and makeshift Slip & Slides (Megan and my friend Kelley stole a collapsible table, poured about 6 water bottles on themselves and proceeded to "slide"--i.e. roll, down the table before smacking their head into the wall. I have pictures). I miss the cafeteria at Burge and trying to find a table at dinner, scoping the café for boys with code names like “Snowflake” (who came out our senior year. Good one, Meg). I miss Easy Place and Big Mike's. I miss the smell of Mel's Pier One candle. I miss never coming home to an empty house and always having someone to go get McDonald's with after a night of boozing. I miss Don saying “Mmmm, ice cold Coca-Cola” after every sip (still say it, but no one here finds it as funny. I miss you). I miss Erron from the Column. $1.50 pitchers, baby! (I once told someone we used to dance on the bar at the SC. He did not believe us. Clearly he did not know what we were capable of. Did I mention Megan stole like 8 bottles from behind the bar of 3rd rate Canadian liquor? Of course, we still drank it) I miss our pimped out dorm room sophomore year, Don . I miss our autographed Ricky Martin and Backstreet Boys posters (ok, I signed them myself. Shutup!). And our Busch Light beer can wallpaper border (I think about doing that to my apartment in NYC). I miss sledding down the hill in front of the Old Capitol on stolen cafeteria trays, stoned out of our minds (I still have never laughed as hard as when Miranda tried to go down a hill on asphalt and swore I saw sparks). I miss getting very close with the entire Marquette Lacrosse team. Ahem, Don. “Where’s the bubbler?” (no comment) I miss going into the closet to make private phone calls. I miss getting drunk Freshman year, falling out of my bunk bed, cutting a three inch long gash in my back, wandering out into the hallway and asking Don if I was bleeding. Her response, “Dude, I can see your kidney!” (no explanation needed) I miss the biggest double in the Big Ten (and making out in it, I'm sure. Remember when we saw the guy cooking with his George Forman licking a stick of butter off his knife? God, I love people sometimes). I miss the dry erase board in the kitchen of 111 Evans and Don verbally attacking our other roommates on it, “WHO DRANK MY FUCKING PEPSI?!” (I'm usually a pretty laid back roommate, just don't steal my food) I miss six gallons of milk in our fridge (Three of which were Miranda's) . I miss waking up at 1 p.m. everyday. I miss making Brother's our bar. I miss seventy-five cent massive Diet Cokes from the QT. I miss the Handy House and red Solo cups. I miss 111 Evans St. I miss the Union Bar and the slutty girls who dance on boxes. I miss falling off one of those boxes while dancing in my four inch heeled boots. SPRING BREAK 2002, PANAMA CITY. Me and Don rolling into the Tradewinds Motel on the back of two Harleys, and then Don with the unfortunate mayonnaise and dildo incident (these pictures used to be linked on my site. I'm debating linking them again. They're hilarious/disturbing). I miss a false sense of responsibility. I miss the smell of Iowa City in the fall. I miss my own bathroom in my room. I miss watching the frat boys come and go at the Main Library from behind the Reserve Room desk. I miss Don’s black Jetta in the driveway (I miss my car too. And Kate ruining the transmission when I tried to teach her to drive a stick in the Cub Foods parking lot). I miss that huge hole that Mel busted in our wall and the red jello shot stains all over the basement (HA). I miss hiding in closets from Public Safety while we so obviously were smoking pot in our dorm room and blowing the smoke out the “Doob Tube” aka a paper towel roll with a sheet of fabric softener tied to the open end (yeah, I was totally going to let you take the fall for that one). I miss "Razor" and Edgar and Jeremy and Elijah (go Hawks!). Down with the brown, baby! (hell yeah!) I miss ghetto Diamond Dave's karaoke and "Radar Love" (We gotta thing and it's called Radar Love). I miss Panda Express at Coralville Mall. I miss borrowing Mel's wagon. I miss Don's closet and borrowing shirts that were undoubtedly from J. Crew or Banana Republic (no Ann Taylor here, bizzo). I miss calling cards and ridiculous drunk emails to sort through and decipher the next day (thank god we didn't have cell phones). I miss weekend trips to U of I and the ritual manicure that went along with it. I miss thinking the Fieldhouse was the shit for like five minutes (yeah, I never thought it was the shit). I miss my horrible fake ID. I miss away messages. Meg, you also forgot my favorite moment in all of college--when I threw the biggest turkey leg in all the land at your head while we were tailgating outside Kinnick. You were thrown 3 feet off your chair only to get back on, startled, with barbecue sauce all over your face.

But most of all, I miss "once I graduate".

'Cause the real world is not all it's cracked up to be. Nope. Not at all.

Let every loyal Iowan sing; the word is "Fight! Fight! Fight! for IOWA, until the rafters ring. GO HAWKS!"

I read in the New York Times yesterday that Comcast is fighting the Big 10 to create a Big 10 College Network on cable. Those fucking bastards. To summarize (cut and paste), the article states:

It is, in essence, the Wolverines, the Badgers, the Nittany Lions, the Buckeyes, the Spartans, et al., versus Comcast, which recently won an early court fight against the NFL Network and settled a battle with the MLB Channel, receiving a minority stake in the network partly in exchange for giving millions of its subscribers access to the channel when it starts in 2009.

By carving enough rights to create the Big Ten Network out of a new 10-year, $1 billion contract with ESPN and ABC, Delany has bucked the trend to be satisfied only with rights fees from networks and has chosen to extend the conference’s brand, expand the reach of its recruiting and build a valuable asset.

The channel, which Fox Cable Networks will run and own 49 percent of, will carry 35 football games, 105 men’s and 55 women’s basketball games, archived games dating from 1960, Olympic sports (the rights to some of which are still owned by CSTV through the 2007-8 season) and 660 hours a year of academic programming.

While I don't so much care for any college sport besides football (and Men's basketball in March), I'm very excited at this idea (an also a little pissed Iowa was included in the 'et al.' over those JoePa cocksuckers). For far too long, I've had to take my sorry ass to Blondies on the UWS where men think it's ok to show me their penises while I am passed out on their couch thinking they are hooking up with my friend. What? Where? Who said that?

I've gotten kind of used to the all around glazed over look I receive from people living in New York when I tell them I went to Iowa. It doesn't have the 'reputation' like that of Wisconsin, Michigan, or Penn State. If you were to walk around the streets of Chicago, however, it is more than likely that about 85% of the people you meet on the street either went to Iowa or Illinois.

When I can't make it to the bar, I receive drunk texts from my brother-in-law to the effect of, "Did you see that?"Or, "That fucking ruled!"

The only bargaining chip I have with the rest of the Northeast is this: what would you rather do, pay a few extra dollars for a channel you will never watch (do you really watch all those ESPN channels anyway?), or deal with me on the streets all belligerent shouting obscenities at people who went to pansy colleges like Middlebury and Colgate?

It's bad enough I don't get to watch the Twins here, but now your going to deny me what I desire most in this world? Really?

The choice is yours. Choose wisely.

LIver alone, man!

That's right folksies! It's that time of year again. Time for me to become gluttonous of all things alcoholic. Oh, who are we kidding? That's all times of year. But approximately 4 times a year, the planets align for just long enough for parents to hide their children, and for the Busch company are forced to increase it's productivity two-fold to keep up with the demand.

That's right, bitches. It's time for Awesomefest 7000. Awesomeness to the miggity max!

I hibernated in my apartment for the weekend studying for the GMAT watching the Neverending Story in preparation of the incursion of deathly levels of alcohol into my system. Once again I had to have a conversation with my liver.

Megan: Hey Liver! Whazzup my nig?

Liver: Well, that was profane and uncalled for.

Megan: Sorry about that, Liver. It's Awesomefest 7000 though! I just get so excited! I'm so excited! I'm so excited! I'm so scared! Oh but this time I am travelling to Chicago.

Liver: Oh no no no no no. You're not going to make me process gallons of Busch Light like when we were in college, are you? You do realize you will get drunk without bonging 3 beers in a row, right? The key is moderation, Megan. I'm not sure you are familiar with that concept.

Megan: Dude, you are such a buzzkill. For your information, I have graduated to PBR as my beverage of choice. Mainly cause it's cheap. But check this out! Megan and Kate are taking me to the race track on Friday where it is supposedly 'Teach Your Small Child to Gamble Day". I will not rest until I have corrupted no less than 5 toddlers. Then on Saturday we are going to the Lake Michigan beach bar, and at night my favorite friend named after my favorite mild hallucinogen, HERB, is having a BBQ. Then on Sunday it's the Gay Pride Parade! You know how much I love the gays. We're parking a cooler on the street and watching all the gayness pass us by. Who knows? We might partake in a little nipple twisting of our own.

Liver: [deep breath] Ear muffs!

Megan: Fun right? You better start doing some push-ups or something.

Liver: [death gurgle]

Megan: Oh you're fine you big sissy!

Liver: Do me a favor, look into organ donation. I'm not sayin, I'm just sayin'.

Megan: Livers never say die!

Liver: I think it's, "Goonies never say die."

Megan: Oh, right. You're such a fucking know-it-all liver. I hate you.

Liver: I'm sure there are other people who would appreciate what I do for you. Maybe they need a new liver.

Megan: Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You know I could never live without you. Literally.

Liver: S'ok. But let's keep the car bombs to a minimum, k?

Megan: Done and done. Remember that time when someone bought us a Three Wise Men shot, and we puked over the bar and tried to cover it up by laying our arms it it? That's when I fell in love with you. I knew then that I could never find another liver that would stand by me through thick and thin like that. You are loved, Liver. Always remember that. Always. [smoochie smoochie!]

Liver: Please don't try and make out with me. I'm a liver.

Megan: Sorry, force of habit.

Patent pending!

That's right folksies! It's that time of year again. Time for me to become gluttonous of all things alcoholic. Oh, who are we kidding? That's all times of year. But approximately 4 times a year, the planets align for just long enough for parents to hide their children, and for the Busch company are forced to increase it's productivity two-fold to keep up with the demand.

That's right, bitches. It's time for Awesomefest 7000. Awesomeness to the miggity max!

I hibernated in my apartment for the weekend studying for the GMAT watching the Neverending Story in preparation of the incursion of deathly levels of alcohol into my system. Once again I had to have a conversation with my liver.

Megan: Hey Liver! Whazzup my nig?

Liver: Well, that was profane and uncalled for.

Megan: Sorry about that, Liver. It's Awesomefest 7000 though! I just get so excited! I'm so excited! I'm so excited! I'm so scared! Oh but this time I am travelling to Chicago.

Liver: Oh no no no no no. You're not going to make me process gallons of Busch Light like when we were in college, are you? You do realize you will get drunk without bonging 3 beers in a row, right? The key is moderation, Megan. I'm not sure you are familiar with that concept.

Megan: Dude, you are such a buzzkill. For your information, I have graduated to PBR as my beverage of choice. Mainly cause it's cheap. But check this out! Megan and Kate are taking me to the race track on Friday where it is supposedly 'Teach Your Small Child to Gamble Day". I will not rest until I have corrupted no less than 5 toddlers. Then on Saturday we are going to the Lake Michigan beach bar, and at night my favorite friend named after my favorite mild hallucinogen, HERB, is having a BBQ. Then on Sunday it's the Gay Pride Parade! You know how much I love the gays. We're parking a cooler on the street and watching all the gayness pass us by. Who knows? We might partake in a little nipple twisting of our own.

Liver: [deep breath] Ear muffs!

Megan: Fun right? You better start doing some push-ups or something.

Liver: [death gurgle]

Megan: Oh you're fine you big sissy!

Liver: Do me a favor, look into organ donation. I'm not sayin, I'm just sayin'.

Megan: Livers never say die!

Liver: I think it's, "Goonies never say die."

Megan: Oh, right. You're such a fucking know-it-all liver. I hate you.

Liver: I'm sure there are other people who would appreciate what I do for you. Maybe they need a new liver.

Megan: Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You know I could never live without you. Literally.

Liver: S'ok. But let's keep the car bombs to a minimum, k?

Megan: Done and done. Remember that time when someone bought us a Three Wise Men shot, and we puked over the bar and tried to cover it up by laying our arms it it? That's when I fell in love with you. I knew then that I could never find another liver that would stand by me through thick and thin like that. You are loved, Liver. Always remember that. Always. [smoochie smoochie!]

Liver: Please don't try and make out with me. I'm a liver.

Megan: Sorry, force of habit.

Mary Wittenberg: you are my nemesis.

Entry Number: 108XXXX,

Dear Megan,

Thank you again for applying for the ING New York City Marathon 2007. I am sorry to inform you that, unfortunately, you were not selected in the random lottery drawing. I wish we could accept everyone, but we have to limit the size of the field to ensure a top-quality experience - and I hope you get to experience it yourself one day!

There is good news, however. You can still enter the race this year, since there are some guaranteed entries reserved for our two official charities and other new charity partners. Visit here to find out how you can use this opportunity to run the race while raising money for a worthy cause.

In addition, there are some guaranteed entries reserved for international tour groups through our Official International Travel Partners.

For other racing opportunities, keep in mind that New York Road Runners hosts races in New York City almost every weekend. Guaranteed entry into the NYC Half-Marathon Presented by NIKE on Sunday, August 5, is still available - visit here for details about purchasing a travel package or running in support of a charity. Starting in Central Park, passing through Times Square, and continuing along the waterfront to a finish in Lower Manhattan, this race will attract runners from around the world.

For complete information about all NYRR races, as well as membership and other programs, go to our website.

Finally, I encourage you to apply for the ING New York City Marathon 2008. Did you know that if you applied and were denied three years in a row, you are eligible for guaranteed entry the fourth year? (If this is your third consecutive denial, you may already be guaranteed for the 2008 race! E-mail us with your name, date of birth, and a short note and we'll check our records and get back to you.)

Thank you so much for your interest in the ING New York City Marathon. I wish you a summer of healthy and gratifying running.

Sincerely,
Mary Wittenberg
President and CEO, New York Road Runners
Race Director, ING New York City Marathon

Two fucking years in a row this bitch has denied me. TWO FUCKING YEARS. I'm going out tonight to get this bitch's face tattooed across my chest.

I don't know why I am so pissed. Training for a marathon was the most annoying thing I have ever done (sorry Irish). Why? BECAUSE IT PREVENTED ME FROM DRINKING...A LOT. But I'm kind of sad. I'm thinking about signing up for a charity, but I am a little scared that I won't be able to raise the money for the charity I am running for, and then will be forced to sell my ovaries just so I can afford to kill myself for 26.2 miles. Anyone out there willing to donate if I do it? Pu-pu-pu-lllease?

I used to not be kind of a big deal

My friend Lindsay and I were talking over gmail chat the other day about our obsessions crushes during junior high. I admit, I am a little embarrassed over my past behavior. I know, you are probably thinking, "How could this chick be anything but AWESOME?" Second only to possibly making a '"man suit" and proclaiming to the world, "I'd fuck me. I'd fuck me hard," I was a little boy crazed.

I used to be in love with this guy. Let's call him "Steve". Why? Cause that was his name. Turns out "Steve" became bald at the tender age of 22. I never saw him past high school graduation, so I still remember him as the fine specimen of barely pubescent meat he was.

All of my friends knew I was in love with him. Especially Lindsay. We used to talk about how one day our crushes would realize how much they loved us, and ask us to "go with them" Where we would go, I still haven't figured out. That's irrelevant.

Turns out, Lindsay was also scheming behind my back to get my man! The shock! The horror! Apparently she asked him to one of my friend's "parties". You know the kind where the girls would sit at a table eating pretzels while the guys would play Nintendo 64 or something. All that matters is that there was the least amount of interaction possible between the sexes. Turns out, Steve turned Lindsay down when she asked him to this party. That's what you get Linds for trying to steal MY man! Errr, yeah.

Then we got to talking about the crazy things we used to do to get a little bit closer to our crushes. While Lindsay didn't admit what she did (there was stuff I am sure), I was more than willing to admit that I stole Steve's day planner in 7th grade. Yeah, he left that shit on his desk, and I went up and took it. I remember staring at his handwriting for hours thinking what it would be like for us to hold hands. The poor guy probably had no idea what his algebra homework was which in turn cause him to be stressed out which then caused him to lose his hair most likely. Yes, I attribute his male pattern baldness to my kleptomania.

Lindsay laughed when I admitted this. Apparently she had no idea, and I was thinking I was the craziest of all my friends. But no, not so.

Apparently another one of my friends called this boy's answering machine, recorded the message, then put it on a mixed tape for another friend of mine who had a crush on him.

...

There are times when I really miss being a kid younger kid, then I remember how awkward it all was, and I realize how lucky I am to be done with all that. I mean, getting drunk and making out with random dudes is far more effective, no?

And now for the most horrifying moment in recent memory

I'm particularly lethargic today. I am not really sure why, but waving goodnight to the Petco employees starting their day at 6am on Saturday (ok Sunday at this point) might have something to do with it.

Due to my current state of mind, I thought it may wake me up if I bought myself Arby's for lunch. Let's just say greasy curly fries and fried chicken sandwiches, while a tasty treat in itself, do nothing for the benefit of my nutrition and/or gastrointestinal functions. I have kind of a sensitive stomach at times and that bitch of a lunch wreaked havoc on the inner workings of my stomach/intestines all day.

By the time I reached the gym to begin my training session, I figured my stomach was ok. I hopped on the treadmill to warm up. Anyone who is a runner knows that on occasion, running is the best cure for, uh, any impediments to regularity. I'll leave it at that.

So while I was running, I felt my stomach tighten up. Usually this is the time I head to the bathroom, but since my session was about to start and at $80 a pop, I was determined to get as much misery as possible from my trainer. I mean, I wasn't running so a few lunges wouldn't do anything, right? WRONG.

He had me doing pull-ups where I hold myself up for 5 seconds, then slowly lower myself for another 5. Then repeat. It really fucking hurts, and required me to use every stomach muscle I have. By the end of the reps, I was exhausted. Of course my trainer takes the opportunity to make me hold my body in the plank position for over a minute.

Then it happens. Something no girl ever wants to admit doing, let alone actually doing it in front of another person.

I totally ripped ass.

Before you start throwing up in your shoe, know that it was a pleasant fart. Nothing stinky or any cheek vibrations. But it was definitely a fart. So I'm still holding myself in the plank position, but now I'm horrified beyond belief. I now have to face the dilemma that anyone who farts in front of another person has to face: do I laugh it off and admit to it or pretend it never happened?

I've farted in front of one person my whole entire life. After 6.5 years with someone you develop a gross level of comfort that would never appear under any other circumstance with anyone else. I can probably count on one hand the times I farted in front of my ex-boyfriend, but he took every opportunity to fart in front of me while occasionally holding my head under the covers to he could hot-box me (see #6).

So back to the training session. There I am in the plank position. Everything is going fine. I'm sweating balls, but I'm holding my own. Then I let one go. My trainer either didn't pretend to hear it, or didn't hear it. I sat there for a good five seconds contemplating what to do. Like I mentioned before, I chose to play it cool and admit to doing it although I was absolutely mortified. He said it was no big deal, and that stuff like that happens all the time, although he never actually acknowledged he heard me do it. A hazard of his job if you will. He also mentioned he once had a chick throw up on him. Ok, that made me feel better. But still, now I know I'm totally going to be the girl he refers to as, "the one who can't control her own bowel movements."

Hide me.

Fun for the whole family!

You know when you buy a kid a elaborate toy, and they end up just playing with the box the toy came in? Well, take that idea, age the kid about 25+ years, give him or her beer, replace the box with a paper bag, cut holes in said paper bag, acquire a cell phone with video capabilities, a set of testicles, and a Nerf missile launcher and you too can provide yourself and your friends hours of entertainment until the sun comes up. I think you see where this one is going.




At first I thought watching this wouldn't be as funny sober, but it is. Or maybe I'm just still drunk. I vote for the latter. Oh, and in case you were wondering who the mystery man is in the video, it's 'CrimeNotes', one of the writers at Cole Slaw Blog. But ladies, stay away. He is ALL mine. I've been searching far too long for a man who enjoys getting hit in the nuts with a Nerf missile launcher to let this one go.

I don't know about you, but this could be the hottest thing I have ever seen

"Master betrayed us. Wicked, tricksey, false. We ought to wring his filthy little neck. Kill him. Kill him. Kill them both, and then we take the Precious and we be the master."

Bad boys bad boys, whatcha gonna do?

It happens quite frequently that I enjoy other people's misery. Especially this time. I won't go off on how Paris is a no talent ass clown cause it seems everyone else in the blogosphere have already beaten that death horse enough that it died twice. However, I was seriously laughing for a good 10 minutes at this picture on perezhilton.com. Oh, life is soooo sweet sometimes.

ENOUGH with the networking sites people

First there was Friendster. Then there was Myspace. Now apparently all the cool kids are joining Facebook.

I can't fucking keep up. It's a little ridiculous as I have the same fucking friends under each site too. I mean, now everyone knows that my favorite movies are (taken directly from my facebook profile):

Lord of the Rings (all of them), anything by the Coen brothers, Blow, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Wall Street, Eternal Sunshine, the Ninth Gate, Last of the Mohicans, Braveheart, Little Miss Sunshine, the Good Girl, Godfather (part 2), Anchorman, Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, Office Space, Boogie Nights, anything by Wes Anderson, City of God, Requiem for a Dream, Saved!, the Devil's Advocate, Good Will Hunting, Star Wars, American Beauty, Memento, Napoleon Dynamite, Beautiful Girls, Problem Child

we all know my favorite books are:

the Great Gatsby, all Harry Potters, the Kite Runner, the Time Traveler's Wife, Confederacy of Dunces, Guns, Germs, and Steel, 1776, the Lorax, Killing Yourself to Live, Stranger than Fiction, the Natural

We can all pretty much deduce that my favorite past times are:

running, drinking, putting others down to make myself feel better

Music:

Color Me Badd. Nothing else.

same with TV:

Lost, Heroes, Arrested Development (sniff), Seinfeld, the Tudors, 24, American Idol (dude, I AM a girl), ALL Real World/Road Rules Challenges, Nip/Tuck, Grey's Anatomy, Family Guy, the Daily Show, Beverly Hills 90210, the Golden Girls

I have the same pictures up under all three sites too. Just in case my friends forgot what I look like. Of course my interests vary slightly from site to site, but being that I have next to nothing of a creative capacity, I regurgitate the same sorry jokes and drunk pictures on all these sites.

So I'm starting to wonder what the point of these sites are? I've never been asked out through one. The only friend invites I receive lately on myspace are usually from a 17 year old girl posing provocatively in front of a mirror in her skivvies. How did she find me anyways? I figure that these sites may serve some purpose the next morning when your beer goggles are removed to try and figure out if that guy you reached second base with in the bathroom really did look like a young Richard Gere. It's too bad I don't ever remember anyone's name. Any attempt to type guys' names into my phone usually look like this: MIK@&TARVV@YY.

So please, all you internet entrepreneurs. Please do not try and invent any new networking sites. I know who my friends are. Thanks.

Would it be easier if I just bent over, [OLD COMPANY]?

In one last attempt to fuck me over, my old company has possibly prevented me from doing something I really want to do.

I signed up for the NYC Half Marathon again, and got in through the lottery. It's a nice race that takes about 10,000 runners around Central Park down through Times Square then down the Hudson River and ends at Battery Park. Last year the race was on August 27th. This year it is on August 5th.

My family always took our family vacation to a resort on a lake in upstate Minnesota during the last weekend of July. It is a great weekend where I go out drinking with my brother-in-law only to have one nephews wake me up in the morning from my booze induced slumber on the couch by smacking me in the head with a plastic light saber. And yes, I don't get my own bed. The fact I am the youngest of all of us girls by 9 years makes me perpetually at the metaphorical 'kid table'. While my sisters get to shack it up with their husbands, I get the couch. The couch where I am vulnerable to getting hit with a plastic light saber at 7am. At least my nephew doesn't own a real one. That would hurt, and I would hate to have him try and lure me to the Dark Side.

It's a good time for all my family. Last year my mom tried to play t-ball with my 3 year old nephews. In what was a memorable attempt to display her perfect swing, my mom wound up to swing at a wiffle ball with a bat speed like that of Barry Bonds on 'roids, only to hit my nephew directly in the head. I only laughed for like 10 seconds I swear. What? The kid was fine.

Anyways, last year my old company through a fit last July when I asked for the time off to go on this vacation and all. You know, considering my mom is sick and all, how else would the nothingness get done without me there for a Thursday and Friday to look at the internet? I had to beg and plea that we had this vacation planned for a year (before I started at [old company], mind you), and gently remind them that my mom is terminally ill. Finally, they agreed to let me go, but they really weren't happy about it.

To avoid this fucking stupidity the following year, I asked my family to have the vacation the week after--i.e. the first weekend in August.

Yeah, now that I no longer work at the company, I will be on the vacation the same god damn day as the Half-Marathon.

I mean seriously, can you all hear my desire to stab a few ho's?

What not to do at your friend's weddding: by Megan.

1. Double fist champagne

2. Interrupt the groom dancing with the bride so you can dance with the groom yourself while the bride stares on.

3. Be the only one dancing on the floor doing what looks to be an Irish jig of some sort. Oh yes, and make sure no one is watching you since you are so in such a desperate need for attention.4. Always appear with drink in hand in the background of your friend's beautiful wedding photographs, drunk, so that everyone in her family who has known you since you were 7 can shake their heads to say to themselves, "She used to be such a nice girl What happened?"

Congrats Lindsay and Raz! I PROMISE your gift is coming.

[insert witty title here. I got nothing today]

I've been really fucking busy this week. OK no, that's kind of a lie. I've been busy drinking this week. In what looks to be a five day drinking binge that would make 'College Megan' proud of '26 soon-to-be 27 in September New York City Megan' proud, I've been too busy to update my blog. For shizzle. I'm ending that right here. Right now.

So part of my 'busy' week involved a certain gentleman taking me on a walk to go get ice cream. Normally I am the first to suggest drinks on a date, however, this certain gentleman....wait for it.....wait for it...

Doesn't drink.

(Gasp from the crowd!)

I know I know. But....we do have other things in common. I will spare you the details because that is not important. In the meantime, please keep in mind that I will be doing anything and everything in my power to get the dude to drink a fucking beer.

So we went for ice cream. Not just ice cream, but Pinkberry Frozen Yogurt. Apparently those crazy kids in California have so eloquently given this frozen yogurt the nickname 'Crackberry'. I assume because it's addiction, not because you actually have to put it in a pipe and smoke it.

My 'friend' is nice enough to offer to pay, and luckily so because my fucking frozen yogurt was like $80. So I'm exaggerating. It was more like $11 for two small yogurts with 2 fucking toppings. I mean, really people!

Don't get me wrong. I'll drop down $6 on a beer without blinking an eye, but drinking a beer has ongoing benefits. Like I get drunk. Yogurt, on the other hand, doesn't do anything for me except maybe give me diarrhea from my semi-lactose intolerant stomach. Maybe if there was such a thing as beer yogurt, I might reconsider.

So we go on a walk. I take him to my normal running spot along the Hudson River where the running paths are--just south of Chelsea piers. We sit down on a bench, and I take a look around me. I kid you not, it was like fucking Lover's Lane (but apparently for pedestrians) there. Who knew, right? While I did a little smooching of my own, I was a little taken aback by the amount of dry-humping going on around me, seen and unseen. Being that I'm not one for PDA, and those who were not dry-humping were at the minimum holding hands (gross), I felt really really uncomfortable.

So for all you New Yorkers out there....if you want to take your special man or lady to a special place to possibly reach second base, but you don't have a car or uh, a bedroom, let me point you in the direction of the Hudson River. Oh yes, and please don't jizz on the grass. I sit on that shit.